Nearly twenty-eight years ago when I walked down the aisle, bridesmaids in pink and lavender followed me. Except for a college friend, I knew none of them. Two were wives of my husband’s friends, one was someone I’d just met, and another was my husband’s sister whom I barely knew. As I look back, I barely knew my husband having dated him for merely a year before we married. The lavish wedding was not my choice. Having “just” had a wedding six years before in my parents garden, eloping was appealing, but Mark’s family understandably wanted a wedding for their son. Memories of the night are blurry. I was a bride in an odd re-run, and too young to protest without sounding unkind or petulant.
There was a table of my husband’s fraternity brothers and wives. The men (including my husband) started as 19 -year-olds at Northwestern, and became a true brotherhood. There are 14 of “us” now with Mark and I as the last to marry, and children, and even grandchildren.
One of the daughters was married in Savannah last weekend, the first time I have been among the crowd bringing it to 14.
Hard to believe we have children who are marrying. Wasn’t it just yesterday that Mark and I exchanged vows? And wasn’t it just yesterday that I believed in all the promises the young bride and groom made last weekend?
At first, Savannah was not the place for me to be. The Universe tested my will as I walked the city streets adorned with filigree balconies and trees dripping with Spanish moss, inhaled the sweet scents of jasmine and honeysuckle, heard the honk of the river boats, the street musicians playing the blues on clarinets…It was all too redolent of New Orleans and Mississippi where my husband spent all too much time in 2004 when he took a marital leave of absence.
I always longed to know and be known by these 12 people who were so connected to my husband. Until this weekend, I never had the opportunity. I was, unintentionally, the outsider. When we were younger, there were celebrations and reunions that I couldn’t attend. Whereas others had families with whom they could leave their children, we did not. And our children, born in stair steps, were not portable enough to cart to different parts of the country. I stayed behind as Mark went off to bar and bat mitzvahs with his friends whose children were brought up in traditional Jewish homes unlike ours. I am somewhat of a mutt, and Mark did not feel a pull to his roots. In addition to my absence from events over the years, I had a self-conscious feeling from the moment the group celebrated our wedding at New York City’s upscale Pierre Hotel in 1981 that I was mis-perceived as a “Park Avenue chick,” not to mention a divorcee. Over the years, Mark came home with wonderful stories after the reunions, my absence further sealing my sense of being a stranger. I envied their unity, and hoped I wasn’t misunderstood.
It hurt silently. However, I was taught stoicism, buckling down, and pulling myself together even when the world felt like it was crashing around me.
I didn’t know what to pack for the Savannah weekend…how to fit in with my Bohemian wardrobe, long and beaded earrings, too-high heels. I packed enough to stay a month, fearing judgment, practicing holding my head high as I guessed their secrets about 2004 locked in the brotherhood. Yet on the heels of my mother’s death, I looked forward to a new beginning.
On Thursday night as the group trickled in, we found a bar by the river, drank shots of tequila (something I hadn’t done since college!), and even sang karaoke. One of the wives, in particular, was my companion that night. Did she realize how grateful I was to be “let in?”
On Friday, I barely awakened, head pounding, my thoughts groaning, “Now I look like a lush.” Mark and his pals were already on the golf course. Enough water and Advil got me out the door in search of a yoga studio where I might detoxify. As I stood on the corner, a voice called from across the street. I turned. She waved: Another one of the wives.
“How do you feel?”
“Like crap,” I said.
She laughed. “I wanted to call you, but I didn’t have your number. Let’s walk.”
The pounding in my head left as we walked the old streets of Savannah for hours, talking about everything that women talk about, with me forgetting the negative olfactory inferences of jasmine and honeysuckle. The next day, 12 of us (the bride’s parents were occupied) hopped a trolley tour, but my tequila companion and her husband bailed with Mark and me, and we four walked and shopped the streets, landing at Tubby’s Tankhouse around 3 p.m. where Mark and his friend drank beers and watched sports, and my new friend and I talked about everything from mothers to marriage to religion to how much we loved Italy and wouldn’t it be great if we could all go to Venice one day. And then the bunch who stayed with the trolley found us, and we stayed until it was time to dress for the wedding.
