I Love a Good Love Story With a Happy Ending
[b]The Firefly Man[/b]
The story begins one year ago to the day, when my daughter was holed-up in an Atlanta hotel room on her journey across the USA. She felt the need to wedge her suitcase against the inside of the room door to provide a little more protection. She had for whatever reason received racial abuse from those outside on the street. The hotel was all her budget would allow.
She was on her way down from New York to see the city made more famous by her adored singer, Alison Krauss. It proved to be far from the image put forward in the song, but, hey, she was well used to having the odd dream go south. Her 6 year old son was with her, asleep and quite unaware of the concern a caring mother could have for her only precious child. Atlanta was a preplanned stop on the journey which was mainly to do Route 66. She was not however wanting to stop there for that long now.
Perhaps the story really started quite a few years before, when finding out she was expecting her child; some of you know more on this. But, some good came out of this for this young student was now turning into a young adult with not just an instinct for survival, but the absolute determination to bring her child up in the most special and full way, alone if need be, but not necessarily. Now some might think a single mother, trawling across a new and quite different continent, with a six year old, was not the wisest move. But, what was the alternative. Stay home and sit by a storage heater leaking luke warm air against a steamed and drizzly wet UK West Country window pane, biding time through very non-descript years until he was old enough to go off and no longer be a burden to anyone but himself? Or was it better to embrace the opportunity, take a few risks and fill herself and the boy with every experience she could encounter and just about afford. This seasoned twosome traveller had already taken in Venice, Gambia, Thailand, Vietnam, Iceland, France, Cambodia, Bulgaria, Crete; this girl was more than able to juggle a boarding pass, two suitcases, a small child and a pushchair. And anyway, he just loved it. And they had become bonded in an even deeper way than a mother and child could ever do. They were travel companions, explorers, both full of adventurous youth. And, they were much more beyond. They were deepest friends.
But, right at this moment, this city was presenting experiences not quite on her itinerary, and though she had, like many single parents or mothers, been in far worse places, she needed to move through this somehow, one cautious protecting step at a time. But soon.
A quirk of fate was also at play here though. For at the same time she was preparing to bring her growing prenatal child into the world, 4000 miles away in Nashville, Tennessee, a soon-to-be mother was preparing for the very same God given event; but instead of registering on the US Mumsnet site, she had stumbled across the UK version. A simple and perhaps innocuous error, but, like the butterfly which had flapped its tiny inconspicuous wings and somehow gone on to cause a hurricane miles and miles away, this small twist of fate was shortly to become the catalyst for some life changing events on two continents. The two young mothers had built up within a group of like-minded, a small posse of protective yet determined friends; the idea always was to be there for each other of course. But it had seemed to go further and deeper, beyond anything virtual or just online, but real and caring. These mothers were covering each other's backs. Support through the inevitable ups and downs. Focus on the task in hand. The opportunity. The responsibility. The caring love. But perhaps just as important in a sometimes insane world, a solid rock, washed over with a tide of fun and laughter. For five years, the Nashville Mum had shared times and thoughts. And each of them had grown comfortable with the occasional vicarious living through their fellow mums. It was an obvious reach out then, when hearing of a planned trip to her distant home country, to suggest a slight deviation from Route 66, and a stopover with her a little further south in Tennessee was in the making. The itinerary was to take on different, slightly premature timings though. This suitcase against the door had to go. And a little help was needed. It came. Her new partner, with his close buddy, were itching to get straight in the car and drive to Atlanta. But, the ever resilient mum pressed on and finished this leg on the Greyhound bus, as planned. They were soon to make their first meeting. The single mum and the now divorced father of three from Tennessee, who against the perhaps normal outcome of a split, had been granted custody and loving care of his young children, 8, 10, and 12.
Whether it was the warm Tennessee sun and wind in her hair, or her gallant knight ready to spring to her rescue, or the late evening luminous fireflies, the soft guitar music playing, the Tennessee moonshine maybe, I'm not sure. And anyway, that is for them to know and for me to ponder. Whatever happened out there in Tennessee, it led to a union, joining, and now marriage, both in the eyes of their maker, and soon to be the law, they had publicly tied their committed and deep loving bond in front of their many and truest friends and family. Their first meeting in Tennessee that night was instant love. Unusual, and rare. But still possible. And perhaps the more special for being so.
