paul·a·ver

Tomorrow, Tuesday 12.19, will mark eight years since Jennifer and I were married in Larimer County, Colorado at Dannen Chapel of the YMCA of the Rockies near Estes Park. For a time the day before, we had t-shirt weather and went to chase elk and watch for bighorns near the base of the Old Fall River Road.

In the evening, however, the weather turned to a sudden blizzard. We wondered anxiously whether her mother, brother Dick, and sister Barb would be able to make it over the drifting highways of eastern Colorado and up the Big Thompson Canyon on Highway 34. When they closed Interstates 80 and 25, we had our doubts, but planned to say the words and sign the papers the next morning in spite of things.

They made it. They were late and frazzled, but they were there.

I slept not at all that night, sharing a room with Jenn’s snoring brother, Dick, fretting over whether we could actually make a lifetime work, and wondering where we’d be, say, eight years down the road.

We awoke to a sparkling blanket of fresh white powder and sunshine.

We held hands and promised to stand by each other through it all, Christmas music jingling on an old boombox in the tiny chapel.

Six days later, we woke up in Palma de Mallorca. It was dark as midnight outside our hotel window, and we discovered we’d slept through Nochebuena and well into La Navidad. We made our way to the lobby for a cafe con leche and wandered the streets until we found ourselves at the fiesta in Placa Major. We ordered churros con chocolate at one of the carts, and slipped a couple hundred pesetas in a bucket to see a golden living statue wave. We waded through thick crowds to admire nativity scenes in the local churches.

So, we find ourselves, after eight years, with weekend weather as balmy as that of an island in the Mediterranean. It’s been near 70°F in Louisville, shocking for December, and we are waiting for the blizzard.

We celebrated with a kid-free weekend. Jenn’s friend Tammi watched the boys over night, taking them to see the new Charlotte’s Web, and allowing them to stay up late watching television.

I treated Jenn to a surprise dance lesson. She’s been asking about it for years, and it probably wasn’t going to happen if we didn’t make an occasion of it. We learned a basic triple swing, and the instructor seemed pleased with what we could do in a single lesson–though perhaps that’s just part of the sales pitch. We both enjoyed it. Yes, even me.

Later, we blew Christmas ornaments at a glass shop, Flame Run, on Louisville’s hip and trendy East Market. We watched a team of four artists work a piece like a group of well-rehearsed chamber musicians, and we marveled at the heat of the furnaces and red glow of the molten glass.

We had dinner at a Louisville landmark, Jack Fry’s. We’d never been before, so it was a special treat. It was quiet, dark, and romantic. We indulged in brie, scallops, seared tuna, grouper, and chardonnay. We recalled long commutes between Minnesota and Michigan, and special times with friends at our townhouse in Michigan.

Then, we stayed up for the final set of Don Braden at a local smoke-free Jazz club, the Jazz Factory, which happens to be in the Glassworks, another glass shop, at the other end of Market. We held hands under the table and shared a moist slice of rich chocolate cake.

We went back to Market street for breakfast at a new joint called Toast before picking up the kids next morning. We had a chorizo omelette and berry-soaked French toast, both of which were delicious. We talked about our boys and planned a get away back to Mallorca for our 10th in just two years.

I’m certain I couldn’t have made it through every challenge alone over the past eight years, and having a friend like Jenn to share the fun and easier bits has made them all that much more exciting and rewarding.

Happy anniversary, and thanks, Jenn.

Eight years down the road, our boys will almost be driving. “Where will we be then?” I wonder.

technorati: family, marriage, anniversary