The gloom and grey of that cold January afternoon in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan couldn’t even come close to matching the mood both Jonny and I were in. For the past 18 months, we’d been two of the happiest people you’d ever want to meet, much to the annoyance of most of my friends. Now suddenly our togetherness and the happiness that ensued from it were being threatened by a potential distant and prolonged separation.
Editor’s Note: This story contains material which previously appeared in the SoCal Yanquee section of TheStorytellerCafe.com.—Kenneth
We left the Chippewa County Courthouse virtually in shock. Neither of us could begin to organize his thoughts. We hadn’t had anything to eat, aside from a couple of protein bars, since early that morning, so we determined our first order of business should be lunch.
Our next step was to book a room at one of Upper Peninsula Michigan’s finest two-star motels.
After checking in, we drove to a nearby Walmart and picked up some essentials: microwaveable dinner items, a six pack of beer for Jonny, and a large bottle of Merlot for me.
While the beer and wine helped us to relax, our thoughts were still a jumble. A chorus of varying notions as to how to resolve our situation amounted to little more than a cacophony of conflicting ideas. Sleep was in order.
The following morning, after a dreadful two-star motel complimentary breakfast, our thoughts began to come together.
“I’m Derik Greenwood (not his real name), I’m the one who’s going to marry you two fellas.”
One problem had taken care of itself. During our time with Cynthia, the county registrar’s clerk, we learned the waiting period following the issuing of a marriage license could be waved for a $20 fee. You have to admire Red State logic; don’t want to wait the prescribed 72 hours, slip us twenty bucks and off you go, mazel tov.
However, there was a new problem; to be legally married we’d need two witnesses. Neither of us knew a soul in this part of the world, much less two people who could make it to the Chippewa County Courthouse on a minute’s notice.
My job was to use the internet and search for witnesses. Jon would take the bridge bus to Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, a local bus to the Greyhound depot, and the 7:30 cross-province bus to Sudbury. Once he’d secured the decree, he would make the return journey the following day.
A sense of loneliness accompanied my dour mood as I drove back to the motel after seeing Jonny off at the bridge bus stop.
My Saturday night, although lonely, was uneventful. Jonny’s was not. The bus to Sudbury was delayed until 10:45 that evening and it was 3:30 in the morning when he arrived in Sudbury, which rolls up the sidewalks at 9:00 p.m., and the cab companies were closed for the night.
Fortunately, we only live about two and a half kilometres, roughly a mile and a half, from the bus depot. However, at the time it was -18ºC/-1ºF. Cold or not, he walked back to our apartment.
Late Sunday afternoon, after a much easier return trip driving his own car back to Sault Ste Marie, we were reunited. The following morning, armed with all the paperwork and documentation required to secure a Michigan state marriage license we returned to the Chippewa County Courthouse where we were greeted once again by Cynthia.
“We just need to make of copy of the signed divorce decree,” she said in her liltingly pleasant voice.
We were set to go until… looking down at Jon’s copy of the divorce decree she noticed something.
“Oh dear,” Cynthia said with a bit of a sigh. “This must be signed by a judge.”
The decree bore the name of the presiding judge and had the seal of the court but was clearly signed by the judge’s clerk.
Reminding us that this was technically only her second day on this job, another consultation with her supervisor was in order. This time Cynthia’s boss found it necessary to consult yet another authority in the office. Finally after about five minutes consensus was achieved and issuance of our license was approved.
Now all we had to do was book an appointment with a judge and wrangle a couple of witnesses. This is where, despite her lack of knowledge regarding her current position, Cynthia’s years of working in the courthouse proved invaluable.
“As long as it doesn’t interfere with their duties,” she said, “courthouse staffers regularly volunteer to act as witnesses.”
It wasn’t a grand elaborate wedding. In fact, it was just Jonny and I, Magistrate Derik, and two ladies from the Chippewa County Courthouse and yet it was the most beautiful few moments of my life.
She went on to say that once we had a date and time all we had to do was ask around the various offices until we found two employees on break willing to watch us get hitched.
We left the old courthouse, which houses the county registrar’s office and trekked across the snow packed path to the courthouse annex where the Court Clerk’s office is located. We were in luck; a county magistrate had an opening in his schedule at one o’clock, which we booked on the spot.
