It was September 12th, 1969, and The Rolling Stones were wailing about “Honky Tonk Women” when I walked down the aisle at age 19 to get married.

That day would begin a 10-year “practice” marriage for me to a lovely woman for whom I still only wish the best of life.

How we do such things at these immature ages is always questionable. We were both responsible people who needed love and attention.

We knew we could not afford children, so we practiced birth control. We didn’t get ourselves in debt. We shopped for specials and ate lots of canned pasta and biscuits. In those days, you could buy ten cans of cheap spaghetti for a dollar.

We lived above the barbershop across the street from the administration building at Murray State University. It was an efficiency where you stepped from the bed literally into a shower. The living-dining room was large enough for a sofa, a recliner, a small four-seat table, a bookshelf, and a stereo system I had inherited from my parents.

The kitchen was large enough for two people to work around each other and fix a meal of the ten-cent spaghetti and the nickel can of five biscuits.

The living/dining room shelf contained a small bottle of St. Remey VSOP brandy, a half bottle of Mogen David wine, and an entire bottle of King George Scotch.

The closet was large enough for all the clothes we had combined. That was not many.

As I recall, I owned a 1950s pin-stripe suit, a blue blazer, a Levi jacket, four pairs of jeans, seven collared shirts, and two pairs of fatigues.

They accompanied a single pair of Sunday shoes and well-worn Acme cowboy boots. I was breaking in a pair of ROTC-issued jump boots.

I would go to school for 6-8 hours daily and then work for Mr. Joe Tom Erwin, the Sports Information Director, and several other “part-time” jobs. My wife was a loyal and dedicated secretary to the Director of Public Information.

Working together and supporting each other, I maintained a 3.49 average despite working 40 hours a week. I took as many courses a semester as possible and would eventually finish a four-year degree in 38 months.

Our neighbors were all young couples like us. I remember Roy and Gloria Day next door. She was in school to become a teacher, and he drove back and forth daily to work in the coal mines in Hopkins County. They owned a hot Dodge Charger, the “muscle car” of the seventies.

Down the street, a block or so was the Crazy Horse Billiard parlor, where I would sneak off now and then and shoot a game of pool.

“The Hut,” where you could still get a cup of Joe for 20 cents, was just past the pool hall and the library across the street.

At Christmas in 1969, we snuck out to a farm in the county and cut down a Christmas tree like thieves in the night.

I asked for repentance for that act, but it was fun! It was a small tree just large enough to sit on top of the stereo, a feature of every place I have ever lived because of my love of music.

We played Burl Ives, Bing Crosby, and Gene Autry Christmas records as we decorated the tree with popcorn and a few ornaments my Mother gave us.

We were young and lustfully passionate. We thought the path forward would be one we would both stay on for our lives.

We were in “love.” Like many people of the era, we were looking for ourselves. We would eventually find us, but perhaps not as we expected.

At the end of December 1969, I listened to Dianna Ross singing “Some Day We Will Be Together” and wondered what life would bring.

After all, we were young and in “love.”