Back in 1975 it seemed like a good idea to get married in a mountain meadow, even though it was on Indian Land, and we were officially trespassing. We drove up in our open-topped TR4, with its psychedillic dash, followed by a caravan of friends and family. My mother and my Aunt Hellen Dagmar, Uncle Hal and Eleanor, who left my small cousins behind in Philadelphia, Jim’s parents, Anne and John, brother Jerry and his wife Renee, college friends, Lisa and Joe, Santa Fe friends, Bob and Tammy, our roommates, Pam and Larry standing up for us. A few others we’d met at the restaurants where we worked that summer. It was a sunny day, though easily could have rained. We stood under the aspens and our preacher, Jack Gilpin, married us.
Jack was nephew of the famous southwest photographer, Laura Gilpin, hence his interest in Santa Fe. Jack wore a beautiful white suit, which soothed my new mother-in-law a bit. She’d first met him on the porch of our communal living house, and he was drinking a beer, and that shook her confidence that we were really getting married after a couple years of sinful cohabitation and her gentle prodding. “When are you going to decide?” Jack was probably not a real minister in her eyes, had she known, but I don’t think we told her. He was an actor, and had a ministerial card from the Universal Life Church. Cost him a dollar. Later, we would see Jack in small roles in popular movies. He played a lawyer, a hostage, etc.
We had a carrot cake and vegetarian enchiladas catered by The Golden Temple, a Sikh-owned restaurant on Water Street, and a keg of beer, carried up in Fred’s jeep. After the party, we all camped out in the meadow. Perhaps there were guitars. The grown-ups (I suppose you could call us grown-ups at age 23, but I’m speaking now about the aunts, uncles, and parents) went out to dinner at the Compound, the fanciest restaurant in town.
The honeymoon continued via backpacking into the Pecos. Who came with us? I remember Jerry and Renee, Fred, who else? Hard ground, sleeping bags zipped together, friends snoring around us, frigid mountain lake for washing in the morning. Not the most romantic. But hey, those were the communal days, and you might have called us hippies.
Still in love after all these years. Happy Anniversary, my darling.
Jack was nephew of the famous southwest photographer, Laura Gilpin, hence his interest in Santa Fe. Jack wore a beautiful white suit, which soothed my new mother-in-law a bit. She’d first met him on the porch of our communal living house, and he was drinking a beer, and that shook her confidence that we were really getting married after a couple years of sinful cohabitation and her gentle prodding. “When are you going to decide?” Jack was probably not a real minister in her eyes, had she known, but I don’t think we told her. He was an actor, and had a ministerial card from the Universal Life Church. Cost him a dollar. Later, we would see Jack in small roles in popular movies. He played a lawyer, a hostage, etc.
We had a carrot cake and vegetarian enchiladas catered by The Golden Temple, a Sikh-owned restaurant on Water Street, and a keg of beer, carried up in Fred’s jeep. After the party, we all camped out in the meadow. Perhaps there were guitars. The grown-ups (I suppose you could call us grown-ups at age 23, but I’m speaking now about the aunts, uncles, and parents) went out to dinner at the Compound, the fanciest restaurant in town.
The honeymoon continued via backpacking into the Pecos. Who came with us? I remember Jerry and Renee, Fred, who else? Hard ground, sleeping bags zipped together, friends snoring around us, frigid mountain lake for washing in the morning. Not the most romantic. But hey, those were the communal days, and you might have called us hippies.
Still in love after all these years. Happy Anniversary, my darling.
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