After breakfast at the Bradford, we drove the block and a half to Cedar Street to make the magic happen. The first project was to pretty up the space we were actually getting married in. David had been given some related tasks earlier, including raising a coffee table to a more altar-ish height, and putting cup hooks in several of the backyard trees. Now I stapled a cheap plastic tablecloth over the table to cover the two-by-four legs, and Sue tacked a few stitches into a linen tablecloth to keep it from sliding off the front. Meanwhile, Kirsten, Christie, Amy, David, and Greg Howard got to work on the ribbon project, cutting 3-foot lengths of various ribbons and stapling them to fishing line to be strung between the cup hooks. It was one of those projects where you just kind of have to keep telling yourself it's going to be fabulous once they're done with it. By the time Steph (who'd been assigned that task weeks before) came over, the Simpsons and company had finished it and moved on to other tasks. We sent Steph back to the hotel, and when my cousins came to help, we sent them to the beach. The Simpsons were decorating machines.
After we (and by "we" I mean "the Simpsons") put tablecloths and centerpieces on all the tables, and Greg had supplied each table with wine, it was noon: high time for a rehearsal. Rev. Bragg arrived and walked us through our paces, including walking in and out. It occurs to me now that walking in and out is really the biggest place for something to go wrong; otherwise you just stand still and do what the celebrant says.
Afterward, we presented gifts to our attendants and each other. The groomsmen each got a set of cufflinkscompasses for Jeff, space invaders for Alan, and LPs for Jakeand the bridesmaids received necklaces and earrings I'd made for them. Greg gave me a beautiful pendant he'd had made with a diamond from his family and a pearl from mine, and I gave him a t-shirt. Because I'm a class act like that. To be fair, it was a very appropriate t-shirt.
As our fancy-pants rehearsal dinner, we had sandwiches from Box Lunch. Hey: they're yummy, and they required minimal clean-up. While we were eating, I was called to sign for a package, which turned out to be a reception toast and a something-borrowed from matron of honor in absentia Symmonie. What fabulous timing! I had hoped she would make a toast at the reception, but when she wasn't able to join us, I demanded she write one to be read. I also asked to borrow a bracelet, and she sent two to choose from; I chose the one that a friend had made for her wedding. The photographer arrived and started taking pictures around the house and yard, and it was time to change into our wedding togs.
The girls and I moved in to the bedroom Greg and I had been staying in (as well as taking over the nearby bathroom and newly-hung full-length mirror), and the boys holed up in Kirsten's room. It was actually a fairly quick change, and it made me wonder again why all the day-of schedules in all the wedding planning books devote so much time to it. Including makeup, I think I took fifteen minutes. The guys may have taken longer as they allegedly all had to have Jeff teach them how to put on cufflinks.
I grabbed a bouquet, and Greg and I headed out to the back yard for some formal photos, when I realized he had no boutonniere. So back in the house where we discovered everyone was dressed and ready to go except his mom. We did as many shots as we could before she got there, then started nagging in earnest. Maybe that's why all the schedules leave more changing time.
After the photos at the house, we piled into two carsus and the photographer in Greg's mom's precious Mustang convertible, and everyone else in Alan's rentaland tried to drive to the next photo stop. Of course just as we were leaving, the musicians and some other vendors started pulling up the long driveway, so Greg's dad had to direct traffic for a few moments, and we were long gone by the time the second car got onto the street. We took some pictures of just us at Atwood House before the others arrived, begging us to let them know where we were going next time. Oops.
The second photo stop was down on Bridge Street, at the well, bridge, where we found a shady spot off to the side and posed some more. The third stop was to be the Champlain monument, which I remembered from Christmas as being surrounded by tall grass and having a lovely view, but when we got there with only a few minutes before I wanted to be back at the house, and the entire area was blocked by one pickup truck, I took that as a sign. We returned to the house where I basically hid until the processional.
From the far side of the second floor of the house, I couldn't at all hear the brass quintet prelude I'd worked so hard on for so long, so I hiked up my train and snuck through the attic to get closer. From there, I could either listen to the quintet through one window or look at the gathering throngs from another, and either way it was oppressively hot. Eventually I returned to the comfort of the living room. Erica ran out to tell the quintet about a change that affected them, and reported back that if they played through all the music they still had left, we would age visibly before the wedding even started. I sent her back out with the message that they could cut the last prelude tune if they wanted, it being the longest, but that I would defer to the horn player, since that part was by far the most difficult. They elected to cut some earlier tunes instead, and by the time Erica returned with that news, the last tune had begun.
