My dad wore his best (actually, only) suit, and my aunt and I were wearing long dresses. Yes, shoe-top length. Mine was navy blue and had long-stemmed flowers going up and down it. (It was not as hideous as it sounds, although by some very quirky turn of events, among the scores of photographs that were taken, I appear in only one.)
Adhering to family tradition, we were early. Adhering to female-wedding-guest tradition, Aunt Blanche and I went to the ladies’ room. We were washing our hands when two older women came in. They were dressed up too, but not in long gowns, and one of them, noticing our skirt lengths, said with interest, “Oh, are you in the wedding party?”
We said no, we were just the groom’s aunt and sister. She was absolutely delighted to meet us, she said, introducing herself as Clara and the other woman as Olive. “We’re Frances’s sisters!” she concluded with a big smile. While we dried our hands, she told us how very fond of the groom they had already become.
We were just as delighted to meet them, enthusiastically agreed that our nephew and brother was such a nice guy, and, smiling all over ourselves, left the room.
On the way back to the sanctuary, my aunt asked, “Who the hell is Frances?” to which I replied, “I have no idea.”
It turned out that Frances was the mother of the bride. And a very nice lady, as we were to learn in succeeding years.
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