The family tree is a project you inevitably have to tackle when you have children. I made several forays into ancestry.com a couple of years back when my daughter Maeve had to do a family tree. A couple of days ago, my cousin Kathleen wrote me to say that her daughter Alexandra had to do a "heritage project" for her senior year of high school. Kathleen remembered I had been bugging her mother, my godmother Aunt Ann, for family information about our mothers' side of the family. Now that Aunt Ann has passed, Kathleen was hoping I still had some info.
I pulled out paperwork that had been languishing on a shelf, most notably, our maternal grandmother Hannah's 1891 birth certificate from Templeglantine, County Limerick in Ireland.Our mothers' sister, Aunt Peggy had kindly sent it to me several years back.
And I found myself on the hunt on the Internet once again. I can get pretty lost in genealogical research:It is indeed reaching through the mist to find forebears in other decades, other centuries. I also called Aunt Peggy, the last surviving of Hannah's children, to help fill in the blanks. Here's what I found.
Hannah Casey was born August 3, 1891 in Templeglantine, a village in County Limerick. Her father was Patrick Casey, an agricultural laborer. Her mother was Mary Connors Casey.
According to the 1901 Irish Census, Patrick (40) and Mary (35) had the following children: Ellen (12), Johanna (9—our grandma Hannah Hickey)), Catherine (7), John (4). Father-in-law Maurice Connors and mother-in-law Mary Connors were also living with them.
According to the 1911 Irish Census, Patrick and Mary had living with them Catherine (17), John (14), Patrick (10) and Bridget (7). Father-in-law and mother-in-law (age 90 and 85) were still with them and the grandparents could not read or write, but they spoke both English and Irish. In 1911, Patrick and Mary Casey had been married 27 years. The Census indicated they had 9 children born alive, and 8 still living. (There is no indication of Mary Casey, who became Mary O’Connell, mother of Father Dave, Father Jack and Father Francis, or of Nora Casey (born about 1894).)
Aunt Peggy Lapinski, Hannah Hickey’s daughter who is now 87, recalls Aunt Nellie Casey O’Halloran (her husband had a bar at 92nd Street and 3rd Avenue); Aunt Katie Casey (Bridie Flavin’s grandmother, very religious, all of a sudden she would break out in the hymn “Amazing Grace” ); Aunt Nora Casey (who between her first husband Mr. Mahoney and her second husband Pat Toomey had something like 13 children among them),;Aunt Mary Casey O’Connell; Aunt Bridie Casey (she came to America, had an unhappy marriage, left her husband and went back to Ireland); Uncle Jack Casey (who lived in the Bronx, but took all his kids out of school and went back to Ireland as well), and Uncle Patty Casey (married to Aunt Beatrice.) And, of course, Hannah Casey Hickey.
Her husband Michael Hickey was born May 27, 1894 in New York City. In the 1900 Census, he was listed as age 6, living with his father Michael Hickey who was born in Ireland in November of 1870 and immigrated to the US in 1891;, and with his mother Margaret Hurley Hickey, who immigrated to the US in 1886. (Hard to read her DOB, but it looks like March 1865.) Father Michael was a longshoreman. Father and mother had been married 8 years. Their address was 243 Madison Street in Manhattan. (That’s the Lower East Side near the end of Canal Street.)
Aunt Ann McGuire said Margaret Hurley Hickey died in 1912, but I would place it more between 1900 and 1902. My mother said Margaret Hurley Hickey was bending over to change the ice in the ice box when a whalebone in her corset pierced her heart. (I have a portrait of Margaret Hurley Hickey, which hung for years in Hannah Casey Hickey’s front room. Margaret Hickey looks just like Aunt Ann McGuire.)
The 1910 Census shows a Michael Hickey living on 44th Street in Manhattan in his second marriage with a wife named Mary. They are both about 38 and have been married 8 years. He is a coachman with a private family; she is a laundress. No sign of son Mike, our Grandpa. (There are A LOT of Michael Hickeys in NYC in 1910. But this one seems to fit for Great-grandfather.)
The new stepmother and young Mike didn’t get along and at some point he left his father’s house. A Mabel Hurley, age 40 is running a boardinghouse at 241 East 32nd Street in Manhattan in the Census of 1910. Her sister Elizabeth Hurley and brother John J. Hurley live with her, as do 9 boarders. No sign of Mike, who would be 16. But my mother Mary Hickey Amoroso said that the new stepmother chased out young Mike and he went to live in Auntie Hurley’s boardinghouse. That’s where he courted Hannah, who was nearly 3 years older than he. He would drop down notes on a string and a hanger to the window of her room.
How did they meet? Aunt Peggy Lapinski says young Mike Hickey drove for Bloomingdale’s and Hannah Casey worked as a domestic in charge of linens for Jay Gould, probably Jay Gould II, son of the first Jay Gould, a robber baron of the mid 1800s.
They married around 1918, when Hannah was 27 and Mike was 24. (She always shaved her age on the Census survey.)
The Census of 1920 has Hannah and Michael married and living on Lexington Avenue and 96th Street. He is a chauffeur. No children. The Census indicates Hannah arrived in US in 1915. We have a passenger listing that shows her arriving in New York October 23, 1916. (A Nora Casey arrived June 26, 1916).
The Census of 1930 shows Hannah and Michael living on 96th Street with five children: Michael (9), Mary (8) (my mom), Margaret(6)(Aunt Peggy), Patrick (4) and Helen (1). No baby Ann yet. Grandpa is listed as a commercial chauffeur. (Aunt Ann said he was a chauffeur for Bloomingdale’s and American Meter Company.) When he lost his job, he became depressed and violent and ended up at Rockland Psychiatric through WWII. I remember him as the grandfather who sat in the far corner of the kitchen in the railroad flat at Lexington and 96th Street, and played his harmonica. Through the window behind him, clotheslines stretched out like tentacles to other buildings.
The 1930 Census places great-grandfather Mike Hickey and his second wife Mary at 8th Avenue and 118th Street. He is 59 and lists his occupation as steamship company but he seems to be unemployed. Mary calls herself a housewife.
The Census of 1930 also shows Hannah’s sister Mary O’Connell (age 36) living with her husband David on Eighth Avenue in Manhattan. The following children are listed: David (15), John (12), Madeline (8) Catherine (6), Leonard (4), Bill (almost 3) and Theresa (1). (David, as a Dominican priest, organized my adoption to Mary and Lou Amoroso and officiated at my wedding in 1979.)
Aunt Peggy says the O’Connells lived on 69th Street in Manhattan. Once they won a live pig in a raffle at church. They had to bring the pig home and stash it in the bathtub until they slaughtered it.
Peggy remembers a cousin Eileen O’Connell who worked for many years at the Mayflower Hotel in New York. Cousin Will O’Connell died during World War II in Guam the exact same day that roving reporter Ernie Pyle was killed April 18, 1945 in Japan.
Aunt Nora Casey Toomey lived in a brownstone at 292 Hoyt Street in Brooklyn with her many children from three marriages. St. Agnes Church was right across the street. The Hickey cousins loved taking the subway to her house. “It was like the country,” said Aunt Peggy. “There was a tree in the backyard.”
Aunt Nora was an incredible cook and baker. Aunt Peggy said that during World War II, when supplies were limited, Aunt Nora made a delicious cake with tomato soup. She also rolled nuts in cream cheese. People rushed to buy her cakes at bake sales.
Her husband Pat Toomey worked for the New York subway system. (So did Patty Casey, according to Aunt Peggy. Patty Casey also worked as a bartender.)
Aunt Nora’s son Jack Toomey died at Anzio Beach in World War II. He was my mother’s favorite cousin. “I loved Jack Toomey,” she would say plaintively decades later.
After Great-Grandfather Michael Hickey’s second wife died, his son Mike Hickey and daughter-in-law Hannah managed to get him a 6-room apartment right across the hall in their building at 1512 Lexington Avenue. I think my mother told me they called him “Red Mike.”
Red Mike would invite the ladies in, throw open his cupboards to show them his wide array of dishes and kitchenware, and say to the ladies, “All you have to do is take off your hat and move in.” He also had a piano in his apartment.
. “He talked like a dockworker, loud and bossy, “ said Aunt Peggy.“He’d go to the door of his apartment and bellow across the hall to my mother, ‘Coffee.’ One time Momma got mad and when he came through the door of our apartment, she took a broom and hit him across his can.”
He had what they call a railroad apartment (as did Hannah Hickey and her brood), where you walked straight through one room to get to the next. So each room (with the exception of the first and the last) had doors on both ends. Red Mike took off all the doors, chopped them up, and burned them for firewood.
Pretty much the whole building was Irish, and a lot was family. Nana Hickey was on one floor. My parents Mary and Lou Amoroso were apparently on the third floor after they married. There were two different McGuire families: the second-floor McGuires (little Mrs. McGuire) and the top-floor McGuires (big Mrs. McGuire, Aunt Ann’s husband Ackie’s mother.)
“Ackie’s mother worked as a nurse, and his father worked two jobs, so –unlike a lot of young men at the time—Ackie did chores. He was embarrassed and tried to hide it, but I’d see him hanging out the laundry,” said Aunt Peggy. “I’d say to him, ‘You’re going to make someone a good husband someday.’ ”
When Aunt Peggy and Uncle Walter (we called him Uncle Whitey) married, they moved into an apartment right next door at 1510 Lexington Avenue. There was a man with a violin next door who would open his window and play the most amazing Irish diddies.
“We’d all hang out the air shaft and clap and stamp our feet,” Aunt Peggy recalled.
For sun-bathing, there was “tar beach.” The girls would slip into their swimsuits, grab a towel and head to the roof for some solar rays
Nana Hickey had some trouble adjusting to her daughters’ choices in husbands. Mary Amoroso married an Italian-American, which seemed to Hannah Hickey like a kind of miscegenation. Aunt Peggy married a man of Polish extraction.
“Momma would say, “Can’t you find someone of your own kind?” ” Aunt Peggy recalled.
Nana Hickey was very social and very kind. People fresh off the boat from the Old Country knew they could find a place to sleep at Hannah Hickey’s. She had 6 children and people might sleep 3 to a bed.
And then there was Nellie Kimmey. Nellie was a widow living with her in-laws when she came to visit with Hannah Hickey over a cup of tea. Nellie headed home to find that her in-laws had packed her possessions and put them outside their front door.
Nellie went back to Hannah Hickey’s in a panic.
“You can stay here,” said Hannah.
Nellie Kimmey lived with Hannah and Mike Hickey for 40 years. She was still there at Lexington and 96th after Hannah died in the mid-Sixties.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
J.D. Salinger slept here
The New York Times had a column today about Ursinus College’s clever use of the fact that author J.D. Salinger spent a semester there in 1938 (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/21/education/21winerip.html?_r=2&pagewanted=1&sq=Ursinus&st=cse&scp=1=). The college in Collegeville, PA sponsors a creative writing contest and awards the freshman winner a scholarship and the right to live in J.D. Salinger’s old room for freshman year.
My 17-year-old son Tom—who wants to major in creative writing or journalism-- was accepted to Ursinus. We toured the college in January and hooted when we heard about the contest to award J.D. Salinger’s room.
“They probably haven’t changed the sheets since Salinger slept there,” my law school student son Mike said.
Times columnist Michael Winerip took the notion a step further and asked prior occupants of the J.D. Salinger room which author’s room they would most like to sleep in. They picked Dave Eggers, Bret Easton Ellis and Cormac McCarthy.
An interesting question. I asked around.
\
My 28-year-old son Matt said he’d most like to sleep in Michael Lewis’ room. Michael Lewis is the rogue financial journalist who’s looked at the gambling inherent in various financial markets. He also wrote “The Blind Side,” the story of ghetto kid Michael Oher who was adopted by a wealthy family and became a big football star.
My 24-year-old son Mike said Ernest Hemingway. “Somethings tells me his room would be in a cabin in the woods, or in a room above a bar, or in a hotel in a war-torn city,” Mike wrote.
My high school senior son Tom said Kurt Vonnegut “because there would be some weird s..t in that room.”
My high school sophomore daughter Maeve said the French social commentator Montesquieu or the metaphysical poet John Donne, “because they’re smart.”
I would like to live in poet Emily Dickinson’s room. In some ways, I feel as if I already have.
Dickinson seems to have had agoraphobia. She was reclusive, seldom going out in public through her adult years and keeping up friendships through a torrid correspondence by mail. She got to the point where she would stand in the upstairs hallway and listen to the conversation of guests downstairs in the parlor, but she would not go down and participate in the conversation. There was a lot of scandal and drama in her close-knit family—her brother Austin had a longstanding affair (Emily apparently never met her brother’s mistress), her mother had a paralytic stroke that made Emily and her sister Lavinia caregivers for a number of years. But Emily was not part of the give-and-take of the greater community.
Her home, particularly her room, was her eggshell. All that she needed for sustenance and for creativity was inside. Within her room, she luxuriated in the life and playfulness and intimacy of her own mind.
I have to fight off my own tendency toward agoraphobia. I feel I have pretty much everything I need for a rich and fulfilling life, between my own thoughts, the written words of others, and field reports from my family in their walks of life. Add music and trips outside to see the sky and the moon and the water in the stream rushing over the rocks, and trips to the recycling center to see what other people are casting off. You have a daily kaleidoscope of experience to be grateful for.
Imagine if Emily Dickinson had the Internet, that thing with digital feathers, the richness of so many minds in a virtual reservoir invented by an American vice-president in a time far in the future. She could only hope.
My 17-year-old son Tom—who wants to major in creative writing or journalism-- was accepted to Ursinus. We toured the college in January and hooted when we heard about the contest to award J.D. Salinger’s room.
“They probably haven’t changed the sheets since Salinger slept there,” my law school student son Mike said.
