In September of 1983, my girlfriend said "Let's get married." I hesitated for a moment.
We owned a San Diego condominium at the time.
"How about the first day of October?"
"Sounds good but why that specific day?"
"It's a week day. We'll just go down to City Hall and sign the papers."
That's exactly what happened. Four people were in attendance. Mary Brown's son flew out from Florida and John Partain, my tennis partner, were the "witnesses" for a civil ceremony that guaranteed the bewedded would not be put on any mailing lists. Someone named Chuck read us the riot act or whatever it was called. Mary and I had been living together for a year.
We celebrated the occasion at the Oceanside CHART HOUSE, a waterfront restaurant where the wait-staff sang a mangled version of a wedding song. Michael inspired that. The dinner was John's wedding gift.
Not until mid-October did I tell my new bride the real reason for selecting October 1 as our wedding date. It was my Grandmother's birthday. I waited until it was obvious that my numerous east coast Italian Catholic relatives–excluding Aunt Betty–were not sending any gifts.
Minnie had an excuse: she had suffered a severe stroke. I inherited the black sheep gene from my Grandmother's youngest daughter. The eldest daughter probably never told her mother about my non-church wedding for fear that the shock would kill her. The middle daughter is in the foreground of the photograph.
She is, of course, my mother who is sitting next to my father. Were those two still amongst the living, I might very well be celebrating a wedding anniversary today.
My father's head is partially cropped but that's okay because I wanted to emphasize the Anastasio triangle. However, after the tenth or eleventh viewing of the full photograph, which included Minnie & Grandpa Joe's three daughters w/spouses, I swore there was another Oliverio in the picture.
The man in the uppermost corner, looking longingly at the Anastasio table, bears an uncanny resemblance to my namesake: my father's brother.
And the woman next to him looks like my Aunt Antoinette, his wife. Two of my cousins–their son and daughter–could neither confirm nor deny whether it is actually their parents. All the Anastasios, their spouses, and the Maybe Oliverios have passed from this earth but that certainly does not mean that they are gone from my life.
Happy Birthday, Minnie.
But in the name of equality, I now present the four Oliverio Brothers in a photograph entitled MY PERSONAL MOUNT RUSHMORE.
Left to Right: Paul, Sam, Frank & Tony.
I could blog from here to eternity about each of them and have virtually done so about the two in the middle. During my two most recent visits to Father Frank in an upstate New York rest home, he has addressed me as "Sammy" and "Tony." I could not have been more flattered. But focus your attention on my Uncle Paul. Is he or is he not the "Almost Oliverio" above the Anastasio triangle?
Happy Birthday, Minnie. I am certain that three Oliverio Brothers are dining with you–and making you laugh your ass off–at this precise moment. BUT...
Please insist they save some of your other-worldly home-made lasagna for Father Frank.
