dedalus_1947 | Entries tagged with weddings

When you’re down and troubled,
And you need some loving care.
And nothing, nothing is going right.
Close your eyes and think of me,
And soon I will be there.
To brighten up even your darkest night.

You just call out my name,
And you know, wherever I am,
I’ll come running,
To see you again.
Winter, spring, summer, or fall,
All you have to do is call,
And I’ll be there.
You’ve got a friend.
(You’ve Got a Friend: Carole King – 1971)

Belated news of a loved one’s death has always been an unbalancing experience for me. It’s not shocking, like a sudden, unforeseen, or accidental death tends to be. Rather, these deaths are hard to believe or accept, because they occurred months or a year before – when you still thought that person was alive and well. Such was the case when my wife Kathleen, while perusing the monthly Associates newsletter from the Congregation of Sisters of St. Joseph Carondelet (CSJ), learned of the death of Carol Ann Krommer last December. More than a month had passed since her actual death, and during that time we had sent Carol a Christmas card, and wondered if we would speak to her by phone. All those well-meaning thoughts and intentions were now meaningless. Carol was dead, and we’d never again see her, speak with her, recall experiences we shared, or laugh about days long past. A part of our lives had died with her.

On Saturday, February 18^th, a cold and gloomy morning, Kathy and I drove up to Mission San Buenaventura, in Ventura, to attend Carol’s funeral Mass. Despite our original disequilibrium at the belated news, there was never a doubt that we would both attend. Carol was a personal friend to each of us – since Kathy’s student days at Mount St. Mary’s College in 1968, and my first teaching days at St. Bernard High School in 1972. Yet we both entered the Mission courtyard with a certain amount of apprehension. So many years had passed since we’d had actual contact with Carol, her sisters, or any of her friends, I feared I wouldn’t know anyone at the funeral. It wasn’t until I recognized Carol’s sister Judy (who had taught with me at St. Bernard H.S.) walking slowly up to the pulpit to give the eulogy before the beginning of mass that I relaxed and calmly listened to her tales of growing up with Carol.

I’m bad at processing my feelings at emotional moments. It took a few weeks after the funeral before I felt sufficiently settled to write down my own thoughts and memories of Carol. My ideas centered on three clear images and scenes of Carol: as a caring, talented, and charismatic teacher, and an extraordinary guidance counselor to students and beginning teachers; as a verbal champion for Fairness, Christian Charity, and Justice; and, finally, as a determined, matchmaking friend who would risk giving relational advice.

I was first introduced to Carol by Marilyn Rudy in the faculty lounge of St. Bernard High School in January of 1972. They were both nuns in the Congregation of St. Joseph of Carondelet (CSJ), and Sister Marilyn was my Department Chair. I had been hired to teach U.S. History without any prior teaching experience. I obviously interviewed well enough with the Principal, Father Larry Dunphy, to allay any fears or misgivings he or Marilyn had about my lack of training and experience. I certainly felt confident at the time of the interview – but that feeling was fast eroding as the day to my first interactions with students approached. The first year of teaching is always difficult, but doing so without any prior training or practice is almost suicidal. Although most veteran teachers are usually responsive to appeals for assistance, many tend to shy away from unschooled rookies so as not to witness the train wrecks occurring in their classrooms. In those tenuous first months, Sister Marilyn graciously and generously stepped into the role of mentor and advisor. She paired me with another young and talented Social Studies teacher, Jerry Lenhard, to act as a model and guide, and introduced me to Carol. At first, I simply accepted her as Marilyn’s friend. It was only later I realized that Carol was the third member of the triumvirate that Marilyn created to support and sustain me during my first difficult semester of teaching.

Sister Carol (as I knew her then) was the Religion Department Chair and school guidance counselor. She was clearly a close friend of Marilyn. They lived in community with 4 to 6 other CSJ nuns in a converted apartment house across the street from St. Anastasia Church, near the high school. I remember her as tall, with a smiling angular face, and a delightful laugh. More importantly she was a great listener. It became clear, as Marilyn, Jerry, Carol, and I got together at Nutrition and Lunch in the faculty lounge, that Carol’s presence was to provide me with solace and encouragement, while Marilyn and Jerry gave me curricular techniques and strategies. General conversation and laughter were also a large part of those times together, as well as chagrined amusement at some of my well-intentioned instructional gaffes and disasters. However, Carol was never my exclusive counselor. Countless teachers and staff members would seek her out, or join our lunch table, to speak about students, classes, or themselves. She always had a ready ear and a sympathetic heart. Through the efforts of this trio, I survived my first year of teaching.

The following year (1972-73), I was a much more confident and knowledgeable teacher. I enjoyed teaching and interacting with students, and I made new friends among the faculty. My relationships with Carol and Marilyn also developed into a sincere and personal friendship. I could talk to Carol about anything, and I was soon a regular member at the Friday evening TGIF parties that the CSJ’s hosted at their convent. Besides the joking and laughter at these get-togethers, I also learned of the CSJ’s commitment to social justice and charity. Carol and this community of nuns looked beyond a life dedicated to prayer and teaching, and they saw themselves as active participants and implementers of Christ’s teachings in the Gospel. Carol also dared to speak out about the institutional inconsistencies in the decisions and actions of School and Church authorities.

