Best Wedding Night Ever

(This is the fourth in a memoir series; list below)

The pre-marital bliss went on for a few months in Lee, New Hampshire, before David and I tied the knot. At some point he’d given me a gold engagement ring—I say “gold” rather than “diamond,” because its diamond chip lay nearly imperceptibly in fluted metal intended to make it look five times its size. He’d apologized for the ring, explaining he’d get me a real diamond at whatever point we had enough money. But I didn’t care. I had him, and we had jobs, the mobile home, and a promise for the future. 

Did I mention we had no spare change? Though we were fortunately employed, we’d had moving expenses, the cost of the mobile home, and it would be months before we paid off the burnt-orange sofa. The November wedding, which would be held at the impressive church across the street, would need to be modest.

We were nothing if not resourceful. We hand-wrote invitations on country-store notecards. I sewed a long dress in a burnt-orange velour that, unintentionally, matched the sofa exactly. To fancy it up, I appliquéd part of an old lace curtain on the bodice. Who needed the high price of fresh flowers, when florals for the wedding party could be fashioned from dried flowers?

David and his work buddy set up the freebie tables and chairs in the church fellowship hall. My mother, a girlfriend, and I prepared a brunch for our fifty guests: Yankee Bacon Bake (bacon, eggs, cornmeal, milk, cheese), red flannel hash, hot fruit compote, and apple cider. David's dad ran around with a camera taking pictures throughout the event, even catching the minister’s toes sticking out from her Dr. Scholl’s during the service.

Afterwards we went into the creaky-floored church annex for a square dance. David had found the band, which came equipped with banjo, washboard, fiddle, and spoons. Their foot-stomping-good music, the clacking of spoons, and fifty people clomping around on the wooden floorboards made for a thunderously good time.

Forget your notions of bouquet-throwing, garter-donning, cake mashing, and tripping off to the honeymoon. I had no bouquet. The only single males were eleven and sixteen years old and there were no single girls, so the garter thing wasn’t going to work. We might have had a cake—I can’t remember. As for tripping off to the honeymoon …

We had to clean up the church first. Fold up the tables and chairs, clear the brunch table of bacon-bake crusts and sticky compote drippings, then lug the serving dishes back across the street to our mobile home. None of this was a problem, though, since the wedding had begun at 11 a.m. and we had nearly all day to make the hour’s drive north to the Wolfeboro Inn for the wedding night.

But … Stevie.

David’s other buddy, Stevie, helped carry stuff back to our place, and we invited him to stay for a couple of beers. He was a mysteriously quiet, good-looking guy with shiny dark hair. He wore a fedora that looked better on him a decade before anyone had even heard of Indiana Jones. Plus that, it was rumored Stevie played guitar, but only in the privacy of his own home. No one knew whether this was true because he’d never played in front of anyone.

Until our wedding night.

When darkness had fallen and Stevie was a couple of beers in, David handed him his handed-down 1938 Martin guitar—an instrument with such rich tones that even I, with little music sensibility, could listen to for hours. When Stevie got started, Dave and I sat drop-jawed at his amazing talent. He barely spoke and only managed a half-smile when we raved about his musical abilities. He took requests, and David and I sang along. There was nothing he couldn’t play. And we couldn’t get enough, hanging out with Stevie and the guitar until around 10 o'clock that night.

It was 11:23 p.m. when we finally made it to the Wolfeboro Inn. A guy was playing piano at the bar, which would be open for another half-hour. The kitchen had long been closed, but David and I hadn’t eaten anything since the red flannel hash. When we begged the manager to find something for us starving just-marrieds to eat, he went back into the kitchen and came out with fresh-made roast beef sandwiches. Apparently he tipped off the piano guy, who began playing "There Is Love" and announced us through the microphone. Imagine our joy when the drunken patrons enjoying last call at the bar broke into a round of applause!

It had already been the best wedding night ever.

SERIES LIST

1. Thank you, Padre Pio

2. Hole in the Floor

3. A Place on a Map