"Something will go wrong at your wedding, I can assure you of that,” said a friend of ours before our wedding day 2 Saturdays ago. “I mean, I said I wanted no flowers on my cake, and sure enough, it arrived with big purple flowers right on the top!” She nodded, still indignant.
A glitch, eh? A small change in plans? I wonder what hiccups there will be, even though we are so prepared it seems inevitable… I thought.
On the sunny, breezy Friday afternoon, all wedding party attendees arrived at my parents house at the wedding site for the rehearsal. I was proud to stand in the idyllic boxwood garden that my grandmother had built, and that my mother had lovingly perfected. Rose bushes with large perfect blossoms, lacey pink hydrangeas, even the peonies had waited to bloom with their heavy, fluffy faces. It was a small colonial Williamsburg fantasy, with the Chesapeake in the background, dotted with sailboats. Breathtaking.
Also impressive was the tent that had been set up a few days before. It had two enormous peaks, it reminded me of a white Cirque du Soleil rig—this thing meant business. Festive, spangled, pretty business. I loved that tent. I would go and stand under it and look up at its high, high peaks in awe.
And there began my wedding crusade.
After we rehearsed our walks and standings, we all shuffled to a very lovely dinner party Scott’s mom had put together in downtown Annapolis. At one of Annapolis’ very best—and in ye olde colonial style—Inns.
We created our own traffic, due to the volume of rental car peoples populating Annapolis’ little main street, so Scott and I got there a little late. We walked into the cocktail party, with everyone looking expectant and excited. It was a treat to see everyone, and I felt I was walking on air, in getting married one truly is a celebrity for the weekend! I felt wonderful.
As the happy hour turned into two, I grew curious as to why the temperature was remaining unmonitored, while my poor relatives stood with sweaty brows and nearly runny makeup, sipping hastily their cool beverages. And it was very dark? We mingled with no music and by candlelight. Interesting 'colonial' approach, I thought.
Then it dawned on me: the power must have gone out! And yes, indeed, there was no power in half of the town due to an accident. Scott and I looked at each other, as people started getting loopy: What will we do? How will we feed all these people?
After many long conversations between Scott’s mom and the staff, it was decided that we would not wait around, but that arrangements had been made and we were re-routed to an Italian restaurant at the end of the street that would be big enough to house us. Just then the power switched back on. Too late.
So, there we all were, tipsy in our fineries while carrying enormous and beautiful flower arrangements all the way down main street, to an unknown (to me) place called “Maria’s”. Some people got lost and never arrived.
“Hey, it’s a great story!” Everyone pronounced as we were sheparded upstairs, to a cozy, warm floor with hundreds of tiny tables. “Its much more relaxed this way.” We were literally back to back, the back legs of Lee’s chair weren’t touching the ground. Flan & Scott were honestly touching shoulder blades. And of course it was fun. We made the best of it, and we ended up having lots of toasts, to those who could stand up to get out, lots of pasta with a flat sort of chicken on top, and wine. I found the whole thing hilarious and still very moving. Luckily, I thought, I am not one of those brides who really cares about it working out perfectly, I was just happy to have seen everyone. I fell asleep smiling. I'd heard about the buzz you sort of get, once you see everyone together.
Naturally, I woke up early. The day I was getting wed. The forecast wasn’t great, but hey, we had this outrageous tent that Tony from Absolute Tents told me could handle anything. I yawned, grabbed my glasses, looked out the window to the beautiful wedding site and held my breath: rain. Heavy. I felt sick, jumped into some clothes and ran downstairs. I choked down a cup of coffee, and threw on a raincoat and ran out back. The tent was proud and defiant. Rain poured down its mighty sides and the tables and chairs beneath it were dry. It was pretty in there, surrounded by all the ivy and green and on the inside dry and twinkly.
I ran inside and shared the news with mom and dad. We were sort of sad but calm; we would skip the garden ceremony and just spend the evening inside the tent. We could be married on the dance floor. Not ideal, but heck, we had truckloads of beautiful flower arrangements and fantastic music and great people, it would be fine.
I went upstairs to shower, as I was meeting my bridesmaids for a day of hair tweaking and beauty. An hour later I came down. The rain was now driving. Driving. I suited up again, and splashed back to the site: the rain was coming down so torrentially, that the runoff was forming enormous puddles around the perimeter. The size of the useable ground was shrinking. Fast. It was like watching the Titanic. Flood warnings were issued on the news. The sky was black.
That was when I lost it. 150 people were coming from all over the country: where would they go? Scattered friends and family arrived at the scene, flashing me shaky smiles and offering me their help however they could. We all stood as the rain sheeted on us. Sand! was a thought. Mulch! was another. Astroturf! The rain just doused us further, at this time this exchange took place:
“I think you should perhaps think of another solution, other than the tent.”
“Tony said the tent would be fine! Someone call Tony!”
“No, Holly, look, its pretty wet back there, nothing is going to fix it.”
“How can that be? Shop-vac it out!”
“Its bad.”
“How bad?”
“Real bad, Holly, the dance floor is floating.”
Lets just say I didn’t gain any weight that day.
I came back outside, at which point alternatives were being discussed. “What about the Club House?” “We will never fit!” I made a frantic call to a space I’d thumbed my nose at last summer. No dice, of course. I realized I had to get out of the house when someone said: “We have to think here, people! THINK! OK, what about local schools? A gymnasium!”