In the early days of 1973, an issue arose that would normally have been dealt with privately by the principal, Father Dunphy. However, Larry was the rare priest and leader who not only sought out the advice of nuns on his administrative staff and faculty but also was also unafraid to discuss crucial matters openly in a professional forum. The case involved a very popular and intelligent student who became pregnant during the summer before her junior year. She decided to keep the baby and raise it at home with her parents and returned to school to finish the year. Her desire to finish high school was lauded by all, and her decision to have the baby was cited as the proper Catholic choice, in a time when teenage abortions were so prevalent. The dilemma arose however when the unwed mother-student applied as a candidate for the office of Student Body President. The issue became an immediate cause célèbre in the faculty lunchroom, where scandalized teachers and priests demanded her disqualification for violating the Student Code of Conduct. They believed that all candidates for student government office, especially the presidency, should be models of Catholic values, morals, and behavior, and an unwed, teenaged mother clearly failed to reach that standard. I like to believe that it was the gradual and subtle influence of the CSJ’s on Larry Dunphy, who was a regular TGIF guest at their apartment, that convinced him to discuss this issue in a special faculty meeting before making his decision. The afterschool forum gave teachers and staff a chance to speak their minds and listen to the opinions of others, but it wasn’t until Sister Carol spoke that we were finally forced to view the issue as honest Catholics and faithful followers of Christ. She galvanized the room by quietly and solemnly relating the story that, as Guidance Counselor, she knew of students who had secretly terminated unwanted pregnancies, and had run for, and been elected to, student body offices.
“What message are we sending as a Catholic school,” she asked, “when we penalize a pregnant student for publicly doing the right thing of giving birth to her child, while rewarding students who secretly have abortions?”

It was the uncomfortable question that no one wanted to hear. Without ever quoting scripture or making comparisons, Carol’s challenge forced everyone to recall the actions of Jesus when he was questioned about the woman charged with adultery, and he told her, “Neither do I condemn you. Go, and sin no more”. Looking at Father Dunphy, sitting silently across the room, I wondered what he thought of Carol’s question, and what he would choose to do about the unwed teenager seeking to run for student body office.

In the faculty lounge later that year, I was regaling Carol and Marilyn with stories of living at home with my mom and siblings, and my romantic misadventures in the company of three high school buddies who lived in an apartment near the school. Holding her stomach in laughter, Marilyn gasped that she wanted to meet these bachelor friends, who provided me a haven for continuous juvenile pursuits. As I tried explaining the importance of frivolous recreation, and my cavalier attitude toward dating, Carol suddenly interrupted:
“Tony, there’s a girl we know who I think you should meet”.
“Oh, you mean Kathy”, chimed in Marilyn, cutting short her laughter. “She’s wonderful, and you both have a lot in common.”
The topic immediately sobered me and brought a frown to my face. Working in an environment of nuns, I had become very wary of their matchmaking skills. I didn’t have much confidence in their celibate judgement when it came to predicting romantic chemistry and sexual attraction. I’d seen and met many of their female friends and acquaintances who occasionally visited the school. None of them looked particularly attractive or interesting.
“No thanks, ladies.” I replied gently, not wanting to hurt their feelings.
“It’s not what you think, Tony”, countered Carol. “This girl is different. We’ve known her for a long time, and we really think she’s wonderful”.
“I need you to drop this”, I said firmly and impatiently. “I don’t want to be set-up. I appreciate your interest, but I’m fine – really”.
“We’re not talking about a blind date, Tony”, Marilyn continued. “Kathy is just someone we really like, and we think you would too.”
“Again, thank you ladies, but I’m not interested in meeting anyone. I’m seeing someone right now”. I saw that none of my excuses were having any effect on my determined, religious friends; but when I noticed that Carol was angling for another opportunity to weigh into this debate, I changed tactics.
“Okay, look, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll agree to meet this girl but let me be the one to tell you when. Now is not a good time; but I promise to tell you when I’m ready”.
“You promise?” repeated Carol, warily, looking at Marilyn for support.
“I promise!” I said, raising my right hand as if taking an oath. Reluctantly, Carol and Marilyn took me at my word and accepted the compromise. They dropped the subject and did not raise it again. I was very pleased with myself for having short circuited their designs. I had no intention of ever asking to meet this girl – but I couldn’t forget the promise I made to them.

Two months after this debate with Carol and Marilyn, my relationship with a female teacher at the school ended. The aftermath of this short-lived infatuation lingered far longer than the relationship itself. I entered a dismal, barren period in my life where a meaningful connection with a woman became a ceaseless longing. I had the company of my family at home, friends at school, and three high school buddies, but they were no longer enough. After considerable inner turmoil, I sought out Carol and Marilyn at the lunch table one day and sat next to them.
“Uh, do you remember that conversation we had a while back about a friend you wanted me to meet?” I asked embarrassedly, as the two nuns looked at each other and then me.
“Yes”, they replied in tandem, with secret smiles on their faces.
“Well, I’d like to meet her”, I said. “Just remember, this is not a date. You are just inviting us to dinner along with other people.”
“Okay”, Carol said confidently. “We’ll take care of it”.

The “wonderful” girl Carol and Marilyn wanted me to meet, turned out to be Kathleen Greaney – and they were right. She was nothing I expected. I had visualized a short, mousy-faced graduate student, who would be cautious, demur, quiet, and shy. I assumed all “nun friends” had these qualities (never making the association that I was their friend and yet shared none of them). Kathy was the exact opposite from the “convent girl” I imagined. She had sparkling, hazel eyes, a gorgeous face, and an enchanting, beaming smile. She was tall, with shoulder-length, and sun streaked, dark blonde hair. She glowed with vitality as she exuded humor and laughter. She commanded the dining room and captivated the guests with stories of her family and college experiences. I was totally smitten, and knew I had to see her again. By the end of the evening, I had talked my way into joining the nuns and Kathy on a road trip to Chowchilla, the following day, in support of Cesar Chavez’s farmworker’s grape boycott. At the end of that long and enjoyable day, I took advantage of a moment alone to ask Kathy if I could see her again.
“Sure”, she replied, with a bewitching smile, “that would be great. I’d like that”.
Two years later we were married; with Carol, Marilyn, and the other nuns of their house, as special guests.

Over the years we saw less and less of Carol and Marilyn. They were always invited to large family birthdays and gatherings, but we all pursued different interests, vocations, and moved to different parts of the state. The last time we saw them together, was a visit in 1995 (the date sticks in my mind because it was on the day of O.J. Simpsons’ famous car chase). Yet Carol remained intrinsically tied to us because of our long-lasting friendship and the romantic connection she helped facilitate. I suppose that is how I will remember her. Although I described three memories of Carol, they really coalesce around one central image: Carol was a loving friend – one you could count on for help, solace, guidance, and love. I will miss her and count myself bereft of one more friend of my past.

