I thought long and hard about my quandary and went to the women with the idea of an alternative wedding shower.
Guests would be long-time friends and family. So, in place of a gift, I asked that they write a memory or story and read it at the shower. I knew this request would disturb some people. Write? And, read it out loud?
But, in the end, my belief that there’s a writer in all of us was proven true. The final creations included kind, sentimental and humorous words read about me, to me. It was one of the most meaningful days of my life and everything was put in a keepsake book that I cherish to this day.
Remembering my wonderful experience, I couldn’t wait for Stacy and her family and friends to experience the same. Stacy was showered with everything from handwritten words on plain paper to printed words on formal stationery. While I was pleased with my own piece, complete with blackmail pictures from our junior high days, the writings from Stacy’s mother and future mother-in-law were the most moving of the day.
An only adopted child, Stacy and her mother held a strong mother-daughter bond that grew even stronger when her father passed away a few years ago. Her mother’s memories—captured from the day she brought baby Stacy home to the present day—were something Stacy would treasure forever.
Her future mother-in-law brought tears to the room when she read a prayer written when her son was just seven years old. The prayer asked God to have her son’s future mate in His care and bless her with wonderful qualities complementary to her son’s. She concluded by sharing that God had not only answered her prayer, but had exceeded it.
Tissue boxes were passed as tears flowed and love filled the room. It was a touching shower. One filled with memories. I can’t wait to give Stacy her keepsake book, a gift no amount of money can buy.
Lisa Solomon
9
WELCOME TO
THE FAMILY
As we are married, our families are united, the generations blended—all in a beautiful celebration of life.
Dean Walley
Our First Meeting
When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.
Harry to Sally in When Harry Met Sally
As a college student in the ’70s, I belonged to a youth program called “Contact Canada,” whose purpose was to attract potential college immigrants to Canada. I was one of only four Americans in an international group of two hundred young adults who toured in teams to several provinces.
Along the way, I met a lovely Brit, and we became friends. But our three weeks quickly came to an end, and we returned home to our respective countries. Sue and I exchanged letters over the next year.
The following summer, she flew to California to stay with my folks and me for a month-long holiday. I was immediately entranced by this exciting woman and asked her to marry me after two short weeks. We consulted an immigration attorney, who recommended that we marry on U.S. soil to shorten the laborious green-card process. After six months, we could then have a formal church wedding.
With that, my best friend Joel, Sue and I drove to Reno for a one-day trip to tie the knot after a two-week engagement. We intentionally downplayed the ceremony, telling ourselves that this was only “for the government.” We had no rings, no formal attire, and of course, no honeymoon. Aside from being love struck, our official marriage in the U.S. would shorten her request for residency to months rather than years.
The following day, I reluctantly watched Sue board a Pan Am 747 through tear-filled eyes. I hid in a corner of the airport lounge to compose myself. We would be separated for one hundred and twelve days—a time in which I would receive a letter a day from my long-distance bride.
I didn’t have the courage to ask her how her parents handled the news that their only daughter was returning from a holiday married to an American. Somewhere in the hour drive between Heathrow and their home near Gatwick, she made the announcement. As much as I missed her, I’ll admit I was relieved to have missed that awkward moment. Especially telling her father.
Each day seemed like an eternity waiting for the end of my college semester. My flight to England was scheduled two hours after my last final at San Jose State, but even that wasn’t enough time. I would have to finish my three-hour test in only one hour. Nobody has ever whipped though an archeology final with such enthusiasm.
On the plane, I sat in my window seat in a complete daze. I was desperate to see Sue again and excited to stand before God and family to exchange vows in a real wedding.
But amidst the excitement, I was absolutely terrified—a nervous wreck, wondering what fate had in store for me when I finally met my father-in-law. After all, his daughter and I only dated a month before getting engaged for only two weeks. My worse crime, I was sure, was not properly asking him for her hand with European formality.
I pictured him basking in the same aura of anti-Americanism that was prevalent all over Europe in the mid-’70s. My stomach twisted and burned, and my excitement was waning as the fear grew.
After my plane landed, I found my luggage and stood in the long line at Immigration, in dread of the meeting. I prayed the drive to her family home would be quick and the impending explosion of anger even quicker.
As I cleared customs and entered the concourse, a sea of faces surrounded me. From the crowd, a gentleman broke free and raced towards me. Although I had not met her father yet, I knew who this man approaching me was. It was time. The long wait was over, and I was prepared for my fate.
He ran up to me, grabbed my hand and pumped it up and down in a warm handshake. His left hand slapped my shoulder as he said, “Thank God, lad. I thought she would never leave the house!”
And so began my relationship with a man that I’ve loved and respected for twenty-seven years. He’s given me the gift of his daughter, my best friend and soul mate. Unexpectedly, he also gave me his gift of acceptance.
David R. Wilkins
Ode to My Mother-in-Law
I haven’t spoken to my mother-in-law for eighteen months. I don’t like to interrupt her!
