December 13, 1954: Gettin' Hitched
After many years of marriage, Connie and I are like bookends that hold a library of stories and memories of our shared past.
By kiki
On the afternoon of December 12, 1954, after eight months of courtship, Connie and I, with my sister Rachel and my Uncle John Adame, started out to Yuma, Arizona, to get hitched. I was driving a 1941 Chevy from my Uncle Max, Uncle John's younger brother. I didn't think my 1940 Chevy could have made the trip.
We drove all night to get to Yuma in an era of two-lane roads. I remember stopping once to get some sleep. - We arrived at the dusty Southwest town of Yuma, Arizona, on December 13 at 7:00 in the morning and quickly located a justice of the peace. We told him that we wanted to get hitched. When he asked how old I was, I told him that December 13 was my eighteenth birthday, and I showed him my California driver's license as proof. He wished me a happy birthday and then asked Connie's age. When she told him she was sixteen, he looked at her with a look that said, "who are you trying to kid, kid?" Connie then proceeded to show him a letter signed by her mother. The letter was bogus. In Arizona, then, a male had to be eighteen years old to get hitched, and a female had to be sixteen.
The Justice quickly put a marriage license in front of us. After we signed the document, the Justice asked who would be our witnesses. I told him my sister Rachel was the only witness we had and that my Uncle John was sitting in the car but couldn't come in because he couldn't walk. Uncle John had spent all his life in a wheelchair. The Justice said we needed two witnesses, so he asked his wife to come forward as a witness, which she did. Connie and I said "I do" to each other with background music.
7:30 AM, Connie and I walked out of the Justice of the peace office as a hitched couple with the marriage certificate in our hands.
We now needed something to eat. We drove around the then-small town of Yuma, looking for a coffee shop. We found one that looked like it might do, so I parked and told everybody that I would make sure it was open. As I approached the coffee shop's front, I noticed many white faces looking at me through a big window. I saw a sign on the window that read, "no color trade wanted." I was unsure that the sign pertained to us, but I wasn't taking any chances. I returned to the car and told everybody about the sign on the window. Uncle John, always the adventurer, wanted me to carry him inside the café, but I quickly nixed that idea.
Back on the road, we crossed into California and quickly found a coffee shop with no signs on the window. Because of Uncle John, we ordered take-out breakfasts.
After eating breakfast, Uncle John's adventurous streak reared its head again. With a map in hand, he said, "Let's take this road west." Well, "this road west" turned out to be no more than, figuratively, an old stagecoach trail.
The 1941 Chevy that I had borrowed from my Uncle Max was a low rider: its front and rear suspension had been dropped more than a few notches so that it would barely clear a speed bump, and it had twin pipes with a split manifold. The road was very rough, with lots of potholes and bumps. After hitting a hole, the pipes dragged on the ground and broke the split manifold; now, we were on the road with no mufflers. After what seemed like a lifetime, we finally returned to Pico, now Pico River. Connie and I lived in a camping trailer my maternal grandparents had in their backyard for the rest of December. As Connie and I were listening to R & B music on the radio on our first Christmas night together as husband and wife, the DJ broke in with the news that the great Johnny Ace had shot and killed himself.
Connie and I moved into an apartment in Montebello, Ca. in January of 1955. Then, in 1957, we moved to East Los Angeles, where we lived (in different locations) for the next 12 years.
Fast forward several decades.
2021: We now have several children, a significant number of grandchildren, some great-grandchildren, and two great-great-grandchildren.
The critics back in '54 said our marriage wouldn't last, that we were too young and that it was just puppy love... So to the nay-sayers, I say, well, here we are, we may have fewer teeth and less hair and a few, no make that, lots more pounds, but I think we've made it.
In the intervening years, we have gotten old together, and it has been a joy doing so - And so, after six-plus decades, our memories are still intact for us to draw on in times of joy and sorrow.
On a sad note: 2012
I would like to thank everybody that sends Happy Birthday/Anniversary wishes my/our way. It was a bittersweet day for me. I got to celebrate my birthday and anniversary with Connie and family, but on this date (2004), my beautiful older sister, Rachel, passed away. December 13 has always been a special day in our household, now more so than ever…Rachel, my beautiful sister, may you Rest In Peace. Give Mom, Pops, and Petunia, a big hug for me, and tell them we will soon meet again.
Bittersweet
We will celebrate our anniversary and my birthday with joy and sadness.
