In a scene right out of a movie, she banged her head on the shelf above when I startled her by asking if I could help. Of course, embarrassed at being caught is such a position, she quickly stood to face this not-so-gallant offer of help and it was then that I noticed her legs, and that she was cute too.
I was reminded of this little vignette while wandering the streets of Kingsland, Georgia and the Annual Labor Day Catfish Festival this weekend and I came upon this building. It was the place where we got our blood test and marriage license before tying the knot in the Justice of the Peace's parlor around the corner. Lying just across the border, Kingsland was a favorite marriage destination back then for Floridians who unexpectedly found themselves in a "family way" and who needed to avoid the legal mumbo jumbo and waiting periods attached to anyone under twenty-one getting married in Florida. Once the decision was made, we really had no choice but to "run away" to Georgia for her father, a straight-laced, hard-ass military man, would most certainly have made it a for real shotgun wedding. Twelve-gauge, five-round, pump-action, 00-buck!
I suppose like most people in our situation, we considered the alternatives, including aborting the pregnancy. Back in those days abortion was a dark, dirty thing uncovered by whispered inquiries to people who might know of such things and performed by witches in back alleys with coat hangers. An era some would have us return to.
But for us, it was an idea far too ugly to take seriously and played no role in our decision because we were young and in love and the idea of setting up house fresh and exciting. Besides, had we done it, we would have been robbed of my dearly beloved eldest daughter and I would not have been in Charlotte this past week to celebrate my twin granddaughters' fifth birthday.