[Part I, Part II]
Part III: The Hundred Acre Wood Marriage
After miraculously managing to keep my mother’s number after three weeks of visiting his parents in the Bay Area for the holidays, my father gave her a call. While they had spent an evening together at the Nike holiday party, he was still a bit clueless on the particularities of what my mother liked and disliked. When she answered the phone, and said their pleasantries, my father asked “Well, what would you like to do? Go to a bar?”. So classy, though she answered with a resounding yes. My father, being the lover and frequenter of more upscale establishments, suggested they check out the Cornelius Pass Roundhouse (before it was turned into a McMenamins’ establishment).
And so indeed, my parents first “real” date together was solidified at the Cornelius Pass Roundhouse in Hillsborough. My father picked up my mother from her brother’s house, her daughter’s de facto babysitter, and took off. I chuckle imagining my parents - at least in the way I know them - walking into what my father refers to as “two steps up from a biker bar”. They sat down in a dimly lit booth surrounded by vintage photos and memorabilia, and feasted on beers, burgers, and danced to some rock band, the name of which escapes my father now. To be honest, it’s the perfect environment to become acquainted with someone, and suss them out.
Throughout their dates & conversations, they found commonality within their shared love of music. When my father learned my mother also “hated James Taylor for dating Carly Simon’’, sparks were in the air. Ah, how hate is the real warrior of love in many situations. Given our profuse exposure to music during our youth, it’s understandable why my younger sister and I have such an invested interest in music ourselves. While there’s a lot to be extrapolated, music has been a definitive comfort and constant throughout my entire life, and is frequently featured within my writing. I’m sure my younger sister would vehemently agree.
One of my father’s favorite dates with my mother was, simultaneously, with his favorite band, The Pretenders. On the 17th of February, 1984, The Pretenders played the Civic Auditorium (now Keller Auditorium) in Portland, and my father brought my mother along, discovering she was also a big fan in the process. With a little bit of light research, I was able to unearth the setlist from that fateful night. Fun fact: My father often jokes how the lead singer of the Pretenders, Chrissie Hynde, loathes the conservative talk-radio host Rush Limbaugh for use of their song “My City Was Gone” for his intro music, despite the fact Chrissie is staunchly liberal, and Limbaugh never directly requested permission/right from her label, EMI. Apparently Rush used the song ironically to poke at the “woke” media these days. Sounds about right.
On St. Patrick’s Day that same year, my mother participated in the Portland 5k Shamrock Run, along with participation from my father, who stood at the sidelines and cheered her on. This was also a preliminary meet where my father was introduced to my mother’s daughter, Angie; my father had been deputized as a babysitter while my mother ran. Asking my father how he felt about the situation, he mistook my question and replied “Oh I felt pretty good because I didn’t have to run!” He chuckles and says “I know I know” when I tell him I was referring to watching Angie, informing me she was a lot of fun to be around. Their banter was lighthearted, and even though she was around 6 at the time, Angie would tease him, and my father would tease back. I wouldn’t expect anything less.
Inquiring further into how my father felt about dating someone with a child (maybe presumptuous in believing this was uncommon, possibly frowned upon back in the day), my father says he felt positive about my mother having a daughter, the circumstances not bothering him in the slightest. “It was an asset, not a liability”, referencing their relationship, and Angie, in financial terms, which gave me a hearty laugh.
Towards the beginning of the summer, my father was dealing with the failing health of his mother, after she suffered a stroke attending a quilting show in Sacramento. My father was frequently back and forth between Oregon and California, seeing less of my mother during this time. Eventually they moved his mother down to San Mateo to be closer with family, due to the frequency of additional strokes. On Memorial Day of 1984, his mother passed. My father was absolutely devastated, and even though their relationship was still fresh, he tells me my mother was incredibly supportive.
By the end of June, my parents had been dating for around 6 months, and had somewhat settled into their routine. One night, my father invited my mother over to watch “Zulu”, a British war film from the 60s. While the film has been negatively critiqued in the present few years due to its racial and imperialist nature, it was ostensibly a triumph upon release. Regardless, both my parents were enormous fans of Michael Caine, who portrays a handsome young General in the film.
During a commercial break, my father spontaneously turned to my mother and said “Let’s get married.” Without hesitation, my mother turned back to him and said “Yes!”.
