Lordy, Lordy, look who’s 40 (years married)

Aug. 11, 1984, was not a particularly historic day by most standards.

President Reagan was caught joking that the United States was about to bomb Russia. Carl Lewis won his fourth gold medal during the Summer Olympics in Los Angeles. “Ghostbusters” was No. 1 at the box office, and Michael John Powers married Patricia Lynn Kramer. Oops. In journalism lingo, that’s called burying the lead.

Yes, come this Saturday, it will be 40 years since Patty and I walked down the aisle in Rapid City, S.D. Considering my questionable memory, I’m surprised by how many details of that day and events surrounding it remain clear as a bell.

Let’s put the most painful episode of the entire experience upfront. Couples are often asked, with great enthusiasm, “How did he propose?” Well, I didn’t.

Several months previous, we casually started talking about getting married — where, when, etc. Very practical stuff. Once all that was decided, I figured it was too late or unnecessary to get down on one knee and pop the question. Wrong.

It is like a punch to the gut when I hear about a marriage proposal or watch video of one such touching moment. Perhaps that’s why I can’t stand “The Bachelor,” even though I’ve never seen it.

When teaching a media class at Los Lunas High School, one of my assignments for students was to write about a regret they had. As an example, I lectured about my proposal, or lack thereof. It was strangely emotional.

As we laid out plans, choosing a church was a bit of a conundrum. The houses of worship Patty and I grew up in were not exactly from the same spiritual neighborhood. So, we looked elsewhere in perhaps the first compromise of many in our relationship.

We did what any couple would do — choose a pastor that I played basketball with at the YMCA, who seemed like a nice guy. Who cares that his church philosophy wasn’t anywhere close to what we were accustomed to? No doubt the location raised eyebrows with family and friends, but no one caused a fuss. The wedding was the last time we were in that building.

The day of the nuptials was also the day I moved out of my apartment. That meant I had to clean the apartment, have it checked by the landlord, get my deposit returned and then head to the wedding within a span of a few hours. My poor planning caused significant stress but did not prevent me from getting to the church on time.

Cleaning the non air-conditioned pad was made even more taxing by the temperature. According to National Weather Service official records, it reached 96 degrees that day, although Patty maintains it was the hottest day in the history of the world.

The ceremony itself was uneventful. Aside from some nerves, it went well. I’d be proud to report that I still remember the vows we shared on that early evening, except it wouldn’t be true. I do know they were heartfelt and meaningful.

As we left the altar and walked through the sanctuary as a married couple, the music we chose to usher in our life together began playing. It was the theme from the movie “Local Hero” by Mark Knopfler. It opens with a subtle but stirring guitar by the Dire Straits frontman, and builds to a soaring saxophone, seemingly from the heavens above. Forty years later, it still brings an old softy to tears.

Now, onto more tears. At the reception, we did the traditional “cut the cake” routine, feeding each other a small slice. With the heat and humidity, the top layer of the wedding cake kept sliding off, so the baker babysat it all day long.

Still, Patty called it the best cake she ever tasted. Unfortunately, we only had a couple of bites. Several friends volunteered to hold the cake for safekeeping until we returned from our honeymoon.

After arriving home, we were sheepishly told they had eaten the rest of it. Talk about leaving a bitter taste. Nary a wedding or birthday goes by without Patty retelling how our friends devoured the tastiest cake we ever had.

That same couple earns a bit of love for hosting a party after the reception. Many of our friends and relatives made the trip to the Black Hills to celebrate with us. It was a wonderful night, but soon it was off to Hotel Alex Johnson, considered one of the most haunted places in South Dakota.

We weren’t at the hotel long enough to witness anything paranormal because an early morning flight to Honolulu awaited. I had suggested a honeymoon in Minneapolis, catching a Twins game and visiting a store that seemed to be gaining in popularity, Target. Following some discussion, option one was vetoed in favor of the more exciting choice; Hawaii. Another compromise.

Reservations were made, with expenses slapped on a shiny new American Express card. The trip was wonderful, giving us a great start.

While standing in the warm Pacific Ocean, I told Patty, “Let’s have fun,” and we have. Sure, there have been struggles like any family, but this has been an amazing partnership.

Reminiscing over the last few days, looking ahead to the next 40 years, we are committed to more adventures, with a similar refrain — “Let’s have more fun.”