Throwing Kasha to the Wind

It feels like such a long time! From January second, when we meet, all the way through our second date January15, when he turns to me and says, “You’re going to be my wife.” I laugh, then I cry and say, “You’re right!” We hug and hug and hug like lovers lost to one another for millennia finally rejoining in the safety of a long-lost-familiar-embrace.

It feels like such a long time to wait - all the way into the very end of April, to gather our friends, his family from New York, the local “Right-on-Rabbi,” from Hollywood, wearing his fringed leather jacket, arriving on his motorcycle at my mother’s house in Echo Park, where my beloved and I, and all my family have prepared the space for the Wedding in the Weeds. 

Now, here we are April 30, 1972. In my old bedroom, Jeannie Siegel, my Co-Counseling teacher, elicits shivers and shakes from me, to exorcise any fear, and to calm my nerves, as I commit to memory my vows. Mom gently places the wreath of flowers on my head. Her Indian Paisley shawl ‘round my shoulders serves as “something Old, Borrowed and Blue. Papa Leo is agitated, “Tell her to hurry up! People are waiting,” he urges my mother. “Shhhh! She’s coming! Don’t rush her!” Well, THIS is new! Mom is standing up for me!

My palms are sweaty, but my feet are sure - even in these three inch thinly strapped heels and holding the hem of my long halter top cotton muslin dress. I’m voting with my feet and going to join my beloved under the canopy.

As Papa Leo, my mom and I begin to walk, my Aunt’s sister Serena, the artist who’s painted portraits of me at ages ten and seventeen, catches up, and passes us in her halting, straight-legged gait, as we walk from the house toward the steps that lead down into the open field,where one hundred fifty or so of our friends and family are assembled. I worry about Serena on those uneven log steps, but she seems to navigate the descent well on the arm of my older brother Mel who gallantly offers support. She seems to relish being watched - almost like a flower girl, preceding us. Although she has no petals to strew on the path, her aqua chiffon cape and long red hair billow behind her, a little like flowers, if you use your imagination.

It feels like a long time for Mark to wait for his bride’s arrival under the canopy, I imagine. He is there with the rabbi, under the chuppa  made of four bamboo poles and a Madras cotton bedspread from the Akron Store. Mark’s father, brother, brother-in-law, my grandfather and cousin Deborah gather at the four corners of the chuppa. My older brother Mel is standing in as photographer. 

When we selected this date, we didn’t know it would turn out to be the day of springing forward with our clocks to Pacific Daylight Savings Time. Luckily, the invite reads: “Open House and Open Field 3:00pm; Ceremony 4:00pm” 

By the time the Rabbi gathers the attention of those assembled, to the task of witnessing the marriage ceremony, it is about 4:15. Out of the corner of my eye I see a couple of folks walking up the dirt road to the field, and a couple more hesitantly coming down the stairs - unlike Serena, they are NOT wanting to be watched, because the ceremony has begun.

Rabbi Setcher guides us through our vows in a relaxed manner. At some point, my great-aunt, who is as big as a button and feisty as a badger, pipes up, “C’mon a-ready! Marry ‘em!” Her inimitable Russian accent and directness of her plea causes a ripple of laughter.

As a gesture of the times, the Rabbi presents Mark and me with daisies, which are to be our first gift exchange as a married couple. Sweet, unexpected and so us... hippies joined at the heart.

Mark stomps on the “wine-glass” in a handkerchief. (It is really a light bulb, but gives a satisfying shattering sound.) We are officially married. The hugging and kissing begins with us, then the chuppa holders join in, and eventually it becomes the entire field of friends hugging us, one another and perfect strangers. Even Bob Barker and Charlie Lyons from Truth or Consequences, where Mark is employed as a writer, and their wives, are in the hugging fray; Mr. Barker’s makeup is melting in the late April sun, coloring his tuxedo shirt collar.

Other friends are wearing white muslin cotton pajamas, prayer beads, and sandals. They fare better with the foxtails and weeds than those who arrive in nylons and heels. 

Someone has brought Kasha (toasted Buckwheat) as substitute for the traditional rice thrown at weddings to ensure fertility. Kasha is a favored grain in Jewish cooking.

As Mark and I walk toward the reception area at the top of those log steps, we are showered with Kasha. It finds its way through my hair and down the front of my halter top, tickling on the way down. 

It seems like such a long time that Mark and I have known one another, but, in fact, it has been just over three months. We laugh simultaneously about the Kasha.

The photos tell the story, both of a great time being had by all, and the relative inebriation of my brother the photographer. At some point he opened the back of his camera - introducing light to the film. Some of the photos make it look as if Rabbi Setcher has a halo over his head, and that Mark and I are totally glowing. (I actually think we were glowing!) 

Forty-two years later, we’re still in love and glad we got hitched - even though it seems like such a short time ago! 

While it could've backfired, for us it worked to "throw Kasha to the wind."