That Fuck Khrushchev

“Hey Lorelei, did you just hear that about Khrushchev?”  Alan called from his desk in the foyer, opposite the kitchen, where I stood peeling potatoes at the sink, while filling a large pot with water from the tap. 

“What? Did you say something about Khrushchev? Mr. We will bury you Khrushchev?”   With the evening news blaring from the television in the living room, and the tap running, I didn’t hear Alan very clearly, though the Comrade’s name reached out from the past and snagged my attention.  “I haven’t heard that name since we were kids!”  

“Yeah, him.  It was just on the news. His son became a citizen today!  Can you believe that? The commies want to be capitalists now. Ha! Sergei is living the  American dream that his father threatened to crush!  The old guy must be rolling over in his grave. Ha!”  Alan exhaled a breathy Ha! whenever something truly astonished him. 

“Huh, do the Ruskies consider this a defection?” 

“Bastard Bolshevik walked right in through the front door!  He teaches at Brown University, cold war studies!  Ha!” 

 The Soviets, led by good ole Nikita Khrushchev, had brought us to the brink of atomic war during the Bay of Pigs-Cuban Missile crisis, which terrorized eight year old me.  It was Us against Them, Uncle Sam v The Bear, the Fight of the Century.  It was a Cold War, about to heat up substantially. 

Eight year old Lori imagined herself wearing pigtails and a watermelon colored gingham dress, with shiny black patent leather Mary Janes and white ruffled anklets, standing before potatohead Khrushchev; his sidekick – bearded, beady black-eyed Fidel Castro; and handsome President John F. Kennedy. She was adorably teary eyed as she stood before the leaders at the United Nations and begged them, before a global TV audience, Please don’t blow up the world.  Why can’t we just all get along? 

Little Lori feared the mushroom cloud her Dad had shown her in the encyclopedia to emphasize why the Cuban situation was so dire, and hoped and prayed the neighborhood didn’t get swallowed by one.  The world leaders would be so touched by her sincerity, and her representation  of the new generation, Baby Boomers, that they would shake hands like gentlemen, and vow not to use the Atom Bomb.   The news headlines would read, Brooklyn Girl Saves US.  

Sadly, and gladly, the Brooklyn girl’s rescue fantasy persists. She is a sucker for a sob story, and still wants to change the world.  She thinks she’s crazy enough to maybe make a dent.

After slipping the last potato into the pot, I noticed the water had turned cloudy with starch, so I emptied the pot and refreshed the water.  I added a pinch of sea salt, a couple of smashed garlic cloves, some chopped onions, put the pot back on the stove over a medium high heat, and put a lid on it. 

  “So, what about Comrade Commie? A lot’s changed since the 60’s, but hey, it’s still Russia. Maybe junior got tired of being spied on. Or the cold.” 

“Lorelie, that’s what I’m telling you. Bastard and his wife said ‘I Do’ and became  U.S. citizens.”

“Détente anyone?  See Al, anything is possible.”

“Lorelie, you don’t understand. Khrushchev is an American citizen.  How did that happen?  Holy crap!”

“What’s the big deal Al?”

“It’s actually sorta, kinda, funny. Ironic.” 

Al got up from his desk, and stood in the doorway, arms planted firmly against its frame, and his eyes followed me as I opened the fridge and extracted a plump salmon filet. 

“Lorelie! Can you stop what you’re doing and look at me please?”  His tone was demanding, and his mouth stretched into an ear to ear grimace when he said pleeeeze.  Then softening that tone that I loathed, he said, “This is important honey. Please. Just stop and listen to me for a minute, can you do that?”  Hmm.

“Ohkay,” I said, thinking, this is really weird. Alan was one cool cat, but something about Khrushchev really got his dander up.

 I put the salmon on a plate on the counter, and washed and dried my hands. Al was a stickler about food safety, me not so much. I never knew anyone who died from cooking.  I turned to face him, hand on hip, head cocked.

“Ok, Al, what’s kinda-sorta-funny-slash-ironic about the guy who stole my childhood and turned my dreams into nightmares?”

