Secrets of My Wedding Day

Nowadays some weddings take the tactical skills of a field marshal and the resources of an investment banker to pull off. There are ‘theme’ weddings, ‘destination’ weddings and an odd assortment of mysterious events clumped together under the banner of ‘weddings.’

Many wedding traditions are being left aisle-side. These days it seems that weddings are all about personalization…making each one unique and different. Dad no longer has to walk you down the aisle. You can pick your Mom instead. Or a friend, your child, stepparents, etc.

You don’t have to be the first ones on the dance floor for that ‘first dance’ and wedding cakes can take the form of cupcakes, cookies, or donuts. You don’t have to have a garter toss or even launching your bouquet any more. A white dress isn’t sacrosanct and blush, blue, and even red might work for some brides.

It wasn’t always that way.

When my son, Brian, got married in Florida there was a lovely church service followed by the tradition dinner at a country club. It was unique in that there were separate food islands. It was memorable for its great music and a relaxing time for all.

When my daughter, Melanie, got married here in Minnesota it also took a traditional approach.  She got married in the University of St. Thomas chapel since she was in law school at the time.  There was a reception at a country club nearby, great food, fun dancing and a relaxed atmosphere for all.

When I got married back in the early seventies it was a far less complicated kind of affair. There were no such things as theme weddings and no destination weddings unless the pair was eloping. There were few elaborate settings except maybe for the moneyed crowd in the western suburbs.  

Engagement Party

Ours was a much simpler but just as meaningful occasion. Sharon’s parents had neither the resources nor the finances to help out. So Sharon planned the event entirely by herself. No surprise there since even as far back as grade school she was the one arranging and rearranging  the classroom. The teacher only thought she was the one in charge.

An old priest talked to us beforehand to test our collective knowledge of the Catholic faith. I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut and just listen. I spoke up when asked but otherwise let Sharon do the talking. It was easier that way since twelve years of Catholic education had begun to erode my own concepts of Christianity. Not faith or spirituality just the precepts of organized religion. Even back then, I was morphing into a cafeteria Catholic.

We had three classes/meetings with the parish priest. The last one involved a white-knuckle drive from the Cities to Wabasha in a blinding white-out. Everyone was so impressed that we kept our appointment. Sharon’s parents thought we were nuts.

Working with a seamstress in town Sharon designed and made her own wedding dress. While dresses today can cost upward of a thousand dollars or beyond, Sharon’s cost her/us one hundred dollars. 

She arranged for use of the American Legion in town for our reception; no charge since her dad was a member. The meal cost four dollars each.

It was a small town wedding replete with the obligatory priest invited to the reception afterwards, no music, no booze (my father-in-law took his buddies next door to the Legion Club for a shot or two), Church ladies who prepared the meal, high school kids who served us and wedding gifts stacked on a table in the corner. Simple and traditional.

The only crisis that day was finding blood on my tuxedo shirt the morning of. Seems I hadn’t checked the tux shirt carefully when I picked it up the day before. Try finding white shoe polish on a Saturday morning when most of downtown is closed. Thankfully, the ever-resourceful nuns at the Notre Dame convent came to the rescue.

Recently pictures of my wedding attire have produced gales of laughter from my kids. I’m sure my grandchildren are sure to follow. I wore a powder blue tux and had my Buddy Holly glasses. My groomsmen were Mickey, Gary, and Jim (each with their own story to tell).

 

One passed away in Texas some years later. Another disappeared shortly after I got married. The last old friend faded out of my life entirely when we moved out of state.

When I look at those old photos, it brings back a lot of memories. Of times past and traditions long since relegated to the dust-bins of another era. But one with its fond memories and lingering smiles flickering across my mind.

Yeah, it was all good back then even if I was like a deer-in-the-headlights the entire day. A new era in my life had just begun and I wasn’t the wiser for it.

I am now.

Letters from Tina, Part Two

After that initial letter from Tina in September of 1968, I got three more letters the following year. Each came with a different return address.

There was a great transition going on in my own life. I had settled into a daily routine of two jobs, my writing, my film work and the hippie scene on the West Bank. I was spending a lot of time with Susan. It was the near tail end of My Lost Years and I was absorbing those influences that continue to guide me to this day.

Tina’s life seemed to be always in transition. Tina’s experiences, traumatic and otherwise, in Eastern Europe and Israel seemed to doggedly pursue her stateside. While I was edging closer to finding a focus and direction, Tina seemed to be still floundering.