Times columnist Michael Winerip took the notion a step further and asked prior occupants of the J.D. Salinger room which author’s room they would most like to sleep in. They picked Dave Eggers, Bret Easton Ellis and Cormac McCarthy.
An interesting question. I asked around.
\
My 28-year-old son Matt said he’d most like to sleep in Michael Lewis’ room. Michael Lewis is the rogue financial journalist who’s looked at the gambling inherent in various financial markets. He also wrote “The Blind Side,” the story of ghetto kid Michael Oher who was adopted by a wealthy family and became a big football star.
My 24-year-old son Mike said Ernest Hemingway. “Somethings tells me his room would be in a cabin in the woods, or in a room above a bar, or in a hotel in a war-torn city,” Mike wrote.
My high school senior son Tom said Kurt Vonnegut “because there would be some weird s..t in that room.”
My high school sophomore daughter Maeve said the French social commentator Montesquieu or the metaphysical poet John Donne, “because they’re smart.”
I would like to live in poet Emily Dickinson’s room. In some ways, I feel as if I already have.
Dickinson seems to have had agoraphobia. She was reclusive, seldom going out in public through her adult years and keeping up friendships through a torrid correspondence by mail. She got to the point where she would stand in the upstairs hallway and listen to the conversation of guests downstairs in the parlor, but she would not go down and participate in the conversation. There was a lot of scandal and drama in her close-knit family—her brother Austin had a longstanding affair (Emily apparently never met her brother’s mistress), her mother had a paralytic stroke that made Emily and her sister Lavinia caregivers for a number of years. But Emily was not part of the give-and-take of the greater community.
Her home, particularly her room, was her eggshell. All that she needed for sustenance and for creativity was inside. Within her room, she luxuriated in the life and playfulness and intimacy of her own mind.
I have to fight off my own tendency toward agoraphobia. I feel I have pretty much everything I need for a rich and fulfilling life, between my own thoughts, the written words of others, and field reports from my family in their walks of life. Add music and trips outside to see the sky and the moon and the water in the stream rushing over the rocks, and trips to the recycling center to see what other people are casting off. You have a daily kaleidoscope of experience to be grateful for.
Imagine if Emily Dickinson had the Internet, that thing with digital feathers, the richness of so many minds in a virtual reservoir invented by an American vice-president in a time far in the future. She could only hope.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Roots, Snakes and Magic Hands
My husband called on his cell phone Sunday as he was taking his daily walk on the road past our front lawn.
“There’s sewer water on the lawn,” he said.
I went and checked and ,indeed, a clay chimney-shaped pipe that protrudes from the lawn was spilling out dirty water.
I knew what this was. This happened once before, maybe six or seven years ago. Tree roots invade the pipe and cause blockages. You snake it out and the water goes through. But I couldn’t remember who did the work for us
The next day, I called a plumbing company we’ve used before that advertises in the yellow pages as handling main sewer lines. I had no idea who to use.
The guy came. He tried to pry open the sewer cover at the base of our driveway near the road, but couldn’t get it open. He tried to clear out a white plastic PVC pipe that protrudes from the lawn some 30 feet up from the base of the driveway but couldn’t. He noted another protruding plastic pipe 50 feet up from the first pipe.
“Are you sure this isn’t a septic system?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “It’s city water and city sewer.”
He said, “I can try snaking out the line, but I have only 110 feet of snake. It’s maybe 175 feet from where the water is leaking out by the house to the sewer cover at the base of the drive. If the blockage is located more than 110 feet away, I’ll have to call another man and a truck.”
I jerry-rigged a heavy-duty extension cord for him from the back deck to overflowing clay pipe. He hooked up the snake –a spirally metal tube 8 feet in the length –to an electric-powered drill, and began feeding it down the throat of the pipe. The black water spilled out as he rotated the snake and drew it out to add more lengths of tubing. But the water did not go down.
I watched him, as he lengthened the snake to maybe 40 feet. He kept feeding and rotating the tubing, but the water didn’t budge.
“This isn’t working,” he said. “Too many roots in the pipe. You’ve got to replace the pipe in the ground under the lawn. It will take two men and a backhoe.”
“How much will that cost?” I asked.
“Six thousand,” he said. “I can do it this week.”
“I have to talk to my husband,” I said. The time-honored ploy to avoid committing to repair people.
I talked to my husband. He didn’t know any more than I did.
“Should we get another bid?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“Well, I guess we better get it done,” he said. “We don’t want to pollute.”
I set up the appointment to dig up the lawn and replace the pipe for the following week, since I was going to Boston on Wednesday to go to my sister’s colorectal surgical consult. Nora, who is an ovarian cancer survivor, has a blockage in her intestines. (Another blockage of waste material … Is the universe trying to tell me something?) She’s been living on liquid nutrition administered through a tube and a port in her body, but she wants to get the intestines unblocked so she can eat real food again.
As I sat in the waiting room with Nora’s husband John, a real mechanical whiz, I told him the story of the sewage seepage and the fact that I was going to replace the sewer line under the lawn.
He said, “ I wouldn’t do that. I would try another company to snake out the root blockage.”
John, who helps take care of our summer house properties in Northern New York, had just gone through the process of snaking our sewer line for the summer house in the village of Cape Vincent. (Once again:Is the universe trying to tell me something?) . Our summer house basement had backed up with two feet of water. John called a company that snaked out the sewer line. He watched the water in the basement recede immediately,
Nora got good news from the surgeon about the practicality of unblocking her intestines. I went home to cancel the appointment to put in a new main sewer line and to call another company to try snaking once again.
The woman from Roto Rooter went online to look at the outlines of my property ( and my long front lawn and driveway) on Google Earth.
“I’ve got a gut feeling we can fix this,” she said after hearing my story about the failed snaking. “It sounds to me like the first plumber was looking for a big-paying job. I’ll send out my guys tomorrow morning, so they have plenty of time to investigate and act.”
An hour later, a Roto Rooter truck pulled up in my driveway.
“I thought you were coming tomorrow,” I said.
He said, “ I wanted to scope the place out today.”
I showed the Roto Rooter man the metal sewer cover in the front of the driveway, the two plastic PVC pipes pressed into the front lawn, and the clay pipe overflowing with dirty water very close to the house.
The Roto Rooter guy shone a flashlight down one of the PVC pipes in the ground.
“This looks like a clean-out pipe,” he said, referring the the pipe one could send a snake down to clear out blockages. “But it should have a cap to block debris from getting into it.”
“We’ve owned this house 17 years, and these plastic things have never been capped,” I said.
He yelled into the PVC pipe. “Listen to that echo,” he said.
The Roto Rooter man got a hammer from his truck and asked me to bang on the metal sewer cover at the base of our driveway.
I banged, and he put his ear down very close to the PVC pipe 30 feet from the sewer cover.
“I can hear the banging through the pipe,” he said, “That means there’s no blockage between the sewer cap and the first PVC pipe, because a blockage would interfere with sound transmission.”
“Try the second PVC pipe,” I said. I liked being part of the mystery-solving team and I like banging on metal.
He put his ear down by the second PVC pipe, and I banged on the sewer cover. Eighty feet from my banging, he could clearly hear the sound through the pipe, which meant that long stretch of pipe was clear.
“So the blockage is between the second PVC pipe and the clay pipe,”said the Roto Rooter guy. “ No more than 30 feet. That’s good news. We’ll snake that area tomorrow.”
We were saying farewells when the Roto Rooter guy said he wanted to try one more thing. He took, his 8-foot length of spirally metal snake tubing and he jabbed it by hand into the throat of the clay pipe where the dirty water was spilling. He jabbed and he stirred by hand, no power drill. In no more than 15 seconds, the water dropped down in the pipe. We moved to the next clean-out pipe—the PVC pipe 30 feet away-- and we could hear water rushing through. The clog was broken.
“You have magic hands,” I said..
I suggested he come back the next day to do a thorough snake-out anyway. He said he would bring his pressurized water blower to move any debris in the pipe down to the city sewer line. And he would cap the two PVC clean-outs.
I called my brother-in-law John to tell him the story and thank him for his cautionary advice.
“Call me anytime,” he said.
“There’s sewer water on the lawn,” he said.
I went and checked and ,indeed, a clay chimney-shaped pipe that protrudes from the lawn was spilling out dirty water.
I knew what this was. This happened once before, maybe six or seven years ago. Tree roots invade the pipe and cause blockages. You snake it out and the water goes through. But I couldn’t remember who did the work for us
The next day, I called a plumbing company we’ve used before that advertises in the yellow pages as handling main sewer lines. I had no idea who to use.
The guy came. He tried to pry open the sewer cover at the base of our driveway near the road, but couldn’t get it open. He tried to clear out a white plastic PVC pipe that protrudes from the lawn some 30 feet up from the base of the driveway but couldn’t. He noted another protruding plastic pipe 50 feet up from the first pipe.
“Are you sure this isn’t a septic system?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “It’s city water and city sewer.”
He said, “I can try snaking out the line, but I have only 110 feet of snake. It’s maybe 175 feet from where the water is leaking out by the house to the sewer cover at the base of the drive. If the blockage is located more than 110 feet away, I’ll have to call another man and a truck.”
I jerry-rigged a heavy-duty extension cord for him from the back deck to overflowing clay pipe. He hooked up the snake –a spirally metal tube 8 feet in the length –to an electric-powered drill, and began feeding it down the throat of the pipe. The black water spilled out as he rotated the snake and drew it out to add more lengths of tubing. But the water did not go down.
I watched him, as he lengthened the snake to maybe 40 feet. He kept feeding and rotating the tubing, but the water didn’t budge.
“This isn’t working,” he said. “Too many roots in the pipe. You’ve got to replace the pipe in the ground under the lawn. It will take two men and a backhoe.”
“How much will that cost?” I asked.
“Six thousand,” he said. “I can do it this week.”
“I have to talk to my husband,” I said. The time-honored ploy to avoid committing to repair people.
I talked to my husband. He didn’t know any more than I did.
“Should we get another bid?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“Well, I guess we better get it done,” he said. “We don’t want to pollute.”
I set up the appointment to dig up the lawn and replace the pipe for the following week, since I was going to Boston on Wednesday to go to my sister’s colorectal surgical consult. Nora, who is an ovarian cancer survivor, has a blockage in her intestines. (Another blockage of waste material … Is the universe trying to tell me something?) She’s been living on liquid nutrition administered through a tube and a port in her body, but she wants to get the intestines unblocked so she can eat real food again.
As I sat in the waiting room with Nora’s husband John, a real mechanical whiz, I told him the story of the sewage seepage and the fact that I was going to replace the sewer line under the lawn.
He said, “ I wouldn’t do that. I would try another company to snake out the root blockage.”
John, who helps take care of our summer house properties in Northern New York, had just gone through the process of snaking our sewer line for the summer house in the village of Cape Vincent. (Once again:Is the universe trying to tell me something?) . Our summer house basement had backed up with two feet of water. John called a company that snaked out the sewer line. He watched the water in the basement recede immediately,
Nora got good news from the surgeon about the practicality of unblocking her intestines. I went home to cancel the appointment to put in a new main sewer line and to call another company to try snaking once again.
The woman from Roto Rooter went online to look at the outlines of my property ( and my long front lawn and driveway) on Google Earth.
“I’ve got a gut feeling we can fix this,” she said after hearing my story about the failed snaking. “It sounds to me like the first plumber was looking for a big-paying job. I’ll send out my guys tomorrow morning, so they have plenty of time to investigate and act.”
An hour later, a Roto Rooter truck pulled up in my driveway.
“I thought you were coming tomorrow,” I said.
He said, “ I wanted to scope the place out today.”
I showed the Roto Rooter man the metal sewer cover in the front of the driveway, the two plastic PVC pipes pressed into the front lawn, and the clay pipe overflowing with dirty water very close to the house.
The Roto Rooter guy shone a flashlight down one of the PVC pipes in the ground.
“This looks like a clean-out pipe,” he said, referring the the pipe one could send a snake down to clear out blockages. “But it should have a cap to block debris from getting into it.”
“We’ve owned this house 17 years, and these plastic things have never been capped,” I said.
He yelled into the PVC pipe. “Listen to that echo,” he said.
The Roto Rooter man got a hammer from his truck and asked me to bang on the metal sewer cover at the base of our driveway.
I banged, and he put his ear down very close to the PVC pipe 30 feet from the sewer cover.
“I can hear the banging through the pipe,” he said, “That means there’s no blockage between the sewer cap and the first PVC pipe, because a blockage would interfere with sound transmission.”
“Try the second PVC pipe,” I said. I liked being part of the mystery-solving team and I like banging on metal.
He put his ear down by the second PVC pipe, and I banged on the sewer cover. Eighty feet from my banging, he could clearly hear the sound through the pipe, which meant that long stretch of pipe was clear.
“So the blockage is between the second PVC pipe and the clay pipe,”said the Roto Rooter guy. “ No more than 30 feet. That’s good news. We’ll snake that area tomorrow.”
We were saying farewells when the Roto Rooter guy said he wanted to try one more thing. He took, his 8-foot length of spirally metal snake tubing and he jabbed it by hand into the throat of the clay pipe where the dirty water was spilling. He jabbed and he stirred by hand, no power drill. In no more than 15 seconds, the water dropped down in the pipe. We moved to the next clean-out pipe—the PVC pipe 30 feet away-- and we could hear water rushing through. The clog was broken.
“You have magic hands,” I said..
I suggested he come back the next day to do a thorough snake-out anyway. He said he would bring his pressurized water blower to move any debris in the pipe down to the city sewer line. And he would cap the two PVC clean-outs.
I called my brother-in-law John to tell him the story and thank him for his cautionary advice.
“Call me anytime,” he said.
