Today, September 13, 2018, as I sit in my cozy home with the fireplace lit, looking out my windows at the untimely snow, I am remembering this date forty-three years ago.
On September 13, 1975, I was NOT looking at snow and thinking that winter was on its way without experiencing any autumn at all. I was, in fact, getting married, for the first and only time in my life. Originally Greg and I were going to get married in Boston, where we were living at the time, even though it was my greatest wish to be married at my parents’ home on Lake Mahopac in New York. My mother didn’t want to have the wedding there because in the event of inclement weather, we wouldn’t all be able to fit inside. Although we were both disappointed, we booked space in our favorite restaurant in Boston to hold the wedding and reception. We were having a small wedding…only 48 people invited.
A few months before the wedding my mother changed her mind (I think due to pressure from my dad). A friend and neighbor of theirs offered their home in the event of bad weather. My dad had said this would work ONLY if we could get our deposit back for the venue we had booked. I am still feeling quite guilty about what we (mostly me) decided to do. We told my dad that we got the deposit back, but that was not true.
Septembers, in that part of the country, were usually gorgeous…fall foliage and warm late-summer days. Weather that would be perfect for a wedding celebration. But this particular year, nature had a surprise for us. Although I cannot remember the name of the hurricane that caused three days of very heavy rains and strong winds, I think it was Eloise, she made her presence known and caused a lot of stress for my parents, Greg and I.
On the morning of September 13th, the sun came out and things started to dry up. It was looking good for the outdoor wedding of my dreams. The ground was a bit soggy, but we could live with that. It was a beautiful day for a wedding. By the time the guests arrived, things were totally under control.
My dad, looking dapper as usual, walked me down the path to the dock to the Wedding March. On his way, he called over the hedge to the neighbors to come join us, making the number of guests an even fifty. Standing on the corner pillars of the dock were my brother, Neil, and my cousin, Jerry, who were our wedding photographers, looking like gargoyles and making me fear that they might soon topple off the dock, into the water. There was also Edgar, the Jewish bagpiper, and numerous boats watching to see what the commotion was all about.
The ceremony was short and sweet, performed by a Justice of the Peace. Our only attendants were Cynthia and Larry Erekson, friends from Boston. All the important family members were there. The reception took place outside, as the day stayed beautiful but a bit cool. There was dancing on the porch, lots of dancing and lots of laughing. We had invited about six couples from Boston to spend the weekend with us to continue the celebration.
I have many more wonderful memories associated with this particular day, forty-three years ago, but I will not share them at this time. I guess I needed to think about something a little bit more pleasant than the cold, snowy day that is today, September 13, 2018.