Nancy & Graham’s wedding speech

DIXIE HIGHWAY’S FINEST:

Dearly beloved,

We are gathered here today to celebrate Nancy and Graham getting all legit on us.

•••

I’m Dan Kusner: Nancy’s brother from Texas.

And earlier today, I witnessed the State of Illinois — in the County of Cook — authorize two branches from family trees: One branch from the Kusners. And one branch from the Kresfelders to grow together.

And while trying to figure out what to say tonight, I discovered that branches from neighboring trees can indeed — and actually do — grow together. It’s a biological phenomenon called inosculation. Also known as “Pleaching.” 

Pleaching is when the branches entwine, interlace and a-braid themselves into one. 

So that’s what happened today: Nancy and Graham got pleached.

With the support of the people who are lucky enough to be in this room tonight, I think it’s safe to say that we’re all here because we want Nancy and Graham to enjoy a union that will last for eternity. That their names will join the list of legendary twosomes — like Dave and Suzanne Woodward and Kay and John Turner.

Y’all may be wondering: Why the hell is Danny up here? Like I’m some kind of expert. ’Cause I’ma tell y’all: My former Governor Rick Perry has promised his constituents that the Lake of Fire will plunge into an arctic-freeze before any Texas county clerks issue a marriage license to a guy a like me. But anywho...

I know why I’m here. I’m here because I love my sister Nancy: the Kusner family’s recessive-genetic wonder. A rare beauty. Our wild Irish rose.

With y’all’s blessing, I’d like to share a memory with my now lawfully-wedded brother -in-law.

Graham,

Although I’m sure you’ve already unearthed this indisputable fact, I want you tell how exceptional Nancy is. I’m going to recall an incident that dates back to 1976 — when I was first grader at the Chicago dioceses’ most elite preparatory academy: St. Joe’s.

One morning, during my initial semester as a first-grader, I walked all the way to the bus stop before I realized that I’d left my bus-pass in my bedroom. The clock was steadily ticking away. And for a moment, I probably let my neuroses get the better of me. But my siblings convinced me that it wasn’t worth trying to figure out how to haul ass all the way back home to retrieve it.

I’m going to attribute these next comments to my somewhat-bossy sister Jennifer, who told me, “Learn to prioritize! Getting to school on time is the goal here — with or without some stinking card. Besides, Bob and Terry — as broke as they are — had already paid-in-full for my passage for the entire school-year!” Jenny hissed, while pounding her index finger into my chest. 

“If it comes down to it,” Jenny continued. “Make them prove you didn’t pay.”

When the bus doors opened, I let my five siblings go ahead of me. The morning- shift driver took pity on Yours Truly — a pathetic excuse for being six years old and not yet in control of one’s belongings. She shot me a dirty look and allowed me to climb aboard where I joined the other Kusners — who all promptly ignored me for the rest of the ride. As I took my seat, I was relieved. And my sense of shame started to fade.

After seven hours of mental and sometimes physical torture at the hands of Sister Anne — my celibacy-frustrated fascist homeroom-teacher — the school bell rang, and the day concluded. With techniques borrowed from transporting passengers to both Dachau and Auschwitz, we were ordered to line up, according to grade, to get on the bus for the route home. First-graders boarded first.

The Kickert Bus Line Corporation was founded in 1915 by Richard Kickert, who did what it took to make his busing company a success. During the Depression, Kickert got south-suburban kids to and from school — even if it meant feeding horses oats and hay. His buses have transformed from gas to diesel, and now to bio-diesel. With today’s fleet of more than 250 buses, the Kickert Corporation has flourished into one of the country’s oldest schoolbus operations.

The bus route that traversed from Dixie Highway to Turtle Creek Drive in Hazel Crest was operated by Marion Kickert, whose roomy hips alone made her an imposing figure. Above Marion’s windshield, she adhered her engraved name plate. Marion made it clear that the Kickert surname carried a degree of clout. One thing about Marion: She was consistent. She maintained a perpetual disposition — that she was in No! Mood! to put up with anything.