I pondered whether my father happened to ask for my mother’s “hand in marriage” from her father, and he said “Nah, none of that ‘old fashioned’ stuff was involved”. I joked if he had even met them, given the brief amount of time they had been dating, or if her parents even knew of his existence. He had forgotten to mention meeting my mother’s parents in late April.
Around this same time, my father tells me he saw his future with my mother. There was no catalyst, no event that sparked the relatively quick ask, but more of my father’s admiration and enamoration for my mother.
Soon after my father’s impromptu proposal, my mother rang her parents, and they were both elated. My father had apparently made a good impression; his charm must have rubbed off genetically, as I often tell people, “parents love me”.
Unfortunately, as what happens with any wedding, challenges reared their desperate ugly heads. Both my father and mother preferred to have the wedding in Portland, but my grandparents were pulling for Yakima, Washington (where they were living, and also the place of my mother’s birth). Her parents were quick on the trigger to make arrangements in Yakima the moment my mother announced their engagement, but my parents were not pleased.
By mid-July, the planning was becoming tense due to previous split opinions of where the wedding should be held, and my mother was taking the brunt of the stress. My father couldn’t pinpoint exactly who had brought it up, but one of them, finally over the whole production, said “Screw this, let’s just elope”.
What you would now call a “side hustle” these days, my father worked part-time gigs with the music licensing giant ASCAP. He would often reminisce with us about heading to bars and establishments in Portland, like the grimey Copper Penny in the Lents neighborhood, grab a drink, and see if the live band would play covers or songs that were officially licensed by ASCAP. Since Shazam or TuneFinder weren’t available during this time, my father’s encyclopedia of knowledge when it came to music was a golden goose. Providing this service these days would more than likely get you called a narc or snitch, possibly have your fingers broken, but apparently the pay was pretty damn good, and ASCAP would put you up for the night if you were visiting from out of town. When asked how he felt about working as an informant, my father replies “I slept well at night”.
When my parents decided to elope, ASCAP contacted my father about a couple investigations they needed in Eugene. As such, they decided “why not get married in Eugene?” My father asked ASCAP if my mother could be brought along as an investigator, joking her musical knowledge spanned deeper than my father. ASCAP agreed, and they packed into my father’s Volvo and puttered into Eugene the late morning of Friday, July the 20th.
As the ASCAP investigations wouldn’t be until later on in the evening, the first item on the agenda in Eugene was, of course, the marriage license. My parents drove over to the Lane County courthouse in downtown Eugene to have papers squared away before their 2pm appointment before the licensing official. When they ambled up to the courthouse window, the clerk beaked around and asked “Where are your witnesses?”. My father, a bit stunned out of his felicitous state, replied “Do we need those?” The official grumbled something in reply of “we could get someone from downstairs, but it would be nice if you had your own.” They turned in the required paperwork, paid the fee, and stepped out into downtown Eugene a bit puzzled.
My parents grabbed a bite for lunch nearby, and asked themselves “Where the hell are we gonna get a witness?” As they moseyed down the sidewalk, brainstorming ideas for witnesses they debated “Do we tell one of our friends to “get down to Eugene asap!”. They didn’t want some random The only people they had mentioned their secret elopement to were their friends Jan and Dennis, who they saw on their way out of Portland. Otherwise, it was a big surprise for everyone else, especially family.
While my parents wandered aimlessly around downtown Eugene, trying to fathom their next move, coming down E 8th St were about 5 people dressed as Winnie the Pooh characters, distributing handbills for a show at the Very Little Theater on 24th & Hilyard. While the characters informed my parents about the show later that evening, my father had a revelation. “Well, we didn’t want some random court clerk stranger as a witness, so this seemed like the next best thing.”
With their appointment time growing nearer, and my parents a bit desperate, my father asked the ensemble “Hey, what are you guys doing around 1pm?” The actors laughed and said “Not much, just farting around town.” In a brilliant act, my father looked at my mother, then back at the AA Milne characters and said “We’re getting married at 1pm, could you be our witnesses?” The cast of Winnie the Pooh replied that they would love to.
As my mother and father stood outside of the Lane County courthouse before 1pm, a tinge of nervousness set in that their new Hundred Acre Wood friends might bail. But just as the clock struck on the hour, who would you observe strolling up to the courthouse none other than their witnesses, still in costume from earlier. My parents were enthralled. They all piled into the courtroom, and the judge remarked how the whole situation “was pretty cute”. My father says the ceremony was fairly quick, 5 minutes if even, but brought together one hell of a story. The “witnesses” signed the marriage certificate, and my mother and father were officially married.
