This is a Wedding?

 1971. I'm pretty sure that was the year. If you were of that era, the late-60s/early 70s, you knew our wedding. Or one like it.

I do remember the date: November 28th. When we called my parents to tell them we’d decided to get married, even over the phone I knew my father was a wagging-tailed puppy quivering with excitement. He exclaimed, “Bruce, get down on your knees! Get down on your knees and ask for her hand.” My mother's response, after her inner oy vey, was to suggest the wedding be set for the weekend after Thanksgiving, for the convenience of working relatives. To my father, such logistics were irrelevant. “Are you on your knees, Bruce?” my father said in a fatherly voice. Bruce was indeed.  “Now, will you take care of her in the manner to which she's accustomed?”

Ha. He was always going for laughs, yet little did he know. Bruce and I were living at the time in a thin-walled, slapped-together, had-not-seen-better-days farmhouse with no indoor plumbing. It was unheated by a funky wood stove, and there we were in the blustery edge of a Wisconsin winter. The “manner to which” I was accustomed” — by choice, by the way —  included wearing long johns smelling of smoke, and wading through old snow to pump and pump and pump water for our daily oatmeal.

Anyway, let’s backtrack. Our friend Stephen McNeal, with whom we shared that farmhouse, had said to me one day, “So when are you two going to get married already?” That planted a seed. Those were the days of Joni Mitchell singing, “We don't need no piece of paper from the City Hall.”  Stephen was less political than most of us, more spiritually inclined; he was a follower of Meher Baba, so he got me thinking that marriage might be more than legal baloney, a nefarious institution of a sold-out society. Maybe it really was a meaningful, sacred union.

Bruce and I had been together, really together, really really together together, for two years. He’d moved in with me fourteen days after we met. We both were certain we wanted to be with each other forever. 

Our parents were, you know, of the generation that went by the rigid, stale, unquestioning  ways. We did “Don't ask/Don't tell" long before that phrase was a phrase, about our cohabitation, which was to them gasp/choke!, to us of-course. I knew our interactions with his mother and my parents would be so less complicated if we just went ahead and got legal. 

In the meantime, my sister became engaged. Our family was more than ready to dance the hora. Well, not dance exactly, but the rest of the whole bit. My mother told a friend the news with the apologetic caveat, “Well, she waited.” The belated fiancée was all of, what, twenty four? 

I got my sister to invite Bruce to her June wedding, and I got him to agree to attend. When we arrived in my hometown, my father handed us money to go out and buy Bruce an acceptable shirt, which meant polyester, button-down-collar  — no plaid cotton flannel work shirt hanging out of jeans for this suburban gala. You can bet my father would have loved to pay for a hair- and beard-shearing too. 

The wedding was the standard traditional great big ol' affair. Bridesmaids, including me, in ugly dresses, and all. Rabbi in a huge sanctuary, and all. Breaking the wineglass, and all. Oo’s and ah’s and Kleenex. Reception in a lavish venue with a sit-down dinner and all. After the toasts and music, the flashbulbs, schmoozing, mingling, and gossip, at the appointed time the beautiful bride slipped away and reappeared with a flourish, in her groovy, official “going-away outfit”: stylin’ short-shorts, sandals with straps criss-crossing up her lovely legs, glamorous sun hat, and all.

Neither Bruce nor I could relate to that whole shebang, the modern American piggyback on our ancient heritage. Yet when we drove away from familyland, back into our comfortable jeans, Mexican shirts, and boots, I again pondered aloud how marriage might be a good idea, for the aforementioned reason.

I didn’t see how my sister's gala could have changed Bruce’s mind. And by the way, before we’d met, he had already been through his own sister’s white-lace formality. But something somehow clicked for him. Within weeks of my family’s event, as he sat at the wheel of our International pickup, bumping through the hills into town for our shifts at Sunflower Kitchen Natural Foods Vegetarian Restaurant Cooperative, out of the blue he took his eyes off the curve ahead and looked over at me, saying, “Okay, let's get married.” 

