When traditions go sideways
Wedding dresses, pregnancy-reveals, even Thanksgiving turkeys, fuel fond family lore
Choosing a Hebrew name for a newborn. Becoming bar or bat mitzvah. Getting married under a chuppah. These are traditions we observe, days we look forward to.
Each family follows its own rituals for daily life, holidays, and celebrations. Traditions even guide our calendars. As we set our plans, each detail takes on great importance to make our special occasions meaningful and memorable.
But what happens when things go awry? When traditional observances go sideways? Is the result traumatic, chaotic, or unexpectedly humorous?
Of the many stories we share at our family table, a few stand out. The first concerns my parents’ marriage. With World War II underway, my dad enlisted in the army, much to the chagrin of his mother. Meanwhile, my mom and her sister were living with their parents in their Bronx apartment.
Mom first met my dad at a party hosted by their mutual friend, Bunny. Dad told us repeatedly that he fell in love that day. He would say: “I made up my mind then and there, that this gorgeous woman was going to be my wife.”
Six months later, they got married at a courthouse downtown, had their newlywed weekend at the Hotel New Yorker, and shortly thereafter, with tearful goodbyes to her parents, they were off to Florida and then California to live on army bases.
My grandmother Celia (Nanny to us) was a free spirit, who had her own sense of right and wrong. She did not always make the most logical choices. Mother and daughter stayed in touch through letters crossing in the mail and with occasional phone calls. Nanny had made up her mind that a civil ceremony did not constitute a real marriage and was determined to give her daughter and son-in-law a Jewish wedding whenever they were scheduled to return to New York. Sure enough, several months later, Dad’s first leave as a married man was scheduled for June, so the planning and scheming began.
The idea was to surprise the young couple with the news of their second, far more fun wedding when they arrived for the visit.
Nanny booked the rabbi and a small catering hall, with the music and menu all arranged. With my aunt’s help, they sent out invitations to family and friends for the wedding.
The last detail was to choose a traditional white wedding gown, which my grandmother and my aunt did. Everything was all set, and my parents made their way from California to New York, a three- to four-day train ride.
Anticipating their arrival, my grandparents were excited to share their surprise — but the surprise was on them. As Mom and Dad walked into the living room (the wedding invitation in my grandmother’s hand), one look at my mom changed everything. Mom was five-months pregnant and was no longer sporting her model-like size-six figure. Not that it should have mattered, except for . . . the wedding dress.
My mom hadn’t told her parents about her pregnancy because she was living far away, on an army base. She was afraid that if they knew, they’d worry.
Determined to go through with their plan, my grandparents told my parents all the wedding details. Diplomatically, my parents tried to cancel the whole affair, but to no avail. As for the gown, my grandmother insisted my mom wear it, guaranteeing that a seamstress could “make it work.” A few days later, Mom and Dad had their Jewish wedding, including a ceremony and a celebration.
But when we’d ask Mom about that day, all she would say was: “Our friend Bunny drank too much and got sick, and I spent most of the afternoon in the bathroom with her, and I couldn’t breathe in my dress, so go ask your father how it was.” So much for the best-laid plans.
Many years later, my brother was getting married. My sister-in-law-to-be did not want her bridesmaids to wear an ordinary bridesmaid’s dress, which, in 1971, averaged between $35 and $50. She picked out a beautiful floral panne velvet gown that cost $175. Her father paid the additional costs for most of the girls, so eight gowns were ordered with some extra fabric to make a matching gown for my niece, the flower girl.
The wedding day was picture perfect. The venue was Short Hills Caterers, where they often ran two affairs at the same time. We were fixing our hair and makeup for group pictures, and I was asked to greet the photographer. As I entered the hallway, I spotted a woman who I thought was another bridesmaid I had not yet met because she was wearing our gown.
I went over to introduce myself, but much to my surprise, not to mention hers, she was actually a guest at the other wedding. What a coincidence! She did look a bit sad that we both were wearing the same gown, and it was not an inexpensive one at that. Soon after, our whole bridal party filed in, eight mirror images of what she was wearing plus one miniature version. She burst into tears and ran out. I am not sure if she ever came back for the other wedding.
My parents’ roasted turkey was a classic, ongoing tradition for holiday dinners. They mastered cooking it outside on the grill, cradled in aluminum foil and seasoned to perfection. They made turkeys for their own holiday meals, but as others took on some of the hosting, they would still make the turkey, which was always a highlight.
When my older son could drive, he would pick up the cooked turkey to deliver it to the host’s house to spare my parents having to do so. One year, when Thanksgiving was at my brother’s, it was freezing cold and snowing. My parents had to make the turkey in their lower oven. It was a large turkey, and as my dad pulled the oven rack out, the pan shifted and drippings splattered everywhere. I was washing my hair when I got a panicked call from my son: “I called Nana and Pop to pick up the turkey and their house is on fire. You better get there.” I lived nearby, so I immediately threw on some sweats and raced over.
I walked into their house, where the smoke alarm was blaring and smoke was bellowing out the kitchen back door. My dad’s eyebrows and sideburns were singed off. My mother was on the floor, trying to clean up the grease. It took over an hour for us to finish. Thankfully, the turkey had survived and was in better shape than my parents. My son then delivered it to my brother’s.
Everyone showed up, and everything was back on schedule.
As the carved turkey was placed on the table, my mother stood up and declared: “Enjoy this turkey, because it is the last turkey I will ever make.” And so it was. The rest of us had to learn how to prepare a turkey, but we all knew it was the end of an era. My parents deserved to retire from that chore, but every turkey served since then would forever be compared to theirs.
Sometimes our traditions bring us together; sometimes they may fall short of our expectations. Yet if the successful celebrations outnumber the debacles, we have even more of a reason to celebrate, as well as great stories to share. As my dad would say after every special occasion, “That is another one in the book!”
May we all have many, many more celebrations to put in our book.
Debra Mazon of Emerson is a human resources director for a medical sales company in Wayne. She is the chair of American affairs advocacy for Hadassah.
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