Bobbie and Emil at Marissa’s Bat Mitzvah November 2009

Every simcha is a cause for rejoicing. However, for the Cohen family, my niece’s bat mitzvah was an especially joyful occasion.

My sister Bobbie and her husband Emil started planning for their daughter Marissa’s bat mitzvah soon after their rabbi had given them the December 5, 2009, date. Since everything had worked out well at their son Michael’s bar mitzvah and party in 2005, they decided to have a similar service and a party at the same venue.

In May  2008, Bobbie received devastating news, Both her recent mammogram and ultrasound had come out normal, but Bobbie insisted of following up with a dermatologist to biopsy a small “cyst.” Everyone, including her doctors, were surprised at the diagnosis: she had breast cancer.

Bobbie called me on her way home from the doctor. She sobbed; I tried to console her; she asked me to be at our parent’s apartment that evening when she called them. My parents took the news especially hard. No one in our family had ever had breast cancer. How could this happen to their baby, their beautiful Bobbie? They told her that although  they were too old to be of much help, they promised that they would be there for emotional support and would pray for her recovery.

We all were sad that evening, but that was the last time I heard  my little sister cry. “There is a reason that everyone calls me Little Miss Sunshine,” Bobbie told me a few days later. “I refuse to be anything but positive. I will beat this.”

Over the next year, Bobbie underwent chemotherapy, a mastectomy, radiation and reconstruction, but she remained positive. She cheerfully went to her “chemo parties” and continued her exercise regiment. She embraced wearing wigs, declaring, “My hair now looks good all the time.”  A few hours after having her mastectomy, she was on the phone chatting with family and friends. The support of her husband, children, family and friends helped. It was Bobbie’s positive attitude, however, that got us all through this stressful time.  “I am on a road with a few bumps and turns, but it will straighten out again,” she said. “Meanwhile, I have a bat mitzvah to plan.”

In the middle of Bobbie’s ordeal, my father’s health began to deteriorate. Just before he died, Dad received a phone call from his oldest grandson and his wife to tell him that they were expecting their first child. “It will be a boy.” Dad said. “Name him after me, but call him William, not Wilfred.” He passed away a day later, November 20, 2008.

Now my mother was dealing with Bobbie’s illness and the loss of her husband of sixty-eight years. Mom was philosophical about being a widow. “Life is about change,” she said. “Bill and I had a wonderful marriage, and I have to accept that he is gone.” She spent more time with her friends and family. She drew strength from both Bobbie’s optimism and the positive reports from the cancer doctors.

By the following December, everyone was ready for the chance to celebrate. Friends and family came from New York, Arizona, Colorado, and California. The youngest guest was five-month-old William, or Will, my parents’ newest great-grandchild. Before Friday night services, we all gathered in the top floor of the hotel to enjoy a huge  Italian buffet set up by Bobbie and Emil.

The next morning, Marissa did a beautiful job leading the service and reading the Torah and haftorah. Bobbie, still sporting a wig, looked absolutely radiant, and Emil just beamed with pride for his family, and Michael cheered on his sister. The party was a joy. My mother, not looking at all like a ninety-one-year-old widow, danced every hora and electric slide and cha-cha-cha. We took pictures of the entire Cohen family, with the four children and their spouses, the eight grand-children, and the seven great grandchildren. I was not the only one to shed tears of joy. “We were not only celebrating Marissa’s bat mitzvah,” my mother later reflected.”We were also celebrating Bobbie’s good health.”

My mother passed away fourteen months later. For the last ten days, Bobbie came in from Boston and was there at her side. My little sister, who had never taken a medical class in her life, turned out to the best nurse in the family. Bobbie took command and guided us in tending to her needs until Mom joined her beloved Bill.

