Miller's Wedding

I was planning to attend the wedding of a college friend named Sue Miller, whom we never called anything but Miller.  It was February of 1970, I believe, in the small town of Columbus, Wisconsin.  It was about a three-hour drive from where I lived near Chicago, and I decided to drive up the day of the wedding, a Saturday.  Miller's parents had generously invited me, among a number of other out-of-town guests, to spend Saturday night at their house.

I was dressed for the occasion in my powder-blue imported Italian knit suit.  I wore black pumps with three-inch heels and carried a black satin envelope bag that was barely big enough to hold my wallet and a pack of cigarettes.  Having nothing elegant enough of my own to go with this outfit, I borrowed my mother's champagne-colored Borgana coat with the shawl-collar-wrap-around front.  Its wide, rolled-up sleeves were three-quarter length, so long, cream-colored gloves finished me off.

The wedding was at 2:00, and I got to Columbus about noon.  I drove around the little town a while, not finding the church, and finally pulled into the parking lot of a little cafe along the main highway.  I think it might actually have had a sign that said "EAT."

I went in and took a booth.  Two booths away was a quartet of teenagers, the only other patrons in the place.  A phlegmatic young woman took my order for a grilled cheese sandwich, and while it was being prepared, I availed myself of the restroom.  When my lunch arrived, I asked the young waitress if she could direct me to St. Jerome's Church.

"That's a Catholic church," she said, eyeing me suspiciously.  I replied that I knew that, and then she said, "There's a wedding there today," as if warning me to stay away.  I wanted to ask her where the hell she thought I was going in my powder-blue imported Italian knit suit and my mother's champagne-colored Borgana coat, and long, cream-colored gloves with my black envelope bag.  But I resisted and simply asked her again if she knew where the church was.  She replied, "I know where it is, but I can't tell you how to get there."

Just then one of the young people in the other booth called out, "Do you want to go to St. Jerome's?"  Why the hell do you think I was asking about it? I wanted to say, but I resisted, and I was given the following directions.  "Go that way," he said, pointing out the window, "and turn right at the first street.  Then go to the four corners, turn left, and keep going until you get to the big white house where Smith's used to live, then turn right.  You'll see it."

Of course, I wanted to say, How the hell am I supposed to know where the Smith's used to live? but I didn't.  I thanked him, finished my sandwich, and left.  I found the church, and the rest went off without any hitches that I remember, at least until the next day.

After the reception I had followed several cars to the Millers' house.  It was dark, and I had absolutely no idea where I was going.  In the morning, I found my way down to the kitchen where Mrs. Miller was making a huge, wonderful breakfast for everyone.  She asked me what I'd like to drink, and I said, "Do you have milk?"

"Do I have milk?" she repeated, as if she'd never heard anything so stupid.  "Honey, you're on a dairy farm." 

Obviously I have fond memories of that trip, especially the moment when I bid farewell to the Millers and their guests.  I had taken a change of clothes, of course, but I had forgotten to bring a jacket, so I walked out to my car with as much dignity as I could muster wearing jeans, sweatshirt, sneakers, and my mother's champagne-colored Borgana coat.