The Cincinnati Post had predicted that motel rooms would be in short supply around Maysville, Kentucky. Singer Rosemary Clooney was coming home for her wedding to longtime companion Dante DiPaolo .

My spouse Betty drove our van down the Appalachian Highway toward Route 52, the once-famous "River Road," connecting Huntington, W.Va. and Cincinnati, roughly 200 miles apart.

Frequently during that nearly four-hour drive, we reminisced about Rosemary, recalling meetings back stage at theaters in Columbus, Dayton and elsewhere, and one memorable dinner in Columbus. Present that night were not only Rosemary and Dante, but other singers of the '40s and '50s, Margaret Whiting and Helen O'Connell, along with comedienne Rosemarie, best known for her role on television's "The Dick Van Dyke Show."

For those individuals not alive throughout the past four decades, the question could be: Who the hell is Rosemary Clooney? After all, she burst into the national consciousness in 1951, with a novelty tune called "Come On-a My House," th at she felt was silly and demeaning. It went to No. 1 on the Billboard charts. In the next few years, she had her own TV show, made many more hit singles, including the ballad "Tenderly." She starred in a handful of movies (including the still-popular White Christmas with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye). Her autobiography, This for Remembrance, came out in 1977, followed by a TV movie based on that book in 1982. Sondra Locke, Clint Eastwood's former squeeze, played Rosemary.

Since 1990 Rosemary has made annual sell-out appearances in New York's top night club, Rainbow & Stars, at the top of Rockefeller Center. Old Blue Eyes himself, Frank Sinatra, called Rosemary "a symbol of good modern American music." She stays on the road much of the year, working concert halls, appearing with symphony orchestras, and frequently guests on "Regis and Kathie Lee."

In the years since Betty and I met Rosemary--I first interviewed her in 1981 while I was entertainment editor of The Columbus Dispatch and have seen her a dozen times since--she continues as one of the most respected pop music performers of the 20th centu ry's second half. Her jazz-tinted albums on the Concord label are steady sellers, including the latest, "Mothers and Daughters." She received an Emmy nomination for an acting stint on TV's "ER." To many, she's known as the aunt of George "Batman" Clooney, officially People magazine's "Sexiest Man Alive." When George first tried to become an actor, he lived at Rosemary's home in Beverly Hills for a year. She tells lots of stories about George.

Through it all-- a first marriage with actor Jose Ferrer, five children in five years, a divorce, and a devastating nervous breakdown in 1968--Rosemary Clooney has endured. Today she stands as one of America's most prized artists. Now, after a 23-year cou rtship (George upon hearing of wedding plans sent her flowers with a note, "What's the rush?") she has married the man who fell in love with her the first time they met.

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The sign advertising the Daniel Boone Motel blossomed in our headlights. We parked and registered, then decided to head across the massive old suspension bridge that links Aberdeen with Maysville.

It had been four decades since we had been back. Four decades since I'd worked as a reporter for The Daily Independent. Then we had three small children, struggling on my salary of $75 a week. Now, our seven children have made us grandparents 16 ti mes. Where did the years disappear?

I'd never returned to Maysville, but now the lure of "The Wedding" (as the Maysville newspaper dubbed it) drew us back.

The next morning, Betty found a parking space in front of a local hardware store, only a block from St. Patrick's. A small display of Rosemary's publicity photos and old vinyl album covers occupied a spot in the hardware's front window. The checkout count er held a display of her most recent CDs.

A stroll south to the church revealed no evidence of a crowd. One woman stood near the ramp that leads to the church. Across Limestone Street a trio of ladies chatted with a gentleman who lived in one of the houses on the street, which police had blocked off. It was only 8:30. The wedding would not start until 11.

The morning paper's headline cautioned that a huge crowd would attend perhaps the biggest social event in Maysville since Rosemary returned in 1953. Back then, a one-block street leading to the railroad station had been re-named in her honor. The newspape r carried two pages of photos and stories from that event, along with an account of another visit in 1983 when she came home to give a charity concert.

Around 9 a.m. police officers, snappy in black uniforms, stood quietly near the sawhorses erected at both ends of the block. Newspaper photographers arrived one by one, mostly carrying several cameras. A Cincinnati Post reporter questioned some of the ear ly arrivals.

Gradually a crowd lined up. A church usher announced the priest had banned cameras, video cameras, tape recorders and even reporters' notebooks. I quickly slipped my small recorder into my suit jacket, hoping the bulge would escape notice. We chatted with others in line, who reported their connections, however fragile, to Rosemary.

The church's adjoining school, in a two-story brick structure at the rear, filled up for the school day. By 9:40 a.m. ushers emerged from the church, shouting last-minute instructions ("Two by two, no pushing, no shoving, follow the instructions of the gu ides inside") and allowed the crowd -- by then roughly 400 strong -- to walk up the wheelchair ramp and inside.

Bright stained-glass windows, depicting stories from the Bible, cast a special glow, while the skies outside remained overcast. Flowers added a fresh look throughout the venerable church. A sharp air of excitemen t and anticipation mounted as attendees shuffled quietly into the long wooden rows on either side of the middle aisle.

Many of the 200 invited already had taken their places. Some obviously were old friends of the bride. And there were the celebrities, famous faces along with others not quite as well known. We saw John Oddo and his wife, Eileen. John has been Rosemary's p ianist and arranger since the early '80s. She "stole" him from Woody Herman's Herd after recording an album with the band.

