ANNIVERSARY

Like an elephant, I pride myself in that I never forget anything. Like Dagwood Bumstead, however, I somehow forgot my own wedding anniversary. August 23.

My mind, an unwasted organ, is a steel trap from which nothing escapes. Well, almost nothing.

True, it was thirty - nine years ago — but that is no excuse. What do you want from me? I forgot, plain and simple. The day came and there it went, unrecognized, a day that was a special day of all days. Except I was there, totally oblivious.

My wife reminded me later that evening. I was sitting on the couch, watching the news on TV. “Happy anniversary, old man,” she said, gaily.

“What?” I shouted, above the din.

“Happy anniversary,” she repeated.

“Today?!?” I flustered. “Was it today? I thought it was . . . ” My voice trailed off, a defective machine now that Primary Lateral Sclerosis has muddled it — I am not sure what I thought if, in fact, I thought anything at all. Was it really today? I mean, like TODAY? Jesus!

August 25, 1973. Rochester, NY. Penfield — a suburb, to be exact. Church of the Incarnation, it was called, an Episcopal edifice. An extraordinarily beautiful summer’s day. The church was resplendent with flowers and other nuptialian accoutrements. Two ordained ministers officiated (I do not recall their names, but there were two of them — one was a Methodist, as I recall — because I had been divorced and the Episcopal chap was not permitted by his bishop to fly solo and handle the affair on his own. Go figure.)

My brother acted as best man, and I cannot recall who was my bride’s maid or matron of honor. Everyone one who was anyone in Rochester was there — two of my three eventual kids and all the in - laws and outlaws attended. As well as most broadcasting and travel icons. Judges and lawyers, politicians and assorted miscreants — everyone! Or so it seemed. Frugality dictated the guest list.

The reception was held that afternoon at “Across the Tracks” in Penfield, a particularly eloquent eatery, a converted, defunct train depot; and they did a splendid job. My most dominant memories were answering a persistently ringing phone and taking a reservation for a Reggie Bonamee and his party of six (a reservation I never wrote down and for which Mr. Bonamee and his group were rewarded with blank stares when they showed up that night).

The other memory had to do with Edith Greene. Edith, the sister of my cameraman, she was there with her husband and kids, one of which went on to become a prominent cardiovascular surgeon. At one juncture during the party, Edith, standing to make a point, leaned on her table, a circular affair with a plywood top across a couple of A - frames — the entire structure flipped and sent food, drinks, dishes, napkins and floral arrangements flying. It was a scene from “Hellzapoppin’”.

Edith, of course, was momentarily mortified, and if we were not laughing so hard, she might have slipped away to the Ladies Room and never returned.

Our honeymoon was in the Churchill Suite at the Sheraton East Inn near Buffalo. After a scrumptious dinner at “Victor Hugo’s” in downtown Buffalo, we adjourned to our multi - floor nest where two bottles of Dom Pérignon awaited. I had no sooner popped the first cork than several derelicts from the wedding invaded us. Talk, talk, talk — laugh, laugh, laugh. They did not leave before the last drop was drunk, and we did not get to sleep much before daybreak.

The next day was Sunday and everything at Niagara Falls was closed. Except for one major attraction. We spent the day looking at ground bits, pieces and sundry machinery at the Carborundum Museum.

It was, after all, a brief honeymoon, as I had to be back in the studio in time Monday for my TV assignments. For 38 years I tried to make up for it by extensive Caribbean cruises and journeys to Bermuda, the 1,000 Islands, NYC, Ashville, Savannah, San Francisco, New Orleans, Hilton Head, London, Paris, Madrid, Morocco, Toronto, Eleuthra, Peru, Mexico et all.

And I almost succeeded — until I screwed up in the 39th year.

Alas, I am no elephant. I just look like one.



Copyright©2012 by Robert A. Mills, all rights reserved