“Here comes the story
Of the Hurricane!”
(Hurricane: Bob Dylan – 1975)

There is always a back-story or side dramas to large family weddings, and Margi and Ron’s nuptial and reception on August 27, 2011 was no exception. There was a lot going on that weekend in Washington D.C.: this was the second marriage for both, their respective families were meeting for the first time, an earthquake had rocked the city for the first time in 100 years on August 23, a massive Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Commemoration ceremony was scheduled for that Sunday, and Hurricane Irene was threatening to flood and blow the Eastern seaboard into darkness and paralysis on the day of the wedding. Surprisingly, only two or three guests cancelled their plans to attend for fear of the storm, and the remaining 165 showed up to challenge the media-hyped, climatic event, and celebrate the wedding.

Kathy and I decided to attend Margi’s wedding almost as soon as it was announced earlier this year. Our calendar was clear, and an opportunity to celebrate with family we love, in a city we greatly enjoy, seemed a perfect thing to do on the weekend before the Labor Day holiday. Since we were booking our flight so early, Kathy took the lone precaution of buying travel insurance, just in case some unforeseen calamity did occur. That should have been our first clue that unusual events would occur on this trip – even though we never questioned our decision. The Kirst’s are an entertaining and hospitable family, and Margi is a special person. She is the eldest child of Mary Ellen and Bill, the first grandchild in the Greaney family, and Kathy’s first niece. I quickly noticed her charm, intelligence, and humor during the days that I was dating Kathleen. Later, I took special note of her serious interest in Spanish and Latin American History and culture, topics that formed the core of my own post-graduate studies.

It proved to be a tempestuous weekend filled with scheduled and impromptu activities, events, and visits. We arrived at Dulles Airport at 3:00 p.m. on Friday, and were met by Kathy’s sister (and the mother of the bride) Mary Ellen and her daughter Katy. They drove us to the Key Bridge Marriott in Arlington, Virginia, where Kevin and his wife, Anastasia, were also staying. As is our custom when traveling, Kathy and I immediately went exploring the top-floor ballroom area with its panoramic view of the Potomac River, Georgetown, and D.C.; and then went searching for the Rosslyn Metro Station, which was about three or four blocks away. There we ran into Kathy’s sister, Meg, and her husband, Lou. Billy, Margi’s brother, was touring them about the city. That Friday evening we all went to a post-rehearsal barbeque in Bethesda, Maryland, and then met up with Brian, the youngest of the Kirst family at the Marriott bar for a nightcap. There, on the overhead, high-definition television, we listened to the dire forecasts of the impending hurricane, which was expected to arrive in D.C. on Saturday afternoon, and peak in the evening.

The weather on the wedding morning started out gray, overcast, and breezy, and continued to deteriorate all day long. Raindrops were just falling as we left Saint Bartholomew’s Church in Bethesda, after the ceremony. The winds increased on the drive to the Officer’s Club at Fort Myer, where the wedding reception was to be held, and the storm slowly closed around us during the meal and festivities, and intensified throughout the day. That development eliminated any possibility of going outdoors to explore the historic army base which includes Arlington Cemetery, and occupies the heights above Washington D.C. This military post stills serves as the home of the Army Chief of Staff, and it once housed the famous generals of World War II: Douglas MacArthur, George C. Marshall, Dwight D. Eisenhower, and Omar Bradley. In fact, the club itself was named after “Old Blood and Guts” himself, George C. Patton, and featured his martial portrait in the lobby.

Along with many out-of-town guests, Lou spent the early moments of the reception on his cell phone re-booking his cancelled Sunday morning flight out of Dulles for one later in the afternoon. When that task was completed, he relaxed to enjoy the dancing, dining, and speeches that followed. The bride’s family produced three show-stopping moments during the celebration: the Father-Daughter dance, in which Margi and Bill bopped to the tunes of “Rock Around the Clock”; Bill’s toast to the bride and groom; and the Kirst Kids present – Margi, Katy, Billy, Kevin, and Mary – performed an impromptu line-dance to Garth Brooks’ “Friends in Low Places”. Kathy, remembering Bill as the earnest, college swain, courting the affections of her eldest sister in marriage, was most touched at the sight of them dancing wistfully, in quiet solitude, to the last song of the afternoon. Our only serious worries at that point were possible power outages caused by downed trees and road closures due to flooding.

After the reception, it seemed like we barely had time to change clothes, snap a picture of the descending storm from a top-floor window of the hotel, before again meeting with Meg, Lou, and Billy at a classy downtown bar called Off The Record. This popular, basement watering hole was located in their hotel, the Hay-Adams, a luxurious place, located across from Lafayette Square and near the White House. Two martinis later we had stopped worrying about the tempest raging outside and were even ready to forgo a cab ride and walk the 2 or 3 blocks to the Siroc Restaurant. Although dinner was a gastronomic blur, the walk back was unforgettable. During our homeward journey, we were tossed about by blasts of gusting winds, left defenseless with umbrellas turned inside out, and drenched by sheets of slanting rain.

Everything changed on Sunday with the passing of the storm, and Washington D.C. was suddenly at its summery best! After a breakfast with Brian and his friend Phil at the hotel, Kathy and I purchased metro day passes and travelled to the Smithsonian Station on the National Mall in search of the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial. The new monument was to have been commemorated that day, but the elaborate ceremony had been cancelled due to the hurricane. By noon, the few remaining clouds had turned white and cottony, leaving a deep blue sky and brilliant sun. At first we followed the customary route down the center of the mall, along the gravel path, walking past the Washington Monument, and heading to the Reflecting Pool. I assumed that the MLK Memorial was close to the Lincoln Monument, but thankfully, a doubting Kathy asked a Park Ranger for directions and we veered off toward the sidewalk along Independence Avenue. As we caught sight of the vast Tidal Basin, with a gleaming Thomas Jefferson Memorial on the opposite shore, Kathy mentioned that she remembered the FDR Memorial somewhere near the basin’s walkway. Eager to see it, we walked along the shoreline of the lagoon, through a thick grove of cherry blossom trees. Looking up we both suddenly saw the gleam of a shining boulder top. Getting closer, we realized that we had inadvertently come across the MLK Memorial from the rear, through the tidal basin entrance.

