I don't remember how old I was, but I was young enough that it was exciting to answer the phone. My uncle was at the other end, and he told me he was getting married.
"Can I be a flower girl?"
My mother was outside taking out the trash. I ran down the steps to the back door and announced, "Uncle's getting married, and I get to be a flower girl!"
It didn't occur to me that I hadn't met the woman he was going to marry. I didn't wonder who she was or where she had come from. But these questions were rather a priority for the older generations of my family.
Soon we got to meet her, though. She also said that I could be a flower girl, so I was sold. She was also Jewish, about my uncle's age, and gainfully employed, which went a long way to soothing the feelings of the older generations. And we liked her, too, which helped even more.
I loved every step of that wedding. I loved attending my first party with a response card. I loved teaching my new aunt's father how to eat a lemon. I loved meeting my aunt's family, who lived in Philadelphia, and traveling to Rochester for the wedding with my uncle's best friend.
And I loved my little basket of rose petals and my dress and getting to hang out with the bride, who gave me the wreath of flowers she wore in her hair.
Thirty years later, I'm just glad they got married.