In September  2015, Marissa left for college. Bobbie and  Emil are enjoying their empty nest, often going into Boston on weekends to take advantage of all the city has to offer. They recently visited us in Florida. I pride myself in my energy and stamina, but I could barely  keep up with the two of them as we explored Spaceship Earth and the World Showcase at  Epcot, rode the Tower of Terror and watched fireworks at Hollywood Studios, and took pictures with ‘Albert Einstein’ and ‘Steve Jobs’ at Orlando’s wax museum.  And through it all, Bobbie sparkled and smiled. And I thank G-d everyday that my little sister is healthy, active, and still our Little Miss Sunshine.

According to an old Borscht Belt joke, all of Jewish holidays basically come down to one theme:  ‘They tried to kill us. We survived. Let’s eat!’ Purim follows the plot line: Haman, an evil advisor to King Ahasuerus, recommends that all the Jews be killed. Esther, with the help of her brother Mordecai, saves the day. We eat hamantashen and drink wine.

Purim has always been one of my favorite Jewish holidays. On March 18, 1973, Larry and I met at a Purim party organized by an Albany Jewish singles group. We were in a “shpiel” based on The Dating Game. He was King Ahasuerus; I was Queen Esther. Over hamantashen and punch, we discovered that we had a great deal in common and, unsaid, a mutual attraction. The rest is history.

But there is another reason I love the holiday: it is in many ways a fairy tale about kings and queens and love conquers all. When it comes to costume parties, most little girls want to be Esther. And I was no exception. Each holiday, my mother would find a pretty robe, and I would make a crown out of cardboard and aluminum foil. Voila! I was royalty!

Much to my embarrassment, I still love a good romance where  true love conquers all obstacles and the couple live happily ever after. Some of my  favorite movies—Beauty and the Beast, You’ve Got Mail, Moonstruck— carry that theme. When we moved to Florida, I emptied my book shelves, only taking enough to fill a small bookcase full of my favorites. Not surprising, many of them follow the same plot: Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, and a very dog-earred Golden book version of Walt Disney’s Cinderella. I spent many an hour on my mother’s lap listening to that story and its promise of happily ever after.

Now that we live only forty minutes from Disney World, I have had many opportunities to experience the “Princess Phenomenon.” At stores throughout the parks, little girls can purchase Princess costumes. The Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique offers salon services to “make one’s little princess… look and feel like royalty.” Throughout all the parks, Disney cast members—Disney’s term for all their employees— sweep past us dressed up in as Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty. At scheduled times throughout the day, one can have a picture taken with favorite Disney characters. Mickey, Donald, and Pluto have their share of people waiting in line for their photo opportunity. The one with the longest lines, however, are the princesses. I have not yet bought a “Cinderella” dress (I don’t even think one can purchase them in adult sizes). But I gaze wistfully at the long lines, hoping some day I can persuade Larry to wait for me while I have my opportunity to share a moment with one of them.

My fascination with princesses is small potatoes compared to many. According to wdw.com, more than 1,200 couples a year tie the knot at Walt Disney World Resort.  That is nothing to shake a magic wand at! And I can’t even begin to imagine the number of couples a year who honeymoon there. One can recognize them by the Disney bride Minnie Mouse and groom Mickey Mouse ear hat sets sported by many young couples.

What separates  Queen Esther from many of the Disney princesses is that Esther is not just a passive maiden waiting for the magic kiss of her Price Charming. Rather, she is actively involved in saving the Jewish people. In the Purim story, King Ahashuarus banishes his first wife Vashti after she refuses to show off her beauty wearing just a crown to a banquet room full of men “merry with wine.” After a search throughout the kingdom, Esther, a Jewish orphan, is chosen to wear the crown. The new bride learns from her Uncle Mordecai that Haman, the king’s evil advisor, is plotting to kill all the Jew.  Beguiling the king with her beauty at a banquet, Esther then reveals that she herself is a Jew and that her people are threatened.

On a recent visit to Disney, I saw an adorable princess outfit in a nine-month size, perfect for my new grand-daughter. I took a picture and sent it to my daughter. “What do you think?” I texted.

Julie called me  back immediately. “Let’s get one thing straight.   My daughter is not going to be wearing any princess outfits.”

