A Wedding Story
Looking back on the memories of my Newsie days, I remember the rally at Medda's, our rousing rendition of seize the day, and the day Teddy Roosevelt appeared only moments after we tore through the streets, basking in our hard-earned victory. I still get chills from that, don't you? There's also the wedding that comes to mind. You don't know the story? Not even the proposal? Well, that was certainly a story to tell. You got a minute? I'm sure you'll love it.
It all started at Bumlett's funeral, (of all places! I'm sure you're thinking). That was two years or so after the strike, I'd say about December of 1901. It was a beatiful ceremony. Brian Denton (surely you remember him) wrote the obituary. That was before his "ace war correspondant" days. It had just snowed and it was in the late afternoon, as the sun went down. I think Les and Mush took it the hardest. Later on, Mush told me how it seemed to him that sun would never rise up again.
We all went to Tibby's afterwards. Tibby herself greeted us at the door and treated us all to a turkey dinner- Bumlett's favorite.
It had been deathly quiet until Crutchy began to sob fitfully into his worn floppy hat. A few glanced up at him and looked away uncomfortably. Only Cowboy, who was holding up the best offered a consoling shoulder to his friend, as his own tears spilled down his cheeks. As soon as the rest saw their brave leader crying, several more gave in. Les looked around the table in disgust.
"Whattaya doin? Bumletts wouldna' wanted ya tah cry and blubbah like babies ovah him. He'd want ya tah... tah..." his voice trailed off. Racetrack shot him a fierce look, among many others. "Want us tah what, kid? Put a cawk in it Les. Ya ain't helpin'," he grumbled. Sarah looked to her brother hoping-no-praying that he'd stop talking. No such luck.
"He'd want us tah be happy," he said, the words rolling of his tongue confidently. Several exchanged confused looks. Les looked around and clarified. "No, not 'cause he's dead, because.... Everytime I'm down, he always told me, 'Les, ya pick ya head up. Ya don't do no one any favah's by mopin round. I sweah, the day I die, I don't want no one wastin deah time cryin. Time runs out kid, don't waste what ya got bein sad'", he said, his bottom lip quivering.
Jack looked up from Crutchy, who had leaned his mop of chocolate curls dejectedly upon his tattered crutch. "He really said dat?" Jack asked. Les nodded solemnly. Tibby cleared the uneated meals quietly, something she'd never do herself.
"Well, den dat's what we gotta do," he said with a voice of authority. Jack looked to me, the 'walking mouth' for some ideas. I looked around the table. Mush and Les beginning to cry; Sarah, trying not to; Race, fumbling with a pack of poker cards, belonging to his long-lost pal with tears streaking down his cheeks; Denton staring down into his lap... what a crowd to please. How had it become my job to motivate a miserable crowd to get happy? I probably would have backed down if it hadn't been for the miracle idea that passed into my mind at that moment. The day before, Jack had approached me, to ask for Sarah's hand in marriage. (Dad had died from cancer in his arm he claimed to have gotten at a factory) Of course I had said yes, but had Sarah even been asked? I looked to her left ring finger. It was bare except for an irritated blister. Jack's eyes followed mine and I knew instantly this'd be a helluva funeral.
Things kinda went upward from then on. A few days later, Mom hunted out her old wedding gown; a long ornate, white dress with a silken lace collar and a flowery vail. Jack received Mr. Kloppman's tuxedo. He'd shrunken with age since it fit, and though it was slightly worn, Jack was happy to own something nice for once.
We traveled out of the city. Only Sarah, me, Jack and Race went. Les, happy to stay back in the Newsboy's Lodging House with Mush and Crutchy, said his farewells excitedly in hope we'd forget our way back and he could stay forever.
Jack wanted an outdoor wedding and Sarah had no objection. So long as there were daisies- lots of them. Jack slumped his shoulders as they picked out an abandoned field. Beggahs can't be choosah's, Race groaned. A helluva funeral, you say? Wait till you hear about the wedding.
