A Family Wedding

Posted by LVDIII on October 4th, 2005 filed in Uncategorized

While the busload of us were waiting for the police to arrive, Gary made everyone all kinds of balloon animals. I got a giraffe and Noel got a particularly fetching dachshund made from a blue and white striped balloon. The cops got a really good chuckle out of seeing greasy little Stevie writhing on the floor, tied up with a clown’s trick handkerchiefs. They hauled little Stevie out of the bus and into the back of their Crown Vic. Finally, we were back on the road.

We rolled into Vegas at about two in the morning, past the bright lights of the casinos, past the late night wedding chapels, and on in to the Greyhound bus station.

I only went to one wedding as a child, that of my cousin Suzanne and her soon-to-be husband Damon. The ceremony was largely uneventful, though my father, Lucius Van Dyke II, kept holding the hymnal up to his face as he sipped at a flask of Black Velvet. My mother, Elizabeth, attempted to hide her embarrasment by reminding Scooter and I to stop fidgeting.

When we arrived at the reception, my father went straight to the open bar with the glee of a small child on Christmas morning.

“The bride’s a gold-digger,” said Damon’s father Ron.
“Here’s to gold-diggers,” said my father. “Without ‘em I’d be a rich man.”

They took a sip of their drinks.

“The groom’s a drunk,” said my father.
“May he follow in his father’s footsteps,” said Ron.

Ron and Lucius II clinked their glasses together and finished off their drinks. The clanging of catering trays sounded across the room and my father’s face lit up. He was never one to miss out on a free meal.

“They’re getting ready to serve,” said my father conspiratorially to Ron.

The two of them nonchalantly wandered over towards the food tables in a completely obvious way. As soon as the service was opened, they attacked the rolls, the beef, the chicken cordon bleu, the pasta while completely avoiding the salad.

As the meal concluded, the best man clanged his fork on his champagne glass. He told a saccharinely sweet story about how my cousin and Damon had met when their respective churches held a retreat at the same campground, leaving out the part about how they actually met. They had each snuck away from some ‘trust’ games to get stoned. The best man raised a toast to the beautiful couple and took a sip of his champagne.

My father stood, wobbling as he fumbled for his fork and clanged his glass.

“I would like to read a poem in honor of this awpish… aush… aush-pish… This occasion.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded up piece of paper. I was duly impressed, he had actually come prepared.

This one is entering her teens,
Ripe for sentimental scenes,
Has picked a gangling unripe male,
Sees herself in bridal veil,
Presses lips and tosses head,
Declares she’s not too young to wed,
Informs you pertly you forget
Romeo and Juliet.
Do not argue, do not shout;
Remind her how that one turned out.

With that, he raised his glass in a toast and polished off his champagne. That was the first and last family wedding we were ever invited to.

poem “The Romantic Age” by Ogden Nash