Who in this world doesn’t get excited about their very own birthday? No matter how old we are, how many birthdays we have seen come and go, everyone likes to be remembered and celebrated somehow on their birthday.

When I was dating The Sweetheart, way back in the day now, we were young.  So young that he hadn’t earned the term of endearment that we have christened him with in this century. No, he was lovingly referred to as The Haymaker, you can read that story here. I will wait for you.

Yes, we were very young. We had dated since I was 15 (hey, my parents let us date in groups until I was a mature 16) and engaged at 17. We were planning to get married when I turned 18. I realize I am putting myself out there for ridicule. This post isn’t for that so please don’t ruin my birthday/anniversary by telling me I married too young. You couldn’t have told us then we were too young to get married. You can’t convince a Romeo and Juliet that their LOVE isn’t strong enough to handle the curveballs that life is about to throw them when they are barely above being children themselves. At that age you think you know everything, have all the bases covered and will just take life’s lessons as they come.

And you also are pretty sure Jesus is coming back any day, any moment and you won’t get to be married and have children! I know, right? You thought that too?

But we did pretty well I think; still together, still in love, and three sons, soon to be three daughters in law and three beautiful granddaughters and a grandson on the way. That they  are all serving God today is more than we could have dreamed.

The subject of today’s post is the wedding itself. Looking at a calendar in February, 1979, sitting at a Noble Roman’s Pizza restaurant, our fave, we noticed something big. Really big. There were Friday nights and Saturdays available all summer long but we were partial to a Friday night wedding. I couldn’t get married until after July 20, that would be the 18^th anniversary of my birth and I would finally be legal. Guess what day of the week the 20^th fell on that year?

You guys are quick!

Hmmm. Birthdays are pretty big. You have one every single year. It’s your day and yours alone (unless you are a twin!) and you don’t usually want to celebrate it with anything or anyone else. I had always loved having my birthday in the summer months, no one else in the family celebrated in the summer…until the nephews came along and they took over July! One even came hours away from being born on my literal birthday. Yikes. (Happy Birthday, Cameron!)

July 20 was a special day. Right in the middle of summer, picnics, fireworks, school was out and to top it off, on my 8^th birthday Neil Armstrong went to the moon and took a walk. We watched it in black and white while we ate birthday cake. Thanks for the memories Neil.

Again, being young, in love, and naïve, I thought it wouldn’t matter if I got married on my birthday, what was the big deal?

So it was settled. Friday, July 20, 1979 at 7:30 in the evening, we would get hitched.

Our wedding ceremony was pretty uneventful. No one passed out, tripped down the aisle, forgot the ring or gave rabbit ears during the photography session.  The church was packed and it was a typically warm summer evening. We had even made it through with everyone still speaking to one another. Of course, weddings were not the colossal affair that they are today. I didn’t have a Wedding Planner, only a maid of honor, one bridesmaid, one junior bridesmaid and a flower girl. (And of course The Haymaker had all those guys on his side.) Expenses were minimal, but to me, everything was gorgeous. My florist was a friend of the family and even though I said, “Just a small bouquet of yellow roses will be fine”, by the time she was finished I seriously needed help carrying it down the aisle. It was the biggest, and most beautiful, bouquet I had ever seen.

I remember The Haymaker had to work that day with his mason/contractor father. My mom, sister and sister-in-law all took me out for lunch and spoiled me that day. True to his romantic nature, my Romeo had a dozen long-stemmed, yellow roses delivered to my house that morning. What a guy.

And he didn’t forget my birthday. He had bought me an outfit to “go away” in after the wedding ceremony. (Pitter Patter)

After the ceremony, we opened every single one of our presents. (Who does that today?) It took over 2 ½ hours and by then it was 11:30 p.m.

We were driving that night just a short 35 minute drive to Nashville, Indiana, reminiscent of a mini Pigeon Forge, even more popular today than it was then. So we were preparing to leave when everyone decides we have to take a lap up town around the square or it just wouldn’t be an official wedding. The Haymaker grabs the keys to his way-cool 1977 Firethorn Red Camaro and opens the door; and that’s when we realized the night wasn’t going to end without a few pranksters having a good laugh.

Spilling out the car door were thousands upon thousands of punch-card computer chips/chads and Styrofoam packing peanuts. For all of you young’uns, an IBM punch card had holes positioned in it for analysis by an automatic data-processing machine. From 1890 until the 1970s, punch cards were synonymous with data processing. The concepts were simple: the database was the file cabinet; a record was a card. Processing was performed on separate machines called sorters, collators, reproducers, calculators and accounting machines.

A chad is a tiny bit of paper that is punched from a ballot using a punch-type mechanical machine. Each chad, or chip, was about 3/8 of an inch long. A hanging chad is a chad that is not completely detached from the ballot. There were also dimpled chads and pregnant chads, as shown in the images below. The Hanging Chad was made infamous in the highly contentious 2000 United States presidential election where many of Florida voting stations used votomatic punched card ballots.

Our friend and neighbor, Ray, worked at the bank at that time and had been saving these precious little guys for us for weeks. He thought it would be fun to fill that Firethorn Red Camaro with the IBM leftovers. And since he didn’t think cleaning out the chads would be enough excitement, he poured in boxes of Styrofoam packing peanuts! The car was “packed”, as they say. Thanks, Ray.

Our first stop, after we left the church, was at a car wash where we shoveled out as many of the chads and peanuts as we could and then started vacuuming. It was no small task. (Thankfully we had changed out of our wedding attire since The Haymaker had on a 70’s white tux with white patent leather shoes. I was stunning in my beautiful new yellow two-piece polyester outfit that The Haymaker had bought for me.) I am pretty sure I was mumbling under my breath. Once we had swept up as much as the car wash vacuums could contain we then had to wash the car. Another one of our friends had covered it in shaving cream. I told The Haymaker we should have hidden his car somewhere and taken my beat up ’71 Nova with the four-on-the-floor!

With all of that behind us, it is now almost 1:30 in the morning when we arrive at our hotel in Nashville. This was a pretty nice place then and we were young, didn’t get out of town too often and were pretty much bleary-eyed by the time we opened the door. Thankfully, I was also cute, adorable and skinny then so The Haymaker, ever the gallant type, swoops me up with his “I’ve-been-putting-up-hay-bales-heavier-than-you-all-summer” muscled biceps and swings open the door.

What did we see behind that door that had us gasp in horror and have a story to tell for the next 37 years???

You can now read Part II of Marrying The Haymaker: The Finale here!