The other day J teased me about where I grew up. He was also mocking himself.

“At least you’re not from Skaneateles,” he said, “speaking as someone from the ‘mistake on the lake.” J was from Buffalo, New York.

He reminded me of how much I loved Skaneatlas Lke. It was a very beautiful lake and I spent a lot of time making 20 mile bike rides to explore the trails that led to the shores of the lake �?� and a lot of time getting lost doing so.

It was natural that I ended up selecting the lake as a place to marry and honeymoon. We needed a low-rent place to get married and a low-rent honeymoon. We lucked out, since it was off-season, finding a quaint little cottage to rent. It was set up high on a craggy hill. Glaciers carved out the lakes and Skaneateles has rather steep shores. You had to climb a staircase, a steep one, to get to the cottage.

I was a waitress and bartender at the time, my husband-to-be, otherwise known as the wasband, was the cook at the restaurant. As is often the case with restaurant workers, many of our guest were our customers. They were the social circles we swam in, even if there was a considerable class divide. Sometimes, people with money like to get down with the common people, especially when they’re in the mood to party into the wee hours.

So, we invited customers. Four of them were my favorite: they came in at 4 PM every single day: Doc, Ernie, Fred, Jimbo. You could set your watch to their daily arrival. Ernie looked like George Burns. They were all retired and hit the bar for cocktails each day, always drinking two drinks a piece, either a manhattan or a martini. Doc occassionally broke this rule. Doc was a retired phys ed professor, Fred was a retired music professor, Jimbo had been in real estate, and I think Ernie had been an engineer.

In spite of regularly drinking two a day, five times a week, when Doc stayed for that third Manhattan he would get quite loaded. I waited on him one night after he’d had three. He’d decided to meet his daught for dinner which was, I guess, a reason to drink more than normal. This was the little jazz club-restaurant, adjacent to a Howard Johnson’s. It was quite frou-frou. Black dresses, black stockings, high heels. We were trained to put on a show as much as serve meals. The wine opening ritual â€�?�oiy!â€�?�my first try, I sunk a cork into a $120 bottle of wine. Boy, after work that night, that was a nice bottle of wine. We strained out most of the cork and drank up. Wait staff and bartenders, when they work in the right place, usually sit around after work and drink up.

That night, Mrs. B, the owner, let me wait on Doc. As I tried to take their order, he asked, “Honey, which fork should I use?” and then giggled hysterically.

Now, I was a naive kid. When I started out in the HoJo’s side of the business, truckers would ask if I had a match as I was flying by with a trayful of meals. I’d reply, anxious to please: “Oh, be right back!” I’d return to the trucker with the matches and he’d chuckle, eyes twinkling. It was their favorite game to play on the new girls, to ask for a match when she clearly had her hands full. Invariably, the innocent sweet thang would reply as I did. I dunno, I guess being on the road like that, it’s the simple things that’ll give you a chuckle for the day.

When Doc asked which fork to use, I responded in the same naive way. It didn’t occur to me that a college professor probably knew which fork to use. All I could think of was that I would be in the position of explaining such fine manners, like I’d seen in the movies. Doc was the naif and I eagerly answered him with what I thought was charm and grace given the poor guy’s lack of knowledge.

As I said, I was silly 18 year old.

“Well,” I said,”you usually work from the outside in. This one would be your appetizer fork. Clams casino would be a good start for the evening. Would you like some? I’d recommend a Mondavi red… or wait, maybe since your daughter is visiting from out of town, you’d enjoy a local Finger Lakes wine, Bully Hill perhaps?”

“Oh, that’s great to know honey.” He held the fork up, as if he were admiring it, pondering the meaning of it all, and continued: “This one is the one I’d use for the appetizer. Is that it?”

“Oh, yes, that’s it!” I said enthusiastically.

Whereupon, he swiftly poked me in the ass with the fork and giggled like a demon while his daughter smirked and shook her head muttering an exasperated, “Daaaaaaaad.”

Doc was great like that. So, of coure, he was first on the invite list after family. He practically was family. He drove there, just never actually got to see me married.

We ‘hired’ the local minister, a guy who was well-known in my circles because he was willing to marry people who lived in sin and didn’t belong to a church. He’d give you a perfunctory ‘what for’ as to whether you were really ready to get married, but that was it. He was retired and performed weddings for the extra cash.

Since the wasband was a chef and I was pretty good with the oven, we catered our own wedding. Made as much up ahead as possible and I even baked my own cake: the Wilton Way, though I later discovered Martha Stewart (than Ghu) when I started baking cakes for friends’ weddings.

We saved money for it all by working a lot of overtime�?�well, me, since the wasband was salaried and worked 70 hours a week already. We also carried home all the empties from the bar and turned them in for the deposit since Mr. B, the owner, didn’t want to be bothered. He was a Libertarian.

Recycling was a government mandate and fuck them all to hell, even if it cost him an extra five cents for a bottle of beer. “Fuck the gummint,” he’d mutter every morning as we served him his ‘Battle Breakfast.’ This was usually followed by, “Honey, living well is the best revenge.”

