Marriage
Title
Marriage
Creator
Jacob Schlitt
Description
"Skimming a review in the New Yorker of Elizabeth Gilbert’s book 'Committed,' about her marriage, got me to thinking (again) about mine."
Date
2010
Format
application/pdf
Type
text
Language
en
Coverage
1951
Identifier
MARRIAGE
Text
MARRIAGE
Skimming a review in the New Yorker of Elizabeth Gilbert’s book “Committed,” about her marriage, got me to thinking (again) about mine. First, I had never heard of Elizabeth Gilbert until I saw the PBS series called “This Emotional Life” about our emotions. She was one of the guest emoters and seemed pretty perceptive. I have since learned that she wrote a memoir called “Eat, Pray, Love,” about her first marriage and divorce. Committed seems to be about the history of marriage before it gets to her second marriage.
So, let me look at my marriage(s) again from a slightly different angle. According to Gilbert, and the cartoon caption: “the real benefits of marriage go to men.” I never quite saw it that way.
What was happening in 1951 that was driving me to marriage? I was in love? Perhaps. My mother had died in March. I was alone. I liked Sylvia. I dated Sylvia. But I also dated several other young women. It was when I went to see Sylvia on an impulse in April, and when she greeted me so warmly, that I interpreted her greeting as love. Hey, she really digs me. I decided to get serious.
We went out frequently over the next few months. We kissed and necked, but there was no intercourse. We talked a lot, and I told Sylvia that I loved her. She changed the subject. I think she felt relieved that she was leaving in July to work at Camp Welmet as a counselor. It would put some distance between us. I was caught up in a complicated situation involving work and the draft board, which I resolved temporarily by taking a job as an instructor at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. However, when I went to visit Sylvia at the end of July, she mentioned that they needed a counselor. I applied, was hired and left my job at the Navy Yard to spend August with Sylvia. It didn’t result in convincing Sylvia that we should marry. I later learned that she had had a brief romance with another counselor in July that didn’t go anywhere.
We returned to the city, I enrolled at NYU full-time to keep out of the Army, took a job as an organizer, and continued to pursue Sylvia. Perhaps as a result of my persistence, and her rationalizing that life with me was as good as anything else that might come along, Sylvia said yes. I of course, thought it was my charm that broke down a girlish hesitation. She was 22 and I was almost 24. Many of our friends were getting married. In almost every case, the marriages took place in the social hall of a Synagogue, with bridesmaids in gowns, and ushers in tuxedos.
I suspect it was some time in October that we became “engaged.” Of course, we never used that word. We may have simply told a few friends that we were going to get married. Then we started to think about how and where and when. Sylvia’s folks didn’t have the money to pay for a traditional wedding, so we decided to have a non-traditional one.
We looked in the yellow pages of the Bronx telephone directory under Rabbis and found someone named Israel Miller. We figured out that Saturday evening, December 22, was a good date, the start of my winter school break. We called Rabbi Miller and asked him if he would marry us on that date, and in his Study. He asked us to meet with him. We did, and he agreed. I believe he said we should have a Minyan—ten men. We figured out that with Sylvia’s sister’s husband, my cousin Bob, and all our friends, we would make it. I don’t remember a Chupa or a Ketubah. We stood facing the Rabbi with our friends around us. He said all the appropriate things in Hebrew and English. We said whatever he asked us to say. We signed whatever he asked us to sign. I broke the glass. Everyone said Mazel Tov, and that was it. We drove back and forth in taxis.
We had taken care of all the necessary details: blood test, license, a wedding dress for Sylvia and a suit fort me, wedding announcement cards, and most important—wedding rings. Why we fussed so much over the wedding rings, I don’t know. It must have been very important to Sylvia. We spent several weekends in Greenwich Village visiting jewelers. Finally, we found Sam Kramer on West Eighth Street. There were just the rings we wanted: wide-very wide, and hammered gold. It was expensive, but when you find the ring of your dreams, the cost is irrelevant.
{Very important digression: For several hours I could not remember the name of the jeweler who made our rings. Finally, I remembered that his first name was Sam. I then decided to Google “Greenwich Village Jeweler Sam,” and up came Sam Kramer. Sadly, the first listing was his obituary. He died in 1964 at the age of 50, from a heart ailment.
We were also involved in transforming my apartment, which had been my mother’s apartment, to Sylvia and my apartment. We got rid of a lot of “my mother’s things” and replaced them with “our things”: furniture, dishes, curtains, art work. It was at “our apartment” that the wedding party with our friends would take place after the wedding ceremony in the Rabbi’s study.
Our older relatives were invited to a reception at Sylvia’s parents’ apartment, three blocks away. Sylvia and I put in an appearance, but then returned to our gang. We had food, drinks and a wedding cake. Our friend Sam Baron took pictures. A good time was had by all.
We had reserved a cabin in the town of Mt. Tremper in the Catskills for our honeymoon. The morning of December 24, we took the subway to the bus terminal where we took a bus to Mt. Tremper. In retrospect, it doesn’t sound very romantic. I would like to say it really doesn’t matter when you are in love.