I know I'm telling these snippets out of chronological order, but it was all fifty-four-ish years ago, so, what does it matter now what came before what? When you’ve lived long enough, all your memories have been plucked from the vines or dug from the ground, and chunks of them are tossed in a salad bowl forevermore. Let me extend that silly metaphor: When you feel sweetly nostalgic, or want to blame a current situation on a problem from your past, you pour a dressing of attitude ­­­— tangy or bitter — over the collection. Then you fork out a chunk of carrot, a piece of lettuce stuck to a tomato wedge, put to your tongue a memory (about your “first time” years ago, or about the flavor of an incident that occurred just last week). You chew it all over, soaking the glump in your own juices. As they say, it all ends up mixed together in your stomach anyway. Your gut. Your heart/ family lore/ self-delusion/ personal mythology. Experiences may happen in order, 1, 2, 3, but our legacy is just a bowl of cherries — I mean of veggies — I mean, each of our memoirs is a sum greater than any of its logical parts.

So. “Okay, let’s get married” was our proposal. A far cry from today’s jump-out-of-a-golden-helicopter-on-the-backs-of-a-string-quartet, with a film crew documenting the presentation of an engagement ring baked into a delicate millefeuille by Princess Di’s personal chef.

I prefer our proposal, to which I replied, “Okay.”

Part Two: Anti-Revolutionary

So we were going to do a wedding. We stuck out our necks and told our tribe, the Sunflower folks we lived with and worked with. Plus some of our other friends, who were doing more dangerous work to save the world.

Did we get whoops and cheers? Hugs? Nope. Maybe someone packed a bowl with dope and passed the pipe, but that would have been like any other conversation.

The responses were more like, “Man, what for?” “Huh. Bummer.” “Marriage is anti-revolutionary.” As well as blank stares.

Well, Stephen, at least, was happy for us. Jean laughed in puzzlement, but said, “Okay.”

We’d do it in my hometown —  it being for family, after all. We decided to go where my large extended family was, instead of Bruce’s way off in Philadelphia. Now that I think about it, maybe that was an unconsciously gender-roled thing, the bride’s family throwing the wedding.

Our Madison friends could easily hitch or truck down the several hours to St. Louis, right?

Wrong. They were stuck on the belief that marriage was anti-revolutionary, and anyway who wanted to party with a bunch of straight relatives?

I created invitations. This and every aspect of our wedding could be seen in contrast to that of my sister. She had special-ordered lovely embossed stationary, calligraphed, tissue-papered and double-enveloped. I did find a purple-inked pen, with which I wrote in my awkward longhand,  “Hey, come dance and hang with us! We’re doin’ it! It’ll be outta sight!” 

Just kidding. I wrote, “Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Zvibleman invite you to the wedding of their daughter . . ..” Yep, that standard wording was rather non-right-on — what was I thinking? 

I told my parents I did not want to be in the temple or a hotel ballroom. Even though I’d grown up as a girl, believe it or not I’d barely imagined my future wedding. The only idea I’d had was that the backyard of my Aunt Bessie and Uncle Irwin, complete with a little stone bench under a lattice archway, would be a sweet setting. Alas, by this time Bessie and Irwin had already sold their elegant long-time home and moved into assisted living.  My parents’ upstairs duplex, which I’d grown up in, was much too small, and boring to-boot. My older cousins Harvey and Miriam had a nice newish home out in a nice newish suburb; I asked my Mom to ask them if we could do it there. They said yes. 

We put out the word that the only wedding presents we wanted were funds to help get us “back to the land.” We’d already spent humid summer weeks trucking around the Ozarks, stepping back from snakes, slapping at mosquitoes, and picking off ticks, as we sought a cabin and acres to do our thing. Even Arkansas’ cheap — rightfully so — plots were beyond our zero budget.

Thankfully, we didn’t have to do all those things required for our sisters’ weddings: pick out bridesmaid dresses, plan bachelors’ parties, select colors, coordinate outfits . . . and whatever else was on their mile-long to-do lists. During the all-consuming build-up to my sister’s wedding,  I’d taken a snapshot of my mother at the kitchen table with the phone receiver clamped between her ear and her shoulder, as she held pen to notebook and calendar, efficiently arranging menus and schedules and prices. She was chugging along in "executive function,” a gear I had never realized she had. Who knew whether she could pull off such charts and diplomacy a second time — she was probably secretly relieved that we were keeping ours simple. I didn't appreciate it then, yet of course she did do plenty for our comparatively simple event.