The monument was eye-catching and impressive. In close proximity to the three gleaming, towering, blocks of granite, one immediately grasps the mountain metaphor and its theme of hope for civil and racial harmony. However, the monolithic statue of King was oddly stoic, and a bit forbidding, as it stared across the Tidal Basin, studying the edifice built for Thomas Jefferson, author of the idealistic, Declaration of Independence. I couldn’t help feeling that King’s features betrayed a critical attitude toward the eloquent exponent of The Rights of Man – a look that expressed the concern that his Dreams for equality, justice, integration, and racial acceptance were still unfulfilled in America.

Returning to the Smithsonian Metro after a brisk walk through the mall in rising temperatures and blazing sun, we decided to cool down with lunch at Dupont Circle. There we took stock of the rest of our day, which entailed returning to Arlington, taking a cab for dinner and an overnight stay at Mary Ellen and Bill’s home in the Glover Park area of D.C., and then taking an evening tour of the monuments with their son, Billy. On previous visits to D.C., I had caught glimpses of the larger, well-lit monuments while crossing the mall on cab rides from one part of town to another, but I’d never seen them closely at night. Billy’s offer to guide us, and, along with his friend Jeff, lead a photographing expedition of the mall, was a special treat.

That evening, listening to Billy and Jeff describe the sights of the mall, and pointing out interesting, historical facts, I realized that these two, longtime residents really loved this city. I’d always assumed D.C. was simply a convenient rest stop for the Kirst family, a place their parents could send the children to college, and take a breather from their lifelong travels around the world. Billy had been born in Iran, and lived in Italy, Poland, Russia, and Germany, and attended college and grad school at John Hopkins University in Maryland, and Georgetown University in D.C. All that time I smugly assumed that he would eventually make his way back to Southern California, the place his parents were raised and lived up until 1974, and where most of his aunts, uncles, and cousins resided. Now, as I saw the way Billy lovingly framed and balanced his nighttime photographs of the locations and images we visited, and listened to Jeff’s back-stories about the historical persons they memorialized, I wondered if they would ever leave. That evening we visited the FDR, MLK, and Lincoln Memorials, and walked around the Korean War and Viet Nam War Veteran Memorials, before returning to spend the night with M.E. and Bill.

The mall and its memorials turn strangely haunting and reverent at night. The Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial looked decidedly different against a black sky, its appearance changing from rugged, chunks of pink granite, to smooth, gleaming marble. The Korean War statues looked like a scene from the movie, The Fog, with its tableau of a slowly emerging lost patrol, rising from the misty darkness that enveloped them. But as always, the most powerfully evocative monument for me was the Vietnam War Memorial. Even with its black-on-black appearance at night, the names of my high school friends were still distinguishable on the dark, obsidian wall naming the dead. In the cool darkness of evening, with each location leaving its own special impression on us, we finally made our way back to the home of Mary Ellen and Bill, and an end to another very long day.

Our last morning in D.C. was spent exploring the Cathedral Heights area near the home of M.E. and Bill. We couldn’t enter the National Cathedral, because it was fenced off since the 5.8 earthquake toppled a few of its towering pinnacles, but we did manage to explore the grounds a bit, and entered St. Alban’s Church before heading back to the Glover Park area. Later that afternoon, after packing and chatting with Mary Ellen, we left for the airport, caught the 3:30 p.m. flight, and arrived home at 7:30 p.m. That evening, Kathy and I sat in our slowly, cooling living room and reflected on the events and back-stage dramas of the last four days. Over raised glasses, we congratulated ourselves on enjoying another marvelous trip together – an opportunity to celebrate a marriage during a hurricane, reconnect with distant family members and meet their significant friends, inaugurate a new memorial, and photograph national monuments in a totally new perspective. All in all it was a fabulous and worthwhile venture.

If you are interested in seeing my Flickr albums of the memorials and monuments I photographed on the National Mall, click on the links below:

2011-08-28 MLK Jr. Memorial

2011-08-28 FDR Memorial

2011-08-28 Korean War Veterans Memorial

2011-08-28 Lincoln Memorial

2011-08-28 Washington & Jefferson Monuments

2011-08-28 Vietnam War Memorial

Spring is here,
The sky is blue,
Birds all sing
As if they knew
Today’s the day we’ll say, “I do”
And we’ll never be lonely anymore.

Because we’re,
Goin’ to the chapel
And we’re gonna get married.
Goin’ to the chapel
And we’re gonna get married.
Gee, I really love you
And we’re gonna get married.
Goin’ to the chapel of love.

Bells will ring,
The sun will shine,
Oh, I’ll be his
And he’ll be mine
We’ll love until the end of time
And we’ll never be lonely anymore.
*****Chorus repeats****
(Chapel of Love: Dixie Cups, 1964)

2009 is turning out to be the Summer of Nuptial Love. I will have attended three marriages before the beginning of Fall, each one involving a different type of involvement and interest. Obviously, Prisa and Joe’s wedding in July was the most momentous for Kathy and me (see Nothing to Do With Me). Katie, Prisa’s Maid of Honor and Best Friend, and Chris’s marriage was the easiest because all Kathy and I had to do was show up and enjoy it. My niece Brenna and James’ bridal event last week was the most distant and most curious. I suppose the location of their ceremony qualified it as a destination wedding.

The meaning of a “destination wedding” is easily understood; most people could explain it quickly. So I was surprised to find that neither the Merriam-Webster or Oxford dictionaries listed it. I found definitions of WEDDING, but no mention of destination wedding as a distinct entry. Perhaps “traditional” dictionaries consider destination weddings as social trends or popular cultural events instead of a primary noun. I did, however, discover two alternative online sources. Encarta called it a “plural noun”, defined as “a wedding in a distant place: a wedding for which the couple travel to a far-off location to have their marriage ceremony”. Wikipedia was more elaborate: “a destination wedding is any wedding in which the engaged couple, alone or with guests, travels to attend the ceremony. This could be a beach ceremony in the Caribbean or on the California coast, a lavish event in Las Vegas, or a simple ceremony at the home of a geographically distant friend or relative”. You can always count on Wikipedia to define the obvious, especially when it comes to practices of popular culture. But at least Wikipedia amplified the term. Destination weddings have existed for as long couples have married in places far away from the invited family and guests (My father called them “expensive and inconvenient” before the term “destination” came into vogue).

