“The dress has not been sold,” the owner declared.
At four o’clock the next morning, my parents camped in front of the bridal shop. Armed with lawn chairs, Starbucks coffee and heavy winter coats to combat the Colorado freeze, they scoped out the position of the dress through the store window. I arrived and the moment the store opened, I raced in, followed by my cold parents.
I grabbed my dream dress off the rack, took it to the front and plopped down $200. And, all anxiety gone, I held a treasure in my hands. The perfect dress.
More importantly, I held a piece of the heart of all those who rallied behind me. A symbol of a vast community of people with faith to believe that even wedding dresses matter. And, all with part ownership in my bridal gown fantasy . . . which belonged to more than just the bride.
Greta Montgomery
4
THE BIG DAY
A wedding is just one of many stories in a couple’s life together—stories of special moments . . . from the vows and the kiss . . . to laughing with family and friends . . . and especially those that weren’t exactly planned.
Rosanna McCollough
editor in chief, WeddingChannel.com
Carolyn gets her first glimpse of the excessive frugality that would define the next 42 years of her life.
CLOSE TO HOME ©John McPherson. Reprinted by permission of UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE. All rights reserved.
A Snow Cloud’s Silver Lining
A father: The first man in your life to give you unconditional love, and the one who every man after is compared to.
Becca Kaufman and Paula Ramsey
creators of WeddingQuestions.com
It snowed like crazy on our wedding day. Not a piling up, traffic-paralyzing kind of snow, but the kind that leaves the trees sparkling and the streets looking like a river of licorice slush.
My mother closed all the drapes as if blocking the view would somehow force an end to it. But it didn’t work. By the time my father and I were ready to leave for the church, the driveway and street were slathered with a generous portion of semi-frozen grayish sludge.
My father had cleared a path in front of the house but when it was time to go, Mom still insisted I wear plastic bags over my shoes to protect them “just in case.” As luck would have it, the only two plastic bags in the house were empty bread bags.
Somehow my little-girl dreams of this day never included parading to the church with bread bags peaking out beneath the hem of the gown I’d waited my whole life to wear. Still, snowflakes continued swirling down and no alternate plan prevailed. So, on went the bread bags over my shoes, and off we went.
Carefully we made our way out the front door and to the rented silver Mercedes waiting to take us to the church. Ed, the driver, never said a word, but the look on his face was priceless as he watched me approach with blue-and-yellow-plastic-polka-dot clown feet.
As we started out of the driveway, I realized that never before in my life had I taken a ride with my dad without him driving. Gripped by this moment of truth, I turned my head to look through the back window and watched our house—and my childhood—shrink slowly out of sight.
One lone tear trickled down my cheek while Dad sat quietly beside me. Then I felt him reach over and take my hand. This small, quiet gesture spoke volumes of what he, too, must have been feeling—but never said.
The freshly fallen snow transformed a relatively short ride into a slow and cautious journey through the landmarks of my youth. As we passed the playground, the schoolyard and even the corner candy store, each seemed to call my name and whisper good-bye.
As much as I looked forward to all the future held for my husband and me, this intense feeling of ending my girlhood pierced my heart. Sensing this, my father squeezed my hand and drew me close to his side. His warm embrace assured me everything would be all right.
While Ed parked the car at the church, Dad and I simultaneously looked at each other, then cast our eyes down to the polka-dot Wonder Bread “booties,” which by now had taken on a role of their own and seemed to be staring back at us.
My father turned to me and said, “Do you really want to step out of this car with clown feet?”
“Well, not really, but what else can I do?”
The street and sidewalk surrounding the church had been on the receiving end of a barrage of galoshes, snow tires and shovels since early that morning. What started as a pristine blanket of white now appeared to be nothing more than a dirty mess that threatened to ruin my shoes, as well as whatever part of the dress and train that would end up getting dragged through it.
“Lose the boots,” Dad said. With those words he got out of the car and walked around to the door on my side.
I leaned forward and slipped the bags off my feet to reveal lovely white satin ballet slippers with the pale pink satin ribbons that twirled about my ankles and came to rest in a delicate bow. I dreaded the thought of how they would look by the time I reached the church steps.
I methodically gathered up as much of the dress and train as I could, and stepped out of the car trying to keep it all from touching the ground. As I turned toward Dad, suddenly I felt my feet lift off the ground and in an instant I was swept into his arms. Just that quickly my dress and shoes were safely out of harm’s way and my heart had wings to fly.
How many years had it been since Dad had carried me in his arms? How much like a princess I felt, and how appropriate it seemed to close the door on my childhood in such a poignant way.
Dad carried me from the sidewalk all the way up the steps and into the vestibule of the church where my mother and bridesmaids awaited our arrival. Setting me down in front of my mother he kissed me on the cheek and said, “Now that was fun. Wasn’t it?” To which I replied, “Let’s do it again!” We all laughed and a few moments later he walked me down the aisle where I joyfully stepped forward into the future.
Dad faced his own moment of truth that day. My husband and I were married on my parents’ thirty-sixth wedding anniversary. I imagine walking his last baby down the aisle on this day surely brought home to his heart that life was moving on; no turning back the clock.
