By DAVID GREEN
“Welcome to our wedding, a celebration of...
a day of...
a time of.…”
A time of forgetting. That’s what it was. I think of my wedding ceremony and cringe a little, especially after my daughter recently pulled hers off without a hitch. Colleen and I had hitches.
We had what might be called a home-made wedding. There was little resemblance to the typical ceremonies we’ve attended in recent years.
It was in a church—Morenci’s Congregational Church where I spent a lot of Sundays as a youth—and we did have a pastor handle the ceremony. Well, sort of. It was Paul Koons, the pastor of my high school years, but when we asked him to help us out, it was a matter of calling him back to service. Since then Paul has returned to the pulpit, but at that time he was working in his in-laws’ furniture store in Delta.
Were there flowers? I really don’t remember. Was there a wedding party? No, there were no bridesmaids, groomsmen, ring-bearer or flower girl.
I don’t think there was any grand march to the front of the church. I don’t remember how we got to the front. Maybe we were hiding in the choir loft and just popped up when it was time to say, “Welcome to our wedding, a.…”
We might have remembered that opening speech, but it wasn’t too long into the ceremony that lines were forgotten. I think Colleen and I must have served as the Masters of Ceremony. Paul probably never had the opportunity to say, “We’re gathered here today.…”
Was there weird clothing? Yes, there was, and my beige corduroy suit (made in Poland) has been worn on various occasions since that day when one of our kids or one of their dates wants to look like a dork.
There was no white wedding dress for the bride, either. She wore a long purple skirt and I think I should go to the closet and track that item down. I recall stuffing our wedding clothes with wadded Observers and putting them on display for a our Seven Year Itch party. They looked a little odd even after seven years.
Were there a lot of relatives and local friends in the crowd? No, there weren’t. I can cringe over and over in so many ways when I think back.
We invited mostly friends from college. I don’t have a good explanation for this. Maybe I thought other people liked to avoid weddings like I did. I didn’t want to trouble anyone with having to go to mine.
I remember walking from my apartment above the Disturber office to my parents’ house that afternoon and I passed Craig and Lorraine Pillow downtown. Craig asked what I was doing today and I answered, “I’m getting married.” No big deal.
My parents invited their own friends to the ceremony since I was rude enough not to do it myself. They didn’t want to be left alone with all these wackos that we called friends.
And what about the remainder of the day...was there a nicely catered reception? Sort of. It was catered by our friends. It was a potluck dinner. Pretty strange, but I’m not cringing over this one. It was excellent food. Potlucks—it was the culture from which we emerged at school. It was wonderful.
Tell us about the honeymoon. Colleen and I took the back bedroom in the apartment and we gave our bed to her mother and a sister.
Our wedding story never appeared in the Observer. I was too busy to write it up, I guess. Without that “proof” of marriage, and with Colleen keeping her maiden name, I remember being challenged by a friendly local businessman about the authenticity of our union. Maybe he was just miffed because he was among the legion of Morenci people not invited. The joys of small-town living.
I’ve been thinking of all this stuff as we move past Rosanna’s wedding and on to Ben’s next month. Colleen and I were talking about how odd it is to be so uninvolved in the planning for Ben’s after such deep immersion in Rosanna’s.
I asked Ben’s bride, Sarah, if there was a preference for my attire. She said I might as well dress as her father will dress, and that means another tuxedo.
I’m still hearing comments about the photo of Rozee and me dancing. Now there will be yet another tux photo as Ben and I traipse across the dance floor.