To her relief, I told her that her father had already strongly encouraged me to put the princess outfit back on the store’s display.  I assured her that would limit my gift outfit choices to more acceptable themes, like hedgehogs or rainbows or, in honor of my son-in-law, the Denver Broncos.

However, I already have plans five years down the road of having Sylvie stay with me and whisking her off to Disney in a princess dress of her choosing. And the magical salon experience? Even I have reservations about the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique.

Or maybe, more in line with Julie’s thinking, I will share with Sylvie the story of Purim. I will tell her about a woman who is plucked out of obscurity to become queen of a large kingdom. She gets the man and the crown. Rather than living “happily ever after,” she uses her position to let good overcome evil. In the process, she became a Jewish heroine beloved centuries later.  And that story doesn’t require any magical kisses from Prince Charming.

Charlie and Judy, 1971

Valentine’s Day! On this most romantic holiday, there will be many marriage proposals. Some will be simple and old-fashioned: After getting the father’s blessing, a nervous man will bring his girlfriend to a quiet intimate spot, go on bent knee, and pop the question. For others it will be a huge production that involves elaborate planning, intrigue, and at times a huge cast of characters to carry it off.  Thanks to social media, this intimate moment has recently evolved into a very public “how many hits can my proposal get on You Tube?” event. No matter how couples get engaged, each story is unique, memorable, and forever part of their love story.

Larry intended to ask me to marry him on a grassy knoll at the Saratoga National Battlefield. Unfortunately, seconds before he was about to pop the question, he was stung by a bee. His lip began to swell, and we left hastily to find an ice pack. Two weeks later, we were walking home from Rosh Hashanah services in Saratoga Springs. Larry started talking about where we would live and how many children he would like us to have. When I asked him if this was a proposal, he quickly said, “No!” A few minutes later, as we were putting our coats away in a bedroom at his parents’ home, he asked, “So you want to get married?” I said yes, we started to kiss, and Corky, the Shapiros’ dog, jumped up and licked my face. Very romantic. We didn’t even share the news with the family until Yom Kippur Break-the-Fast.

Thirty-five years earlier, my parents’ engagement came after a whirlwind romance. After they had been maintaining a long-distant relationship for less than six months, my father came down to New York City from Alburgh, Vermont, to see my mother for the weekend. They had just seen Gone with the Wind, and my father proposed while they were having dessert in a coffee shop. “We were blinded by the movie,” my mother recalled sixty-five years later. “He thought I was Scarlett O’Hara and I thought he was Rhett Butler. Of course I said yes.”

My brother needed more time and certainly more of a push. Jay had been dating Leslie for over a year when they stayed at my parents’ cottage on Willsboro Point on Labor Day weekend. On Sunday night, Jay suggested to Leslie that they take a walk to the rocky promontory overlooking Lake Champlain. The sun was setting, the crickets were chirping, and Burlington lights twinkled in the distance—Leslie was sure this was “The Moment.” Nope. Jay just walked her back to the cottage. The next day, on the car ride back to Ithaca College, Leslie pressed for a commitment. “Give me one good reason why we should not get engaged,” Leslie recalled. When Jay failed to come up with any, Leslie announced, “Fine! We’re engaged!” It certainly wasn’t the romantic proposal that Leslie was dreaming of, but forty-five years later their commitment and marriage are going strong.

Leslie wasn’t the only one to reverse the roles in the proposal process. After graduating from Oberlin, Judy and Charlie were living together, unusual and not universally acceptable in 1971. Judy got tired of lying to everyone at work about her “roommates” and dealing with her parents’ unhappiness with the situation. “I asked Charlie, ‘Do you want to get married?’” Judy recalled. “He said ‘Sure. Why not?’” They tied the knot six weeks later. Debbie and Jim, both who had previously been married, had been dating for about a year, Debbie finally said to Jim, “So are we getting married or what?” They said their ‘I do’s’ in Jamaica that summer. And Diane’s proposal came in the form of a promise that she would keep the kosher home Mark insisted on from any woman he would marry.