During the winddown of my sister’s gala, my father had posed for a Brownie shot of him pulling his trouser pockets inside out, empty — the corny I’ve-spent-every-penny mime. But the facial expression he meant to make pitiful was really an impish grin. I figured his finances were not dire, yet what did I know? I felt righteous about our non-consumery-ness. Still, even my handsewn dress involved the cost of material; our homemade cake meant buying flour and honey; someone had to pay for the wine glass that would be stomped to shards.

And a rabbi would not be free. My mother scheduled a meeting for us with the guy from their temple. So on one of our visits to town, Bruce and I obediently went to his chambers. In my vague fantasy about a wedding in my aunt’s and uncle’s backyard, I’d imagined the white-haired, small and thin, Grandpa-looking rabbi I’d grown up with; he seemed kind and possibly wise. But that one had retired, maybe died, and his successor, about my parents’ age, looked like an insurance salesman and elicited no spark. His own marriage had recently dissolved. As he sat across from us, properly dressed, with a bland vibe,  it was obvious he had retained in his divorce settlement no taste for either the institution or the sacrament of marriage. He offered bupkas for advice, zero attempt at wisdom, not even a thought-provoking question or a by-the-way tip. The half hour must’ve been filled somehow. Did he tell us a snippet of a Bible story? If so, what would it have been? Adam’s rib? The aged couple who prayed for a baby? The only thing I remember from our session was his unspoken yet transparent delight at the novelty of officiating for these hippies — I guessed he hoped it would give him street cred as a modern leader in Reform Judaism. 

There would be vows. No canned ones for us, though books and the rabbi were full of the cliched “I will love you forever and ever” and “The only thing I ask of you is to be yourself.”  We each came up with our own. Now I know that then we understood nothing of the ins and outs of a lifetime of sharing, the realities of creating a marriage. We were like, what, 23 years old? Dummies. Brilliantly idealistic dummies.

There would be clothes. Although I’d never thought of myself as a “flower child,” for the wedding I wanted a long, loose, flowing gown. We'd seen the movie “Brother Sun Sister Moon,” about St. Francis  of Assisi, in which the heroine trips around in a diaphanous dress. Our friend Jean was good at sewing; she agreed to make me one. She guided me through a bin of patterns, finding a lovely empire-waisted, voluminous-sleeved number. The bodice was “shirred” - that was foreign to me, yet Jean was confident in such magic.

Our mistake was sending me alone to the fabric store for the material. The idea was plain, unbleached muslin — fabric for the people. Distracted by a bolt with a little bit of sheen, I spontaneously lost the disdain of polyester that was essential in our subculture’s creed. Too bad I did; the material was indeed polyester-icky, lifeless feeling. Jean made it into a nice wedding dress.

It wasn't until long after the wedding that I found out that because of the loose-fitting style, my mother's friends all figured I was pregnant. I was not. My gown was also whispered to be a choir robe. I learned years later that because of my usual long hair and long skirts, Bruce’s mother and sister referred to me as Pocahontas. Not admiringly. There were two distinct fashion styles in America in that era; never the twain did meet (until, surprising to us, straight “ladies” started wearing blue jeans. Yet, theirs were ironed.)

No wedding veil for me. Without any research, I just assumed the veil was emblematic of the patriarchal system. And no, thank you, I would not let my beautician Aunt Lucille “do something" with my almost waist-length hair, which would have meant chopping off most of it and chemical-spray-glueing the remains into curls. I did ask for a few flowers to be placed on my head.

Bruce too had to dress up. We found for him a cotton, unbleached muslin, peasant-style shirt, no buttons or collar, loose sleeves. It was good quality; I degraded it some by my embroidery. I hadn't tried embroidering since I was maybe eleven, and at that time had managed only wobbly running stitches and clunky french knots. Without honing my skills, now I went at it with a couple of scraggly-threaded attempts at sunflowers. A new pair of off-white, thin-wailed corduroy slacks later,  the groom was  outfitted.

