My Three Weddings - Part 1

For most people, weddings are a big deal, I mean a really big deal. My weddings? Not so much. To get the full picture, you need a little background. I come from a family that held weddings in the back yard. Lacking a back yard, the weddings were held in the front yard. The bride and groom wore nice clothes, the guests wore nice clothes, everyone stood on the lawn, some vows were exchanged, and then the whole gang swarmed to tables filled with food provided by the bride’s family. By the time my sister got married, the ceremony was held in front of the fireplace for the immediate family, my sister wore a white lace dress that was a practical length she could use for other social events. The groom wore his best suit. I also wore a white lace dress at this wedding. The only reason I got away with it was because I was eight years old, my father happened to be there when the sales lady brought it out, and I threw a fit because it was the closest to being a princess I was ever going to get. After the private ceremony, our dining room table was piled with food and drink and all our relatives shuffled in and out of the house, visiting and eating while standing up because there was no place to sit. My sister’s wedding was memorable to me for three reasons, the first being my white princess dress. The second was being told to hush when my sister answered “Yeah” instead of “I do” and I burst into a fit of the giggles. The last was walking to our tiny back yard after the ceremony and seeing a stunningly beautiful young blonde woman by herself, crying. This shocked me. Why was she crying, and what was such a pretty woman doing at our house? I ran to tell my mother. “There’s a pretty lady in the back yard and she’s crying!” Ma said the pretty lady and cousin Jack had an argument but don’t tell anyone. Who would I tell? I was the only 8-year old at the party. Very quickly, cousin Jack located the pretty lady and they both left. I never saw her again in real life. Years later, looking through my mother’s photo albums, I came across a portrait taken at the table of a fancy restaurant. You know, in the old days, when the first pretty lady took your hat and coat, a second pretty lady would come to the tables selling cigars and cigarettes, and a third pretty lady would offer to take your photograph, just like in the movies. Among the guests at the table was the gorgeous blonde. The photo was black and white but I’d bet a hundred bucks her lipstick was scarlet red. My memory did not deceive me. She was every bit as beautiful in black and white as she was when she was sobbing in our back yard. The photo confirmed what my 8-year old self had learned: weddings included white dresses and sad stories. Now we will leap forward to the weddings of my generation. By this time the festivities had moved off the front yards and into hotels. Families were competing with each other to prove which father was the most successful, defined by how much money he could spend on his daughter’s wedding. Two rented rooms were needed: a big ballroom to turn into a make-believe Temple for the wedding ceremony, and a smaller room with an open bar where the guests could start getting tipsy while the hotel staff cleared the aisles of folding chairs, set up dinner tables, and the live band set up for the dancing which would follow dessert. The live band/dancing part was very important. It gave the now totally tipsy fathers a chance to try that Fiddler on the Roof squat down, hop on one foot, kick with the other, Old World feat of endurance dance. I never saw one of them last more than two kicks before they fell on their butts, much to the hysterical glee of all the other fathers in the circle. Yet every one of them had to make the effort, except for my father. Daddy didn’t drink or exercise. You need to know these things in order to understand why my first wedding was such a humiliation to my father. My poor dad was caught between cultures but was too much a gentleman to make excuses. Also, he wouldn’t have been able to pull off a hotel wedding if I’d asked, which I didn’t. Our family had suffered years of financial crisis while my cousins were escaping Echo Park and moving westward into more affluent new communities built on the ruins of orange groves. Cousins were able to attend live-in universities, whereas I was lucky to be able live at home and drive to the nearby state college. That’s where I met my first husband, during the first week of college, in band. I played the tenor drum; he was the drum major, and that was that. Three years later we got married. It was 1964. We’d set our wedding date for June, following graduation. Unfortunately, there happened to be a war going on, and my future husband got drafted, which put him in a panic. I was his escape mechanism. The army wasn’t yet drafting married men. He could avoid being inducted if he could present his marriage certificate by the end of April, so all pleasant plans went out the window, including the wedding invitations I’d already had printed. Before we go any further, let’s mention the groom’s family wedding traditions. Presbyterian. That was their tradition. They went to church in nice clothes, a Minister conducted the rites, everyone drifted into the social hall and nibbled on cookies washed down with tea, coffee, or lemonade. Then they threw rice at the retreating newlyweds and went home, thinking it was a good day. So much simpler than Fiddler on the Roof. I had less than 14 days to arrange a wedding. While my mother was busy calling relatives, asking, “What are you doing a week from Saturday,” I was able to get the Chapel of Roses to change the original date to the new target date. There was no time for frivolities. The Chapel had a reception room and caterers who could not only provide cookies but tea sandwiches as well. The Presbyterians would be impressed. My relatives could take themselves out to dinner afterwards if that didn’t suffice. The only token of heritage I requested was that both our parents stand up with us at the alter, along with a maid of honor, best man, and the Justice of the Peace. I forgot to tell my in-laws that until the wedding day, or my mother-in-law probably wouldn’t have worn a bright orange and pink floral dress and matching big hat. Someone rented tuxedos for the groom, his best man, and my father. My dad didn’t try his on until an hour before the wedding and I’m sure it comes as no surprise to you that it didn’t fit. It was too big. He had to wear it anyway. Just another nail in his coffin of humiliation. My best friend Maid of Honor had a dress she’d just worn to a previous wedding. Wonderful. My mother owned a dress she could wear. Perfect. A cousin had a leftover veil. Would I like to use it? Absolutely! Did I know what it looked like? Didn’t matter. Need veil; borrow veil. As so my wedding dress, I didn’t know how to get one so I didn’t have one. Three days before the wedding, my sister and brother-in-law arrived from out of town to stay with us. We were sitting in the breakfast nook, having dinner, when she started this conversation: “What about your dress?” “I don’t have one.” “What do you mean you don’t have one?” “I don’t have one.” “You have to have a wedding dress.” “I’ll find one. I have three days.” “That’s it. We’re going to get a dress tonight before the stores close.” Every major department store used to carry wedding dresses, and every one of them had a rack of dresses that were on sale for some reason. My sister took me straight to that rack at a store in downtown Los Angeles. It held two dresses in my size. The one I really wanted was a 1960s movie knock-off with a skin-tight long sheath underneath a billowing overskirt. Think Audrey Hepburn. I squeezed into it and fell in love. My sister preferred the moderate scoop neck with conservative full skirt, no train. That’s the one I came home with. She paid for it. I was lucky to have it. The photos indicate that the actual event was quite nice. I remember being panic stricken from the moment I realized people were looking at me until the time we fled. No one had prepared me for the never-ending reception line where I had to smile and pretend I knew to whom I was speaking. Later, the groom and I sat on a couch while people mingled, eating tea sandwiches. No one danced; it was definitely not a hotel wedding. The Presbyterians thought it was a lovely affair. On my side of the family, it was a scandal on so many levels, not least of which was the fact the groom was not Jewish. You see, I was the first of my kindred to break the mold: no printed invitations, no real food, no band, no Rabbi, no Jewish husband. My father was a failure. My mother was regarded with pity. Dad rose above this humiliation and went on to a new career as an attorney, reinstated in the family’s eyes as a success story. For my mother, pity was replaced by awe when a few years later one of her nieces confessed that her daughter also wanted to marry outside the faith. Ma was the first one she sought out for advice. After all, Mother had already survived such a thing. The niece anxiously asked, “Mary, do you think it will work out alright?” My mother was able to confidently reassure her not to worry; things would be fine. Mother’s status continued to rise thereafter. She was now regarded as a Free Thinker, the bold, emancipated leader of her tribe. You’re welcome, Ma.