Our family recently lost Wayne, a gentle soul who married my cousin, the younger daughter of my mom’s third oldest brother. My cousin had been a home ec major in college and was the go-to person in the family for table etiquette and anything proper. So, of course, Wayne was a quiet, polite fellow with an easy smile and kind manner. You couldn’t not like Wayne.
I think I was in my early teens when they married, and weddings were so exciting with all the beautiful finery and ceremony. I especially recall being back at the farmhouse where my cousin was opening gifts — another bit of excitement with the mystery of what wonderful items might be revealed with the sheddng of the elaborate bows and shiny wrapping. Somewhere in the middle of the festivities, my cousin had taken a break to change from her wedding gown into more comfortable clothes, and we (mostly the womenfolk) anxiously awaited her return so we could thrill to the gift-opening. Someone came in from the kitchen to summon my aunt because Mrs. (Wayne’s last name) was leaving. It seemed kind of sad that she would miss the gifts, but my aunt left the room to see her off. After what seemed like an eternity, my aunt returned to the living room. What, we wondered, was keeping my cousin??? My aunt smiled and explained that my cousin and Wayne had gotten a head start on their honeymoon. The “Mrs” to whom my aunt had said her goodbyes was my cousin who, of course, now officially had that same last name as Wayne’s mom. The couple had cleverly escaped the shivoree!! I was young enough at the time that the term “shivoree” was a new one to me. I learned that the fellows in the wedding party had threatened to follow the couple to their overnight destination and serenade them with the music of tin cans tied to the bumper and whooping and hollering. My cousin wanted none of this and had planned the big getaway. Later, as my mom and I rode up north toward home with another aunt and uncle who lived near us, my uncle spotted the wedding car at a motel. He offered to stop so we could say “hello”. I thought it was a great idea, but my mom and aunt made him keep driving! (But he had a good chuckle.) A couple of years later, I got to go — with my cousin and Wayne and a group of young people from the high school where my cousin taught to see “Green Grow the Lilacs” (the play from which “Oklahoma” was taken) at the local summer theatre. Incidentally, the show starred a young man named John Davidson, a handsome fellow that my cousin and Wayne felt was talented enough to have a professional future. (He went on to off-Broadway and then television fame.) Anyway, a shivoree was part of the play, and I always wondered if the couple thought fondly of their own escape.
Wayne and my cousin eventually moved to a nearby town and bought their permanent home. When they had spent several years hoping to start a family, they decided to adopt two boys (who later became great playmates with my son when we’d visit). Ultimately they gave birth to a daughter as well. Wayne was always supportive with his wife’s school and family activities and was very involved in their church.
Somewhere during all this, Wayne discovered the work in which he thrived. He became a barber and established his shop within walking distance of their home. I fondly remember visiting the shop with my husband one day when we had been in the area (we lived a couple of hours away) and decided to just stop in. My cousin had not been home, but Wayne was at his shop and showed us around. (Somehow I had never been inside before.) The atmosphere was homey and comfortable. Wayne had compiled some historical barber instruments and old photographs as part of his decor and, absolutely beaming, showed them off to us. That was the moment that I really saw close-up the love and pride he had for his profession.
Shivarees and barber shops — memories of Wayne….