They wouldn't like it if we were barefoot, though the idea appealed to us. Bruce brushed up his tan suede Birkenstock sandals. I did not even think about high heels. Nor did I want to wear leather, which would have been so un-vegetarian, ominous for the sacred occasion. I stepped on my nuptial earth in simple cloth ballet-style slippers. You couldn't see them behind the hem of my gown anyway.

Gifts started coming in.  The largest box, from my Aunt Lucille, held a . . . what is it? A “convection oven” as big as a collie. We were supposed to carry it around from rental to rental, each of which came with an oven and stove? Our gracious returning of that gift no-doubt insulted my aunt. We received also three fancy and delicate water pitchers; a bagel-serving tray featuring a vertical stick to hold the bagels and sections for cream cheese, lox, etc.; and other items of as much use to us as . .  . as nothing. Yet we did receive quite a few envelopes containing cash or checks. They added up to a whopping $2,000, which truly was whopping to us; we thought we would be able to trade it for a piece of earth.

We wouldn’t be having bridesmaids or groomsmen. There was no talk — that I knew of — of what family would wear. Yet on the wedding day, I found it interesting that my mother, my sister, and Bruce's mother and sister all wore long dresses, all purple. Maybe they figured purple was hippie-ish; I guessed they were honoring us and/or trying for groovy in spite of themselves.

My cousins’ living room would be filled with rented folding chairs. Forty? I didn’t have to track such details — as I said, my parents arranged and paid for everything, kindly letting me stay oblivious. 

We did want a chuppa, the traditional archway to symbolize Jewishy shelter for the betrothed. A local florist could supply such a portable structure made of wooden beams and lattice. 

Flowers? Yes please. Yet I insisted on wildflowers. Remember, this was November in the Midwest. My mother contacted a florist, who kindly reminded her this was November in the Midwest. And, his business was not actually about picking weeds.

Not that I was picky, but as I told my mother, I disliked chrysanthemums. Huge, perfectly symmetrical, waxy — they looked plastic. No mums. My poor Mom, the poor florist. On the morning of the bustling last-minute setting-up, I walked into the living room to see the lovely chuppa, adorned with baby’s breath and chrysanthemums. In those days, the accusation “bridezilla” had not yet been flung at anyone.  I was not vicious, demanding,  or ravenous, I really wasn’t. I did immediately ask — tell? — my father or cousin to take down those mums. The family kindly didn’t let me see them rolling their eyes. Someone brought out a stepstool, pried off the offenders, and probably fluffed around the leaves and ribbon to try to fill the gaps. I hope I said thank you. 

Ah, my bouquet did include a few wildflowers amidst refrigerated baby’s breath and roses. Don’t ask me what kind of wildflowers, but I liked them. The florist told my mother he’d been driving along, spotted a few blossoms in some field, stopped and climbed over a fence to pick them. St. Francis of Assisi couldn’t have been more kind.

With all of our intended political right-on-ness, non-sexist-ness, etc., Bruce and I knew of no precedents for hippie weddings. Several political faux pas slipped through the cracks. On the big day, Bruce-the-male stood up there with the rabbi, waiting to receive me-the-female. I strolled the short aisle between the guests on my father’s arm. What about the implications of that? 

It was heartwarming, my father classically beaming with pride. Had we thought of my mother accompanying me at my other arm, we would have had to twist her arm, and the spotlight would have embarrassed her.

Bruce’s mother, Marion, was a Philadelphia gal, an east-coast tough cookie. She’d raised her two kids alone, after kicking out her no-good husband.  She’d held down a full-time Rosy-the-Riveter-yet-office job. She was proud of her son, a mensch, whom she’d tried to steer towards a career in accounting. The first time Bruce and I traveled to Philly to introduce me to his mother, she pulled him into another room and berated him. “Why are you dragging that tramp around the country? And why don’t you come alone to visit me?” I was Jewish, but that did not garner enough points. 

So later when Bruce told her he was marrying “Pocahontas,” his mother wasn’t about to take it lying down. For our wedding, she stormed across the country, in her words “ready for a fight.” Her daughter and son-in-law accompanied her, poised to back her up, or keep her in check, or both. In her purse, wrapped in Saran Wrap, was a wallet-sized copy of Bruce’s high school senior picture: hair straightened, clipped, slicked down; face clean-shaven; suit and tie proper. She was determined to show my family what her son “really looked like,” a mensch.