Before I married into Kathy’s family of 8 girls and two boys, I never traveled long distances to a wedding simply because I was invited. In my family, if we weren’t conveniently living in the same vicinity, we didn’t attend. Since my mother’s family all lived in Mexico City (or its outskirts), there were few expectations and no hard feelings about our lack of attendance. The only exception was when my sister Stela traveled to our cousin Rosita’s wedding, because she was a bridesmaid in 1969. When I attended the nuptial masses and receptions of my Mexican cousins Carlos and Nena in 1970 and 1973, I was living with my aunt for the summer in Mexico City. Kathy’s family offered a whole new perspective on destination marriages (and other family occasions) and the filial imperative to be present and supportive. Whenever there was a wedding, you could always count on a sizeable contingent of aunts, uncles, and cousins to arrive. There is an almost tangible drive to never let a sibling or relative down by allowing them to feel alone, isolated, and unsupported in an emotionally anxious or stressful time – sad or joyous. Because it is such an immense family, with 8 original aunts, 2 uncles, and 38 cousins, a visual impact is pretty easy to produce. Of the five family weddings of Kathy’s nephews and nieces outside of Los Angeles, I have attended three, Toñito two, and Kathy and Prisa all five. Jeff, Debbie’s son, married Lynn in Chicago, Margi, Katy and Kevin, Mary Ellen’s children, married Will, Dave, and Anastasia in San Juan Capistrano and twice in Washington D.C. (see Weddings and Funerals for Kevin’s), and, finally, Brenna, Beth’s daughter, married James in Loomis, a town outside of Sacramento, California. When my sister Gracie’s son Timothy married Hilary in a town outside of Portland, I was already sufficiently influenced by Kathy’s modeling to put aside my initial concerns of work and expense and traveled there with Prisa in 2002. I found that destination weddings, especially in Kathy’s large and varied family are great opportunities to get together and confidently experience a new and unusual place. Besides feeling satisfied that the family member we came to support felt loved and protected, I always had a great time in a new locale. I met new people and learned something about myself. This last trip was no exception.

A total of 23 relatives were present at Brenna’s ceremony. They came by air and land. Of Beth’s 6 surviving sisters, all five of the LA contingent (Kathy, Patti, Meg, Tootie, and Tere) were in attendance, except for Mary Ellen in Washington D.C. Work and travel obligations prevented her brothers Mike and Greg from coming, but four brother-in-laws (me, Dick, John, and Mike) acted as their proxies. Eight cousins made the trip (Toñito, Prisa, Danny, Brigid, Marisa, Maria, Maggie and Anora), along with a newly wed husband (Joe) and fiancé (Jonaya). If you count Beth and her 3 children (Garrett, Caitrin, and Brenna) there were enough people to constitute a traveling revival meeting (see A Moveable Feast).

The flight into Sacramento Airport with Kathy, Meg, Tootie, and Maria, gave me the opportunity to listen to the latest family updates and prepare myself for the events to come. Once I decided to attend this celebration for Beth and Brenna, I didn’t give the wedding much thought. I knew Brenna converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS) and that she and James would be married in a Mormon ceremony. This accounted for my original misconception that we would be traveling to the Temple in Salt Lake City for the ceremony. Kathy and her sisters clarified that Beth and James were being married in a religious ceremony in the closest Mormon Temple, which was in Oakland. Only official members of the church were permitted to attend. They further explained that we would be joining the bride, groom, and the wedding party for a “ring ceremony” and reception at a banquet venue in Loomis, a town north of Sacramento. I interpreted all this information to mean that we were attending a slight variation of the traditional religious and civil ceremonies that constituted a marriage. Brenna and James would have a private religious ceremony followed by a public civil ceremony and festive reception. It didn’t seem unusual. I spent the rest of the trip reading, adjusting to our hotel accommodations, and psyching myself to assume the role of freelance photographer. I’d be the “official family” photographer, trying to catch candid and traditional moments from dressing up to dancing.

The benefit of carrying a conspicuous camera (a Canon Rebel T1i, my retirement gift) in your hands and around your neck is the access it gives and the perspective it provides. I was able to get an early view of the bride, her mother, and her maids as they dressed, interacted, and prepared. As I noticed at Prisa’s wedding, the Maid of Honor (Caitrin) and the bridesmaids (Marisa, Vanessa, Christine, and Rachel) were there to deflect the stresses and anxieties that the mother and bride felt when preparing for a major, once-in-a-lifetime event, and to keep the atmosphere jovial and festive. They did a great job. They were young, photogenic, and funny. I took tons of pictures and felt sufficiently confident in posing them in traditional shots (buttoning wedding dress, putting on makeup, shoes and garter, and the bride surrounded by her bevy of attendants holding bouquets). I added some spontaneous shots in the hallway, elevator, doorways, and in cars as the party left for the ceremonial site.

The venue was beautiful. The ring ceremony and reception took place in a redesigned nursery that included a shady, verdant orchard and a catering facility. There was an open-air, terraced, patio providing a lush, floral stage for the bride and groom and their party, with plenty of standing and sitting room for the guests. Along side of this patio was a completely glassed in banquet hall that gave the appearance of a landscaped, interior rain forest. The sequence of events began in the traditional manner with the wedding party processing in and taking a position apart from the bride and groom. Brenna and James then walked past them, taking an elevated and isolated spot with a presiding bishop of the Church. The bishop welcomed the family and guests of the nuptial pair, and then shared their written responses to questions he had given them about each other and how they met (a variation on the Newlywed Game). At the end of this reflective exercise, their mothers, Beth and Michelle, joined them in lighting the “Unity Candle”, symbolizing the union of two families into a new one. Then the bishop watched as the couple exchanged rings. With that transaction completed, he introduced Brenna and James, as husband and wife, and the wedding party processed out. That was the transition signal for the family and guest to move to the glassed-in hall and begin the reception, while the wedding party escaped to take pictures. Except for the absence of alcoholic beverages, out of respect for the religious practices of the bride and groom, the reception was typical. A string quartet played in the background, hors d’oeuvre were circulated, and guests mingled, met, and talked. Eventually the wedding party returned, toasts were made, the wedding cake was cut, and a D.J. took over the music and dancing duties for the rest of the evening. Later, Kathy and I, accompanied by Meg, Tootie, Patti and Dick, retired to Islands Restaurant for drinks and post-wedding analysis.

