Arlenes World

Ah! Romance is in the air!  It’s almost May, known for Mother’s Day, prom nights, springtime, flowers blooming.  And, by most polls, the third most popular month in which to marry.  Next month we have June with Father’s Day, graduations and summer vacations!  June, the number one month in which couples pick to join together in matrimony.

I was married in May.  It was a Friday afternoon, the ceremony was at 3:00 P.M.  It had rained the day before and drizzled that morning.  But the sun came out a few minutes before and lingered a little after the ceremony which was nice.  They say rain on your wedding day is good luck.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t for me.  Ten years later I found myself divorced.  Yet, though I can tell you the exact day, date and time I was married, the flowers that were in bloom, the dress that I wore down to the shoes on my feet.  I still can’t recall the same for the day my divorce was finalized.  Funny, I guess only pleasant memories are recalled and unpleasant ones are hidden deep inside of us.

June was the month of my parents’ wedding and even though it wasn’t a perfect marriage it still lasted longer than mine.  It’s beginning was also more romantic.  The stories my Mom told us about the time leading up to their wedding day was full of pathos.  There were moments of excitement, anticipation, intrigue, arguments, jealousies and life-threatening danger.  Marriage was a solemn time, a wonderment about the sacrament of marriage.  I can’t say the same for my brief marriage.  Can you?  There’s something lacking today.  Back then, you met the guy, got to know each other, your likes and dislikes.  What you both wanted out of life.  Instead of today’s notion of romance.  Right away jump into bed together.  In 1944 the young man would ask permission from the woman’s parents to wed.  Sex was a magical mystery (at least for the woman).  It was anticipated, wondered about, not without a little tension.  Then, finally, on your wedding night, you discover what it is to be a man and a woman.

Nowadays, it seems that you meet someone, have sex, probably on the first night, without even knowing each others names.  Later, if you’re still together you move in mostly for convenience’s sake.  Usually the notion of marriage comes up only when there’s a baby on its way.  Don’t get me wrong,  I’m only being judgmental because I’ve fallen into the same “live together” lifestyle.  Yet there’s got to be something more.  A spiritual connection.  Some sense of belonging together.  Commitment.  Oh, well.  You’ve caught me in one of my down moments.  But I’ll let you, the reader, be the judge.  Tell me what you think of the following tale that I call, “The Day My Parents’ Were Wed!”  Let me know if you think life was richer, fuller back when.

The year was 1944.  The Second World War still raged on overseas.  Women populated the work place and only men who were rejected by the service were available.  Mom turned 26 in April of that year.  She was considered by then to be an “old maid”.  Too old for marriage.  But she had been too busy keeping her family together to think about her own happiness.  She watched as her older sisters got married and had babies of their own.  Her girlfriends found boyfriends and soon Mom was attending their weddings as well.  I often wondered, what did a single young woman have to look forward to other than marriage back then?  Even though times were a changing.  Women were beginning to come out of their shells.  Forging their own futures.  Yet, the old customs wore heavily on most.  Especially for the women of Sicilian descent.  So, what did Jennie want out of her life?

Without having a high school diploma there were few jobs the young woman could get.  There were the sweat shops.  She knew how to sew.  It was where her family, friends and neighbors worked.  Yet, it just wasn’t’ for her.  She wanted something more.  Years later, she would confide in me that her dream was to be a secretary.  Like the ones in the movies and later on, in TV series.  She had visions similar to “My Private Secretary”, starring Ann Southern.  She loved how they dressed and wore their hair so perfectly.  Secretaries were deemed smart and were respected by their boss, family and friends.  It was a totally different atmosphere than where she eventually worked as a young woman.  It was this dream that made her push me, at a very young age, to one day become a secretary.  It is what I do today.

Back in 1944 Jennie was able to get a job at a local textile factory, threading huge machines that made blankets for the soldiers, fighting in the war.  Her friends, pitying her, tried to set her up with a friend of one of their husbands.  “How does he look like,” inquired a curious Jennie.  She was barely five foot tall with curly black shoulder length hair, perfect olive skin and big expressive brown eyes.  Thin yet shapely the young woman fit nicely into dresses she had sewn herself.  Each outfit was properly accented with custom jewelry and always she would wear high, high heels to give the allusion of height.  But at work she had to dress in casual  blouses and slacks.