Ken Dodd
A mother-in-law, the stories all say,
Is a thing to be feared by night or by day.
For you just never know when the man that you love
Will come out with the phrase
“Well, what my mother does . . .”
A mother-in-law is a fearsome thing.
But she’s part of the package
When you take her son’s ring.
She’s your husband’s mom—the woman who knows
How to bake lasagna and launder his clothes.
Her advice may be timely but not always loved
By the wife who must treat her with tender kid gloves.
Oh, a mother-in-law is a fearsome thing.
But she’s part of the package
When you take her son’s ring.
My husband is Randy; his mother is Rita
A woman who daily grows sweeter and sweeter.
She never butts in and she never takes note
Of the mess on my floors or pet hairs on her coat.
She’s come to be part of my circle of friends
And her love for my son, well, it just never ends.
A half-century of wisdom is hers to impart
I’ve learned from her words and take them to heart.
A mother-in-law is a wonderful thing.
She was the bow on the package
When I took her son’s ring.
V. J. Coulman
“Oh, calm down, dear! No one’s looking! Just let me tweeze these little hairs you’ve got, so David doesn’t think he’s marrying Groucho Marx.”
CLOSE TO HOME ©John McPherson. Reprinted by permission of UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE. All rights reserved.
Final Approval
Am I not destroying my enemies when I make friends of them?
Abraham Lincoln
I rapped the serpe
nt-head doorknocker, noting the uncanny symbolism when the door opened, creaking like Herman Munster’s. There stood Miss Kay’s father dressed in what looked like laboratory coveralls. It was a first date—the clumsy ceremony that begins with the dreaded handshake and introduction to “Daddy.”
My grasp was dutifully subservient and his was firm enough to cause my knuckles to fuse. My fingers wrung red with pain, I knew it was just a form of punishment for requesting his daughter’s company that evening. I remember thinking my black leather jacket probably sent the wrong message. But it was stylish, not the kind with excessive zippers.
As we left, I sensed Eddie’s beady eyes following me, and even the clap of the heavy front door didn’t free me from his stare. I looked back and saw the Venetian blind tilted up at one corner. His laser pupils pierced the darkness, causing the paint on my Chevy to sizzle and smoke.
Thus I survived the dreaded introduction to Mr. Eddie Banks.
Miss Kay and I dated nonstop for the next two years and I endured cold reception after cold reception from her father. When we had any conversation at all, it was like an oral exam. I formed each word carefully, not wanting to expose any unnecessary clues about my life that Eddie could probe.
I felt ashamed about my past. My parents divorced when I was an infant then went their separate ways, leaving me behind. Raised like an orphan—shuffled among relatives and living out of a footlocker—I feared my gypsy-like life wouldn’t pass muster against the standards Eddie set for his daughter’s beau.
So our courtship went by the book. Eddie’s book.
I had Kay home by curfew and never called on the phone during mealtimes. I brought jonquils to Mrs. Eddie on her birthday, and once raked their yard while they were at work. I piled the leaves in two giant pyramids at the curb, and had them both burning when Eddie got home. He stood on the patio like General Patton—a Lucky Strike crimped between his teeth. The slight nod of his head was approval enough for me. It made me glad I had skipped fishing with my friends that day.
Then came the awful night when I asked for Kay’s hand in marriage. The down-on-one-knee part went okay, but when I produced the rings of betrothal all hell broke loose in a mocking slur of my words.
“She can be ‘re-gaged,’” Eddie said, “but there’ll be no ringely-dingelies on my daughter’s hand!”
I snapped the ring box shut so fast I nearly lost a finger and stuffed it back into my pocket like a wary shoplifter. With his quivering finger pointing to the door, I left while Kay still pleaded for mercy. Obviously, there were few options left for two star-struck lovers.
I devised a plan. My brother lived in Florida and, through friends, got me a job. He even gave up his extra bedroom to help defray my expenses. I saved my first four paychecks for our nest egg, albeit meager, and sent for my bride-to-be. Ours was a whirlwind elopement.
Miss Kay packed a suitcase and left a note on the refrigerator saying she was spending the night with a girlfriend. With trembling legs and thumping heart, she took a cab to the airport and slumped down in the seat to avoid detection. Three hours later my brother and I met the plane and whisked Miss Kay away to Georgia where marriage was legal for eighteen-year-olds.
The sign read “Welcome to Donaldsonville.” It was just a sleepy Georgia town but a noted marriage mill where required blood tests could be obtained at the Gulf Service Station. Our marriage was performed auctioneer-fashion.
For a twenty-dollar fee, we got a tinfoil-stamped certificate and a “honeymoon kit” from the judge. It contained samples of Midol, Tampax, Vaseline, Mercurochrome and Kleenex.
The phone was ringing when we got to my brother’s house. It was Kay’s frantic mother. She warned that Eddie, together with the Texas Rangers, had launched a manhunt. Whatever hopes I had for a boom-bah wedding night were dashed; instead, we spent it hiding under the bed and, in my new role as son-in-law, I slipped into an uneasy relationship with Kay’s father.
