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By JEFFERSON WEAVER
Staff writer
Even after 15 years, one of the most enduring images of his wedding was his running mother-in-law.
It was a hot day, and the corn around the little country church sighed with gratitude at the humidity preceding a summer thunderstorm. The fleeting relief of that storm was still hours away, and the heat was beyond oppressive.
When his future in-laws arrived, the groom was standing by the steps of the church with his family. They were talking of inconsequential things when his mother-in-law-to-be came running across the churchyard.
“The cake’s not coming!” she fairly shouted. “The cake’s not coming!”
It was just another in an odd string of events leading up to that day.
The day before was spent rushing around like a madman, doing this and doing that which, like all dutiful husbands-to-be, he did without questioning the logic, or importance. He knew he was blessed to begin with, since his wife-to-be was nothing of the taskmistress her friend and co-worker became as the wedding date neared. He figured there was a reason the other groom-to-be was prematurely bald.
He endured being fussed at mildly by the barber, who had expected him a few days before, and was relieved there was a preacher in the barbershop. He was like his father and didn’t tolerate even playfully crude remarks about the woman who would be his wife. He’d been in the shop before when some mild ribaldry had been tossed about, and that wasn’t his style.
The afternoon became even more frantic; there was exactly enough time to get to the lawyer’s office, handle the closing, and fly back up the highway to the rehearsal.
Fighting through Wilmington traffic was bad enough, but fighting their way out, on a hot summer Friday in June, was frustrating at best.
They were half an hour behind schedule when they both realized that without them, there could be no wedding rehearsal. The folks at the church would wait.
He slowed the little sportscar down to the speed limit and they talked for a while about things of no particular importance.
The wedding director was angry, but they weren’t that worried. A fairly nice woman usually, she was about as bossy as his oldest sister, who decided early on her daughter would be the flower girl. Not that he regretted his niece preceding his bride up the aisle – he just didn’t much like the way such things came about.
Like most weddings do, it went off without a hitch, although both he and his wife were pouring with sweat (even with air conditioning, the little country church got hot pretty quickly).
The beloved uncle who provided the special music didn’t take a drink before the service. Her father didn’t give in to paternal instincts and shoot him. He kept losing track of his bride at the cakeless reception, and she lost him, too, as they visited with relatives and people they hadn’t seen for years.
Then it was time to go; the cousins naturally had put shaving cream and Heaven only knows what all over the little BMW, and something exploded out of the tailpipe when he revved the motor.
Their first meal as husband and wife came from a drive-thru at a fast food restaurant. Their first flat tire came near a truck stop a few miles from Yamassee, Ga., just before midnight.
The blushing bride locked the doors of the car when her husband stepped out to pick a replacement tire. The people at the truck stop looked like actors deemed too frightening for a horror movie, but they turned out to be some of the nicest the couple had ever met, or ever would.
The years went by, and between funerals and frustrations, happiness and holidays, he realized he had become just a few years older. His wife, on the other hand, may have aged one week in those 15 years.
So as he kissed her goodbye the other morning, not wanting to wake her, he thought about all the changes since that hot day in June.
With a handful of weddings demanding their attention in the coming weeks, he figured there’d be lots of memories of missing wedding cakes, his beautiful and now-all-grown-up niece, a fast little sports car, and a young couple’s very first home.
In that philosophical way that comes from rising early after working too late, he pondered what he’d do differently if he could do it over again.
Some things were to be avoided, no question. Others, debatable. Not much would change, he decided, although he might not have gotten rid of the BMW, and they might not have left his farm for the city.
But this time, he decided, he’d follow her lead and laugh more– especially if his mother-in-law came running across the yard on a sultry afternoon in June.
Someone told me a while back that my wife and I have a special relationship.
It’s only because she’s so special.
Happy anniversary, Dolly. I love you.
Weaver is a staff writer with the News Reporter. He may be reached via e-mail at jeffweaver@newsreporter.biz, or by telephone at 642-4104, ext. 227.
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