Following the prelude, the quintet played "Good morrow, good mother" from Iolanthe, the cue for Greg's parents, Rev. Bragg, and the groomsmen to enter. Rev. Bragg coached the guests on the responses required throughout the ceremony, and nodded to the quintet...and then we were off. I didn't really know where to look during the processional. All the bridal guides tell you to look around and really absorb the moment, but I was afraid that catching the eye of anyone crying would set me off, too, so it seems by the pictures that I mostly looked at the ground. Very sensible: less likely to trip that way. I arrived at Greg's side just as the processional was wrapping up.
During college, I went to a wedding where the bride's giant tulle headpiece made her look like a cockatoo, and she didn't help her case by constantly looking around during the ceremony. Between her and the girls at church who I've dubbed "the girl who plays with her skirt" and "the girl who touches her hair," I was very conscientious to stand still and at least appear to pay attention. I limited my movement to keeping my heels from sinking into the ground. Mike's and Kirsten's readings were a lot of fun; I was happy to hear people chuckling at them, since we'd put entirely too much time in trying to find readings that were amusing for us but still appropriate for a wedding. The homily was very nice, touching on the Dad thing without bringing the mood down too much, and after half an hour exactly, we were married! Just like that!
We went directly into the house, do not pass go, collected the photographer, grabbed the spare headpiece, and took off for some alone time under the guise of picture taking. We went first to Oyster Pond, where it didn't occur to any of us to get pictures of our matching dance shoes until after we'd half-slid down a sand bank. Then we drove through town in the convertible, veil a-flapping, and accepted congratulations from strangers. The plan was to swing past the light, see how bad the parking situation was, and drive back to the house to explain we couldn't get pictures at the light because the parking was too bad. There were four open spaces! Four! And by golly we took one! First we blocked foot traffic on the stairs to the beach, and then we blocked vehicular traffic on Shore Road as we posed by the light and the photographer stood on the opposite side of the street. More congratulations from strangers, and then up Stage Harbor the back way, back to the house.
Meanwhile, back at cocktail hour, the tiny lamb chops were going like hotcakes. To coin a phrase. Cathy's pictures include shots of a good third of the guests with lamb chops in hand. We grabbed a few appetizers as they were being passed, and took some pictures with various combinations of Greg's family, then all eight of my relatives who attended. Rev. Bragg thanked us for including recordings of Meredith Bragg and the Terminals during cocktail hour, and as we were trooping back into the house to regroup (and bustle) for the reception, a song Madi had written came on. I know it made Jake kind of uncomfortable when cocktail hour kicked off with three tunes in a row of him, but it ended up being a really fun way to personalize that section of the event. Plus I just wanted to show off how talented our wedding party was.
Just prior to the grand entrance, the DJ came to find us to review some of the order of ceremonies, as well as re-check the pronunciations I'd given him. He burned through "Mariama Torruella" and "Symmonie" like they were "Mary Smith," then got caught on "Haller." The grand entrance was the first time Jeff was actually alone walking in or out; we had Symmonie announced "in absentia." He gave a great toast—just enough mention of potential spawn to placate his mother, not so much that we got uncomfortable—followed by Madi reading what Symmonie had sent her. As I recall, that was the only tearing-up I did all day!
During the toast, the designated party table (table nine, Greg's siblings and cousins) spotted the catering staff helping themselves to the rum punch still on the patio from cocktail hour, and sent out a rescue squad. Dinner was buffet style, featuring roast beef; chicken stuffed with sage, apple, and cranberry; tortellini; new potatoes; and roasted vegetables. In short, the caterer was an ass, but the food was good.
I'd had a brainstorm I had neglected to tell Greg about, but was reminded when the clinking started. I had decided that instead of clicking their glasses to make us kiss, our guests would have to write us haikus. After one early entry from table four (our work friends) and the request of a clarification from table one (Greg's dad's cousins), there was periodic haiku all night...which fairly quickly dissolved into haiku trash-talking between tables four and nine; the kissing thing was just ancillary.
A brainstorm I had managed to let Greg in on was the cake cutting idea, mostly because I knew we needed to practice it in advance. I mean, if you're going to give a diabetic cake, you should by all rights give him insulin, too. I want to emphasize that I was not hurting him, and he only made that face as a joke. No, really.
After the cake cutting, it was time for the first dance. We'd never really practiced anything, since we really didn't have anywhere to do it, so the whole plan was to do East Coast swing for the first section of the song, then segue into Lindy Hop. The bigger problem with not practicing it, though, as I saw it, was the fact that we'd never done it with a floor-length dress before. The chance of disastrous hem-stepping was very, very high, but we made it! I have no regrets about cutting the repeated verse and chorus from the recording, and in fact when I returned to work, someone who hadn't even been there thanked me for taking that into consideration. I know what he means: there are some boring first dance videos out there, even when people paid a pretty penny to have something choreographed.