Friday, March 11, 2011
The Gang's All Here
On Sunday, I went to a ladies’ lunch with women I’d worked with at my newspaper back in the day. Two were still at the newspaper. Two had moved on to the NY Post. One is now teaching at a local college and I am not doing much of anything except helping my number three son get into college and working phlegmatically on some fiction pieces.
These are women I’ve known since my 24-year-old son Mike was an infant. Women whose pregnancies I remember. And now a couple of them are empty-nesters. We are at the stage where, as my friend K has just done, we help our young adult children move into their apartments, arrange the furniture, maybe even paint the walls.
As we ate eggs and fruit and coffee at the Governeur Morris Inn in Morristown, we provided, in Facebook parlance, “status updates.”
Actually, we talked about Facebook. Some of us were on it. Some of us weren’t. (B talked about how she was a “Luddite” about the new online world. Nice word choice..she was always a good writer.) O said she had seen horrible, vile things on one of her sons’ Facebook “wall” (nothing he had written, but an interchange between two of his friends) and so she insisted that he “friend” her so she could see what was going on. My teen-age children refuse to “friend” me.
We talked about how we shudder at the insipid sweetness of some of the messages. (“Love you, honey.” "You are the best!") We are all journalists, so we think of ourselves as kind of hard-edged. We also talked about how, as the Baby Boomers have come to Facebook in the past couple of years, the younger generation has migrated off, to a certain extent.
I was asked, as the only mother with a married child, how to behave as “mother of the groom.” J was upset with her own mother-in-law, who had recently failed to host the rehearsal dinner for J’s 42-year-old brother-in-law.
“Well, that is the one thing you’re supposed to do,” I said. “As parents of the groom, we hosted the rehearsal dinner and the post-wedding brunch. And we contributed some money. My son and daughter-in-law made all the decisions, which was how it should be. They even helped us pick the rehearsal dinner site.”
I noted that one of my friends whose daughter is marrying in May said that the new wedding contribution formula is not 99 percent the bride’s family, but now one-third bride’s family, one-third groom’s family, and one-third the couple.
This was a group where sons predominate, and they clucked a little at that formula.
We talked about the apparent rootlessness of some of our children who’ve graduated from college. It is a stage of life where there is no clear path to move on, and the poor economy and high jobless rate only muddy the waters further. Some of my friends said they told their children they would pay for college, but not for graduate school.
O said that her oldest son –in the middle of college—had decided to go to boot camp and join the California Highway Patrol. She displayed a photo of him, handsome and sober-looking in his uniform. He assists disabled cars, deals with drunks, and escorts lost pets off the highways. He makes a very good salary. She said he’s been interested in firefighting and law enforcement and community service since he was 3. It warmed the heart of every mother around the table to hear about a young man who’s pursued his dream and found his place.
I asked about B’s husband. An investigative reporter on our newspaper, he was the older man entranced by a younger woman when they married some 20 years ago. He always had great energy and enthusiasm. At age 73, he still teachers aerobics classes.
B said she had recently interviewed Jane Fonda, also 73, who talked about how good the sex is with her new partner. We didn’t have much to say about that.
We had talked about my bio-siblings (children of my birth-mother) who came to my son’s wedding. S told me about a story she had done on New York lawyer Seymour Fenichel who ran a baby-selling adoption business starting in the ‘70s and whose now-grown adoptees are searching out their roots through a Facebook forum. “I read that story,” I told her. “It came through an adoption listserv I’m part of.” You can tell S lives her stories.
We talked about the state of local journalism. My friends said the precipitous decline of newspapers seems to have eased somewhat. My old newspaper is even hiring to replace reporters who have left. Rupert Murdoch’s New Corps iPad app online newspaper is hiring.
But the atmosphere at work is different, they said. There used to be a great sense of camaraderie, of fun, of constant conversation. Now the new reporter hires may be “mo-jos”—mobile journalists, who work out of their cars. My old newspaper moved out of the building it owned, decommissioned the newsroom.
“It’s like working in the insurance industry now, everyone in his own cubicle,” said one of my friends.
These are women I’ve known since my 24-year-old son Mike was an infant. Women whose pregnancies I remember. And now a couple of them are empty-nesters. We are at the stage where, as my friend K has just done, we help our young adult children move into their apartments, arrange the furniture, maybe even paint the walls.
As we ate eggs and fruit and coffee at the Governeur Morris Inn in Morristown, we provided, in Facebook parlance, “status updates.”
Actually, we talked about Facebook. Some of us were on it. Some of us weren’t. (B talked about how she was a “Luddite” about the new online world. Nice word choice..she was always a good writer.) O said she had seen horrible, vile things on one of her sons’ Facebook “wall” (nothing he had written, but an interchange between two of his friends) and so she insisted that he “friend” her so she could see what was going on. My teen-age children refuse to “friend” me.
We talked about how we shudder at the insipid sweetness of some of the messages. (“Love you, honey.” "You are the best!") We are all journalists, so we think of ourselves as kind of hard-edged. We also talked about how, as the Baby Boomers have come to Facebook in the past couple of years, the younger generation has migrated off, to a certain extent.
I was asked, as the only mother with a married child, how to behave as “mother of the groom.” J was upset with her own mother-in-law, who had recently failed to host the rehearsal dinner for J’s 42-year-old brother-in-law.
“Well, that is the one thing you’re supposed to do,” I said. “As parents of the groom, we hosted the rehearsal dinner and the post-wedding brunch. And we contributed some money. My son and daughter-in-law made all the decisions, which was how it should be. They even helped us pick the rehearsal dinner site.”
I noted that one of my friends whose daughter is marrying in May said that the new wedding contribution formula is not 99 percent the bride’s family, but now one-third bride’s family, one-third groom’s family, and one-third the couple.
This was a group where sons predominate, and they clucked a little at that formula.
We talked about the apparent rootlessness of some of our children who’ve graduated from college. It is a stage of life where there is no clear path to move on, and the poor economy and high jobless rate only muddy the waters further. Some of my friends said they told their children they would pay for college, but not for graduate school.
O said that her oldest son –in the middle of college—had decided to go to boot camp and join the California Highway Patrol. She displayed a photo of him, handsome and sober-looking in his uniform. He assists disabled cars, deals with drunks, and escorts lost pets off the highways. He makes a very good salary. She said he’s been interested in firefighting and law enforcement and community service since he was 3. It warmed the heart of every mother around the table to hear about a young man who’s pursued his dream and found his place.
I asked about B’s husband. An investigative reporter on our newspaper, he was the older man entranced by a younger woman when they married some 20 years ago. He always had great energy and enthusiasm. At age 73, he still teachers aerobics classes.
B said she had recently interviewed Jane Fonda, also 73, who talked about how good the sex is with her new partner. We didn’t have much to say about that.
We had talked about my bio-siblings (children of my birth-mother) who came to my son’s wedding. S told me about a story she had done on New York lawyer Seymour Fenichel who ran a baby-selling adoption business starting in the ‘70s and whose now-grown adoptees are searching out their roots through a Facebook forum. “I read that story,” I told her. “It came through an adoption listserv I’m part of.” You can tell S lives her stories.
We talked about the state of local journalism. My friends said the precipitous decline of newspapers seems to have eased somewhat. My old newspaper is even hiring to replace reporters who have left. Rupert Murdoch’s New Corps iPad app online newspaper is hiring.
But the atmosphere at work is different, they said. There used to be a great sense of camaraderie, of fun, of constant conversation. Now the new reporter hires may be “mo-jos”—mobile journalists, who work out of their cars. My old newspaper moved out of the building it owned, decommissioned the newsroom.
“It’s like working in the insurance industry now, everyone in his own cubicle,” said one of my friends.
Monday, February 28, 2011
The Prodigal Cat Returns
The cat is back!
My son Mike called me when I was browsing the Suffern Furniture closing sale Sunday to let me know our cat Atticus had returned after vanishing outside ten days ago.
We are not cat people. The cat adopted us.
In mid-September, my 17-year-old son Tom had heard determined meowing outside his bedroom window. When we investigated, we found that a kitten had taken up residence behind a shed that sits against the house by the side door to the basement.
We shone a flashlight into the crevice and saw the kitten’s eyes staring at us. We meowed and the cat meowed back.
We bought cat food and kitty litter at the A&P. We began leaving food for the cat in a dish outside the shed. We angled the dish so that we could watch from a window in our dining room and see the cat eating.
But the kitten was extremely skittish and ran away when we ventured near. Even when the cat was eating, she would feel our eyes upon her, turn around and then skedaddle back into the shed.
Once I surprised her climbing in a tree. She made a mad leap from six feet up in the tree to the shed.
Another time my husband Jim saw her playing with squirrels. I say “her” now, but at that point we couldn’t tell whether she was male or female. My daughter Maeve named her Atticus after a character in “To Kill a Mockingbird.” My son Matt and his then-fiancé Melany came one Sunday and sat outside the shed, waiting for a glimpse of the cat. Melany comes from cat people.
For a couple of days in October, Atticus seemed to have vanished. Her nests in and around the shed were empty when we shone the flashlight in. So we didn’t put out her food. Then she walked up the steps to the back deck, meowing insistently to express her hunger. She ran away when we opened the kitchen door, but we got the message. We put her food out.
By December, it was starting to get cold, and we worried about Atticus surviving in frigid weather. (Although Jim’s brother Kevin’s fiancé Cindi – a true cat lover with four cats of her own--- said feral cats seemed to be able to survive in the cold.)
About two weeks before Christmas, with a combination of “meowing” and a bowl of food, Jim (who thinks of himself as a cat whisperer) succeeded in getting Atticus to scamper through the open front door. She still wouldn’t let us near her. But she took over the house, going everywhere but the kitchen, where the dogs were ensconced. She quickly learned to go in the kitty litter, but also liked to poop in the houseplants on the front staircase landing. (Melany’s mom Susan –a true cat expert—suggested putting ground black pepper into the houseplant soil to deter the cat, but that didn’t seem to work.)
We’d wake up in the middle of the night to find Atticus standing over us in bed or curled in the crook of our knees. If I were writing out checks for bills on the dining room table, she would come and sit on the table and watch me. If I were doing laundry in the basement, she would materialize down there, somehow getting through the back hall with its open door to the kitchen and the ferocious dogs.
She loved to run in front of you when you were walking down the stairs, running with loud and heavy footfalls for a 5-pound cat. She loved to run and chase balls down our long second-floor hallway. She ran like a squirrel.
As she settled in, we bought cat toys, a couple of fluffy mats for a bed, a scratching post and a carrier (pink, it was the only small carrier left at PETCO) for the day when we could bring her to the veterinarian.
A week or two after she came indoors, we managed to get her into the carrier and take her to the vet. The vet did a quick check and announced, “It’s a girl.” Atticus tested negative for feline leukemia and feline AIDS. We had her spayed the next day. (My neighbor Mei Ling, a nuanced animal lover, had begged me – even if we didn’t adopt the cat—to have her spayed before returning her to the wild.)
The vet felt that the cat---estimated to be 6 or 7 months old – had probably been a house kitten in her early months, because she seemed comfortable around people.
Jim, an avowed dog-lover, had a soft spot for the cat. I would find him laughing over her in the bedroom some nights. Maeve would cradle and kiss the cat with all the pent-up intensity of an adolescent. Tom had contradictory feelings: He would meow at the cat, but also was distressed when the cat peed on his bed.
And then, after all the snow and the freezing temperatures of this winter, came two days of delicious warmth (in the fifties and sixties) on February 16th and 17th. I brought the dogs out to romp in the warmth, and it seemed a shame to imprison Atticus indoors. I opened the front door and let her out. She moved a couple of steps out onto the porch, hesitated and then tried to run back inside. But I had shut the door. She scampered down the steps and around the side of the house.
And that was the last we saw of her.
Temperatures dropped to 14 degrees. It snowed six inches on top of at least a foot of frozen snow. Had she fallen through and been trapped in the snow? We shone the flashlight in and around the shed where she had previously taken shelter. No cat.
We would walk onto the front porch and meow suggestively. No response.
We put out Meow Mix, angling the bowl of food so that we could see from the dining room window. The food was gone by next day, but we never saw the cat. Jim said the squirrels had eaten the food.
We saw tiny footprints in the snow, four paw-like spherical impressions. Jim said they were squirrel footprints.
My daughter Maeve blamed me for losing the cat and I blamed myself. Jim said he would have let the cat out under the same circumstances.
I just thought we had established some bond with the cat and she would have come back. When our dogs escaped, they always came back. True, when Duke (our Border Collie mix) was younger, he might range far and wide, and 8-year-old Tom would be chasing him through snowy backyards. The very agile Fella (our Rhodesian Ridgeback mix) escaped every day for a while last year –he could jump up an 8-foot-high stone wall and land on top – but he would just run around the perimeter of the house and wait patiently on the deck until I opened the kitchen door.
Jim thought another family had found Atticus and taken her in.
“But how could that be?” I said. “You couldn’t get close enough to her to get her inside.”
Melany, by now Matt’s wife, said that one of her cats would sometimes disappear for two days at a time. Jim talked to a work friend who seems to be a cat hoarder (10 cats) who told him cats could disappear for 10 days to two weeks.
“So is the cat an indoor cat or an outdoor cat?” Jim asked the work friend.
“Well, if the cat disappears for two weeks when you let it outside, I guess it’s an indoor cat,” the friend replied.
My husband has unresolved grief issues which tend to make him jump to the worst conclusions. When the possibility arose a couple of years back that Duke had ingested rat poison, Jim just said,”He’ll be dead by the morning” and continued eating his dinner.(Instead of concurring, Matt took Duke to the vet, who stuffed the dog full of charcoal to absorb any poisons and vitamin K to promote clotting. Duke lived, although I think he hadn’t actually eaten any rat poison.)
