Cornies: Our 50th wedding anniversary and a chance at reconnection, renewal

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Two years ago, as Jacquelyn and I marked our 48th wedding anniversary, we dared to wonder: Would we make 50? And if we did, should we celebrate? And if so, how?

A quiet dinner with our immediate family at a local restaurant, the way we’d marked 40? A trip abroad? A reception to include our extended families and as many friends as we could squeeze into a modest venue?

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We opted for the latter, partly because it seemed so audacious.

We’ve seldom been a couple to make a big deal out of anything. When special occasions arise, we default to celebrating with our children and grandchildren, usually in the privacy of home. And in planning to gather, we gambled that, by 2024, COVID might have receded to some shadow of itself.

Last year, as we marked our 49th with a few nights on the shore of Lake Huron, the enormity of the task ahead began to come into focus. We’d booked a small city-owned venue, but Jacquelyn and our now-grown children and their spouses reminded me there were other things to look after. Food, linens, decorations, music, invitations, shoes, the list kept growing.

(By the way: Shoes?)

It dawned on me how little attention I’d paid to those details ahead of our wedding in 1974. I’d basically rented a tux, asked a few friends to do the same, and shown up at the church.

It also became clear that this golden celebration could easily turn into a tarnished dud of an affair, if we didn’t have help. Fortunately, our kids quickly agreed to help shoulder the burden. Among my jobs: assemble some sort of formal program and build a guest list.

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There’d be our extended families, of course. And because Jacquelyn had been adopted at 13 months and been fortunate enough, later in life, to meet her maternal biological family, my guest-list spreadsheet auto-populated quickly. But there’d be room for a few more. Who should they be?

Finding members of our wedding party and those who’d been our closest friends during our first years of marriage became our priority. The hunt for their locations and email addresses was uncomplicated in some cases, more challenging in others.

On my side, two of the groomsmen could easily be contacted; we’d stayed in touch during those five decades. I reconnected with another after some rudimentary searches. Another had developed a reputation for being a recluse; he signalled early on he would not be able to attend.

The search for Jacquelyn’s bridesmaids was more challenging and, in some ways, more interesting. One had spent most of her married life in Europe with her husband, a business executive; they’d returned to Canada upon retirement. A teenage friend had travelled the world as a nurse with various NGOs, then entered an Anglican Church convent to further serve others. One had developed some health challenges; yet another, Jacquelyn’s sister-in-law, had passed away.

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Seeking, finding and learning the life stories of those who had stood at the altar with us was a vivid reminder of how the gales of life had pushed us all in different directions. Yet reconnecting with them and filling in the huge gaps in our knowledge of their stories was a joyful, and even at times giddy, experience.

With family members and former wedding attendants in place on the seating plan, that left space for only a few more. That handful of invitations went to friends who supported us during our early years of marriage and parenthood.

Eventually, it all came together, thanks to Jacquelyn’s hard work, the help and encouragement of our children and the kindnesses of neighbours on our street. And so, last weekend, as storms swirled around the London region, we renewed our vows and celebrated in a little pocket of calm (and even some sunshine) along the Thames River.

We expected our three sets of families to gather in gratitude with us. Their love and dependability are rock-solid; they’ve been a source of encouragement and strength for many decades. But a rather unexpected part of our golden afterglow has been the euphoria of finding those whom we’d temporarily lost through life’s disorientations.

I think of them now as friends in the middle distance. They’re not as close as family, but they’re not distant, either. They’re friends with whom it’s so easy to visit – even after years of being apart – that time and space seem to collapse in their presence.

In the wake of last weekend, I’ve resolved to turn that soil, tend to those plants and water that garden more faithfully. Lifelong friendships, I’ve learned, are vastly underrated.

Larry Cornies is a London-based journalist. cornies@gmail.com

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