I remembered the damned ‘duck and cover shelter drills we practiced in third grade, or as the boys used to say, “the put your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye” drills.  As soon as the three gongs alerted us to the drill, panic seized me.  Each time, I was so sure it was The End.  We all sat against the walls in the long hallways, knees bent, head tucked, hands behind the head.  I cried every time. I didn’t want to die there, I wanted to die with my mommy and daddy.  My mother was summoned to fetch me on at least 2 occasions I remember.  I was hysterical and inconsolable,  and all I wanted was my  mommy.  I was in first grade, maybe second.  I was traumatized, and grew up to be a Nuclear Neurotic. 

My parents, like most adults in my orbit, bitched about the Commie tyrant Khrushchev, whose colorless face (dis)graced the front pages of the daily papers, and whose aggression threatened the post war prosperity and Happy Days of mid twentieth century America. My father drove a newspaper truck, so everyday we had a copy of The NY Times, Daily News, Herald Tribune, and The NY Journal American. 

Dad thought about re-upping into the Army, because at least that was exciting.  But one fabissina look from my mother, and a tongue lashing from my Papa, her Father, Dad quickly understood that there would be no escape from this family, its responsibilities and commitments, for  many years. 

My mother, an alarmist of the first degree, growled at the papers, and tsk-tsked her way through the days, wary and waiting for the A bomb to drop.  Each night after I got tucked into bed, I lay awake thinking about the bad man, and wondered if I’d grow up. I prayed to a nebulous GOD, one my grandparents believed in, perhaps, please keep my family safe. That small act seemed better than doing nothing at all.  

Alan’s light brown eyes drilled into mine. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, but his arms remained locked in the doorframe. He fumfered, hemmed and hawed, and spoke s-l-o-w-l-y, deliberately, with long pauses, filled with uhs and uhms. His mouth opened and shut like he was catching flies, and the hesitancy really annoyed me. Sometimes, by the time he made a point, I had already forgotten what we were talking about. I wanted to shake him and tell him to Spit it out, already, my fish awaits.

“Uhm…uhm….uh….well, back in the days of my youth,” he shrugged his shoulders and sounded like a pompous old man. “I was a kid, what did I know?  It pissed me off when people asked, when are you getting married already?I musta been in my late twenties, early thirties. Doesn’t matter. What the fuck was it anyone’s business when I got married?  So I said something that was a guaranteed longshot. I told them, when that fuck Khrushchev becomes a citizen, I’ll get married.”

“Ever the wise ass.”        

 “So, that fuck Khrushchev became a citizen!  Lorelie, let’s get married!”

*************************************

Bugs Bunny,  jumping on a pogo stick, boing boing boing, hopped across my frontal lobe and I felt my eyes cross.

The last thing in the world I ever expected to hear from Alan Kaplan’s mouth was the M word.

Alan’s statement, not a question, technically not a proposal, landed with the force of an A bomb.  He had avoided marriage, had fled two long term relationships when the shiny glow of love had tarnished and been replaced by the dull reality of commitment.  He called monogamy, monotony, even though he was hardly a Casanova.  Whenever we heard of someone getting married, he said, “another one bites the dust.”   For Al, marriage was the “old ball and chain.”  Well, I sure didn’t want to be anyone’s ball and chain, and didn’t want to be dragging one around either. 

We’d been together for a few weeks shy of two years, and were still learning to live with each other’s peccadillos. He hung the toilet paper over; I had cats and had learned that the roll had a better chance of staying intact rolled under.  I liked the air conditioner set to seventy four, Alan preferred sixty five.  I was a night owl; Alan an early bird.  We seemed to be opposites in every way.

Back then, the differences made the relationship dynamic, and Alan became fond of saying, “If we were both the same one of us would be unnecessary.”

I liked things just fine the way they were in our second year of cohabitation, and in all our time together, marriage had never once crossed my mind. I saw little benefit to getting married, and had seen first hand how relationships changed after the knot was tied: that knot sometimes became a noose. I knew at least three couples whose marriages had ended after only two years, and the women complained, “marriage changed everything.” 

Al and I were adults in our forties; we would never bear or raise children.  There were no family fortunes or trust funds to inherit contingent upon marital status. I just didn’t see how marriage would enrich or enhance our relationship in any way. 

So I said the only thing I could think of.

 “Why?”  

“Whaat?  Why? Whaddya mean why? Honey.” Alan’s jaw dropped and his mouth popped open into a giant O.  I had never seen him taken aback, and his eyes, usually hidden beneath darkly tinted eyeglass lenses, opened wide. He was surely the master of poker face, but at that moment he appeared to be truly flustered. 

