Courthouse Wedding

By

Marc J. Yacht

My first wedding in the Spring of 1966, filled the synagogue. My mother-in-law ruled the arrangements. She selected the invitations, picked the band, and chose the synagogue, the Rabbi, the caterer, and the photographer. The nuptials took place at Hori Zion, a magnificent, opulent synagogue in the then upperclass Wynnfield section of Philadelphia. Guests would enter awed and humbled by the Chagal inspired stained glass windows that filtered sunshine into the temple.

She paid dearly for Philadelphia’s most sought after Rabbi to perform the ceremony. He didn’t know any of us from Adam. This aged, bearded rabbinical scholar walked among the family with a permanent smile. Although tiny in stature, I would compare his presence among the guests as akin to the Pope taking a stroll through a local church and greeting the parishioners.

The Rabbi bowed and blessed everyone within reach. He placed his hands above their shoulders and recited a short prayer. He spoke only Hebrew, a language I do not understand, but whatever he said must have been saintly and prophetic. Women melted in his presence and the men stooped and kissed his Tallis (prayer shawl) in reverence. I still remember his black suit and wide brimmed black hat as he floated around the floor greeting our many guests.

As for the photographer, well Arnold Greenberg, of course. A Jewish wedding had to have Arnold Greenberg. After all, Arnold Greenberg knew Joe Rosenthal. They served in the Army together and were both WWII photographers. Joe Rosenthal snapped a very famous picture. In fact, it still remains the most published photograph ever taken; the Flag Raising at Iwo Jima.

Unless Arnold shot your wedding, you didn’t have pictures. I remember my mother-in-law screaming at her husband who couldn’t understand why he had to pay $2,000 for wedding pictures when his cousin, also a photographer, would do it all very nicely for $700. Unfortunately, I was visiting the home at the time of this discussion.

“You want that schlemiel (bungler), Irving, to take our daughter’s wedding pictures. You must be meshugeh (crazy) if you think I would let Irving take pictures on the most important day of our daughter’s life.”

“He takes good pictures,” my father-in-law responded. “He has a successful photography business. Besides, he’s a mensch (to be respected). Why not give meshpokha (family) the business?”

“Mensch? He’s a putz draikop (no translation necessary) from your side of the family. I wouldn’t let him photograph our dog. He doesn’t know a camera from a blender. I called his office. Greenberg has an open date. He’s a genius with a camera. Zelda told me curators from museums want to put his wedding pictures in their galleries. The Louvre called!”

The mother of my future wife screamed her concerns and wildly waved her arms. Her face was beet red while sweat oozed from every pore.

My father-in-law just waved at her and shook his head in resignation. “Okay, okay, have Rembrandt photograph the wedding!”

Her recovery was swift as she calmed down and became all smiles; she got what she wanted.

I loved my father-in-law. We both cried when I sat with him several years later to tell him of the coming divorce. Twenty-five years later, when I learned that he had died at 83, I cried alone.

I have absolutely no memory of the wedding, the vows, or leaving the synagogue for transport with my new bride to the reception catered by Yours. A reservation with them had to be made at least a year in advance. There were rumors that a family might book them before the couple knew they were getting married, or delayed the marriage for months for an open date. This might prove a problem for an expectant bride.

About three hundred people attended the wedding dinner and grabbed at the never ending trays filled with h’or d’ouevres. They drank bottles of champagne, gin, scotch, or whatever appeared at the bar. If a waiter had carried a glass of dishwater on a tray, some fat, baldheaded man would have drunk it down. This horde gulped down soup, swallowed whole salad bowls, feasted on prime beef, baked potatoes, vegetables, and left nothing. The plates were clean.

The band was conducted by Johnny Schwartz. No Jewish wedding could claim it had entertainment without Johnny. He played popular music, Yiddish music, his wife sang, he sang, the band sang, the guests sang, and danced, and drank, and ate – long after we left.

Although much is forgotten relating to the chaos of this event, there are vivid memories I will take to the grave. I remember my mother-in-law frantically running around the room picking up silverware that had water spots and throwing these utensils at the caterer. Her apoplectic fit when the cake arrived. With an obvious tilt, it looked like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. “I want the cake straight,” she screamed, turning a bright red, her face upturned, with an upraised finger pointing toward the ceiling.

Then this four foot ten inch, one hundred and fifty pound woman wearing a silver and white sequined gown, grabbed the large silver punch bowl ladle, held it above her head, and chased the very frightened, lanky, caterer. They ran among the round tables. He threw his hands high in the air and screamed, “Help, Help!” He disappeared through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

My mother-in-law held her gown up with her left hand; her right hand clutched the large utensil. She screamed obscenities during the chase. “You bastard, putz; such a cake you give me! If I get my hands on you I’ll kill you.”

The guests ignored this unfolding drama and kept eating and drinking. If my father-in-law hadn’t grabbed her, I am sure she would have bent the ladle over the terrorized caterer’s head. The rest of the evening was uneventful and, as I was told; remained that way after our departure.

We were off to Grossinger’s Catskill Resort for our honeymoon. At seven o’clock the next morning, my mother-in-law called the room. “Have you written your thank-you notes yet?”

“But mom we haven’t even seen the gifts,” My new bride countered.

“Write the thank-you notes. Everyone should feel their gift was the best. Write the thank-you notes.” I could hear my mother-in-law’s commanding, high pitched voice through the receiver.

