We were married on June 18, 1964, around nine in the morning, in the Salt Lake Temple by Howard Stevenson McDonald, the temple president (1964-68). He was also the president of BYU preceding Earnest L. Wilkenson. I didn’t know any of this, not even the name, McDonald, but Tom remembered that much and found the rest on the internet. We had a Howard Stevenson as a neighhor in Harvard student housing, 24A Shaler Lane. They must be related. The Howard we knew was later divorced from his wife, Sarah, so there you go: not everyone makes it 45 years.
My father said days before the wedding, “You think Tom is perfect, but he farts like everyone else.” Maybe he meant, “He farts just like I do.” Maybe it was a warning: Tom isn’t perfect. Duh.
The picture above was taken at the end of the reception that 650 people attended in an all- night downpour and went way beyond closing time, which was supposed to be ten ‘o clock. Tom and I were exhausted to our hair follicles.
The next morning (as much as I like sexual tension, I’m skipping it), Tom let a loud fart.
“Oh my gosh,” I yelled. “My father said you would do that and you did it the first morning. The FIRST morning.” Tom laughed. My father would have cracked up if he’d been there. The two of them together would have had one of those guy moments.
Tom and I have mostly hung out today. Neither one of us feels well. We’ll go to Taco Bell and have three taco supremes each (unless he can talk me out of that). Maybe we’ll sit on the porch awhile. We’ve already looked at old photos and sighed. He tells me every single day he loves me, so why should this day be any different? I don’t want it to be different. I’ve always liked hanging with Tom.