Skimming a review in the New Yorker of Elizabeth Gilbert’s book “Committed,” about her marriage, got me to thinking (again) about mine. First, I had never heard of Elizabeth Gilbert until I saw the PBS series called “This Emotional Life” about our emotions. She was one of the guest emoters and seemed pretty perceptive. I have since learned that she wrote a memoir called “Eat, Pray, Love,” about her first marriage and divorce. Committed seems to be about the history of marriage before it gets to her second marriage.
So, let me look at my marriage(s) again from a slightly different angle. According to Gilbert, and the cartoon caption: “the real benefits of marriage go to men.” I never quite saw it that way.
What was happening in 1951 that was driving me to marriage? I was in love? Perhaps. My mother had died in March. I was alone. I liked Sylvia. I dated Sylvia. But I also dated several other young women. It was when I went to see Sylvia on an impulse in April, and when she greeted me so warmly, that I interpreted her greeting as love. Hey, she really digs me. I decided to get serious.
We went out frequently over the next few months. We kissed and necked, but there was no intercourse. We talked a lot, and I told Sylvia that I loved her. She changed the subject. I think she felt relieved that she was leaving in July to work at Camp Welmet as a counselor. It would put some distance between us. I was caught up in a complicated situation involving work and the draft board, which I resolved temporarily by taking a job as an instructor at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. However, when I went to visit Sylvia at the end of July, she mentioned that they needed a counselor. I applied, was hired and left my job at the Navy Yard to spend August with Sylvia. It didn’t result in convincing Sylvia that we should marry. I later learned that she had had a brief romance with another counselor in July that didn’t go anywhere.
We returned to the city, I enrolled at NYU full-time to keep out of the Army, took a job as an organizer, and continued to pursue Sylvia. Perhaps as a result of my persistence, and her rationalizing that life with me was as good as anything else that might come along, Sylvia said yes. I of course, thought it was my charm that broke down a girlish hesitation. She was 22 and I was almost 24. Many of our friends were getting married. In almost every case, the marriages took place in the social hall of a Synagogue, with bridesmaids in gowns, and ushers in tuxedos.
I suspect it was some time in October that we became “engaged.” Of course, we never used that word. We may have simply told a few friends that we were going to get married. Then we started to think about how and where and when. Sylvia’s folks didn’t have the money to pay for a traditional wedding, so we decided to have a non-traditional one.
We looked in the yellow pages of the Bronx telephone directory under Rabbis and found someone named Israel Miller. We figured out that Saturday evening, December 22, was a good date, the start of my winter school break. We called Rabbi Miller and asked him if he would marry us on that date, and in his Study. He asked us to meet with him. We did, and he agreed. I believe he said we should have a Minyan—ten men. We figured out that with Sylvia’s sister’s husband, my cousin Bob, and all our friends, we would make it. I don’t remember a Chupa or a Ketubah. We stood facing the Rabbi with our friends around us. He said all the appropriate things in Hebrew and English. We said whatever he asked us to say. We signed whatever he asked us to sign. I broke the glass. Everyone said Mazel Tov, and that was it. We drove back and forth in taxis.
We had taken care of all the necessary details: blood test, license, a wedding dress for Sylvia and a suit fort me, wedding announcement cards, and most important—wedding rings. Why we fussed so much over the wedding rings, I don’t know. It must have been very important to Sylvia. We spent several weekends in Greenwich Village visiting jewelers. Finally, we found Sam Kramer on West Eighth Street. There were just the rings we wanted: wide-very wide, and hammered gold. It was expensive, but when you find the ring of your dreams, the cost is irrelevant.
{Very important digression: For several hours I could not remember the name of the jeweler who made our rings. Finally, I remembered that his first name was Sam. I then decided to Google “Greenwich Village Jeweler Sam,” and up came Sam Kramer. Sadly, the first listing was his obituary. He died in 1964 at the age of 50, from a heart ailment.
We were also involved in transforming my apartment, which had been my mother’s apartment, to Sylvia and my apartment. We got rid of a lot of “my mother’s things” and replaced them with “our things”: furniture, dishes, curtains, art work. It was at “our apartment” that the wedding party with our friends would take place after the wedding ceremony in the Rabbi’s study.
Our older relatives were invited to a reception at Sylvia’s parents’ apartment, three blocks away. Sylvia and I put in an appearance, but then returned to our gang. We had food, drinks and a wedding cake. Our friend Sam Baron took pictures. A good time was had by all.
We had reserved a cabin in the town of Mt. Tremper in the Catskills for our honeymoon. The morning of December 24, we took the subway to the bus terminal where we took a bus to Mt. Tremper. In retrospect, it doesn’t sound very romantic. I would like to say it really doesn’t matter when you are in love.
Original Format
application/msword
Collection
Citation
Jacob Schlitt, “Marriage,” Autobiographical stories & other writing by Jacob Schlitt, accessed April 29, 2024, https://tsirlson.omeka.net/items/show/119.