Wedding Bells

This weekend the family and I drove up to Maine. The missus and I were invited to a wedding in the pretty little town of Edgecomb, on the grounds of a beautiful former farm there, of two people in their forties, each getting married for the first time. Let me ask you this: do you think it’s different getting married for the first time at that stage of life? I can understand how people in their forties taking their second, third, fourth, or fifth waltz down the aisle might view the whole exchange of vows with a slightly jaundiced eye — you know, perhaps thinking, “yeah, yeah, richer and poorer, sickness and in health, wrap this up and crack open the champagne” — but how about for the first time at that age? Is there anything in it like the innocence and mystery we see with younger folks tying the knot? Can the mystery and innocence be present, mixed in with a little wisdom and experience? Could it possibly be better and more rewarding to wait until that age to get married? I wonder.

The ceremony was high in content and brief in length, my kind of wedding. The justice of the peace invited the guests to offer whatever advice or observations they thought appropriate to the couple before the I do’s were officially spoken, and two good friends of the groom stepped up and made some poignant, extemporaneous remarks that really helped make the occasion memorable. After the ceremony there was no DJ or band, no throwing of bouquet or garter, no dancing, just eating, drinking and socializing with some jazz CDs playing in the background. The bride wore red, which I thought an interesting choice (it had me thinking of the scandalizing red dresses in the movies Gone With the Wind and Jezebel — thank God Aunt Pitty Pat wasn’t there!). All in all, it was a wedding for grown-ups: low-key, almost casual, a chance for friends to gather to celebrate the good fortune of two well-deserving people. One of the best weddings I’ve ever been to.

The kids didn’t go to the wedding (we thought they’d be bored, but later wondered if perhaps they would have liked it); instead they stayed behind in a cottage we rented at the Gosnold Arms in New Harbor, Maine. The hotel is directly across the street from a small harbor where the fishermen ply their trade, so quiet and tranquil a spot you’d think the laws governing time didn’t apply there. The missus and I enjoyed the picturesqueness of the spot; the girls appreciated the cable TV. On Sunday we went to Booth Bay Harbor, a delightful little tourist trap with crisscrossing streets jammed with quaint, eccentric little shops like so many houses and hotels on a Monopoly board. The rain, which threatened all day, held off until we loaded into the car and headed on home. All in all, a great family weekend.