So I think my husband really thought the cat was dead or lost to us forever. Within days of Atticus’ disappearance, Jim fed the dogs all the canned cat food he himself had bought for Atticus ( a rare thing and a sign of Jim’s devotion because Jim doesn’t buy pet food, or human food, for that matter).
The rest of us still harbored hope. On Saturday, Maeve dug through the snow and found a metal pet gate that we had stored outside. She set it up in a corner of the porch. On Sunday morning, I bought more canned cat food. Maeve dumped a can into a bowl and set it inside the fenced-in area. A little while later, she saw Atticus pawing at the gate and meowing with hunger. Mike ran out the kitchen door and around the side of the house to track the cat if she bolted. The cat ran into nearby bushes. Maeve grabbed the bowl of food and lured the cat back inside.
As I write, the cat is getting a little shut-eye on his fluffy mats. (His tail is stirring slightly:Is he dreaming of running with the squirrels?) It is as if the disappearance never happened. (Although with the wisdom of recent experience, we will now take the cat out only on a leash, something our vet does with her cats.)
Jim thinks the cat’s whiskers have grown exponentially during her sabbatical (sa-cattical?) And the cat seems to have gotten bolder toward the dogs. The door to the kitchen remains firmly shut, but Atticus sticks her paw under the door, full well knowing that barkers (maybe biters) reside there. And Duke, whose new position is as sentinel on the other side of the door and whose new goal is to kill the cat, sits mesmerized when he sees that disembodied cat paw flailing around under his nose.
I guess we have become cat people.
My son Mike called me when I was browsing the Suffern Furniture closing sale Sunday to let me know our cat Atticus had returned after vanishing outside ten days ago.
We are not cat people. The cat adopted us.
In mid-September, my 17-year-old son Tom had heard determined meowing outside his bedroom window. When we investigated, we found that a kitten had taken up residence behind a shed that sits against the house by the side door to the basement.
We shone a flashlight into the crevice and saw the kitten’s eyes staring at us. We meowed and the cat meowed back.
We bought cat food and kitty litter at the A&P. We began leaving food for the cat in a dish outside the shed. We angled the dish so that we could watch from a window in our dining room and see the cat eating.
But the kitten was extremely skittish and ran away when we ventured near. Even when the cat was eating, she would feel our eyes upon her, turn around and then skedaddle back into the shed.
Once I surprised her climbing in a tree. She made a mad leap from six feet up in the tree to the shed.
Another time my husband Jim saw her playing with squirrels. I say “her” now, but at that point we couldn’t tell whether she was male or female. My daughter Maeve named her Atticus after a character in “To Kill a Mockingbird.” My son Matt and his then-fiancé Melany came one Sunday and sat outside the shed, waiting for a glimpse of the cat. Melany comes from cat people.
For a couple of days in October, Atticus seemed to have vanished. Her nests in and around the shed were empty when we shone the flashlight in. So we didn’t put out her food. Then she walked up the steps to the back deck, meowing insistently to express her hunger. She ran away when we opened the kitchen door, but we got the message. We put her food out.
By December, it was starting to get cold, and we worried about Atticus surviving in frigid weather. (Although Jim’s brother Kevin’s fiancé Cindi – a true cat lover with four cats of her own--- said feral cats seemed to be able to survive in the cold.)
About two weeks before Christmas, with a combination of “meowing” and a bowl of food, Jim (who thinks of himself as a cat whisperer) succeeded in getting Atticus to scamper through the open front door. She still wouldn’t let us near her. But she took over the house, going everywhere but the kitchen, where the dogs were ensconced. She quickly learned to go in the kitty litter, but also liked to poop in the houseplants on the front staircase landing. (Melany’s mom Susan –a true cat expert—suggested putting ground black pepper into the houseplant soil to deter the cat, but that didn’t seem to work.)
We’d wake up in the middle of the night to find Atticus standing over us in bed or curled in the crook of our knees. If I were writing out checks for bills on the dining room table, she would come and sit on the table and watch me. If I were doing laundry in the basement, she would materialize down there, somehow getting through the back hall with its open door to the kitchen and the ferocious dogs.
She loved to run in front of you when you were walking down the stairs, running with loud and heavy footfalls for a 5-pound cat. She loved to run and chase balls down our long second-floor hallway. She ran like a squirrel.
As she settled in, we bought cat toys, a couple of fluffy mats for a bed, a scratching post and a carrier (pink, it was the only small carrier left at PETCO) for the day when we could bring her to the veterinarian.
A week or two after she came indoors, we managed to get her into the carrier and take her to the vet. The vet did a quick check and announced, “It’s a girl.” Atticus tested negative for feline leukemia and feline AIDS. We had her spayed the next day. (My neighbor Mei Ling, a nuanced animal lover, had begged me – even if we didn’t adopt the cat—to have her spayed before returning her to the wild.)
The vet felt that the cat---estimated to be 6 or 7 months old – had probably been a house kitten in her early months, because she seemed comfortable around people.
Jim, an avowed dog-lover, had a soft spot for the cat. I would find him laughing over her in the bedroom some nights. Maeve would cradle and kiss the cat with all the pent-up intensity of an adolescent. Tom had contradictory feelings: He would meow at the cat, but also was distressed when the cat peed on his bed.
And then, after all the snow and the freezing temperatures of this winter, came two days of delicious warmth (in the fifties and sixties) on February 16th and 17th. I brought the dogs out to romp in the warmth, and it seemed a shame to imprison Atticus indoors. I opened the front door and let her out. She moved a couple of steps out onto the porch, hesitated and then tried to run back inside. But I had shut the door. She scampered down the steps and around the side of the house.
And that was the last we saw of her.
Temperatures dropped to 14 degrees. It snowed six inches on top of at least a foot of frozen snow. Had she fallen through and been trapped in the snow? We shone the flashlight in and around the shed where she had previously taken shelter. No cat.
We would walk onto the front porch and meow suggestively. No response.
We put out Meow Mix, angling the bowl of food so that we could see from the dining room window. The food was gone by next day, but we never saw the cat. Jim said the squirrels had eaten the food.
We saw tiny footprints in the snow, four paw-like spherical impressions. Jim said they were squirrel footprints.
My daughter Maeve blamed me for losing the cat and I blamed myself. Jim said he would have let the cat out under the same circumstances.
I just thought we had established some bond with the cat and she would have come back. When our dogs escaped, they always came back. True, when Duke (our Border Collie mix) was younger, he might range far and wide, and 8-year-old Tom would be chasing him through snowy backyards. The very agile Fella (our Rhodesian Ridgeback mix) escaped every day for a while last year –he could jump up an 8-foot-high stone wall and land on top – but he would just run around the perimeter of the house and wait patiently on the deck until I opened the kitchen door.
Jim thought another family had found Atticus and taken her in.
“But how could that be?” I said. “You couldn’t get close enough to her to get her inside.”
Melany, by now Matt’s wife, said that one of her cats would sometimes disappear for two days at a time. Jim talked to a work friend who seems to be a cat hoarder (10 cats) who told him cats could disappear for 10 days to two weeks.
“So is the cat an indoor cat or an outdoor cat?” Jim asked the work friend.
“Well, if the cat disappears for two weeks when you let it outside, I guess it’s an indoor cat,” the friend replied.
My husband has unresolved grief issues which tend to make him jump to the worst conclusions. When the possibility arose a couple of years back that Duke had ingested rat poison, Jim just said,”He’ll be dead by the morning” and continued eating his dinner.(Instead of concurring, Matt took Duke to the vet, who stuffed the dog full of charcoal to absorb any poisons and vitamin K to promote clotting. Duke lived, although I think he hadn’t actually eaten any rat poison.)
So I think my husband really thought the cat was dead or lost to us forever. Within days of Atticus’ disappearance, Jim fed the dogs all the canned cat food he himself had bought for Atticus ( a rare thing and a sign of Jim’s devotion because Jim doesn’t buy pet food, or human food, for that matter).
The rest of us still harbored hope. On Saturday, Maeve dug through the snow and found a metal pet gate that we had stored outside. She set it up in a corner of the porch. On Sunday morning, I bought more canned cat food. Maeve dumped a can into a bowl and set it inside the fenced-in area. A little while later, she saw Atticus pawing at the gate and meowing with hunger. Mike ran out the kitchen door and around the side of the house to track the cat if she bolted. The cat ran into nearby bushes. Maeve grabbed the bowl of food and lured the cat back inside.
As I write, the cat is getting a little shut-eye on his fluffy mats. (His tail is stirring slightly:Is he dreaming of running with the squirrels?) It is as if the disappearance never happened. (Although with the wisdom of recent experience, we will now take the cat out only on a leash, something our vet does with her cats.)
Jim thinks the cat’s whiskers have grown exponentially during her sabbatical (sa-cattical?) And the cat seems to have gotten bolder toward the dogs. The door to the kitchen remains firmly shut, but Atticus sticks her paw under the door, full well knowing that barkers (maybe biters) reside there. And Duke, whose new position is as sentinel on the other side of the door and whose new goal is to kill the cat, sits mesmerized when he sees that disembodied cat paw flailing around under his nose.
I guess we have become cat people.
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Best Man Remembers: The Speeches, The Dancing, The After-Parties
These are brother Mike McQueeny's reminiscences about Matt and Melany's wedding...
WEDDING RECEPTION, DECEMBER 31, 9:30 p.m. immediately after Mike's speech:
The maid and matron of honor gave touching speeches about Melany’s friendship throughout the years. Melany’s mother would give a beautifully elegant speech about the strength and courage Melany’s shown whilst dealing with the heartbreak of the loss of her father. They all touched on the person Matt is, and how those similar levels of compassion exist in both of them, and are only amplified by their love for each other.
And then came the other McQueeny speeches. As fellow groomsman JIG would come up and tell me afterwards, “Jeez, you McQueeny’s are rough. I don’t want none of you guys giving me any speeches. You know these are TOASTS, not ROASTS, right?”
My mom would get up there to highlight the years Matt lived at home without a glimmer of hope that he would meet someone as magnificent as Melany. About how, despite the fact Matt and Mel had been dating for months, Matt had not told my parents about her, and had to give my mom a “cheat sheet” of quick facts about Melany to make it seem as though he had been telling us about her the entire time.
Then my dad, ever the competitor with his sons, got up and tried to outdo my roasts by highlighting how glad he was that Matt finally married Melany. Mainly because of how wonderful Melany is, but also because Matt’s dating record pegs him only as “a once-a-decade dater” and that if they didn’t end up getting hitched, there wasn’t much hope until the 2020’s. This prompted my mom to give the classic TV producer move of dragging her thumb across her neck, telling my dad to cut it out.
Then came the dancing.
Or more accurately to say, the over-30 dance party. As myself, along with my cousins, and Matt and Mel’s friends in their 20s looked on helplessly, our mothers, aunts, and uncles poured onto the dance floor. They were not “partying like it was 1999” so much as “dancing like it was 1969.”
For the first and last time in my life, I watched mortified as my dad attempted to muster any kind of dance moves that his genetics of Irish-Catholic blood had for centuries been successfully able to suppress. My Uncle Benny tore it up, doing his best Saturday Night Fever, or at the least, Saturday Night Headache. Even Grandma Betty put all of us young 20-something wall-flowers to shame, as she boogy woogy woogied til she just couldn’t boogie no more. Then came Pastor Stephens. (Despite all the varied Unitarian jokes I could throw in here, for the sake of Melany still feigning tolerance of us, I’ll avoid these jokes at all cost.) While I have no clue what the actual tenets of Unitarianism are, after watching Pastor Stephens, I can say dancing is undoubtedly their 11th commandment. Despite the fact that the dance floor was made of linoleum, all these characters nevertheless effectively cut a rug.
I spent my time walking around, saying hello to as many friends and family members as I could. Suddenly, Ralph, one of the members of the WSITS (Winning Strategies Internet Services) family, came up to me, showing me a coat check and goes, “Mikey, whenever you’re ready, bud.”
At the bachelor party I had introduced the group to a now-illegal drink called 4 Loko, which is basically a heart attack in a can. JIG had been joking around ever since that he was going to smuggle a case of 4 Loko’s into the wedding. I kept informing him that 4 Loko was now illegal in New Jersey, and rested comfortably in the knowledge that this task was close to impossible. On the wedding day, he continued these statements, and told me, “Don’t worry, I got my best man on the job.”
As Ralph approached me that moment, JIGs words rang even truer when I realized that the man he was referring to was Ralph. Even on the bachelor party night, Ralph was like the special forces of partying, no task too tall, no mission too dangerous. Upon being pressed, he’d further tell me that after scouring North Jersey, he finally found a bodega in Newark that had the goods. The fact that “goods” were coming from a “bodega in Newark” should have been alarm enough of the trouble to come.
By the end of the night, JIG and Ralph’s table became like a bootlegging distillery. Table 12 became 1920’s Atlantic City, with JIG standing as Nucky Thompson and Ralph his muscle. For the rest of the night, every time I passed by the table, Ralph would run up to me and go, “Mikey, let me top your drink off.” By the time I’d get back to my table, all my drinks would be bright neon blue, green, or orange. 4 Loko, a mixture of strong caffeine and alcohol, slowly pervaded their corner of the wedding. Within an hour, I’d look over to their corner and notice that it was now home to much of the most emphatic and enthusiastic dancing in the entire room. By the time they started breaking out into choreographed numbers, I knew that all the 4 Loko had been drunk.
Matt was by far the funniest character at the wedding. This was Matt’s day, and he was enjoying every moment of it. Normally a restrained and calm individual, Matt was smiling, dancing enthusiastically, really enjoying himself in a way that I had never seen before. Part of the job of the bride and groom is to go around and thank each person individually for coming to the wedding. In that right, part of the job of the best man is to make sure that throughout this socially strenuous process, Matt always has a fresh drink in hand. I stayed loyal to the mission.