While folks were finishing off their cake, we visited each table to thank everyone for coming, then since our guest book was rather non-standard, we made another trip around to encourage people to contribute their Wit, Wisdom, and Wishes. The haiku and dancing continued including the two tunes I'd put on the "must play" list: the "Shim Sham Song" and Louis Armstrong's "A Kiss to Build a Dream On." I had hoped against hope that more of our local friends would have jumped on the Lindy bandwagon with us, so there would have been more shim shammers out there (as it was, Hannah and Jackson were more than happy to participate), and of course no one doesn't like "A Kiss to Build a Dream On." The floor was jam-packed for that tune.
Eventually it came time for the Pi Kappa Phi sweetheart song, something I was looking forward to and yet a little scared of at the same time. Months ago I had realized that even if all the Pi Kapps came, that'd only be five guys, none of whom are ever 100% sure of the words or melody at any given time (although I admit they always rise to the occasion), and as the response cards came in, I knew there was a problem. I was able to get a recording from the national chapter, which I figured I could have the DJ play very softly for them to sing along with, but the recording was really awful. I decided to transcribe the song, adding the harmony my dad always sang, and a bass line while I was at it, and ask some of the musicians at the wedding to join in as a backup. The last time I talked to my dad he mentioned how the sweetheart song might be a little hedgy with only him, Dick, and John, and when I told him my plan, he said "Ringers! Thank goodness! We'll make them honorary brothers for the occasion. But if they try to haze freshmen the next day, we'll have none of it!" John was clearly against it (and the ringers themselves weren't too confident), but I insisted, and the bride always gets what she wants.
When I was filling out the DJ's forms, I considered whether I'd have to warn him about the possibility of Bunny Hop requests. Had I listed it, I would have said "to be played only if requested by David or Uncle Bob, and to be led by David." But since he's a DJ on Cape Cod, he came prepared, and since Greg's family is reliably traditional, David led without anyone having to mention it.
As it got darker and cooler (and for some, buggier), I took off the lace overdress and put on a silly white cotton motorcycle jacket. Tadd Russo, the s'mores NCO, had someone light a fire, and the party started moving beyond the tent, lured by marshmallows. Greg and I returned to the dance floor for the last dance, which I'd picked based on the lyrics, not conceptualizing that I'd actually have to dance to it. Louis Prima's "Buona Sera" actually manages to be too fast to dance to and too slow to dance to. It probably didn't help that I'd changed into sandals, either. Once the DJ had packed up, Jake brought out a guitar, and we hung out by the fire for a bit before changing clothes and going back to the Bradford.
Photos by Elizabeth Horne
After we (and by "we" I mean "the Simpsons") put tablecloths and centerpieces on all the tables, and Greg had supplied each table with wine, it was noon: high time for a rehearsal. Rev. Bragg arrived and walked us through our paces, including walking in and out. It occurs to me now that walking in and out is really the biggest place for something to go wrong; otherwise you just stand still and do what the celebrant says.
Afterward, we presented gifts to our attendants and each other. The groomsmen each got a set of cufflinkscompasses for Jeff, space invaders for Alan, and LPs for Jakeand the bridesmaids received necklaces and earrings I'd made for them. Greg gave me a beautiful pendant he'd had made with a diamond from his family and a pearl from mine, and I gave him a t-shirt. Because I'm a class act like that. To be fair, it was a very appropriate t-shirt.
As our fancy-pants rehearsal dinner, we had sandwiches from Box Lunch. Hey: they're yummy, and they required minimal clean-up. While we were eating, I was called to sign for a package, which turned out to be a reception toast and a something-borrowed from matron of honor in absentia Symmonie. What fabulous timing! I had hoped she would make a toast at the reception, but when she wasn't able to join us, I demanded she write one to be read. I also asked to borrow a bracelet, and she sent two to choose from; I chose the one that a friend had made for her wedding. The photographer arrived and started taking pictures around the house and yard, and it was time to change into our wedding togs.
The girls and I moved in to the bedroom Greg and I had been staying in (as well as taking over the nearby bathroom and newly-hung full-length mirror), and the boys holed up in Kirsten's room. It was actually a fairly quick change, and it made me wonder again why all the day-of schedules in all the wedding planning books devote so much time to it. Including makeup, I think I took fifteen minutes. The guys may have taken longer as they allegedly all had to have Jeff teach them how to put on cufflinks.