Well, the tramp’s parents were Midwesterners. Mild and congenial, conservative and accommodating. With a sense of humor (Leonard) and kindness mixed with fear of offending (Elma). The day before the wedding, they welcomed Marion into their humble duplex and brought out coffee, bagels and lox; Marion unclenched her fists. Their daughter may be costumed like a hippie, but these folks were M.O.T. (Members of the Tribe: inside code for Jewish), second-generation Americans like her.

I think my Uncle Ralph also helped win Marion over. Suave businessman that he was, he seemed to be shmoosing her, bringing her drinks and flattering her femininity. And the rest of my aunts and uncles, cousins, and family friends were reliably upstanding — not a long-hair in sight. Plus, different from what might have been familiar to Marion, no loud arguments, no obvious family drama.  She could accept them all as her machatunim, extended-family in-laws.

Part Three — Cold Feet and No Mums

During the few months leading up to our wedding, suddenly I felt panicked. About getting married. This is a big deal. This means forever. This is real stuff. Why Bruce? Who will I be? What am I getting into? Is this smart? Is this real?

I needed to talk about it with someone. Not Bruce. This was the only time since we’d met that I felt I could not confide in him. It would hurt his feelings. He’ll think I don’t love him. I do love him. Married? What were we thinking? What was I thinking? Who can I tell?

Not my parents. They’d not been my chosen confidantes for years and years. My friends? They weren’t into marriage anyway, so not them. I could think of no one to talk to. I walked around in a funk over this for days. 

I remembered one of my Dad’s many stories. When he returned from World War II, he was driving his “jalopy” over to see Elma, the “girl” he’d been engaged to for almost four years. They had known each other for only a short time; met at a party, flirted, dated, liked each other. She was pretty, he was handsome. He was funny, she laughed at his jokes. They each were kind. And Jewish.

They exchanged airmail letters during his deployment at boot camp at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri, then in California. In his letter suggesting they buy a house in California, telling her how much money the service paid him each month, he added “P.S.  I almost forgot to ask. Will  you marry me?” By return mail, she giddily accepted, then asked, “What are the girls in California wearing?”  Their families started to gather gas ration coupons to drive across the country for their wedding. 

But then his unit was called up, shipped off to the war. So, between Missouri and Italy, Missouri and Northern Africa, the correspondence continued. He asked for a photograph of her; her parents paid for a professional sitting, and she sent the sepia photo to him. He brought it and an Army/Airforce parachute to an artist, who made them into a silk scarf bearing an oil-painted portrait. Her smile helped Leonard feel in touch with her.

Now, after four years, would be their big reunion. “Here I was driving across town, and all of a sudden, I thought, what the heck was I doing?” he told us years later. “I pulled over to the side of the road. I mean, I was sweating. I couldn’t breathe. What the heck was I doing? I don’t even know this girl. I had cold feet. I mean, did I have cold feet!”

Then he did drive on. Needless to say, he and Elma married. Recalling his story gave me at least the assurance that I wasn’t the only one who went through “cold feet,” and that it would pass. Right?

True to their word, our Sunflower friends did not travel to our wedding, except for Timbali and Eric. The two of them were both younger than us, both comparatively new to our tribe. Timbali was thin and pale, with wispy, curly white-blonde hair. Eric, tall and muscular, had a broad, handsome face that showed his Native American heritage. Together they hitchhiked from Madison to St. Louis, with no thought of where to stay. We talked my Aunt Mollie into letting them crash on her living room floor; she lived in the downstairs of my parents’ small duplex. Seemed natural to us — we didn’t even consider that it lost her a nights’ sleep. 

The Night Before: I found myself in the bedroom of my childhood. Bruce, with whom I’d been living for two years, was put properly several blocks away, at the house of my former high school teacher. 

As I settled awkwardly into the single bed I’d slept in for many a celibate year, my mother came into the darkened room. I felt the mattress bump as she sat down by my feet. Uh oh.  

“Janny, do you have any questions?” 

What? Did she really say that? What? 

