Justin's Version

On Memorial Day weekend, we went to Bennington, Vermont for my old friend Jim Hourdequin's wedding. I was looking for the right moment to talk about the whole 'eternity' thing and thought this trip would be the time. I almost bailed on my plan: at other peoples' weddings we've always talked in theoretical terms about doing it ourselves (as in, "If we get married, we should have five desserts, three of which should include ice cream"). I was afraid Autumn would think I'd just succombed to 'wedding fever' and wouldn't take me seriously.

But we stayed in Vermont for a couple days after everyone cleared out, and I decided to go ahead. So, in search of a beautiful spot, I asked Autumn to hike up the Long Trail to Little Rock Pond. From the pond, I led her west up Green Mountain. It was a lovely trail, with more painted trilliums blooming underfoot than I've ever seen, anywhere.

As we hiked, I got more and more nervous. Each time we got to a nice view, I convinced myself a better one lay just ahead. But when we reached the ridge, and it was clear the view wasn't getting any finer, I knew it was time.

And then I realized that, though I had taken months—years—to reach this point, I had absolutely no plan. No ring. No poem to read. No note in a handmade box. No hired troupe of actors to pile out of the brush and sing an original ballad composed for the occasion. After all the times I'd counselled others on doing this, and had recommended using high explosives to spell their significant other's name, bribing guards to hang a fake painting on the wall of an art museum, or at the very least the old stand-by--hiding something in their food. I had, what? Just me on a mountain.

So I asked Autumn, "Want to stay together forever?"

And without missing a beat, she said "uh huh."

Which sounded suspiciously close to "huh?" or even "nuh uh." So I had to ask, "'Um, does that mean 'yes'?"

"Uh huh."

Thus reassured, I gave Autumn a big hug, and then we got giddy, and took lots of pictures, most of which made us look weird, and none of which did justice to the breathtaking beauty of the southern Green Mountains on that day.

Autumn's Version

There was a snake. A really big one, of indeterminate origin and unconfirmed travel plans. Justin had dreamed about it, but I predicted it would come true.

Before the snake was a long trek through a dense wilderness of exhausted AT Hikers, frolicking children on family camping trips, turned ankles and a forgotten camera.  But a sudden left turn took us off the Appalachian Trail and away from the masses. After floundering up a trail that was by turns stifling hot and comfortably breezy, we broke through indifferent vegetation to witness one of those singular views of trees and mountains enhanced by the lack of a single road, cell tower or million-dollar home. One of those places where you can still see the Milky Way at night as if you were sitting next to Copernicus or Hypatia.

My response to such an awe-inspiring expanse? Bug spray. Lots of it. It’s hard to enjoy your pip-squeak status in the universe when something exponentially smaller is eating you for lunch. With the smell of citronella wafting strongly between us we settled into a rare but companionable silence.

(Even Jabberwockies like us are capable of it every now and again. Mostly when I can’t take any more strategic organizing debates and Justin’s tired of bending his head around one of my metaphysical treatises. Or when our jaws get tired. Whichever comes first).

Suddenly my best friend and closest companion of the last six years (not to mention best shoulder to cry on of 2000, 2004 & 2006 and the only speaker of Spanish with a Russian accent I know) turned to me, and asked, “Do you want to stay together forever?”

Truthfully, I would have been less surprised if he’d lopped his head off and performed a spontaneous juggling routine. He claims above that I made some unequivocal noise at this point. I maintain he should be lucky I was capable of making a sound.

After the aforementioned requests for clarification, I gave into my prime instinct and threw myself at him for a thorough interpretive dance of “I love you, am very happy, thankful you’re here with me, glad you love me as much as I love you.” The mosquitoes in the audience were very moved.

The picture-taking episode involved prosy assurances from each that they knew how to take the best picture (Yes, the universe does have a sense of humor) and much squinting into the sunlight. Justin’s bod, having survived all the horrific suspense, abruptly stopped producing adrenaline, hence his look of beautific exhaustion; mine, on the other hand, had just revved into full gear (the word glazed comes to mind. Yum, donuts). And that’s pretty much it.

Except that there was, in fact, a snake that slithered from between starflowers and painted trilliums, to bask in the sun on the trail, and we both stepped right over it sometime after the original conversation but before the Indian Cucumber and the Pink Lady Slipper. It was right about the time I screwed my courage to the sticking point to ask,
            “ Uh, Justin?”
            “Yeah?”
            “When you say forever, do you mean we’ll just stay together forever, or we’ll get married?”
            “What’s the difference?”
            “Well, on the one hand we’d keep it to ourselves and just be together. When we went to friends weddings (Like Jim and Katherine’s this self-same weekend) and folks ask when we’ll get married, we wouldn’t say a word cause we’d know it wouldn’t matter, but we’d smile secretively to each other.”
            “And on the other hand?”
            “We’d have, like, a ceremony, I guess, and tell people.”
Justin paused to think for a second. Then said, “I think we should tell all of our friends and families and throw a big party.”
And I said, “That’s a wedding.”