I had known who Dr. Boggan was since I was a little girl. Both our families, the Boggans and the Brents lived on Eagle Avenue. Anytime he drove up to his mother and father's and we spotted him, my best friend, Ann Hand Dunbar and I took bony, mincing steps and hid behind a pecan tree in our front yard. We watched this handsome, black-haired young man, wearing a white navy uniform walk up the sidewalk to his parents' home, 621 Eagle Avenue. Right across the street from where I grew up.
January 17, 1958
Many years, and almost another life later, a dimpled smile on their faces two little girls, Pat and Linda (Tootie), who belonged to the man at my side were standing next to him. My son Bob hung onto the living room doorknob.
We were at my mother's house on Eagle Avenue. Dr. Boggan didn't wear a white uniform on this day, but he was clad in a dark suit, white shirt and a brightly colored tie.
A love story that was meant to be
Lil ole me, hiding behind a tree.
"Do you take this man?" the minister asked.
"I do."
"And, do you take this woman?"
"I do," the man answered softly.
Dr. Selah smiled. "I now pronounce you, husband and wife."
With those words, the three children watching the ceremony were now blended into, not his and not mine, but ours.
The wedding and celebration over, Willard and I ran down the steps. My new husband and I headed to Miami on our honeymoon.
January 17, 2024
Now, standing out in the freezing cold, I pulled a faded, edge-fringed note from my pocket and read, as I do every year on this date.
"Fifty years ago on Windermere Terrace I prayed every night that God would give you to me.
On January 17, 1958, he answered my prayers.
Willard"
I pictured our family as they were all those years ago. Pat and Tootie, running and throwing rice on me and their father. I can still feel the pellets peppering, as dodging a shower of rice, we ran outside.
Although Willard had hidden his car the girls had found and adorned it. We drove away in his blue Buick station wagon decorated by two mischievous girls with tied on crepe paper banners, tin cans and shoes knotted onto the bumper.
They had also chalked on the words,
"Just Married - He's taken.
Watch Jackson grow."
On the outskirts of Jackson I took off the hat and gloves I'd worn, laid them on the seat and said, "I've never been further south than Gulf Shores, Alabama. I'm looking forward to seeing Miami."
I had a new husband and family and had never been so happy.
When the man driving the car didn't answer. I glanced over at him.
All of a sudden, this new groom didn't look so good. Right before we got to Mendenhall, my groom veered off the highway and stopped. He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped sweat from his forehead, twisted his new wedding ring, and then looked at me. He's had second thoughts, ran through my mind.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"I'm sick," he said."You'd better drive."
My heart plummeted. My mind skewed around another corner and I drew in a deep breath. I'm in trouble. He's an older man. He's sick. He wanted someone to nurse him.
"I think I have the flu," he said sadly, as if he had let me down.
It may have been the shortest-lived case of flu ever.
Sometimes it seemed to me that Willard Boggan, my husband and soulmate, seemed to have come from another century — a Renaissance Man, from a time when men put women on a pedestal.
For all those years we were married, no matter where this man was, or what he was doing, even if he had been in the ER with a patient, somehow he had been able to call me at exactly 4:30 in the afternoon on our anniversary.
Time goes on, life has changed. Most of the 16 family and guests who were there on our wedding day are no longer with us. Our two girls, Pat and Tootie, passed away before their father. He departed for Heaven on Valentine Day, February 14, 2015.
Now, all these years later, I stand out in the cold, bend over the plaque at my feet and place artificial flowers in a metal vase.
I recall another cold, sunshiny, January day; 4:30 in the afternoon, many, many moons ago.
"You know I don't do numbers, Willard. Sixty-six if my math is correct." I pull my jacket tighter. "But I do remember, January l7, 1958, was the best day of my life," I whisper.
I lay my hand over my heart, and repeat those words I'd said all those years ago, "I do."
Then careful not to slip on any icy patches, and humming an old song we often danced to, "Someday, we'll meet again my love," I step-slide my way back to the car.
