It was the Summer of Love, 1967.
\”Puff, the Magic Dragon\” was at the top of the charts.
Hair was in rehearsal for its October debut.
Hopes for the liberalization of the Catholic Church after the Second Ecumenical Council were running high, as did hopes for many other things.
We scheduled the nuptial Mass for 9 a.m. because Ed said he wanted to wake up, shave, and get married.
Too nervous to swallow any breakfast earlier that morning, I got slightly drunk on the sacramental wine.
Ed wore a dark suit that later served him well at job interviews. I wore a hand-me-down Mexican wedding dress that was a little too short, and my First Communion veil. My little sister, who was flower girl, wore a long pink empire-waist dress I had made. My matron of honor wore the bridesmaid dress that her sister had worn at her wedding.
My father composed the organ music for our walk down the aisle. I did my mother\’s hair (my own was so short I just ran my fingers through it). A friend was in charge of picture-taking.
It was pretty much a do-it-yourself, proto-hippie wedding–our first act of rebellion against consumerism.
It was a broiling-hot day in Birmingham, Alabama, forty-one–no, forty-four–no, forty-three years ago.