13 - A Wedding Story

At this time, thirteen years ago today, June 13, I married my Sweetie.

Well, actually, at this time, thirteen years ago, I was realizing that I was zipped into my dress and properly petticoated so the skirt stood out just so, but I'd forgotten to put on my stockings and my shoes were still in their box.  Oh, and I hadn't put on my makeup.  Did I mention it was raining and my wedding was semi-outdoors?

To start at the beginning of this story - one that I've said for years I'd have to write down - we actually have to go back to Labor Day weekend, 1996.

My Sweetie, who was already living here, in Tulsa, flew to Vermont, and ring in hand, asked me to marry him.

Of course I said yes, which made a little girl playing nearby, I think she was collecting acorns, laugh.

After my Sweetie flew back to Tulsa, I went to work. 

My dress was easy.  I had a picture of what I wanted in my head.  All I had to do was find it.  My mother and I went to Needleman's Bridal Shop in St. Albans, added our shoes to the collection at the head of the stairs that led down, where wedding dresses were waiting to be tried on.  While the saleswoman talked to my mother about how she was sure we wanted an ivory dress, that white never looked right on redheads, I saw my dress go by on a short, little blonde.  It was beautiful.  And it looked just like I wanted it to once I tried it on, too.  In white. 

Dress - check.

Next was the place.   And I knew exactly where. 

St. Anne's Shrine of Isle La Motte, Vermont.  On the shores of Lake Champlain, this place has always been one of my favorites.  And it worked out really well that it's a church.  The Shrine's priest, Fr. Boucher, agreed to perform the ceremony and yes, the date we requested, the date that my Sweetie had chosen at my request, was indeed available. 

Place - check.

Except for the reception.  While the Shrine did indeed have a suitable building, where we ended up having our rehearsal lunch, no alcohol could be served on the premises.   The hunt for a reception place was on.  I dragged my mother all over Northeastern Vermont, touring restaurants and bed & breakfasts until we finally found the place.  The North Hero House.  They'd just opened after an extensive remodling and would be happy to accommodate us. 

Second place - check.

The wedding party was chosen and dresses and suits were picked out.  Talented friends were called on for decorating the church, the baking of the cake, music - both for the ceremony and for the reception, even someone to make my veil, garter, and pillow for the rings by hand.  All was in order. 

Secure in this knowledge, I packed up my stuff and, almost a year to the day before the wedding, I moved to Oklahoma.  Dresses and suits were measured for and ordered.  I grumbled and nagged at my Sweetie, an aircraft mechanic,  to scrub his nails nightly so they'd be nice and clean.  All was going according to my master plan.  On schedule, about a week before the wedding, my Sweetie and I, with bags bulging for the trip to Vermont and for our week-long honeymoon in Florida, flew back.

But...

Fr. Boucher was called away for a personal emergency and wouldn't be able to be there for our wedding, but they were looking for a replacement.  Not to worry.

To rent a limo was going to cost a fortune because of the distance involved.  Quick on his feet, my Sweetie came up with an excellent solution.  We'd rent a car.  One of the local car rentals even had one of his favorites - a Mustang.  A nice, shiny red convertible one.  Not to worry.

The Shrine called.  They couldn't find a replacement priest - everyone local was busy at that day and time.  We couldn't change either date or time - with people coming in from out of state, including us, it was way, way too late to change.  They were checking the parishes in Upstate New York.  Not to worry.

Rehearsal Day arrived - and it was cold.  Well, 60's - cold to me anyway.  : P   A priest had at last been found - he was retired, but would be happy to help us out and would be coming in from New York later, but in time for the wedding.  Not to worry.  

The clouds overhead were sure to blow over by the next afternoon.  Not to worry.

My Sweetie and his friends - all in from out of state - were in the care of my maid of honor's boyfriend, someone I'd known since high school, and were sent off for my Sweetie's last night as a single guy.  My friend's boyfriend promised me with a smile that they'd not go to Montreal.  Not to worry. 

So, my two friends and I went to a few places in honor of my last night as a single girl - and lo and behold, who's that over there?  Why, it's our group of guys we'd just sent off!  To the not-quite-concealed grins of the waitstaff, we sent pitchers of water with slices of citrus fruits floating amidst the ice cubes to the guys, who promptly had it sent back.  At the time, we thought we were a riot.