Another couple’s engagement came after the evening from hell. On a freezing cold December night in Baltimore, Becky and Mark had made plans to go to a concert followed by dinner at the Playboy Club. While trying to find the concert venue, they got hopelessly lost in a questionable section of town. The situation deteriorated dramatically when Mark’s old car, “The Purple Monster,” sputtered and stopped dead. They both got out of the car, Mark lifted the hood, and the engine burst into flames. Mark yelled to Becky, “Quick! Give me your coat!” Becky quickly ripped it off, handed it to him, and watched as Mark used it to smother the fire.

Mark walked to a pay phone to contact AAA, leaving Becky alone, nervous, and shivering in the car with her smoke-smelling coat. They never made it to the concert or out to dinner. When they finally got back to their apartment, they were tired, cold and hungry.

“Any girl that is willing to go through all of that with me and still come home cheerful is the girl I want to spend my life with,” Mark said.”Will you marry me?” By that time, Becky had warmed up enough to say a resounding “Yes!”

For Becca, it was a rainy November night in Buenos Aires when she knew she would spend the rest of her life with Rolando. Becca tells it best:

“Ever so gently he kissed me-as softly as the rain falling into the dark night. ‘We will be married,’ he said, his dark eyes looking deeply into mine,” recalled Becca. “It was not a question. It was not a proposal. It was simply and forever understood that we belonged together—no matter the distance. No matter the obstacles. And, to this day the sound of raindrops softly falling reminds me of the promise of our eternal love.”

Wow, Becca! Sure beats everything I have seen on You Tube. Happy Valentine’s Day to you, Rolando, and all the couples celebrating their love.

Marilyn Shapiro

January 27, 2016

Since I was old enough to remember, people have always associated my name with Marilyn Monroe. I am frequently asked if I was named after the former blonde icon. To this day, when new acquaintances or telephone business contacts ask me to repeat my first name, I often say, “I’m Marilyn, like Marilyn Monroe.” In truth, the former Norma Jean did not come onto the scene until after I was born. I was named after my Aunt Mary, and my mother chose my specific name because she loved Marilyn Miller, a stunning blonde who was one of the most popular Broadway musical stars of the 1920s and early 1930s.

Although not a popular name choice today, I have shared my name and life with several other Marilyns. When I was around five years old, our town held a beauty contest. A tall, blonde beauty named Marilyn was declared the winner. I remember feeling the sense of pride that I shared a name with Miss Keeseville 1956.

While going through Keeseville Central School, the only other Marilyn I knew was a classmate two years ahead of me. I always looked up to her as she was one of the sweetest, kindest, and most intelligent people I knew. In her senior year, Marilyn was named Yearbook Queen, the honor given to the most well-liked, respected senior girl. Again, I felt lucky to have the same name as the most popular girl in our small school.

While enrolled in University at Albany, I ran into a few more Marilyns. Two days after moving into our suite, Freshman Marilyn couldn’t get into the program she wanted at University at Albany due to some computer glitch. She called her parents and insisted that they bring her home. Less than a week later, the situation was rectified, and she returned to campus in another dorm. She later became a close friend of my cousin Marsha, and our paths crossed forty-two years later at Marsha’s sixtieth birthday party

Where the “Marilyn” coincidences began to really pile up was in my early twenties. Larry and I met at a Purim party. While sharing hamantashen, we also shared family history. Larry had a sister named Marilyn Shapiro, who, like me, was the third child of four children and the second girl. To add to the confusion, my sister-in-law kept her maiden name when she married. The family has had to distinguish between us by use of our middle names: Marilyn Pearl and Marilyn Renee. My preferred is my tongue-in-cheek version: “The Original” and “The New and Improved.”

From then on, Marilyns were more frequently part of our lives. At Congregation Beth Shalom in Clifton Park, Morah Marilyn took leadership roles in the Hebrew school, moving from teacher to education director. It didn’t even help to use last initials, as her surname also began with “S.” I finally got used to the fact that when people referred to a Marilyn at the synagogue, it was usually in reference to the Hebrew school Morah Marilyn and not Congregant Marilyn.

