Wedding Day

The last in my series of immersions was an experience I remember vividly and my mother recounted many times.

A year before my summer at Camp Celio, my sister, Martie, was married on the first of May. Weeks of preparation had gone into this day. The house, where the reception would be held, had been cleaned to perfection. Loaves of white bread had been trimmed of their crusts, slathered with cheese spread, topped with pimento loaf , sliced and rolled into cute finger-sized little shapes. My father, no longer a minister, spent a lot of time making sure he had the bar fully stocked and had ordered enough champagne. The ingredients for Buddha Punch had been mixed and everything was ready to go.

In general, at that time, the days were usually my own and I was free to roam around and play wherever I wanted. But this week and month had been different. Adults were focused on everything, including me. As the flower girl, I had to have a fancy dress. Usually mistaken for someone’s rough and tumble kid brother, I had to bathe and wash and wear patent leather Mary Janes with my little white dress, replete with lace and bows. I thought it was going too far when they decided my hair should be curled in ringlets. But I consented and slept with curlers in my hair like the big girls, my older sisters, who were to be bridesmaids.

On the morning of the wedding, my mom and sisters got me ready first, then they attended to their own coiffure. I was fascinated by the fact that, because Martie was marrying a Catholic, all of the women had to wear hats or hair nets or something. There was still some fuss going on because the florist had forgotten the little headpiece that was to have been made for me.

While my mother and sisters primped, I went out of the master bedroom and onto the patio by the pool to look things over. There were tables with tablecloths, folding chairs and little bouquets. There were even flowers that had been set to floating in the pool. Since it was only the first of May, the pool was not yet heated for swimming, but it, too, had been cleaned and looked sparkling and beautiful. I noticed that one of the flowers had flipped upside down in the water. I bent and reached down to turn it over, and my patent leather slippers slid right out from under me and into the pool I went with a scream.

My mother, in her room, heard the scream and ran. Unfortunately, the windows and the sliding glass door had been cleaned that week, too. She didn’t even realize the door was closed and ran into it at top speed. We are lucky that nothing worse happened, but by the time my mother pulled me, soaking, from the pool – ringlets gone and petticoats drooping – a huge goose-egg was forming on her forehead.

Things ramped into high gear. Neighbors were called and every woman on the block was on the case of getting me dried and ready again. One neighbor took my dress, slip, socks and shoes to throw in their dryer (ours had caught fire and nearly burned the house down earlier that year, so we didn’t have one). Another neighbor volunteered to take the dress, when dry and iron it. The other neighbors, a mother and daughter, appeared with a portable hair dryer and curlers. My mother put an ice pack on her forehead, as the bump turned purple.

I don’t remember where Martie was during all this, but I have to believe that it was not the best morning for her. We still had the long drive to San Francisco to make it to the church on time. It appeared that we would certainly be late. I remember crying and crying because I was certain I had ruined everything. People were trying to reassure me, but I felt clumsy and embarrassed by all this fuss and chaos I’d caused. Martie and my sisters, who were all now ready to go, posed for some quick poolside photos on the patio.

My hair was droopy, but dry. My dress was dried and pressed and wasn’t too much the worse for wear. Even my little shoes were passable. Martie and her giant hoop skirt were wedged into the back seat of my Dad’s Caddie. Mom and I road in the front seat as we at last pulled out of the driveway.

With shaking hands and furrowed brow, my mom was still struggling to sew a little head piece for me to wear out of lace and ribbon scraps (leftover from the making of Martie’s veil). Halfway to San Francisco and with a sigh of relief, Mother pinned the lace to my head as we sped down Bayshore Freeway. She asked me to turn and look at her so she could see that it was straight. I turned my head and the little veil she had fastened was sucked right out the wing vent window (remember those?) and flew down the freeway behind us. Again, I burst into tears.

Mother, at this point, gave up. She cut a ribbon from my little bouquet, folded it in half, and bobby-pinned it to the top of my head. That would have to do – and hopefully God, the priest, and the new in-laws would all understand.

When we pulled up in front of the church, I reminded our little wedding party that no one was supposed to “tell” about what happened. It would be our little secret. We scurried up the big front steps of the imposing church. At the door, the priest waited. He bent down with a smile and took my hand. “So,” he said, with a beatific smile (as everyone else I met that day would also say), “you’re the little girl who fell into the pool.” I nodded in shame.

But my humiliation didn’t seem to ruin the day, after all. Martie and Dave were married in grand style, the parade of cars made their way back down the peninsula to our house. The finger sandwiches, champagne, and Buddha punch were all a big hit. The new relations from Minnesota, who had quaint Canadian-sounding accents, laughed and celebrated under the California sun. It was a grand day. And it has remained there, fresh in my memory, to this day. Truly one day I will never forget.