August Flashback: To The Wedding

It's four o'clock in the afternoon; the rehearsal dinner starts at five. I am flying down the highway in the passenger seat of the rental car with one foot up on the dashboard, hemming a pair of khakis. This is the kind of people we are: we have traveled two thousand miles to Andrew's youngest brother's wedding without bringing anything remotely appropriate for our son to wear.

Two days ago we made an emergency trip to Rachel's Quality Consignment in Litchfield CT, where we scored two button-down shirts (one for the wedding, one for the rehearsal dinner) and these pants (three inches too long). None of Rachel's dress shoes fit, alas -- but we're pretty sure Jason and Sarah won't mind too much if their nine-year-old nephew wears white sneakers to their nuptials.

(Rachel's yielded several other treasures as well, including the perfect dress for Irene to become a starlet in (which she did not buy), a darling little black dress (which she did), and a VHS tape of Apollo 13 that someone, according to a yellowing dot-matrix receipt tucked inside the case, had rented from a video store in Danbury in 1996.)

This morning, at a cavernous supermarket somewhere along I-91, we were able to procure a spool of tan thread, a needle, and a small box of pins. And now, thanks to Andrew's smooth steering and Brattleboro's excellent coffee, I'm just stitches away from completing a perfectly respectable hemming job. (This is also the kind of people we are: nine times out of ten we come through in the eleventh hour.)

Arriving in Franconia with thirty minutes to spare, we scramble into our single hotel room for a kind of five-clowns-in-a-phone-booth costume change, then pile back into the car in our slightly wrinkled finery to follow a series of charming pink signs up a winding road through the woods. At Toad Hill Farm we are greeted by siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles, and the mother of the groom, who is positively glowing.

The rehearsal itself is low-key and brief; afterwards Simon blends seamlessly into a crowd of handsome, athletic, good-natured groomsmen who are, to a man, wearing khakis and button-down shirts (tip of the hat, once again, to Rachel's Quality Consignment), and who may or may not have the authority to let him drive the golf cart. Josie and Irene busy themselves with enchanting the under-eight set. As dusk gathers we sit down to delicious pasta, stuffed mushrooms, chicken, and cannoli. There is plenty of wine.

After dinner I look around for the kids: Josie and Irene are trading music gossip with Wil's boyfriend Louis (who, it turns out, went to school -- or something -- with a certain Miss Stefani Germanotta back in the day). Simon is nowhere to be seen, but the handsome, good-natured young men have organized a game of some kind under the giant canopy at the bottom of the hill; I can make out their khaki-clad legs below the edge of the canvas roof, and every now and then a whole body appears as someone lunges to catch a flying frisbee or falling beer bottle.

Beer Frisbee (as it is known at Duke, where it is, apparently, a "longstanding and sacred sport") goes like this: two chest-high poles are planted in the ground 30 feet apart, with an empty beer bottle balanced on top of each one. A team of two players, each holding an open beer, stands behind each pole. The teams take turns trying to knock the empty bottle off the other pole with the frisbee. Points are scored for hitting the pole or bottle, but only if the defending team fails to catch the frisbee and/or bottle before they hit the ground. (Spilling your beer may also cost you points, somehow, but the person who explained things to me was a bit hazy on this detail.)

Watching the bottom half of this distant, dimly-lit game, I suddenly notice that one of the players, who seems to be doing quite well despite his small stature, is wearing (could it be?) white sneakers. Yes, Simon -- whose interests align fairly well with those of good-natured, athletic young men, even before they've had a few beers -- has joined the game. His new friends have wisely waived the rule about him having to carry an open beer; with this minor advantage, he's holding his own.

The next day, while waiting for a table at the absolutely-worth-waiting-for Polly's Pancake Parlor, the kids pose beneath a majestic red oak tree, which was planted, according to the plaque, by Lucy Hildreth and Wilfred Dexter on their wedding day in 1899. A few hours later we're sporting our finest finery (though Simon's pants now have grass stains on both knees from last night's diving), heading back up Toad Hill to celebrate Sarah and Jason's wedding day. It's a truly lovely wedding, as befitting two such lovely people. No red oaks are planted, but plenty of other blessings are bestowed: Jason's Aunt Kay reads a poem, Sarah's sister Emily sings a song (we liked it so much we looked it up later):

Rings are exchanged, tears are smiled through, wishes are wished, kisses are kissed, and we all throw lavender at the happy couple as they walk back up the grassy aisle.

Then it's party time! The area under the tent is now a maze of tables and chairs surrounding a parquet dance floor. Simon is a little disappointed to find no sign of the Beer Frisbee stakes, but is quickly distracted by Sarah and Jason's first dance. We liked this song so much we looked it up later too -- "Wagon Wheel," an old Dylan tune made famous by Old Crow Medicine Show.




Later I got to jitterbug with Simon, and waltz with three-month-old Lily Lyon to "Sarah," another Dylan song. Weddings are so good for such intergenerational moments, aren't they? A few others:

Jason and Sarah bear-hugging his aunt after she read her poem (this wasn't the only time we thought of Jason's dad (Kay's brother), and how happy he would have been to see this day. Rest in peace, John.):

 Josie submitting graciously to public displays of affection by her mother:

There are limits to this young lady's forbearance, however: when her father stepped onto the dance floor, she ran from the tent in horror -- a reaction that struck me as a little excessive, as I've always found Andrew's happy-footed enthusiasm to be entirely endearing. Also endearing: Simon's word-perfect recitation of Ludacris's rap in the middle of Justin Beiber's "Baby" (it's the one that starts "When I was thirteen, I had my first love," and it can be found at minute 2:14, for those of you who've spent the last year in a cave -- or in a tweenless household, which is essentially the same thing).

By the time we dragged ourselves away from the party, Jason and Sarah had been well and truly feted -- and we were well and truly exhausted. As we straggled across the dark lawn toward the pasture where we'd parked our car, not even the opening bars of "Forever" could entice us back, though we were sorely tempted...

Wishing you many years of happiness, Jason and Sarah. We're so grateful we could be part of this amazing day!