We concluded that it was a fine wedding and the couple was off with a treasured memory. The venue was beautiful, the food delicious, and everyone looked fabulous. It was only in recapping the ring ceremony itself that we realized that vows were never publically expressed or exchanged, and the bishop never blessed the union. We never heard “I, Brenna, take you James…. in sickness and in health… until death us do part.” Meg suggested that vows were probably stated in the Temple when the marriage was “sealed”, but she didn’t know how that was done. Rather that speculating further, Dick quickly researched “Mormon Weddings” on his iPhone and gave us a summary of a Wikipedia definition:

“A Mormon wedding is called a ‘Celestial Marriage’, and it is considered an eternal affair. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS) recognizes only two kinds of marriages: a civil marriage and a celestial marriage. Civil marriages are legally contracted unions under local law and are dissolved upon the death of the participants (‘until death us do part’). However, celestial marriages, also known as ‘sealings’, bind the participants as husband and wife for all eternity, if both are righteous. Only an official Mormon priest or bishop within a Sealing Room, in a dedicated temple, can perform celestial marriages. Only members of the LDS church who have a temple recommendation may attend an LDS wedding. The wedding is referred to as a sealing because the husband and wife are sealed beyond death into the next life. Many Mormon couples also hold a wedding reception or Open House after the sealing ceremony in another venue that is open to all family and friends. Some couples choose to recreate a more traditional wedding ceremony, or will simply perform certain traditional acts, such as the throwing of the bouquet, first dance, etc.”

This information explained the brevity of the ring ceremony, and the absence of public vows and blessings. We assumed those parts of the wedding were performed in the religious ceremony during the sealing. Instead of heading directly back to our hotel rooms, Meg suggested visiting Beth, the Mother of the Bride, to see how she was doing. There we toasted and congratulated her on her daughter’s wedding and reception. Smiling wanly, she was relieved that it was over. I have found that weddings at their best are complicated and emotional productions. When travel, long distance communication, and new religious practices are factored in, they can become stressful. Beth and Brenna had performed admirably, and we were glad to have shared and recorded the experience.

Although marriages occur throughout the year, summer is the most popular of the four wedding seasons. Summer is the time for love. Summer vacations were the halcyon days of freedom from school and jobs, and a time to enjoy life and each other. It was the season that offered the best opportunities for romance, childhood crushes, teenage infatuations, and adult wooing. Kathy and I married in the summer of 1975. Summer officially ends with the Autumnal Equinox on September 22 (my birthday!). With that new positioning of the earth in relationship to the sun, this Summer of Nuptial Love comes to an end. I will never forget this particular season, and its three weddings, because it was highlighted by the marriage of my daughter Prisa. All three had their distinct style and flair, and all served the purpose of etching an indelible memory of a young couple beginning a journey through life. I’m sure there will be other busy nuptial seasons in the years ahead (especially in a family with 38 cousins), but 2009 will always be special to me.

I know a girl
She puts the color inside of my world,
But she’s just like a maze
Where all of the walls
All continually change.
And I’ve done all that I can
To stand on her steps
With my heart in my hand.
Now I’m starting to see
Maybe it’s got nothing to do with me.

Fathers, be good to your daughters.
Daughters will love like you do.
Girls become lovers
Who turn into mothers,
So mothers,
Be good to your daughters too.
(Daughters, lyrics and music by John Mayer)

“Are you ready?” I asked softly, looking straight ahead and placing my right-hand over my daughter’s, as she took my left arm at the rear of the church. We were suddenly alone, during the break in the processional order.
“Yea, dad, I’m ready” she replied, keeping her head forward and giving my arm a reassuring squeeze as she released a deep breath.
Dee, the wedding coordinator, had shut the wide doors at the departure of the Maid of Honor. The pause gave me a chance to reassess my immediate surroundings for the last time. The doors facing noisy Topanga Canyon Boulevard had been closed for the processional march. With the breeze and traffic cut off, the lobby of the church was hotter and quieter than ever. Religious pamphlets, holy pictures, and scattered copies of last Sunday’s bulletin lined the display shelves and counters against the wall. Our only companion was the life-sized replica of Jesus in the Tomb, awaiting Easter morning in a glass case at the far end of the lobby. Only moments ago, the mahogany-hued room had been filled with a dozen members of the family and wedding party, lining up in marching order. Toñito’s tall and angular frame buttressed the fragile and slight figures of his surviving grandparents, my mother, and Kathy’s father.

Three slender maidens, dressed in elegantly simple, lapis lazuli gowns acted as a buffer for Prisa and her Maid of Honor. Brigid, Prisa’s cousin, and Staci and Maria, Prisa’s long-time roommates, were the first line of defense, assistance, and humor. They had been sensitive to all the mood changes and difficulties that arose over the last two days. Next to them stood Prisa and Katie. Best Friends since high school, they provided each other the comfort and fierce loyalty that only 15 years of shared experiences can bring. This day was one of the moments they had talked about and visualized as girls, fulfilling the promise to be present for each other in times of great importance. As Maid of Honor, Katie had been a one-woman entourage through the engagement process, matrimonial preparations, bridal showers, and spontaneous crises. My wife and I stood silently to one side watching these groups interact, each of us lost in our own thoughts and emotions. We would catch each others eye periodically and smile, but neither of us could offer solace or advice as to how to handle the feelings that were sweeping over us as we looked upon our daughter, her wedding party, our son, and our parents standing in front of us. Soon each pair and individual member of the procession departed through the doors at their designated time and interval. Now Prisa and I were the last two people standing in the warm hush of the church vestibule.

