Again we got up in time for breakfast, and more news on the car bombs. We checked out of the hotel, leaving our bags, and headed down Vauxhall Bridge road because one of our maps shows two hospitals on it and we had a load of sharps we wanted to get rid of. The receptionist at the first hospital we encountered started out confused by our request to dump sharps, and eventually was flat-out angry at the idea. We didn't even bother stopping at the second hospital.

We continued down Vauxhall Bridge, following signs for Tate Britain, and were stopped by a municipal worker who asked us directions.

Once we got into the museum, we apparently looked lost enough that a volunteer sidled up to us to help, directing us toward maps and Room One. During our visit, we discovered we both prefer portraits to landscapes, so that allowed us to skip a lot of the rooms. I particularly appreciated how works of female artists were just stuck in where it was appropriate, with no great "look! a female artist!" fanfare. Many of the museum's Constables were bequeathed by the Constable children in 1888, while other paintings were acquired before 1850.

We went through most of "Historic British Art" (skipping the seascapes), then moved on to "Modern British Art," where most of what we saw was inspired by the world wars. A section on the history of slavery (abolished in the UK in 1807) included etchings of radical philosophers like...Leonhard Euler. In the early/mid 20th century exhibits, I found I particularly liked works by John Piper, Winifred Nicholson, and Naum Gabo.

I bought a pen in the museum's shop, we grabbed some sandwiches at a Tesco's, and we returned to the hotel to pick up our bags. We walked to the coach station in a light rain with a very comfortable cushion of time, and discovered that every single person waiting for the bus to the Dover Cruise Terminal was at least 60 years old. Except for us.

The drive to Dover was about 2-3 hours, and we slept the whole way. Any views we might have missed were blocked by fog. At the terminal, the oldsters from the bus were dropped off at a smaller ship, and we continued on to the Constellation with only four other people. A porter took our baggage and we went through security, passing through at least two large waiting areas, both empty. Apparently we were cutting it close, as we got onboard just as muster was called. We ran up six decks to our room as everyone else walked down, grabbed our life jackets, and headed to the assembly point. Fittingly, we were separated when we got out to the lifeboats, with Greg in boat 1 and me in boat 3.

After the muster, one of our bags arrived. We went to the sail away party and declared it to be lame, the sailing was delayed due to bad traffic between London and Dover (I wonder how many people had to miss the boat for them to hold it; probably a lot), and we just wandered around the ship until dinner.

At dinner, we were seated with two other couples: Ann and Tim, accountants from the San Francisco area; and Janet and Tom, Methodist ministers from rural Pennsylvania. I actually wrote down what we had for dinner:

S - mushroom puff pastry, tomato/black olive soup, salad w/roquefort, hake w/white wine sauce, creme brulee
G - duck terrine, carrot orange ginger soup, caesar, stuffed chicken, pistachio creme puff

Our second bag had arrived when we returned from dinner, and we celebrated by getting the ridiculously valuable soda sticker, allowing us a constant stream of diet Coke for only $5 a day. We visited the card room for a game of Scrabble (discovering too late the missing blank), then got online to find our wedding pictures had been posted!

Pedometer count: 13,382

We managed to drag ourselves out of bed in time for the hotel breakfast, and watched the news reports of a bomb found in Haymarket just south of Picadilly Circus. We looked up internet cafes in the phone book and set out to find the nearest one to reassure folks that we were okay, but found a construction site where the building should have been.

The morning's walk took us up Gosvenor Gardens to Hyde Park Corner, and down Rotten Row to the Alexandra Gate. At the Royal Albert Hall, robed students waited for the commencement ceremonies of the nearby art college.

At the V&A Museum, we cut through Fashion to get to Britain 1760-1900, where some kind of alarm went of periodically. We spent most of our time in the Ironworks gallery before I forced Greg to check out the plaster casts. In the shop, I bought a really cool but way too expensive purse, against Greg's better judgement; I also picked up some fliers for a neat program called Sing London, a vocal music festival being kicked off at the V&A later that night.

