Ruth Davis Espy, Uncle Cecil’s bride, was always known in our family as “RuthieD” to distinguish her from my grandmother’s sister Ruth Richardson — both of whom, of course, were my grandfather’s sisters-in-law.

My Great-Uncle Cecil, born in 1887, was the youngest of the R.H. Espy boys — 11 years younger than Papa (my grandfather).

Perhaps, because he was only 15 when his mother died in 1902, and his father was, by then, an “old man” of 76, Cecil often looked to his older brother for guidance and support. And, although Cecil was away at school much of the year, he went home to Oysterville during vacations and usually worked for Papa on his dairy farm to make spending money for the school year. Upon graduation from the University of Oregon, he went into banking in Portland but still considered Oysterville “home,” visiting as often as his schedule permitted.

During those years, Papa’s own family was growing — five children by the summer of 1909 including little Albert up in the cemetery. Also a part of the household was Granny’s younger sister Ruth Richardson who had just graduated from Mills College in Oakland, California; she had come to Oysterville to help out. When her good friend Ruth Davis came to visit, she was called “RuthieD” to distinguish the two Ruths.

RuthieD was beautiful, well educated, self-confident, and full of fun. It wasn’t long before Cecil was smitten — though, being one of the “silent” Espys, he may not have said much about it to anyone. Except Ruth. During her visit to Oysterville the next summer they announced their engagement and Cecil asked Papa (who was Justice of the Peace for Pacific County) if he would do the honors. Papa was delighted and the date was set — Aug. 3, 1910.

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RuthieD was beautiful, well educated, self-confident, and full of fun. It wasn’t long before Cecil was smitten — though, being one of the “silent” Espys, he may not have said much about it to anyone.

But, as the fates would have it, Papa (who was in the midst of his campaign for Washington state senator from Wahkiakum and Pacific counties) was called to an important meeting in Olympia scheduled for the evening of Aug. 3. “We’ll have to change the date of the wedding,” Papa told RuthieD and Cecil.

“We’ll do nothing of the kind!” said RuthieD. “It’s bad luck to change a wedding date.”

And so, Papa worked it out. If “the youngsters” would agree to be married in the parlor at one minute past midnight on the 3rd, he could get to his meeting on time.

Thus it was that the children were put to bed early, roused in time to be dressed in their Sunday-best and join the wedding guests arriving at 11:30 p.m. The ceremony came off perfectly and, while the bride and groom enjoyed wedding cake and coffee, Papa changed from tuxedo to work clothes and waders, grabbed the valise that Mama had ready for him, and dashed down the lane toward the bay.

Hauling his rowboat a few yards over the mud flats, Papa caught the outgoing tide just after the ebb, rowed the 10.5 miles toward Tokeland to the junction with the Willapa River, then rowed the final 10.5 miles upriver with the incoming tide to South Bend. Under optimum conditions, and rowing at a rate of four miles per hour, the 21-mile journey would have taken 5.2 hours giving Papa just time to check into the Albee Hotel, bathe, change into his good suit, and make the 8:30 a.m. Northern Pacific passenger train to Chehalis. There, he changed trains for Gate, headed for Centralia where he changed again for Olympia, arriving at 4:55 p.m. in ample time for his 7 p.m. meeting at the State Capitol.

In our family, the story was told so many times that both my mother and her brother Willard were sure that they had been among the children who witnessed that midnight wedding, even though (as was often pointed out to them) neither had yet been born. Of Uncle Cecil and RuthieD’s honeymoon trip not a story has ever been told. Uncle Cecil was, after all, one of the silent Espys.