This was the mother who had screamed at my older sister for accidentally letting me see the hidden Kotex in the closet; I was nine, much too young to know about such things. This was the mother who couldn’t talk with me about the thin booklet we were given in sixth grade’s supposed sex-ed hour. Who tsked with a strange smile at Marilyn Monroe’s cleavage on our tv, without any discussion.

 The mother who, when I was fourteen, had surprisingly gotten pregnant. She spent nine months in denial, in grief, as her belly grew; carried full term to a still-birth; and never talked about it with me.  

This was the mother who, when I was 19, freaked out, shrieking and crying that I was not going to visit the farm of my friends, where “Boys and girls live together?!!” The mother who went through contortions to pretend, to the world and to herself, Bruce and I were not living under one roof. 

Did    I     have      any     questions? 

Did she have any questions?     What answers would she possibly come up with?     How dare she?   Is this for real?

I turned my hot face deep into the pillow. Blurted “NO.”

Several silent minutes. I heard her leave the room.

Yeah, yeah, her Mama had probably done the same obligatory night-before-the wedding ritual. Yes, my mother was a product of her time, her uptight, ignorant time. Yes, the sexual revolution was beyond her imagination and her worst nightmare, a million galaxies beyond. 

But jeeeeez.

I now wish I had asked her that night about s-e-x. I’m so curious about what she would have said. But, it would have made her suffer so. 

In addition to my many aunts, uncles, first cousins, and cousins’ young children, our guest list included my parents’ social group, people who had known me since I was tiny. Also a few of my former high school friends: my ex-boyfriend Mark and his now-wife Theresa — sure, why not?  Ruth Ellen, who had been my first friend in kindergarten, even though we hadn’t kept up with each other for years, and for some reason, her very nice, older parents. 

I also invited my high school English teacher, Mrs. Hotchner, and her husband. After I graduated, I’d become friends with them,  visited their house only blocks away from my parents’, by the way introducing them to their first weed ritual. As it happened, my Aunt Bessie had known Mrs. Hotchner’s parents; the older Jewish community in St. Louis had been small town-ish, plus my uncle and Mrs. Hotchner’s father were both druggists.

Bruce’s mother, sister, and brother-in-law were the only representatives of his “side,” I guess because Philly was so distant. 

I’d told my mother we did not want a catered meal, we did not want store-bought food. What did we want? A potluck, of course. Homemade dishes. Oh, and vegetarian. My mother, who barely knew what a potluck was, nervously asked her “girlfriends,” Would you please maybe bring your delicious noodle kugel? Could you possibly think of making your special rugelach? Would a few blintzes be too much trouble? Probably feeling sorry for her, and being good mamas, they complied. The pretty display included tuna salad, chicken salad, a Jello mold . . .. As I said, not being bridezilla, I just ignored the dead-animal dishes. Also, of course, were a challah and Mogen David wine.

And the wedding cake! Nope, no manufactured skyrise of white sugar for us. Carrot cake was the classic hippie indulgence; carrot cake it would be. Bruce and I were going to bake it ourselves. Not that we’d ever made one before, but we and our friends were used to going through honey by the gallon, and whole wheat flour could be found those days even in St. Louis. Just a few hours before the wedding, in my cousin’s kitchen, we got out bowls. Don’t get blood from the grating into the carrots. Isn’t this batter kinda thick? Oy. How do we do tiers? Do you have different sizes of cake pans? Oh, aluminum? — that’s bad stuff. Smells done. I don’t think we have time to wait til it cools. Why’s it sticking to the pans? Bummer it’s crumbling so much. Should cream cheese-and-honey icing be this solid? 

My father jumped in to save the day. But six hands didn’t do much better than four, cementing cake chunks together with icing. He declared, “Forget it, kids. Look, I’m running out to the store to buy a cake!” 

“No, Daddy, no, this is good!” I plucked a few flowers from my bouquet and tucked them on top, hiding the holes and bare spots. Lovely.

__

Part 4: ‘Tis the Gift to be Simple

Ding-Dong. Another guest arriving. Bruce opened the door this time. There stood our friend Marcus, with his huge smile. And three other guys. 