When Julie got married in 2007, another Marilyn came into the fold. Sam’s parents are Bill Massman and, you guessed it, Marilyn Martynuk. Despite the geographic distance between me and the Fort Collins Marilyn, we have become dear friends, and the four in-laws even rented a condo near Julie and Sam in Frisco, Colorado, the summer our granddaughter was born. We got used to answering to our name based on which husband was calling out to us. As this is Marilyn’s second grandchild, she already had dibs on the moniker of Nana Marilyn.  I am not sure what Sylvie Rose will be calling me when she starts talking, but for now, I will be Grandma Marilyn. It is my understanding from several of my friends who have duplicate machatunim names (Bernie and Bernie; Carole and Carol; Bill and Bill), grandchildren rarely have issues distinguishing between them.

During our move to Florida, Larry and I picked up another Marilyn. When we wanted to learn more about the Jewish club at Solivita, we got in touch with Shalom Club Marilyn She, like Morah Marilyn, is immersed in the Jewish community both through the community’s social club and through our new synagogue, Congregation Shalom Aleichem. When we met each other, we found out that we have another connection. For several years, Marilyn, now a retired nurse, volunteered at the Maccabean Games in Israel. In 1997, she and our daughter Julie were part of the United States delegation, Julie as a track and field athlete and Marilyn as a member of the medical team. While packing up our house for our move, Larry and I came across the 1997 Maccabean Games yearbook. There was Nurse Marilyn front and center in one of the pictures.

When I moved to our community in Florida, I joined a women’s writing group in our community, and I met my most recent Marilyn, a published children’s book author. We refer to each other as British Marilyn and Yankee Marilyn, and everyone in the group understands.

While in Colorado during Julie’s pregnancy, I would browse through the stack of baby books she and Sam had accumulated. One of my favorites was a well-thumbed baby name book. Since we were not to learn our granddaughter’s name until she was born, I spent quite a bit of time looking through the paperback, trying to guess which ones sounded like potential winners. Of course, I had to check out the authors’ take on my name. It was not exactly flattering. Despite the Miller and Monroe who had made the name popular in previous generations, the authors stated that this choice had lost its former “stardust.” “Marilyn,” they stated, “has none of the freshness or sparkle that would inspire a parent to use it for a millennial child.”

It was Marilyn Monroe herself who said, “We are all of us stars, and we deserve to twinkle.” Fortunately, I have known many stars named Marilyn, and they all have brought light and sparkle to my life.

Growing up as the only Jewish family in our small upstate town of Keeseville had its challenges. Most people were very accepting, but at times we Cohens felt as outsiders. Unfortunately for me, one of the worst experiences I had was because of the problems arose when I was included.

As many of the Catholic children attended a parochial school through sixth grade, most of my friends were Methodists. We were a close group, sharing not only the classroom but also dinners at each other’s homes and frequent sleep-overs. Knowing that I was Jewish was never an issue, and they were happy to share my holidays and to share theirs.

While my classmates in Keeseville were Christian, I also had a group of Jewish classmates at the synagogue in Plattsburgh to which my family belonged. I rarely saw them outside of synagogue as the shul was fifteen miles north of us. As they and their families lived near each other and socialized with them, I considered them acquaintances but certainly not close friends. As a matter of fact, I felt like the Country Mouse to their City Mouse existence in the big metropolis of Plattsburgh. Therefore, I felt as if I lived two different lives: my Jewish life consisting of Sunday school and Friday night services in Plattsburgh, and my secular life consisting of secular school and close friendships in Keeseville.

When we were all in around sixth grade, the Methodist church had a special event planned for their youth. Two sisters, elderly and either widowed or never married,  offered their home to have a weekly get-together in which each of the participants were to make Christmas candles. The mothers of the girls called my mother and asked if I could join them. My mother gave her permission. Glad to be included, I joined the group despite some discomfort that I, the Jewish girl, was participating in a Christmas activity.