With just a little over two hours until our scheduled wedding ceremony, all we needed now were two witnesses.
Jonny returned to the old courthouse building to scout for volunteer witnesses. I stayed behind in the annex to do the same. With little more than lawyers and people who’d just appeared in court to choose from, I didn’t have much luck.
Shortly past noon an amiable looking fellow dressed in casual business attire emerged from the court clerk’s office.
“Excuse me,” I said raising a hand to get his attention. “Do you work here?”
“Yes, yes I do,” he responded just as amiably as he appeared.
I introduced myself and went on to explain our predicament, “I understand courthouse personnel often act as witnesses and I was hoping maybe you might be able to help my husband-to-be and I out.”
“Please to meet you,” the good natured fellow said, “I’m Derik Greenwood (not his real name), I’m the one who’s going to marry you two fellas.”
I felt like the kid in third grade who’d just spelled “cat” with a “k” in front of the entire class.
I apologized profusely and we chatted for a bit. Magistrate Derik was indeed as charming and pleasant an individual as you’d ever want to preside over your wedding service.
Jonny had better luck than I did. A young woman from one of the county offices was going to lunch at one o’clock and would be more than willing to act as a witness.
Back in the old courthouse, standing outside the Magistrate’s second floor courtroom we watched as attorneys and clients came and went. We didn’t, however, have any luck spotting a potential witness.
Ten minutes before our scheduled ceremony a middle aged woman with an official bearing emerged from a conference room and seeing us said, “may I help you?”
Jon explained who we were and what we were doing loitering outside Magistrate Greenwood’s court room accosting county workers.
“Don’t worry,” she said with a slight chuckle. “I’m Derik’s clerk. I’ll be glad to act as a witness.”
And with that the way was clear and our wedding was on.
Unlike the preceding three days of seemingly never ending obstacles the next twenty minutes flew by without so much as a hiccup. As Jonny would say later, “that just happened.”
It wasn’t a grand elaborate wedding. In fact, it was just Jonny and I, Magistrate Derik, and two ladies from the Chippewa County Courthouse and yet it was the most beautiful few moments of my life.
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, we went from boyfriends to legally married spouses.
After we thanked everyone and said our goodbyes, Jonny and I rushed down stairs to the registrar’s office where Cynthia was nearly beside herself congratulating us. She and her supervisor quickly ran off three certified copies of our marriage certificate, one for me, one for Jonny, and the third to be filed safely away with our other important papers.
After a quick wedding lunch at McDonalds, we prepared our passports and respective copies of our fresh off the press marriage certificates, went to our cars and–three days and two hours after our last failed attempt–headed back across the bridge to Canada.
With Jonny right behind me in his car, I pulled forward to a kiosk where a young border agent was waiting to take my passport.
“Where are you headed and what’s the purpose of your visit to Canada?” he asked.
“I’m headed to Sudbury to be with my husband,” I responded.
He was just about to return my passport to me when something on his terminal caught his eye.
“It says here you were denied entry last Friday,” the young agent said quizzically. “Why was that?”
“One of your agents didn’t believe that I’m a journalist here writing about Canada,” I said. “He felt I was abusing the visa system to be with the man I’d been dating. It was suggested things would work out better if we were actually married so we got married today. I have a copy of the marriage certificate if you’d like to see it.”
“No,” the border agent said handing me back my passport. “Go on through.”
And with that gigantic anticlimax I was back in Canada.
It was snowing again and I breathed a sigh of relief as Jonny pulled up beside me in a parking lot just outside the point of entry complex. As I looked through the open windows of our cars, I could see tears of joy streaming down his cheeks. I don’t think he’s ever been happier or more relieved.
Almost five hours later we were back in our Sudbury apartment still arguing about a name change.
A 22-character, Oberleitner-Breithaupt, hyphenate being out of the question for both of us I said, “I kinda like Oberthuapt”
“No,” said Jonny.
“How about Breileitner?” I asked playfully.
“Go to sleep husband,” he said pulling me closer to him in the bed.
Edited by
Kenneth Larsen
Join us again on February 27, 2018 for Epilogue.
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