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Wedding Bliss

If you’ve ever been married or had someone in your immediate family get married, you know the havoc a wedding causes. Our family was no exception. 

My older sister, Marge, ached to marry her boyfriend of several years, Joe. Mom and Dad extracted a promise:  if she’d go to college one year and if she STILL wanted to get married, they’d give their blessing. So, the college year flew by, and it was time for Mom and Dad to deliver on their end of the deal. Meanwhile, Joe had joined the Marine Corps and was stationed at Camp Pendelton, California. When he came home for his furlough, the happy couple were ready to make it legal, and Mom had one week to put together a wedding. Luckily, my sister had a good friend who had married recently, so she shared her wedding dress, but this is when things grew complicated. 

Remember Jack the cat, my surrogate baby and furry friend? On the day of the wedding, all the bustling around annoyed him. To register his disgust, he climbed in the middle of that lovely gown, laid out on the bed after my mom’s pressing job, and wet a huge puddle. I thought my horrified mother would die of a heart attack and my sister would cry herself blind. Mom swung into action, washing the stain out, and applying plenty of perfume to cover any remaining odor.  Because it was a humid day with rain showers, the darned dress wouldn’t dry. Refusing to admit defeat, Mom aimed our biggest fan at the dress and banished Jack to outside. 

Years later, a wise friend said, “I’ve put on five weddings for three kids and here’s the deal.  Something always goes wrong, and it never matters. The bride still looks beautiful; everyone says it was the nicest wedding they’ve ever seen; and the guests still have a wonderful time.”

Now I think of that when I look at the wedding pictures: Marge beaming in the lovely wedding gown; 20-year-old Joe sweating and looking like a deer in the headlights; and me in my baby blue, floor length gown, holding the rose-petal basket and looking like the Queen of the May.    

We Old School types had a healthy respect for Plan B and used it liberally.  (Still do!) 


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