We Are All Bound Together

It is difficult enough to explain an improbable event that happened to you alone. When three others have the same experience simultaneously, one must look elsewhere for certainty. Let me explain.

In the summer of 1983, my father was still suffering the loss of my mother when we drove to visit a couple of former Newark neighbors at their New Jersey shore home. The bright day portended no clouds and rain.

The hosts shared with my father immigration to America and the years of working hard to succeed. Unlike him, they were now enjoying retirement.

Languidly, the day passed quietly, their talk of little interest to me. I was there as a chauffeur and was not expected to contribute much to the conversation.

As the visit drew to a close, suddenly the sky darkened, a ferocious wind blew past the roof, and the house shuddered.

All three movements stopped in moments, and calm, light, and order returned.

We all looked at each other and almost shouted simultaneously, Zia Antonietta.

We all wondered why we thought of her at that instance.

Even though she was my mother's aunt and godmother, as a child, I knew her only as the fierce lady who lived around the corner.

Sylvia, the hostess, babysat the women's children.

Amiel, the host, worked side-by-side with her husband.

A force to be reckoned with, Antoinette fiercely held her opinions and prejudices.

After marrying his twin brother, her twin sister married my grandfather. Both couples immigrated to America together from the hills outside of Naples before World War I. They settled in Newark.

My grandmother's thrifty ways helped us own our house on Walnut Street. Her sister Antoinette's family lived two blocks away in a third-floor rented flat. My first recollection of a funeral was for her husband, who probably died to get away from his wife.

Antoinette had a son and a daughter. Her son, Joseph, was a little crazy, going through life with a handkerchief over his mouth.

Apparently, her daughter, Roseanne, became more Americanized than Antoinette liked, and mother and daughter fought constantly over the younger woman's activities. The final battle occurred when Roseanne came home and said she was marrying a man who was not Italian.

As a boy, I little understood the fierce ethnic pride immigrants had about their heritage, but marrying a non-Italian was simply not done. For months, the battle between mother and daughter raged. In the end, Antoinette puts her foot down; if Roseanne marries "the Polack," she will not pay for or attend the wedding.

As I look back and consider what happened to that marriage, I believe the opposition drove Roseanne to defy her mother and perhaps enter the wrong marriage.

Friends and some family members supported Roseanne. She moved in with a cousin and made preparations for the wedding.

In those days, weddings differed significantly from today's sit-down dinners at fancy wedding halls. They were homemade affairs, with everyone pitching in to help.

Because of the friction between mother and daughter, family members chose sides. My mother, a very fine seamstress, made the wedding dress for the bride. Food was donated, bought, or stolen for the occasion.

The wedding cake was a simple one-layer affair with the bride and groom's names and the date. The food was also simple.

The night before, we all pitched in to make the sandwiches. Each type was put in a separate box and kept at a house until the next day. I remember the fun I had as my younger cousins, and I sneaked bites between slapping meat onto rolls.

In my mind's eye, I still see the two bridesmaids, who wore different dresses from other weddings. The groom and his two brothers wore mismatched suits.

The church was crowded, but the bride's mother and father were conspicuous with their absence. I suspect her father would have been there if he wasn't afraid of his wife.

My grandfather walked Roseanne down the aisle.

After the wedding, we trooped to the Luso-American Hall, which still stands but is now a Portuguese sports club.

Divided by the dance floor, the couple's clans sat at long tables seating 10 and eyed each other as invaders. The groom's family was almost as unhappy as Antoinette's, but all came since the groom was a son.

I remember my mother saying the beer came from the Polish side and had been donated. The Italian men grumbled about the beer all night, but the Polish side seemed to enjoy it.

The Italian-Americans brought wine and grudgingly shared it with the outsiders.

I remember that few mixed couples danced, though, at our tables, the men all talked about the blondes on the other side. We all waited for the couple to arrive from picture-taking before commencing to eat.

Now comes the part that named these events "football weddings."

Each of us younger attendees was given a box of sandwiches. I remember I had the ham sandwiches. We'd go to a long table and ask, "Who wants ham?"

Hands would be raised, and we would throw the sandwich, wrapped in waxed paper, to the signaling guest. We continued this process all night long until the supply was exhausted.

The wedding was long remembered, even after the marriage collapsed.

Sadly, neither Antoinette nor her husband came to the reception either.

As the years passed, we would occasionally see Antoinette, each time hearing her complain of my mother's betrayal.

Two grandchildren softened Antoinette a little, but she never quite forgave her daughter.

So, what is so eerie about this tale? The reader may recall that this tale started in 1983 on the Jersey shore. The rush of the wind, the darkened skies, and the rattling house unnerved us all. But what impacted us most were our exclamations of Antoinette's name. My father and I left shortly after admitting we had not seen Antoinette in years. Our host's last contact was at the father's funeral 30 years before.

Three days later, our hostess called my father. While we were enjoying our day at the shore, Antoinette died in a local hospital. In another nearby hospital, Roseann died the same day.

That day still haunts me.