Wow! So many of you asked to hear my parents’ little wedding talk! I’m thrilled.
I considered posting the hard copy that my parents shared with me, but what I really wanted was a video of their delivery: measured and quirky (they sing!), it communicates so much. Thank goodness our dear friend Lery had the presence of mind to catch the whole thing on her phone (and then, just this morning, her son Dereck work his techy magic to get you the clearest video possible). Enjoy!
(For those who want the quick version: Marriage is hard, you are so lucky, yay.)
Planning a barn party in mid-December in Virginia is a little tricky. Would it be 70 degrees outside? Would we have a foot of snow? Would it be pouring rain? Would it be bitter cold with wicked winds? Since we couldn’t know, we braced for cold and crossed our fingers it wouldn’t be too bitter.
We rented (and borrowed) eight propane stand heaters, plus a couple other odds and ends heaters. We had boxes of handwarmers and mountains of throw blankets. Visually, we tried to create a warm, cozy vibe with sofas and a carpet, lamps, straw bales, electric candles, poinsettias, Christmas trees, white table clothes, and yards upon yards of fairy lights. (The hanging ball lights and some of the central lights wrapped around posts and crisscrossing the ceiling were already there.)
Turns out, it’s a good thing we prepared for the cold! The day prior was in the 60s, but the high on Sunday was the low 40s with a brisk, icy wind. The heaters raised the barn’s temp a good ten to fifteen degrees and, even though it was still cold, those who dressed warm and made it a point to seek out the warm spots reported they were quite comfortable.
At about 11:30, guests began flooding into the barn and, soon after, the newlyweds arrived and we all cheered.
At noon, the festivities began in earnest: my son and daughter-in-law welcomed everyone and introduced the order of events.
Her younger sister led everyone in a brief meditation, and my husband and I spoke, too: through tears, my husband expressed how incredible it was to see our children cared for, and surrounded by, such a large community, and I explained the food. And then my side of the family sang I Thank The Lord My Maker, a prayer song that we often sing at our family gatherings.
This was my first time catering a meal (though it didn’t even occur to me that’s what I was doing until a few days after the event, ha!), and hot beverages and cauldrons of soup — Italian wedding, chili with all the toppings, split pea soup (made by my daughter-in-law’s mother and raved about by many), and sausage lentil — were key in the stay-warm plan. (That last soup was born out of a [foolish] panic that there wouldn’t be enough food, and then I rushed it and the onions didn’t soften properly, so the next day I made another 7 gallons of the soup, this time cooking the onions into caramelized oblivion, and it was perfect. The not-wedding-perfect soup we put in the freezer; my younger son labeled the containers “soup of despair” and “soup of sadness” and “soup of tears” and “soup of shame,” which pretty much summed it up, though he should’ve labeled one of them “soup of rage.”)
Even though I was pretty darn organized and prepared — aside from that (unnecessary) last-minute soup scramble — everything kinda fell apart in the transition from house to barn. Thank goodness we had two families who agreed to do serving duty! They jumped right into the chaos and carried the party like they owned it. Whenever my husband or I walked into the kitchen area to check on things, we’d be met with, “Everything’s good. We’ve got this. Go.” Their take-charge confidence soothed my rattled nerves tremendously.
During the meal (and at every other free moment), I tried to talk with as many people as possible. Even so, there were so many I didn’t get to talk to which left me feeling a little verklempt — this, I think, must be the curse of a wedding.
Visiting with my daughter-in-law’s extended family members, learning their names and how they were all connected, was one of my favorite parts of the whole day (and the evening before, too). What a treat to finally get to meet these incredible people! I had so much fun visiting and laughing with them— so much laughing!— bonding simply because one person from their family and one person from our family had fallen in love. Which, when you think about it, feels nearly preposterous. . . or magical.
Both the newlyweds are the oldest of four siblings (though hers are each a year or two older than mine), and watching all the siblings enjoying each other was special. Afterward my kids were like, “When can they all come over again?” Which was exactly how I felt, too.
After the meal, sharing time.
My brother was the moderator. He opened the time with an altered version of Country Roads that he’d written, sung by my brother and sister-in-law, my younger brother, our uncle and aunt, and two of their boys. I laughed the whole way through, and at the line “seems like yesterday,” I nearly shouted, “It WAS yesterday!”
video credit: my younger brother’s partner
(Just watching that now, pre-posting, both my husband and I teared up … again.)
A few people had been tapped ahead of time to share something. My son’s mentor and his partner sang a love lullaby, they same one they’d sung to my son and his fiancé when they’d told them they were engaged.
My parents had prepared a little talk which was quirky and hilarious and brutally honest: about how my son and daughter-in-law are not going to like each other all the time, about keeping perspective in the awful moments when teetering on the pit of despair, and how, after falling in said pit, one goes about climbing back out. They talked about coping with the other’s “revolting habits” and “hateful traits,” and how to deal with the normal romantic crushes that crop up.
Throughout, they quoted famous people: each time my dad held up a sign bearing the name of the person they were quoting and my mom scurried over to the couple to give them a corresponding gift. (I still haven’t seen them yet, but they’re framed something-or-others.)
What a riot!
We weren’t sure anyone would share during the open mic time, but we needn’t have worried. Aunts and uncles, parents, cousins, siblings, and friends streamed forward to give advice and shared appreciation.
My son’s friends talked about the time they built a zipline (and the broken butt that resulted) and about the time my son tied one of them to the clothesline pole with an entire roll of duct tape and then cut him free with a machete.
My daughter-in-law’s siblings regaled us with a hilarious story of a camping trip gone awry that ended with park rangers having to come get them.
After the sharing, my brother and sister-in-law performed a set of their music for everyone, their wedding gift to the couple who had selected all the songs in advance.
The music was exquisite. Take the Chance made me cry, and then, during Harvest Moon, my son and daughter-in-law surprised and delighted us all by getting up and dancing.
The festivities wrapped up soon after. The temperature was dropping rapidly, some people had long drives ahead of them, and we were all pretty much whupped. We took care of the food, off-loading a whole bunch of it to friends, and went home to tackle some preliminary clean-up (we’d do the bulk of it the next day/week) before falling headfirst into our beds.
The end.
The majority of the photo credits go to my younger son and daughter.
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.