For Alan, the impossible had become possible, That fuck Khrushchev became a citizen, and because of that, Alan, too, would do the impossible. 

I wondered if any woman would have been invited to the altar that day just because she filled the only requirement for marriage that Al seemed to have. Did I happen to be a woman merely in the right place at the right time? 

Things might have felt more authentic to me if he’d said, ‘Let’s get married because my life is better with you in it.’  Or, ‘I love you and don’t want to live without you.’ Or even, ‘I’m a better man because of you.’  But no such sentiment had been offered. For Al, a reformed gambler, his number had come up, and the ticket finally had to be punched. 

Then again, Alan had  acted spontaneously!  He was NOT a spur of the moment, Hey, let’s go to Paris for the weekend, kind of guy.  He planned things to the last detail over a very l-o-n-g period of time.  He had rules, regulations and routines, was an excessively deliberate guy who needed to “get ready to get ready” to… take a shower, ride his bike, make a phone call.  He needed to pre-think, think, rethink, repeat…He gave the same care and consideration to every decision, whether buying a cup of coffee or a car. He called himself detail oriented.  I called it Anal.

I am much more go-with-the-flow, fly by the seat of the pants, and for me, putting such thought and effort into every single thing seemed exhausting.

“Lorelie.” HIs voice dropped to a lower register, his tone imploring.  “Honey. We love each other. Don’t we?  Don’t you love me?  I love you.” 

And in the words of musical legend Anna Mae Bullock, aka Tina Turner, What’s love got to do with it?  Love makes you drunk, stupid, and blind, and any important decision making should not be attempted under its influence. 

The man who couldn’t-wouldn’t  commit, wouldn’t say a definitive yes or no, to anything, was asking me to make a life changing commitment on the spot.   

I would eventually come to learn that cryptic remarks and non-committal answers were Alan’s hallmark. He couldn’t give me a solid YES if I asked if he wanted to hit the lottery, or a solid NO if I asked if he wanted to step in dogshit. His response repertoire to yes or no questions boiled down to perhaps, could be, let’s see, or maybe.

I knew Al believed he was being romantic, maybe even playful with his unproposal, he had an offbeat sense of humor, but Oy Vey!   Was Khrushchev a sturdy enough foundation upon which to ask a woman to spend the rest of her life with you? It seemed kind of shaky to me.

 “Lorelie, I want us to be together. I want to give you my name. I want you to be mine.”    

Oh dear.  What would my role be if I became his, what did he want or expect from me? Women in other parts of the world still struggled to be treated as independent people, and not as property, and the whole notion that a person could belong to another seemed creepy to me. It sounded like slavery. 

“Tell me something Al. Is marriage -to me- something you’ve contemplated before now?”  Fess up buddy.

“Well, yes and no. I’ve danced with the idea. Your hesitation surprised me, that’s all. I love you.” 

“A woman’s got to keep a man on his toes you know.”  I often felt like he stepped on mine. 

More song titles hummed in my head. Love is all you need. She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah. I love you just the way you are. Love is a many splendored thing. Love me Tender. You’ve lost that lovin’ feeling. Love is Blue. Down with love. Love Stinks. Was love alone enough to sustain a relationship between two set-in-their-ways, middle aged adults? Did love even mean the same thing to us?

‘I need a minute Al. Please.”   Being put on the spot freaked me out, my brain shut down.  So I picked up a fork and stabbed the potatoes to check their doneness. 

I opened the fridge and grabbed a jar of horseradish mustard, unscrewed the lid, and spooned a healthy dollop into a small bowl. I added some mayonnaise, a squirt of lemon, dried dill, lemon zest, and a smidgen of maple syrup, which would give the fish a nice caramelized crust. I whisked it all together and slathered the mixture over the salmon, and turned the oven to broil.  Somehow putting the fish under fire seemed very symbolic to me.   Married?

In my version of a perfect marriage,  two independent individuals, each with their own needs and desires, start from where they are and create a relationship, a third entity, which has its own needs apart from the individuals. I didn’t believe that two people became one, as many traditionalists did, and my feminist values conflicted with some of Al’s chauvinistic attitudes about what a woman’s “place” should be.

