To Tie A Knot

“Do you take this woman to be your wedded wife. . this man to be your wedded husband?”

What steps lead to that happy/solemn phrase, ‘I take this person to be. . ‘?

Life outside the U.S. stretched my thinking on several fronts. This was one. Musings stirred about cultural traditions, about courtship and marriage – some fun and romantic-like, others less so but interesting the same. Musings on how such things play out mong a people different from my own.

“Well, you know”, the dark-skinned gentleman whose head often wagged slightly sideways to signal agreement, offered, “it is like this. . .”

The pleasant sing-song introduction came from an Indian gent I was getting to know. I nodded, coaxing him on in his response to my question.

“You know, we in India and other places come to marriage differently than is done in the West. And, though modern times bring some change, customs to do with the marital union – we hold them quite dear.”

Interesting.

“Can I ask you, Vinay, did your grandparents decide how your own mother and father were to meet and marry? Your father’s parents, for instance, was it they who selected who the girl would be for him?”

And so the visit went.

Before my chat with Vinay, I had already been hearing that much of the world – most of the world – goes about romance and marriage in ways I could think are very weird. Like everyone else, I interpreted most all things through my own American-tinted cultural lens.

“They played a big role, yes”, Vinay replied. “And so did my mother’s family – with long visits over tea and step-by-step discussions – continuing forward right up to their marriage union.

“After all, marrying is not about falling in love. It is about giving thought to life as a whole, which usually does include marrying someone. “

I nodded, implying I understood. But I didn’t really, not quite.

“Young people in the West follow feelings, they go with their senses. A couple “fall in love”, and they marry. In our tradition we find it better to wed a person the family determines – in their best judgment – to be a decent match. The process moves forward. Eventually, the couple marry. The two then “grow into loving” one another. . . Yes, it usually comes. The pair grow to love each other over time. It is the way with our people.

I wondered. These worlds of romance and courtship and marriage. West and East. Could there be a middle ground?

I still wonder.

©2018 Jerry

 

 

Arrangement

My bride-to-be nearly drowned. She was young at the time, just hours old.

“Mr and Mrs. Barnes, the risks are high. To our knowledge no baby has made it through long-term. But the surgery is the only chance your little girl has.”

Earl and Mary had little time to think it over. A surgical team gathered and a T. E. Fistula repair was scheduled. The life of Alice Ann Barnes – her full body weight shy of five pounds – hung in the balance.

T.E. stood for Tracheosophageol. Sadly, the baby’s esophagus and trachea were defective at birth. Designed to transport her mother’s milk into her stomach, Ann’s esophagus mingled with her air-tube. Thus, any nutrition-rich fluids were sent to her lungs, not her stomach. In 1949 the field of medicine had its limits. Without corrective surgery, death by drowning or malnutrition would likely result.

Anesthetics were administered, their effects carefully watched. The surgeon’s knife found entrance into little Ann’s back. The procedure was underway.

Hours passed as anxious parents waited.

“Her vitals are steady.” Intensive care nurses – hours into post-op – kept a close watch on little Ann. Some likely prayed.

December, 1967. The former pediatrics patient – poised, lovely in her white gown – moved along the church sanctuary’s center aisle and to her waiting groom.

***

Our courtship, Ann’s and mine, had largely played out by long distance – spanning twelve hundred miles and two-and-a-half years. First by old-fashioned letters. Then with my Oklahoma-to-Montana phone calls.

The marriage wasn’t arranged by third-party players, but neither did we magically fall in love. We grew toward one another through the modest media of stationery paper and ballpoint ink, radial-dial phones with long-distance lines transporting two distinctly different accents – one from just south of Canada, the other a stone’s throw from Texas.

We had survived, each of us, our childhood crises of health. To one day embark, united, on a journey unlike any we could have dreamed.

An arranged marriage, one might say. By providence.

©2018 Jerry Lout