In an unofficial ceremony of our own making on the beach in Tel Aviv, we tied the first knot. Then, at a stateside reception at Lake Rabun, we played the video of tying the knot. But the real fun began when we officially tied the knot…

Dominated by a mountainous topography full of hiking trails and waterfall, Rabun County in Northeast Georgia has a human population of about 15,000 and a deer population of about 30,000. For those who know the difference between a Southern accent and a country accent, the vast majority of Rabun Country residents definitely speak with the latter. Even for me, a Southern girl from the suburbs just North of Atlanta and proficient in English, ebonics, and country, the speech can sometimes be hard to understand. Naturally, for my Israeli-American husband, the twangy speech patterns are nearly impossible to master.

Thus, it was a good thing that I made the phone call to the Rabun County Courthouse to check on what paperwork we would need to get officially married.

The conversation went as follows:

Rabun County Secretary: Well, you gotta bring in a berth certifict an a valid driver’s liicense an sixty five dollers.

Me: Can I bring a passport instead of a birth certificate?

RCS: A whut?

Me: A passport.

RCS: I don’t rightly know. Has it got a piture ID?

Me: Yes, it’s an official government document. You have to have a birth certificate in order to get one.

RCS: Awright then. Lemme find out for ya

At this, the secretary put down the phone and shouted at one of her colleagues: I got a lady on the phone who wants to bring in a paaaasssport to git married. Is that awright?

After a bit of shuffling, the colleague answered that it would be just fine.

RCS: yeh, that’ll be awright. Make sure you both come in together.

Me: do you have people who come in to get married alone? I ask incredulously.

RCS: aw, you’d be suprised at what we see in here. We get all kinds of folks tryin’ to get married to somebody without that somebody with ‘em. They usually say its causa work or somethin’.

Me: we’ll be there together.

RCS: awright. see you then.

Luckily, when we arrived at the courthouse, the secretary who received us to take down our information did know what a passport was. Nevertheless, our family histories were a bit out of the ordinary for the small town in which everyone knows everyone and the vast majority are blood relatives.

“My mother is from the Yakima Valley and my father is from Brunswick, Georgia,” I told her, offering spelling help. “Tel Aviv, Israel and Johannesburg, South Africa,” hubby told her, offering even more spelling help.

“Do you prefer the judge’s office or standin’ beneath the big magnolia in the yard outside?” asked the secretary.

It was a muggy August day, but we like the outdoors so we opted for the beneath-the-magnolia ceremony.

The slim, blonde judge told us a few obligatory things about the seriousness of the step we were about to take.

We nodded in understanding. By now, we should be considered experts on the subject.

Just as we stepped together and joined hands for the exchange of vows and rings, a man in a suit ran past us like a whirling Tasmanian devil. “Don’t do it! Don’t do it!” he shouted from the steps of the gray marble county courthouse building.

The judge turned to us with a smile and said, “Don’t pay him any mind. That’s our busiest divorce lawyer.”

For us the old expression certainly fits. The third time was definitely a charm.