In an elaborate ceremony attended by dozens in December, 1973, Peggy and I were wed. After the long, long silence that greeted the preacher's question about anyone seeing any reason why this man and this woman should not be legally wed, we slipped golden bands on each other's third-finger-left-hand and embarked on our voyage on the sweet sea of matrimony.
Coming up on 52 years later, we're still cruising along, but last November, my knee replacement surgeon insisted that my ring come off prior to the cutting and stitching. My fingers are not the same skinny sticks as they were all those decades ago, so prying it off was no good. An intern, brandishing a tiny Sawz-All, showed up and carefully went to work. Another long silence, broken only by the whine of the saw and the patient, followed, and at length, the deed was done.
So, months later, I took my naked finger and the severed ring to Smyth Jewelers in Timonium, out by the State Fairgrounds, for repair, and for just 85 clams, they restored the ring that cost 30 clams in 1973.
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All repaired, shined, and reinstalled. |
But they told me that the same ring today goes for $1000, so my advice is, if you're going to get married, do it in 1973.
And marry someone who will put up with you, as I did.