Though  I happily cooked us meals – a girl’s gotta eat you know -there was absolutely no chance I’d ever run to the door to greet him wearing an apron, fishnet stockings and high heels, martini ready to serve in a perfectly chilled glass.  There were few girly giggles left in me.

Alan held some romanticized and stereotypical notions of male/female roles, and  liked women who were sweet and soft spoken, such as the wives and mothers in 50’s and 60’s era TV sitcoms.  But I would never be like Laura Petrie, Dick Van Dyke’s pretty, dainty, devoted wife from that TV show from the 1960’s. Laura was happy to live tucked away in her New Rochelle bedroom community, being a full time wife,  and mom to little Richie. She prided herself on how tidy the house looked, whether her hair was perfectly coiffed, and how the new recipe for coq au vin turned out. She then lovingly and tenderly served that coq by candlelight to her hero when he returned home from the battlefield of comedy writing on the Alan Brady Show.

My Alan loved the fantasy, and it seemed to me that women were not the only ones who believed in fairy tales.  I personally didn’t know any Laura’s in my childhood, blue collar, working class neighborhood.  Mothers yelled out their windows to summon their kids home,  and smacked their husbands on the head when they said something stupid.  I didn’t know any demur women.

Why did men think that cleaning toilets was “woman’s work?”  Cooking and housekeeping were routine human maintenance, and sometimes, I even enjoyed folding warm, freshly tumble dried clothes. I loved to cook, too, but when it became an expectation imposed by someone else, like maybe a husband, the simple joy became a burning resentment. 1950’s happy homemaker ideals, while they nostalgically persisted, had no place in my current or future world, and I worried that Al had a lot of expectations about our roles, or more specifically my role. And I had a concern that his chauvinism may have been coupled with a bit of entitlement as well, another pet peeve of mine. 

I was happy when Mary Tyler Moore, who  played Laura, evolved along with the Feminists, to play Mary Richards, the first never married, self supporting, career women on television. Mary’s apartment, which she rented from landlady Phyllis, played by Cloris Leachman, was referred to as television’s “most famous bachelorette pad.”   The series ran through most of the seventies, and was one of the most beloved programs of its time.  Valerie Harper played Rhoda, Mary’s neighbor and friend, and I had no way of knowing as a teenaged girl watching these role models, that Valerie would one day get naked in my fitting room seeking bra help. 

A big plus for me was Alan’s family, they seemed normal enough, haha, whatever that meant.  Compared to my noisy dysfunctional crew, from whom I’d been estranged for several years, his mother, sister and brother, and their kids and cousins, uncles and aunts, were warm and welcoming. And gentle; they spoke to each other. They didn’t bark at one another, or yell, or scream, as the daily means of communication.  They were happy, and a little relieved, that Alan, at age forty five, had finally found himself a “keeper.”  Hmm. 

 “I’m so happy he has you,” his mother told me. “Now I can stop worrying.”  Uh oh.

The idea of having a companion to share my life with held some appeal; I was no spring chicken after all. After twelve years of night school, solitude, and single status, I never wanted to go on another blind date as long as I lived. I wanted someone’s eyes to light up when he saw me, to hang on every word I said, to laugh at my jokes. Al had gentlemanly qualities, opened doors for me, pulled out my chair in restaurants, held an umbrella over me when it rained, carried my bags.  And hadn’t he written some tender poetry to me during our email courtship before we met face to face? 

When I asked him to do something for me, he usually did it, though sometimes, like many men, he needed a bit of gentle reminding. I would learn that what women called reminding, men called nagging, so I picked my spots, and did my best to nag about something only every six months.  But this fed into our ongoing debate about how much independence a woman should retain once she became a Mrs.  I didn’t see how my ability to navigate life related to my marital status.  It would always be easier for me to drag out the kitchen step stool to reach a high shelf,  than to walk into another room, make the request, and wait for him to get ready to get ready to help. And each time I had to remind him about something,  for the third time, it strengthened my resolve to not ask at all.  Peccadillos.

Despite the petty annoyances and idiosyncrasies, being together was generally easy for us.   We enjoyed taking walks, reading books, playing Scrabble in the sun, attending Unity’s “creative worthship” services at Avery Fisher Hall on Sunday mornings. Al shared with me his understanding of Eastern philosophy from The Mahabharata,  Bhagavad Gita, meditation – which he studied at the School of Practical Philosophy. I liked that the Jewish boy was a seeker beyond the traditions and dogma of his own religion, and I enjoyed the teachings so much that I became a philosophy student too.