Those calls questioning whether the letters were written came long after the thank-you notes were sent. Her calls always came at seven in the morning. My mother-in-law was an early riser. Among other useless gifts were 22 toasters, seven blenders, four electric knifes, seven electric blankets, and a fountain pen that I am sure was meant for a Bar Mitzvah. We did appreciate the cash.

I am convinced that the wedding doomed the marriage. Throughout the divorce, I had flashbacks of my mother-in-law throwing spotted flatware and making efforts to assault the caterer. I never recovered from it. I still abruptly wake up in a sweat after dreaming of a wedding cake that looks like the Leaning Tower of Pisa about to collapse and bury me. I find myself writing thank you notes to people I don’t know who have never given me anything.

My second wedding held in the summer of 1979 had 12 guests. My intended’s family lived three thousand miles away and could not attend. Our closest friends made up the bridal party. My parents would not attend. We picked the Plymouth Congregational Church in Coconut Grove, Miami for the ceremony. A young minister presided.

I remember the church well. It was an old stone building with lovely grounds. We did not know the minister but I remember him as a pleasant fellow. I took many of the photographs assisted by that minister and people in the wedding party. I still have the album. Absent were a band, a caterer, and an official photographer. My only faux-pas during the ceremony was my confusion with the ring. I kept trying to put it on my finger and it wouldn’t fit. I finally realized the ring was for my intended. I do things like that when I’m nervous.

There were a handful of gifts. A luncheon followed the church wedding at a private dining room in a nearby hotel. Within two hours we were on our way to Key West and our lovely weekend honeymoon. We reported back to our jobs Monday morning. Now approaching 30 years, I am convinced our small intimate wedding may well have given us the start for a long and successful marriage.

It is an interesting aside to note that we could not be married in the Catholic Church, my bride’s religion, as my first marriage had to be annulled and I had to have the Church’s instruction and approval for the marriage. Eventually, we would take those steps and be married as Catholics.

In May of 2008, my wife and I had returned from a short vacation. While listening to answering machine messages, we were alerted to my brother-in-law’s coming wedding at the Orange County Courthouse the following day. We would come to learn that all invited had just two days notice.

We had driven through Orlando coming back from our trip. Had we known of the ceremony we would have remained there. The idea, though, of such short notice for a wedding intrigued me. The plan of nuptials at the Courthouse proved of particular interest as I had never attended a wedding in a government building. The wedding ceremony would take place about two o’clock in the afternoon and the time would depend on the number of matrimonies being officiated. We left the next morning for Orlando driven as much by curiosity to witness a courthouse wedding as by the desire to attend the marriage.

After the casual two hour drive, we parked and walked a short distance to the courthouse. Weddings were held on the third floor. Security was tight and I kept setting off the alarms. There was my pen, then my cell phone, then something in my wallet, then change but finally I passed through the metal detectors and joined my wife who got through security without incident.

We took the escalator to the third floor and made our way to the designated office. One could get a license there but could also be married in a separate small chamber arranged for the purpose. When entering the room, I noted persons of all ages making marriage license applications. Those who had completed their paperwork and the required waiting period sat and waited to be called for the simple ceremony in the adjoining room.

I noticed one old couple casually dressed and appearing very content. The round faced, balding man with rimmed glasses wore a simple tennis shirt and slacks. The bride-to-be wore a simple housedress. A friend sat across from them. They were called and the three went into the other chamber where the marriage would be officiated. Within 10 minutes the happy couple came out and went on their way. I could best describe them as people one would meet while shopping in the super market. They were now, newly weds!

A Hispanic couple with lots of family and friends awaited their turn. None were exceptionally dressed. Their happy conversation added to the jovial atmosphere in the room. I had to smile while I watched the accompanying children laughing and playing. They were called and off they all went to the wedding room.

And so couple after couple, some with friends, and some without, ultimately got their call to the marital chamber. I must say that all the people in the outer room proved pleasant to each other while awaiting their turn. Although most were strangers, a certain bond joined all of us on this happy occasion.

A Japanese or Chinese couple later entered the room with some friends. Most in the room were casually dressed, but this couple set the standard. He was a handsome, slim young man with slicked-back hair. He wore a tuxedo with a rose bud pinned to the lapel. His intended, a lovely slender young woman, wore a magnificent white silk wedding gown. Her arms cradled a dozen roses. Such exceptional beauty caught everyone’s eye. The two could have modeled for a champagne ad. How stunning, I thought. Many in the room greeted them. I spoke to the two and wished them happiness and commented on their striking appearance.

We got our call at 2:30 pm. There were a dozen in our party. Inside the small chamber a trellis with silk flowers formed an arch under which the couple would be married. The rest of us including a number of children stood at the back of the small room, huddled in the limited space provided.

The clerk, a short stocky lady, wore rumpled black pants, and a county polo shirt. A prominent identification badge hung from a chain around her neck. She quickly performed the ceremony. The groom and his bride-to-be, held their baby while the clerk read wedding vows from a single sheet of paper.

After completing the declarations, she commanded, “You may now kiss the bride.” And so they did. We left the chamber. The lovely Asian couple awaited their turn.

After the wedding, those attending went to my sister-in-laws house for an elaborate homemade dinner.

A no muss, no fuss wedding. As for the cost, the mere price of a wedding license. That is my kind of wedding. I am convinced the newlyweds have started on the road to a long and happy life together. Although, I have no intention of ever getting married again, I am convinced that should the fates decide otherwise, it’s the courthouse for me.

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