*****
Looking back on the memories of my Newsie days, I remember the rally at Medda's, our rousing rendition of seize the day, and the day Teddy Roosevelt appeared only moments after we tore through the streets, basking in our hard-earned victory. I still get chills from that, don't you? There's also the wedding that comes to mind. You don't know the story? Not even the proposal? Well, that was certainly a story to tell. You got a minute? I'm sure you'll love it.
It all started at Bumlett's funeral, (of all places! I'm sure you're thinking). That was two years or so after the strike, I'd say about December of 1901. It was a beatiful ceremony. Brian Denton (surely you remember him) wrote the obituary. That was before his "ace war correspondant" days. It had just snowed and it was in the late afternoon, as the sun went down. I think Les and Mush took it the hardest. Later on, Mush told me how it seemed to him that sun would never rise up again.
We all went to Tibby's afterwards. Tibby herself greeted us at the door and treated us all to a turkey dinner- Bumlett's favorite.
It had been deathly quiet until Crutchy began to sob fitfully into his worn floppy hat. A few glanced up at him and looked away uncomfortably. Only Cowboy, who was holding up the best offered a consoling shoulder to his friend, as his own tears spilled down his cheeks. As soon as the rest saw their brave leader crying, several more gave in. Les looked around the table in disgust.
"Whattaya doin? Bumletts wouldna' wanted ya tah cry and blubbah like babies ovah him. He'd want ya tah... tah..." his voice trailed off. Racetrack shot him a fierce look, among many others. "Want us tah what, kid? Put a cawk in it Les. Ya ain't helpin'," he grumbled. Sarah looked to her brother hoping-no-praying that he'd stop talking. No such luck.
"He'd want us tah be happy," he said, the words rolling of his tongue confidently. Several exchanged confused looks. Les looked around and clarified. "No, not 'cause he's dead, because.... Everytime I'm down, he always told me, 'Les, ya pick ya head up. Ya don't do no one any favah's by mopin round. I sweah, the day I die, I don't want no one wastin deah time cryin. Time runs out kid, don't waste what ya got bein sad'", he said, his bottom lip quivering.
Jack looked up from Crutchy, who had leaned his mop of chocolate curls dejectedly upon his tattered crutch. "He really said dat?" Jack asked. Les nodded solemnly. Tibby cleared the uneated meals quietly, something she'd never do herself.
"Well, den dat's what we gotta do," he said with a voice of authority. Jack looked to me, the 'walking mouth' for some ideas. I looked around the table. Mush and Les beginning to cry; Sarah, trying not to; Race, fumbling with a pack of poker cards, belonging to his long-lost pal with tears streaking down his cheeks; Denton staring down into his lap... what a crowd to please. How had it become my job to motivate a miserable crowd to get happy? I probably would have backed down if it hadn't been for the miracle idea that passed into my mind at that moment. The day before, Jack had approached me, to ask for Sarah's hand in marriage. (Dad had died from cancer in his arm he claimed to have gotten at a factory) Of course I had said yes, but had Sarah even been asked? I looked to her left ring finger. It was bare except for an irritated blister. Jack's eyes followed mine and I knew instantly this'd be a helluva funeral.
Things kinda went upward from then on. A few days later, Mom hunted out her old wedding gown; a long ornate, white dress with a silken lace collar and a flowery vail. Jack received Mr. Kloppman's tuxedo. He'd shrunken with age since it fit, and though it was slightly worn, Jack was happy to own something nice for once.
We traveled out of the city. Only Sarah, me, Jack and Race went. Les, happy to stay back in the Newsboy's Lodging House with Mush and Crutchy, said his farewells excitedly in hope we'd forget our way back and he could stay forever.
Jack wanted an outdoor wedding and Sarah had no objection. So long as there were daisies- lots of them. Jack slumped his shoulders as they picked out an abandoned field. Beggahs can't be choosah's, Race groaned. A helluva funeral, you say? Wait till you hear about the wedding.
*****