In the wee hours of the next morning I fell into my bed.  Only for the alarm to go off a few hours later.  My maid of honor, a hair stylist, came over to the house to do my hair.  The flowers arrived and were just right.  My dress and all its accoutrements were safely packed in the back of my parent's van.  Everyone coming in from out of state was in Vermont.   In my parent's driveway,  my Sweetie gave the Mustang a wash and a shine.  My hair done, a pretty bit of twists and curls, decorated with bits of baby's breath, my maid of honor left to get ready herself and would meet us at the Shrine with her boyfriend while my bridesmaid and I headed off to the Shrine.  Not to worry.

But I couldn't help but notice the clouds hadn't blown over, but were in fact thicker.  And rather heavy looking...

Halfway to the Shrine, it started to rain.   Not to worry, the Shrine had canvas curtains that could be unrolled to make walls to keep the guests in the pews dry.  But no one mentioned that they were spotted wtih mold.  But my guests would surely understand this wasn't part of my plan.   Not to worry.

My girls and I were tucked into a small building where one of the caretakers of the Shrine lived and we started to get dressed - enter the bit from the start of this post - and then, after a careful balancing act and help from my girls, I was stocking'd and shoe'd, and made up a bit. 

Then came the next bit. 

Getting to the entrance of the church. 

See, it was still raining - a steady light rain - and the building my girls and I were in was well away from the entrance to the church.  We'd be soaked by the time we'd made it to the entrance of the church.  So, we packed into my parent's van, my girls and I, and my father drove us around to the entrance.

Where my maid of honor slipped in the wet and fell out of the van, getting grease from the door on the skirt of her ice pink dress.  But she was okay.  And, as the skirt was long and moved a bit when she walked and was behind her anyway, you couldn't really see the streak of not-quite black against the very pale pink. 

The music started  - Pachelbel's Canon D with violin and guitar played by friends under a gazebo between the chapel itself and the pews - and down the aisle went our party... My flower girl/junior bridesmaid and the ring bearer - both small people I used to babysit before I'd moved to Florida - looking very cute in their miniature wedding clothes... My cousin and my maid of honor's boyfriend - my cousin, whose birthday it was, was simply beautiful - the burgundy of her dress looked so nice with her shiny red hair, a vivid contrast to the dark coloring of my friend's boyfriend, who looked very nice in his suit and black vest.  Black vest?  Black!  It was supposed to be burgundy!  To match my cousin's dress!  The best man was supposed to have black!  A quick glance showed my Sweetie's friend, usher to my bridesmaid, looking terrific in his burgundy vest and black suit, already starting down the aisle with my friend.  And waiting to walk with my maid of honor was the best man.  In a burgundy vest.  Crap.  There was no way to fix it - their sizes were too different to simply trade vests, too different to even pretend they fit for pictures.  

I stifled my useless fretting, slapped a smile on my face, and marched down the aisle on my father's arm, where my Sweetie waited at the first pew, out of the rain.  Which was now a slightly heavier version of a light soaking rain.  Prepared to get drenched, I stepped out from the shelter of the high roof over the pews toward the chapel where the rest of our party waited.  But no cold drops fell on me. 

From out of nowhere it seemed to me, my Sweetie's best man appeared at my side with a golf umbrella, stripped red and blue, and held it over my head for me as I crossed the open space between pews and chapel.  At this point, he became "our best man."

The mass began and everything was fine.  I told myself "Not to worry."

But I could feel that handmade garter starting to slip.

The rain had tapered down to a mere trickle when my Sweetie's mother and mine crossed from their seats to the chapel to light the unity candle.  That wouldn't light.  It seemed forever, but finally, the wicks caught and with smiles victorious, our mothers went back to their seats.  I felt like we owed them a round of applause.

One reading followed another with only a small timing hiccup, which was met with good humor and chuckles from the pews.  Not to worry.

But that garter...

My not so little ring bearer was attacked by his allergies.

Outside, the rain picked back up a little, then quieted down while the mass went on. 

And on.

And at last the priest said, "And now that Laurie and her Sweetie have said their vows--" and the altar boy interrupted him with a whisper we couldn't hear  "-- oh, my goodness!  No, they haven't said their vows yet!  It's been so long since I've done a wedding!"

But vows were said, rings were passed.  Not to worry.

But that garter slipped some more...

If you're not at all familiar with a Catholic mass, there comes a time when one shakes hands with those nearby while murmuring "peace be with you."  Well, it seemed appropriate to bestow this gesture to our entire wedding party, which - you can kind of sort of see in the umbrella pic - half were seated opposite my Sweetie, maid of honor, best man, and I on the other side of the chapel.  So, we crossed the chapel and shook hands.

