When my son and his fiancé decided they wanted the officiation to be a private affair — just the two families and grandparents — in a neutral location, it took some thinking. Where to find a cozy space with decent ventilation and a homey vibe? And then I remembered that a friend of mine had a yurt. Sometimes she escaped there for a weekend just to get away from her family, and sometimes they rented it out to guests. I’d never seen it, but maybe it could work? My son and his fiancé went to see it and came back with glowing reports. It’d be perfect, they said.

(Funny story: when they were describing it to us, my husband started asking questions — and then more questions. He was being weirdly specific. Finally, he asked, “Does it have a wire railing on the outside deck?” My son said yes, and then my husband announced, “I built that yurt.” What a sweet twist!)

Grandma Carol on tie duty.
^{photo credit: my mom}

The plan was simple*: first the officiation and then dinner. The two of them planned and managed the whole event, outsourcing tasks to family members, hiring a photographer, thrifting materials and ordering supplies, and preparing the space. Our pastor — who’d been counseling them throughout their engagement — would be present, but the plan was for them to marry themselves. Which makes sense, when you think about it. No one can force marriage on two people — marriage is the commitment they make between themselves. 

The groom and his vows.

When we arrived, the place was a hubbub of introductions, final preparations, and outdoor family photographs. (The entire weekend, I hardly took any photos, and the ones I have aren’t very good, but still. Gives you an idea. Maybe later I’ll share some of the professional ones.)

My mom and younger daughter were still putting the final touches on the wedding cake, and my husband had to run back to the house for the forgotten wine glasses. 

As we entered the yurt and gathered around the table, they handed each of us a stone. They’d created a “talking piece” — a wooden box — and, to start the ceremony, they poured sand into it, sand they’d filched from the university’s volleyball court and that my mother cleaned for them. As the box made its way around the table, each person was invited to place their stone in the box and share a blessing, affirmation, or reflection, or they could say nothing at all. Simply placing the stone in the box was blessing enough. 

It was beautiful. All the different perspectives, the quavering voices, the passing around (and lobbing across) the table a huge roll of emergency paper towels to mop the tears, the laughter, the unbridled admiration and appreciation for these two young people and their love for each other. 

When the sharing was over, they read their vows to each other and then moved their wedding bands from their right hands to their left (they’d skipped the typical engagement ring custom and instead worn their wedding rings as a sign of their engagement — a Brazilian custom they’d learned about from friends), and the pastor presented them as a married couple with their new, joined last name.

And then dinner!

The gas lanterns were gifted to my husband and me during our wedding.

Her mother and grandmother had made the lasagnas and salad. Her sister brought the sparkling cider, wine, and champagne. There was Magpie sourdough and homemade strawberry jam. My mother brought brown butter green beans, and the wedding cake, which she and my younger daughter had made together. 

During the meal, I visited with her younger sisters and parents. We talked about cheesemaking (her father’s the one who loaned me the wine fridge for my cheese cave — to him I am forever indebted), and my younger son held forth about the intricacies of milking a cow. In his vest and tie, and with his older brother’s wedding cap perched jauntily atop his head, he looked every bit the gentleman farmer. (During the post-dinner conversation, he suddenly raised his sparkling cider wine glass and cried, “A toast!” When everyone automatically raised their glasses, his face lit up in startled delight, and he did a reserved, Napoleon Dynamite-esque fist pump and whispered, “It worked!”) 

There was the cutting of the cake, then.

^{photo credit: my younger daughter}

And the traditional feeding of it to the other (i.e. smashing it into each other’s faces, ha).

^{video credit: my younger daughter}

And then, just when the evening was drawing to a close, my daughter-in-law (!!!) surprised my mother with a birthday cake.

In the midst of all the wedding hubbub, her mother and grandmother had gone out of their way to make their family’s traditional birthday cake just for her. How sweet is that?

The pastor signed the official marriage certificate document thingy…

And we all pitched in to clean up the yurt and then scurry home to our beds.

They are MARRIED.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*Regarding a wedding, nothing is simple.

This same time, years previous: chocolate bourbon pie, or something like that, 2018 book list, sex for all creation, 2015 book list, 2014 book list, the quotidian (12.23.13), flat, raw.

I hardly know where to start. 

The weekend was a tizz of preparations and clean-up punctuated by life-changing events and celebrations: our son’s college graduation and pinning, the private marriage officiation, the big wedding reception. Laced throughout were countless precious moments filled to the brim with…

New faces.
Warm hugs and cold toes.
Authenticity and vulnerability.
Friends and family.
Powerful, heartfelt words.
Lasagna and champagne.
Commitments.
Work.
Arguments.
Pride and gratitude.
Laughter.
Tears. 

Like I said it’d be: it was a lot to take in. The whole experience was so overwhelming and jarring that it left me feeling gutted. It’s Wednesday and I’m only now beginning to settle back into my body. 

So, again: where to start?

Well, Friday night, our son’s fiancé’s mother and grandmother came for supper and during the meal I ate a stinkbug. While deep in conversation with the grandmother, I felt something fall on my lap and automatically assumed I’d dropped a bit of tortilla chip. Without thinking, I popped the crunchy nugget into my mouth and chomped down — and then froze. Something was terribly wrong. Was it a bad bean? I spit into my napkin and a quick peek at the contents revealed the truth. Without a word, I left the table to rinse all the bits of masticated stinkbug out of my mouth. Only when I returned, did I tell what had happened, and I apologized to the grandmother for so rudely cutting off our conversation. Moral of the story: look before eating!

That evening my older daughter flew in at midnight and my son picked her up, and the next morning, we interrupted our frenzied wedding prep to drive into town to his pinning ceremony. Which was kinda weird since it felt like just yesterday— both to him and to us— that we’d attended his white coat ceremony.

For the past two years — most of it during Covid — he’s studied and memorized and tested and worked. My husband and I have been impressed at both his continued hard work and unflagging interest in the material. 

I never quite trust that my kids are going to do what they say they will — not because I don’t believe they can, but because situations change and people evolve. I’m more about the process, and less focused on the end result, so when we do reach the end — a graduation! — I can’t quite help but feel a little bit surprised.

And happy, too, of course. 

Afterward, there were lots of hugs and a whole lotta tears.

Our boy done did do good.

P.S. While his fiancé was sticking the pin on his shirt, the speaker reading his profile announced that our son had accepted such-and-such a job at a hospital. My husband and I were like, HUH? Is this his way of telling us he got a job? But no, turns out he hasn’t accepted any position just yet — who knows where that bit of misleading info came from — and his plans are still the same: to work with my husband for several months while studying for his boards. After that, then a nursing job…somewhere.

This same time, years previous: the coronavirus diaries: week forty-two, rock on, Mama!, ludicrous mashed potatoes, 2016 book list, old-fashioned sour cream cake doughnuts, the quotidian (12.22.14), toasty oatmeal muffins.

This is the song I consciously make myself think about when I’m up to my eyeballs, feeling like I might go under at any second. It’s a mood lifter and mantra, all in one. This morning I blasted it while precariously balancing atop a kitchen stool to wipe down the ceiling cobwebs.

AND IT WORKS. ¡Viva the chaos!

All is well!

This same time, years previous: 51 pies, the quotidian 12.16.19), croissants, sour candied orange rinds, almond shortbread, brightening the dark, supper reading.