July 3^rd, 1969

Dear Dennis,

I finally decided to write – although, actually I decided to a long time ago but it’s taken me about five months to do it.

It’s really hot here – gets up to 110 (113 yesterday) almost every day. I was born here but every summer figures like these strike me as highly ridiculous. Most of my friends have been busted but I stay pretty clean so I’m not too worried.

Summer school is a drag but so is an extra semester in school. By going this summer I should be able to finish next May. I could have finished this January had I decided to take a B.A. in art, but instead I’m aiming for a B.F.A. in art which is infinitely more useful.

Another well-known drag is money. I have at present two part time jobs and have applied for a third. The best is my paper route from about 4 – 6 in the morning – what am I going to do at that hour except sleep, right. So I might as well make some money instead. The job I’ve applied for is with a newspaper as a ‘layout girl’ (which may sound suggestive but is at least better than being a cocktail waitress at the Body Shop or a topless dancer, or a cap hop. Yep done all of those jobs.

I’m trying to find a home for my four cats and me. Wish me luck.

Love,

Tina

December 13^th, 1969

Dear Dennis,

Sorry – really sorry about the delay – it was very good to hear from you. You sound like things are clicking for you. I’d love to see your film.

I’ve been working in the audio-visual department of the university and really would dig what you’re doing in film.

I’ll have my B.F.A. in another year and a half. Reason for the delay is that I dropped out again to get back on my feet permanently. At the end of the year I hope to have enough money to pay off my debts and get a motorcycle (BMW 250cc or larger like a 600). $400.00 for two semester tuition and a couple (like 3) hundred dollars for a trip to Europe this summer. DREAM ON!

When I get out of school, I want to go to NYC and work in a film library until I have both the money and solid inclination to go to graduate school. And I don’t aim low either – I want to go to Pratt – which is the best art school in the country. Tune in next week for the newly revised schedule for Tina’s future.

Time is an amazing thing – goes so fast you just want to sit back and watch. I used to joke about going to college on the five year plan – but not anymore. Next year I’ll be 23 and the six-year plan will be a reality.

Dennis, please write – I promise to answer much sooner.

Love,

Tina

January 10^th, 1970

Dear Dennis,

This has been my week for letters – one from you and one from Kiki – a good friend of mine from Sweden.

Congratulations! Things are really coming around for you. And to think I knew you when – no kidding, I really am impressed.

As for me – well – after busting my ass (pardon the expression) at various dull jobs, I have gotten hip to easier ways to make money. I model for art classes once in a while for doing nothing – except once in a while catching a cold. Nights I work as a topless waitress and dancer (good tips). I hate the dancing but waitressing gives me a chance to talk to and observe people. It’s really a goof. It gives me a chance to understand why I make so much money for doing little other than taking off my shirt.

During lulls I read art history, Sidney Hook, etc. – so I think they understand I’m not a dumb slut or a nympho. Makes a bad movie plot doesn’t it – poor college girl putting herself through school, sinks to the very depths of depravity – but her soul is not tarnished.

I still can’t understand why nudity pays so well. As a woman I almost feel taken advantage of – I mean, I wouldn’t make much of a feminist doing this. But the money is good and I can’t afford ideals right now.

I don’t think I’ll make it to Europe this summer after all. Money is too tight and three months is too short. I couldn’t trust myself to come back.

I have to finish school. So – as it stands now – I want to find a job in NYC or in Philadelphia this summer. Maybe Boston. I have friends in all three places and I would like to get to the east coast. Also would like to do something I like (not dancing topless) and get decent wages for it. May make enough money for tuition next year.

Write to this address: ___________ I may be moving again. You see how I make up for not going to Europe? I move to new apartments every month. Very exciting.

Love,

Tina

That was the last letter I got from Tina. I wrote her again but she never responded. A year and a half later I was married and my life changed dramatically. Tina became just another casualty of past acquaintances and lost friendships that littered my other life.

There’s a small plastic box under my desk where I’ve stuffed old photos and a few letters from my past. The box has traveled with me from Minnesota to Tennessee to Maryland and back.

Tina’s letters were among the relics there. Reading her letters again brought back a plethora of memories of that time in Europe when we were young, immature, carefree, adventurous and lost. Good times and bad along with more than a few smile-makers. 