I feared this moment all week. I had peevishly refused to think about what I would do or say. Since the day (See July 1, 2006) Prisa first mentioned the possibility of marrying Joe, the logical side of my brain and the emotional side had been fighting a seesaw battle over how to deal with a wedding: Would everything be different after this event? Was I losing my daughter forever? Or, did anything REALLY change after the ceremony; and wouldn’t Prisa always be my daughter, my little girl? Rather than engaging in this spiraling dive into madness, I avoided it. I blocked all thoughts of the wedding and it's planning throughout the engagement year. Luckily I had been studying Prisa and her mother during the last two weeks, especially the morning of the wedding. They had been cool and confident in all of their preliminary planning, organization, and implementations. Everything was coming together as smoothly and efficiently as they had visualized and discussed; but today, as the wedding party dressed for the ceremony, Prisa and Kathy were becoming increasingly anxious. They were having trouble accepting the unexpected events and independent actions of others. I was on the verge of giving Prisa some Principal’s clichés about relaxing and going with the flow of the day, when a sharp look from Katie stopped me. I’d been ready to draw some theoretical parallel between her wedding to other large-scale and stressful school events that I was familiar with, like graduation. When I saw the Maid of Honor step up with the alertness of a lioness protecting her cub, and giving me a medusa-like gaze of warning, I reconsidered. Giving practical fatherly or principal advice was not going to relieve today’s nerves and anxiety. From that point on I decided to be quiet and helpful, by letting Katie and the other girls do the talking and the rescuing. This last moment alone at the back of the church was not about me, or my sense of loss, it was about Prisa. Today was her day. She loved this guy named Joe and was committed to building a future with him. The only thing I needed to do was be present, loving, and supportive. I had been present at her birth, and at every significant (and insignificant) moment of her life. This was one just one more moment in that life, and I would continue to be around her for a long, long time.

The doors swung open and Dee reappeared, holding up her hand for us to wait for the musical cue. Soon we heard Danny, Prisa’s cousin, playing the introductory chords to Wagner’s traditional Wedding March on the altar piano.
“That’s it” Dee whispered, moving to one side to let us process forward.
Prisa and I took one step and stopped. Without speaking or signaling to each other, but sensing our mutual wonder, we paused to gaze at the spectacle assembled before us. Having honored the nuptial tradition to avoid seeing or being seen by the groom at the front of the church, Prisa and I had no clue as to the size or identity of the gathering within. I tightened my hold of Prisa’s hand and let my eyes scan the multitude. A vast sea of bright and glowing faces extended before us, and wave after wave of beaming smiles seemed to swell up from both sides of the aisle and crash over us. I will always remember the oceanic scope of that vision, because I cannot recall the name of any one particular person in that huge crowd. Prisa told me later that the only person she recognized by name was her uncle John. We resumed our measured walk down the aisle in rhythm with the music from Lohengrin, when I noticed a gaggle of unfamiliar teenage girls smiling, waving, and pushing their cameras and each other forward to get as close as possible to us as we walked by.
“That’s my basketball team” Prisa whispered in explanation, without moving her lips or breaking her smile. “They told me they were coming”.
Our slow motion walk continued in this dreamlike, timeless state, until I saw Joe moving from his mark at the far side of the church toward the crossroads point in front of the altar. This was the bride-exchange we practiced the night before at the rehearsal; but I had avoided deciding what I would say to Joe, or how I would release Prisa. Upon reaching my mark at the second pew, I simply released my hold on Prisa and moved to embrace Joe.
“I love you Joe” was all I could think to say, as I hugged him. I took his left hand, placing it in the bride’s right, and then kissed her cheek saying “I love you, little girl”.
“I love you too, Dad” she replied with a knowing smile.
With that I stepped into the pew and joined my bride of 34 years to watch the wedding of our daughter.

While discussing the upcoming marriage at dinner the week before, our longtime friend Kathy (See Christmas Adam) gave us some sound advice. “Just concentrate on the wedding ceremony; that’s the important part. The rest is just a party”. As it turned out, she was right, especially with a Catholic nuptial wedding. As soon as the presiding celebrant, Father Sal, descended the altar to greet the bride and groom, along with the assembled congregation, Prisa and Joe were enveloped in the safety and comfort of the Catholic mass and the Sacrament of Matrimony. I could almost see them taking deep breaths of air and finally relaxing (Or was that me finally breathing and relaxing?). From this point onward, a priest they had known for many years would guide them through an age-old ceremony and ritual in Prisa’s home church. Prisa and her family had celebrated mass in this Church for 21 years. She had attended the parish school since third grade. This was her home parish, and the mass that would surround the marriage ceremony was as natural to her, Joe, and their families, as waking up in the morning. In the Catholic-Christian tradition, a nuptial mass is a long and wondrous event that is also a sacrament. If my memory served me right, a sacrament, as defined by the Baltimore Catechism, “is an outward sign, instituted by God, to give grace”. We believe that a Catholic marriage takes a civil transaction, which is performed every day in courts and chapels throughout the world, and infuses it with God’s grace and love during the outward and public exchange of rings and promises. The mass that follows is another sacramental layer. In sharing the Eucharist (the Body and Blood of Christ) we commemorate the recurring truth that God “so loved us” that He “sent his only Son into the world so that we might have life through Him”. We are therefore reminded, “If God so loved us; we also must love one another” (Second Reading – 1 John, 4:7-12).

