The bride

Even she believed in fairy tales, I think, although she’s since described them as “her plans”. As in: “They knew back then it was cancer but they didn’t want to interrupt my plans. I would have called it off and stayed by dad if I’d known how sick he was.” Her plans included a white satin hoop dress with a chiffon overlay accented with lace and bows enough to make Cinderella herself want to grab some bits off from pure envy. It’s a shame the photos were just black and white. The color fades into memories and only silver remains.

The plan my grandfather didn’t wish to interrupt was his daughter’s chance to walk down the aisle in a beautiful gown. He knew she wanted to be the woman, the most beautiful woman in every photo, who was the great center of attention. And he, knowing how sick he really was, couldn’t spit out a truth that would have deprived him of seeing such a sight. He must have been so happy and proud. She feels guilty to this day, but for him it was a thing to live for.

There’s a photo of the wedding party. My mom stands in the center like a beacon wearing the loveliest of smiles. My dad, by her side, seems almost incidental to the whole event. I know some of the women in the party from having seen them at various functions through the years. In these images their hair is darker and faces a bit fresher. In some cases they are absent the glasses or extra few dozen pounds that I know as familiar. I had trouble picking out my own aunt from the photo.

The grooms men are ciphers. They stand at attention wearing neutral smiles such that they might have to run off after the photo is done to be pall bearers. There is some sort of light colored vest under the tuxedo jackets which peeks out on each of their right-side-breasts. Why? Were they all right handed? Was that some sort of asymetrical thing of the early 60’s? I know one of them is my uncle. I can pick out the high cheekbones and that strong nose (which I mercifully did not inherit) that typify dad’s family. Which uncle? No idea. Maybe the one mom stopped talking to after he divorced his first wife when she fell onto his concrete barn floor under a hay bale and broke her hip. He stuck her in a nursing home and headed off to marry someone younger who could take care of him.

I have the advantage of some backstory behind this shot. Mom made that gown on her own and the fury of all that sewing caused her to loose weight. When she tried on the dress and it no longer fit. Dad made the mistake of laughing. Finding humor in the futility of others efforts was not one of his more pleasant traits. I know that my aunt dieted down to fit into her bride’s maid dress and look nice for that day; weight she quickly picked up again. Sometimes I’d hear mom wish she could take her wedding dress and “just burn it”. I had no idea what she meant or where that was coming from. It wasn’t the dress that needed burning, it was the star white ideal she’d entered marriage with that deserved a proper funeral.

But there was a new, persistent comfort in her life. Mom would do anything for the church. Each spring our little country Catholic church would make a holy huge deal out of crowning a statue of the St. Mary. The first time mom made a veil for crowning Mary, I was in first grade and had been selected as the little girl who would put the crown onto the little statue of the virgin. Mom dug up lace and netting and took me to craft stores to purchase silk flowers and didn’t she just sew a lovely crown. After a couple of years the priest of our parish purchased some new statuary for our church, among them a lovely new figure of Mary, whose 4.5 foot height dominated the altar over the box where they kept the Eucharist. This became the new Mary to crown and it fell to mom to sew the new veil. We were soon back to the craft store picking out bigger silk flowers. Next she bought a cute little white satin hat like structure for holding something onto one’s head. This was put under a fascinating construction of netting and thick bands of lace that were then filled with the silk red roses. I was littler, then, and had to pose a few times with the crown and veil on my head (but only after a bath) to check if the flowers were colorful and flattering enough without being asymmetrical or too numerous and that the length of the veil was right. It shouldn’t cover Mary’s hands. Too long and it would look like another robe. Too short and it would look twerpy and the most high virgin should absolutely not appear as if she’s also prepared for spring flooding. She should look like the bride of God, not some flower girl. We made special trips down to church to check and soon, in mid-May, the new crown was on the new statue. It was lovely. The next year she swapped off the red roses for some blue silk flowers. I was always amazed at my mom’s ability to just go ten or twenty steps further than was requested to make something that she really thought was precisely right. I wished, even as young as ten, that I had some measure of this perseverance. Then I found the wedding photos. Holy Mary’s crown was mom’s wedding veil.