Tom’s wedding

At least they didn’t faint. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I decided to attend the wedding of my nephew Tom, only spawn of my younger brother Bill.
This is the wedding both my wife and I planned to attend, except my wife died.
I could have skipped it, except attending was a distraction to avoid getting depressed.
Attending involved a long journey to northern DE, where the wedding would take place.
I’ve made the auto-trip hundreds of times, but not recently. I’m now 68 years old.
My route is about seven hours. Usually my wife and I had split the driving.
My brother uses a different route from DE to our house, which takes him about six hours.
I considered flying, but thought I’d try his route.

DAY ONE: The Road-Trip from Hell
The supposed six-hour drive took me nine and one-half hours.
Involved were four-or-five parking-lot traffic-jams.
My own route involves going through Williamsport and Harrisburg, and has at least four or five bottlenecks. Quite a bit is two-lane, not expressway.
My brother’s route involves driving up the Pennsylvania Turnpike’s Northeast Extension, Interstate-81 from the Turnpike’s end up to Syracuse, NY, and then the N.Y. state Thruway west to our house in Western New York.
But six hours doesn’t factor in traffic.
Apparently he was avoiding it, whereas my trip wasn’t.
First was Syracuse; not too bad.
Then I was in a parking-lot traffic-jam south of Binghamton on Interstate-81.
Bumper-to-bumper, average about two mph, with the speedometer often pegged at zero.
Finally, Pennsylvania and the Northeast Extension.
Parking-lot traffic-jam number three — or was it four? There may have been a small one at the Northeast Extension interchange before that.
This traffic-jam was at a toll-barrier. Only two “cash-only” booths were open out of three.
There were E-ZPass lanes, but few were using E-ZPass.
People charged into the E-ZPass lanes, and then had to merge into the “cash-only” lanes.
Progress was bog-slow.
Each traffic-jam was adding hours to my trip.
Finally clear of that toll-barrier, after perhaps an hour, I charged south on the Northeast Extension.
Through the Lehigh tunnels, and then arrow-straight toward Philadelphia.
Ready for the next traffic-jam, the toll-barrier at the southern end of the Northeast Extension.
Another hour in a slow-moving parking-lot, and beyond that was another parking-lot traffic-jam on Interstate-476, the route my brother takes to Interstate-95 south into DE.
My brother-from-Boston called my cellphone.
He had already attained his motel in northern DE, the same one I was using.
I normally don’t answer my cellphone while driving, but I had been texting stuck in traffic.
We were going so slow I could.
So I answered.
My brother suggested a route to avoid the Interstate-476 parking-lot.
I took it.
Traffic was fairly open. People were driving toward Philadelphia, and I was going the other way.
Finally the motel in northern DE about 7:30 p.m.
I had been on the road since 10 a.m.
I probably will try the new route back, perhaps even Interstate-476.
That’s Sunday.
But the new route doesn’t have the discernible markers of the old route, and distances over sections seem long.
The old route has attainable distances. Next section, 30 miles.
It’s a long trip, but seems more manageable.
After checking in I went to northern Delaware’s famous Charcoal-Pit, still in business, a hang-out when I was in high-school in the area back in the early ‘60s.
I ordered a Philly Cheese-steak sandwich for supper, but it’s not the Mac’s Philly Cheese-steak sandwich in nearby Canandaigua, which is authentic and better.
It’s the rolls; they’re using the right rolls, brought in from Philadelphia.
The proprietor used to eat Philly Cheese-steak sandwiches at the Jersey seashore, and was so impressed he made a business of it.
He even went so far as to bring in the right rolls.
His sandwiches are really good. Charcoal-Pit comes close, but it’s not as good as Mac’s.
Mac’s is better. It’s authentic. A Philadelphia-area resident visited last summer and was impressed.
“They’re using the right rolls,” she kept saying.
After Charcoal-Pit I connected with my brother-from-Boston at the motel.
My brother Bill (my nephew’s father) also dropped by for a visit, bringing along my niece Jill, my sister’s only spawn.
My sister died of pancreatic cancer last December.
The motel-room was a suite. It had a separate living-room where people could sit.
My niece needed a blanket; she’s from south Florida.

