The hype before Valentine’s Day seems to increase and last longer each year. Or maybe it is simply my imagination. The cold and snowy weather this year brought back memories of the winter weather over my wedding weekend. I was not married on Valentine’s Day, but a week later…
Engaged my junior year in college, planning a wedding was an additional assignment along with attending classes, completing classwork, hanging out with friends, finding a summer job, and preparing for life after college. The wedding project involved details this blushing young bride-to-be never thought about until compelled to do so.
Planning began the summer before my senior year. I lived at home and Mom taught part-time during the summer. We squeezed into our busy schedules phone calls, vendor meetings, and tours of potential venues.
I knew nothing of the practicalities of arranging and paying for a major event. Following a few phone calls, I realized weddings were really, really expensive affairs.
Scheduling special occasions during the winter months in the Northeast is risky business, the weather a wild card that can devastate an affair. On the other hand I discovered venues and other event-associated costs were cheaper in winter. A lot cheaper. For a family subsidizing two college educations, squeezed by inflation, and only recently past Dad’s period of unemployment, a winter wedding was barely affordable. A spring or summer one unthinkable.
On Saturday, February 19, 1972, a major blizzard struck the New York metropolitan area. I spent the day wondering if my ceremony and reception would materialize and if everyone – or anyone – would come.
Huddled in their homes, Americans turned on their TV and witnessed a live Radio Hanoi press conference hailing the capture of five American POWs. I was quietly grateful Steve, my Navy man, was serving in the Mediterranean and Caribbean theaters.
Over five inches of precipitation fell that day and evening, the biggest snowstorm of the season. Thankfully it was a mixed bag of snow, sleet, and ice. The accumulation did not paralyze the New York metro area for long.
The next morning, my wedding day, dawned cold and white. A pristine snowy blanket coated the world outside my front door, the usual gray slop and dirt from cars and other pollutants not yet tainting the landscape.
The entire day remains a blur in my mind, the morning a rush of last-minute preparations, and the drive to the social hall nothing but a blur. The phone constantly rang, callers confirming whether or not the party was on.
By late morning roads turned to mush under clear, sunny skies. Treacherous driving conditions avoided, most guests made it to the wedding.
I remember nothing of the ceremony. Pictures show three bridesmaids in royal blue and my sister, the maid of honor, in gold, walking down the aisle in matching floor-length, homemade dresses, each paired with a black tuxedoed groomsman. A couple of pictures show what the scene looked like from the guests’ point of view, me in a long-sleeved, high-necked Victorian-style ivory dress, brown hair reaching my waist, with Steve in a black tuxedo beside me. The reception hall overflowed with large vases full of blue and white flowers recycled from a sparsely attended affair the previous evening.
Several posed pictures show Steve in a Navy uniform with his sword, the attire a concession to my mother-in-law’s wishes. Steve, however, stood firm and refused to walk down the aisle in uniform.
By the end of the afternoon mid-winter darkness descended, roads turned icy, and the reception hall emptied. Our guests returned home and, along with millions of other Americans, gathered around their TV and watched the three major networks jointly air President Richard Nixon’s historic visit to Communist China.
The framed Navy sword hangs over our mantle today. Fifty-plus years later we have weathered many storms, and are still together.
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