It started in a classroom. It had to start somewhere, and of course it started there. Lauren and I were in this grad school class and we hated it. The only person less interested was the professor. Near the end of the term she showed back up and, she says, I made some snarky comment. And, she says, she checked me out.
It started in the parking lot of that classroom building, which has since been razed. We complained about the class and talked about this and that. We talked a long time. She was smart and funny and quick witted. The next week we did the same thing. And she was smart and funny and quick witted again. Also, she was pretty and had this smile.
It started over scratch made lemon icebox pie. The first meal we shared. Later she and I went on a date and our classmates, the Chess Club, (we have king pieces and everything) began to think of us as inseparable.
It started among people that care the most for us. I met her parents, who are delightful. She met my family, which is lovely. We took family trips. After some long time, she wondered when I would propose. I drew that out as long as possible.
It started in Forsyth Park, under our tree, where we always sat and read and talked and listened as the world went by. I, finally, proposed. I was trying to work up nerve to ask this question to which I already knew the answer. Just looking for a sign. Give me a signal. Any signal will do. Was that falling leaf my signal? Why am I so bad at subtlety? I’d excused myself to go to the restroom, a feint to leave so that I could come back, which was my plan. In between I met a man and we quoted scriptures to one another about family and marriage and that was, I took it, as my signal. Who has mastered subtlety? This guy. So I excused myself from one of the better-timed Biblical conversations I’ve ever had to return to one of the longest running, most important conversations I have.
It started without a speech. “Would you like to have more adventures with me?” That was it. Somehow it didn’t occur to me beforehand to think up anything to say. But it was perfect and simple. It was a callback to an early conversation about adventures and history. She said yes.
Then we got married. It started seven years ago under a heavy canopy on the hottest day of the year with a small group of important people. The things I recall most often are that smile, the picture-taking, learning what the clinking of silverware on glasses meant and the thought I had, immediately after, that I wished I’d done this cool thing and that gracious thing during the ceremony. My uncle married us, and was terrific. Our guests always, always, talk about the heat. One of our best friends likes to remind us I turned scarily white. There is no such thing as summer wool.
It started with her. It had to start with her. We’ve had many adventures. We’ve gone places and created memories I wouldn’t have thought of otherwise. Most of them were of her doing. All of them — the trips and the more important, bigger, moment where we were just sitting on the sofa and reading together — fall neatly into the idea that your experiences make you who you are. When people say that you can hear the happiness, satisfaction, contentment; you can pick up on the recognition of self-awareness in the voice. It is difficult, then, to imagine any better thing to be.
I took this picture of her in Savannah, the night before we married. The night before it started.
It started in Savannah. It started in a classroom in Birmingham and it started in the parking lot outside. It started at a friend’s apartment and in my house. It started among friends. It started among family. It started in our homes.
That’s the fun thing about adventures. If you are up for it, you’re always starting one.