At the end of her allotted time in Nashville, even stone-like me can understand that it would not be easy for either to even half consider that this should end as abrubltly a way as it had begun. And even as the car was pulling away to the next leg of her journey, just mother and child looking back through a mirror and rear view window, no doubt moist with a held back but insistent tear, he was planning to follow. To join her. And travel the rest of the journey together. For who would be better to have by your side than the Firefly Man, especially one with such warm, strong, and loving arms.
He caught the next plane and joined her further on. Together again, driving across America. All three of them afraid to think for how long or short a time.
A parting in LA, structured life was calling. Knocking. Impatient and noisily on their respective doors. Four children were already there, a family in waiting if you will.
The next few months burned a slightly bigger hole in the ozone, and sometimes surprise plane journeys were squeezed in-between two previously unaware and separate lives. And when they were forced to spare the ozone, they made up for it with long hours on facetime, becoming distant but ever loving and determined soulmates. Who could deny that they were indeed starstruck lovers. But they had both been on the planet for long enough to know that fortunes are a mixed and ever changing commodity, and if good fortune knocked on your door, you not only invited it in, you ushered it through and bolted the door fast behind. Christmas came and went. Meetings with family and friends, eager and vigilant to know more about this 'firefly man'. He passed their ever deep and perceptive tests and probing; checking him out, ever protective that whatever life has misdealt them before, was not going to happen again. Not on their watch. To either of them.
The vision for what type of wedding, was of course easy. Two continents. Two weddings, as they were planned to continue life together in the US, it made sense to tie the legal knot in the States, to keep Mr Trump happy. This was quite possible of course, and though it is evident you make your own luck in life, in some cases, others outside your control are left with the final decision and the key to unlock a door is in their gift. A lever arch full of any and every document, affidavit, medical examinations, begged their way to a decision which only came on 14 July 2017, only 15 days before the scheduled wedding day, all planned, with every cross feature of two intercontinental worlds meeting in fun and love.
A few days before the set day of declaring their union before God and their families and friends, the guests began to fly over from the States. His mother and her stepdaughter. His two daughters. His best man. It was becoming very 'real'. The stag night. The beers. The dungeons. The... well, some things are better unrecounted here (but interesting, if not fun, indeed). What happens on stag, stays on stag ;)
A final mad flurry of suit pressings, hair trimmings, extra eyelashes, manicures and sometimes the oddest coloured nail varnish. Oh, and the women looked beautiful too.
On the day, planned to the nth degree, there was not a stone unturned and polished until it sparkled. Wagon wheels hung from the ceiling, stars & stripes and union jack bunting everywhere ready, cowboy hats, Jack Daniels miniatures, s'mores fire pits, signed guitar, prepared story video, line dancing, everything West Country and Tennessee could muster.
Now as a father, you are somehow expected to be without expressed emotion, and certainly not in any way lachrymose. You 'bottle it up' and just open your wallet, blow off the moths, and let anyone dig deep in it at will, for they know this is the one time you want to see your child have whatever they want, at whatever cost, to make sure the memory of the day is the happiest. But, try as this father did, (and you won't know how much he did), the first sight of his once little girl, now a beautiful-but-beautiful bride, in the most becoming and elegant of dresses, fair took his breath away. And his only tear of the day emerged briefly, before it was tapped slightly and pushed back, suppressed invisible and dry. For it was her day. And choice of emotion was hers alone.