I grabbed a bouquet, and Greg and I headed out to the back yard for some formal photos, when I realized he had no boutonniere. So back in the house where we discovered everyone was dressed and ready to go except his mom. We did as many shots as we could before she got there, then started nagging in earnest. Maybe that's why all the schedules leave more changing time.
After the photos at the house, we piled into two carsus and the photographer in Greg's mom's precious Mustang convertible, and everyone else in Alan's rentaland tried to drive to the next photo stop. Of course just as we were leaving, the musicians and some other vendors started pulling up the long driveway, so Greg's dad had to direct traffic for a few moments, and we were long gone by the time the second car got onto the street. We took some pictures of just us at Atwood House before the others arrived, begging us to let them know where we were going next time. Oops.
The second photo stop was down on Bridge Street, at the well, bridge, where we found a shady spot off to the side and posed some more. The third stop was to be the Champlain monument, which I remembered from Christmas as being surrounded by tall grass and having a lovely view, but when we got there with only a few minutes before I wanted to be back at the house, and the entire area was blocked by one pickup truck, I took that as a sign. We returned to the house where I basically hid until the processional.
From the far side of the second floor of the house, I couldn't at all hear the brass quintet prelude I'd worked so hard on for so long, so I hiked up my train and snuck through the attic to get closer. From there, I could either listen to the quintet through one window or look at the gathering throngs from another, and either way it was oppressively hot. Eventually I returned to the comfort of the living room. Erica ran out to tell the quintet about a change that affected them, and reported back that if they played through all the music they still had left, we would age visibly before the wedding even started. I sent her back out with the message that they could cut the last prelude tune if they wanted, it being the longest, but that I would defer to the horn player, since that part was by far the most difficult. They elected to cut some earlier tunes instead, and by the time Erica returned with that news, the last tune had begun.
Following the prelude, the quintet played "Good morrow, good mother" from Iolanthe, the cue for Greg's parents, Rev. Bragg, and the groomsmen to enter. Rev. Bragg coached the guests on the responses required throughout the ceremony, and nodded to the quintet...and then we were off. I didn't really know where to look during the processional. All the bridal guides tell you to look around and really absorb the moment, but I was afraid that catching the eye of anyone crying would set me off, too, so it seems by the pictures that I mostly looked at the ground. Very sensible: less likely to trip that way. I arrived at Greg's side just as the processional was wrapping up.
During college, I went to a wedding where the bride's giant tulle headpiece made her look like a cockatoo, and she didn't help her case by constantly looking around during the ceremony. Between her and the girls at church who I've dubbed "the girl who plays with her skirt" and "the girl who touches her hair," I was very conscientious to stand still and at least appear to pay attention. I limited my movement to keeping my heels from sinking into the ground. Mike's and Kirsten's readings were a lot of fun; I was happy to hear people chuckling at them, since we'd put entirely too much time in trying to find readings that were amusing for us but still appropriate for a wedding. The homily was very nice, touching on the Dad thing without bringing the mood down too much, and after half an hour exactly, we were married! Just like that!
We went directly into the house, do not pass go, collected the photographer, grabbed the spare headpiece, and took off for some alone time under the guise of picture taking. We went first to Oyster Pond, where it didn't occur to any of us to get pictures of our matching dance shoes until after we'd half-slid down a sand bank. Then we drove through town in the convertible, veil a-flapping, and accepted congratulations from strangers. The plan was to swing past the light, see how bad the parking situation was, and drive back to the house to explain we couldn't get pictures at the light because the parking was too bad. There were four open spaces! Four! And by golly we took one! First we blocked foot traffic on the stairs to the beach, and then we blocked vehicular traffic on Shore Road as we posed by the light and the photographer stood on the opposite side of the street. More congratulations from strangers, and then up Stage Harbor the back way, back to the house.
Meanwhile, back at cocktail hour, the tiny lamb chops were going like hotcakes. To coin a phrase. Cathy's pictures include shots of a good third of the guests with lamb chops in hand. We grabbed a few appetizers as they were being passed, and took some pictures with various combinations of Greg's family, then all eight of my relatives who attended. Rev. Bragg thanked us for including recordings of Meredith Bragg and the Terminals during cocktail hour, and as we were trooping back into the house to regroup (and bustle) for the reception, a song Madi had written came on. I know it made Jake kind of uncomfortable when cocktail hour kicked off with three tunes in a row of him, but it ended up being a really fun way to personalize that section of the event. Plus I just wanted to show off how talented our wedding party was.