If you look verrah, verrah closely at my left foot, just peeping out from under my skirt there, you will see something of very pale blue, of ruffles instead of a shiny white satin shoe.

That'd be that garter. 

The darn thing slipped off and I knew I'd lost it and was doing my best not to laugh, because by now I'd come to a certain point of realization - something that I still stick by - laugh or cry.  And laughing is way more fun.

Two steps after the picture above was snapped, that garter flew, and I do mean FAA-LLEW! - across the chapel, from one side clear across to the other, where those of us who'd traipsed across the chapel were now wandering back to.
I was laughing so hard, trying so hard to get it at least partway under control, I can only rely on pictures and video - video that bumps and tilts at odd angles at times (our videographer was a friend of my Sweetie's who'd gone out with the guys the night before and was a wee bit hung over.  Actually, he was rather green.) - for the details of the rest of the wedding.

At some point we were announced as a couple and turned loose on the world.  Pictures were taken.  All the fuss I'd made over the condition of my Sweetie's fingernails revisited me - in all the Not to Worry'ing that I'd been doing before the wedding, I'd completely forgotten to have my nails done and they were an uneven mess.  The photographer had a solution.  "Just hold your fingers so," like this, he said.  "Not to worry."

The rather damp train of my dress was pinned up on secret little hooks hidden under the lace in back.  My Sweetie and I hopped in the Mustang and roared off to the reception, top down in true "Just Married" style.

Except not quite.

My dress didn't exactly fit in the front seat so well.  I ended up peering through a pile of satin and lace and fluffy layers of whatever the petticoat was made of, unable to get the seat belt to go around it at all, and with the road as wet as it was, my Sweetie crept down the road that followed the lake down to the North Hero House for the reception.  Top up. 

The dining room was beautiful - all sparkly and decorated with the white, pink, and burgundy of my wedding colors.  Our guests were smiling and snacking on hor dourves and chatting amongst themselves.  Granted, they'd seated themselves in little groups of people they already knew, instead of the mingled groups that'd we'd intended, but that was okay.  That was small potatoes compared to a flying garter halfway through a Catholic wedding mass.

While I'm chatting and mingling, the family friend who'd sung during the cermony and had made the wedding cake tapped me on the elbow and whispered in my ear.  "I need to talk to you."  So we scurried away to a quieter corner. 

"It's about the cake.  I brought the wrong pillars and these don't match the bases the layers are on.  You'll have to be very careful when you cut it and not bump it or the table it's on too much or it'll fall down." 

I could see it happening.  The whole thing toppling and my Sweetie instinctively trying to catch it and ending up covered in white, pink, and burgundy frosting.

But I smiled and promised we'd be careful.

And laughed to myself as I went back to my mingling until we were called to sit down for toasts by the groomsmen and for dinner.

Dinner went well - no catastrophies and we'd planned a buffet style with enough meat options for our diet restricted and picky-eater guests.  My cousin bridesmaid was pleasantly surprised by her birthday cake, which we had brought out by the head waiter, complete with lit birthday candles.

While we having cake, the buffet in the attached greenhouse was packed up and the floor cleared for dancing. 

That's when we found out how wet I'd have gotten had it not been for our best man with the umbrella. 

The skirt and train of my dress, which were rained on while we made that trip from the pews to the chapel, were dragged around behind me during the wedding, and were shaken out several times by the photographer during pictures, had been shortened three inches by a clever seamstress the year before.  However, the weight of the damp/wet satin, lace, and beads had stretcched those stitches just enough that now, when we danced our new couple dance, one that we'd even taken lessons for - I have no dancing talent or skills whatsoever - I kept getting my heels caught in the trailing edge of the skirt.  The beads, caught between my high heels and the terra cotta tile floor, became deadly things, out for my neck.  We laughed our way through the dance. 

My wedding party, my Sweetie and I were the last to leave our wedding reception in the wee hours of Sunday, the 14th. 

Maybe another time I'll tell you about our honeymoon - about getting stuck for six hours in the Miami Airport, about the car trunk that wouldn't open - with our luggage trapped inside, and about the cowboy boots...  Maybe...

Anyway, after we were back home with our puppy, Shadow, several packages arrived from Vermont, mostly gifts.  But one was from an address I didn't recognize immediately.  It was from St. Albans.  The letter inside explained.  The people at Needleman's Bridal Shop had found something in the pocket of the coat my Sweetie had worn and thought we'd like it back.

That darn garter.

Happy Anniversary, to my Sweetie.