Of course, the 'Rolls Royce' of the day was not a Rolls Royce at all, it was a rather rusted, albeit polished, 1948 Dodge pickup truck being given a late lease of life in the UK after its earlier life in California. Hay bales on the back, hiding speakers ready to pump out bluegrass 'Choctaw Hayride'. Photos, videos, buttons buttoned, fascinators fascinating, the 6 year old page boy (guess who) with two missing teeth, the bridesmaids looking radiant, but making sure but sure they did not not outshine the bride. But, how could they, for, although you would expect a father to say, his daughter was beauty personified, made even more glorious by her ever deep and never happier smile. The bridesmaids will have their day, and we know it will be their turn to 'do radiant' :)
The crowd were assembled at the church, waiting. The gospel choir voices were ready and tuned. The pastor was prepared and ever calm. Everyone was at the church ready. Except for the bride, her father, and her son. The Dodge started first time, and reverse gear was found with a hesitant 'grunch'. We were on our way. No turning back. This was now so real and like going along water rapids, we were rafting each with the biggest of inward and outward smiles. With no faintest desire to stop though. It was enjoy, enjoy, enjoy.
Now whether things were the same in the church, I may never know, for the firefly man was no doubt watching, waiting, hovering, with a slight buzz and flutter inside. We took our time you see in the back room. I have an insight now why brides are oftentimes just a worrying bit late, for everything, understandibly, has to be 'just so'. For this is the day, the hour, the minute; it is now.
And it began. The signal was given. Eva Cassidy started to sing 'Songbird'. The congregation stood, the page started his careful and measured pace down the aisle. The tears began to well. After a timed teasing gap, the beautiful bridesmaids followed. This was not to be rushed. And, ready behind was the most beautiful bride you might ever see, holding onto the arm of the certainly the proudest of fathers. He had feared that this day had been stolen from him six years previously, but no, the firefly man had gifted it back, perhaps unaware. To say we milked the walk down the aisle is an understatement. Beaming but sincere smiles somehow got in the way and applied the most effective of brakes. This was the moment. This was the first time the firefly groom would feast his eyes and heart on her, dressed as she had never been dressed before and will never ever be dressed again. It will be etched as a beloved memory forever.
We arrive at the end of the aisle, and for the father, the handover gets ever closer. For the groom, it was ever closer to the coupling, their journey. Together. Soon. Very soon.
If it was ever going to be possible to upstage the most radiant of brides, there was only one person in that room who could. Her son. Not unused to delivering poetry lines on a stage in front of an engaged audience, he probably managed to sneak a nose in front with his ever energetic delivery of "They've made me the Page Boy". A magic memory.
The pastor 'talked' of love. T for 'talk'. For through the good times and the bad, 'talking' keeps the communication open. Necessary. I know. Next A, for 'affirmation'. Say thank you, never take the other for granted. Wise. Next 'L', for 'listen'. Again, a marriage is about give and take. And sometimes, you only know what to give if you listen first. And finally, well, for my money, there might have been more obvious choices such as Kissing or Kindness. But no, he chose for K, 'keep your mouth shut'. Not the obvious choice perhaps, but there are times when the other doesn't want your counsel, they just want and need a hug. So, after some thought, I'm 'cool' with that. (This firefly man from Tennurssee is starting to rub off on me too).
His mother did the Bible reading from Corinthians, you know the one about the most important being 'love'. Her mum read the Shakespeare sonnet 'Let not the true marriage of minds...' We broke with tradition and both 'gave away' our daughter. Seemed more proper somehow, and, it is what she wanted too. The vows were given, the rings blessed and exchanged. They were pronounced 'Man and Wife'. A cheery milestone moment.
A short refreshment, and then to the waiting Dodge pickup truck. Bluegrass music belting out banjo and guitar alike. But oh, the Dodge was sulking slightly, refusing to start, clearly badly 'choked' full of emotion. The heart drops slightly. Was this 1948 piece of mechanical nostalgia such a good idea after all. But yes, after a small cough and a slight splutter, it gave a cheeky grin, cleared its throat and fired into action, very reminiscent of the bride's first few minutes after entering this world some 27 years previously.