Over a period of four weeks, around eight of us climbed the stairs to the ladies’ apartment above one of the stores on Front Street. We melted wax and crayons and then dipped strings into the hot liquid. The two ladies then hung up the candles, let them dry, and had them ready for us the following week. While the other girls created layers of red and green and decorated their creations with holly, I chose blue and white for my candles in honor of Chanukah.

On the last day of our candle making adventure,  we all gathered at the usual time and began putting on the final touches of our masterpieces. One of the ladies announced that she had a very special surprise. The church had contacted the Plattsburgh Press Republican and asked them to do a holiday story about our candle making project. “So, young ladies, she announced, “the reporter will be coming this afternoon to take pictures and interview you all for the article,” she said. “Isn’t that exciting?”

It may have been exciting for my friends, but I immediately panicked. What if my Jewish friends saw my picture with a group of Methodists making Christmas candles? Would they look at me unfavorably, as a further outsider to their life in Plattsburgh? I knew that I could not be in that picture, a public statement that I joined Christians in their religious school events.

“Thank you very much,” I said to the two ladies. “But I don’t want to be in the picture.”

“What do you mean?” one of the ladies asked.

“I don’t want to be in the picture,” I replied. “I enjoyed making the candles, but I don’t want my picture in the newspaper. If my friends in Plattsburgh see it, they will think I’m not acting like a Jew.”

I grabbed my candle and left. Little did I know what havoc I had wrought.

By that evening, my mother had received several phone calls from my friends’ mothers. They said what I did was rude and shameful. My actions indicated that I ashamed of associating with Christians. As a result,  I had not only embarrassed not only myself but also my parents and sibling, the only Jewish family in our town.

My mother was upset and told me that she agreed with the other mothers. My father, however, understood. “You learned a lesson from this, Marilyn,” he told me. “Never put yourself in any situation in which you feel uncomfortable and would feel ashamed.” Fortunately for all of us Cohens, the tempest I created calmed down fairly soon. My friends certainly forgot about it, and the adults moved on to other, more current kerfuffles in our small town. Peace and goodwill returned.

Fifty-five years later, I still look back on this incident with remorse, especially for bringing the wrath of the Keeseville Methodists on my mother. I also have a much more mature perspective: I appreciate how difficult it was for me as a child of to reconcile the need to be accepted by my Christian friends while not betraying my Jewish heritage.

I haven’t had anymore “candle debacles” since that incident in Keeseville.  This doesn’t mean that I still don’t struggle with the holiday season. I, along with many other Jew, still walk a fine line between sharing the joy of the holidays while maintaining my Jewish identity. It’s a dilemma I first faced as a child and continue to face today.

By MARILYN SHAPIRO

In a Dennis the Menace cartoon published in 1973, just before Larry and I got engaged, the eponymous five-year-old and his friend Joey are looking into a bakery window at a multi-tiered, highly decorated wedding cake. Joey looks mesmerized, but Dennis is not impressed. “After the cake was gone,” he says, “you’d still be married.”

In my lifetime, I have seen many wedding cakes at many weddings. I have realized that the most important part of getting married is not the size of the cake or the grandeur of the festivities but the quality of the relationship and the depth of the love in the months and the years that follow.

My parents’ wedding in 1940 was certainly not elegant. It was held in New York City on a Tuesday night in a hall whose costs were offset by the twenty-five cents given to the hatcheck girl. My father and mother made a handsome couple under the chuppah, Bill in his rented tuxedo ($7) and Fran in her rented wedding gown and floor length veil ($18). After the ceremony, guests were served tea sandwiches, fruit, and wedding cake. Unfortunately, by the time the photographer finished taking pictures of the happy couple, many of the guests had left. Nevertheless, their marriage lasted 68 years. (Priceless!)