Shaking, I put my keys in the ignition and went to the salon. I was greeting by Sally & Stuart. Dry mouthed and queasy, I explained that I was pretty sure we would end up doing everything inside my parents house, the same place where just that morning I spilled some Cheerios on the counter, and saw some ants on the windowsill. My mom was not expecting 150 people to eat dinner in the house. She’s spent 5 months in the garden. With the catering crew, and the flowers alone: there is no way we could fit downstairs. After some hugs, I dried my eyes and Stuart & Sally looked at me sympathetically.
An earthy woman named Charlotte approached me at the salon, and asked me if I was ready for my massage. I didn’t schedule a massage, I only wanted a few beauty treatments, I replied. The girls urged me on, “you need it.” I thought maybe the spa had taken pity on me.
She led me back to a candled nook and did her magic. It was the best thing I could have imagined. She was a pro. About half way through, I snapped out of my dreamy wave-crashing trance and realized: Oh my god, with all this oily kneading, what about my sprayed on Mystic Tan?! In my snowy white strapless dress? Still, I couldn’t dare peel myself off the table. Not for anything. I wanted to stay in there all day with Charlotte. It was warm and safe in there. In there I didnt have relatives flying in from all over the country and nowhere to send them.
I got my hairs done, and even with two pre-trials, it came out looking ridiculous. I looked like I was on my way to a pageant. She attached the veil to my head and I certainly looked bridely. I was waiting for the doo to sort of “fall”.
Happily, Stuart and Rachael came home with me, and we entered what used to be my house. Armies of dishes people, catering teams, tent people, people in shiny slickers surrounded us. Even the stairwell was stacked up with tupperware and dishes. My poor, poor mom was calm, but starting to melt. She said it had all been figured out: we had attached two smaller tents to our house, so that people could sort of mill about inside or outside. These people worked fast, it was miraculous. We were to be married on my screened in front porch, all the furniture had been removed, and people were to sit under a tent outside and watch us get married through the screen. It was the best we could do, and nice considering it was overlooking the water. But not without feeling sort of odd. I was going to be married on my screen porch, the place where dad and I would pick crabs and drink bud in cans.
About an hour before the ceremony, I saw my brother, soaked to the bone. He had been at it all day, putting up and then taking down tents. At this point he had been running to get pieces of plywood to put underneath astroturf underneath the tent. Which did end up working. He flashed me a big smile as I stood on the porch in my veil, and said “Holly! I think we should give this wedding a theme,” as he stood in inches of mud, “How about a worm-farm?” Charming. I laughed super hard and headed upstairs, for a much-needed glass o bubbly with the ladies. I could have never done it without them. Racheal did her voodoo, she scurried downstairs and made sure things happened the way I wanted them (things kept “changing” oddly). Stuart kept me sane and jolly and Whit & Sal showed up just in time, armed with some of that yummy carbonated beverage. Nicola came to the rescue with new stockings. I’d somehow purchased a more ethnic pair that certainly didn’t look very natural.
I looked in the mirror before I was to walk down the “aisle” and my hair had not only loosened, but with the damp air it was downright droopy. The curls were more like gummy worms suspended from my head. I also realized that sure enough, Charlotte had un-mystic-ed my tan where the shiatsu had occured. Rach assured me it wasn’t noticeable.
But the show must go on! We had a beautiful ceremony with the wonderful kilted Reverend in front of us, the bridemaids & groomsmen next to us, and the guests sitting outside.
Afterwards: Celebration! Heccccccck yes. The rain let up to a drizzle, people milled inside or out, out to the garden, mainly to the bar that was under a tent behind the house. I couldn’t believe what had been done with the back yard: the band was to play in the garage. My dad’s garage with my 8 year old chalk drawings all over the walls. Burrhead, a friend of Scott’s, couldn’t get enough of that fact that my dad had seven shovels hanging in there. Bwahahah. Ok, that is funny. So, my dad is a tool man, what can I say, it was all out there for everyone to see: my whole life, past and present. I beamed.
The photographer led us down on the street with the water behind us would be a good place for pictures. I winced as I picked up my lovely, expensive gown and stepped down the driveway. Within seconds the bottom of it was black. Pitch black.
We did it all: cake cutting, first dance, dance with my dad, saying hello to everyone. My favorite part occurred when the head caterer, an efficient yet pleasant German woman, nudged me that we needed to go through the buffet line first. Like robots, Scott and I did as we were told and were the first to sit down. The tent people had quickly transformed the ceremony-viewing tent to a breathtaking dinner setting. The rain let up, the bay was calm and gray, the light was incredible. The candles lit, it was perfect.
Even considering the fact that we hardly held all these people in our house, all the panic & 300 changes in plans of the day, my gummi-hair, and the fact that the bottom of my dress had 4 inches of black dirt on it (and therefore made it unbelieveably heavy), I had an incredible night. I have never been more proud of my family and friends, who were simply heroic and never once lost faith that we could find some solution.
Purple flowers? Well, no, our cake was very nice. I'm glad that was the only worry our friend had. We had glitches such as power outages and uncanny-never-happened-before flooding. But you know, it doesn’t matter. When you’re surrounded with great people, those things don’t matter. I’m changed due to that day. Getting uptight looks a little different now, I think, well, hey, try hosting a very once-in-a-lifetime dinner for 150 out of towners and new relatives with only two hours preparation, along with room for a string quartet, a baritone, and a 6 peice big band, truckloads of flowers, 15 large round tables and a bar large enough to get everyone good and soggy! And we did it! Hooray!
And the very next day we headed off first thing to St. Martin... the sun wasn't afraid to shine on us there. Heaven.