We walked up Old Brompton and got some neat sandwiches (corned beef and pickle for me, spicy falafel wrap for Greg) at the local Pret, then continued to the Harrod's flagship store, where we cruised the food halls and toy section, and bought sodas and souvenirs.

To Oxford Circus via Tube, since Greg had nothing to wear for the cruise's many formal nights. Well, technically not "nothing," but Greg in a jacket and tie with no shirt doesn't sound so great, especially over dinner. At the Moss Bros, he got "dress shirts for life" before his blood sugar crashed and we hit a nearby Border's for a scone. I took the opportunity to check out the small paper goods store inside the Border's, where I got more greeting cards by Edward Monkton, whose surreal cards we have displayed in the kitchen.

Our next stop was the British Library, which required a ride from Oxford Circus to King's Cross-St. Pancras during rush hour. As the train door closed between Greg and I, I was comforted by the fact that I knew where I was going and he had the maps. I caught the next train, got off at King's Cross-St. Pancras (noticing St. Pancras station is being converted to a 5-star hotel, condos, and a single 10 million pound penthouse), and walked the few blocks to the Library. No Greg. After a bit, I went back to the station, then back to the Library (checked out the gift shop, which carried Edward Monkton books—who knew?), back to the station...and eventually gave up.

Greg knew I had wanted to return to the V&A for the Sing London event, so I just went there after the Library closed. The museum's "Friday Late" program is the last Friday of every month, and features live music and a bar. There was a jazz trio playing in the rotunda; an a cappella group on the second floor balcony around the rotunda, being conducted from floor level; ethnic presentations in the India, Middle East, Japan, and China galleries; and an opera/art song ensemble in the sculpture gallery.

After a few hours, I phoned the hotel and asked for our room, but the call wasn't transferred correctly somehow, so I just gave up and returned to the hotel.

Greg's version: The way I see it, I got off at King's Cross/St. Pancras and figured Sarah would head to the "Way Out." I sat under the sign and watched about 5 trains arrive and empty with no sign of the new wife. Perhaps she'd passed me and I hadn't noticed? I took a walk around the station.

If you've never been there, King's Cross/St. Pancras is a pretty big station. I think 4 lines converge on that one station, and there are always people flooding into and out of the trains. So it was going to be hard to find her, even if she was there. Needless to say, I didn't find her. So I went back to the Victoria Line (the one I arrived on) and waited a few more trains.

Then I figured she hadn't been able to get on the train, and was waiting back at Oxford Circus. So I got on the Victoria Line South, which was wide open and not nearly as packed as it should have been. That's because the train was delayed due to something going on at one end of the line. So then I headed back up to the top of the station and talked to one of the policemen. He suggested I talk to an Underground worker, who told me to go back down and get on the Piccadilly Line. It would be a roundabout way to get there, but it might work. But when I saw how crowded the platform was for the Piccadilly Line, I balked.

So I went back to the Victoria Line and waited some more. Still no Sarah. So I went back up top again (finding a different top of the station this time!) and asked some of the staff to page Sarah at Oxford Circus. I got directed down to the control room, but got lost. So I went back to the Victoria Line and waited some more.

Still no Sarah. So I went back up again and asked again, and this time I actually got to the control room. The one person in the control room was very nice; he wrote down what he was supposed to do, and then tried to call Oxford Circus. He didn't have a number for him. So he called up to the top of the station, but they were too busy. Then he tried another number, but that one didn't work either. All this time, he was directing trains, and was starting to have some trouble; there was some sort of emergency-ish situation. Another customer came down to the control room and when I told him my predicament, he explained how to get to the V&A via the Kensington line. Then another Underground worked showed up and explained that they had to close the Victoria line due to overcrowding.

