Celebrating Another Anniversary

We had not really celebrated when our second anniversary on the actual date. My Dad died three weeks before, and my Mom came to stay with us a few weeks. On the actual anniversary, we took her with us to a nice restaurant.

For me that would have been enough, but I am blessed that Husband is a true romantic.

Weeks later, Husband suggested we try a real celebration with dinner at a favorite dreamy spot.

“Let’s go the Holiday Inn Plaza downtown,” he suggested. “We can have salads and split-pea soup.”

I rubbed the baby bump that seemed to be growing every day and thought of the first-born child we expected in less than one month.

“I think I can handle that,” I cautioned. “Foods like that should be OK for me and Bingo.”  I referred to the nickname we affectionately called our child.

“I remember the night I took you there on our first date, the second time around.”  He tends to treat such memories with undue emphasis on the feeling and with excessive nostalgia, but that is fine with me. I love being the focus of his feeling. “I remembering being wound-up with the thought of us being together again; I really wanted to take you to a nice place.”

And it was a nice place for the early 1970’s. The backs on the wicker chairs were exceptionally tall and curved toward each other, making a canopy over the table. Each setting was private and cozy.

“I like the service there,” I admitted, still thinking if salad and pea soup would settle well with my condition. “I think there will be room for my belly.”

“Afterwards we can drive around on a lengthy tour of the city and county just as we did on that other night.” He looked toward the ceiling where he viewed the vision of a long car ride.

“One or two differences between now and then,” I reminded him. “I was not pregnant and needing to stop for a bathroom, and we had not seen each other for several months. Now I have to go frequently, and we have been talking every day for over two years.”

“ Good. You like the idea.”

We chose a lovely fall night that had a bit of a nip in the air. I clearly remember wearing the cape I made to accommodate my expanding body. I flapped along like a bat on growth hormones.

The Plaza was built with a kiva-like lower level leading to the restaurant, symbolizing our Native American roots in Wichita. I handled the steps well without having to actual crawl down them, and we stepped inside the warmth of the lobby with anticipation.

Husband wore the purple denim jacket I made for him our first Christmas. “I like that you wore that jacket. It still looks very nice on you.”

“My wife made it for me.”  He said it with pride.

Settling at a table with memories rushing through his head forced Husband’s brain to race like a car.

“Did I ever tell you what I did after that first date? I went home and told my sister Debby that I was going to marry you.”

“You did? That was quite an assumption.”

“And she said, ‘I didn’t know you have been seeing Atha.’ ”

“Oh, I haven’t. This is the first time I have seen her in over a year. But I am going to marry her.”

About that time the waitress came to take our beverage order. Still wrapped in his euphoria, Husband leaned across the table with a huge smile and called me by my maiden name.

“So, tell me, Miss Simers, what have you been doing with yourself lately?”

The waitress looked dumbfounded at me, and I smiled in return.

Then, I learned back in my chair and began patting my huge maternity belly.

Startled, Husband grabbed the cloth napkin on his left, opened it, and fanned his face vigorously. The red color crawled up his neck and across his face.

We laughed heartedly, and the waitress laughed with us.

He was so embarrassed, he couldn’t order dinner, so I did it for the two of us. “Coffee for him, ice tea for me, two chef salads and two bowls of split-pea soup. We are celebrating our second wedding anniversary.”