To Have and To Hold

Kayne wanted a travel adventure. I wanted a handsome, suitable-for-framing marriage certificate to display proudly and invite envy.

So we decided on a destination wedding for our nuptials in 1998.

An anglophile, I liked the idea of Britain. I figured a place displaying such pomp would be able to serve up a pretty nifty marriage certificate, too. One with a handsome likeness of the queen, perhaps, and a regal golden seal. Maybe even a knight in armor, or appropriate heraldry. With printing and wording along the lines of Magna Carta:

"Joe, by the grace of God, born of Mississippi, and Kayne, helpmeet and co-equal, do hereby and forthwith..." etc., etc.

We settled on Scotland, which has no pesky residency requirement, opting for a civil ceremony in Edinburgh. A fax to the register office announced our intentions, and we set about collecting the required documents and forwarding the paperwork.

It wasn't simple. We had trouble downloading the forms. We had trouble understanding why some of the information - like our parents' occupations - was required. But we managed, and forwarded it all, including birth certificates to attest that we were at least legal age, 16.

After several weeks, the office informed us that we had an appointment for a wedding at 1 p.m. on our requested date. We flew to Glasgow, rented a car, and drove to Edinburgh. The next day a taxi took us from our hotel to the office for the ceremony.

The wedding party was small. The wedding party was us two.

That, the registrar reminded me, was at least two people short. We needed witnesses. I was about to step into the street in search of a pair of strangers, wondering what might be the proper approach:

“Excuse me, witness my wedding? Buy you a pint!”

Luckily, the registrar spotted another couple who had stopped by the office to fill out forms for their own coming wedding. And so J.M. Blues and S. Mouat of Drumdryan Street, Edinburgh, became part of our official record.

After the ceremony, a decidedly unromantic affair, Kayne and I headed for the nearest pub, the Bow Bar. At about that point the wedding segued into honeymoon trip, with later visits to St. Andrews, Aberdeen, Stirling, Glasgow, and with friends near Loch Lomond.

A successful mission, from my wife's travel adventure perspective.

Unfortunately for me, the marriage certificate did not live up to my hopes. I had traveled thousands of miles for a piece of paper about as impressive as a car title: a washed-out, mint green sheet with a swirling background of cream lettering that repeats Registrar General of Births Deaths and Marriages for Scotland. (Somehow, the word "death" seems to pop up more than any of the others.)

A dimly produced Scottish thistle topped by a crown doesn't add much luster. And all the pertinent information is typed, in a font reminiscent of a term paper.

In aesthetic terms, our friends Glenn and Nancy did much better a few months later, with a ketubah evoking the Garden of Eden, as pictured above. It has lavender butterflies, blue and green pansies, two peacocks in full and colorful display, a lyre and other colorful, if hard to recognize, adornments. Their commitment to each other is spelled out using words like “cherish” and “honor” and “faithfulness” and “integrity."

They solemnized it before their lovely and moving wedding ceremony - on the backyard deck of friends in Nashville. A rollicking celebration followed.

We keep our certificate in a file folder along with old tax forms, bank statements and car insurance policies. Glenn and Nancy's ketubah is proudly displayed on a wall and invites envy.

Especially mine.