So I headed over to the Kensington line, just in time to find a group of Underground workers closing the gate that leads to the Kensington line. Now I had no reasonable way to get back to Oxford Circus or to the V&A. So I went back to the control room to beg the guy there to page Sarah at Oxford Circus. He apologized profusely, but explained he couldn't; since they had to close the Victoria Line, things were just crazy. He wanted to help, but simply couldn't.

I was desperate at this point: no map, no way to get to the V&A or Oxford Circus. So I left the station and got a cab without too much trouble. I told him to go to the New England Hotel in Victoria. He didn't know where it was, but he knew the general area we were heading. He was very chatty; I told him the story in bits and pieces of losing my wife, and he was sympathetic. He explained that he loves cab driving because he gets to go interesting places, and that his daughter is good at math but doesn't have much interest in being a mathematician. As we neared Victoria, I was able to remember some street names and some of the layout, so we got to the hotel without a problem. He had me guess where he was from: I guessed Ireland, and he said, "Close. I'm from Glasgow."

So at 6:30 I headed into the hotel, sat down, flipped on the telly, and starting solving Pirate Word-Doku.

I returned around 8:30, and we decided I must have just walked right past Greg when my train arrived at King's Cross. To celebrate our reunion, we went out to dinner at a nearby Balti House called Spicy World.

Ah, Spicy World. The place was packed, and we and another couple were led to a basement seating area; the others opted to leave. An odd trio of rowdy workmen came down, then two Scottish women, then three French 20-somethings who stomped off before their food arrived. A German couple was shown to the basement, and announced they'd wait for a table upstairs. After the workmen and the French folks left, the staff had an animated fight in the kitchen. The waitress apologized for the wait and refilled our diet Cokes for free, and we declared ourselves and the Scots to be The Nice Tables. The manager appeared with one of the sullen French people and demanded that their food be brought out to prove it was ready all along, and the French decided they would stay if they could move upstairs. Then the chef came out from the kitchen to make sure we were all happy, but only the nice tables were left to reassure him.

The food was excellent, particularly the keema naan. I gave the waitress a hug on the way out. She needed it.

Back at the hotel, we repacked the suitcases from scratch: what had been Cape and Honeymoon bags became His and Hers bags.

Pedometer count: 23,274

We slept very late, emerging around lunchtime for Greg’s requested visit to a pub. At the Marquis of Warwick just down the street from our hotel, we tried a few different beers and ciders; Greg had a lamb stew with cabbage and mash, and I of course had fish and chips.

At Melanie’s suggestion, we had intended to hit a few South Bank sights, but I insisted we walk since it was so nice out, and we never did get there. We stumbled across the Noel Coward Theatre, which was showing Avenue Q; after brief consideration, we decided to go to the box office just to see what they had available, and left with fourth-row seats for the evening performance.

We continued to the Tower of London via Tube, where we caught the very last Yeoman Warder tour of the day. As the tour broke up after a visit to the Chapel Royal of St. Peter ad Vincula, we somehow got separated. I hung around the yard for a while before giving up and heading to the Jewel House (so did Greg). I went through the Jewel House twice, then returned to the yard to look for Greg before visiting the Small Armory in the White Tower (also Greg’s next stop). When I finally found Greg, seated outside the entrance, we discovered we’d been to all the same places, in the same order, and simply never run into each other.

I took a swing through the gift shop, where I noticed a bracelet I’d bought there in high school was still available (for the same price, as I recall), then we went to the nearby Eat to grab some dinner. Back at the Charing Cross area for the show, we arrived early and walked around the block several times, amazed at the density of theatres.

Avenue Q London was celebrating its first anniversary. I was somewhat surprised that they did the whole show with American accents, but as Jen Silber pointed out later, “we do My Fair Lady with English accents.”

Pedometer count: 19,776

After breakfast at the hotel, we walked through Victoria Station to get in line for 10-pound day-of tickets to Wicked. We missed the cheap seats by one spot in line, but decided to get tickets for the matinee anyway.