  

A while back, I came across Tina on Facebook. There were lots of tattoos and a son now in his mid-to-late twenties. No reference to a husband. Tina is still living in that same town. It sounds like she never moved away after all.

I had a fleeting moment of impulsive desire to contact her…but what for? That part of our lives has long since passed on. We lived out our lives as we were destined to and now we only have those exaggerated stories to tell our children and grandchildren.

Except Tina’s stories weren’t wild or exaggerated or unbelievable. She told it as she lived it and I was fortunate enough to be a small part of her late night salons in some long forgotten Danish town back in the turbulent sixties.

I’m a better man for it.

Letters from Tina, Part One

In past blogs I’ve reflected on people who come into and then slip out of our lives. A few leave an indelible mark on our consciousness while others are merely blips in a time and place long since forgotten. The images of those folks who remain can be blurry and obscured by a fading mind yet their impact on our lives somehow remains poignant and memorable.

Tina was such a person.

We were two lost souls seeking solace and companionship in a small town a dozen miles north of Copenhagen, Denmark. It was late 1967 and winter was fast approaching. We shared a mutual dissatisfaction with our jobs, a yearning for companionship and doubt about our future in Scandinavia. We were surrounded by signs of an encroaching winter and had no idea what our next steps were going to be…other than get out of town before the first snow storm locked us in for another six months.

I can’t remember where I first meet Tina. It was probably at some student party at the University in the city centre of Copenhagen. She worked as a nanny for a well-to-do couple who lived outside of town. This twenty-year-old expat tried to escape the confines of her work as often as she could. She would hang out at the university, drinking strong coffee in the student center, sharing a weed or two in the shadows of the campus and partying too much on weekends.

Drugs were easy to acquire back then and the laws pretty loose. Sex was a casual affair and there were plenty of male suitors to answer her physical needs. Tina earned extra money by waitressing in her spare time. She would earn an extra Kroner wherever she could and never apologize for her short-comings or ambition.

Back home was a closed book. There were occasional references to a father who had passed away a couple of years earlier, a mother with a serious drinking problem and a younger sister Tina worried a lot about. I never found out how Tina ended up in Denmark. She never said and I never asked.

She was nothing like the kind of woman I thought I wanted in my life permanently but she was an anchor in our foreign wilderness and another voice to talk to. She was damaged goods but I was a good listener.

I thought a lot about Tina and whatever happened to her after I stuck out my thumb for the south of France. I made it as far as Paris before malnutrition and loneliness got the best of me. Once safely ensconced back in the Twin Cities I sent a package of Tina’s clothes to her Mom along with a letter.

Ten months later Tina replied.

I came across those letters recently. There were four of them. All written after Tina had returned home and was trying to put her life back together again.

They covered a period of time in my own life when I was trying to establish a career and adjust to life stateside. I was working full-time as a writer for the Minnesota Department of Health. Most evenings, I was volunteering at the public television station and mixing and matching relationships in hopes of finding one that would stick.

Tina’s first letter explained what happened to her after we parted ways

September 18th, 1968

Dear Dennis,

Of course, I remember you. Our talks, my experiences and talks with Marlene, and Copenhagen in general marked a sort of jumping off point in my life. That’s hard to forget. I thought about those talks frequently all year long. It reflected, I think, me in transition.

Anyway, MY TRIP, Marlene and I hitched day and night as far as Nis, Yugoslavia, when we finally got very weary of freezing cold and amorous truck drivers. It was on the verge of snowing at every point along the way. We were stuck on so-called major highways in the middle of the night more times than I care to remember.

Anyway, after getting on a few wrong trains (up to Belgrade, back to Nis, back up to Belgrade and then to Nis again) we finally got on the right train going to Istanbul. Somewhere in Bulgaria the conductor got hold of our passports and wouldn’t give them back, as we were in first class compartments while holding second class tickets and wouldn’t give him the extra money. We ignored his threats; calming screaming about our embassies and just before reaching Istanbul he gave them back.

Istanbul was the start of a new way of life for me – it’ll be difficult to explain. In Istanbul it was the old Gulhome Hotel, sleeping in a tent (very cold but no bugs) on the roof and the drug/hashish scene.

It was a traveling society complete with rules and an international membership, and this year’s destination is India and all points east. The hard core drug scene didn’t appeal to me but I accepted it. Aside from that this life fills my empty one – it’s my niche.