Just prior to the grand entrance, the DJ came to find us to review some of the order of ceremonies, as well as re-check the pronunciations I'd given him. He burned through "Mariama Torruella" and "Symmonie" like they were "Mary Smith," then got caught on "Haller." The grand entrance was the first time Jeff was actually alone walking in or out; we had Symmonie announced "in absentia." He gave a great toast—just enough mention of potential spawn to placate his mother, not so much that we got uncomfortable—followed by Madi reading what Symmonie had sent her. As I recall, that was the only tearing-up I did all day!
During the toast, the designated party table (table nine, Greg's siblings and cousins) spotted the catering staff helping themselves to the rum punch still on the patio from cocktail hour, and sent out a rescue squad. Dinner was buffet style, featuring roast beef; chicken stuffed with sage, apple, and cranberry; tortellini; new potatoes; and roasted vegetables. In short, the caterer was an ass, but the food was good.
I'd had a brainstorm I had neglected to tell Greg about, but was reminded when the clinking started. I had decided that instead of clicking their glasses to make us kiss, our guests would have to write us haikus. After one early entry from table four (our work friends) and the request of a clarification from table one (Greg's dad's cousins), there was periodic haiku all night...which fairly quickly dissolved into haiku trash-talking between tables four and nine; the kissing thing was just ancillary.
A brainstorm I had managed to let Greg in on was the cake cutting idea, mostly because I knew we needed to practice it in advance. I mean, if you're going to give a diabetic cake, you should by all rights give him insulin, too. I want to emphasize that I was not hurting him, and he only made that face as a joke. No, really.
After the cake cutting, it was time for the first dance. We'd never really practiced anything, since we really didn't have anywhere to do it, so the whole plan was to do East Coast swing for the first section of the song, then segue into Lindy Hop. The bigger problem with not practicing it, though, as I saw it, was the fact that we'd never done it with a floor-length dress before. The chance of disastrous hem-stepping was very, very high, but we made it! I have no regrets about cutting the repeated verse and chorus from the recording, and in fact when I returned to work, someone who hadn't even been there thanked me for taking that into consideration. I know what he means: there are some boring first dance videos out there, even when people paid a pretty penny to have something choreographed.
While folks were finishing off their cake, we visited each table to thank everyone for coming, then since our guest book was rather non-standard, we made another trip around to encourage people to contribute their Wit, Wisdom, and Wishes. The haiku and dancing continued including the two tunes I'd put on the "must play" list: the "Shim Sham Song" and Louis Armstrong's "A Kiss to Build a Dream On." I had hoped against hope that more of our local friends would have jumped on the Lindy bandwagon with us, so there would have been more shim shammers out there (as it was, Hannah and Jackson were more than happy to participate), and of course no one doesn't like "A Kiss to Build a Dream On." The floor was jam-packed for that tune.
Eventually it came time for the Pi Kappa Phi sweetheart song, something I was looking forward to and yet a little scared of at the same time. Months ago I had realized that even if all the Pi Kapps came, that'd only be five guys, none of whom are ever 100% sure of the words or melody at any given time (although I admit they always rise to the occasion), and as the response cards came in, I knew there was a problem. I was able to get a recording from the national chapter, which I figured I could have the DJ play very softly for them to sing along with, but the recording was really awful. I decided to transcribe the song, adding the harmony my dad always sang, and a bass line while I was at it, and ask some of the musicians at the wedding to join in as a backup. The last time I talked to my dad he mentioned how the sweetheart song might be a little hedgy with only him, Dick, and John, and when I told him my plan, he said "Ringers! Thank goodness! We'll make them honorary brothers for the occasion. But if they try to haze freshmen the next day, we'll have none of it!" John was clearly against it (and the ringers themselves weren't too confident), but I insisted, and the bride always gets what she wants.
When I was filling out the DJ's forms, I considered whether I'd have to warn him about the possibility of Bunny Hop requests. Had I listed it, I would have said "to be played only if requested by David or Uncle Bob, and to be led by David." But since he's a DJ on Cape Cod, he came prepared, and since Greg's family is reliably traditional, David led without anyone having to mention it.
As it got darker and cooler (and for some, buggier), I took off the lace overdress and put on a silly white cotton motorcycle jacket. Tadd Russo, the s'mores NCO, had someone light a fire, and the party started moving beyond the tent, lured by marshmallows. Greg and I returned to the dance floor for the last dance, which I'd picked based on the lyrics, not conceptualizing that I'd actually have to dance to it. Louis Prima's "Buona Sera" actually manages to be too fast to dance to and too slow to dance to. It probably didn't help that I'd changed into sandals, either. Once the DJ had packed up, Jake brought out a guitar, and we hung out by the fire for a bit before changing clothes and going back to the Bradford.
Photos by Elizabeth Horne
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