It was our wedding day. We were waiting in the municipal court in Santa Clara, California. It was a Friday morning in August. We were a small group. My parents. Meda’s mother. My grandmother Lind from Long Beach. My then-brother-in-law. And us. I think that was it.

The sign on the door announced: Traffic Citations, Small Claims, Criminal Department. And, somewhere in there, the office of Judge Sidney Feinberg.

Meanwhile, we waiting with my mother, Meda’s mother, and my grandmother (my dad’s mother).

I love Meda’s expression, as if she’s thinking, “what am I getting into?!”

And my grandmother, probably thinking about the judge. When we told her the judge’s name was Feinberg, she thought for a minute. “Oh, that’s a good Irish name,” she pronounced.

Nevertheless, we persisted.

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