From there, we walked to Buckingham Palace, where we absolutely could not believe the already-assembled crowds were there for the changing of the guard. You know, seeing as the changing of the guard wasn’t for another hour and a half, and after all, it happens every single day. I refuse to line up for an hour and a half for an obstructed view of a daily event. That’s just silly. However, by walking down the mall, we stumbled upon the change of the horse guard, which was already in progress and not nearly as crowded.

We walked through St. James’s Park, past Whitehall, Downing Street, and Parliament (and their associated clots of press and protesters), and across the river to the London Eye, where we got tickets for an evening “flight.” We stopped for lunch at an Indian restaurant behind Charing Cross station, then picked up some diabetic supplies at the Boots.

Returning through St. James’s and past Buckingham, the crowds had not changed in size, but the amount of security had increased notably. In addition to the ceremonial guards, there were police, soldiers, and a hovering helicopter. We later learned that brand-new Prime Minister Gordon Brown was in conference with the Queen. I made us late for the Wicked matinee by taking too many pictures.

We emerged from the show (which was fabulous) to find that it had rained while we were there. Greg found a phone box to call Melanie for tourism and dining recommendations, and then we wandered indirectly back toward the Eye. We stood in line at a hip-looking restaurant for a while before realizing even if we did ever get seated (or, frankly, acknowledged), we probably would be late for our Eye tickets, so we went to one of London’s many interesting takeaway sandwich places. Pret a manger and Eat are two chains I would gladly welcome to the states. They’re like Corner Bakery or Panera, but far more hip and vastly more efficient. We went to Eat in this instance, where I had a chorizo and roasted pepper sandwich, and Greg had prawn tom yum.

Just as we got in line for the Eye, the skies opened. It rained so hard so fast, no one could do anything but laugh. It calmed down once we got in our little pod, though, so the views weren’t completely obscured, and by the time we were done, it had stopped.

We walked back to the hotel, stopping at Sainsbury’s for wine (our one criterion: screw top), Battenberg cake, and chocolate. An installment of Big Brother, and then to bed.

Pedometer count: 24,084

We arrived in Iceland bright and early Tuesday morning, at the newly-expanded Keflavik airport. After a bit of shopping in the terminal, we caught the bus into Reykjavik. There was one Icelander on the bus; otherwise everyone was American, including a talkative GW alumnus across the aisle who was stopping off en route to Paris. We were dumped off at the bus terminal near the tiny Reykjavik airport, and followed one of the many bike paths into town, then followed signs toward a tourism bureau.

After much discussion, we elected to backtrack most of our steps to get to the National Museum, where we arrived early and I was shat upon by a bird while waiting to get in. The museum’s main exhibit, “The Making of a Nation,” was entirely bilingual, and had thousands of artifacts from the “Settlement Age” to today. About halfway through, we stopped for lunch in the museum’s café, where I had a fantastic sandwich: hummus and fig, with cucumber and carrot.

We went through the rest of the exhibit (we’d stopped somewhere around the change from Viking mythology to Christianity), then followed bike paths back to the bus station, where I finally sacked out good and proper. Back at the airport, we had a little excitement when the only other people in front of us on an escalator tripped at the bottom, and we had to turn around and walk up endless steps until they could regroup and get out of the way. The excitement was compounded by Greg’s low blood sugar, but that did mean we got to buy Icelandic snacks; I picked out some kind of vanilla yogurt and a packet of “cool American” flavor Doritos.

The in-flight meal was a nice chicken breast with rice (and a very smooth milk chocolate bar), and the in-flight movie was the 1986 coming-of-age classic “Stand By Me,” which I don’t think I’d ever seen in its entirety. When we arrived, our luggage had preceded us; Greg spotted the larger bag corralled at baggage services, and I found the smaller one just sitting alongside a random carousel. The walk to Heathrow’s central bus terminal was so convoluted, I expected to find a piece of cheese and a man in a lab coat at the end. Once there, we stood in a motionless line for some time before getting the tickets, then waited another half hour for the bus.

