Here Comes the Bride, 1972

First came the dress.  My mother sat on the other side of closed doors as two salesladies positioned me on a pedestal, arranged the train, and lifted the short blusher veil over my (supposedly) virginal face.  The ladies threw open the French doors.  My mother cried, and her credit card jumped out of her pocketbook.  I can imagine the conversation with my father when she got home:

Dad:  Are you kidding me?  $750? For a dress?

Mom:  No, the dress and the veil.  It’s very high quality.

Dad:  You think money grows on trees?

Mom:  It’s your only daughter.  Her daughter will wear it.

Dad:  Dammit, Phyllis.

Mom:  Shut up, Herbie.

My mom, Aunt Liz, and the women in their dinner club worked way into the night making table centerpieces.  They made vases out of squat brown beer bottles to hold flowers fashioned from wire and cellophane.

My mother selected the menu:   hot hors d’oeuvres (“horses’ ovaries,” she called them), on the order of bacon-wrapped water chestnuts, little wienies floating in bubbling brick-red sauce, and something new to the culinary world, chicken wings.  These weren’t appetizers; it was all that would be served, other than bowls of chips and pretzels.  This was very fancy fare compared to the ham and potato salad served at most weddings we attended.

The wedding was held in our family’s beautiful un-air conditioned church . . . in August.  My mother always said, “Ladies don’t sweat; they glow.”  I really glowed in that long-sleeved dress.

I sobbed through the prayers, the readings, the vows, the solos.  My mother-in-law said, “You didn’t even look like you wanted to get married.  It looked like you had to get married.”  (Our first child was born seven years later.)  My mother was a little teary.  In a picture taken right after the wedding my dad was lighting a cigarette.

The reception was at the Hartwell Country Club.

Sounds swanky, right?  If you are from Cincinnati, you may be chuckling at the unlikely combination of “Hartwell” with “Country Club.”  To get to the clubhouse and golf course, you had to drive through the  field of Cincinnati Gas and Electric towers and utility boxes.  The hall itself was a big barn of a place appointed with Tara-like columns.

Still, by the standards of the day, it was quite the shindig.  There was an open bar (at nineteen I was too young to legally drink) and a band that played music my parents liked, including “The Bunny Hop” and “The Chicken Dance.”

The cake had a fountain in it which circulated yellow water, to match the bridesmaids’ floppy hats and the groomsmen’s ruffled shirts.  (Note:  Yellow water is rarely an appetizing accompaniment to a buffet table.)

There were three hundred guests.  We did have a couple foreigners, my Aunt Marjean and Uncle Bob from Columbus, 100 miles northeast.   298 of the guests were Protestant or Catholic.

At the end of the evening, the guests threw rice (my mother-in-law fell on the rice, she informed us the next morning), and we drove off in my parents’ electric blue Mercury.  Rick’s Maverick was too small to hold the luggage for our Myrtle Beach honeymoon.

Here Comes the Bride, 2015

 

If you have not already done so, you may want to read The One: My Daughter’s Love Affair With a Viking.

 

There was nothing in my matrimonial history that could have prepared me for hosting my daughter’s wedding in New York City on October 10.

Al Gore had not yet invented the Internet when Rick and I got married, but modern brides have wedding websites.  Allison and Henrik’s website, launched a couple weeks after their engagement, told their love story:  a Norwegian and an American fell in love in a Mexican bar.  You could click tabs for information about the wedding party, NYC accommodations, sightseeing opportunities, bridal registries, and activities planned for the week prior to the event.

As frequent visitors to Allison’s New York City home, we had bought $13 movie tickets, $7 boxes of Cheerios, $12 bowls of soup.  We knew this wedding would cost a fortune.  Her father wrote her a check for what an average Cincinnati wedding would cost and said, “This is it.  You’re on your own for the rest.”

At 34, Allison had been in and to lots of weddings, and she knew what she wanted, though there was some pretense that I had a say. Allison came to Cincinnati, and she, her sister, Stacey, and I made the rounds.   She tried on dozens of dresses, but she didn’t buy any of them; she liked the one she saw in New York.  (She had no interest in my “hippie” wedding dress.)

Stacey and I flew to New York last April to “help.”

We accompanied Allison to one of the few florists who would meet with her, given her paltry flower budget of $2,000.  The shop was, perhaps, 400 square feet, a long rectangle with flowers lining the length on each side.  The three of us and the florist stood in a single-file line up the middle of the shop to place our order.  The florist seemed perplexed about the centerpieces; she didn’t know how in the world she could do them for only $100 each.

We went to a cake tasting– not at a bakery, but rather  a “cake designer” –in an old office building in midtown Manhattan.  We tasted icings:  chai tea, bourbon white chocolate, triple berry, champagne.  It’s NYC, what can I say?  And then we tasted cakes:  key lime pie cake and carrot cake and cocaine dust cake.  And because she likes us, the designer  purrs, she will make this confection to feed 100 people for a mere $1000.