Matt was never out of control, and never visibly seemed drunk. However, the day after the wedding, I was chatting with Matt and Mel and Matt was commenting how his only regret of the wedding was not getting a chance to sample all the varied desserts that had been laid out close to the end of the night.
I looked him in shock. I said, “Matt, are you serious?” He goes, “Yeah, I barely ate anything.” I then filled him in on the fact that not only had every single dessert on the premises been placed at the bride and groom’s private table, but that also, Matt had plopped himself down at the table for a solid 15-20 minutes STUFFING his face with pastries. “Oh,” Matt said, in a moment of confused realization.
The wedding continued for hours, and there was never a lull throughout the night. Everyone danced, ate, drank, and enjoyed themselves. As the night dragged on, I increasingly became exhausted. Exhausted from the nerves I had felt the previous three days, from the lack of sleep from the previous night, from the constant activity of the entire day, and from the fun and excitement of the wedding itself. As the night began to draw to a close, I looked forward to nothing more than simply lying down.
However, everyone still energized from the night wanted to continue the party at the hotel. Groups had brought their own stockpiles of alcohol and personal bars, and I was continually invited and implored to go to various after-hour parties. Given the fact that I’m in my young 20s, and I wanted nothing more than to avoid more fun and simply go to sleep, I became evasive.
I started fashioning my “Irish Exit,” which is a term for when an individual is at a party, and then just leaves without saying goodbye. Once we got back to the hotel, I promised others that I was simply going to change out of my tux. As people became suspect, and asked what room I was in, I started giving fake room numbers. I even took a back staircase to go up to my hotel room, lest I be followed.
Soon after, my cousin Monica, also avoiding participants from the wedding dogging her to hang out, came to hide in my room. After the long hours, I was finally in my bed and able to relax. However, my phone continued to ring and outside my room groups of people scoured the hallways looking for us. Every time I heard a voice in the hallway, I implored everyone to stay quiet for a minute, and at one point, even shut off the lights. There we were, on my brother’s wedding night, and I was hiding away like Anne Frank, afraid of the drunken forces searching me out.
I would find out the next day that one group had been busily knocking on all the fake room numbers I had given them. My Uncle Billy would come up to me the next morning and say, “Mike, some guys were looking for you. They knocked on my door, and virtually forced the door open once I unlocked it.” The worst was that Mrs. Felsen, and Grandma Betty were now sleeping in the room Matt had been sleeping in the night before. This was also the room where all the groomsmen had gotten ready before the wedding. The search party dispatched after me now went to this room, and not only did Grandma Betty open the door for them, but at 3 in the morning, also invited them in to chat for a little bit.
My mom, sister, cousin, Tom, and I sat around in my room and debriefed about the night for a while, until eventually it was easier for me simply to become blunt. “Listen, I like you guys, but you have to get the hell out of here, I need to sleep.” I looked out the peep hole to make sure the coast was clear, and soon after, everyone left. I shut the door, locked it, and with that, the wedding, at least for me, was officially over.
Then, I slept.
WEDDING RECEPTION, DECEMBER 31, 9:30 p.m. immediately after Mike's speech:
The maid and matron of honor gave touching speeches about Melany’s friendship throughout the years. Melany’s mother would give a beautifully elegant speech about the strength and courage Melany’s shown whilst dealing with the heartbreak of the loss of her father. They all touched on the person Matt is, and how those similar levels of compassion exist in both of them, and are only amplified by their love for each other.
And then came the other McQueeny speeches. As fellow groomsman JIG would come up and tell me afterwards, “Jeez, you McQueeny’s are rough. I don’t want none of you guys giving me any speeches. You know these are TOASTS, not ROASTS, right?”
My mom would get up there to highlight the years Matt lived at home without a glimmer of hope that he would meet someone as magnificent as Melany. About how, despite the fact Matt and Mel had been dating for months, Matt had not told my parents about her, and had to give my mom a “cheat sheet” of quick facts about Melany to make it seem as though he had been telling us about her the entire time.
Then my dad, ever the competitor with his sons, got up and tried to outdo my roasts by highlighting how glad he was that Matt finally married Melany. Mainly because of how wonderful Melany is, but also because Matt’s dating record pegs him only as “a once-a-decade dater” and that if they didn’t end up getting hitched, there wasn’t much hope until the 2020’s. This prompted my mom to give the classic TV producer move of dragging her thumb across her neck, telling my dad to cut it out.
Then came the dancing.
Or more accurately to say, the over-30 dance party. As myself, along with my cousins, and Matt and Mel’s friends in their 20s looked on helplessly, our mothers, aunts, and uncles poured onto the dance floor. They were not “partying like it was 1999” so much as “dancing like it was 1969.”
For the first and last time in my life, I watched mortified as my dad attempted to muster any kind of dance moves that his genetics of Irish-Catholic blood had for centuries been successfully able to suppress. My Uncle Benny tore it up, doing his best Saturday Night Fever, or at the least, Saturday Night Headache. Even Grandma Betty put all of us young 20-something wall-flowers to shame, as she boogy woogy woogied til she just couldn’t boogie no more. Then came Pastor Stephens. (Despite all the varied Unitarian jokes I could throw in here, for the sake of Melany still feigning tolerance of us, I’ll avoid these jokes at all cost.) While I have no clue what the actual tenets of Unitarianism are, after watching Pastor Stephens, I can say dancing is undoubtedly their 11th commandment. Despite the fact that the dance floor was made of linoleum, all these characters nevertheless effectively cut a rug.
I spent my time walking around, saying hello to as many friends and family members as I could. Suddenly, Ralph, one of the members of the WSITS (Winning Strategies Internet Services) family, came up to me, showing me a coat check and goes, “Mikey, whenever you’re ready, bud.”
At the bachelor party I had introduced the group to a now-illegal drink called 4 Loko, which is basically a heart attack in a can. JIG had been joking around ever since that he was going to smuggle a case of 4 Loko’s into the wedding. I kept informing him that 4 Loko was now illegal in New Jersey, and rested comfortably in the knowledge that this task was close to impossible. On the wedding day, he continued these statements, and told me, “Don’t worry, I got my best man on the job.”
As Ralph approached me that moment, JIGs words rang even truer when I realized that the man he was referring to was Ralph. Even on the bachelor party night, Ralph was like the special forces of partying, no task too tall, no mission too dangerous. Upon being pressed, he’d further tell me that after scouring North Jersey, he finally found a bodega in Newark that had the goods. The fact that “goods” were coming from a “bodega in Newark” should have been alarm enough of the trouble to come.
By the end of the night, JIG and Ralph’s table became like a bootlegging distillery. Table 12 became 1920’s Atlantic City, with JIG standing as Nucky Thompson and Ralph his muscle. For the rest of the night, every time I passed by the table, Ralph would run up to me and go, “Mikey, let me top your drink off.” By the time I’d get back to my table, all my drinks would be bright neon blue, green, or orange. 4 Loko, a mixture of strong caffeine and alcohol, slowly pervaded their corner of the wedding. Within an hour, I’d look over to their corner and notice that it was now home to much of the most emphatic and enthusiastic dancing in the entire room. By the time they started breaking out into choreographed numbers, I knew that all the 4 Loko had been drunk.
Matt was by far the funniest character at the wedding. This was Matt’s day, and he was enjoying every moment of it. Normally a restrained and calm individual, Matt was smiling, dancing enthusiastically, really enjoying himself in a way that I had never seen before. Part of the job of the bride and groom is to go around and thank each person individually for coming to the wedding. In that right, part of the job of the best man is to make sure that throughout this socially strenuous process, Matt always has a fresh drink in hand. I stayed loyal to the mission.
Matt was never out of control, and never visibly seemed drunk. However, the day after the wedding, I was chatting with Matt and Mel and Matt was commenting how his only regret of the wedding was not getting a chance to sample all the varied desserts that had been laid out close to the end of the night.
I looked him in shock. I said, “Matt, are you serious?” He goes, “Yeah, I barely ate anything.” I then filled him in on the fact that not only had every single dessert on the premises been placed at the bride and groom’s private table, but that also, Matt had plopped himself down at the table for a solid 15-20 minutes STUFFING his face with pastries. “Oh,” Matt said, in a moment of confused realization.
The wedding continued for hours, and there was never a lull throughout the night. Everyone danced, ate, drank, and enjoyed themselves. As the night dragged on, I increasingly became exhausted. Exhausted from the nerves I had felt the previous three days, from the lack of sleep from the previous night, from the constant activity of the entire day, and from the fun and excitement of the wedding itself. As the night began to draw to a close, I looked forward to nothing more than simply lying down.
However, everyone still energized from the night wanted to continue the party at the hotel. Groups had brought their own stockpiles of alcohol and personal bars, and I was continually invited and implored to go to various after-hour parties. Given the fact that I’m in my young 20s, and I wanted nothing more than to avoid more fun and simply go to sleep, I became evasive.
I started fashioning my “Irish Exit,” which is a term for when an individual is at a party, and then just leaves without saying goodbye. Once we got back to the hotel, I promised others that I was simply going to change out of my tux. As people became suspect, and asked what room I was in, I started giving fake room numbers. I even took a back staircase to go up to my hotel room, lest I be followed.
Soon after, my cousin Monica, also avoiding participants from the wedding dogging her to hang out, came to hide in my room. After the long hours, I was finally in my bed and able to relax. However, my phone continued to ring and outside my room groups of people scoured the hallways looking for us. Every time I heard a voice in the hallway, I implored everyone to stay quiet for a minute, and at one point, even shut off the lights. There we were, on my brother’s wedding night, and I was hiding away like Anne Frank, afraid of the drunken forces searching me out.
I would find out the next day that one group had been busily knocking on all the fake room numbers I had given them. My Uncle Billy would come up to me the next morning and say, “Mike, some guys were looking for you. They knocked on my door, and virtually forced the door open once I unlocked it.” The worst was that Mrs. Felsen, and Grandma Betty were now sleeping in the room Matt had been sleeping in the night before. This was also the room where all the groomsmen had gotten ready before the wedding. The search party dispatched after me now went to this room, and not only did Grandma Betty open the door for them, but at 3 in the morning, also invited them in to chat for a little bit.
My mom, sister, cousin, Tom, and I sat around in my room and debriefed about the night for a while, until eventually it was easier for me simply to become blunt. “Listen, I like you guys, but you have to get the hell out of here, I need to sleep.” I looked out the peep hole to make sure the coast was clear, and soon after, everyone left. I shut the door, locked it, and with that, the wedding, at least for me, was officially over.
Then, I slept.
Matt & Melany's Wedding:Part 5 and Final
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The reception, 9 pm, New Year’s Eve:Once again, Crystal Plaza event coordinator Nella lined up the bridal party outside the doors to the ballroom where the wedding guests waited. One of the vocalists from the reception band Cashmere was moving through the group taking names in order to announce each pair as we came through the doors.
The wedding party had spent perhaps 45 minutes having photos taken in various combinations and permutations by photographer Joseph Lin and his assistant. I was especially happy to be part of the photo that included bride and groom, my adoptive family and my bio family . I also enjoyed the photo of Matt with his uncle (my bio-brother) Patrick. The two of them met for the first time around 2006, but they have an uncanny resemblance. Pat could be Matt’s father or older brother. As Pat said to Matt, “You’re lucky the good looks got passed down to you.”
Just before he left, Father White said to Melany’s mother Susan, “ I hope these two last.” This mightily annoyed Susan. But Matt said that was just Father White’s silly, wise-cracking style.
While we took photographs, the wedding guests partook of cocktail hour, which included a fish station with shrimp and smoked meats, a carving station of turkey and beef, a pasta station, an olive station, a potato station, an Asian station, a.quesadilla station with homemade tortilla chips and guacamole, a crudite station with veggies, and a martini station with 3 backlit ice sculptures. The stations were set up around a highly-mirrored large room with a beautiful, mahogany bar. Waiters stepped through the crowd, passing around hors d’oeuvres like duck spring rolls, Thai coconut shrimp and spinach wrapped in phyllo. The word that comes to mind is sumptuous. Uncle Billy was probably stuffing food in his pants.
But I didn’t eat. There were so many people for me to greet, including my handsome godson Nick and his beautiful and smart girlfriend Jane (She's getting her Ph.D at SUNY Binghamton), my beautiful and accomplished Knight nieces(I am so proud of them although I had no role in their upbringing) , my wonderful bio-sisters Margaret and Libby and their spouses Donny and Ed and the impeccably good-looking Patrick and his lovely wife Deb. Our blast-from-the-past friends Bob C. and Dianne D and Ellie and Vince R.. Our financial advisor Bob Traphagen and his charming wife Kristi, longtime family friends. And all of the folks from Winning Stratagies, where Jim and Matt work in Newark. My sisters Margaret B. and Marian were looking especially fine. Uncle Benny and his son, cousin Lou were by the bar, meeting and greeting and trading wisecracks. (They’re both in the restaurant business, so they know how to work a crowd.) Uncle Robert was talking about walking off with the Crystal Plaza silverware. (But he didn’t.) Uncle Kevin in a suit with his long hair looked like Howard Hughes, the later years.
During the cocktail hour, a duo playing an upright bass and a keyboard provided a jazzie mix. All of the musicians –during the ceremony, the cocktail hour, and the reception—came through the auspices of Barry Herman(www.barryherman.com), whose own band had played at Melany’s parents’ wedding in the early Seventies.
Picture-taking ended, the cocktail hour at a close, guests migrated into the grand ballroom, and the wedding party stood just outside the ballroom doors waiting to be introduced.
