June is the traditional time for weddings. The month was named after the goddess Juno, who was the protector of women. Thankfully, women have come a long way since the goddess held sway. Still, June is a very popular time when a bride and her mother’s months of planning – grooms have no say in the matter – come to fruition.
There was a time when all the preparation and the result was paid for by the father, but I’m not so sure that is the case anymore. It could be that mom and dad share the cost or the bride and groom foot the bill. It has been a while since I had anything to do with weddings. In fact, it may be that the bride and groom handle the whole affair, so I profess complete ignorance on the matter.
I do know that a wedding can be a simple gathering on a sandy beach or a formal affair in a house of worship with a fancy reception in a grand ballroom or a country club, the latter where my betrothed and I tied the knot and partied after.
It was the hottest day of the summer. The church had no air conditioning. I was sweltering as were the priest and the monsignor … a golfing buddy of my bride’s father. My best man’s glasses fell off, my bride was beaming, and all went off according to plan.
The reception was a typical affair, a grand family reunion of aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, parents and grandparents. I had my photograph taken with more babies than a politician at a campaign rally. My future brother-in-law got free drinks while the bartender tried to make me pay! I informed him that the tuxedo made me, the groom, entitled to special privileges.
Six months later my wife’s sister got married … same church, same country club, same people … during a blizzard, and the same bartender made me pay for my drinks. That marriage lasted seven years, we’re on our 53rd. The moral is don’t get married in a blizzard.
Strange things have been known to happen at weddings. At one we attended, when the organist started playing “Here comes the bride,” in marched a friendly dog prancing down the aisle to the delight of the guests. At another, an outdoor wedding, the family dog was an honored participant escorting the bride and dutifully standing beside the groom during the ceremony. I don’t know if he was the canine of the bride or the groom’s best hound.
The strangest weddings I have attended were at a high school where I taught. Each June the Home and Consumer Sciences Department (formerly known as Home Economics) staged one in the auditorium in front of the whole school as part of the curriculum. The students eagerly looked forward to them, the faculty not so much. To the students’ regret, a honeymoon was not a part of the lesson.
The teacher was the matchmaker, choosing the bride and groom at random from members of the senior class. They were full blown bashes with flowers and music supplied by the Music Department. The “bride” picked a white bridal gown from a collection the teacher maintained especially for this annual “lesson.” The bridesmaids sewed their own dresses in class. A local formal wear store supplied the male wedding party with tuxedos.
The vows were administered by a senior who looked 35 with a proper middle-age paunch and a full beard. The reception was held in the cafeteria at lunch. For the entire week following, the bridal couple had to care for an animated baby doll that wet its diaper and cried at inopportune times. You can’t make this stuff up.
By the way, the priest who married my bride and me left the church some years later, married a woman with eight kids and became a hotel manager. There must be a message in there somewhere.
Editor’s note: Mattapoisett resident Dick Morgado is an artist and retired newspaper columnist whose musings are, after some years, back in The Wanderer under the subtitle “Thoughts on ….” Morgado’s opinions have also appeared for many years in daily newspapers around Boston.
By Dick Morgado