In wedding book, half a story

The Boston Herald

BEVERLY BECKHAM

I probably looked at the book five years ago. That was the last real "occasion." Twenty years married then; a time for reflection.

Tomorrow it will be 25 years.

I unearth it now from among a pile of baby books and children's drawings and saved holiday cards and report cards and diplomas. It is, surprisingly, in good shape, discolored only around the edges. The square photographs, rimmed in white, the rust-colored pieces of scotch tape, the prices on the back of the congratulations cards - 15 and 25 cents - these are the things that date it. I carry it into the kitchen, thinking how strange it is that this book is a quarter of a century old.

It is 8 in the morning. I pour myself another cup of coffee, then sit down and read what I wrote in "Our Wedding and Our Married Life." It is like reading a book written by someone else. Even the handwriting seems strange, mine but not mine, too carefully composed, like the prose itself.

But I savor it all, every word, every memory, laughing out loud in delight, not embarrassed, forgiving myself my excesses because I was so young and so earnest.

And because it was such a long time ago.

"Bruce never told me he was thinking about getting me a diamond," I wrote on the page with the heading "Our Engagement Date." "We planned to be married but I had no idea that on June 27, 1967, I was going to become officially engaged."

"Officially engaged." He proposed - what an old-fashioned word - while we were sitting in his car in front of my house. We were going to the drive-in that night (another image from the past). "But first," he said, "I have something to ask you."

My mother didn't believe the ring was real.

"You're playing a joke," she said, when I showed it to her. But then she looked at me and at Bruce and realized it was no joke; and she hugged us both and cried.

"I stared at my third finger, left hand all night," I wrote in the book. I didn't write down the name of the movie we saw. "I was completely oblivious to the surroundings."

"We had chicken cordon bleu, au gratin potatoes, vegetable and dessert designed in the shape of a wedding bell," I wrote under "The Menu." I listed the names of all the guests and all the gifts. My grandmother gave us $110. Did I know this before? I must have. It's here in my writing. But I don't remember knowing. This was a fortune for my grandmother. Did I thank her? Did I appreciate it?

I wrote about our honeymoon under "How We Traveled;" "Where We Went;" "Highlights of the Trip;" and I wrote about "Our First Year Together," in the paragraph-sized spaces provided for every month.

One of the last entries was "Our First Anniversary." The picture on the top says more than the few words below. There we are, children still, the married-for-a-whole year pair, living the perfect, fairy-tale life.

How I wish I had a sequel to this book recounting the next 24 years - a book that would let me remember when we grew up, became adults, stumbled into middle-age.

I want a book with headings like "How We Adjusted to Disappointment," "When We First Learned To Let The Little Things Slide," "How We Felt When We Became Parents," "Ways We Resolved Our Differences," "Techniques We Tried To Soothe a Wounded Heart."

I want a book with pages on which to list the easy parts of the marriage and the rocky parts, the best and the worst, the triumphs and the tragedies - his and hers. Then we could look back and remember it all, not just the perfect beginning, but the imperfect times too, when we lived and learned.

As it is, the years are a blur. For time is like money. It slips away, and without a record it's impossible to recall where it was all spent.

Twenty-five years. 9,125 days.

"Love seems the swiftest, but it is the slowest of all growths," Mark Twain said.

It doesn't end when the wedding album does. The truth is, it doesn't really begin until then