Rocky and I stayed in touch regularly when he was overseas, exchanging letters and cassette tapes. He was hungry for news, so his friends and I recorded tapes filled with political news, great music, Ohio State football scores, local gossip, and our concerns for him. Rocky saved all the recordings, but the fascinating ones he sent me from Vietnam were accidentally erased or lost, and it’s a sore spot to this day.

When Rocky returned from Vietnam, I skipped my graduation ceremony at Ohio State in 1971 and flew to California to be with him. He rented a small apartment for us in San Clemente, overlooking the ocean, just down the street from President Nixon’s compound. The weather was always beautiful, and it felt as if we were the only two people on the planet.

During the week, Rocky drove his car to work at Camp Pendleton, and I stayed home and read, took walks, and went to the beach. I can still visualize him coming home every day dressed in his Marine khakis, looking incredibly fit and strong. We would sit outside for hours talking and listening to music, sharing a gigantic set of headphones connected to Rocky’s sound system in our apartment. We loved our life in seclusion, void of any commitments or social life.

That is, until one night, Rocky thought it would be fun to invite some Marines over from the base to have a drink and meet me. In Vietnam, he was their platoon commander, and they only knew me as “Lieutenant Saxbe’s hippie girlfriend.” The guys arrived early, ready to party, and stayed way too long. By the time we made them leave, they were drunk, loud, and could barely walk. Still, they managed to take all the patio furniture and stack it up in the middle of the road outside the apartment. That was the beginning and end of any social life for us, but it didn’t matter; it just gave us more time together.

One of our outdoor activities in San Clemente was dirt-bike riding. We towed Rocky’s 350 Honda and drove until we found the perfect place to ride. Being young and foolish, I hopped on his bike, tightly wrapped my arms around him, and held on for dear life as we flew across the rough terrain. It was crazy!  The suede poncho I’m wearing was a gift Rocky had made for me when he was based in Okinawa. I would give anything to know where it is today. Little did I realize his 350 Honda would be the first of many bikes to come, and each one got bigger.

Rarely did Rocky talk about being in Vietnam unless I brought it up. When I asked why he was always looking at his watch, turned to the inside of his wrist, he explained it was a habit from managing his platoon’s patrols and night security. Whenever I saw him looking over his shoulder, I never had to ask why.

After several weeks in San Clemente, Rocky received his orders to report to Quantico, Virginia. We headed north to visit friends in San Francisco and Eugene, Oregon, then drove across the country towing the Honda. We arrived in Ohio not knowing what the future held for us. I stayed in Columbus, and Rocky went to Quantico to finish his last year in the Marine Corps.              

We talked daily and visited each other whenever possible. The best was a whirlwind weekend in New York that turned into a marriage proposal, and I happily accepted. Dolly and Bill threw a big party for us at the Christopher Inn in Columbus, where we announced our engagement, and our parents met for the first time.

Mom and I were on a roll with wedding plans, but our adventure didn’t last long. The details were overwhelming and made me think twice about planning a traditional wedding. Oddly enough, around the same time, I got a call from Rocky asking me to come to Washington for the weekend. While we were having dinner at his parent’s house, Rocky informed me he wasn’t quite ready to get married and needed more time to adjust after being in Vietnam. I couldn’t believe my ears and took it as a sign he no longer cared but told him I understood. He tried convincing me to move to D.C. so we could still be together, but I was hurt and declined the invitation (many times) and flew back to Columbus.

After telling this story to my aunt, she asked if I still loved him, and when I answered yes, she convinced me I should go to Washington to be with him. When my Mom agreed, I packed my bags and drove my 58 Chevy to Washington D.C. Rocky found a second-floor apartment for us in Springfield, Virginia. There wasn’t a patio overlooking the ocean like in San Clemente; instead, we had an asphalt parking lot filled with cars, including Rocky’s bright yellow Stingray and my 58 Chevy. There was an overly lit Burger King at the complex entrance and a basketball hoop directly under our bedroom window that was great if you didn’t like sleeping.

My Dad generously sent me a truckload of furniture from his store, including a vibrating Naugahyde recliner, a black and white checkered sofa, and a yellow dinette set for two. Rocky built bookshelves out of cinder blocks, and we nailed a large cowhide to the living room wall. We even splurged on a $75 white, furry rug for the living room to complete the look. Rocky’s extensive sound system and conga drum took up an entire wall. The sounds from both must have made quite an impression on the downstairs neighbors.

Rocky worked at the Marine Corps base in Quantico, and I found a job at an insurance company in downtown Alexandria. Our social life revolved around rugby friends and Marine Corps events - not my idea of socializing, but I was crazy in love.

After living together for a few weeks, I decided it was time to impress my Marine roommate by making chicken cacciatore from a recipe I found. When we pulled the dish out of the oven, it looked bad, smelled bad, and tasted awful. We immediately pitched it, dined on double cheese Whoppers from Burger King, and still got sick. That was fifty years ago, and we’ve never eaten chicken cacciatore or had a Whopper since.

A year passed, and Rocky and I still hadn’t told our parents we were living together. One night while sitting at our kitchen table, Rocky surprised me with the news he was accepted to law school at Ohio State and was looking forward to finding an apartment. My issue with his lovely scenario was there was absolutely no way I would move back to Columbus and live with him under my parents’ nose. What happened next in the conversation depends on whom you ask because we recall it differently. My memory is he BEGGED me to marry him repeatedly; his memory is I said yes, immediately. Regardless, we decided to get married before moving back to Columbus.

Finding someone to marry a Jew and an Episcopalian in Washington D.C. within three weeks on a Saturday wasn’t easy. We looked through the phonebook, and after many calls to synagogues and churches, we found a Priest who would marry us under one condition; we had to meet with him for three counseling sessions to make sure we were ready for marriage. When the sessions were over, the Priest determined Rocky was the mature and stable one, but I was a bit of a free bird who needed some time to mature. He still agreed to marry us.

On March 25, 1972, we were married at Temple Micah/Saint Augustine, a synagogue on Fridays and an Episcopal church on Sundays, the only one in the country at the time. I wore an inexpensive white dress ($69.99) and a quirky veil ($29) I found during a lunch break at work. Rocky wore a dark suit with a striped tie he still owns, and his face featured a large scratch across his cheek sustained in a rugby match.

Unlike the big wedding we originally planned with a fancy dress, save the date cards, and hundreds of people, we ended up with 21 guests and no stress. There were few gifts, no diamond ring, sterling silver, or pots and pans; all we wanted was camping gear. At the end of the ceremony, Rocky broke the glass, a Jewish tradition marking the beginning of a new life together. The celebration began and has never ended, and after fifty years together, the Marine finally bought his hippie bride her first diamond ring.