July 1944 wasn’t the best time to get married. Maurice had only a few weeks’ leave from the Air Force. We wed in a tiny chapel in Denver, where he was stationed, then searched for a photographer. All the studios had the same sign on the door: CLOSED…OFF TO WAR.
Maurice noticed one last studio, on the corner. A sign on the door, scrawled in shaky handwriting, proclaimed: No Appointment Necessary. An old man greeted us.
“We’d like a wedding picture,” Maurice said.
“How many different poses do you want?” the man asked.
“Just one picture will do,” I said.
The man chuckled. “Soon you’ll have four kids, and when they grow up each one will want a different pose.”
It was hard to imagine our future children. Lord, I thought, for now I just want to imagine an end to this war. We took our picture, and then posed four different ways.
Two weeks later we returned to pick up our photos and pay our bill. This time an old woman greeted us. “My husband died shortly after he developed your pictures,” she said, producing a thick envelope. Across the top, scrawled in that same shaky hand, were the words “paid in full.”
Maurice and I had 62 wonderful years together. Our framed wedding photo is in the living room on the mantel. But the four poses? We gave one to each of our four children on their wedding days.
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