St. Patrick's Day - A Special Anniversary

I really like St. Patrick's Day. I was always pretty good about remembering to wear green in school and rarely got pinched, but that's not why I like this day. It's special to me because on it, 14 years ago, Bruce asked me to marry him.

Not on Valentine's Day. And not on the day that would have marked our first date. No, that would be too cliche for my man. He picked St. Patrick's Day. (He's never been one for obvious sentimentality.)

I'm fairly certain he had no idea that it was even St. Patrick's Day when he proposed. The actual day that would have marked our first date came later in the week, but the engagement ring was burning a hole in his pocket, he later told me. He had planned to go the sentimental route, to please me, but just couldn't quite make it that long.

In my warped mind, I like it better this way. I like for things to be different, unique, even odd. Trying to fit in the cookie-cutter mold never worked much for me anyway.

I don't remember what we did with most of our day, 14 years ago. We were spending the weekend at his parent's house, away from where we attended college. That evening, we were alone in the den in their basement, with a fire blazing in the fireplace and CMT playing on the television. (I had a brief country music phase around that time that was Bruce inspired. Say what you want, but to this day I hold firm on the opinion that Diamond Rio and Sawyer Brown ROCK!!)

Bruce and I talked. We slow danced a bit. Several kisses thrown in there, too. And then he got on his knee and held a velvet box out to me as he asked me to marry him.

And I got mad. Because I thought he was yanking my chain in the worst way. I even said, "Bruce, this is not a funny joke."

He assured me he was not kidding. (We'd been dating for two years, and we'd talked about marriage. But I can be gullible at times, and I take things that people say very literally; Bruce had had a little too much fun with that for me to take him seriously all the time.)

I was still hesitant. I thought that box would certainly contain a pink plastic ring that he'd gotten from the nearest bubble gum machine. And, boy, was I prepared to let him have it if that was the case!

A few more moments passed before I believed him. But only after opening the box and seeing a sparkling ring that he had chosen perfectly after a talk we'd had about what kind of ring I'd like. (Understated, not too big because it would look gaudy on my small hand. But big enough to at least appear like he loved me enough to shell out a few big bucks. Simple, because I don't like very ornate things. They usually require too much time to clean.)

So I said "yes," we hugged and kissed some more, a couple tears gathered on the edges of our eyes, and we smiled like goofy dorks who had no idea what we'd just gotten ourselves signed up for. We didn't have a clue.

And for the next four months we planned my graduation from college and our wedding, found a job for me in the same town where he had secured an engineering co-op position for a year, signed a lease on a nice little apartment, and burned up the phone lines and highways trying to get a good grip on the immediate future.



Sweet memories!