Our wedding day dawned bright and clear....and very, very warm. It was the hottest May 22nd in Sarasota's recorded history. I thought of my beautiful handmade wedding dress with it's long sleeves, long skirt and 35 covered buttons. I was already sweating. My dad drove me to the church and let me off at a little wooden cottage where brides dressed. As we passed the rectory I saw Father Smith, the priest who was to perform the ceremony, in old work pants, scrubbing the steps. Not a good sign.
I had left the Catholic Church while I was at Wesleyan for many reasons and yet here I was. I would have liked a small garden wedding with a few close friends. I was paying for the wedding on my $50 a week salary, but somehow decisions were made by others and I stood by like a sleepwalker. I was a guest at someone else's wedding. My maid of honor, Sue, and my dear friend, Kathy, arrayed me in my bridal gown. Putting the 35 buttons in the loops took 20 minutes as we all stood, smiling, as the sweat poured down our slender, nervous bodies. At last I was ready and my friends escorted me across Orange Avenue and into the packed church which was so hot I thought I would faint. (Father Smith had forgotten to turn on the air conditioning until five minutes ago.) Someone handed me my bouquet of pale yellow roses and I took my father's arm. Little Debbie, Paul's niece and our flower girl, was walking down the aisle, strewing rose petals while my brother, Jim, looking so sweet and handsome in his little tuxedo, was carrying a satin pillow with the ring. Both children looked so young, so vulnerable that I wanted to cry. Sue looked at me and smiled (I think I looked terrified), then started down the aisle in her yellow silk dress. Then it was my turn. I saw Paul standing by the altar; he looked miles away, but smiled reassuringly.
My father and I started walking down the endless aisle and I realized that the woman playing the Wedding March was the worst organist I had ever heard. Friends smiled at me, but I couldn't remember who any of them were. I started to panic and then I saw 12-year-old Paul Rubenfeld,* my close friend from the Players. Young Paul was wise beyond his years and we had connected. I looked into his eyes and my heartbeat slowed down.
My dad handed me off to Paul and the wedding began. I remember absolutely nothing about the ceremony, but suddenly it was over and we were walking up the aisle, husband and wife. Father Smith had done his duty. As Paul and I walked along, nodding and smiling to everyone, the organist once again showed us all her astonishing lack of talent and musicality. Paul looked at me and rolled his eyes wildly.
I laughed.
I had left the Catholic Church while I was at Wesleyan for many reasons and yet here I was. I would have liked a small garden wedding with a few close friends. I was paying for the wedding on my $50 a week salary, but somehow decisions were made by others and I stood by like a sleepwalker. I was a guest at someone else's wedding. My maid of honor, Sue, and my dear friend, Kathy, arrayed me in my bridal gown. Putting the 35 buttons in the loops took 20 minutes as we all stood, smiling, as the sweat poured down our slender, nervous bodies. At last I was ready and my friends escorted me across Orange Avenue and into the packed church which was so hot I thought I would faint. (Father Smith had forgotten to turn on the air conditioning until five minutes ago.) Someone handed me my bouquet of pale yellow roses and I took my father's arm. Little Debbie, Paul's niece and our flower girl, was walking down the aisle, strewing rose petals while my brother, Jim, looking so sweet and handsome in his little tuxedo, was carrying a satin pillow with the ring. Both children looked so young, so vulnerable that I wanted to cry. Sue looked at me and smiled (I think I looked terrified), then started down the aisle in her yellow silk dress. Then it was my turn. I saw Paul standing by the altar; he looked miles away, but smiled reassuringly.My father and I started walking down the endless aisle and I realized that the woman playing the Wedding March was the worst organist I had ever heard. Friends smiled at me, but I couldn't remember who any of them were. I started to panic and then I saw 12-year-old Paul Rubenfeld,* my close friend from the Players. Young Paul was wise beyond his years and we had connected. I looked into his eyes and my heartbeat slowed down.
My dad handed me off to Paul and the wedding began. I remember absolutely nothing about the ceremony, but suddenly it was over and we were walking up the aisle, husband and wife. Father Smith had done his duty. As Paul and I walked along, nodding and smiling to everyone, the organist once again showed us all her astonishing lack of talent and musicality. Paul looked at me and rolled his eyes wildly.
I laughed.
*Paul Rubenfeld grew up and became Paul Reubens, the actor who created Peewee Herman. We still have a connection to this day.
