A Missed Wedding

I grew up in my grandfather’s house. He was not easy. My dad’s father was a very old-fashioned Italian, authoritarian type. My grandmother was cold and quiet, but she passed when I was very young and I have few memories of her. My grandfather though, was a memorable figure, with an unpredictable temper. He wasn’t the bedtime story reading, loving sort of grandparent I used to see on TV or hear about from my friends. Rather than being the cause of his grandchildren’s giggles, he was more likely to complain about the ruckus and get in the way of our fun.

Most of my dad’s siblings were quite outspoken and fiery. It was my family’s bad luck that my aunts and uncles married and left the house before my dad, leaving him, the quiet one, with the responsibility of caring for my grandparents. They were in poor health by then and couldn’t be left on their own, so my newlywed parents made their home with them. This was the way it was in our culture and in those times.

My dad took the path of least resistance when it came to his father, so my mother bore the brunt of my grandfather’s moods. Even as a young child, I sensed the tension my grandfather caused and resented him for ruling the house the way he did. I grew accustomed to not speaking when he was within earshot, because I knew he would be sticking his nose into my business, asking questions, and potentially impacting what little freedom I had. My mother did her best, but even she, who was no pushover, chose her battles with care. One night, as a precocious five-year-old, I added to those battles.

My dad was working the 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. shift at our local steel mill. Our family was invited to a wedding, but my mother couldn’t leave my grandfather home alone, so I was designated to attend to represent the family and bring the customary envelope, which contained a card and gift of money. My young and very cool aunt and uncle, newlyweds themselves, were coming to collect me.

I was obsessed with weddings and was mesmerized by the look and the sound of the bridal gowns, the tulle and crinoline announcing their arrival with every swish and sweep. I couldn’t wait to hang out with my cousins in the old banquet hall, where we knew all the best hiding spots. My favourite was the balcony overlooking the dance floor where we could peek out from behind the curtains and spy on the guests. Playing and running about in the absence of overprotective parental eyes was going to be the best adventure. I had a pretty dress to wear and shiny white shoes to match.

My grandfather hadn’t been briefed on this outing, and that afternoon, he asked my mother where I was going. I panicked at the thought that he might get in the way of my fun. I put my hands on my hips, looked him in the eye, and answered, “It’s none of your business.”

When I look back, I admit it was a rude thing for a five-year-old to say, even though it was obvious that I was right, and my excursions were of no consequence to him. It was unfortunate that he understood just enough English to know he had been slighted by his granddaughter. To say he was angry was an understatement.

He roared and steamed and stomped and vowed I would not be going to this wedding. He threatened a whole litany of consequences, one of which was that if I was allowed to go, he’d run away from home and go live with Uncle John, my dad’s brother. This, along with threatening to burn the house down, were common, empty threats he often uttered. If I’d been old enough to drive, I would’ve packed his bags and escorted him to my uncle’s house myself. Uncle John was summoned to come over to calm my grandfather down, and I retreated to my room, where I spent the night bawling and furious. My pretty dress stayed on its hanger and my shiny shoes did not get their night out.

I know my mother hated that my grandfather had gotten his way and I was deprived of the evening I was so looking forward to, but I suppose she chose to keep peace in the family instead of fighting this particular battle. She also had to deal with the discipline of a hysterical and mouthy five-year-old. I can imagine the earful my father got from my mother, when he got home from work.

This story became a legend in my family. I’m not proud of the distress I caused, and as a grandparent now, it would be a bit disconcerting if my five-year-old grandson told me to mind my own business. When I think of it, he likely has, using different words, and I’ve yet to threaten to burn anything down or run away from home. Thank goodness DNA is not everything.