We followed an Indian guru named Maharaji, Prem Rawat, who spoke of the thirst humans have for happiness and peace, which can be quenched by journeying within through meditation. We attended video presentations for months before we could receive knowledge from the Master himself.  We flew to Montreal for our interviews and induction, and then meditated with forty or so initiates under Maharaji’s watchful eye.  Once home, we meditated together twice daily, and practiced mindfulness and yoga with a teacher who had himself studied under Master Thich Nhat Hanh. 

I had experienced an awakening shortly before meeting Alan, a spiritual Aliveness I never felt before.  It happened soon after I moved out and away from my mother, who I had learned to tolerate, but who was so very toxic for me to be with.  I yearned for something, but what that was, eluded me.  I had shed the skin of my old Self, and my confidence grew as a result of mediation and mindfulness.  Alas, that mindfulness also alerted me to people, places and things who no longer served my growth, or well being.  I felt out of place living in my mother’s home, and even though I’d occupied the space for a decade, it was never mine.  Even though I paid all the bills, it was never really my home.  It was a landing zone until the time to move on and up arrived.

My discontent with Joel and S&S was growing, maybe because  for the first time in my life, I was happy to be me. I felt ready for the next step but didn’t know what that was, or how to proceed.  I wanted a change.  Something new.

 And in response to my yearning, the Universe had sent me Alan.  He would be my emissary to enlightenment, one way or another.

From time to time I heard little ding-ding-ding warning bells sounding in my psyche. Early on, Alan told me that he had taken his twelve year old dog, whom he raised from puppyhood, to a shelter because he had tired of the responsibility of caring for her. I wondered if he would ditch me once I became a senior bitch.

And on our first date, as we walked along the water under in the shadow of the Verrazano Bridge in Bay Ridge, and talked about the meaning of life and happiness, Alan mentioned casually that he suffered from anhedonia.

“Wow, I have a pretty good vocabulary, but I never heard that word.” 

“It’s a clinical term for the inability to experience happiness or joy.”  My stomach flip flopped and I thought poor Alan, what an awful affliction.  If I had been then, the woman I am now, I would have run away as fast and far as I could.

“How does it manifest? What’s the treatment?”

“There’s no treatment.”

“How terrible. I’m sorry.”

Foolishly, naively, I believed that love would perk him right up, like a thirsty plant after a good dowsing. I would sprinkle him with love dust, everyday, until he sparkled.  It wouldn’t be for a very long time that I felt the nitpicking, criticizing, controlling, rejecting, negating effects of anhedonia. It was a dark and dismal place, devoid of light or hope.  Anhedonia was depression on steroids.

Sharing that unusual tidbit seemed a lot for a first date, and I wondered if Alan mentioned that to test me, to see if some pretty god awful news would scare me away.  Hell, I was no pussy, and certainly not a quitter, and my own affliction of rescuing strays and fixing people fit right into the whole scheme of things.  I may have been a wee bit flattered that Alan trusted me enough to confide in me.  Maybe he baited me.

  Sometimes, Al admitted, he saw things “with his ideas, instead of his eyes,” but he said he was willing to learn to do things differently.  Was anhedonia merely a limiting belief he had about himself?  

His my way or the highway attitude got under my skin like a splinter – could I realistically look past that?  Could he set his ego aside and learn to compromise?  Al liked me to agree with him; got irked if my opinion differed.  HIs listening skills were weak, and he couldn’t hear, or didn’t want to hear, another side of any story. Would I have to keep my big mouth shut just to please or appease him?

Could an old leopard change his spots? Could this tigress change her stripes? Then again, what would really change because we had a piece of paper that legally bound us together until death did us part?  Maybe everything; maybe nothing.

I took a deep breath, as if plunging into very deep water, and said,  “Ok Al,  what the hell.  Yes. Let’s get married.”

***********************************

Let the wedding plans begin.

We set the date for August 15, which did not leave us a lot of time to plan anything.  I wanted a simple City Hall ceremony, just the two of us, an officiate, and the mandatory witness.  Al agreed. But we experienced a glitch in the plan when, after telling his sister Lenore that we were betrothed and having a City Hall ceremony, she insisted he rethink things.