My husband and I celebrated our twentieth wedding anniversary this year. Life moved on for us as it did for Dad—who now smiles on us from heaven.
The warm memories of our wedding day remain with me, but few are as tender as that precious moment when Daddy’s little girl was swept off her feet one last time.
Annmarie B. Tait
Kiss and Tell
Creativity requires the courage to let go of certainties.
Erich Fromm
Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink.
The sound of cutlery hitting the wineglasses grows to a loud pitch. The bride and groom rise from their seats and embrace with a warm, passionate kiss—much to the delight of their guests.
Most of us are familiar with the well-known tradition to get the bridal couple to kiss—“the clinking of the glasses.” Half Italian, I have attended my share of Italian weddings and know full well that before the first course or antipasto plate, the clinking sound will be heard at least ten times.
When Michael and I were planning our wedding, there were two traditions he did not want to follow. “Theresa, I love to kiss you, but I don’t want to hear the irritating sound of glasses clinking all night. And I won’t do the Chicken Dance.”
I had to agree with the latter. The Chicken Dance is silly enough, let alone trying to do it in a wedding dress. However, the other would be expected unless we had an alternative. But what?
Some kissing traditions involved singing a song with the word “love” in the title. A good idea if your guests can carry a tune. However, if guests saw this as a “karaoke” opportunity, it could get out of hand. Another tradition would be to have guests give a “toast,” but then who wants to listen to toasts all night?
As Michael and I wrote out our seating plan for the fifth time, an ingenious idea hit us. It would give an opportunity for ou
r guests to interact and allow them to be creative. But best of all, they would have FUN in the process, which is really what attending a wedding should be all about. It was perfect.
Our reception night arrived, and no sooner had we taken our seats in the dining hall, than the clinking began. Before it reached a crescendo, our best man, Tom, announced, “There will be no clinking of glasses tonight to get Theresa and Michael to kiss. Instead, they ask that you each perform the unique request on your tables and they would then be happy to kiss for you.”
On each table was the following poem:
The bride and groom will kiss for you
Read on to see what you must do
Each table has a unique request
So get together and do your best!
Each request was specifically chosen according to the guests seated there.
One table of Michael’s old friends was requested to relate childhood stories about Michael. Laughter bubbled as they reminisced and shared tales about their high school antics. They debated which story would or could be shared with all the guests. The one chosen received chuckles at the expense of the sheepish groom.
A table of couples married thirty years or more were asked to recount their marriage proposals. Another group of friends present when Michael and I first met were asked to tell the story of our “beginning.”
One of the more daring requests was a “celebrity impersonation.” This group caught everyone’s attention when, en masse, they proceeded to center stage wearing pristine white dinner napkins on their heads. Arranging themselves into a choir, they made the sign of the cross and sang their rendition of “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?”
But, they altered it to: “How do you solve a problem like Theresa? How do you make Michael understand?” It was a creative collaboration in words, melody and choreography that kept the audience in stitches.
Looking back, Michael and I realize those moments of spontaneity provided memorable entertainment and made our wedding day both fun and personal. Friends and family members exceeded our expectations and we could do nothing more than sit back and enjoy their creativity and presentations of love.
As we promised, we returned our humble appreciation and thanks in the only way we could . . . with warm and loving kisses.
Theresa Chan
A Bouquet to Remember
You know, fathers just have a way of putting everything together.
Erika Cosby
“Where are the flowers?” My sister panicked pacing the living room dressed in her wedding gown.
“I don’t know, sweetie. They were supposed to be here an hour ago. But don’t worry; I’m sure they’ll be here promptly,” my mother assured Kathy to calm her down.
“Oh, no, the photographer’s here. He’s early!” the bride yelled hysterically. “I need my bouquet for the pictures.”
I was seventeen years old and the bridesmaid. As a girl who always planned on getting married one day, I considered my sister’s wedding day a learning experience.
That morning, Kathy was a wreck. She had planned every detail of her wedding carefully. The invitations, personalized napkins and matches, the bouquet with white roses, calla lilies and baby’s breath. All planned a year in advance. The one thing Kathy didn’t plan was the fact that something could go wrong.
We waited and waited for the flowers to arrive. My sister looked enchanting with her classic fairy-tale gown and full skirt that gathered at the waistline. But for her, no flowers meant no sweet fragrance, no delicate decorations, no beautiful pictures, no mementos, no wedding.
The groom was often called “a romantic fool” in the good sense of the word. He was the kind of guy that would leave little notes saying “I love you” for no special reason. The night before the wedding, he gave my sister a bracelet proving he was a hopeless romantic.
But there was nothing romantic in the air the next day. Trapped in an apartment filled with desperation and nervousness, I noticed my father open a window to smoke. It was interesting to see how one stressful situation could drive a man who had quit two years before to suddenly go back to the habit.
The doorbell rang. The florists, I thought, running frantically to answer the door. Disappointed to find a young delivery boy, I asked in my annoyed voice, “May I help you?”
“It’s a delivery for Kathy Lassalle from her future husband, Hernan,” he said, trying to keep my attention.
