It was a nice ceremony, as those things go. Though it was a little weird seeing the congregation wear masks like invaders from another galaxy. But, hey, this service wasn’t about them. This was a country wedding.
The day was about two people who stood behind a hayfield, under an outdoor arbor. They were surrounded by live oaks, creeping vines, and a beautiful grove of professional photographers.
Granny was wearing more than just a medical mask. She wore clunky protective battle gear. Huge yellow gloves, plastic face shield, and an oxygen canister. When she crawled out of the SUV’s backseat in the parking lot it reminded me of Neil Armstrong’s moon walk.
But this didn’t dampen anyone’s spirit. And the bride promised me the day would be fun when she invited me. She was hellbent on this.
I don’t usually cover weddings. For one thing, I live in a wedding capital of Florida. Anyone from the Panhandle has seen so many weddings they can lip sync with the preacher.
Personally, I have worked dozens of jobs
involved with the wedding industry. I’ve been a caterer in a bowtie who takes your empty plate and asks if you want another champagne. I’ve been in the band, playing “I Can’t Help Falling in Love,” or “Mustang Sally.”
I’ve tended bar. Which is misery. Many people have no idea how hard it is tending bar for a party. If you want to know what it’s like, imagine that you are a fire hydrant at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show.
Everyone visits you. Sometimes all at once. People scream their drink orders without waiting their turn. Some get impatient. And impatience spreads like a virus among the wicked.
“Hey, pal, how ‘bout my PBRs?!” “No, I wanted ONE olive in my martini, dummy!” “Beefeater? I don’t drink Beefeater gin, you boob!” “Hello? Where’s my beer?” “Easy on the cranberry juice!”
It is heart-endangering…