Dew Drop Inn

Love is in the air this time of year every year since 1978. That's when Paulie and I got married. August 19 to be exact.

This morning he texted me a "Happy Anniversary" one day early. Awwww. I texted back a more accurate "Happy Dew Drop Inn Anniversary." For every wedding day story, isn't there always a night before the wedding day story?  We sure got one.

August 18, 1978. Think about that. Bee Gees were singing about Stayin Alive, the most popular arcade game was Space Invaders, Jimmy Carter was president, and Garfield the cat was first introduced in newspapers. It was a long ass time ago.

We both had just graduated from college at the University of South Dakota and chose to get married in Montana because that's where most of my family lived. My folks managed a campground about a mile from Glacier National Park. A nice place to gather. The number attending the wedding was small as it was quite a trek for most of our friends.

Paul was represented by three childhood pals from the Chicago area where he grew up. For them, it was more reunion than wedding, which is typical for these kinds of events. Still, they took seriously their obligation to throw a goodbye to single life party for their friend.

Hello, Dew Drop Inn.

The chosen party spot was a local dive bar in the middle of nowhere just off the main road about a quarter mile from the campground. As I recall, I had stayed back at the campground with family members - my parents, five brothers, a sister-in-law, niece and nephews, aunt and uncle, grandmothers, and mother-in-law. Once things wound down, I along with my brothers and sister-in-law headed out to join Paul and his friends at the Dew Drop Inn.

My two younger brothers were not of age.  One snuck in through the kitchen. That makes me laugh thinking about that. Today he's the brewer of great beers. The youngest was left out in the cold. And it was cold in Montana when we were there to get married. Snowed the day of the wedding. Snowed!

Back to the Inn. We gather tables together and commence celebrating. Lots and lots of drinking.  Paul's friends kept them coming for my soon-to-be husband. He was smashed. I was getting there, too. I can only recall having maybe one of the best times of my life in that moment in that Montana dive. That was about to change.

"Are you Paul?"

We all look up to see a 6-foot mountain dressed in overalls. No way to process. 

"Are you Paul from Chicago?" Now he's looking directly at his subject sitting next to me. His tone has silenced the table, none of us prepared for what he was about to say next.

 "You got my 16-year-old daughter pregnant," he says as he rounds the table toward our side. I think I went blank. I hear lots of shouting but no words. Then my oldest brother Frank begins a chorus of "You got the wrong guy. You got the wrong guy."

By this time Mr. Mountain is standing next to Paul. I instantly insert myself between them and join in my brother's chorus, "You got the wrong guy," all the while I am lightly tapping this behemoth on  his face. Why? I have no earthly idea.

While this was happening, a group of manly men, locals, were eager to join in the commotion. To prevent a real tragedy, someone responsibly ended this obvious (to everyone but me and Paul and four of my brothers) pre-wedding gag. Mr. Mountain then broke character and wrapped his arms around both of us, squishing me so tightly my glasses broke. In half.

Mr. Mountain turned out to be a tourist from California. Of course, Paul's friends had put him up to it. I don't recall much of anything else from that night, but we did have a lovely wedding the next day. Below is one of my favorite pictures from the day. My parents, Frank and Shirley, in conversation with Paul's mom Lew. The newly weds only have eyes for each other. Notice I am not wearing glasses.