Larry and I were married in Agudat Achim in Schenectady on a lovely September afternoon in 1974. The ceremony was a little long. Larry admitted to me many years later that if the rabbi had talked any more, he, the impatient and hungry groom, would have left the bima early and headed for the hors d’oeuvres. The meal contained peas, even though we had specifically asked them to NOT include them on the menu (Larry hates peas!). The band completely botched the words to our first dance, Barbra Streisand’s He Touched Me. The wine my parents had purchased up north in Plattsburgh was not kosher and almost wasn’t served until my mother told the caterer, “I don’t care! Just cover the darn bottles with foil and serve it!” During the course of the afternoon, my father, a little tipsy on the almost rejected wine, took to the microphone to thank Keeseville National Bank for financing the event. To top it all off, Larry spent most of our honeymoon in a Quebec City hospital dealing with a kidney stone. Despite our less-than-perfect nuptials, our marriage has flourished for over four decades.

The majority of the weddings Larry and I have attended have followed a similar pattern: white bridal gowns, rented tuxedos, synagogue or church settings, large receptions with multiple course meals, a band or a DJ, and lots of wine and dancing. Each one has been unique, but not a one any more special than the smaller, less conventional ceremonies.

My niece Laura and her husband Paul had their small wedding on a beautiful summer’s day in the gardens behind the Arlington, Massachusetts, library. Less than twenty-five people were in attendance, with Laura’s Uncle Max officiating. After Paul crushed the wine glass, the newlyweds turned on a battery operated CD player and danced to Alison Krause’s When You Say Nothing At All. Then everyone convened to a seafood restaurant. Laura and Paul now have two beautiful children and an adorable Australian Labradoodle puppy named Cooper. Laura recently posted on Facebook that Paul had suggested that they create more “just us” time by going out onto their yard and picking up the dog’s poop together. Laura wrote, “Thirteen years of marriage and he is still a romantic!”

When my daughter Julie got engaged to Sam in 2006, Larry and I were thrilled and more than happy to start their married life with a traditional wedding in a large hall with many relatives and friends in attendance. After several months of researching numerous options, however, Julie and Sam opted for a small destination wedding at a resort near Moab, Utah. Just the immediate family was invited: Larry and I, our son Adam and a girlfriend, Sam’s parents, and Sam’s two sisters. The day before the wedding, all ten of us went to Arches National Park and hiked up to Delicate Arch, where we posed for a group photo. Julie and Sam were married on a brilliant May afternoon on the banks of the Colorado River with the rock formation from Arches as the backdrop. After dinner in the resort’s restaurant, we shared a flourless chocolate cake topped with the two figures from our own wedding cake thirty-three years earlier. The next morning, several of us took a white water rafting trip down the Colorado River. All of us treasure the memories of that long weekend in Utah where we not only celebrated the love between two special people but also the beauty and wonder of an iconic national park and the twisting, historic river that runs near it.

A marriage doesn’t have to last decades to be successful. We have a number of friends whose first marriage, for whatever reason, didn’t work, but their second marriage is going strong. Most of their second weddings were small affairs. And we also have friends and relatives who have never legally tied the knot but are involved in successful long-term relationships. In all these cases, the wedding didn’t make the marriage. Their commitment to each other did.

Barbara de Angelis, author and relationship consultant, wrote, “The real act of marriage takes place in the heart, not in the ballroom or church or synagogue…not just on your wedding day, but over and over again.” Exactly, Barbara! No matter how big or how small the wedding, it is what endures through the years that follow that is important.

Julie and Sam, May 14, 2007, with the Colorado River in the background.

Packing up our house and moving to a completely furnished one in Florida brought the “reality” of real estate home for Larry and me.

Although our last move was over thirty-six years ago, I I felt we were up to the task. I proudly went through my newly created “To Do” list: I contacted moving companies three months in advance. I began weekly and then almost daily trips to Captain and the library to give away unwanted household goods and the over two hundred books we had collected on our bookshelves. Larry and I reached out to family and friends to find new homes for our Early American furniture. At the same time we were clearing out what we didn’t need, we started packing up what I thought we would need.