The years zipped past like the jerky, hurried characters in silent movies, and the birth of our two boys formed the bookends of our lives together. Surprisingly, mutual respect replaced the simple coexistence that once had been the tone of my relationship with Eddie. Don’t ask me how it happened. Maybe it was a byproduct of the peace grandkids bring.
We talked often about childhood experiences. In those conversations, I finally disclosed my past. Eventually, Eddie shared his. I learned that Eddie was only fourteen when his father died. He supported his mother and four sisters with meager earnings from the Depression-era Civil Conservation Corps. He, too, had had a rough boyhood and survived an austere, “foot-locker” existence.
Our exchanges revealed we had more similarities than differences. And the greatest similarity of all was our mutual love for his daughter.
In 1993, I was at Eddie’s side when he died. That day he appointed me an honorary member of the Banks family. He leaned over in his bed to whisper a long-held secret in my ear:
“I hate to admit it,” he said, “but you’re my favorite son-in-law.”
I told him it wasn’t lost on me that his daughter was an only child. He closed his eyes, pursed his lips in a tight smile and took his last breath with my hand clasping his.
His grip was firm enough to cause my knuckles to fuse.
Lad Moore
Just Like Hazel
I was a nervous bride. I couldn’t wait to be in my husband’s arms and life, but I was leaving everything familiar. I was moving from the city to the country. I was leaving my small family behind and becoming part of an enormous, close-knit clan.
I stood at the reception while my husband made his way around the room. Another difference. I was shy, unsure. My husband had never met a stranger. His entire family was confident and outgoing. It was easy to get lost in a family like that when you’re a person like me. I counted on two hands the people I knew well.
We decided to hold the wedding in Richard’s hometown. His family accounted for most of the invitations we had so carefully inscribed. Plus his church friends and neighbors— the people who had known and loved him since boyhood. It was simply easier to transport my family of five and my closest friends to his hometown than to ship an entire community to my city.
Would we make it? Would I regret my decision the morning I woke up on a farm? Would I regret trading my slick green Mustang for a John Deere tractor?
The panic must have been marked clearly on my face. Richard’s grandfather slipped beside me and placed an arm around my waist.
“How are you?”
“Fine,” I lied.
Digging in his pants pocket, he pulled out his wallet and held out a faded picture. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
I studied the picture. She wasn’t a classic beauty but I saw spunk in her dark eyes. Her hair was coiffed in the style of a long-gone past. And she was beautiful to Richard’s grandfather. I loved that. “Yes, she’s beautiful,” I agreed.
“When we met we were just kids. We’ve been through a lot together.”
I shook my head knowingly; Richard had told me all about them. They survived the Great Depression. They parented five children. They lost two teenagers—within three months of each other. He farmed and held a town job, working from dawn until sundown, to make sure his family was comfortable and cared for.
His voice cracked and he smiled—identical to the warm smile that had captivated my heart when I first met my husband. “Every year that goes by I love her more. That’s what takes you through the hard times.” He put his hand over mine. “If you will love my grandson just half as much as I love Hazel, you’ll make it.”
Tears dampened my eyes at the thought of this legacy. I could sit and worry about the differences between my husband and me. Or I could simply love the man that was my soul mate. I chose love.
Grandpa had a stroke in their sixty-second year of marriage; his Hazel nursed him. He couldn’t speak but his eyes said volumes as she gently bathed and fed him. She took care of his every need, working from dawn to su
ndown to make sure he was comfortable and cared for until his death four years later. I wish I could talk to Grandpa Franklin once more. I’d thank him for comforting a nervous young bride. Then I’d tell him I love his grandson every bit as much as he loved Hazel.
T. Suzanne Eller
All in the Family
We are each other’s business; we are each other’s magnitude and bond.
Gwendolyn Brooks
“When you get married, babe, you marry the whole family.”
That was my mother’s caution to me as a young teenager. At the time I thought she said it to encourage me to get rid of my then-boyfriend, and maybe she did. In any case, it was a warning I didn’t understand until my wedding day.
He was my best friend. He said he loved me when we were sixteen, and I laughed it off. At seventeen, he said he was going to marry me, and I laughed it off. At eighteen he kissed me, and I stopped laughing—but I didn’t really believe he was serious for several more stormy years.
I wanted—in the tradition of my family—to move far away, start over, maybe visit my relatives every couple years. So I moved out west and went to school. He wanted, he said, to stay in Michigan for his family, but he was always there for me when I needed him, which was often.
After a few years I realized the kind of love we had was the kind I’d been looking for. The kind you keep, even if you don’t really see the merits of staying in Michigan indefinitely. I returned home, convinced we could overcome any obstacle, and we made plans to get married no matter what.
But there was the matter of our families.
My family was small, suburban, a hardworking set of parents, my brother and me; we all accepted our new member without a hitch. His family, on the other hand, intimidated me. I strived to avoid them—and there were a lot of them to avoid.
Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul Page 20