“He’s tall, five foot eleven, ruggedly handsome like John Wayne, with brown hair,” they described him to her.  “He works hard at an asbestos factory.  A good son.  Helps support his father and mother and is really nice.  Kind of shy.”  “And he’s Irish!”  That sort of sealed the deal for the petite Sicilian girl.  She had seen too many of her kinsman beat and mistreat their wives.  She wanted nothing to do with a man with machismo.  So, Jennie finally relented and a date was set for them to meet.

He was tall, fair skin.  A nice dresser.  Shy, not much to say other than he lived for New Year days.  It was the time when the Mummers came out and paraded down the streets of South Philadelphia.  He had closets of old costumes that his mother and older sisters had made for him to wear, as a clown, in the Fancies brigade.  The young woman had been to a couple of Mummers parades.  Memories of clowns with painted faces, smelling of hard liquor, rubbing their faces against hers, trying to steal a kiss.  Trying, hoping for more.

“Do you play an instrument?” she asked.  “No.  But I use to pretend to play the drums,” he answered.  “Oh, well.”  The date went off on not so much as a memorable note.

For her at least.  Yet he remembered her.  A couple of days later a strange tall man waved at her from across the street as she made her way home from work.  He seemed to know her but he didn’t look familiar to her.

“Jennie!  Hey, wait up! I want to talk to you.”  The tall man shouted as she put her head down and picked up her walking pace.  He finally caught up with her.  “It’s me.  Harry.”  “Who?” she still didn’t recognize him.  “Remember?  We had dinner the other night?”

It was like that often when they met after not seeing each other for a couple of days.  Jennie had a hard time remembering his face even his name.  And it was a common, easy name!  Like Smith or Jones.  She still had trouble recalling her new surname soon after her marriage and the following instance comes to mind.

Mom was sickly most of her life.  She suffered from asthma as well as allergies.  She use to go to a local clinic each month to get shots for her conditions.  Naturally the nurses and the doctor at the clinic knew that she was going to get married.  She had told them.  But every time they asked what her new name would be she couldn’t remember.  They would laugh and tease her but Mom reassured them that she would remember her married name when she came by next time to get her shots.

A month went by after her marriage and Mom was sitting in the clinic’s crowded waiting room.  She kept repeating her married name over and over to herself so she wouldn’t forget.  She’d be ready when they called her name.

But when the nurse called out, “Mrs. — “, Mom continued to read her magazine.  The nurse, after several tries, went back to the doctor to say that Mrs. — wasn’t here.  The nurse was new and didn’t know my Mom.  But the doctor insisted that she continue to call for Mrs. —.  So the poor nurse shrugged her shoulders and dutifully kept calling out for Mrs. —, over and over again.  Mom looked up, annoyed.  The woman next to her said to the nurse, “Why don’t they call someone else’s name.  This Mrs. — is obviously not here.”  My Mom agreed.  “Who is this Mrs. — anyway?  Why is it so important for them to keep calling for her?”  Mom questioned the lady sitting next to her.  The equally frustrated woman agreed.  Just then one of the nurses who was in on the “joke” couldn’t take it any longer.  She jumped up and started shaking my Mom saying, “It’s you!  You’re Mrs. — !”  She pushed my Mom into the examining room to meet the doctor.  The woman who had been talking with Mom was shocked.  Mom, stunned and confused, worriedly met the doctor.  “I’m sorry, doctor, but this nurse was calling for Mrs. — and then she pushed me in here and I don’t know who Mrs. — is”.  The doctor couldn’t keep his composure any longer.  He burst out laughing.  “Didn’t you just get married?”  He asked my clueless Mother.  “Yes, I did.” she answered.  “And what is your new name?”  She had to think about it for a few moments and finally remembered.  “Oh!  I’m Mrs. — !”

Back to Jennie and Harry.

It was time for Jennie to meet Harry’s parents and family, all five older sisters and one younger brother.  Though nervous, the young Sicilian woman was polite and showed interest in her husband-to-be family’s background.  When she asked his sisters where in Ireland their family came from they were incredulous.  “We’re not Irish!  We’re German and French Canadian,” said one sister.  Another asked, “Where did you get the idea that we were Irish?”

