“But I haven’t got a hat!” Those were the first words uttered by my mother when I greeted her as she arrived in Montreal with the news that my fiancée and I were to be married three days later.
“B
I haven’t got a hat!” . Those were the first words uttered by my mother when I greeted her as she arrived in Montreal with the news that my fiancée and I were to be married three days later.
It was early June 1960, and my bride-to-be and I had recently become officially engaged. Yuni was a Colombo Plan scholarship student from Indonesia who had just completed a science degree at McGill University. We had met at McGill where I had graduated in engineering the previous year. My mother had earlier written to me from England to say that she was flying out to Montreal to spend a few days. After receiving her letter it suddenly occurred to us that we could get married during my mother’s visit. Neither of us had relatives in Canada and the wedding date had not yet been set. This seemed the perfect opportunity to have at least one of the two families represented at the nuptials.
At that time in Quebec a marriage to be legally recognized had to be celebrated in a place of worship. Since Yuni was raised in a Moslem society and I, although raised a Christian, had no church affiliation, this presented a problem. We understood that few Quebec churches would marry a couple such as ourselves. A solution to the problem surfaced when another student advised us that a simple civil wedding before a Justice of the Peace in Ontario would suffice and this would be legally recognized in Quebec. This seemed a splendid idea and no time was wasted organizing a wedding party to drive across the border into Ontario. One of Yuni’s Canadian student friends consented to be Maid of Honour and an Indonesian student offered his car to drive the party to Ottawa, just across the Quebec border. Unfortunately there had been no time to forewarn my mother of what was about to happen!
Two days after I had greeted my mother and arranged for her to buy a new hat, the five-member wedding party set out on a Thursday afternoon to drive the three hours to Ottawa. There the ladies in the group checked into a modest hotel, and the Indonesian student and I booked into the downtown YMCA. On the Friday morning we rose early, dressed in our best finery (Yuni in her McGill blazer and my mother in her new hat) and drove to Ottawa City Hall. Arriving just as the doors opened, we approached the reception desk where a pleasant receptionist greeted us. I explained that we had come to be married before a J.P.
“I see,” said the receptionist, “and where do you live?” “In Montreal,” I replied lamely, a small worm of doubt beginning to gnaw inside me. “I see,” she replied patiently. “Unfortunately to be married here before a Justice of the Peace you have to have at least six months’ continuous residence in Ontario. Furthermore, you have to book several weeks ahead!” Suddenly it all seemed stunningly obvious! Why had we never thought of that before?
The effect of this news on our small wedding party was at first cataclysmic. Then as the absurdity of the situation dawned on me I could not help laughing. I thanked the receptionist before the disconsolate group returned to the car for the long trip back to Montreal. Arriving in our home city in the early afternoon, someone came up with another brilliant idea. Here we were, a complete instant wedding party! Why not seek a church that might on the off chance marry us on the spot? It was a long shot, but worth a try.
Suddenly reinvigorated, our intrepid little band headed for Montreal’s Sherbrooke Street, a long avenue boasting numerous churches. The first that we came to was a Unitarian church. They were sympathetic but unable to help, as the minister was unavailable. The second was an Anglican church, in which I was lectured for not being a parishioner and reminded that the banns had to be read out in church for three consecutive Sundays before the wedding. The third and last was the Erskine and American United Church, which listened sympathetically to our tale. The minister was unavailable, but the receptionist was sure he could oblige if we returned in a couple of weeks. Our desperate last-minute church-shopping expedition had ended in failure! We all hugged each other, and dispersed to our various homes. To console my tearful bride-to-be I treated her to dinner at her favourite spaghetti restaurant on Pine Avenue!
As it happened, we did get married three weeks later at the Erskine and American United
Church, without my mother, but that is the subject of another story.