Now, I want to interrupt this saga with a scintillating footnote *1

1 * As a child, Nancy Kusner had already established herself as an administrative powerhouse. During a memorably lean Eastertide season, Nancy took it upon herself to quality control the allotment of jellybeans. Some would argue that she had a near-Hebraic skill at overseeing that the candy should be equally distributed among the seven Kusner kids. Okay, back to over me and transportation woes.

For the homebound route, I and a few other first graders approached Marion Kickert, who was perched in her bucket-seat throne. I had no bus pass to present to her. Momentarily unsupported by the presence of the Kusner Army, I also failed to inspire myself with Jenny’s argumentative force of placing the Kickert Corporation with the burden of proof.

Trying to board without my ticket, Marion rose from her seat, grabbed me by my bicep and marched me back toward the school house. Instantly, I crumpled into a puddle of tears, fearing Marion as well as facing another round of Sister Anne’s retribution. But ... from the sidelines ... Nancy emerged as my heroine.

She broke the ranks of her eighth-grade classmates and rushed toward my defense. With a low-simmering but firm intensity, Nancy commanded Marion Kickert to “Let go of my brother’s arm!”

In my distraught and sniveling state, I can’t quite recall the verbal exchange between Nancy and Marion. But like a scene of out “Schindler’s List” our Nancy — the Kusner’s bespectacled accountant — pried away Marion’s Nazi-like grip on me. And thereby, Nancy had settled the matter.

No small feat to stare down and vanquish the Kickert Corporation’s imperious spinster scion.

That afternoon — after ordering me to pull myself together — Nancy created an exception where upon I safely boarded the bus with my big sister at my side.

FUN FACT: I witnessed Bobby, Michael and Tommy all have the last laugh on Marion Kickert. On the final day of their eighth-grade tenures, they would Rosa-Parks- like strategically place themselves in the back of the bus. Upon arriving at the Turtle Creek stop, they’d fling open the emergency hatch, which would not only fire up the alarm buzzers but also open the rear door so they could triumphantly jump to disembark — cackling away while from the outside watch as Marion would angrily throw the bus into park and get off her fat ass to waddle down the aisle to close the hatch.

•••

As kids, the Kusner household was a crowded one. Some scores could only be settled with physical might.

My brother Tommy pointed out that — when pressed — Nancy was a fierce and economic pugilist. She would strategically place her thumb beneath her middle finger to create a protuberance in her tightened hand. Nancy didn’t waste blows. Her bony-red fist had exacting aim that produced froggy-like pressurized welts.

Graham,

Your wife Nancy is a tigress. And a gorgeous flame-haired one at that. We affectionally called her “strawberry freckle-face.” But to borrow a well-tailored description, Nancy’s luminous traits were so uncommon, to me: she’s has always been like “Garbo ... as the farmer’s daughter.”

Graham’s a bit of a strawberry freckle-face himself. And maybe their similarities are what unites them.

In December, through cellular magic the then-bethrothed couple and I spoke via Warsaw, Chicago and Austin. That’s when Graham asked me to address y’all at this gathering.

Look at them — both redheads with fair skin. Coming together during the summertime of their adulthood.

During that discussion, the groom wondered wondered if he and Nancy were too different.

Graham hails from South Africa. She’s from South Chicago. One could argue that degrees of overcoming apartheid have affected both of their homelands.

Graham shared with me that his childhood featured households aided by domestic workers. That’s when I told Graham, “The Kusners had teams of maids!”

Nancy erupted in giggles as I explained to him that Terryann didn’t raise seven kids all by herself. We first hired Rosalee — an Aunt Jemima-like figure whose cleaning duties were defeated by the remarkable stains of the Kusner boys’ skid-marked undergarments. After we worked Rosalee into an early retirement, our home was invaded by a team of nicotine-fueled immigrants headed by the archetectonic-bosomed Eva Krausa, a Polish housekeeping titan who took no prisoners.

And then again, all the way from Austin, I felt a reverberation that bounced from Poland to Texas to Illinois that then echoed in the future when Nancy and Graham remember this occasion while they’re nesting somewhere in London.

One function that today’s marriage license does indeed accomplish is that it brings the corners of our world a little closer together. That the boundaries that separate us all begin to dissolve. And with that thought, I’ll close my remarks and allow others to come up to and offer more congratulations about THIS OCCASION — THE DAY when the Kusners and the Kresfelders ... got pleached.