It paled off into the distance towards the wedding breakfast and reception. Photos galore, every combination. Mostly around the ever faithful Dodge truck. But this was all thirsty work - and the bride's father was to be seen taking the heads off any and every pint in the hands of anyone who had the audacity to get to the bar before him. Ahhh... well earned nectar:))
Or had it been earned, for there were 'the ever dreaded speeches' still in the breast pocket, ironed, hopefully polished, and honed ready for 'delivery'. Fear not, the food was had, the greatest of three tiered cakes made by Auntie from France, the glass was 'dinged' and the fun continued. The father of the bride traditionally kicked things off with what can only be described as an excellent offering, even if he says it himself. Granted, it had been vetted and thrice checked to comb out any obvious tear trap pit holes, at least up until his closing poem which did exactly as planned and brought tears of laughter and reminiscent joy. The groom gave an equally sound offering. I think we were both upstaged though by the best man who delivered his speech without a script, straight from the heart, and much the better for not sinking to embarrassing the groom. It was a speech of love, admiration and gratitude for the friend the 'firefly man' had been to him too.
Speeches and toasts done and filed, the party began in earnest, with all manner of American and English revelry. A breathtaking first dance by the happy couple, followed swiftly by line dancing. Not a Morris Dancer in sight. Or was there...? Apparently, the bride's father eventually let his remaining hair down (underneath his cowboy hat) on the dancefloor towards the end of the evening, forgetting he was fast approaching 60. The video went viral on FB. At least six people watched it ;)
Carriages were booked for midnight, and we all rested before the open house the following morning, in little under 7 hours.
The weather was kind, the guests truly enjoyed themselves, everyone did themselves proud and gave the happiest couple a most special sendoff.
By all accounts, including feedback from the venue staff, this was simply the best wedding ever.
I will finish this account with an extract from a song which I have fine-tuned in my own hopefully special way for some 30+ years, not realising the significance the second verse would eventually have in my family's life, for this account was all written while sitting on the plane in the sky going over to stay with his beloved daughter and his new 'son', who I hope won't mind me entitling him on occasions 'The Firefly Man'.
From George Gershwin's Summertime (Porgy and Bess):
"One of these mornings,
You're gonna rise up singing
Then you'll spread your wings
And take to the sky
But 'til that morning
There ain't nothing can harm you
With Mama and Papa
Standing by..."
This song has now a most special relevance to me and my two newly weds.
This is this story so far. There is no doubt more to unfurl as we visit Nashville for the first time when we get off this plane. And of course, there will be the civil and legal ceremony, necessarily held in the US. My wife, the bride's mother will be officiating then. How special is that.
The story begins one year ago to the day, when my daughter was holed-up in an Atlanta hotel room on her journey across the USA. She felt the need to wedge her suitcase against the inside of the room door to provide a little more protection. She had for whatever reason received racial abuse from those outside on the street. The hotel was all her budget would allow.
She was on her way down from New York to see the city made more famous by her adored singer, Alison Krauss. It proved to be far from the image put forward in the song, but, hey, she was well used to having the odd dream go south. Her 6 year old son was with her, asleep and quite unaware of the concern a caring mother could have for her only precious child. Atlanta was a preplanned stop on the journey which was mainly to do Route 66. She was not however wanting to stop there for that long now.
Perhaps the story really started quite a few years before, when finding out she was expecting her child; some of you know more on this. But, some good came out of this for this young student was now turning into a young adult with not just an instinct for survival, but the absolute determination to bring her child up in the most special and full way, alone if need be, but not necessarily. Now some might think a single mother, trawling across a new and quite different continent, with a six year old, was not the wisest move. But, what was the alternative. Stay home and sit by a storage heater leaking luke warm air against a steamed and drizzly wet UK West Country window pane, biding time through very non-descript years until he was old enough to go off and no longer be a burden to anyone but himself? Or was it better to embrace the opportunity, take a few risks and fill herself and the boy with every experience she could encounter and just about afford. This seasoned twosome traveller had already taken in Venice, Gambia, Thailand, Vietnam, Iceland, France, Cambodia, Bulgaria, Crete; this girl was more than able to juggle a boarding pass, two suitcases, a small child and a pushchair. And anyway, he just loved it. And they had become bonded in an even deeper way than a mother and child could ever do. They were travel companions, explorers, both full of adventurous youth. And, they were much more beyond. They were deepest friends.
But, right at this moment, this city was presenting experiences not quite on her itinerary, and though she had, like many single parents or mothers, been in far worse places, she needed to move through this somehow, one cautious protecting step at a time. But soon.
