I was at a wedding last week. There was a small reception with cocktail weenies, cheese plates, and an ice sculpture.
Instead of a DJ, there was a band from a local high school. They had long hair and various chains on their body parts. Their music was a cross between 80’s progressive punk, and a nitroglycerine truck colliding against a 747 taxiing on the tarmac.
In the middle of the evening came my favorite portion of any wedding reception: when the tipsy brother-of-the-bride gains control over the microphone.
Others took the stage after him and began sharing memories, offering toasts.
One gentleman picked up the mic and delivered a memory about being a college roommate of the groom. Four hours later, he finally got around to his toast.
Next, a young woman took the stage and read a speech that was written on a stack of notes the size of a term paper.
Then, the father of the bride told
a story about when the bride was a girl. It was a sweet memory. He talked especially about a beloved member of the family, a deceased Redbone Coonhound named “Turkey.”
The man talked about this dog as though it were a blood relative, he covered the highpoints of their lives with the dog.
He talked about all the times that Turkey begged at the table, or when Turkey learned how to “load up” in the truck, leaping into the passenger seat.
The times spent walking through the woods with Turkey beside them. And the day Turkey died.
I listened, but I wasn’t thinking about Turkey. I was remembering a black-and-tan bloodhound I once loved.
Her name was Ellie Mae. She had a black face with two tan eyebrows that moved with her every expression. Ellie rode shotgun in my truck each day of her life.
When I…