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I was calm on that glorious morning, June 9, 1979. A friend was preparing nibbles in my kitchen to serve at the reception later. Dad was outside, waiting to flag down the tow truck coming to cart off the station wagon which was to get us to the church on time. Mom had Grandma marking the hem of the dress Mom had made to wear, but no amount of pressing and swearing would make the hem lie flat, so she abandoned it for one of Grandma's.
My aunt and uncle drove up with my brother who had spent a sleepless night at Disneyland for his Grad Nite, arriving just in time to ferry the three or four carloads of us to the church.
The ceremony began at 1:05 p.m. as my father escorted me into the church. Timeliness was important.
Our airline had changed our flight two days prior because of DC-10s being grounded due to bolts falling off in-flight. We were now allotted one hour for the wedding, half an hour for pictures, an hour for the reception, which would leave us with an hour and a half, or so, to get from Thousands Oaks to LAX, and our plane to Hawaii. There was no room for error.
We had opted for a traditional ceremony, complete with soloist. Her crystal-clear voice came in on cue for the Lord's Prayer midway through the rite, as the groom and I knelt on the altar. The soloist didn't even waver when an usher fainted with an echoing thud, landing on the altar behind us. As if this were an everyday occurrence, the minister whispered, "It's okay. One of your brothers had fainted, but they have him sitting now." (I should point out that this is the same brother who wants a June wedding.)
We stumbled through our vows, kissed briefly to seal the bargain, then raced joyfully down the aisle to await our public. The ushers went to their duties of escorting the matriarchs from their seats, while the maids flocked nervously about me, cooing and tittering. From the corner of my eye I saw a grandmother bustling down the aisle unescorted. Tactful person that I am, I thought, "She's not going to ruin my wedding, is she?"
As I had waltzed past him in my newly wedded state of bliss, my father had turned to my mother and whispered, "I don't think I can make it." She wondered what he meant, but as she asked, he fell forward, unconscious. Sometime after the Best Man's mother and the paramedics restored his breathing, we learned that the collar of his rented shirt was too small, plus he had hyperventilated after seeing his son faint.
Our guests rather snuck past me to find their way to the reception, not quite knowing what to say to a bride who was sobbing hysterically on the not-quite-tall-enough shoulder of a bridesmaid.
The photographer first arranged all of the group shots not requiring my father's presence, allowing time for his color to warm beyond that of his gray tuxedo. It's only barely noticeable how red my nose was, or that one of the ushers was unusually pale under his embarrassed flush.
We only had time to perform the rituals at the reception, so we did not notice that the dogs had eaten half of the hors d'oeuvres long before the food left my apartment. No one was surprised when my best friend caught the bridal bouquet, and everyone was delighted when the garter tossed by my groom danced across outstretched fingertips to become trapped between the beer bottle and chest of the most confirmed of our bachelor friends.
It came time to watch us lead our train of honking carloads of guests around the block, and to retrieve the airline tickets and wallet my groom had locked in the glove compartment of another car for safe keeping. Looking back, I am rather amazed we made it to the airport with several minutes to spare, and that our flight was uneventful. It wasn't surprising that we had to wait up until the wee hours of the morning for our tour group's luggage to be delivered to the hotel, as we had neglected to attach our name tags to the suitcases.
I was thrilled last month to hear my brother announce his engagement. I was excited to hear they want a big wedding, at which I will be a bridesmaid. But the temptation was just too great for me, I had to ask. Just how memorable do you want your wedding to be?
Copyright Aileen Fish, 1989. Winner of the Funny Wedding Stories contest, Newhall (CA) Signal, March 9, 1989.
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