A quirk of fate was also at play here though. For at the same time she was preparing to bring her growing prenatal child into the world, 4000 miles away in Nashville, Tennessee, a soon-to-be mother was preparing for the very same God given event; but instead of registering on the US Mumsnet site, she had stumbled across the UK version. A simple and perhaps innocuous error, but, like the butterfly which had flapped its tiny inconspicuous wings and somehow gone on to cause a hurricane miles and miles away, this small twist of fate was shortly to become the catalyst for some life changing events on two continents. The two young mothers had built up within a group of like-minded, a small posse of protective yet determined friends; the idea always was to be there for each other of course. But it had seemed to go further and deeper, beyond anything virtual or just online, but real and caring. These mothers were covering each other's backs. Support through the inevitable ups and downs. Focus on the task in hand. The opportunity. The responsibility. The caring love. But perhaps just as important in a sometimes insane world, a solid rock, washed over with a tide of fun and laughter. For five years, the Nashville Mum had shared times and thoughts. And each of them had grown comfortable with the occasional vicarious living through their fellow mums. It was an obvious reach out then, when hearing of a planned trip to her distant home country, to suggest a slight deviation from Route 66, and a stopover with her a little further south in Tennessee was in the making. The itinerary was to take on different, slightly premature timings though. This suitcase against the door had to go. And a little help was needed. It came. Her new partner, with his close buddy, were itching to get straight in the car and drive to Atlanta. But, the ever resilient mum pressed on and finished this leg on the Greyhound bus, as planned. They were soon to make their first meeting. The single mum and the now divorced father of three from Tennessee, who against the perhaps normal outcome of a split, had been granted custody and loving care of his young children, 8, 10, and 12.
Whether it was the warm Tennessee sun and wind in her hair, or her gallant knight ready to spring to her rescue, or the late evening luminous fireflies, the soft guitar music playing, the Tennessee moonshine maybe, I'm not sure. And anyway, that is for them to know and for me to ponder. Whatever happened out there in Tennessee, it led to a union, joining, and now marriage, both in the eyes of their maker, and soon to be the law, they had publicly tied their committed and deep loving bond in front of their many and truest friends and family. Their first meeting in Tennessee that night was instant love. Unusual, and rare. But still possible. And perhaps the more special for being so.
At the end of her allotted time in Nashville, even stone-like me can understand that it would not be easy for either to even half consider that this should end as abrubltly a way as it had begun. And even as the car was pulling away to the next leg of her journey, just mother and child looking back through a mirror and rear view window, no doubt moist with a held back but insistent tear, he was planning to follow. To join her. And travel the rest of the journey together. For who would be better to have by your side than the Firefly Man, especially one with such warm, strong, and loving arms.
He caught the next plane and joined her further on. Together again, driving across America. All three of them afraid to think for how long or short a time.
A parting in LA, structured life was calling. Knocking. Impatient and noisily on their respective doors. Four children were already there, a family in waiting if you will.
The next few months burned a slightly bigger hole in the ozone, and sometimes surprise plane journeys were squeezed in-between two previously unaware and separate lives. And when they were forced to spare the ozone, they made up for it with long hours on facetime, becoming distant but ever loving and determined soulmates. Who could deny that they were indeed starstruck lovers. But they had both been on the planet for long enough to know that fortunes are a mixed and ever changing commodity, and if good fortune knocked on your door, you not only invited it in, you ushered it through and bolted the door fast behind. Christmas came and went. Meetings with family and friends, eager and vigilant to know more about this 'firefly man'. He passed their ever deep and perceptive tests and probing; checking him out, ever protective that whatever life has misdealt them before, was not going to happen again. Not on their watch. To either of them.
The vision for what type of wedding, was of course easy. Two continents. Two weddings, as they were planned to continue life together in the US, it made sense to tie the legal knot in the States, to keep Mr Trump happy. This was quite possible of course, and though it is evident you make your own luck in life, in some cases, others outside your control are left with the final decision and the key to unlock a door is in their gift. A lever arch full of any and every document, affidavit, medical examinations, begged their way to a decision which only came on 14 July 2017, only 15 days before the scheduled wedding day, all planned, with every cross feature of two intercontinental worlds meeting in fun and love.
