Life Imitates Television for These Ozzies and Harriets

It was a perfect little paradise for a wedding.

Except that I’d promised the out-of-town guests a picturesque lake of blue fronting the seminary where we were married. Instead the water was a foot thick with ice, covered with so much snow you couldn’t tell the lawn from the lake. I should have remembered how cold Minnesota could get in November. . . .

Please pardon a column smothered with hugs and kisses. Today is my 20th wedding anniversary.

Not that my wife, Vicky, and I were married 20 years ago today. We probably weren’t; we’ve never kept track of the date. We were married the Saturday after Thanksgiving, so we’ve always chosen to make that our celebration day.

By American standards, we may be from dysfunctional families: Neither of us was married before. Neither our parents nor our siblings (five sisters total) have had more than a single marriage.

The great times have outnumbered the good and the good far more than the bad. We’re no TV Ozzie & Harriet, but we come closer than a lot of couples. In a blissful mood this week, I left the office in search of other Ozzies and Harriets. . . .

Mall Rats: I found Yvonne and Don Karns of Mission Viejo walking hand in hand at South Coast Plaza. Both appraisers (furniture, paintings), they had just finished a job and were treating each other to a stroll in the mall.

Yvonne Karns was happy to talk about their relationship: Love at first sight, she said: “I saw him across a dance floor and knew that was the man I wanted to marry.”

She later got to meet him on a blind date and they’ve been together since. Married 38 years with two grown sons, they’ve lived in their Mission Viejo home the past 28 years. The Karnses travel the country attending seminars in their field, and Don assists Yvonne with classes she teaches for the American Society of Appraisers.

“In other words, we’re always together,” Don Karns said with a chuckle.

“We’re more in love than ever,” Yvonne Karns said, smiling at him. “That’s because we’ve learned to understand each other’s needs.”

She added: “I think our marriage has worked so well because we didn’t try to change each other. We each liked the person we married.”

As they walked away, I could see them holding hands again.

Beachcombers: Wednesday’s blustery weather made me figure that any couples left on the beach must know the magic of love.

On the boardwalk along the sand in downtown Laguna Beach, I found Edmond and Judith Ronaky, arms wrapped around each other like starry-eyed lovers. More likely, they were holding on to keep from being blown away.

He’s 78, she’s 74. Last month they celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary. This was their daily two-mile walk, not to be missed for any weather, they told me, especially on a great day like this.

“The sea is so ominous and elegant today,” said Judith Ronaky, who has lived in Laguna Beach most of her life. “We need our daily fix of the ocean.”

Their relationship is so close, they said, that they haven’t missed not having children. His career was in ceramics; she had various duties with the city of Laguna Beach.

Was it love at first sight (a la Yvonne Karns)?

“I don’t think so, do you?” Judith Ronaky asked her husband.

Edmond Ronaky grinned. “I don’t recall. She was a looker, I remember that.”

His wife piped up: “I was impressed that he was interested in what women had to say. You don’t get that with a lot of Southern California men.”

The key to success, the Ronakys said, is that they talk to each other--all the time. Said Judith Ronaky:

“I don’t mean like when you go to a family gathering and someone says, ‘How about those Mets?’ I mean real conversation.”

The rain became so heavy it brought our meeting to a halt. As we shook hands to part, Edmond Ronaky said, “These 40 years have gone by too fast.”

The Real Ozzie & Harriet: Some of you may know that Laguna Beach was the longtime summer home of Ozzie and Harriet Nelson. They first owned a rambling old house that still stands out at Camel Point in South Laguna. Later they bought a home in the beachfront community known as Lagunita, a mile north of Camel Point. Not long after her husband’s death in 1975, Harriet Nelson made Laguna Beach her permanent home. She lived there until she died in 1994.

The secret to their role-model marriage: Ozzie wrote in his autobiography that they got great advice from the minister at their wedding ceremony: “He said it was a mistake for married couples to have to surround themselves with other people in order to have a good time--that they should develop enough mutuality of interests so that they can enjoy things together. It’s advice that Harriet and I have always treasured.”

Wrap-Up: My own wedding day is not actually my most memorable Thanksgiving time in Minnesota. That would have to be the night in the library.

My wife was still in college in Indiana when we began dating. We made a trip to St. Paul to meet her family that holiday week. It was quite an introduction. Her sisters and parents had spent weeks creating a hilarious play about her life, all for my benefit.

The first night they prepared me a bed on a fold-out couch in the library. I had a sheet and a pillow. My wife-to-be thought her sister Lori had provided me with blankets. Lori thought Vicky had done so. Maybe they both forgot because, after all, it must have been a good 28 degrees in there.

Icicles formed on my eyelids. It was the most miserable night I’ve ever experienced. I remember thinking that Minnesotans surely must be made of sturdy stock.

The next day, of course, they were all apologies for the miscommunication about the missing covers. But her father added, “This is just a little endurance test that all the boyfriends have to go through.”

Two years later, we didn’t miss the shimmering lake for the wedding. All that really mattered was that the bride was beautiful. And that weekend we all had plenty of covers.

Jerry Hicks’ column appears Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. Readers may reach Hicks by calling the Times Orange County Edition at (714) 966-7823 or by fax to (714) 966-7711, or e-mail to jerry.hicks@latimes.com