Good Morning.
The first thing about the trip to Pierre for the wedding of my son is the traffic. We're not talking bumper to bumper metro stuff here, just a steady stream of cars blowing around RVs and pickups hauling fishing boats. The speed limit is 80, obviously
only a suggestion. Lots of cops, I tell my daughter who travels with her family a couple of hours later.
I stop at Chamberlain halfway to Pierre because I always stop there. It has the most spectacular rest area in the state, overlooking the Missouri River, but now it also has a fifty-foot high, stainless steel sculpture of a Native American woman with a star quilt. It is entitled Dignity, and it is magnificent.
I find a country music station to accompany my entrance into the capital city, check in at the hotel, have a quick beverage with a friend, and catch a ride to the rehearsal dinner with my daughter-in-law. There isn't a rehearsal but that's what you call a gathering the night before a wedding. This one will be like a parachute jump; there ain't no test run.
The dinner is held at the marina below the Oahe Dam. Two dozen family members - some more splintered than others - order off the menu and within minutes the food is produced, hot and tasty, by a cheerful waitress. Jaws drop. Nobody does this kind of service anymore.
My last stop of the evening is the hotel swimming pool where my four grands are splashing around in teenage splendor. The three young women are all clad in what I tell them amount to a pair of eye patches and a fig leaf and they laugh hysterically and offer to get bathing caps.
The next morning I'm off to the home of the bride's mother who has prepared caramel rolls to die for. Who does this with all the other bridal mother concerns she has and then she shows me her wedding gift - a quilt - and a gorgeous, timeless creation that took a couple of years to make. Just a hunch from observing this particular couple but I believe it will be put to good use. The bride's aunt, up from Texas with her husband, is a photographer par excellence and has already taken dozens of pictures. The bride's dog is friendly and licking my caramel fingers and the cat is eventually plucked from his hiding place and introduced. This is a warm home, and I would like to stick around for hours.
The ceremony site at LaFramboise island has been selected by the bride. The weather is idyllic and there are chairs set up in front of the two trees that will provide an altar with the river as a backdrop. I comment to an old friend that the chairs are padded and comfortable and then introduce myself to Pastor Peggy, a young woman who will be getting married herself in a couple of weeks. I am once again reminded that we now call professional people by their title and a first rather than a last name, but so far the efforts to make these folks less scary hasn't extended to politicians. When we get to Governor Jerry or President Don, we need to rethink this stuff.
At two minutes to four o'clock, the appointed hour, the wind suddenly picks up as the bride arrives in a yellow Corvette to
enthusiastic applause. She is stunning in a flapper-style dress of white with yellow accents and carries a bouquet of daisies
freshly picked from her mother's yard.
She and the groom share a quick kiss to the surprise of no one, and Pastor Peggy begins what will be a delightfully personal ceremony. Halfway through it, I notice that she has tattoos on both ankles and someone will tell me later that they are Bible verses. This is very cool. My son, the groom, clad in a tux with a regular tie, has his glasses on his head, as do I, and the best man, his brother, is wearing a green shirt, a Pierre color. Sometime during the ceremony, another gentleman, uninvited and minus a shirt of any color, emerges from the woods, pauses to observe the proceedings, and scampers off to the parking lot. This is when the parachute isn't the usual boring canvas but has a certain streak that captures the attention.
The bride and groom exchange adoring glances and traditional vows with an updated twist. None of that obey stuff, my son advised me earlier as I munched on my second roll. Better not be, I told him with my mouth full. They sign the marriage license as it billows in the wind, Pastor Peggy pronounces them husband and wife, and the bride's mother and I are misty. We have both lost husbands to cancer, she only a month ago, but we are restored when the couple does the official kiss to more applause. Love rocks and never better.
We are off to the reception where we have a private room with a spectacular view of spring at her finest. I am seated next to the grandchildren table where the occupants aren't communicating with each other; they are texting and oblivious to any form of humanity actually present. The bride and groom are greeting people individually but come back together every few minutes like a couple of magnets. The atmosphere, like that at the ceremony, is intimate and relaxed. There is no music other than the sound of people laughing, no DJ pushing songs to dislocate a hip or puncture an eardrum, and none of this glass clinking thing. This couple doesn't need any of it; they are spectacular just in their being.
Best regards,
Elisabeth
With thanks to my blog consultants from Illinois, Montana, and South Dakota for their observations; to my former in-laws and friends from long ago for an abundance of hugs and kind words; to my grandkids for helping me with curbs and other
impediments and my children and their spouses for hauling me around; and to my new daughter-in-law's family for their fabulous hospitality.
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