From Istanbul (which was freezing) Marlene and I went to the Mediterranean coast of Turkey – still looking for the sun. We found it in a place called Alayna, Turkey. Beautiful and warm. We went swimming in December.

We had our own crowd in Alayna – I still have doubts about them. There was also another European there – Mark, from England who was preparing to take a kilo of hash back to England.

Our crowd met in a tea house all day long – nobody worked because it was Ramadan – a month long religious holiday. We (Marlene and I) lived at Naim’s house – he was the owner of the tea house. For about a week and a half everything was fine except when the cops stole our clothes (while we were swimming.)…supposedly so we’d come to the station and they could arrest us – white slave traffic anyone?

Then things started falling apart – Naim fell madly in love with Marlene and wanted to marry her. Things got so bad we moved out of the house. A couple of days later Marlene went back to the house with Mark – I don’t know why – she was weird that way.

On Christmas day our ranks swelled with the arrival of a German boy and two Swiss boys. We all decided celebrate Christmas with a cookout – fish, oranges and bread. Mark and Marlene decided to leave for Israel the next morning. Our split was very subtle.

Naim didn’t want her to go and followed us with three taxi loads of his friends (we were in a van with the Swiss boys). It was something out of Bonnie and Clyde or the Keystone Cops. All night we’d pull off the road and kill the motor until they’d pass by and then look for a place to hide. We finally gave up and headed for Syria.

At Gazipasa we split up and immediately everybody said “what’ll we do about Tina” because everybody had plans but me. Marlene had fixed it so that it was impossible for me to stay in Alayna. Mark and Marlene were going to Israel (via Syria – not possible – I got a letter from her postmarked Pakistan – she’s changed and is pregnant. Rene (the German boy) was walking to India and the two Swiss boys were going back to Istanbul.

They offered to take me along but I was furious at the way things turned out so all morning I walked with the shepherds in the general direction of Istanbul. The Swiss boys caught up with me. I stopped being noble and for ten truly wonderful days we leisurely made our way up the coast to Istanbul – really genuine friends they were.

And so was Marlene, although it took me a long long time to realize it. She helped me break into a way of life – she was my key – and then she left me – but that’s the only way. You have to do it on your own, Dennis. It’s the only way you can be sure of seeing with your own mind.

Istanbul and the Gulhome hotel again. It is fantastic but also very depressing. After two weeks in Istanbul, I flew to Israel. I had planned to go to Afghanistan (still do) but it was too cold and I only had sandals which were rotting from the snow and rain. That was in mid-January – the day it snowed in Jerusalem for the first time in 18 years.  Talk about luck and evil omens.

I went to a kibbutz, near Gaza, for a month and a half. My plan was to get healthy and wait until winter was over to start for Afghanistan. But by this time I only had $20.00 dollars left so I went to Eliat to work. Eilat is one of those stopping places on the way – the Hippie center of Israel.

And there I fell in love with Bernie – not for real or permanent but just as nice. I still love him in a funny way. I was in Eilat for about four months off and on – mostly on. I spent a lot of time in Jerusalem especially the old city. My best friend was Helene from Philadelphia. I didn’t work – was too stoned most of the time but I made some lasting friendships.

I tried to leave Israel three times-made it the third time-all the while thinking I hated the place. Now I know better – may settle there sometime.

In August I sailed to Athens and on the boat my asthma hit me. I was in a Greek hospital for seven days – very painful and I was quite sick.

I hadn’t planned on coming home but my conscience got the best of me. I guess I told you my mother was an alcoholic for many years. After my father died in 1965 I had her committed and she pulled out OK. She’s drinking again – beer and constantly, but still things are better, and I’m (I hope) more capable of handling things.

I am in school, working at my old job in cancer research and have an apartment with my best friend, Kathy who cordially invites you to come and stay with us as do I, of course.

I don’t want a degree from this school so I’m taking  courses I enjoy and that I can do something with. Printmaking, figure drawing, three-dimensional design (which leads to sculpture and metalwork next semester) art history and Arabic-which I dearly love.

School is so unreal literally – it is no longer part of my life. But I can’t continue traveling until my sister graduates from high school and is no longer tied to home. I want to give her an out – it is not nice to my mother but I can’t live her life for her nor can my sister.

So come June I hope to be off again. I’ll write again and fill in the gaps. You do the same.

Love,

Tina

Next time:

(She didn’t write again until the following summer and by then her life had taken even more twists and turns.)