Afterwards they checked into the Hilton on ASCAP’s dime, and headed to a bar on 11th Ave, where a reggae band was playing. They had dinner, took notes, and did everything necessary for their investigation. From what my father tells me, my mother took the job in stride, and he was glad she was there, as his lack of reggae knowledge was showing. In the end, they both made $75 and were fed.
While my parents weren’t able to attend the production of House of Pooh Corner, they swung by the Very Little Theater after the bar. They found their witnesses celebrating the success of the show, and invited them in for a dual celebratory after-party. My parents partied with them into the evening, before heading back to the hotel.
Saturday morning, the first day as fresh newlyweds, they stuck around Eugene, as they had another investigation the following evening. My father decided to parade my mother around the sights and sounds of the city he was raised in. After showing her the house he grew up in, they toured the University of Oregon, Hendrick’s Park, and even climbed up Skinner Butte (named after Eugene Skinner, Eugene’s controversial founder, and the inspiration of The Simpson’s character, Seymour Skinner).
To celebrate their marriage, they dined that evening at “the finest restaurant in all of Eugene” (my father’s words), the Excelsior off E 13th St & Alder. Back before the restaurant existed, the building was a fraternity house until someone snatched it up and converted the rooms into single apartments for foreign students. My father is saddened to retell his stories of remodeling for the owner, and describing the place as “slum housing for foreign students”. While the restaurant came to fruition some years later (probably after receiving numerous housing violations), the Excelsior sadly shuttered their doors back in February of 2022.
A country western bar was their destination after their exquisite dinner, though my father recalls my mother being quite hesitant due to her lack of knowledge on the genre. Luckily, my father was able to fill in the gaps, even though my mother was more proficient than she originally led on.
Throughout our discussion, I snickered at the fact my parents were celebrating their marriage, while also making money on the side. When my father revels in the weekend, the ASCAP gigs felt so nonchalant and second nature to their time together, as though viewed through this starry-eyed amorous lens, rather than “work” or a chore. My father put it well when he said “I’m getting paid to hang out with my new wife and listen to live music - what could be better than that?”
They stayed Saturday night again on ASCAP’s dime, and woke up Sunday morning, driving back to Portland as a married couple.
As previously noted, my parents told only two souls about their wild escapades, their good friends Jan & Dennis; not even my mother’s six year old daughter, Angie, knew what was going on… That was until my parents arrived at Paul’s (my mother’s brother’s) home the Sunday morning after their visit to Eugene. Paul was babysitting Angie, and all he knew was my parents headed to Eugene for the ASCAP gig, nothing more.
Imagine his surprise, and Angie’s, when they learned my mother was suddenly a married woman. My father felt a tinge of concern and guilt when it came to keeping Angie out of the loop with the whole situation, but he says she took the whole news with stunned celebration.
Even though cellphones and the internet (as it is today) were years away, word traveled fast about their spontaneous marriage. Nancy, who my father refers to as the “instigator” of my parents’ life together, was absolutely beside herself when my parents revealed the news. My father phoned his father, and found him happy, but in shock. I would like to believe “shocked” was the general consensus of everyone who was told.
I didn’t know this at the time, but I found it surprising my grandfather wouldn’t end up meeting my mother until after my parents were married. Given the short period my parents dated, my grandmother’s passing, and their proximity to each other, this is understandable, but adds to the allure of their spontaneity.
Seeing my parents carve their own path despite mounting pressures and influences of those around them has always been an inspiration for my own life.
When my mother delivering the news of their marriage to her parents, she found my grandmother to be somewhat disappointed, likely due to generational tradition, and the fact they had already put effort into arrangements in Yakima - even though my mother was against the idea from jump street.
Nevertheless, my parents reached a compromise, and they held a reception in Yakima towards summer’s end with all of my mother’s extended family.
My mother wore a beautiful white dress, opting out of a traditional wedding gown. And, of course, my father wore the same thrifted suit he first donned on their blind date. The suit my father now refers to as the “MacGuffin” of my parents’ marriage, and of their time together.
My father looks as dapper as ever in his pin-stripe suit, an ear to ear smile across his face, as he stands next to his beautiful bride.
Together they celebrated 37 years of marriage, before my mother’s passing in January of 2022.
The suit itself. And, of course, the happily married couple.
Thank you all for reading this series. Next week I’ll be posting some afterthoughts on writing the story, in addition to other introspective musings on winter itself.