Our wedding was like anyone else’s: We met on the crest of a flood, got married within three months and had 250 guests (five of Vic’s, 245 of Hallie’s). The photographer got shicker (drunk), was conscripted by Grandma to take her pictures and delayed the cake-cutting until he returned from the restroom. But that’s only half the story.
We were single students in Colorado, and Hallie’s family lived in Ohio. The day she called to tell about us, her father thought he’d be funny and answered the phone:
Dad: “Is it time to put up the chuppah?”
Hallie: “Yes, that’s why I’m calling.”
A long moment of silence.
Dad: “You’re dating? I’ll get your mother.”
Hallie: “Mom, I’m getting married.”
Mom: (Starts laughing.)
Hallie: “Why are you laughing?”
Mom: “I can laugh or I can cry. I’m laughing. By the way: Is he Jewish? Is he nice? What’s his name?”
We flew to Ohio to get a marriage license and to introduce Vic to the community. With his curly hair, freckles and name, he confused the local crowd. Everyone kept asking whether Vic was Jewish because he looked Irish.
The wedding was Ohio Conservative. We had the premarital rabbinical counseling, the bridal blessings, the ceremony started on the upsweep of the hour, the ketubah was read. Vic smashed the glass, and the city was repairing the curbs so everyone had to jump the chasm to leave.
We figure God is watching over us: We are together after 30 years, have been blessed with children and grandchildren and still love each other.