It’s deja vu all over again

It’s been 27 years, but I’d do it all again.

Actually, I did do it all again, and my wife Brenda and I celebrate it twice each year.

Today is our wedding anniversary. It’s our second in the past four months.

Getting married once was not enough for us. We said “I do” twice, in separate nuptials on separate dates in separate states.

It’s kind of like wash, rinse, repeat. Or maybe our version of Groundhog Day, the it-keeps-happening- over-and-over movie premise, not the big-rodent-sees-his-shadow hullabaloo, which was yesterday.

And we did it in weather similar to what we experienced earlier this week.

It all started in autumn 1973. Brenda and I attended the same liberal arts college. We caught each other’s eye in the hallway outside a classroom while waiting for a freshman comp-and-lit class in which we were both enrolled. Beyond that, it turned out that she was a cheerleader and I was a walk-on for the college’s first-ever men’s basketball team that was embarking on its maiden season that year. We’d steal quick eye contact courtside during the games, and occasionally get together after the game at the malt shop (OK, I made up that last part, there was no malt shop).

Our official first date was a Christmas-inspired dance called the Tinsel Ball, a formal event in the college’s student union ballroom. As I remember it, Brenda was stunning and I was debonair, at least that’s the way we appeared in the Polaroid snapshot we still have that is the lone remaining evidence that we dated 50 years ago.

As idyllic as we remember, a month later, Brenda saw the proverbial writing on the wall and cut her losses. Definitely not because of my dancing — after all, Brenda still maintains that my prowess on the dance floor had something to do with John Travolta’s success in “Saturday Night Fever.” It was because I had revealed that I would transfer to OU for my sophomore year to pursue a degree in architecture (as Dr. Phil would surely ask, How’d that work out for ya?), and Brenda didn’t see a future in trying to conduct a long-distance relationship, even though it was only 35 miles (on a college student’s income and before wide-area dialing, 35 miles might as well have been 3,500 miles). Besides, she was sure that with a whole new crop of dating possibilities at OU, I’d forget about her and end up marrying a sorority girl.

Of course she was right … at least about the second part. I married a sorority girl. Brenda married her on-again, off-again boyfriend who was off-again during our short-lived courtship in the final few months of ’73.

But she was wrong about me forgetting her. I didn’t forget her, and she didn’t forget me. And we didn’t realize that for 20 years, we lived less than an hour apart.

That’s why when the college marked the 20-year anniversary of the start of its intercollegiate athletics with a reunion, memories were rekindled and we attended the day of festivities with anticipation.

Sure enough, the ember from two decades previous was still there, and our love was born again.

That’s why less than two years later, while planning a foliage trip to Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley, we also lined up a magistrate to perform outdoor nuptials overlooking the mountains and valleys of vibrant orange, gold and red trees.

But we knew our elopement came with complications. We’d already announced our February wedding plans to our children — Brenda has three, I have two — and knew they’d feel shortchanged if we returned to Oklahoma as husband and wife.

So we faked it.

For three and a half months we continued to live apart.

And we kept the first wedding a secret for another five years after that.

We solemnized our second wedding to each other on the coldest February night anyone could remember — the national media had fun with the bitter temperatures, noting that it was when Hell (Michigan) froze over. But our hearts were warmed by our love, even though my mustache froze while taking down the outdoor decorations following the ceremony. After all, for a first marriage, there are usually parents and family members who take care of that kind of thing while the newlyweds begin their life together. When it’s a second marriage, you’re on your own.

But for five years, no one knew about our elopement, until Brenda’s oldest daughter, who was then 20 years old, came home one October night from the same university Brenda and I attended to find Mom with a dozen roses. Brenda revealed in response to her daughter’s query about the flowers that it was for our anniversary. Kristin reminded Mom that our anniversary is in February, after all, she was the maid of honor. That’s when Brenda spilled the beans … and Kristin was a bit perturbed that the ceremony in which her siblings and step-siblings had participated wasn’t the first one for us.

Nonetheless, each year since, we celebrate two wedding anniversaries.

And after 27 years, I’d do it all again.