A few days before the set day of declaring their union before God and their families and friends, the guests began to fly over from the States. His mother and her stepdaughter. His two daughters. His best man. It was becoming very 'real'. The stag night. The beers. The dungeons. The... well, some things are better unrecounted here (but interesting, if not fun, indeed). What happens on stag, stays on stag ;)
A final mad flurry of suit pressings, hair trimmings, extra eyelashes, manicures and sometimes the oddest coloured nail varnish. Oh, and the women looked beautiful too.
On the day, planned to the nth degree, there was not a stone unturned and polished until it sparkled. Wagon wheels hung from the ceiling, stars & stripes and union jack bunting everywhere ready, cowboy hats, Jack Daniels miniatures, s'mores fire pits, signed guitar, prepared story video, line dancing, everything West Country and Tennessee could muster.
Now as a father, you are somehow expected to be without expressed emotion, and certainly not in any way lachrymose. You 'bottle it up' and just open your wallet, blow off the moths, and let anyone dig deep in it at will, for they know this is the one time you want to see your child have whatever they want, at whatever cost, to make sure the memory of the day is the happiest. But, try as this father did, (and you won't know how much he did), the first sight of his once little girl, now a beautiful-but-beautiful bride, in the most becoming and elegant of dresses, fair took his breath away. And his only tear of the day emerged briefly, before it was tapped slightly and pushed back, suppressed invisible and dry. For it was her day. And choice of emotion was hers alone.
Of course, the 'Rolls Royce' of the day was not a Rolls Royce at all, it was a rather rusted, albeit polished, 1948 Dodge pickup truck being given a late lease of life in the UK after its earlier life in California. Hay bales on the back, hiding speakers ready to pump out bluegrass 'Choctaw Hayride'. Photos, videos, buttons buttoned, fascinators fascinating, the 6 year old page boy (guess who) with two missing teeth, the bridesmaids looking radiant, but making sure but sure they did not not outshine the bride. But, how could they, for, although you would expect a father to say, his daughter was beauty personified, made even more glorious by her ever deep and never happier smile. The bridesmaids will have their day, and we know it will be their turn to 'do radiant' :)
The crowd were assembled at the church, waiting. The gospel choir voices were ready and tuned. The pastor was prepared and ever calm. Everyone was at the church ready. Except for the bride, her father, and her son. The Dodge started first time, and reverse gear was found with a hesitant 'grunch'. We were on our way. No turning back. This was now so real and like going along water rapids, we were rafting each with the biggest of inward and outward smiles. With no faintest desire to stop though. It was enjoy, enjoy, enjoy.
Now whether things were the same in the church, I may never know, for the firefly man was no doubt watching, waiting, hovering, with a slight buzz and flutter inside. We took our time you see in the back room. I have an insight now why brides are oftentimes just a worrying bit late, for everything, understandibly, has to be 'just so'. For this is the day, the hour, the minute; it is now.
And it began. The signal was given. Eva Cassidy started to sing 'Songbird'. The congregation stood, the page started his careful and measured pace down the aisle. The tears began to well. After a timed teasing gap, the beautiful bridesmaids followed. This was not to be rushed. And, ready behind was the most beautiful bride you might ever see, holding onto the arm of the certainly the proudest of fathers. He had feared that this day had been stolen from him six years previously, but no, the firefly man had gifted it back, perhaps unaware. To say we milked the walk down the aisle is an understatement. Beaming but sincere smiles somehow got in the way and applied the most effective of brakes. This was the moment. This was the first time the firefly groom would feast his eyes and heart on her, dressed as she had never been dressed before and will never ever be dressed again. It will be etched as a beloved memory forever.
We arrive at the end of the aisle, and for the father, the handover gets ever closer. For the groom, it was ever closer to the coupling, their journey. Together. Soon. Very soon.
If it was ever going to be possible to upstage the most radiant of brides, there was only one person in that room who could. Her son. Not unused to delivering poetry lines on a stage in front of an engaged audience, he probably managed to sneak a nose in front with his ever energetic delivery of "They've made me the Page Boy". A magic memory.
