After the ceremony, botched reception and raucous post-reception party, I told my new husband that we should plan to do something special every five years on our wedding anniversary. I said this before our Cape Cod honeymoon was mired by my morning sickness. We had one good day, riding bikes on Martha's Vineyard, and the rest of the time I was barfing in our B&B.
For our fifth, I planned a hiking holiday from Vermont to Quebec. Instead, we spent the day with good friends our age on a local hike to a place called Termination Point. I told Gilbert the destination did not bode well for our future. Then Tim and Julie, our guides and our best friends, both died within the next 10 years.
For our tenth, we booked the honeymoon suite at Peaks of Otter in the Blue Ridge Mountains, close to trails my husband had once tended as a member of the Youth Conservation Corps. Instead, the entire family was curled up in a corner bed of our tiny house in Carolina as a tornado-spawning hurricane threatened to raise the roof (literally).
For our fifteenth, we happened to be in Las Vegas and I had this idea we should have Elvis remarry us. Our teenaged children appear as the worst witnesses ever in the few photos tucked in a box somewhere in the garage. And we forgot to tip Elvis, who stomped off when he realized we had no more money on us.
For our twentieth, I planned an ambitious vacation in Los Angeles only to spend that summer with a fracturerd hip and ankle. We did make the trip but greatly altered the itinerary because I hadn't yet gotten really good on those crutches.
And now we've arrived at our silver anniversary. Keep your fingers crossed for us.