Kids will groan when you tell a story, complaining that they've heard it a hundred times. Then, one day, unaccountably, they'll ask you to tell it again. Go figure.
Everybody has wedding stories. I’d guess that no more than ten percent of them
could ever be told to anyone other than a family member, and then best in a
drunken stupor that would leave only a few uncertain and hopefully unactionable
memories.
But I’m especially fond of two California weddings which
can safely be reported.
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My college friend Larry and another friend’s sister,
Geraldine, got married in a hippyish-era ceremony in a flower-bedecked backyard
in southern California. I remember him
as wearing cowboy boots, jeans, a long-sleeved white shirt with subtle pin-stripes,
a light-brown corduroy vest, a paisley string tie, and a blonde Fu Manchu beard. That description may not be factual, but I
believe it is faithful to the time and place.
Beautiful young Geraldine wore an exquisitely simple, vaguely
old-timey dress. And, yes, she wore a
flower in her hair. Simply gorgeous.
Just before the ceremony was to begin, as we stood behind
the crowd, Larry confided to me in a low voice, "Wait
until you hear the music I recorded for the ceremony. It's Dylan."
I thought it was odd that he would mention this to me at
that point, but on the other hand we shared a deep interest in music. He had shown me how to play guitar, and had also
taught me a lot of old-time country songs by the likes of Jimmie Rodgers, Bill
Monroe, and Reno and Smiley. For several
years, we played and sang together a lot—in living rooms, of course.
Anyway, after Larry and Gerry had completed their
home-made vows and were walking back through the seated audience, a recording
of Larry singing began to play from a boom box: "New Morning." Very upbeat, very joyful.
A bit later, after the reception party had had a chance
to settle into a groove, Larry came up to me, smiling, and said, "What did
you think of the music?"
"I'm a bit disappointed,” I said. “I thought it might be 'Lay, Lady,
Lay'."
He laughed as if I’d made a joke.
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The union of Mary and Joe took place in a simple
churchyard atop a hill overlooking the town of Mendocino and the rocky Pacific
shore beyond it.
How can one explain Mendocino? About a four-hour drive north of San
Francisco, right on the coast among scattered redwood groves, it is a lingering slice of
the Age of Aquarius, but with a much better view of the ocean. Some residents (in earlier days) were salmon
fishermen, loggers, and lumber-mill workers (mainly in nearby Fort Bragg),
while the people I knew tended to pursue two or three humble part-time vocations in order to
support their love of natural foods, fusion cuisine, earth-toned clothing,
very, very liberal politics, Birkenstocks, and the lively arts. It was a great place to live.
Of course, there was the time warp. While living there in the late 1990s, Marlis
and I were once invited to a costume party by a fellow faculty member at the
College of the Redwoods, and I decided to go as a 1960s Berkeley hippie with
black turtleneck sweater and love beads.
On the way to the bash, we stopped so I could run into a market
and buy some wine. Once inside, I
realized that I looked just like everybody else in the store.
So Mary and Joe’s outdoor Mendocino wedding ceremony was
held in a churchyard meadow on a gently sloping hill. Since Mary was Catholic and Joe was Jewish,
the ceremony was led by an ecumenical committee of what I felt to be alternative-lifestyle
religious officers, including a rabbi (possibly), a priest (possibly), and some kind of feminist
spokesperson. As I recall, two of them
were women. You figure it out.
Quite possibly I’m making all of that up, but
no matter how snotty I may sound, I’m trying
to be objective. Given my unease
anywhere near a church, it wasn’t easy to focus at the time. Anyway, Mary and Joe were warm, genuine, deeply
nice people (and still are), and everything seemed plausible, unpretentious, perfect.
Down toward the lower end of the sloping churchyard was a
canopy that might give shade in the unlikely event
of an unfoggy day, though its main purpose seemed to be to delimit the immediate area where the
bride and groom and the cheerful union trio were to do their thing. The rest of us stood up the
hill, just a bit away from the happy couple.
As the ceremony was about to begin, a gentle rain began,
which then quickly increased to a downpour, and we were all invited to come
down the hill and crowd close together under the canopy. We did so, nudging shoulder to shoulder, and the
ceremony began.
After some sincere introductory remarks, one of the
officiators said, "Mary and Joe believe that a marriage is not just a
union of two people, but also involves all the friends and family who are an
important part of their lives. So they
join in asking all of you to participate in celebrating this union. Please recite after me."
Some people—okay, the person “me”—might have thought,
“Hey, this is a bit much.” But then, it
was Mary and Joe—Mary and Joe!—and it
seemed right. So something like the
following dialogue ensued, with the officiator enunciating clearly and
strongly, and the crowd murmuring gamely.
OFFICIATOR: Joe
and Mary, we all know that marriage involves the support of friends and family.
CROWD: Joe and Mary, we all know that marriage
involves the support of friends and family.
OFFICIATOR: We
promise to support your union as the days and years go by.
CROWD: We promise to support your union as the days
and years go by.
OFFICIATOR: In good times and bad, we will stand by you.
CROWD: In good
times and bad, we will stand by you.
OFFICIATOR: You
are part of us, and we are part of you.
CROWD: You are part of us, and we are part of you.
OFFICIATOR: Well,
I see the rain has let up.
CROWD: Well, I see
the rain has let up.
OFFICIATOR: No, I
mean. . . .I see the rain has let up.
CROWD: Ah.
One of the great moments in history, and I was there. So very, very grateful.
