The Wedding day

The truth was at that time I wasn’t too upset when she left the house carrying her little suitcase and wearing her taffeta dress for the last time. There would be no teasing no yelling and no bossing me around anymore. Older sisters were creepy and horrible people. But I lucked out; mine was going into the convent. It was September 1958 and I had had what one would call an interesting summer.

We drove to the mother house, a convent in upstate New York. By ‘we’ I mean the entire Bronx which was comprised of my family, the Grasso’s. The weeping was continual. My grandma said that the word ‘weeping’ was better than the word ‘crying’. It had a kind of gentility about it which was reserved for occasions such as this.

Anyway, I wasn’t allowed in our car. I had to ride with my cousins. My parents and grandma and her two god-mothers, one from baptism the other from confirmation and of course my sister filled the car. It was kind of like a funeral cortege because when you became a nun? Well, in those days you died to the world. Sounded good to me.

You have to understand the dynamics. A girl was becoming a bride of Christ. She was going to shed her taffeta dress and cut off her hair. Actually hers was short, permmed curly and bleached blond so we kind of have to put that one aside. The entire Bronx borough was accompanying her to the ceremony, an assurance that it was not going to be quiet. It was going to be emotional my father would guarantee that. Like every fanatical Italian father he would break down with one hand extended to the door and the other crumbling his tie and shirt on his heart when she walked into that little room where she would leave the world behind: Shed her worldly coil.

There would be enough hysteria and eye fluid to fill a small reservoir and the crowning moment would be when she walked down the church aisle with a bunch of other pseudo virgins dressed in black flowing gowns starched white collars and short black veils. She would be particularly striking with the bleached hair and the brown roots showing. These days, 2011, they hand them a black skirt and vest and white blouse and they’re good to go.

The Calderaries came from California, they were her Confirmation god-parents and then there was Aunt Bell and Uncle Sam her Baptismal god-parents. Uncle Sam was grandma’s brother. Uncle Sam and grandmas other six brothers were bakers and they baked a casada cake the size of Yankee stadium for the reception which was to follow the first mass that the girls would attend as postulants,

The only problem that I could see and really looked forward to, was, that they never informed the convent that they were performing such a generous act. Italian men, back in the day, ruled with an iron fist. My uncles and aunts were all born in Sicily. Need I say more?

The family was dressed to the nines. There was no greater honor than to have your daughter called to be bride of Christ except of course if your son was going to be a priest. One up-man-ship in those days was big both in the Italian family and the Catholic Church. Hasn’t really changed.

My cousins Joey and Iz were driving the cake up from the Bronx. They were pretty much older than my sister and me in fact they were grown up guys who had jobs and lived like kings in their parents’ home free of charge with a guarantee of a good dish of spaghetti every night. Italian mothers like to baby their boys.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning. The problem was that the guys had been out on Saturday night and the buzz was that uncle Saverio was going to kill Iz and Joey if that cake turned up late for the reception.

At one point when we were gathered in the garden while my sister was being sequestered and morphed into a penguin I heard Saverio tell Aunt Mary. “You son-he go drinking again last ah night ah?” She took him by the arm as he looked behind to see who was watching. Aunt Mary who was a whooping 4’ 11 and made all of the Grasso men shake when she spoke said. “Hey you tink you know something? He’s ah you sona thoo. Hey, you live in da house?” And that was kind of the end of that for the moment at least.

Just then the bells began to ring. And I must admit that I teared up in anticipation of seeing my 19 year old sister transformed into a holy roller. No one cared about me so I just got myself into the church. You were supposed to sit with family members but we had so many people there that we outnumbered all the other families so no matter where I sat I was bound to be next to a Grasso.

As I sat down I heard Uncle Sammy call to Saverio in a loud whisper “I saw ah the truck ah, I saw ah the truck ah.” I was relieved that that drama was over. But with my family there would be another to follow so I sat down and honestly awaited my newly transformed sister.

The church was dead quiet. The organ music was first loud and grand and then became gentle and serene and the flow of black began down the aisle when I saw her and I swear genuine tears fell over my cheeks and I settled back. I wouldn’t confess this to anyone but I was really getting into it. Everyone was crying at least those of my contingent. And I knelt in somber prayer for the first time in my adolescence when I heard uncle Saverio cry out “what a you mean ah you drop ah the cake!”

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