Now I’ll describe it a different way, from across the room, through the eyes of our parents:

Right there at the door was hair you wouldn’t believe, frizzing out a foot thick. This kid was a mess, didn’t own a razor. Right behind him, three other dirty, hairy boys in a clump, laughing like hyenas. Wearing overalls, gottenyu! Muddy boots? Were they pushing into the house? To the wedding? Bruce is hugging them? In his white shirt?

Marcus, oh Marcus. I’d known him since high school, a nice Jewish boy; intelligent; responsible oldest brother. Eagle Scout, camp counselor. Enthusiastic. Actually, intense. Rambunctious. Okay, increasingly out-there. He’d become one of the conservative town’s first beatniks — longer hair, black turtleneck, folk-dancing with girls with no make-up and ankle-length skirts. My mother’s limited sightings of him made her cringe: he was a horror, a bad influence. Not long into his first year at the state college, he’d visited home with an Afro, a beard, and marijuana. His new way of speaking was spiked with “far out!” and “bummer” and “dude” and “vibes.” He was still a good and nice person, and fun. Lately, he was hanging out on a communal farm somewhere in the southern Missouri boondocks. We invited him to our wedding. 

Marcus showed up. With one of his brothers and two buddies. In farm duds. Well, what could anyone do? In they strode, laughing with Bruce and amongst themselves. Most of the guests already in the house migrated far from them and tried not to stare, tried not to choke. Newly arriving guests opened their eyes wide at the sight of them, searched the room for an explanation. Decorum was kept with the normal chatter; coats were brought to a bedroom; people kissed each other’s cheeks and chose chairs. 

I peeked out from the back bedroom and saw the strange scene, retreated, and continued waiting alone. I was double-checking the flowers in my hair were bobby-pinned securely when my mother burst in, trembling, clenching her fists. She exploded, “You’ve ruined everything for me!”

I knew she meant Marcus and his gang. Why was she blaming me? What was I supposed to do now? Was she really screaming at me at my wedding?

“‘Tis the gift to be simple/ ‘Tis the gift to be free/ ‘Tis the gift to come round where we want to be/ And when we find ourselves in the place just right/ we will be in the valley of love and delight/ When true simplicity is gained/ to bow and to bend we shall not be ashamed/ To turn, to turn it will be our delight/ ‘til by turning, turning we come round right.” 

That old tune from the Shakers, which had become a hippie classic, rang out from the violin of my ex-boyfriend’s wife. I held my father’s arm, took slow steps; all eyes looked at me. Lovely music. 

Bruce and I stood next to each other. The rabbi said something or other. Then we were to recite our  homemade vows. Not only do I not remember mine now,  I did not remember them when it was their moment. Did I flounder out sounds? Did I clam up? Thankfully, neither the law nor the religion depended on what I promised or didn’t. Bruce probably recited his vows properly. I hope we lived up to our sincere ideals. I’m sure, in the years that followed, we went way above and beyond them.

We had told the rabbi not to say “man and wife” — sexist. Husband and wife was better, though even those words and their implications seemed odd to us. We told the rabbi not to say “‘Til death do we part” — too sad, and why would we stop loving each other at death? Not to mention, were we ever going to die?

More rabbi words. Then Bruce stomped his sandal down, smashing the napkin-wrapped wine glass. We heard the shouts of Mazol Tov!, and we kissed for probably our ten-thousandth time, the first with an audience. We picked up a tray bearing pears, apples, and grapes, turned to the people, and handed it around, exchanging fruit for well-wishes. 

What now?

We circulated the crowd, hugging my Aunt Faye, getting pats from Gus, thanking Theresa for the music. I felt a grip around my arm — Bruce’s mother was pulling me into a hallway. My head was abruptly thrust against her big bosom; she declared, “Now you are my daughter!” 

We cut our lopsided, crumbly, smeary cake. People filled plates with tunafish and rugellah. Bruce’s sister leaned against a wall holding a wine glass, looking desperate for a cigarette. My cousin Gary took photos. 

Mrs. Hotchner stood alone in a silky, slim, fringed dress; around her forehead a silver band held an erect peacock feather. She said it was her mother’s wedding outfit — she’d been a flapper in the day. 