Then we checked out the venue (that’s what you call a reception hall these days), which was beautiful in that grubby New York sort of way.  A homeless man greeted us; the bathroom was like the ones you had in your junior high school building; and I’m pretty sure there was a family of mice living there that could pull a pumpkin carriage if we had trouble hailing cabs.

Stacey and I weren’t there to meet with the caterer, but Allison decided after the tasting that she would have hot hors d’oeuvres, just like I had for my wedding . . . well, not really so much like mine.  She ordered mini Bahn Mi, Peking Duck in Hoisin sauce, Kimchi Hot Dogs, Goat Cheese Tarts, and Bistro Burgers on Brioche Buns.  And these were to be appetizers, followed by a meal of halibut and strip steak.  Alas, no chips or pretzels.

Much of the planning was done in Oslo, where Allison lived, sort of.  While waiting (and waiting) for her fiancé visa, she had to return to the U.S. every three months and stay her for a period of three months before returning to Norway.

Whether Allison was in Oslo or the U.S. , though, she was communing regularly with amazon.com and shipping wedding-related items to our Cincinnati apartment.  Almost every day we received a shipment, things like little glass flasks, bridesmaids’ and groomsmen’s gifts, bridesmaid dresses, shoes, baskets, ribbon.  Our doorman asked, “When are their washer and dryer going to be delivered?”

A week before the wedding, Rick loaded our Highlander SUV, a big mother of a vehicle, to its ceiling.  We would be using the side mirrors and backup camera to drive to New York.  We left on Saturday so we would drive into Manhattan on Sunday when there wouldn’t be so much traffic.

We were able to pull right up to the airbnb apartment Alice and Henrik had rented, and our big strong Viking unloaded the car.  Rick couldn’t find a place to park on the street, so he parked in a garage for $63/day.  Our car was taken by elevator to an upper level; real estate is too expensive in NYC to build garages with twirling circular ramps like in Cincinnati.

Most of Henrik’s family had arrived from Norway, so we worked together on the last-minute details.

First, though, there was a trip to Urgent Care for Gunnar, Henrik’s dad, who had left his medication at home.  As the American hostess, I felt somehow responsible for our country’s shortcomings, and I was sure that the Osviks would find our health care alarming.  The doctor was happy to write two prescriptions; the 10-minute office visit was $110, and the 14 very common blood pressure pills were $48!

I was a proud Yank, though, when Henrik’s Aunt Anne-Lise’s lost passport was returned by a cab driver who tracked her down and drove from New Jersey into Manhattan to deliver it.

May-Sissel and Oda (Henrik’s mom and sister) and I accompanied Allison for her final fitting at Ellen’s Couture, one of the highest rated seamstresses in the city.  Imagine our surprise when a little bulldog, the shop’s pet, greeted us.  As the seamstress made the final adjustments, the dog chewed on various inedible delicacies.

Millennials give favors at weddings, something that Baby Boomers never considered.  Henrik, Allison, and I worked on them together:  first, pour Aquavit (a Norwegian spirit) into a flask and cork it; put a label on the bottle (make sure it’s centered because Allison will notice); finally, tie a wood tag on with a piece of burlap string.

Guests no longer throw rice on which mothers-in-law fall; now they blow bubbles.  Each guest was to receive a little bottle of bubbles, labeled with a photo of the couple, and my job was to affix the labels.

The wedding pictures were going to be taken in the park, and when Allison saw a slight chance of rain for  Saturday’s forecast, she ordered ten white umbrellas for her bridesmaids from amazon.com.  Then she hit the streets to find a vendor who had ten lavender pashminas in case it was chilly.

While all these last-minute preparations were going on, Norwegians were descending on Manhattan.  By mid-week, there were over thirty of them in the Big Apple, ready for sightseeing  and fun, including a Knicks basketball game, even though they didn’t understand the rules.

Finally, Saturday came.  The bridesmaids and moms gathered in the grungy church office on the second floor of the venue for hair and makeup by the Glam Squad.  When I complained to my makeup artist about my thin eyebrows, she said, “Don’t worry.  I even have to fill in Brooke Shields’eyebrows!”

Meanwhile, the guys were getting ready, which entailed mostly eating pizza and drinking beer.

At 3:00, the wedding party went to Central Park for pictures, and I returned to the hotel.  I found Rick lying on the bed, starting at the ceiling.

Throughout their three-year courtship, Rick insisted Henrik and Allison would never get married.   I don’t know if it was because he was afraid optimism would jinx them, or because he just couldn’t bear the thought of Allison moving to Norway.

I sat next to him on the bed and said, “You know, they really are going to get married.”

“Nope. Never going to happen,” he said.  I kissed his hard head.

