Most couples head off to an island for their honeymoon. Our romantic stop was not on an island but, rather, at the “Knoll,” a well-worn motel outside of Ashtabula, Ohio. That was all we could afford and had time for. I had to be back at graduate school by Tuesday morning. That Sunday evening was very pleasant, but not overly exciting. The complete honeymoon awaited us in Ithaca, New York, where it lasted for several months. The initial phase, however, did include an unplanned overnight visit at a somewhat better motel outside of Brecksville, near Cleveland, on our first Thanksgiving, together.
After our June wedding, the first break I had in classes was the long Thanksgiving weekend in late November. We were obligated to visit both sets of parents in Ohio. We drove first to Sandusky to see Karen’s mother and father, as well as her sister and brother. Of course, we had to squeeze my parents into the journey, as well.
Early on Thursday afternoon, after the usual holiday dinner, we began our drive on the Ohio Turnpike toward Niles, some 120 miles to the East. After a two-hour drive, we had finally reached the outskirts of Cleveland. A not unusual lakefront snowstorm had accompanied us along the way. The usual preceding ice-storm had made the toll-way impossible to travel without chains on the tires. We left the Turnpike to find a set to purchase and put on the Ford; we would need them for the rest of the winter in the Finger Lakes region of New York, anyway.
Once we had stopped, we decided to stay. We found a large, very acceptable motel near Brecksville and agreed that here we should take the fancy honeymoon we had never had. Being snowed-in can be very romantic. The dinner, wine, and room were more exotic than anything Ashtabula could ever have to offer. Late the next day, we arrived in Niles for a second Thanksgiving dinner, a more enjoyable one than we would have had a day earlier.
To a great extent, we had continued to be on our honeymoon from June through the end of that year in our first apartment in Cayuga Heights, on the outskirts of Ithaca. The basement apartment had a combined living room and kitchen, divided by a counter, and a large bedroom. Although it was technically a “basement,” the large window for this ground-floor retreat allowed a view of a picturesque yard with fall foliage. It was here we took on the role of newlyweds, learning their joys and skills.
It was also here that we had our first real argument – with harsh words and tears. Our landlady had allowed us to store our suitcases and a few other items in a common, basement storage area, adjoining our apartment. Our possessions were located directly beneath her bathroom. One morning, when I happened to look for something I thought might have been stored with our suitcases, I opened the door into the storage room and observed a brown sludge dripping onto our Samsonite. I immediately erupted with a litany of cusswords that surprised Karen to no end. She bawled me out for using them. I maintained I had been forced into the display and had reacted as I had always done, even though never before in her presence.
One statement led to another and there we were, arguing not over spilled milk but some unknown substance that neither one of wanted to know, but recognized had to be cleaned up. No doubt, that’s when the next stage of being newlyweds on their honeymoon began.