A contingent of Cincinnati TV and radio personalities received invitations. Betty nudged me and pointed out Bob Braun, for decades the popular host of a Midwest daytime TV talk show. (Braun is the announcer on those irritating adjustable bed commercials t hat play frequently on TV). Michael Feinstein, who has made a career out of resurrecting and performing old pop songs from the '20s and '30s, walked in with a friend. Two decades ago, Feinstein went to work for Ira Gershwin, the lyricist brother of the fa bled George Gershwin. Ira lived next door to Rosemary in Beverly Hills and she soon "adopted" Feinstein. He often performs in concerts with her.

Others in the crowd, unrecognized by the locals, included former New York Governor Hugh Carey, famed fashion designer Bob Mackie, and Robert Knipschild, an internationally known artist who rarely makes public appearances.

Just before the ceremony, Rosemary's younger brother Nick (a veteran TV performer, former news anchor, current host on the AMC cable network, and devilishly handsome -- my wife thinks he's better looking than his son George) -- roamed the church like a fr enetic master of ceremonies, shaking hands and hugging the ladies.

The crowd burst into applause when a white-haired man in a wheelchair was rolled down the middle aisle, mistakenly assuming he was Bob Hope. Minutes later, the real Bob Hope, wearing a San Diego Chargers cap, with wife Delores at his side, made a g rand entrance. The walk-on elicited huge applause. The 94-year-old Hope entered singing "Get Me to the Church On Time."

Nick Clooney looked at his sister and smiled, "Top that!"

The audience roared.

Nick thanked the audience for earlier applauding the wheelchair-bound "Uncle William" Guilfoyle.

Nick reveled in his role as emcee of sorts for the ceremony. "Few know better than I how important to Rosemary this day is," he said. "She is getting married one mile from where she was born, in the church where she was baptized and where she sat in a sch ool uniform and learned what is right and wrong."

Nick himself retains strong ties to the area, owning a house in nearby Augusta. The following day he and his wife, Nina, would participate in a ceremony dedicating Marshall Park in Augusta, a salute to World War II hero, Gen. George C. Marshall, architect of victory in that war, former secretary of state, and father of the Marshall Plan. Nick and Nina had donated the land for the park. Rosemary would be there, too, singing a war favorite, "I'll Be Seeing You."

Rosemary and Dante entered the church from the side of the altar, instead of making the traditional walk up the aisle. Since Rosemary's knee replacement surgery two years ago, she's been less that light on her feet. The couple sat at the right of the altar, Rosemary in a dark green velvet dress, Dante in a suit. They looked lovingly at each other and occasionally held hands. Later, Nick (George Clooney's dad, by the way) said, "I can't recall seeing a lovelier bride."

The attendants included the three daughters of "You Light Up My Life" singer Debby Boone and Gabriel Ferrer, Rosemary's youngest son, who is an artist. Jordan Ferrer, Debby's son, acted as best man. In the front rows were immediate members of the extended family, including Rosemary's eldest son, Miquel Ferrer, an accomplished film actor who bears a startling resemblance to his famous father. Miquel's son, who appears to be six, is a carbon copy of his dad.

The Rev. William Hinds, with a stern visage, presided over the hour-long ceremony. Catholics take their time in getting married, encompassing a Mass, communion and lots of music. As the event proceeded, Hinds relaxed, turning warm and fuzzy by the finish. A choir situated at the rear of the church, high above the audience, delivered appropriately ethereal music. Particularly impressive was a stirring rendition of "Ave Maria," by 21-year-old Amber Hargett, subbing for the previously announced Linda Ronstadt, who begged off because of a daughter's illness.

When time came for the exchange of vows, the priest walked over to the couple. Rosemary and Dante voiced the simple words with emotion, Rosemary's voice low and trembling slightly. Hearing Rosemary say, "I will love you and honor you all the days of my li fe" spurred a flurry of hankies wiping away tears. As Father Hinds pronounced them husband and wife, they kissed and then walked across the platform to the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary, where Rosemary laid her wedding bouquet, a tradition in many Cat holic weddings.

Betty and I unsuccessfully fought off tears. My wife isn't a show business buff, but she thinks Rosemary is one of the nicest people we've ever met. Rosemary's happiness couldn't help triggering tears on both our faces. I reached over to grasp Betty's han d.

The only obvious tears from Rosemary trickled down her face when a children's choir sang Mozart's "Agnus Dei." The priest, explaining that he couldn't afford a regular gift, called the choir "my gift to you. I know it takes a lot of nerve to sing i n front of Rosemary Clooney, but we have plenty of nerve here." Rosemary dabbed her eyes through most of the song, along with many on the guest list.

The newlyweds led the procession down the aisle at ceremony's conclusion, both wearing wide grins. As Dante approached me, I thrust out my hand and he grasped it. Rosemary looked on top of the world. Outside, a crowd estimated in the hundreds, cheered as the newlyweds appeared. Rosemary and Dante waved as flashbulbs exploded.

Limousines carried the wedding party along the narrow two-lane road paralleling the Ohio River to Augusta, a small town radiant in the sunny November afternoon. Betty and I chased along in our van. A huge reception tent stood near Nick's party house, whic h offers a commanding view of the multi-colored fall leaves on the hills of Ohio. The down-home menu included White Castle hamburgers and ribs from Cincinnati's famous Montgomery Inn.

Bob and Delores Hope, walking with a spryness belying their advanced years, attended the reception. John Oddo and his wife enjoyed second helpings of the famous "sliders" from White Castle, with Oddo observing that the grilled onion burgers were no longer available in New York City.

A honeymoon? There wouldn't be much of one, as Oddo told me, because Rosemary had a concert booking with the Detroit Symphony the next week. Of course, the show must go on.

May they have a long and beautiful marriage.

The good memories reinforced by our nostalgic trip to Maysville, Betty and I plan another visit, and this time we're not going to wait 40 years.

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