The aforementioned nice man is also your music history professor. He’s not quite as dreamy as William Holden, but Fred is handsome, with dark hair and twinkly green eyes, and you are no different than about six other girls in that auditorium in that you’re absentmindedly doodling hearts on the end pages of your textbook (an antique sheet music design), though yours manifest as musical notes with hearts for noteheads and delicate ribbons in place of the flags. Absolutely nothing untoward will occur during class, will not even occur to him (he has zero idea that even one girl is looking his way), but at the end-of-year department picnic, he will offer to refill your cup of punch, and as he hands it over he becomes aware that you are an adult female and you become aware of his awareness, and no one will think anything of it when he begins to court you; this is the last class you will have need to take with him. He will drive to Muscatine every Saturday for the rest of the summer, meeting your parents (who are elated that you have landed such a worldly, scholarly, handsome man), always in a tie and jacket, even for an ice cream cone and a walk by the river. He hands you a ring on New Year’s Eve that year, and two summers later you will be married in Muscatine, in a dress your mother made, five bridesmaids at your side.
There isn’t quite enough time to plan the dream wedding — your studies take up all your time, you’re preparing to graduate in June and have been giving thought to a graduate degree — and after putting it off as long as possible, you and Mother decide that it will be at the Methodist church up the street where you’ve reluctantly been going to services since you were born. There was some talk about having it at the Cranes’ estate in Mount Pleasant, but that set your two polite mothers into utter disagreement, while you stood by, nearly invisible, in the discussion. This negotiation is almost like a Mafia sit-down, but with polite middle-aged Midwestern mothers. Mrs. Crane opens the dialogue by saying with great pride that she has hosted several weddings on the lawn, that it is an absolutely lovely and scenic place for a wedding, and that for these occasions they have a set of Doric columns they keep in the barn to use for an aisle or an altar. She comes armed with photos of Fred’s sister’s wedding; it is undeniably picturesque, with the old ivy-covered barn, the rose garden, and the pond in the background. Your mother counters on your behalf that it is your preference to have the ceremony here in Muscatine, at your own church. She added that last part; the church is her preference. You’d prefer to have it at the Plaza in New York, with nary a minister in sight, a vision from a picture you saw in Brides magazine, a fantasy. But there are only two options on the table, and of these you would definitely prefer Muscatine, mainly because that’s where your friends and family are and you want to be sure everyone comes. Mrs. Crane counters that they would of course be willing to foot the bill for the entire thing, which gives your mother a moment’s pause; as parents of the bride, they will be funding the wedding, that’s just the way it’s done, though their income has always been modest and your mother knows the Cranes are quite well-to-do. Mrs. Crane picks up on this pause, but your mother cannot have everyone in town knowing that they let someone else pay for their daughter’s wedding (even though they have just recovered from Marjorie’s wedding, which set them back $675). She thanks Mrs. Crane for her kindness and says It’s settled, Lois really wants to have it here, and so you will have the ceremony at the church here and the reception in the ballroom at the Hotel Muscatine even if it costs you another pretty penny and that will be that.
You and Mother pick out a Butterick pattern at the fabric store downtown, strapless but with a lace overlay that has cap sleeves, nipped tight at the waist, a full skirt. You both ooh and ah over some of the fabrics; this might be the most fun part, doing this with your mother, choosing a pure white satin for the bodice and skirt, a gorgeous floral lace for the overlay, with a scalloped edge around the neckline. Even the tulle for the underskirt and veil is dreamy. But when you get home and Marjorie sits you down at the dining room table with a to-do list the length of her arm, you’re suddenly not sure you shouldn’t have gone to a justice of the peace and called it a day. On Marjorie’s list: bridesmaid’s dresses (she would prefer mid-calf to the just-below-knee-length pattern you’ve chosen), gloves, flowers, dinner, music, invitations and RSVPs, favors for the table, place cards, cake. Marjorie is excited but also serious. This is a big job; studying for the music theory final is infinitely more appealing than wedding planning right now (and this class has been a total drudge, confusing from the get-go, where is the theory?), and you say so, and Marjorie asks What’s wrong with you? This is your wedding, the most exciting day of your life, and this idea fills you with horror, frankly, that you might get only one exciting day, but all you can come up with to say is Nothing’s wrong with me, what’s wrong with you? and Marjorie says I don’t have to help you, you know, and you say Then don’t, and Marjorie gets up from the table and you say No wait, do, and it’s a bummer to have to ask Marjorie for help in this way, especially when she sits back down and says I thought so, smiling while you glower. She might as well have a list that says house, cleaning, cooking, wifely duties, baby, baby, grandbaby, grandbaby, grandbaby, grandbaby, dead, done, the end.
For the most part, the next few months are a blur of wedding planning. Mother and Marjorie are so excited about it that they hardly notice that you find the planning not nearly as much fun as they do. At the printer’s, a discussion of fonts lasts an hour, until you can’t tell a roman from an italic, and you’ve definitely stopped caring. For one entire afternoon, you sit and wrap candies in scraps of tulle tied with a bow and a tag that says Frederick and Lois Crane, August 12, 1956—why is his name first, on everything? You address envelopes, you address return envelopes, you lick stamps, you lick envelopes, you come to despise envelopes and whoever invented them. You fold place cards and hand-write the names of the guests, make seating charts until your fingers cramp. Can’t they sit wherever they want? It’s buffet anyway. Heavens no, Lois, do you know what will happen if Cousin Carol sits next to Bernie Hofstrad? I guess I don’t. Well you don’t want to. You get an A-minus on one of your music theory papers because there was no time to proofread it a second time, and since you can’t abide the idea of graduating from college with less than a 4.0 GPA, you beg the professor to give you one more chance to revise. That spring, you finish college in three years — no surprise there. Your parents attend the graduation; they are beyond proud to have two college graduates for daughters; but there’s no doubt that everyone’s primary focus is the wedding, and there’s no real celebration beyond milkshakes at the drugstore counter downtown. Your twentieth birthday, the same weekend as your graduation, is almost forgotten. Mother makes a sheet cake, Daddy gives you a Brownie camera (For your honeymoon! he says), and then it’s back to wedding planning.