This ritual introduction has become a lot more stressful since the YouTube video of the unknown bridal party boogeying down the aisle (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-94JhLEiN0), which they later reprised on the plaza at the Today Show, and which the cast of the sitcom “The Office” spoofed at Jim and Pam’s wedding (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0jqk5I236DQ).
Everybody –even the mousiest, the most reserved, the least limber—is expected to shake your booty and strut your stuff as you cross the room. There can be no stragglers. We all acquitted ourselves to the strains of The Who’s “Who are You? Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo.”
And then Matt and Mel were introduced. They entered to the song “Baba O’Riley,” also by The Who (who are more a musical fixture of the Baby Boomer generation) and ducked under the linked and outstretched arms of the bridal party.
Their first dance was to what I considered an odd song: “Fix You” by Coldplay.
When you try your best but you don't succeed
When you get what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse
And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
And high up above or down below
When you're too in love to let it go
(But if you never try you'll never know
Just what you're worth
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
Tears stream down your face
When you lose something you cannot replace
Tears stream down your face
And I will try to fix you
Tears stream down your face
I promise you I will learn from my mistakes
Tears stream down your face
And I will try to fix you
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
I asked Matt why they chose what seems to be such a depressing song. He said it was a kind of inversion:The song is about loss and sadness and Matt and Mel’s relationship is about togetherness and happiness. Plus, he said he was able to help Melany during her time of great loss when her dad died.
Then the mother of the bride danced with the bride to the Martina McBride song “In My Daughter’s Eyes.”
In my daughter's eyes I am a hero
I am strong and wise and I know no fear
But the truth is plain to see
She was sent to rescue me
I see who I want to be
In my daughter's eyes
In my daughter's eyes
Everyone is equal
Darkness turns to light
And the world is at peace
This miracle God gave to me
Gives me strength when I'm weak
I find reason to believe
In my daughter's eyes
And when she wraps her hand around my finger
Oh it puts a smile in my heart
Everything becomes a little clearer
I realize what life is all about
It's hangin' on when your heart
Is had enough
It's givin' more when you feel like givin' up
I've seen the light
It's in my daughter's eyes
In my daughter's eyes
I can see the future
A reflection of who I am
And what we'll be
And though she'll grow and someday leave
Maybe raise a family
When I'm gone
I hope you'll see
How happy she made me
For I'll be there
In my daughter's eyes
Very touching lyrics, and in case you haven’t figured this one out, Susan adores her daughter Melany. The feeling is mutual.
Then Matt and I had our dance to the Carly Simon song “Coming Around Again.” I had played this song endlessly on my car audio system when I was picking Matt and Mike up after school 19 or 20 years ago. We’d interpose our own words like this:
Baby sneezes (“That’s Kendall,” we’d shout.)
Mommy pleases (“That’s Aunt Nora”)
Daddy breezes in (“That’s Uncle John”)
So good on paper
So romantic
So bewildering
I know nothing stays the same
But if you’re willing to play the game
It will be coming around again
So don’t mind if I fall part
There’s more room in a broken heart..
We sat to eat dinner and to listen to toasts. We dug into fresh mozzarella, roasted pepper and plum tomato with basil-infused olive oil and balsamic reduction accompanied by arugula, radicchio, and Belgium endive served with balsamic vinaigrette. For entrée, we had a choice of Chateaubriand steak, herb-roasted chicken, herb-encrusted salmon, or vegetable lasagna.
And the speeches began.
My number two son Mike—the best man—has already recorded his speech in this blog. He did a great job. I especially liked the line that a crazy night for Matt in college was when Mom ordered him two pizzas instead of just one. And that Matt’s toughest breakup was when Mike and the Mad Dog split up and ended their show on WFAN sports radio and Yes network television. This was particularly poignant to me because I remember all those weekdays after Matt had graduated college and had not yet gotten a job when he would come into the family room right before 1 in the afternoon when the show started and begin singing the theme song to “Mike and the Mad Dog.”(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7KFKU-rIvHw).
Mike’s voice broke when he talked about how Melany had helped me get surgery for trigeminal neuralgia –face and jaw pain that was debilitating for me. I was surprised by his emotion. McQueenys are more wise-crackers than weepers.
It is indicative of Melany’s great loyalty to her friends that she had two witnesses:Matron of honor Celeste Zazzali and maid of honor Jessica Zelizo.
Celeste is a tiny woman with beautiful brown eyes who runs marathons. (Melany made Matt go to Celeste’s party after the NYC marathon even though it was the day after his bachelor party and he was feeling the pain.) Celeste is an oboist and an elementary school music teacher and a scrapbooker. She and Melany met as undergraduates when they were both hired to work for the Director of Bands at the College of New Jersey. They didn’t really like each other when they first met in August of 2000.
But, says Melany, “ Celeste always tells a story that one day we were in our office working together toward the end of our first semester and she asked me something and I gave her a sarcastic response. It made her laugh. As soon as we became friends we were inseparable. We were a package deal. She has been there for me no matter what.”
Celeste rose to offer her toast as matron of honor, walking around the “sweetheart table” where Matt and Mel sat.
“Good evening! Tonight is the best of nights because there is so much to celebrate. Before I say my piece, I want to thank Melany & Matt for allowing me to stand by their side on the most important day of their lives; I want to extend my gratitude to their families for their love and support of this fabulous couple and for making this day possible; and I want to thank all of you for indulging me in the next few minutes. Since I am one of three speeches tonight, I will do my best to keep this brief. Melany has always been a role model for me and I suspect I am not alone in saying that. In the ten years that we have been friends, I have had the opportunity to laugh with her, seek comfort from her, and learn from her. She is the best person I know, and I admire her in so many ways. Tonight I’m going to discuss what makes Melany the person who she is and why she is someone to look up to as a role-model.
“Everything about Melany is beautiful. It goes without saying, but her outer beauty is obvious. Melany, you look absolutely stunning today! And as gorgeous as you are on the outside, you are infinitely more beautiful on the inside. Melany’s character is one that I strive to emulate in my life.
“Melany is strong. Life has thrown her more than her fair share of challenging times. She has handled all of these situations with grace and strength. The strength in Melany’s heart will keep your marriage together for a lifetime. Her strength has been portrayed in many different ways. Whether it was putting Dr. Silvester, an intimidating band director, in his place; never letting her health concerns pull her spirits down; or sticking up for her friends like the time the hotel tried to pull a fast one on us in Vegas. Whenever I find myself in a situation where I have to fight to get what I want, I channel my “Inner-Melany” and think, “What would Melany do?”
“Melany is selfless. Melany has never had a problem taking care of others. She does it like it is her job, her purpose in the world, and she does it without asking for anything in return. Such as the time I was sick and I wouldn’t admit it. We were at my parents’ house and I was stubbornly insisting that I was fine. Melany nodded and handed me the TheraFlu. Or the time before my wedding, she made me feel special even though her knee was on the brink of yet another surgery. She never complained even though she was in pain. She was more concerned about the smile on my face.
“Melany is a listener. Whether we’re meeting up for a cup of coffee or catching up on one of our weekly phone calls, Melany is a master in the art of listening. No matter what is going on in her life, and we all know there have been some turbulent times, she will give you her undivided attention. There have been countless hours where I’ve told her every detail about the next race I want to run, or the exact shade I want to use in a scrapbook I’m making. The same conversation that causes my husband’s eyes to glaze over, Melany absorbs every detail and endures it because she knows how important it is to me. And then during our next phone call, she’ll ask about it in such detail showing you just how well she really was listening.
“Those are just a few of Melany’s best characteristics: beauty, strength, selflessness, and the ability to really listen. I could go on, but I think I’ve already made my point that Melany is an outstanding person, is a role model, and she attracts good people to her like a magnet. Matt, this is where you come in. The same qualities that you saw in Melany that made her fit to be your wife are the same characteristics that drew her to you. You are also strong, selfless, an excellent listener, and you two are going to have some good-looking kids!! On top of that, you have a great sense of humor, an overwhelming amount of patience, and are an honest man whom we all trust with Melany’s heart. When you put two incredible people like Melany and Matt together the result is a beautiful marriage. Future couples will look up to you both as role models and see an example of a first-rate marriage that will last a lifetime.
“With those thoughts, I wish you both the best that your marriage has to offer. Let’s all raise our glasses high and drink to the happiness of this beautiful couple. Cheers!”
Next up was Melany’s friend from childhood, maid of honor Jessica Zelizo. Jess looked especially fetching in the black bridesmaid’s gown, with her dark eyes and her dark hair curling down her back. Melany and Jess’ friendship dates all the way back to the womb.
Jess talked about how her dad had walked up the street when Susan and Steven Felsen moved into their lake community, and had told the pregnant Susan that she better give birth to a girl because the Zelizos had a brand-new baby girl. They spent their childhood playing, talking and dreaming in each other’s homes.
As the best man,, and matron/maids of honor were giving their speeches, Susan and I were formulating what we were going to say. Crystal Plaza event coordinator Nella had told us our speeches were next and,for some reason, neither of us had quite comprehended in the days before the event that we were supposed to give a speech.
When Susan was introduced, she talked about the joy Melany has brought to the family, and how her gift of music has given them so many wonderful memories of concerts, recitals, and performances She talked about how proud she is of Melany and how she has handled the challenges life has given her. Susan thanked Matt for helping Mel’s heart heal after the loss of her dad, and she closed with something Grandma Betty always says, "May your joys be many and your sorrows few."
(There’s really no kinship term to describe the relationship between two families brought together by marriage. Susan, Betty, Aunt Jayme, and Cousin Jayme are Matt’s in-laws, but what are they to me? It feels like I have been blessed with another set of sisters, and I am most grateful.)
I had scribbled just two words on a piece of paper for my speech: “don’t ask, don’t tell” and “cheat sheet..”
When I rose to speak, I started out by talking about how Matt, as our firstborn, was always the prince of our family. I talked about how Matt and Melany shared a love of music and a love of baseball, even though the Felsen-Innes family are Yankee fans and the McQueenys are strictly Mets fans.
However, I told the group, I didn’t even know about Melany until perhaps 18 months after they began dating. I explained that, in the McQueeny household, much as in the US military, we have a policy of “don’t ask, don’t tell” when it comes to romantic relationships. I said I don’t have any idea of the identities or numbers of girlfriends Tom has had, even though I’ve sat outside numerous girls’ homes late at night waiting to pick up Tom before he got his driver’s license.
And so, even though Matt had been to Susan and Melany’s home many times and even to Grandma Betty and Aunt Jayme’s home many times, and even had his own seat of honor in Betty’s TV room when they all watched sports, Matt’s family had no idea he had a girlfriend, let alone a SERIOUS girlfriend. (I explained that I had found a Christmas card signed “Fondly, Melany” when I was cleaning out his room after he moved out to his Edgewater co-op. So sue me, I’m nosy. But I didn’t ask and he didn’t tell.)
But Melany was pressuring him to meet his family, and so Matt finally told me he had been dating a girl for a while and she wanted to meet us. He e-mailed me a “cheat sheet” of factoids about Melany, so that it would appear he had been telling us about her all along. On the “cheat sheet”: She was a middle-school music teacher and band director, graduate of The College of New Jersey with a masters’ from the Peabody Institute of Johns Hopkins. She was slender and pretty. She was occasionally a model. She was a great cook. She played the clarinet.
We met Melany at a PF Chang’s –Matt’s favorite restaurant at the time—and she was all of the above and more. We met Susan at a “Cheeseburger in Paradise” in Wayne in September of 2008, and we met the rest of the family around Christmas.
Fast-forward to another momentous dinner in early December of 2009. Matt and I had gone to Melany’s student Christmas concert, and after we heard her band perform, we snuck out to get dinner. Matt told me how, on their tour of the California wine country the month before, Melany had suggested they go ring-browsing. Not ring-shopping, mind you. Ring-browsing. And they had met a ring salesman who had really put the screws to Matt, saying that if Matt really loved Melany, he would have no trouble spending thousands of dollars on her ring, since traditionally a man spends three months of his salary on the engagement ring.
(“The salesman asked,”How much is your love worth?'” Matt piped in from the sweetheart table.)
At our post-concert dinner, Matt told me that he had balked at the ring salesman’s pressure tactics and told Melany he thought it was a waste of money to spend so much on a ring.
“But she’s been crying a lot lately, Mom,” Matt said. “I don’t know what to do.”
I could understand his quandary, panic even. McQueenys aren’t criers, and when faced with crying, we have no adequate response.
I told Matt that maybe he should do what Dad did when we were dating.
“Dad told me that if he kept dating me we would end up getting married and he didn’t want to get married, so he was breaking up with me,” I told Matt. “After about two weeks, he said,’I guess we should get back together.’ Maybe if you break up, it will reveal your true feelings.”
“But I don’t want to break up, Mom,” he said.
“Well, then, if the ring is important to Melany, man up and spend the money,” I said.
And thus, I told the wedding group, I have another beautiful daughter. I am so glad Matt manned up and we are here tonight.
Finally, it was Dad’s turn to speak. Jim is a seasoned, easy, entertaining speaker (I always say I married him for his stories), but he has one serious character flaw. And in a family where humor is a core family value, this is a serious character flaw: He tries to ride the coattails of a successful joke. So, if Matt has told a really funny joke or Mike has uttered a riposte that leaves us weak with laughter or Tom has done a dead-on imitation, Jim tries to milk the laugh they’ve generated with a lesser joke, a junior joke, a runt joke.
(This reminds of the time when Jerry Seinfeld went into the Catholic confessional box to complain to the priest that the Catholic dentist Tim Watley had converted to Judaism for the jokes. “And this offends you as a Jew?” asked the priest. “No,” said Seinfeld. “It offends me as a comedian.”)