He pulled out a huge floral bouquet of red roses. My father’s lit cigarette fell to the ground. He immediately grabbed the bouquet and took off for the bedroom, leaving me at the door to sign the paper.
“Thanks a lot,” I said to the delivery boy as I watched my father mysteriously disappear. “Dad, that’s not for you. Give Kathy her gift!” I shouted down the hall, wondering what he was up to.
Minutes later, my father reappeared in the room where we all waited. He had a big smile on his face; his way of saying that things were going to be all right. He then presented to us three gorgeous bouquets he had arranged from the groom’s beautiful red roses.
We couldn’t believe it. Dad (and Hernan) had saved the day.
With little time to spare, the photographer took pictures of the bride, bridesmaid and flower girl as planned. Not with the wedding bouquets, however, but with bouquets made out of love, creativity and urgency!
The scheduled flowers finally arrived just before we entered the church. My sister was happy to have the bouquet she designed herself; and the flower girl had her basket of flowers. I, On the other hand, decided to keep my dad’s lovely red-rose creation, giving my original white bouquet to my mother.
Ten years later, when we look at my sister’s wedding pictures, we notice something that nobody else does. In fact, we think it’s cute that some pictures show a red bouquet of flowers and others show a white one. But each time, we are taken back to that eventful day. A day of emotion and stress, but most importantly a day where a groom’s romantic gesture and a father’s hidden talent made a bouquet to remember.
Cindy L. Lassalle
Flower Princess
I patted the tulle clouds of my white dress as Mama brushed my dark hair. She clipped tiny ivory flowers to the top of my head, and I was complete—a real princess. Flower girl, they called me, but in my four-year-old mind, I was Cinderella.
We arrived at the church early to practice, and Bonnie, the bride, handed me the basket of all importance. Tucked inside lay dozens of crisp purple orchids. The outside was white wicker, adorned with bows and satin ribbons. It whispered to me, “Princess, princess, princess.”
My turn in the rehearsal came, and Bonnie leaned over. “Now, don’t put any of the flowers down yet,” she said. I nodded, thinking Mama must have been wrong when she said my job was to drop flowers on the carpet. Poor Mama. She must have never been a flower princess.
I marched to the front of the church, clasping my basket, holding my head even and stiff. The prettiest bridesmaid, Josephine, winked and said how grown-up I was. My fingers longed to touch her long satiny skirt, but I stood tall and still, like a real lady.
Then the people came. Tall people, squatty people, people in hats and vests and polka-dot dresses. Men in collars and aloha shirts. Women in heels as tall as pencils. I watched the other kids in their suspenders and pigtails and long flowered muumuus. Well, I thought, feeling sad for them, I suppose we can’t all be princesses.
They filled the church with their hushed laughter and rustling dresses and warmth. Up front, Mrs. Ayabe plunked beautiful music out of the old piano. Mama kissed my forehead. “You’ll do just fine, sweetie.” She put my hand in Bonnie’s and left.
Bonnie and I waited at the very back in our matching Cinderella dresses. We waited through the music and the praying and the turning pages. We waited as the bridesmaids in their satin skirts went before us—one, two, three, four. And then it was my turn.
Hundreds of eyes rested on me, but I stared straight ahead to the front of the church. Watching only the
old man with the Bible, I slowly traveled the skinny aisle, just like Mama told me—first foot, together; second foot, together.
My fingers gripped the handle of the wicker basket as I guarded my treasure. I wished right down to my toes that I could sprinkle a few flowers, just to show everyone how purple they were. But Bonnie’s words whispered in my head. Don’t put the flowers down yet.
As I reached the man up front, I saw Mama smiling. It was a funny smile. The kind she gives when I mix the buttons on my shirt, or forget which shoe goes where. I thought maybe her strange look was from being so proud, but a little part of my stomach tied worried knots.
After lots of talking and praying and singing, when I almost had to yawn, I saw one of the men kiss Bonnie smack on the lips. I didn’t think God allowed kissing in church, but the man with the Bible was nodding, so I let it pass. Then everything was music and clapping and people swarming around Bonnie and the kissing man.
Mama found me after the wedding, and knelt down to my size. She held both of my hands, even the one still clamped to the basket. “Sweetie,” she said with that smile, “Sweetie, why didn’t you put down the flowers?”
I opened my mouth to explain when Bonnie glided by, all lace and white and tulle.
“You were adorable, Nicki, absolutely adorable!” she gushed. “And it’s okay that you forgot about the flowers.” Then the sea of fancy people swallowed her back into their handshakes and hugs. I couldn’t believe it.
I stood very, very still. I didn’t look at Mama. The tears spilled down before I could stop them, splashing my cheeks, my dress, the rounded toes of my glossy white shoes. I wanted to use my screeching voice.
I had listened! I really had. I listened all perfect but I still did it wrong, and now I can’t be a princess!
Mama hugged me close, saying, “It’s okay. It’s okay to forget. Everybody forgets sometimes, even Mama.”
I made my body stiff in her arms. “But I didn’t!” I protested between gulping sobs. “Bonnie said not to do the flowers! I didn’t forget!” Mama patted and shushed and peppered me with kisses, but I knew she still thought I’d forgotten.
Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul Page 8