“Your brother told me he was Irish,” insisted a stubborn Jennie.  The sisters laughed, “We should know what we are and we’re not Irish.”  Confused, Jennie confronted her fiancee.  “You told me you were Irish,” she accused.  She was mad that he had lied to her and also embarrassed because all her family and friends were so proud that she was marrying a non-Sicilian.  “Yeah.  I am,” he insisted.  “They’re you’re sisters, aren’t they?”  Jennie demanded.  Harry nodded affirmatively.  “Well,” Jennie continued, “They say that they’re German!”  Finally, the young man had to relent and explain.  “It’s easier to tell people that I’m Irish because saying that I’m German isn’t really popular right now.”  Even though she understood his reasoning she was still furious that he had lied to her.  She stormed out of the house stating that the wedding was off!

A distraught Harry ran after her.  He grabbed her arm and tried to make her listen to his apology.  But the stubborn, hot blooded Sicilian would hear nothing of his beseeching words.   She undid her arm from his hands, pushed him away from her and quickly hopped a waiting bus.  By the time Harry realized what had happened, the bus was racing down the Philadelphia street.

Jennie was buried deep in her dark thoughts.  She was upset.  What was she going to tell her friends.  Her family!  How could she explain to them that she was marrying a German.  A Nazi probably.  How un-American was that?  What with one of her brothers in the Army and stationed overseas.

In the meantime, Harry, reacting quickly, stepped boldly out into the busy city traffic.  Brakes screech to a halt.  One hand up, stopping the oncoming traffic, with the other hand he flashes a detective’s badge.  He hails a nearby taxi and jumps in.  “I’m a detective.  See that bus.  Catch up to it!”  Without questioning, the taxi sped off down the street.

The passengers in the bus were excitedly talking and pointing at something behind them.  Whispers of a taxi dangerously weaving in and out of the traffic.  Coming towards the bus.  Jennie didn’t pay attention to what the other passengers were saying.  She was too deep into her own misery to care.

In the taxi, the driver asked, “Okay, Detective, I caught up with the bus.  What do we do now?”

“Pull in front of that bus!  Cut it off!” Harry ordered.  Without a thought of protest, the taxi driver swerves in front of the moving bus.  The smell of rubber burning mixed with the loud screeching of brakes grinding to a halt!

“What’s going on here?”  The bus driver demands as he opens the door to a tall determined young man flashing a badge.

“Police work.  I have to take a dangerous woman off this bus!”  Harry informed the bus driver.

Jennie, seeing who the “officer” was slunk deeper into her seat.

“Of course, Officer.  Anything you say,” said the bus driver.  “Do you need any assistance?”

“No, thanks.  I can take care of this myself.”

Harry walking down the isle, scans the startled faces of the passengers until he comes across the one he is looking for.  He grabs Jennie by the arm and easily pulls her up onto her feet.  She starts protesting, small balled up fists beating at his arm and chest as he drags her towards the front of the bus.

“Stop protesting, young lady.  It’ll go easier on you if you cooperate,” Harry tells Jennie who pleads for help from the bus driver.

“He’s lying.  I haven’t done anything!” she yells while her little fists pound on Harry’s chest.

“Now, go along with the good officer, little girl,” the bus driver urged her.  “He knows what’s best for you.”

The other passengers were all whispering among themselves as Harry escorted Jennie off the bus.  “What do you think she did?”  “She looks Italian.”  “Probably with the mob.”

Every time Mom told this story she would pretend being angry but always end up laughing.  You could tell she was pleased with how much Dad cared for her.

Oh, and by the way.  No.  My Dad was never a police officer nor detective.  And he never explained what he was doing with a fake police ID even though we did question him about it.

Needless to say the wedding was on again.

Yet there was another obstacle for them to get over.  Jennie was Roman Catholic.  Harry was High Episcopal.  Back then religions were strict.  Jennie couldn’t marry Harry unless he converted to Catholicism.  So Harry did to show his respect.  He went to the local parish at night after work to study with a kind elderly priest who was very forgiving of the young man’s lack of schooling.  If not for the big heart of this parish priest Harry would never have past his studies.  But, finally, before the wedding, Harry became a Catholic.