I think we both slept the whole way to Victoria Coach Station, then reclaimed our bags and started dragging them in what we hoped was the direction of the hotel. I second-guessed my directions a dozen or so times, but we got to the hotel about five minutes before the desk clerk left for the night. We went to our tiny room just opposite the desk, Greg returned to the desk for the elaborate explanation of why he needs to have THIS frozen and THIS refrigerated, we watched an episode of Big Brother (as one does when one is in England), and collapsed into bed.

Pedometer count: 12,476

We spent Monday morning organizing and packing, the most challenging aspect being trying to find a way to make prominent anything we thought we might want to have Greg’s parents send us. The dance shoes, for example, weren’t being taken on the honeymoon, but could we do without them until Christmas?

For lunch, Jake and Craig joined us on a jaunt to Kreme ‘n’ Kone, where Craig discovered too late that he doesn’t actually like fried clams. Then, cake! Greg and his mom packaged the top of the cake and stowed it in the freezer, and I continued moving things around. Martin West filmed every moment of the departure, including the exit down the long driveway.

The drive to Logan was much faster than we anticipated, which meant we had more than enough time to really experience the anarchy at the rental car return. We took the shuttle to the terminal, checked in (hours early) very easily, went through security, and had dinner at a Houlihan’s near our gate. I called my credit card companies to warn them I was traveling, the importance of which I learned the hard way on a trip to Canada about ten years ago, and then we walked around and around and around the terminal until our flight boarded.

Every time I fly an international airline, I’m reminded how crappy domestic airlines are. Icelandair was a class act. The flight attendants were dressed like it was 1957, and the meal was Swedish meatballs, shrimp salad, and a fabulous brownie. Greg slept virtually the whole flight, whereas I was glad to see the in-flight magazine was in English.

Pedometer count: 6412

We got up surprisingly early on Sunday, and returned to Cedar Street for brunch, with Greg in his "Game Over" t-shirt. The catered brunch had waffles and omelets to order, plus a whole table of gooey baked goods. We supplied the crossword puzzles from our birthdays (Jake noted in his blog, "Crossword puzzles in 1973 were kind of hard!"), and were delighted to see Dave Tuller actually have to erase for once. (I missed the photo op, but he graciously staged another erasure for me.)

Thanks to modern technology, we enjoyed Martin West's videos from the wedding, as well as Cathy's photos, some of which she'd already gotten framed! I mean, yeah, I do that to people all the time, but it's neat to have someone do that for me!

As I'd promised my dad, after brunch I went mini golfing in the gown. When we arrived at Pirate's Cove, the cashier asked if we'd just gotten married. Greg said, "Why do you ask?" as Craig replied, "Nah, she just really needs to do laundry." Being on the front course meant we got attention from folks driving by as well as our fellow players, although it wasn't until the foursome behind us had to fish my veil out of a water hazard that anyone actually questioned what was going on. Meanwhile, Amy, Greg H, and David played the back course, for maximum photo coverage.

After the game, Greg needed a snack, so we stopped in the shop next door for ice cream. The son from the group behind us followed us in to ask who'd won, and that was the first time I ever said "My husband." Jake disappeared into the pirate-themed shop and reappeared with a wedding present: Pirate Word-Doku.

Returning to the house (and changing back into more reasonable attire), we hung out with the sibs and watched a terrible movie as the kayaking group returned. Then, cake!

We elected to take some "alone time" that evening, which had been strongly suggested by Al Bishop (actually, he strongly suggested taking the whole day), and eschewed leftovers in favor of dinner out. Of course we ended up eating at the restaurant where all the Simpson kids have worked, but we knew they wouldn't be there.

When we got back, it was time to open gifts. It didn't take too terribly long, because we'd asked for charitable contributions instead, but that meant many people gave us gifts AND charitable contributions. A lot of the gifts were handmade, too, including stained glass from David, cross stitch from Nat, and a hand-woven chess board from KC.