Jim started off his speech nicely enough, saying that between Matt’s parents and Mel’s parents, we represent 65 years of married life, so they can look to our experience. Then he tried to jump on Mike’s previous laugh lines, saying that he was surprised we were here at Matt’s wedding, because Matt dated so infrequently he was a once-a-decade dater. (I thought this was a low blow, not at all nuanced the way Mike’s roast was, and so I gave Jim the “cut” sign.)
Jim said the McQueeny family avoided public displays of affection, and it took some getting used to to rise to the Felsen-Innes level of open affection. But, said Jim, “I’m taking training, Melany, so that I can hug more.”
And Melany got up and hugged Jim.
After that, it was dancing. I love to dance, and was dancing up a storm. I danced the pretzel dance with my brother-in-law Donny O. I danced around Maeve and Tom, because it’s a parent’s prerogative to embarrass her children. My children and nieces and nephews didn’t dance much. They watched us boomers make fools of ourselves.
But the most stellar dancer of the evening was the Unitarian minister. He bogeyed, twisted and slithered his way through fast and slow songs. I mentioned his prowess to Susan, and she said, “We Unitarians are a diverse bunch.”
Matt and Melany cut the cake, a beautiful five-tier cake by Ace of Cakes of Baltimore shaped like the New York skyline and emblazoned with the Yankees and Mets insignias, with fireworks in the sky and two champagne flutes for a cake topper. There were two different flavors: mint chocolate chip and apple cinnamon with butter scotch topping.
They then did the traditional feeding of the cake to each other. Matt voiced his fear that Melany was going to smash the cake into his face, the way some brides and grooms do. But she did not.
The cocktail-hour room had been transformed into a dessert palace, with a Viennese table of pastries and cookies, an ice cream bar, a chocolate fondue bar, a coffee bar, and a zeppoli station complete with paper bags so you could shake the zeppolis in a bagful of sugar.
Melany then ascended to the Juliet balcony overlooking the ballroom, and as the band sang the Beyonce song “All the Single Ladies,” she threw her bouquet. Jessica Zelizo snared it. Maeve’s friend Myrna said, “That was a set-up. There was no chance we were going to catch it.”
At some point during the festivities, Cousin Jayme—who is getting married in September -- told Melany, “Remember, you are the bride only until 1.01 am, when your wedding ends. At that point, I become the bride and you become the bridesmaid.”
Another transformation was imminent: It was almost midnight. Susan and Melany handed out the noisemakers Susan had gotten for New Year’s Eve. Melany and Matt were wearing glasses that said 2011 and Melany was adorned with a black-and-pink boa. As it hit midnight, we went around kissing family and friends. What a nice way to welcome the New Year. Photographer Joe Lin climbed to the balcony and took a photo of the crowd from on high.
Finally, it was time to wrap up. My nephew Lou Benedetto departed for the airport to head back to Arizona. Hotel-bound wedding guests were waiting in the Crystal Plaza entry for the shuttle. Grandma Betty was upset that a waiter clearing her table had inadvertently spilled a drink on her outfit.
Because Jim had his car, we were conscripted to ferry big aluminum trays of desserts the Crystal Plaza staff had packed for us. We loaded in a couple of bags containing Melany’s veil and Susan’s veil, and the poster-sized card describing the menu.
I chatted with Mike, Tom, Maeve and Monica in Mike’s room for a while. I was just getting ready for bed around 3 – Jim was already snoring --when my cell phone rang. It was Matt.
“Mom, did you take Melany’s bouquet in your car? She wants to preserve it, and she’s supposed to keep it refrigerated.”
“Matt, I frankly don’t know what’s in the car, but, if it’s in there, it IS refrigerated,, because it’s cold out.”
“Melany is worried. She doesn’t know where her bouquet is.”
And I thought, welcome to marriage, Matt. Her worries become your worries. I also empathized with Melany, who had attended to so many details to make this wedding work. This was one last detail she wanted to get right. It was keeping her from getting to sleep.
“Put Melany on the phone, Matt,” I said.
“Melany, I’ll just go down to the car and check for the bouquet,” I said.
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble, Mary,” she said.
“It’s easy,” I said.
I threw a coat over my pajamas, and put on my flat dancing shoes. Maeve came with me. I went through the contents of the car. No bouquet. We couldn’t open the door to get back into the hotel with our key card. Luckily someone was walking through the back hallway and opened the door for us.
I called them back. “The bouquet isn’t in the car,” I said. “But I can drive back to the Crystal Plaza and get it.”
“There won’t be anyone there at this point,” said Matt. “It’s pointless. We’ll get the bouquet tomorrow.”
“You sure?” I said. “It’s no trouble.”
“We’ll get it tomorrow,” Matt repeated. I prayed Melany got some sleep.
The next morning, the wedding guests still in residence at the hotel joined us at a breakfast we had arranged. When Matt and Melany entered the room in jeans and sweats, they were like royalty on the down-low. Everybody cheered. Grandma Betty told us about the inebriated men in tuxes who had knocked on her bedroom door in the middle of the night.
When the bill came, the maitre d’ gave it to my sister Libby. I guess she looks like the boss or the family matriarch. Everyone said their good-byes. My husband, brothers-in-law and children dispersed to their cars. My niece Monica went to get her babes.
I drove out of the hotel, passing my son Matt talking to his high school friend Chris Kerrigan. I went a mileor two when I got a call from my sister Margaret B. asking for a ride. I doubled back to the hotel, and picked up Margaret. Matt was still talking to Chris Kerrigan.
I put my car in gear and drove out of the wonderful wedding bubble and back into normalcy.
The reception, 9 pm, New Year’s Eve:Once again, Crystal Plaza event coordinator Nella lined up the bridal party outside the doors to the ballroom where the wedding guests waited. One of the vocalists from the reception band Cashmere was moving through the group taking names in order to announce each pair as we came through the doors.
The wedding party had spent perhaps 45 minutes having photos taken in various combinations and permutations by photographer Joseph Lin and his assistant. I was especially happy to be part of the photo that included bride and groom, my adoptive family and my bio family . I also enjoyed the photo of Matt with his uncle (my bio-brother) Patrick. The two of them met for the first time around 2006, but they have an uncanny resemblance. Pat could be Matt’s father or older brother. As Pat said to Matt, “You’re lucky the good looks got passed down to you.”
Just before he left, Father White said to Melany’s mother Susan, “ I hope these two last.” This mightily annoyed Susan. But Matt said that was just Father White’s silly, wise-cracking style.
While we took photographs, the wedding guests partook of cocktail hour, which included a fish station with shrimp and smoked meats, a carving station of turkey and beef, a pasta station, an olive station, a potato station, an Asian station, a.quesadilla station with homemade tortilla chips and guacamole, a crudite station with veggies, and a martini station with 3 backlit ice sculptures. The stations were set up around a highly-mirrored large room with a beautiful, mahogany bar. Waiters stepped through the crowd, passing around hors d’oeuvres like duck spring rolls, Thai coconut shrimp and spinach wrapped in phyllo. The word that comes to mind is sumptuous. Uncle Billy was probably stuffing food in his pants.
But I didn’t eat. There were so many people for me to greet, including my handsome godson Nick and his beautiful and smart girlfriend Jane (She's getting her Ph.D at SUNY Binghamton), my beautiful and accomplished Knight nieces(I am so proud of them although I had no role in their upbringing) , my wonderful bio-sisters Margaret and Libby and their spouses Donny and Ed and the impeccably good-looking Patrick and his lovely wife Deb. Our blast-from-the-past friends Bob C. and Dianne D and Ellie and Vince R.. Our financial advisor Bob Traphagen and his charming wife Kristi, longtime family friends. And all of the folks from Winning Stratagies, where Jim and Matt work in Newark. My sisters Margaret B. and Marian were looking especially fine. Uncle Benny and his son, cousin Lou were by the bar, meeting and greeting and trading wisecracks. (They’re both in the restaurant business, so they know how to work a crowd.) Uncle Robert was talking about walking off with the Crystal Plaza silverware. (But he didn’t.) Uncle Kevin in a suit with his long hair looked like Howard Hughes, the later years.
During the cocktail hour, a duo playing an upright bass and a keyboard provided a jazzie mix. All of the musicians –during the ceremony, the cocktail hour, and the reception—came through the auspices of Barry Herman(www.barryherman.com), whose own band had played at Melany’s parents’ wedding in the early Seventies.
Picture-taking ended, the cocktail hour at a close, guests migrated into the grand ballroom, and the wedding party stood just outside the ballroom doors waiting to be introduced.
This ritual introduction has become a lot more stressful since the YouTube video of the unknown bridal party boogeying down the aisle (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-94JhLEiN0), which they later reprised on the plaza at the Today Show, and which the cast of the sitcom “The Office” spoofed at Jim and Pam’s wedding (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0jqk5I236DQ).
Everybody –even the mousiest, the most reserved, the least limber—is expected to shake your booty and strut your stuff as you cross the room. There can be no stragglers. We all acquitted ourselves to the strains of The Who’s “Who are You? Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo.”
And then Matt and Mel were introduced. They entered to the song “Baba O’Riley,” also by The Who (who are more a musical fixture of the Baby Boomer generation) and ducked under the linked and outstretched arms of the bridal party.
Their first dance was to what I considered an odd song: “Fix You” by Coldplay.
When you try your best but you don't succeed
When you get what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse
And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
And high up above or down below
When you're too in love to let it go
(But if you never try you'll never know
Just what you're worth
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
Tears stream down your face
When you lose something you cannot replace
Tears stream down your face
And I will try to fix you
Tears stream down your face
I promise you I will learn from my mistakes
Tears stream down your face
And I will try to fix you
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
I asked Matt why they chose what seems to be such a depressing song. He said it was a kind of inversion:The song is about loss and sadness and Matt and Mel’s relationship is about togetherness and happiness. Plus, he said he was able to help Melany during her time of great loss when her dad died.
Then the mother of the bride danced with the bride to the Martina McBride song “In My Daughter’s Eyes.”
In my daughter's eyes I am a hero
I am strong and wise and I know no fear
But the truth is plain to see
She was sent to rescue me
I see who I want to be
In my daughter's eyes
In my daughter's eyes
Everyone is equal
Darkness turns to light
And the world is at peace
This miracle God gave to me
Gives me strength when I'm weak
I find reason to believe
In my daughter's eyes
And when she wraps her hand around my finger
Oh it puts a smile in my heart
Everything becomes a little clearer
I realize what life is all about
It's hangin' on when your heart
Is had enough
It's givin' more when you feel like givin' up
I've seen the light
It's in my daughter's eyes
In my daughter's eyes
I can see the future
A reflection of who I am
And what we'll be
And though she'll grow and someday leave
Maybe raise a family
When I'm gone
I hope you'll see
How happy she made me
For I'll be there
In my daughter's eyes
Very touching lyrics, and in case you haven’t figured this one out, Susan adores her daughter Melany. The feeling is mutual.
Then Matt and I had our dance to the Carly Simon song “Coming Around Again.” I had played this song endlessly on my car audio system when I was picking Matt and Mike up after school 19 or 20 years ago. We’d interpose our own words like this:
Baby sneezes (“That’s Kendall,” we’d shout.)
Mommy pleases (“That’s Aunt Nora”)
Daddy breezes in (“That’s Uncle John”)
So good on paper
So romantic
So bewildering
I know nothing stays the same
But if you’re willing to play the game
It will be coming around again
So don’t mind if I fall part
There’s more room in a broken heart..
We sat to eat dinner and to listen to toasts. We dug into fresh mozzarella, roasted pepper and plum tomato with basil-infused olive oil and balsamic reduction accompanied by arugula, radicchio, and Belgium endive served with balsamic vinaigrette. For entrée, we had a choice of Chateaubriand steak, herb-roasted chicken, herb-encrusted salmon, or vegetable lasagna.
And the speeches began.
My number two son Mike—the best man—has already recorded his speech in this blog. He did a great job. I especially liked the line that a crazy night for Matt in college was when Mom ordered him two pizzas instead of just one. And that Matt’s toughest breakup was when Mike and the Mad Dog split up and ended their show on WFAN sports radio and Yes network television. This was particularly poignant to me because I remember all those weekdays after Matt had graduated college and had not yet gotten a job when he would come into the family room right before 1 in the afternoon when the show started and begin singing the theme song to “Mike and the Mad Dog.”(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7KFKU-rIvHw).
Mike’s voice broke when he talked about how Melany had helped me get surgery for trigeminal neuralgia –face and jaw pain that was debilitating for me. I was surprised by his emotion. McQueenys are more wise-crackers than weepers.
It is indicative of Melany’s great loyalty to her friends that she had two witnesses:Matron of honor Celeste Zazzali and maid of honor Jessica Zelizo.
Celeste is a tiny woman with beautiful brown eyes who runs marathons. (Melany made Matt go to Celeste’s party after the NYC marathon even though it was the day after his bachelor party and he was feeling the pain.) Celeste is an oboist and an elementary school music teacher and a scrapbooker. She and Melany met as undergraduates when they were both hired to work for the Director of Bands at the College of New Jersey. They didn’t really like each other when they first met in August of 2000.
But, says Melany, “ Celeste always tells a story that one day we were in our office working together toward the end of our first semester and she asked me something and I gave her a sarcastic response. It made her laugh. As soon as we became friends we were inseparable. We were a package deal. She has been there for me no matter what.”
Celeste rose to offer her toast as matron of honor, walking around the “sweetheart table” where Matt and Mel sat.
“Good evening! Tonight is the best of nights because there is so much to celebrate. Before I say my piece, I want to thank Melany & Matt for allowing me to stand by their side on the most important day of their lives; I want to extend my gratitude to their families for their love and support of this fabulous couple and for making this day possible; and I want to thank all of you for indulging me in the next few minutes. Since I am one of three speeches tonight, I will do my best to keep this brief. Melany has always been a role model for me and I suspect I am not alone in saying that. In the ten years that we have been friends, I have had the opportunity to laugh with her, seek comfort from her, and learn from her. She is the best person I know, and I admire her in so many ways. Tonight I’m going to discuss what makes Melany the person who she is and why she is someone to look up to as a role-model.