Marcus and gang sat clustered around my Uncle Irwin, leaning into his every word. Somewhat of a sage, a learned man and an open-minded one, Irwin seemed to relish their questions.

“Hey, Timbali and Eric aren’t here, are they?” I said. “Did they leave already? Did they ever show up?”

My Uncle Ralph handed a full, stemmed glass to Bruce’s mother and stood close to her, talking low — they looked as if they were meeting at a bar. 

Two toddler cousins, in their flouncy dresses, hid behind their mothers skirts, peeking and staring with their wide eyes at everyone. Cousin Marsha’s hair was a foot-high, tightly wrapped beehive; cousin Miriam’s horn-rimmed glasses were rhinestone studded. My Uncle Bill sat like a statue, leaning on his wooden cane; his eyelids drooped down, then occasionally startled up. Anita set out a jumbo box of Whitman’s chocolates. My father told another story.

All of a sudden, my mother and father and Bruce’s mother were sitting on chairs, the area around them was cleared, and everyone else was standing in a circle around them. What’s going on? Flower wreaths were placed on our parents’ heads. Where did those come from? And we were all holding hands and moving clockwise. There may have been a song, Someone explained, “It’s a Jewish tradition. When the last child of a family is wed, the parents are honored like this.” News to Bruce and me. But far out, the ultimate coming together of the hippie culture and the straight!

What now? Wrapped boxes were carried in, and we sat near  the guys and Uncle Irwin, taking off ribbons, digging through tissue paper. Oh, a bowl, thank you so much! Ah, look at this pitcher! How sweet. A tray? Yes, it’s beautiful . . ..

More circulating. I nodded through tales of what a cranky but cute little girl I’d been; my Dad’s story about the practical joke he’d played on Harvey and Miriam on their honeymoon. Ruth Ellen and her parents shook my hands goodbye, her father confiding, “I was charmed that you passed around fruit! This is the nicest wedding I’ve ever been to.”

Women fussed with clearing away the plates and glasses. “You don’t have to do that!” “Here, let me get this.” “Your chopped liver — delicious!” “Oh, look at all this left — who will take some?” “Please, don’t bother, we’ll get that later.” “I have to get your recipe.” “You go sit down.”

Some people disappeared, others hugged us goodbye. Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you.

Whenever the front door opened, frigid air blew in, and we saw that snow was thickly falling. Inside the warmth, now only closest family was left. My father and uncle opened bags and cartons, rye bread, deli meats, pickled onions, sweet rolls. Women carried plates and cups. The smell of coffee. Everyone settled at the dining room table. They looked over at me and Bruce. 

Guess we’re supposed to leave. Out into the blizzard. It’s not like we’re chomping at the bit for our first sexual encounter, we did not say. That deli smells so good. Okay, so let’s go.

I kept my wedding dress on, pulled on my clunky, knee-high boots, wool coat. Bye! Goodbye. Thank you. Good luck. Uncle Ralph handed us an unopened bottle of champagne. My Mother gave us a bag of cheese sandwiches. Take care. Goodbye. Thanks. Bye. Be careful out there. Thank you. Drive safely. 

“Bruce, you’re my husband.”

 “You’re my wife.”

 “I’m your wife.” 

“I’m your husband.” 

For the next forty-five years, Bruce and I created our marriage. Grew together. Loved, worked, built, studied, ventured, argued, slept, tried, moved . ... Shared life. 

I once heard a wedding blessing: “May today be the day you love each other the least.” What? Yes, I do understand. Now and then during our many seasons together, when Bruce would play a tune, or his cheeks muscles would raise in his embarrassed look, or I’d feel his three short squeezes of my hand, or he’d assure me “Everything is okay,” or he’d say “I have a solution!” . . . I’d exclaim, “I just fell in love with you again!”  And yet it wasn’t exactly “again” —  it was a continuum, or an expanding light. As I got to know him more deeply, and as he adapted and created and matured, I felt so much more appreciation, and more. My father and mother had chosen as “their song” a classic from their era: “I’ll be loving you, always . . . Not for just an hour, not for just a day, not for just a year, but always. Always.” Yes. I’m thankful that for our ritual, we knew to not declare “til death do part.” His death in 2016 parted us only physically.

We are still wed.

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