That September was the hottest in memory, hotter than the hottest mid-summer day. The synagogue had no air conditioning. But hey, it was my wedding day. As I in my dream wedding dress stood with my fiance under the chuppah listening to the singer belt out "Because," I wasn’t feeling the heat and I wasn’t — yet — feeling nervous.
About 200 sweltering guests watched as ushers, bridesmaids, flower girls, groom on the arms of his parents and I on the arms of mine trekked down the aisle. Following the rabbi’s prompts, we recited our vows in Hebrew. Then the ritual drinking of wine and groom’s traditional breaking of a glass underfoot, and we were married.
Came the dinner. Afterwards some older men asked us to remain at the table until they finished the Seven Blessings, traditionally said at Jewish weddings. As we leaned across the table to shake hands my veil caught on the candles. Strangely, I didn’t even notice until my new husband exclaimed, "You’re on fire!"
"Help!" I squeaked.
Finally it occurred to someone to grab my veil and put the fire out. For the rest of the evening I found myself explaining to everyone who asked — and everyone did — why I wasn’t wearing my veil. "It burnt."
Things then went quite smoothly, considering the heat. When we left to start our honeymoon the ushers sang us out to the strains of "Goodnight Irene." My aunt went with me to help me change. And that’s when it hit me. I was married! Omigawd, what do I do now?
"I’ve changed my mind," I told my aunt. She flinched, but managed to keep her cool. I knew what I was getting into, she said, and this wasn’t the time to back out. It worked — crisis averted.
It’s said things come in threes. Sweltering heat with no air conditioning, a veil that burnt up and my panic attack. What else could happen? However, the honeymoon was still to come. The place? New York City. Honeymoon Heaven in those days. And home of the New York Yankees, the premier team in baseball.
Tops on my new husband’s to-do list was to see the Yanks play in Yankee Stadium. I’m no fan but I can enjoy the occasional game, and I wanted to please him, so there we were, watching the fabled Yankees.
Back in 1953 beer was not available in sports stadiums in my hometown of Toronto, but Americans were more sophisticated. We were sitting next to an obviously rabid fan with a beer can in his hands. The Yanks hit a home run, he stood up, flung his hands in the air, cheered, and I had a canful of beer in my lap.
I was soaked. The fan had a spot of liquor on his sleeve, which he brushed off, muttering, while carefully ignoring me. There was nothing for it but to sit through the game, smelling like a brewery. We should have challenged him, no doubt, certainly claimed recompense for what it was going to cost to clean my skirt, but we were young, naive and in a foreign country.
We took a cab to our hotel. Next problem was to get my skirt cleaned. The clerk at the hotel desk said the dry cleaners they used were closed for religious holidays, so we wandered the streets looking for an open dry cleaning shop.
The one we found would have my clothes ready well before we were due to fly home. But did I say we were young, naive and in a foreign country? We forgot to landmark the shop. Nor did we have their business card. When time came to pick up the skirt, we couldn’t find the cleaners.
Yes, this ends happily. After exploring every street within a ten-block radius of our hotel, we found the shop and retrieved our belongings. Beer has since come to Toronto games. Can’t say I approve.
Fifty-nine years have gone by. Of course, there were rough spots: Fierce arguments. Tears and recriminations. In-law problems. Tragedy: a child who died at birth. Still, we hung in, and we survived. We learned to live together and be a support to each other.
Now, three children and seven grandchildren later, we’ve reached our smooth ending. Easy? No. Worth it? Yes, in spades.
My wedding day was wonderful, except for the sweltering heat with no air conditioning, a veil that burnt up and my panic attack. And the honeymoon was still to come.