Permission to Marry Your Daughter
When my husband proposed to me, about a month before Christmas, I accepted with one condition. I was a bit old-fashioned and insisted he ask my father’s permission, in person. I wouldn’t even wear the ring until he did. We lived five-hundred miles away from our families at the time but were going home for Christmas so the timing was perfect. My dad was a sweet soft-spoken man who liked Rob and was happy as long as I was happy. How hard could this be?
We planned the permission-asking for the evening after we arrived home. Rob was invited to dinner and as usual, my mother doubled the quantity of food, even though we’d only added one person. Rob planned to ask to ask my father after dinner was over. He loved my mother’s cooking and would normally validate her need to cook double but that night he picked at his food as he worked up his courage. I worried my mother would notice and become suspicious. It didn’t help that my younger brother was in on the secret and kept stealing sympathetic glances at Rob all through dinner. I was sure he was going to give it away. By 7:00 p.m., the lasagna, chicken, and roasted potato spread was replaced with big trays of traditional Italian baking, coffee, tea, and liqueurs.
The moment had come. I had butterflies in my stomach and Rob’s fair Scottish complexion had paled to a starched shade of white. After some loud dish and pan stacking activity in the kitchen, my mother sat down to enjoy her coffee and an almond biscotti. My brother, thinking he was being helpful, filled Rob’s wine glass and started giggling. Rob took a deep breath, sat a little taller in his chair, and was about to speak when there was a knock at the door.
It was my mother’s cousin, who had moved to Canada after falling on hard times in Italy. He was a bit of an outcast and his wife and children were no longer part of his life. He often stopped by unannounced, and knew my mother’s soft heart couldn’t deny him a cup of coffee and a meal if she determined he hadn’t had a proper one that day. She even slipped him money now and then, making him promise not to spend it on cigarettes or alcohol. My dad usually retired to his reading couch, leaving my mother to deal with her cousin who rambled on for hours. My mother was too kind to ask him to leave and as long as there was food and drink on the table, he stayed. There was plenty of both that night, so he settled in, happy to enjoy a still warm piece of lasagna and a glass of wine.
As the evening wore on, my brother, a first-year student in Ryerson’s Hospitality program, plied Rob, who was not a big drinker, with versions of drinks he learned at school. He hoped to calm Rob’s nerves and ignored my subtle warning signals that he wasn’t helping matters. Much to Rob’s distress and my brother’s amusement, almost two hours passed and still the cousin didn’t leave. My mother knew something was up but her glare went unanswered. My dad stayed at the table because Rob was there but I could tell he’d rather have been anywhere else.
The clock struck 9:00, the cousin left, my dad retired to the couch, and my mom started clearing the table and washing dishes. Rob, who was always very respectful to my parents, raised his voice and said, “Nope. Put the dishcloth down. Everyone to the living room.” “Please,” he added. The room went silent but everyone obeyed. He started to apologize but I put a reassuring hand on his arm and urged him to get on with it before there were any more interruptions.
Asking my dad for permission to marry his daughter was anti-climactic after the torturous evening Rob had endured. My brother burst out laughing, my father seemed embarrassed by the question, and my mother (her limited English adding to her confusion) continued to glare at all of us until Rob reached into his pocket, produced the ring, and put it on my finger. Part of me felt bad for putting him through this but after more than forty years, I guess it was worth all the trouble.