These sacraments do not exclude the involvement of the bride and groom. Although the steps, movements, and rituals have not changed for centuries, Prisa and Joe were deeply involved in planning the liturgy and identifying the participants. They had chosen the music and musicians, the readings and readers, the petitions and petitioners, and all the other participants. Her cousin Danny would play the music. Her brother and Joe’s Aunt Lillian would read selections from the Old and New Testament. Her mother and Joe’s sister, Lisa, would light the family Unity Candle. Four of Prisa’s cousins, Caitlin, Brenna, Marisa, and Maria, would read their petitions. Joe’s “adopted parents” Salvador and Rosa would bring up the “gifts” of bread and wine for the Eucharist, and Prisa’s aunt and uncle, Patti and Dick, would act as Eucharistic ministers during communion. That afternoon, the families and friends of Prisa and Joe united with the Catholic Church to surround them, embrace them, love them, and witness their vows and commitment to each other. The sacramental ceremonies ended when Father Sal formerly introduced the newly minted spouses to the congregation and Prisa and Joe kissed as husband and wife. Danny provided an additional family-insider touch by beginning Beethoven's Ode to Joy with an opening riff from Los Pereginos, the traditional song from the Mexican Posadas sung at my mother’s Christmas Eve party. Once the wedding was over, only the party at the country club remained.

I never relaxed at the reception until I took off my tie after finishing my toast and dancing with my daughter. Those two tasks loomed over me like vultures waiting to swoop down and tear my flesh with thoughts of panic and loss. Since those two activities did not occur until after dinner, I was looking at a long afternoon and evening. The agenda called for cocktails by the pool while wedding photographs were taken, then moving to the dining room for the traditional sequence of events: entrance of the bridal party with the bride and groom, dancing to a DJ, dining, and finally toasts and the father-daughter dance. In the meantime everyone else seemed to be having a good time. I kept myself entertained by chatting with relatives and old friends, posing for photographs with the bride and groom, and restaging photos of our own marriage 34 years ago with Kathy and our 1975 wedding party. After dinner, the DJ finally introduced the toasts and my moment had come. Kathy and I went onto the dance floor together and, while Joe and Prisa listened, I gave my toast:

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and family and friends of Joe and Teresa. My name is Tony, and I’m the Father of the Bride and Joe’s new Father-in-law.

I want to take a moment to thank my lovely wife Kathy, for taking the lead in planning and organizing these festivities along with Prisa and Joe. The wedding, ceremony, reception, and dinner have been lovely.

Kathy and I have known Joe for about 5 years. First as the mysterious Serra High School teacher who was dating our daughter, and later as the serious and conscientious suitor who was willing to brave the scrutiny and interrogations by family members and friends at countless parties and dinners during Christmas and the holidays. It was during these family gauntlets that we realized that Prisa saw something special in this young man, and believed in him. Over the years, we saw why.

If you’ve noticed, I interchange the names Teresa and Prisa. Some of you know her by one name, some by both. She was actually named after the great Spanish, woman saint, mystic, and Doctor of the Church, St. Teresa of Avila. However, her brother Tony, who was two years older, found it tiresome to pronounce all three syllables at once – so he shortened them to two, and softened the “T” sound to “P”: Te/ree/sa became Pree/sa. Today, through a sacramental re-balancing, we add a new 3-syllable name, Mac/door/man – Te/ree/sa Mac/door/man. That was the joke.

A marriage is the sum of a logarithmic equation (okay, perhaps I wrote this toast with a blog in mind) of countless families, parents, and grandparents that flows back in time on an eternal thread. At this moment, Teresa and Joe are the evolving products of the love and expectations that their parents invested in them. Kathy and I are very fortunate to be here today to witness this sacrament and these ceremonies; and it is only fitting to take a moment to remember and honor the memory of Leonard and Mary, the parents of Joe and Lisa, who were not able to be here today. Even without their physical presence, they are here in spirit, and in their son and daughter. We were never able to meet or know Mary or Leonard, but Kathy and I recognize them through the actions, character, and choices of their children. I’m confident that they would be as happy and proud of this union as we are today.

I have a confession to make – Teresa is my favorite daughter. There have been specific, crossroad moments in time when she has been transfigured to Kathy and me – times when we saw her transformed into someone new and different, right before our eyes. This happened at the OLV May Crowning in 1994, when she stopped being a little girl and turned into a young lady. It occurred on her return from Kairos, when we looked at each other through new eyes of love and understanding. It happened during her graduation from Louisville High School when we saw her gowned and garlanded like a Jane Austen debutante ready to challenge and master college and the world; and again when she graduated from Loyola Marymount University and said she wanted to pursue a Master’s degree, teaching credential, and a career in education. But I don’t think that I’ve ever seen her as beautiful and radiant as I do today. Today she changed into a woman and a wife, right before our very eyes.

It is with a heart brimming with joy and happiness that I ask you to join Kathy and me in blessing this union of Joe and Prisa. Please raise your glasses to Prisa and Joe and wish them a long and healthy life, filled with great love, great happiness, and great faith in each other. To Joe and Prisa”.

With that Prisa and Joe came forward to hug us, and I took my daughter into my arms for our dance. We had attempted a brief and awkward rehearsal two nights before, but I was trusting that the actual moment would inspire me into more graceful and fluid movements. The song we selected was perfectly suited for that magic moment, and it swept us up and turned us, momentarily, into a modern version of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Paul Simon’s song, Father and Daughter, had always been my favorite because it perfectly described the feelings a father has for his daughter. On this evening it became my song, and I joined Paul in serenading my little girl as we swayed and danced together:

If you leap awake
In the mirror of a bad dream,
And for a fraction of a second
You can’t remember where you are.
Just open your window
And follow your memory upstream.
To the meadow in the mountain
Where we counted every falling star.

I believe the light that shines on you
Will shine on you forever,
And though I can’t guarantee
There’s nothing scary hiding under your bed,
I’m gonna stand guard
Like a postcard of a Golden Retriever
And never leave till I leave you
With a sweet dream in your head.

I’m gonna watch you shine
Gonna watch you grow,
Gonna paint a sign
So you’ll always know
As long as one and one is two,
There could never be a father
Who loved his daughter more than I love you.
(Father and Daughter: music and lyrics by Paul Simon)

With the conclusion of that dance, the party ended for me. I took off my tie and I awaited the end of the celebration with Kathy and my three brothers-in-law, who would one day have to experience the weddings of the their daughters.