“Everything about Melany is beautiful. It goes without saying, but her outer beauty is obvious. Melany, you look absolutely stunning today! And as gorgeous as you are on the outside, you are infinitely more beautiful on the inside. Melany’s character is one that I strive to emulate in my life.
“Melany is strong. Life has thrown her more than her fair share of challenging times. She has handled all of these situations with grace and strength. The strength in Melany’s heart will keep your marriage together for a lifetime. Her strength has been portrayed in many different ways. Whether it was putting Dr. Silvester, an intimidating band director, in his place; never letting her health concerns pull her spirits down; or sticking up for her friends like the time the hotel tried to pull a fast one on us in Vegas. Whenever I find myself in a situation where I have to fight to get what I want, I channel my “Inner-Melany” and think, “What would Melany do?”
“Melany is selfless. Melany has never had a problem taking care of others. She does it like it is her job, her purpose in the world, and she does it without asking for anything in return. Such as the time I was sick and I wouldn’t admit it. We were at my parents’ house and I was stubbornly insisting that I was fine. Melany nodded and handed me the TheraFlu. Or the time before my wedding, she made me feel special even though her knee was on the brink of yet another surgery. She never complained even though she was in pain. She was more concerned about the smile on my face.
“Melany is a listener. Whether we’re meeting up for a cup of coffee or catching up on one of our weekly phone calls, Melany is a master in the art of listening. No matter what is going on in her life, and we all know there have been some turbulent times, she will give you her undivided attention. There have been countless hours where I’ve told her every detail about the next race I want to run, or the exact shade I want to use in a scrapbook I’m making. The same conversation that causes my husband’s eyes to glaze over, Melany absorbs every detail and endures it because she knows how important it is to me. And then during our next phone call, she’ll ask about it in such detail showing you just how well she really was listening.
“Those are just a few of Melany’s best characteristics: beauty, strength, selflessness, and the ability to really listen. I could go on, but I think I’ve already made my point that Melany is an outstanding person, is a role model, and she attracts good people to her like a magnet. Matt, this is where you come in. The same qualities that you saw in Melany that made her fit to be your wife are the same characteristics that drew her to you. You are also strong, selfless, an excellent listener, and you two are going to have some good-looking kids!! On top of that, you have a great sense of humor, an overwhelming amount of patience, and are an honest man whom we all trust with Melany’s heart. When you put two incredible people like Melany and Matt together the result is a beautiful marriage. Future couples will look up to you both as role models and see an example of a first-rate marriage that will last a lifetime.
“With those thoughts, I wish you both the best that your marriage has to offer. Let’s all raise our glasses high and drink to the happiness of this beautiful couple. Cheers!”
Next up was Melany’s friend from childhood, maid of honor Jessica Zelizo. Jess looked especially fetching in the black bridesmaid’s gown, with her dark eyes and her dark hair curling down her back. Melany and Jess’ friendship dates all the way back to the womb.
Jess talked about how her dad had walked up the street when Susan and Steven Felsen moved into their lake community, and had told the pregnant Susan that she better give birth to a girl because the Zelizos had a brand-new baby girl. They spent their childhood playing, talking and dreaming in each other’s homes.
As the best man,, and matron/maids of honor were giving their speeches, Susan and I were formulating what we were going to say. Crystal Plaza event coordinator Nella had told us our speeches were next and,for some reason, neither of us had quite comprehended in the days before the event that we were supposed to give a speech.
When Susan was introduced, she talked about the joy Melany has brought to the family, and how her gift of music has given them so many wonderful memories of concerts, recitals, and performances She talked about how proud she is of Melany and how she has handled the challenges life has given her. Susan thanked Matt for helping Mel’s heart heal after the loss of her dad, and she closed with something Grandma Betty always says, "May your joys be many and your sorrows few."
(There’s really no kinship term to describe the relationship between two families brought together by marriage. Susan, Betty, Aunt Jayme, and Cousin Jayme are Matt’s in-laws, but what are they to me? It feels like I have been blessed with another set of sisters, and I am most grateful.)
I had scribbled just two words on a piece of paper for my speech: “don’t ask, don’t tell” and “cheat sheet..”
When I rose to speak, I started out by talking about how Matt, as our firstborn, was always the prince of our family. I talked about how Matt and Melany shared a love of music and a love of baseball, even though the Felsen-Innes family are Yankee fans and the McQueenys are strictly Mets fans.
However, I told the group, I didn’t even know about Melany until perhaps 18 months after they began dating. I explained that, in the McQueeny household, much as in the US military, we have a policy of “don’t ask, don’t tell” when it comes to romantic relationships. I said I don’t have any idea of the identities or numbers of girlfriends Tom has had, even though I’ve sat outside numerous girls’ homes late at night waiting to pick up Tom before he got his driver’s license.
And so, even though Matt had been to Susan and Melany’s home many times and even to Grandma Betty and Aunt Jayme’s home many times, and even had his own seat of honor in Betty’s TV room when they all watched sports, Matt’s family had no idea he had a girlfriend, let alone a SERIOUS girlfriend. (I explained that I had found a Christmas card signed “Fondly, Melany” when I was cleaning out his room after he moved out to his Edgewater co-op. So sue me, I’m nosy. But I didn’t ask and he didn’t tell.)
But Melany was pressuring him to meet his family, and so Matt finally told me he had been dating a girl for a while and she wanted to meet us. He e-mailed me a “cheat sheet” of factoids about Melany, so that it would appear he had been telling us about her all along. On the “cheat sheet”: She was a middle-school music teacher and band director, graduate of The College of New Jersey with a masters’ from the Peabody Institute of Johns Hopkins. She was slender and pretty. She was occasionally a model. She was a great cook. She played the clarinet.
We met Melany at a PF Chang’s –Matt’s favorite restaurant at the time—and she was all of the above and more. We met Susan at a “Cheeseburger in Paradise” in Wayne in September of 2008, and we met the rest of the family around Christmas.
Fast-forward to another momentous dinner in early December of 2009. Matt and I had gone to Melany’s student Christmas concert, and after we heard her band perform, we snuck out to get dinner. Matt told me how, on their tour of the California wine country the month before, Melany had suggested they go ring-browsing. Not ring-shopping, mind you. Ring-browsing. And they had met a ring salesman who had really put the screws to Matt, saying that if Matt really loved Melany, he would have no trouble spending thousands of dollars on her ring, since traditionally a man spends three months of his salary on the engagement ring.
(“The salesman asked,”How much is your love worth?'” Matt piped in from the sweetheart table.)
At our post-concert dinner, Matt told me that he had balked at the ring salesman’s pressure tactics and told Melany he thought it was a waste of money to spend so much on a ring.
“But she’s been crying a lot lately, Mom,” Matt said. “I don’t know what to do.”
I could understand his quandary, panic even. McQueenys aren’t criers, and when faced with crying, we have no adequate response.
I told Matt that maybe he should do what Dad did when we were dating.
“Dad told me that if he kept dating me we would end up getting married and he didn’t want to get married, so he was breaking up with me,” I told Matt. “After about two weeks, he said,’I guess we should get back together.’ Maybe if you break up, it will reveal your true feelings.”
“But I don’t want to break up, Mom,” he said.
“Well, then, if the ring is important to Melany, man up and spend the money,” I said.
And thus, I told the wedding group, I have another beautiful daughter. I am so glad Matt manned up and we are here tonight.
Finally, it was Dad’s turn to speak. Jim is a seasoned, easy, entertaining speaker (I always say I married him for his stories), but he has one serious character flaw. And in a family where humor is a core family value, this is a serious character flaw: He tries to ride the coattails of a successful joke. So, if Matt has told a really funny joke or Mike has uttered a riposte that leaves us weak with laughter or Tom has done a dead-on imitation, Jim tries to milk the laugh they’ve generated with a lesser joke, a junior joke, a runt joke.
(This reminds of the time when Jerry Seinfeld went into the Catholic confessional box to complain to the priest that the Catholic dentist Tim Watley had converted to Judaism for the jokes. “And this offends you as a Jew?” asked the priest. “No,” said Seinfeld. “It offends me as a comedian.”)
Jim started off his speech nicely enough, saying that between Matt’s parents and Mel’s parents, we represent 65 years of married life, so they can look to our experience. Then he tried to jump on Mike’s previous laugh lines, saying that he was surprised we were here at Matt’s wedding, because Matt dated so infrequently he was a once-a-decade dater. (I thought this was a low blow, not at all nuanced the way Mike’s roast was, and so I gave Jim the “cut” sign.)
Jim said the McQueeny family avoided public displays of affection, and it took some getting used to to rise to the Felsen-Innes level of open affection. But, said Jim, “I’m taking training, Melany, so that I can hug more.”
And Melany got up and hugged Jim.
After that, it was dancing. I love to dance, and was dancing up a storm. I danced the pretzel dance with my brother-in-law Donny O. I danced around Maeve and Tom, because it’s a parent’s prerogative to embarrass her children. My children and nieces and nephews didn’t dance much. They watched us boomers make fools of ourselves.
But the most stellar dancer of the evening was the Unitarian minister. He bogeyed, twisted and slithered his way through fast and slow songs. I mentioned his prowess to Susan, and she said, “We Unitarians are a diverse bunch.”
Matt and Melany cut the cake, a beautiful five-tier cake by Ace of Cakes of Baltimore shaped like the New York skyline and emblazoned with the Yankees and Mets insignias, with fireworks in the sky and two champagne flutes for a cake topper. There were two different flavors: mint chocolate chip and apple cinnamon with butter scotch topping.
They then did the traditional feeding of the cake to each other. Matt voiced his fear that Melany was going to smash the cake into his face, the way some brides and grooms do. But she did not.
The cocktail-hour room had been transformed into a dessert palace, with a Viennese table of pastries and cookies, an ice cream bar, a chocolate fondue bar, a coffee bar, and a zeppoli station complete with paper bags so you could shake the zeppolis in a bagful of sugar.
Melany then ascended to the Juliet balcony overlooking the ballroom, and as the band sang the Beyonce song “All the Single Ladies,” she threw her bouquet. Jessica Zelizo snared it. Maeve’s friend Myrna said, “That was a set-up. There was no chance we were going to catch it.”
At some point during the festivities, Cousin Jayme—who is getting married in September -- told Melany, “Remember, you are the bride only until 1.01 am, when your wedding ends. At that point, I become the bride and you become the bridesmaid.”
Another transformation was imminent: It was almost midnight. Susan and Melany handed out the noisemakers Susan had gotten for New Year’s Eve. Melany and Matt were wearing glasses that said 2011 and Melany was adorned with a black-and-pink boa. As it hit midnight, we went around kissing family and friends. What a nice way to welcome the New Year. Photographer Joe Lin climbed to the balcony and took a photo of the crowd from on high.
Finally, it was time to wrap up. My nephew Lou Benedetto departed for the airport to head back to Arizona. Hotel-bound wedding guests were waiting in the Crystal Plaza entry for the shuttle. Grandma Betty was upset that a waiter clearing her table had inadvertently spilled a drink on her outfit.
Because Jim had his car, we were conscripted to ferry big aluminum trays of desserts the Crystal Plaza staff had packed for us. We loaded in a couple of bags containing Melany’s veil and Susan’s veil, and the poster-sized card describing the menu.
I chatted with Mike, Tom, Maeve and Monica in Mike’s room for a while. I was just getting ready for bed around 3 – Jim was already snoring --when my cell phone rang. It was Matt.
“Mom, did you take Melany’s bouquet in your car? She wants to preserve it, and she’s supposed to keep it refrigerated.”
“Matt, I frankly don’t know what’s in the car, but, if it’s in there, it IS refrigerated,, because it’s cold out.”
“Melany is worried. She doesn’t know where her bouquet is.”
And I thought, welcome to marriage, Matt. Her worries become your worries. I also empathized with Melany, who had attended to so many details to make this wedding work. This was one last detail she wanted to get right. It was keeping her from getting to sleep.
“Put Melany on the phone, Matt,” I said.
“Melany, I’ll just go down to the car and check for the bouquet,” I said.
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble, Mary,” she said.
“It’s easy,” I said.
I threw a coat over my pajamas, and put on my flat dancing shoes. Maeve came with me. I went through the contents of the car. No bouquet. We couldn’t open the door to get back into the hotel with our key card. Luckily someone was walking through the back hallway and opened the door for us.
I called them back. “The bouquet isn’t in the car,” I said. “But I can drive back to the Crystal Plaza and get it.”
“There won’t be anyone there at this point,” said Matt. “It’s pointless. We’ll get the bouquet tomorrow.”
“You sure?” I said. “It’s no trouble.”
“We’ll get it tomorrow,” Matt repeated. I prayed Melany got some sleep.
The next morning, the wedding guests still in residence at the hotel joined us at a breakfast we had arranged. When Matt and Melany entered the room in jeans and sweats, they were like royalty on the down-low. Everybody cheered. Grandma Betty told us about the inebriated men in tuxes who had knocked on her bedroom door in the middle of the night.
When the bill came, the maitre d’ gave it to my sister Libby. I guess she looks like the boss or the family matriarch. Everyone said their good-byes. My husband, brothers-in-law and children dispersed to their cars. My niece Monica went to get her babes.
I drove out of the hotel, passing my son Matt talking to his high school friend Chris Kerrigan. I went a mileor two when I got a call from my sister Margaret B. asking for a ride. I doubled back to the hotel, and picked up Margaret. Matt was still talking to Chris Kerrigan.
I put my car in gear and drove out of the wonderful wedding bubble and back into normalcy.
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