DAY TWO: The actual wedding
“What do I say about this?” I kept thinking.
“My wife is gone, and she was the one that wanted to be here.”
Beyond that, my attendance was intended to be a distraction from getting depressed.
I also no longer had someone to bounce my comments off of, like why did Tom Hughes (my nephew) and Beth Gingrich (as in Newty-Newt) get married.
My guess is both thought the other was an acceptable mate, but I remember how scared I was that first night when my wife started hanging her clothes in my closet.
Like, “what had I done?”
I was looking at a huge commitment, yet it lasted 44 years before she died.
I felt like I had made an irrational decision, prompted by the unfortunate male desire at that age to gain a constant nookie-supply.
I was worried that drive might have led me astray.
Yet we hung on 44 years, despite various travails and diversions, and medical problems.
We were the sinners, so we wanted it to work. People were surmising I got her pregnant, but I hadn’t.
I had a stroke almost 19 years ago, and my wife died of cancer.
I pretty much recovered from my stroke — I can pass for not stroke-addled. And a stroke can severely mess up your brain, and leave you partially paralyzed.
The first order of business was to visit my nephew’s house.
Tom already has a house of his own, and has had it a while.
Tom wasn’t there, but unlocked his house with his SmartPhone.
The house looks small, but it’s fairly large, a split-level.
But not like my parents’ split-level, a development house from the late ‘50s.
I felt out-of-it and disconnected the entire wedding.
But at least I avoided crying profusely. I teared up a little. The one who wanted to be here wasn’t.
“And now by the authority vested in me by this state, I hereby pronounce you man-and-wife.”
The couple turned toward us. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Roy Hughes.”
This always hits hard, and used to tear up my wife.
These poor youngsters have no idea what they’re in for.
Right now everyone is smiling and cheering.
But who knows what medical problems await, or the marriage might go sour.
I doubt it will sour; they both seem to have their feet on the ground.
But someone might have a stroke or die.
Wedding over it was time for the reception, a giant dinner in the church’s gymnasium.
I could wonder about a church having a gymnasium, but I won’t.
My brother-from-Boston pointed out “the old sanctuary” from his time, since replaced by “the new sanctuary” (larger). “The old sanctuary” has been “converted,” shall we say, to office-space.
The reception took longer than the wedding. There was food and toasts and speeches.
We were seated at tables. Our table was immediate Hughes family, about eight, but only one of many tables.
Since I had little to say, and felt kind of out-of-it, I had to sit quietly with my hands folded. Not too bad, but somewhat boring.
Which was okay, because if I had left I only would have got depressed.
My niece had driven me there.
The reception ended with the cutting of the wedding-cake, which looked rather plain.
But it was a good-tasting cake. The bride and groom exchanged pieces (see photo).
The bride and groom then left the church in the groom’s car. No balloons, no clanging cans, only a “just-married” sign on the car’s rear.
Also no hurled rice — I was told rice was no longer in vogue.
We could now leave the church.
My niece drove me back to my brother’s house — she was staying with my brother — to get my car, after which I’d go back to the motel.
I commented my brother-from-Boston would no longer be at the motel. He had checked out that morning and would drive back home after the reception. I would be utterly alone at the motel, an invitation for depression.
“So why not hang with us?” my niece said.
So I did, a way to fight depression.
It was just my niece and I at first, then my brother returned.
I brought in this here laptop, and we fired it up.
My niece began demonstrating the wonders of Facebook.
Everything about it was “cool.”
We set up a Facebook-group of only family members, something my brother did long ago, but it fell into disuse largely because yrs trly had no idea how things were happening.
Our Facebook family group is fairly attractive. It’s viewable only by family-members; i.e. it’s “secret” to others.
What I worried about was there was no longer anyone like my wife to bounce comments off of.
So my niece, bless her, offered to be a stand-in.
No one can be my wife. With her I could say just about anything.
She wanted me to.
With my niece I can’t say anything. It might hurt her feelings, and I don’t wanna do that.
Like, for example, wondering why my nephew married.
“Marriage made in Heaven,” but other factors are at play.
The fact Tom already had a house makes him more attractive.
But Tom never seemed the marrying kind.
Very much his own man. Feet on the ground, and sensible, but independent.
It seemed he didn’t need to share himself; that he could stand alone on his own.
I can’t see Tom not caring about people; he got it from his parents. They cared about him.
For which reason I think his marriage will succeed.
Both parties are caring people, but what other factors were at play?

DAY THREE: Back to Reality
The trip back was easy, the same route my brother takes.
No traffic-jams, just very alone.
Seven hours, five stops, back to an empty house, and a thrilled dog (I had boarded her).
But it was just me and the dog.
The dog wandered around, but my wife is gone.

• “Canandaigua” (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 14 miles away. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.