Who says that cement and steel bars aren't romantic? Hannah and Max met in prison. Just touring, of course, with a gaggle of idealistic college students. But who knew, in their passion for fighting the system, they would find a passion for ... each other? It's true folks, a spring time of unrequited love, spent studying while listening to Chris Isaak songs, immediately followed this tour. They sent letters that whole summer, full of pointless stories and puppy love. When Hannah asked Max if she could come visit Seattle before the end of the summer, he thought he'd finally made it. When he asked her to go steady, standing on the bow the ferry bound back from Bainbridge Island, and she said, 'Hold your horses buckaroo,' well, he realized he found the right one. After a great many more hours of pining and romancing at taco spots and riversides and Graduate Health & Life Sciences Research libraries, Hannah relented to Max's wily charms. And it's been nothing but smooth sailing since there: just a global pandemic, uprooting to Minnesota, adoption of two cats, and starting of Nursing school. Through it all, a care so deep and true as theirs has kept them as thick as thieves and crazy as an asylum of loons.

On a blustering, chilly, and in every other way beautiful day, we gathered in a pleasantly appointed court office, to be wed, legally, in February. The morning was spent traipsing through scenic Stillwater (really! it is scenic!) in slip dresses, noshing on cold club sandwiches, and photographing every combination of family member with every combination of spouse. When the time came, Max read from a Google Doc and Hannah from a twice-folded 8x11, each a set of vows about the kind of love that survives a pandemic, social work careers, and a Midwest winter. Now that we got the hard part over, what's one more wedding?