Back at the textile factory, Jennie gave her two weeks notice.  Like most women of her era she would stay at home and have a family.  But there were others that had different plans for the innocent young bride-to-be.

Though Jennie wasn’t a prude she was respectable and didn’t engage in the promiscuous behavior of her fellow workers.  A lot of women, some with husbands or boyfriends overseas, and longing for human companionship i.e. sex, would frolic with the men at work.  The men tried to get Jennie to spend some time in deserted closets but she refused.  Such behavior was beneath her and contrary to her strict upbringing.  Which set her apart from the others at the textile company and got her a reputation of being standoffish.  Yet there was one Italian man, even though he fooled around with the other women, really longed for Jennie instead.  When he discovered that Jennie was going to get married he was distraught.  Going to the young woman, red eyes and sniffling, he asked her, “Is it true?”

“Is what true?” Jennie asked roughly.

“That you’re leaving.  That you’re getting married,” he asked timidly.

“So what’s it to you?  Yes, I’m going to get married!” the feisty Sicilian answered.  After all, this man had never even asked her out on a date.  Why was he making such a fuss now, all of a sudden.

After that confrontation everyone avoided Jennie.  There were whisperings and people looking at her funny but she thought nothing of it.  That is, until her last day at work.

There was an old Italian woman who worked with Jennie.  Both women hardly said two words to each other.  But on this day, just when everyone was busy doing something else and not paying attention, the elderly woman joined Jennie at dusting the huge knitting machines.

“I hear that you are getting married,” the old woman said in broken English.  Jennie started to look at her but the old woman hollered under her breath, “Don’t look at me!  Stare straight ahead and go about your job.”  Jennie, thinking the woman was insane, did as she was instructed.

“Just nod.  Are you getting married,” the old woman whispered.  Jennie silently nodded.  “Are you quitting this job and never coming back?”  Jennie said that she might come back if money was a problem.  “No!” the elderly woman whispered.  “You must never come back!”  She looked quickly over her shoulder.  “They’re always watching me.  They don’t want me to tell you what they have planned for you.  It’s horrible.  Rape and worse.  I don’t agree with what they want to do to you.  But they threatened to kill me if I try to warn you.”

Shocked, Jennie didn’t know what to say even if she could find her voice to speak.  She just listened as the woman went on.

“Don’t come back here ever again.  Get married, have children.  But never come back here.  Do you understand me?”  It was difficult because of her heavy accent but Jennie got the idea of what she was being told.  “Nod if you understand me,” the elderly woman insisted.  Jennie obediently nodded.  “Good.  Now repeat what I just told you.”  Jennie repeated back that she was to never come back to work here, that she was to get married and have children.  “Good.  Good,” the Italian woman nodded relieved.  “I’ve prayed and prayed to God to give me this time alone with you.  I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least get a chance to warn you.  But now He has answered my prayers.  I can rest in peace now.”  Just then the others came snooping around the seemingly busy pair.  The elderly woman innocently moved away and the others asked Jennie, “What was she talking to you about?”  “Her?  Oh, nothing,” Jennie lied.  The others were suspicious but believed the young woman.  “So, you’re coming back here after the honeymoon,” one of her fellow workers smirked, winking to the others.  Jennie lied a second time that day.  “Oh, sure.  I’ll be back in a couple of weeks.”  “Good,” the others said.  But Jennie never went back there again.

There is a Sicilian tradition that the future groom serenade his future bride the night before they are to be wed.  Harry, wanting to please his future bride and respect her family’s traditions, decided to serenade Jennie.  But with no musical talent of his own, Harry imposed on some of his Mummers friends.  That night, with her family and girlfriends, underneath her bedroom window, came the strains of a small band playing love songs.  It was very moving and Jennie was proud of her future husband.

