I came home from university in early
November to attend the Artillery Ball, an annual black-tie event, hosted by the 49th Field
Regiment, of which my boyfriend Rob was not only a member, but a kilt-wearing
one. He was a drummer in their pipe band and they were performing at the ball,
a military event that honoured those who served.
Rob seemed comfortable in his skin, fit in with
any crowd, and apart from the kilt-wearing thing, had a normal Canadian family
– all things that didn’t describe me. My parents immigrated from Italy before I
was born and my upbringing was coloured with traditional food and language and
was tethered to customs from an ocean away. I was often an unwilling
participant and resented the way my culture made me different.
With reverence in his voice, Rob described the
formality of the event, ripe with military fanfare and Scottish regalia,
mentioning he’d be in full highland dress. I didn’t know what any of this meant
and was only focused on my dress, a beautiful ivory gown, with a full-length
pleated skirt, adorned with a satin ribbon at the waist.
His full reveal came when he arrived at my
parents’ house. While I was looking forward to seeing his shapely legs in a
kilt, the star attraction was his bright red tunic, with silver braid, shiny
buttons, and epaulettes.
Completing the look were his diced red and black
hose, white spats buttoned at the side over black shoes, and a drummer’s plaid
– a large fringed tartan shawl, tied at the waist under his tunic, and pinned
under the left epaulette. I felt like a princess about to be swept away by my
prince.
Even my Italian Catholic mother, who wasn’t
thrilled I was dating a fair-haired Canadian Protestant boy, was quite taken
with his ensemble and in her broken English, gifted him with, “You look very
nice.” I guess dating a man who wore a skirt forgave the non-Catholic
indiscretion.
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| Norma and Rob |
We posed for the obligatory pictures and on our
way to the ball, stopped in at the hotel gift shop where Rob’s mother worked.
She wanted to see us in our finery and had to ensure her son’s plaid draped
properly and fell in soft balloon formation at the back.
After re-pinning it
under the braided epaulette and doing a general inspection, she looked at me.
“You’ll have to learn how to do this someday.”
I wondered if he was exaggerating the evening’s
formality but the uniform and his mother’s serious attention to detail
confirmed this was not like any other party. It was overwhelming for a shy,
uncool girl, and every new piece of information made me more nervous about my
fairytale evening. The voices in my head whispered that maybe my mother was
right and a nice Italian boy was more my type.
Rob sensed my discomfort. “It’ll be fine. You’ll
see. We’re sitting with the Whiteheads. They’re one of the most prominent
families in town but are so down to earth that you’d never know it.” This did
nothing to ease my sense of dread.
When we arrived at the armoury, it was like
landing on an old movie set – tables clad in white, guests in uniform or
donning their formal best. After filing through the receiving line and
collecting our commemorative goblet, we were seated at a long table, across
from William and Marg Whitehead, who were older than us and welcomed us with
smiles.
William was a jovial man with a breathless lilt in
his voice that sounded like perpetual laughter, and he teased Rob without
mercy.
“So will you be going home with the same woman you
came with this year?” he asked.
I pretended to laugh along and hoped nobody heard
the butterflies battling for space in my stomach. Things took a turn though,
when later in the evening, William declared, “She’s much better looking than
the girl you brought last year.” I was starting to warm up to the Whiteheads.
The ceremonial part of the evening was about to
begin and Rob left me to prepare for the entrance of the pipe band. He hadn’t
mentioned they’d be preceded by a flaming boar’s head paraded through the hall
on a pallet. I’d been to many lavish Italian weddings but an alcohol-soaked pig
on fire was in a class of its own.
When the band marched in, I noticed Rob had donned
the last part of his uniform, the crowning glory, a tall black feather bonnet
with ostrich tails. Later, as we danced to the backdrop of old world tradition
and the sway of tartan, I realized I’d fallen in love with the regalia, the
Scottish culture, and my date.
I’d worried about our differences – he the cool
and carefree one and me, introspective and studious, but that night revealed an
alternate and humbling truth. Culture and heritage were at the core of our
respective realities, even though I ran away from mine, resentful of the way it
set me apart, and he ran toward his, immersing himself in tradition.
It was as if his passion to remain connected to
his culture gave me permission to stop resisting a connection to mine. After
all, if he could unapologetically wear a skirt and argyle knee-highs, while
still managing to be cool and feel comfortable in his skin, then perhaps he was
on to something.
As the months passed, I realized that his wasn’t
the only culture he connected with. He became more Italian as time went on and
my relatives started inviting him to family occasions even while I was away at
school.
After trying to reach him all day on Easter, he
called me back in the evening and said, “Oh sorry. I was at your uncle’s. I saw
them when I was having lunch at your parents’ house and told them I’d never had
lamb so they invited me to supper.”
At our wedding, we had bagpipes at the church and
my dad’s homemade wine accompanied the traditional pasta dinner. To my mother’s
chagrin, I included a long-forgotten Italian custom where Rob and I went to
each table and scooped five almond wedding candies (it had to be an odd number)
from a silver tray onto the napkin-lined hand of each guest.
One of the older relatives said, “I forgot about
this custom. I haven’t seen it since I left Italy.”
We didn’t have a flaming boar’s head, but our
Scottish-Italian wedding gave the Artillery Ball a run for the money, and the
mix has carried us well for over forty years.
Norma Gardner retired from the corporate
world a few years ago and enjoys spending time with family and friends,
travelling, and expressing herself through her writing and sourdough recipes.
Growing up in Northern Ontario, her family’s antics and her Italian upbringing
supply the inspiration for her personal essays. She currently lives in
Waterdown, Ontario.
Read more of Norma’s stories at her website here.
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