I grew up in a small town in a foreign land, Pennsylvania. “You never have to use your turn signal here,” my dad once said, “because everyone knows where you’re going.” It was a good place to grow up. We were Polish or Pennsylvania German; we were Roman-Catholic or Lutheran. That was our diversity, opposite ends of the same pierogi.
Thirty years later, in an Essex County town two hours east, but worlds away, Angelika Rydz walked into our backyard, introduced herself to my wife, Paula, looked at our sons, Zach and Luke, and said, “Who are these two Polish boys?”
The Krakow native’s white-blonde hair and light blue eyes made her look like a cousin from the homeland, not the new nanny/tutor/cook/referee/friend for the boys next door, Louis, Henry and Kalman. The five call themselves “brothers from another mother.”
That sense of extended family grew as the boys became pals with Ralston Peterson, Angie’s boyfriend, who, as a boy, emigrated with his family from Jamaica. In a blink, Angie was finishing her business degree from Kean University, Ralston proposed, and they were planning a Town Hall exchange of vows.
Town Hall? Susan and Adam, parents of the Kraham boys, insisted the celebration would take place in their home. Within a few short weeks, Susan and Paula were buzzing around the Kraham-Joseph home, planning the wedding.
On the big day, guests arrived, along with a snowstorm. Angie was beaming. “My mother and father told me that it snowed on their wedding day,” she says. “So this is good.” Ralston’s family members brought in curried goat, rice dishes, and a cake. The smells mingled with the pierogies and other delicacies already warming in the oven.
As Susan prepared Angie for her grand entrance, the fidgety groom was next door going through my closet for a jacket to match the tie his intended gave him. All the while, kids—lots of kids—ducked and dodged the adults, sneaking sodas and playing tag.
Everyone filled the living room for the ceremony. Ralston’s cousin, Janet Dawes, punctuated each sentence of praise and promise in her opening prayer with a “Yes, God” before the mayor of Maplewood officiated. Susan and Adam asked the couple to sanctify their union with a Jewish folk custom—stepping on a glass wrapped in a towel. Adam gave a sweet, rambling speech that would have made Angie’s father proud. As the Red Stripe and Cosmopolitans flowed, new acquaintances mingled, the conversation a mix of eastern European accents, the lilting Jamaican patois, and the rapid-fire chatter of the host families.
Word spread that my wife, of pure Lithuanian lineage, made the best Jamaican Jerk Chicken this side of Kingston. She stood firm under good-natured cross-examination and a plan for the inaugural Backyard Jerk Challenge was hatched. This wedding had become a house party, a celebration of immigrants. First, second, or third generation? Irrelevant. We’d all come from somewhere else.
Later, Angie and Ralston sat on the steps, surrounded by the children she cared for and by Ralston’s nieces and nephews. A few grownups teased, “May you have this many babies.” All the while, I watched and hoped these boys and girls would remember the moment.
Hugs and phone numbers were exchanged. Then we all dodged the snowflakes home. Without our turn signals.