June 17, 1944.  It was an extremely hot and humid day.  The ceremony was to be at 3:00 that afternoon.  Her father went in the morning to get the Italian wedding cake, spongelike layers of vanilla cake with creamy vanilla pastry cream, from the bakery.  He worried that the cream would sour in the summer heat with no refrigeration.  But he didn’t let Jennie know of his worries.  The Bride was upstairs getting ready.  With the help of her eldest sister, Carmela, they curled her hair.  Jennie had similar concerns about her curls.  In this humidity she wondered how long it would take before they began to droop.  She said a silent prayer to St. Anthony about her hair and then she put on her gown.

Because of the war silk was used for parachutes so wedding dresses had to be made of rayon or some other material.  The simple yet elegant gown that Jennie wore bundled loosely around her bust and then flowed straight down.  It was an off white color with long sleeves that were buffy at the shoulders.  The top was heart shape with sheer netting and ribbon at the neck.  Pearl buttons went down the sleeves from the elbow.  Pearl buttons went down the back of the dress.  There were no designs on the dress.  On her head was a beautiful reef of pearls and white flowers.  Her bouquet was of delegate lilies.

It proved to be a good thing that the dress was long.  Later, after the wedding ceremony, when it came time for the newlyweds to have their photos taken, Jennie’s lack of height proved to be a problem.  Luckily the innovative photographer had Jennie climb up on several phone books.  They then draped her flowing gown over the books.  Looking at the photos you could never tell that she was standing on a mountain of books.  She was a beautiful bride.  And he a handsome groom.

Harry and his best man, his younger brother, George, wore white tuxedo jackets with black pants.  A white rose each wore in their lapel.  They waited inside of St. Monica’s, Jennie’s parish church at 7th and Ritner Streets.  The bride and her father entered the church to the strains of Ava Maria, a song Jennie had specifically requested.  After the wedding there was the usual reception at the bride’s house.  The Mummer’s from the night before were there entertaining everyone.  The wedding cake’s cream was a little sour but still delicious.  Salami, pepperoni, both kinds of capicola, hot and sweet, provolone cheese, Italian rolls, potato and macaroni salads and wine and beer were served to the guests.  Later, they both changed clothing and a cab drove them to Atlantic City where they spent their honeymoon.  A few months later Jennie did get pregnant with her first child.  The newlyweds lived with her family until they saved enough money to move out on their own.

The couple went on the have three children, two boys and a girl.  The youngest boy graced them with three lovely grandsons and a daughter-in-law.  They were extremely proud of all of them.

Their marriage wasn’t perfect.  Which marriage really is.  But they stayed together even when times were rough.  Their marriage was not unlike a lot of marriages in that era.  But their beginning.  That was something else!

God Bless.

Love you, Mom and Dad!

PS….  I almost forgot to include the song of the Mummers!

O, Dem Golden Slippers Every Mummer and Mummers fan knows the tune to this song. But not everyone knows the words. The unofficial theme song of the Mummers Parade, it was written by the African-American Philadelphian James A. Bland in 1879.

“Oh my golden slippers am laid away, Kase I don’t ’spect to wear ‘em till my weddin’ day, And my long-tail’d coat, dat I lov’d so well, I will wear up in de chariot in de morn.

An my long, white robe dat I bought last June, I’m gwine to git changed kase it fits too soon, An de old grey hoss dat I used to drive, I will hitch him to de chariot in de morn.

Refrain

Oh, dem golden slippers! Oh, dem golden slippers! Golden slippers I’m gwine to wear, Becase dey look so neat. Oh, dem golden slippers! Oh, dem golden slippers! Golden slippers I’se gwine to wear, To walk de golden street.

Oh, my ole banjo hangs on de wall, Kase it ain’t been tuned since way last fall, But de darks all say we will hab a good time, When we ride up in de chariot in de morn.

Dar’s ole Brudder Ben and Sister Luce, Dey will telegraph de news to Uncle Bacco Juice, What a great camp-meetin’ der will be dat day, When we ride up in de chariot in de morn.

Refrain

So, it’s good bye, children, I will have to go Whar de rain don’t fall or de wind don’t blow, And yer ulster coats, why, yer will not need, When yer ride up in de chariot in de morn. But yer golden slippers must be nice and clean, And yer age must be just sweet sixteen, And yer white kid gloves yer will have to wear, When yer ride up in de chariot in de morn.

Refrain”

This is for you, Dad. I know you’re doing the Mummers Strut up there in Heaven!