      “Alan, you are forty five years old and getting married for the first time. You cannot NOT invite me. I will be very offended if I’m not there to witness it.  What about Ma?  Don’t you think she deserves to see you get married?  We’ve all been waiting a long time for this!”

And from there a whole big discussion ensued.

      “Well Al, how can you invite your sister, and me not invite my sisters, brother and mother? If we invite one, we have to invite all. Don’t you think?”

      “I don’t know Babe. You really want a mob at City Hall?”

      “Well, if we’re going to do it, may as well make a party already.”

      “I want to do it soon, while my mother is in New York, before she goes back to Florida after the summer.”

      “How soon? And where? We have to make a list of guests, and pick a place, and set a budget, and get busy!”

      “Well, it’s July. Mom and George will be in New Paltz until August 25th.  So sometime between now and then. Let’s take drive and go visit Mom, and check out some places near where she’s staying.”

      “That’s a pretty long drive for most of our guests – from Brooklyn.”

      “You got another idea?”

      “No, not yet. But Ok, let’s take a drive and visit Miriam anyway.”

As the news spread, like wildfire, people started calling us.

 Is it true Alan is finally biting the bullet?  I gotta be there to see it.

Mazel Tov!  When? Wouldn’t miss this for the world.

I told Joel the news when I arrived at work the next day, and he was less than thrilled.

      “Congratulations.  Are you sure he’s the right guy?  This isn’t a shotgun wedding is it?”

      “No Joel, I am not preggers, and I can’t believe you would even think that!  I’d like you and Barbara to come, we don’t know when or where yet. And since you are the closest thing I’ve had to a father, will you give me away?”

Joel blushed and hugged me tight,  his body atremble.  “You know I love you. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”  His penis awoke, and ironic exclamation.

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt if you gave me my partnership for a wedding gift…”

“You know what I meant. About Alan. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Let me worry about my relationships, OK? I can’t see into, or guarantee the future, but for now, this is what I want to do. Thanks for your concern.”  

Complicated relationships seemed to be the story of my life. What the hell was that about?

The following weekend Alan and I rented a car from Hertz and drove upstate to visit his mom. Miriam and her husband George rented student housing at University of New Paltz campus, in order to escape the scorching Florida sun and stifling humidity of  summer. The university made the efficiency apartments available to seniors at extremely affordable rates during the summer hiatus, and it was a win-win for everyone.  The Hudson Valley was lovely in summer, and a weekend wedding in the country sounded good to me. Our families would finally meet each other.

I hadn’t spoken to my mother for two years, since the cat killings, and decided to invite her to the event. It would not be the last time I did something concerning my mother simply because it was the right thing to do.  She had been an awful parent, and was the Queen Curmudgeon. She had alienated or offended every friend she had with her nasty mouth and negative attitudes.  She had abused me as a girl, and though I had forgiven her, wanted little to do with her.  I hoped I wouldn’t be sorry.

Our first choice for a wedding party was Mohonk Mountain House on Lake Mohonk, a romantic retreat replete with accommodations in a Victorian castle, and plenty of outdoorsy activities.  I’d never been to the famed resort, and their pricey wedding rates meant I wouldn’t be visiting anytime soon.

During the summer of ‘99, NY state was hit hard by a prolonged drought, and as we drove along country roads and two lane highways, the parched landscape made me feel  sad.  Field after field of corn was scorched brown, the grass was brown, the water levels in streams and lakes was so low that rafts and kayaks touched bottom, making them susceptible to puncture by rocks and shell shards.  We visited several local inns associated with wineries, and they too had been adversely affected by the drought – grapes in the vineyards looked like prunes and raisins where any grew at all.  One or two establishments that normally catered events during the peak summer season had suspended operations altogether. 

While driving along we happened upon a place called the Locust Tree Inn.  At the end of a tree lined drive, adjacent to the New Paltz public 9-hole golf course, with expansive views  of the Shawangunk Mountains and bordering Walkill River, was a lovely building with  the kind of old world charm we wanted for a wedding venue.  The Inn had a wrap around porch, and two old locust trees in front of the building, and I imagined the chuppa beneath their branches. About one hundred feet from the main building was a stand of trees with a large gazebo in the center, and got excited that the place was just perfect for our day in the country festivities.