The date was sometime in late November, 1976. My girlfriend, Patty, and I went for a walk, and during that walk – in a beautiful Southern California cemetery, of all places – I popped the question. She said yes. We walked on, discussing a date for this momentous event. 
I made a suggestion: let’s get married this year. “That doesn’t leave us much time,” she said. “Well then,” I replied, “Let’s make it the last Saturday of the year.” Hopeless romantic that I am, I was thinking of certain income tax advantages. We got back to her parents’ house – they had been watching Patty’s beautiful baby girl, Jane, the woman I fell in love with first – broke the news, and then looked at a calendar. The last Saturday of the year was December 25. What??? “That’s perfect!” we thought in our youthful ignorance. Everyone will be off that day. Everyone will be able to attend. Did I mention that the wedding would be held thousands of miles from that spot, in the mountains of Tennessee?
As it turned out the wedding, held in front of a crackling fireplace on a snowy day in a beautiful A-frame cabin in the woods, was attended by about 35 people. So many friends and family already had plans, and many of those who wanted to come from here and there around the country couldn’t get plane tickets at the busiest travel season of the year. Not counting our rings, the wedding itself didn’t cost a penny. I pity the couples (and their parents) who spend more than the cost of our first house on their wedding and reception. It’s not about that day. It’s about the days and months and years to come.
For us, they have been great. Not perfect, of course. We are human beings, after all. But I clearly remember something the minister (Taze Gibson) said during our wedding. “You’re probably going to think this is crazy,” he said, “but the great love you feel for each other today is nothing compared to the love you’ll have for each other years from now.”
I did think he was crazy. But 37 years later, I know he was right.