As Mark’s wife for nearly 28 years, and by the end of the weekend, I was embraced by a group I’ve longed to join and embraced them right back with nearly three decades merely a blip on the time line.
Perhaps I am too sentimental as I revel in the friendships made last weekend. During the post-wedding dinner, I had a bad moment. It was all those wedding vows, the recent loss of my mother, the near loss of my marriage…it all suddenly blind-sided me. I took my wine to a veranda with my “tequila partner” who read my mind, “You know,” she said, “all marriages go through rough times.” Simple soothing words evoking a sensation absent in my emotional history where I am always the one to buck up and care for others.
On the plane home, Mark didn’t read the periodicals stuffed into his briefcase as he typically does. And sloughing the beliefs ingrained since childhood, I bared my soul about the clarinets, the scent of honeysuckle and fried seafood, and the honk of the ferryboats…how they nearly drove me mad until my new women friends made me feel a part of this “family.”
I am making changes, speaking my mind fearlessly without belaboring, shedding armor and opening myself shamelessly to comfort, admitting that hurting is not weakness.
Can it be that timing in life truly is everything?
loved Grassland….I too felt like you did when I first met the “brotherhood”….felt less than, like a hick from Iowa, always just a little uncomfortable….I started to realize that it wasn’t about them and them judging me, it was me and my tiny little self-esteem….at the age of 55 I feel good…I like myself and who I am….what you see is what you get….I am healthy, I am loved (especially by me) and I surround myself with people with good positive energy….I love your writing, I love your honesty (it is so healing) and most of all I love you my friend. I carry your spirit with me….vic
You are so right — it’s about us and self-esteem! So from a formerly-fearing P.A. chick to a formerly-fearing Iowa hick, here’s to more tequila sunrises, and honesty always. Thank you for posting.
And I love you, too, my friend.
My mother used to say “when things can’t get worse, they get better.” Being the pessimist of my family, I doubted that sunny prognosis. But, I guess she knew whereof she spoke. And I am glad a weekend with Mark’s buddies and their mates proved her point. Even after more than 50 years, we love spending time with college friends. We get together and pick up the conversations that we started when we had long roads ahead of us. Sometimes we reminisce, but more often we look ahead with humor and love for each other. Stephanie, you deserve a group like that and they are so lucky to have you.
can I come next time?
If you tell any of my friends that I am sitting here reading this and crying, I will never speak to you again?
We all at one time or another feel like an “outsider.†Some of us just know how to “fake it†without letting on about how we feel. The weekend in Savannah was magical in that we didn’t just reconnect through our spouses. We reconnected with each other and strengthened the bond of “sisterhood.†I feel so fortunate to have found a group of friends who are so interesting, different, kind, gifted, and wonderful. Can’t wait until our next get-together!
When I asked everyone to stand up this past weekend and thanked all, it was because all 14 of us were together. The incredible and special part of this group of people is the love we guys share, the love the girls share, the love all of us share together, and the pieces of the entire group that share their own parts and stories and love. It is a most special group of people who have worked very hard to maintain and grow our friendship and caring over the last 4 decades. I know that I can and do think of each of you individually and know what I share with you and only you. And what I share with all collectively. Jessie called me tonight and she and Andrew are having a wonderful time. When I shared with her all the great comments that have been made from the weekend and how her wedding helped make such special feelings for so many people, it made her even more happy than she already is. What more can one ask for!
Thanks for sharing your weekend with us, and working so hard to maintain a special relationship with each other – that kind of friendship serves as a role model to all of your kids. We would be so lucky to have as much love in our lives one day.
Stephanie,im so happy for you i also hope that this will help you get over yet another hurdle.love the blog and yes im crying reading it,feeling your pain and uncertainty you have endured.