By Leah S. Dunaief
Publisher
My parents married for the second time on July 4th. That was 99 years ago, and it was the religious wedding. Three years earlier, they were married in a civil ceremony during their lunch hour in New York’s City Hall. How did that come about?
I will tell you the story.
When my dad was 13, he was told by his father that he was now a man and should go off to the city and start his own life. So he left the dairy farm in the Catskill Mountains, where he was raised, and joined his older brother in Brooklyn at a boarding house. It was the beginning of the 20th century, and that was where renters, usually men, slept and got their meals.
One day, his brother told him he had gotten engaged and asked if my dad would like to join him for a visit to his fiancée’s home in Queens. The two of them entered the house just as the fiancée’s younger sister was coming downstairs. To hear my dad tell it, he looked up, saw this beautiful young lady in a red dress descending the stairs and instantly fell madly in love. I can vouch for the fact that he stayed that way for all the rest of his life. She became his wife and he adored her always.
But I get ahead of myself.
They both worked in the Wall Street area, and my father would contrive to have lunch with my mother as often as possible. One day, when she was 15 and he 17, he suggested they walk over to City Hall and get married.
Now my father was clearly a romantic. My mother, by contrast, was a clear-headed, practical woman. She, too, must have been in love because she agreed on the spot. They overcame the obstacle of not having any witnesses by asking men who were getting their shaves in the barbershop on the block to help. Two men gallantly agreed, threw off their bibs, wiped their faces and proceeded to swear that my parents were 18 and therefore of age to marry. Their signatures on my parents’ wedding license has forever endeared them to me, though they were total strangers.
Not knowing what to do next, they went back to their jobs and then to their respective abodes.
When my mother returned home that night, she encountered a raging father. He had been reading the local evening newspaper, in which those who married that day were listed, and he was both furious and terribly hurt. Head hanging, she acknowledged her deed. When he finally calmed down, her father laid down the law.
My father, his new son-in-law, would move into their home but two floors separately from my mother. He would join the family at meals and in every other non-marital activity, and if they all agreed, there would be a “proper” religious ceremony to consecrate the marriage when my mother turned 18.
So it was decreed and so it happened. The extended family, who all lived in the three story house, came to love my father during those ensuing years, especially my mother’s aunt. She shared memories with him about the “old country” and the family that was left behind when they immigrated to America a decade earlier. He said they would sit together in front of the coal stove, in the parlor, until late in the evening, as she told her stories. That is what I am lucky enough to know about the family’s history, for he in turn enjoyed telling me.
At the assigned time, my parents married and moved out of the house to start their own family. A couple of years later, my brother was born. My parents are gone now, and with remarkable coincidence, my brother joined them, dying 64 years later on July 4th.
Wherever they are now, they must be having a great party.
Among these concerns and curiosities involving the topic of firearms, Barbara and Kevin also stated that they hope Thursday’s debate includes topics of social security for the future, welfare for the elderly and aid for immigration.
“Mental health concerns for everyone should be covered,” added Kristen. They both agreed that access to health care, including care for mental health, should be addressed.
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