And this is when reality hit. Even after selling, giving away, and donating carloads of our life, we still had much more than we had ever imagined. Bath and Body Works Cherry Blossom shower gel; shoe horns from Larry’s parents’ store; nutcrackers and picks; scissors; supermarket totes, Special Olympics tee shirts—you name it, and we had duplicates and triplicates and more. We upped the amount we were NOT taking. Like the all-consuming plant Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors, however, the amount of stuff continued to grow. We purchased more moving boxes from Home Depot and more bubble wrap, tape, “Fragile labels,” and wrapping paper from Staples, and we kept packing and packing and packing. And we hadn’t yet touched the “essentials” from our kitchen, bath, and bedroom.

Miraculously, by a week before our move, almost all of the packing was completed. I doubled checked the boxes to make sure they were securely sealed, numbered them with a thick marker, and inventoried them in a notebook. When I got to my one hundred and thirtieth box, I began to “real”-ly panic. We even opened up boxes to find items to leave behind. By that point, however, we knew most of it was going to be loaded on the moving van.

When Allied arrived for their pick-up that lovely June morning, even they were a little overwhelmed with the number of boxes. It took three men three hours to load it all on the truck, along with my piano, two dressers, a chair, and a garbage can filled with garden tools, mops, and brooms. By noon, Larry and I said one last good-bye to our home. I sobbed loudly on the shoulders of my neighbors who had gathered to send us off, and we started the two and a half day drive down to Florida

We arrived in the evening of June 3 and were able to quickly unpack what we brought down in our cars: our suitcases, pillows, sheets for the king-sized bed, a couple of towels, two of each of plates, silverware, wine glasses, regular glasses, two knives, two pots, a corkscrew, and a bottle of wine. After a quick trip to Publix for fruit, vegetables, milk, bread, salmon, and veggies, we were good to go. It was like being newlyweds. By that time, we figured out we should have left almost everything home as we already had more than enough to survive. Four days later, the van and our 130 boxes arrived.

Within hours, we were both buried in bubble wrap. While I unloaded the kitchen boxes, Larry took care of the clothes and the rest of our household good. I cursed myself out loud: “How did I manage to bring so much when I thought I gave so much away?” Larry saved his comments for under-his breath rants. “We aren’t going to need long underwear in Florida!” or “I thought we weren’t bringing the pancake griddle!” or “When did we acquire two hundred Broadway musical CD’s?” When our realtors came over the second day of unpacking with a bottle of wine, they suggested that we (1) drink the wine. The entire bottle. Immediately; (2) empty all the boxes as soon as possible to “motivate” us to get settled more quickly; and (3) pile all the empty boxes in the garage so they could give them to another client who was moving. Larry took this advice way too seriously. As I methodically continued to empty the kitchen boxes, Larry emptied every remaining box and piled all the contents on every bit of available space in the great room, office, and second bath. If that wasn’t upsetting enough, he had unloaded all the linens, sheets, pillows, and blankets on the bed in the guest room. When I walked into the room, I felt I was reliving The Princess and the Pea. The pile reached to the ceiling fan. I was so angry I almost slept in that bed that night, but I couldn’t climb on top of the mess.

In the end, our move was successful. We actually had most of our boxes unpacked and organized by the end of the first week. Soon after, a Salvation Army truck picked up around fifteen boxes of items we didn’t need. We knew we would eventually have to deal with the pictures that we brought and had stacked in the second bedroom, but at least we were settled in all the other rooms. And the only things we misplaced in the move were my Weight Watchers charms and two boxes of toothpicks, both which we found six months later. Not bad, considering.

Still, in hindsight,  our “reality” experience is a cautionary tale for all my friends and relatives who are considering a move. Follow the same advice savvy travelers give: Pack only half of what you think you need and leave the rest behind. Meanwhile, if anyone needs a slightly dusty but usable pancake griddle, six pairs of long underwear or a Fiddler on the Roof CD, contact me. I will be sitting on our lanai in my tank top, my favorite pair of shorts, and my Tevas, sipping wine from a huge travel goblet, the only things I needed to pack in the first place.