The wedding was supposed to start at 5:30.  We could hear all the guests waiting to come into the sanctuary, but the photographer was still taking group photos.  I was busy sewing my older daughter into her bridesmaid dress because the zipper had broken.  Nathan, her husband of two weeks, held the fabric together as is sewed with a flimsy needle. Sometimes I had to pull the needle through the thick folds with my teeth.  I have never lamented my overbite more.

“Stacey, I have no idea how you’re going to get out of this dress at the end of the night.”

Nathan said, “I’ll rip her out of it!”

When the photo shoot was done and everyone was secured in their clothing, the bridal party left the sanctuary to hide until the procession.  The guests found their seats.

The bride, who had been nervous and edgy all week, looked relaxed and radiant on her father’s arm.  She and Henrik smiled all through the ceremony. They smiled as their parents read Kahlil Gibran’s “On Marriage” and 1 Corinthians, in English and Norwegian.   When Allison said, “I do,” and then, “Ja,” they giggled.  And when the officiant had to coach me in the unity candle ritual, they laughed.

As we all recessed, we saw that there were dozens of tourists taking pictures through the picture window in the vestibule!

Once all the guests were out of the sanctuary, the doors were closed while the space was adapted for the reception. A curtain was pulled in front of the altar, covering the mosaic of Jesus washing  disciples’ feet.  Purple and blue lights (to match the flowers and bridesmaid dresses per the bride’s edict) accented the Gothic arches.  Chairs were moved to make space for the tall cocktail tables.

When the guests were invited back in, they (and I) were surprised to see the bride and groom dressed in Norwegian national dress.

I sidled up to Allison and whispered, “You are going to put that expensive dress back on, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but only after I’ve peed a couple more times.”

There were toasts in Norwegian and English, with “Cheers” and “Skal,” champagne and Aquavit.  There was a Norwegian wedding cake baked by Tante Anne-Lise and carried across the Atlantic.

And then, just as the entrée was about to be served, there was a fire alarm, a shrieking weet-weet-weet sound that drove all the guests outside.

Although the building manager, chef, wedding coordinator, and I did everything we could (which was limited to gawking,  swearing, and jabbing at some buttons), we could not silence the alarm.  One of the Norwegians who was a fireman joined the effort (by gawking, swearing, and jabbing buttons) but still the alarm screeched on.

Then a fire truck pulled up in front of the venue.  Allison squealed, “There’s a fire truck?” and she ran outside.  (A few of her bridesmaids accused Allison of setting off the alarm because she wasn’t getting enough attention, but I’m pretty sure that’s not true.)  While a couple firemen went in to make sure there was no fire and turn off the alarm, Allison and Henrik posed with the very agreeable NYFD!

Once that excitement was over, we settled in for the rest of the meal, and then everyone danced.  Everyone:  Thirty Norwegians, twenty Cincinnatians, a couple dozen New Yorkers, and folks from San Francisco, Kansas City, Siler City, Salt Lake City, Philadelphia, Hawthorne, NJ, Los Gatos, CA, and Washington D.C.

As the party wound down, Rick snagged me for a slow dance.  I said, “Well, they did it.”

“Yes, they did,” he conceded.

“And I think they’re happy, really happy, don’t you?”

“I think so.”  And he kissed me right there, right on the lips, like we had just gotten married.  And then he did it again.

The next day, Henrik helped us load up our van:  a filthy wedding dress; leftover Aquavit, favors, candles, and bubbles; and those darn umbrellas that I would have to return.  We were heading back to Cincinnati.  The newlyweds were headed for their honeymoon in Cancun, where they had met three years before,   and then they would return to their home in Oslo.

Rick and I hugged and kissed our daughter whom we wouldn’t see for at least six months.  Rick shook Henrik’s hand.  I embraced Henrik, but before I let go, I looked up into his wide kind face and said something so old-fashioned, so politically incorrect:  “Take care of my little girl.”

We drove away, just like we had after dropping Allison off at her first slumber party and her first dance.  We drove away, just like we had fifteen years ago when she started college and ten years ago when she started law school.  Just like we had when we left her at the airport to fly to Norway to visit Henrik for the first time, three years ago.

And as we drove away all of those times, our conversation hardly varied.

“I think she’s happy, don’t you?”

“I think so.  I hope so.”

 

If you’d like to see more pictures from the wedding, CLICK HERE  If you are looking for a New York City photographer, this is your guy!!

Here are more blogposts about love, marriage, and weddings:

The One: My Daughter’s Love Affair With a Viking

Three Weddings: A Secret One, A Surprise One, a Long-Awaited One

Making Love: The Truth About a 43-year Marriage

How to Travel With Your Husband Without Killing Him

Never Marry a Thin Man

Copyright © 2015 Sandy Lingo, All Rights Reserved.