I hired my neighbor, Luc Chalifoux (Midnight Express), to be our disk-jockey. We hadn’t negotiated a price at first, but when we did, he dropped what probably should have been about a thousand or so dollar bill to four hundred. Call it my wedding gift to you, he said. I was grateful. He asked us for a list of songs for the evening. He laughed when I provided a more exhaustive list than he was accustomed to. I guess most people give him about three or four songs, just those for the father-daughter dance and the like. I gave him a list of about thirty songs Bev and I liked and said that if he could fit them in that would be great, but if he couldn’t, then the top five or six would be fine, pointing out the father-daughter song and the like. Closer to the date, Luc said that he wouldn’t be able to spin my reception after all. He was busy and surprisingly double-booked. Would it be okay if he sent over one of his employees, instead? I said that would be fine. I reminded him that he still hadn’t sent me an invoice. He mulled it over and shrugged it off, telling me that the music was free, again saying, “It’ll be my wedding gift to you.”
It was a small affair, only thirty people, everyone local except for Neil and Sharon Petersen, who travelled up from Barrie. On my side there were my parents, my sister and her husband, their children, my parents’ long-time neighbours, the Millers and the Durochers, my best friends Neil and Henri and their spouses. On Bev’s were her parents, her brother and his wife, her two aunts, her cousin Ellard and his wife, her friends Barb and Christine and spouses. Like I said, small.
Ever pragmatic, I bought a three-piece suit, eschewing the tux. White silk tie. All in all, it looked tux-ish and formal, exactly the look I was striving for. I was never one for renting when I could buy and I doubted that I’d ever have need of a tux again, so, new suit it was, despite my having more suits than I actually needed. That might negate the earlier pragmatic boast, but there you have it; I’ve always been vain.
The day arrived. It was cold. I expected that; it was late October, after all. Luckily, we weren’t treated to snow or icy rain. The rehearsal was uneventful the night before. I paid attention, but most of what happened that evening was soon forgotten. I was pretty sure that someone, everyone, would herd me through the process when the time came. And they did. There was someone there to make sure I was dressed on time, that I made it to the church on time, that I stood where I was meant to, and walked up the aisle when I was supposed to.
Bev arrived when we were still at the back of the church. She was not dressed how I expected her to be, not in what she had originally showed me, anyway. She hadn’t been satisfied with her original outfit as the months wore on, so she ordered another. It was an actual dress, laced and embellished with costume pearls. She looked lovely. Her hair was up and curled, her make-up just so.
Then someone nudged me to be on my way to the Alter to await my bride.
The rest is a little hazy. I wonder how many people actually really remember their weddings. I think most people don’t, not really. Most people are too busy being worried that things will go wrong, but from my experience, someone always takes charge and makes sure things move along at their expected pace and that things happen when they’re supposed to. My sister was that person. I was largely oblivious, just swept along by the tide.
The organist told me afterwards how calm we looked. We didn’t sweat and fidget and fuss like younger couples do, she said. We didn’t. I sat with one leg crossed over the other, waiting for someone to tell me to stand, then to “repeat after me,” then to come over here to sign the legal documents.
Pictures were taken. Most are studio shots. Outdoors really wasn’t an option: autumn colours were long since a memory, trees were stark and bare, clouds were grey. And yes, it rained. I know this because I have one of us outside in coats, with me holding an umbrella over us. Black and white. It looks vintage. I like that one a lot.
The cake was missing. My sister told me so, also telling me to not freak out, that something was being worked out. I was not freaked out. So what, I thought at the time, it’s just a cake. We had lots of food. We’d purchased the Thanksgiving Buffet from the Resort and it came with two deserts.
A call to the bakery told us that the cake had been delivered that morning, so the staff began to search for it. They found it minutes later. It was in the fridge. Who’d have thought to look in the fridge?
The cake was brought out. We posed for the usual pictures. We danced, we mingled, we (meaning I, but not excluding Bev) kept our drinking to a minimum. No one, I thought, ought to get drunk on their wedding day, although I’m sure it happens all the time, but I have my doubts that those who do are fast approaching forty. I likely spent too much time mingling with Neil and Henri, but they were my closest friends, so sue me.
Did we crush slices of cake into each other’s face? No. Neither of us liked that new tradition. Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’re not fun. So be it. That might have been fun had we been twenty, but like I’ve said more than once over the course of the last memories, we weren’t twenty anymore. And I’ve always been the serious sort.
Expectations might be different.
We did bow to some expectations and traditions.
The garter was removed and flung into the very small gathering of bachelors.
The bouquet made its way into the very small but otherwise shacked-up group of women who just happened to not be married
As I’ve said, we weren’t twenty anymore.
No comments:
Post a Comment