A ‘Battle Breakfast’ was four scrambled eggs, four slices of bacon, four sausage patties, toast, and a couple of glasses of Heineken, our tap beer. Every day, like clockwork, he’d order unless we were dealing with an unexpected rush of customers or a busload. In which case, Mr. B would be right out there hustling the cash register, busing tables, and just being the owner-host, smiling and greeting people with his Lorne Greene good looks.

On the day of the wedding, as you can imagine, things were quite hectic. I was a wee bit tired. I’d stayed the night at the cottage and listened to our recently acquired kitty chase squirrels in the attic all night long. Up and down, scramble, scramble. After a fitful night, I got up, finished cleaning, decorated, put the finishing touches on the cake, and had just enough time to jump into the lake to rinse the sweat off and dunk my head.

It was freezing. *brrrr* I didn’t even bother to wash my hair.

People started arriving at 4:00 for a sunset ceremony. So, I’m doing my hair or some such and I hear that the preacher is at the bottom of the staircase with his wife.

Remember, Skaneatlas’s shores are steep. How steep?

The preacher was popping nitroglycerin and looking apprehensively at the staircase. I’d invited all these older folks — my customers — many of whom were having a hard time dealing with the stairs. I think only Fred and the preacher actually made it. The rest of the old folks went home, leaving their gifts and cards behind.

It was one of those moments when, as a kid, you realize just how tunnel-visioned you are.

At the reception later, I probably should have known things wouldn’t work out when the wasband, asked why he’d married me, replied: “I figured it was a good way to get a tax break.”

The cottage was launch pad for day trips around the Finger Lakes for a week: wineries, mostly, since our boss made sure that we’d get special tours. As a waitress and chef at a restaurant that sold a lot of wine to business clientele from local corporations, the wineries were thrilled to pitch their wines. So that was quite fun!

No, I’ll swallow thanks! What I mean by that is, you’re not supposed to get drunk, so they offer a silver bowl to spit the wine in so you can taste a lot more wine without getting toasted and dulling your palate. My palate’s just fine, thanks!

I think we also spent one afternoon catching a double feature for $2 a piece at one of those run down old theaters decorated with plush red velvet and gorgeous ornate carved staircases that wind their way up the balcony. You know the ones with huge cathedral ceilings? I think we spent one evening at a Holiday Inn where I began my habit of stealing the hotel ashtray. Otherwise, we spent the evening sleeping on a mattress on the floor of the ol’ cottage.

The best lake to tour was Keuka Lake. There are wineries dotting it’s shores and it’s gorgeous in the autumn. Sometimes, you catach the sent of condorde grapes which aren’t used for wine, but the scent in the air is intoxicating. I will never forget the autum leaves on fire at Keuka lake, mirrored in the water as we sat on a deck outside a restaurant. The white sailboats, the fiery leaves, the blue, and the cottage we’d passed as we were driving along the winding lake roads. There was a sign hanging off the mailbox that read: Oleo Acres â€�?� one of the cheaper spreads.

I’ve told that story before, about the wedding and honeymoon on the Finger Lakes. People have often responded with: “Isn’t that great. Love is all you need, honey.”

It’s one of those responses you get from people who think it’s normal to spend $20k and up on on a wedding. It’s that “poor people have all kinna fun and love keeps ‘em together an’ all that” sentiment.

It’s always startled me to have that sentiment mirrored back to me. I really don’t recall it that way. I mean, it wasn’t bad, but it certainly wasn’t Frank Capra-esque. It’s wasn’t noble or dignified or anything of the sort. And it really wasn’t poverty. Not grinding poverty, though to some folks I’ve known, living like we did was the epitomy of trash. We might as well be living in grinding poverty in their eyes, only we were worse: we were trash, undignified. People who could aspire to more, but didn’t.

As I recall it, we didn’t know better. We didn’t feel we were somehow missing out on anything or that we deserved more. You don’t plan your wedding thinking, “If only my parents had money and could buy me a fancy dress.” It never occurs to you to think that way. You don’t expect your parents to give you a wedding. Your mother got married like that, your sister did, your friends did. Maybe you’d heard about people who spent a whole lot more. Heck, I and all my co-workers at the restaurants where I’ve worked have provided the labor for those big fancy weddings. We may have gone to a few ourselves since, after all, regular, wealthy customizers like to give you these little extras by inviting you as guests to their childrens’ weddings. It’s sort of like the way johns think they’ll get better service if they, you know, treat hookers like people. Wealth patrons at restaurants often do this with the hope of getting better service — and they invariably do. They are also genuine in their feelings. It’s not completely about taking advantage of the situation. It’s just that it’s quite obvious, given the status and money difference, that you’d best show them you appreciate the gift of associating with you.

So, given that we were quite aware of the world around us — that people had big fancy weddings — you’d think we’d have desired it, wouldn’t you?

But, we didn’t and no one despaired because we couldn’t afford it. They were different people, the people who had those weddings. That’s what they did. This was what we did.

Life just was.

And that self-reflective feeling that you hear people express, about how love is all you need….? I don’t know, but it doesn’t come from the place we were at at the time. I think you tell yourself that when you have something and are afraid to lose it.