The pastor 'talked' of love. T for 'talk'. For through the good times and the bad, 'talking' keeps the communication open. Necessary. I know. Next A, for 'affirmation'. Say thank you, never take the other for granted. Wise. Next 'L', for 'listen'. Again, a marriage is about give and take. And sometimes, you only know what to give if you listen first. And finally, well, for my money, there might have been more obvious choices such as Kissing or Kindness. But no, he chose for K, 'keep your mouth shut'. Not the obvious choice perhaps, but there are times when the other doesn't want your counsel, they just want and need a hug. So, after some thought, I'm 'cool' with that. (This firefly man from Tennurssee is starting to rub off on me too).
His mother did the Bible reading from Corinthians, you know the one about the most important being 'love'. Her mum read the Shakespeare sonnet 'Let not the true marriage of minds...' We broke with tradition and both 'gave away' our daughter. Seemed more proper somehow, and, it is what she wanted too. The vows were given, the rings blessed and exchanged. They were pronounced 'Man and Wife'. A cheery milestone moment.
A short refreshment, and then to the waiting Dodge pickup truck. Bluegrass music belting out banjo and guitar alike. But oh, the Dodge was sulking slightly, refusing to start, clearly badly 'choked' full of emotion. The heart drops slightly. Was this 1948 piece of mechanical nostalgia such a good idea after all. But yes, after a small cough and a slight splutter, it gave a cheeky grin, cleared its throat and fired into action, very reminiscent of the bride's first few minutes after entering this world some 27 years previously.
It paled off into the distance towards the wedding breakfast and reception. Photos galore, every combination. Mostly around the ever faithful Dodge truck. But this was all thirsty work - and the bride's father was to be seen taking the heads off any and every pint in the hands of anyone who had the audacity to get to the bar before him. Ahhh... well earned nectar:))
Or had it been earned, for there were 'the ever dreaded speeches' still in the breast pocket, ironed, hopefully polished, and honed ready for 'delivery'. Fear not, the food was had, the greatest of three tiered cakes made by Auntie from France, the glass was 'dinged' and the fun continued. The father of the bride traditionally kicked things off with what can only be described as an excellent offering, even if he says it himself. Granted, it had been vetted and thrice checked to comb out any obvious tear trap pit holes, at least up until his closing poem which did exactly as planned and brought tears of laughter and reminiscent joy. The groom gave an equally sound offering. I think we were both upstaged though by the best man who delivered his speech without a script, straight from the heart, and much the better for not sinking to embarrassing the groom. It was a speech of love, admiration and gratitude for the friend the 'firefly man' had been to him too.
Speeches and toasts done and filed, the party began in earnest, with all manner of American and English revelry. A breathtaking first dance by the happy couple, followed swiftly by line dancing. Not a Morris Dancer in sight. Or was there...? Apparently, the bride's father eventually let his remaining hair down (underneath his cowboy hat) on the dancefloor towards the end of the evening, forgetting he was fast approaching 60. The video went viral on FB. At least six people watched it ;)
Carriages were booked for midnight, and we all rested before the open house the following morning, in little under 7 hours.
The weather was kind, the guests truly enjoyed themselves, everyone did themselves proud and gave the happiest couple a most special sendoff.
By all accounts, including feedback from the venue staff, this was simply the best wedding ever.
I will finish this account with an extract from a song which I have fine-tuned in my own hopefully special way for some 30+ years, not realising the significance the second verse would eventually have in my family's life, for this account was all written while sitting on the plane in the sky going over to stay with his beloved daughter and his new 'son', who I hope won't mind me entitling him on occasions 'The Firefly Man'.
From George Gershwin's Summertime (Porgy and Bess):
"One of these mornings,
You're gonna rise up singing
Then you'll spread your wings
And take to the sky
But 'til that morning
There ain't nothing can harm you
With Mama and Papa
Standing by..."
This song has now a most special relevance to me and my two newly weds.
This is this story so far. There is no doubt more to unfurl as we visit Nashville for the first time when we get off this plane. And of course, there will be the civil and legal ceremony, necessarily held in the US. My wife, the bride's mother will be officiating then. How special is that.