While we were unwrapping, Cathy popped in with a gift she'd just picked up in town. It was a figurine called "Hero," which happened to be by the same artist as the nativity set the Hermanns and Newmans had given us, and was a simple statue of a girl holding a folded flag. She'd seen it in the store and immediately started crying, then pointed it out to Jenny who immediately started crying, and gave it to me...who immediately started crying. It was just over a week earlier that I had been the girl holding a folded flag, after all.

Then, cake!

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 cufflinks—compasses for Jeff, space invaders for Alan, and LPs for Jake—and 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 cars—us and the photographer in Greg's mom's precious Mustang convertible, and everyone else in Alan's rental—and 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

The two biggest tasks for Friday were to pick up the license and the tux. The license had to be sent back for a correction, since I was not, in fact, born in 2007, but otherwise the process was quick and painless.

It was not until we were walking out of the tux rental place, Alan and Jeff in tow, that I realized I had tagged along on what should have been a testosterone-filled coming-of-age male bonding experience. In fact, given the schedule, Friday afternoon was really Greg's last chance at any kind of bachelor party type event, and here I was, the wet blanket, ruining everything. By way of apology, I picked up the tab for lunch. I still feel bad about that.

Greg made another chocolate sauce before we packed up and moved to the Bradford, a very nice hotel just down the street, where we would be staying the next two nights. I immediately set the TV to the Weather Channel, since the reports for Saturday had been all over the place, and I wanted to know what to expect. The first report, the previous week, had been a 60% chance of rain, so we had 20 dollar-store umbrellas available, and Greg's parents had a tremendously elaborate rain plan. As the date neared, though, the forecast was getting better and better.

Next up, we showered, shaved, and headed out to the Welcome Party, the first official event of the wed-stravaganza. Hosted by Greg's parents at the very classy (and desirably located) Chatham Beach and Tennis Club, it had four different zones of activity. Out back, overlooking the tennis courts and the beach, groups of our friends and family talked and drank until the weather briefly turned on them. On the rear patio, a bartender served cranberry margaritas, as well as wine, beer, and sodas; at the other end, there was a beautiful cheese assortment. On the side patio, folks sat and ate while catching up and enjoying the view. Inside, there was a big pot of chowder on one wall, and an assortment of wrap sandwiches on another. Greg's mom had collected a variety of brochures and other travel information, which was displayed with the little one-page information sheet I'd thrown together for out of town guests, and Greg's dad (with some fiddling from Jeff) had assembled a video presentation of our early years, with photos I'd submitted, along with shots from Greg's newly-discovered baby book.

Throughout the evening, we were happy to see natural, comfortable interaction between people who had never met before that night. Madi's boyfriend, who knew no one but Madi, was trading pop culture references with Greg's friends from undergrad, while a friend of mine from work discoursed at length with one of Greg's uncles. That, I think, was the sign of a successful party.

Afterward, the three guys I'd roped into being ringers for the Pi Kappa Phi sweetheart song followed us back to Cedar Street to get the music, as well as unload all the wedding-day booze from Al's trunk. Unfortunately, we were a little too quick in getting there, since Greg and I didn't bring keys. We stacked the booze in front of the garage until someone let us in, then I fished out the music I'd transcribed for the song and handed it out to Tadd, Al, and Jake; on request, I sang through it once, too, before we scuttled off to the Bradford.

Pedometer count (since I have it): 8071

Thursday, we went off Cape. Can you believe it? Two days before the wedding and we just left people to think for themselves? Madness.

Plimoth Plantation happened to be celebrating a betrothal in their 1647 Dutch/English settlement, and we thought the coincidence of events was too good to miss. We wandered through the native settlement, then went back to the visitor center to get some lunch (had a neat sandwichy thing called a pease cod) and meet up with Alan and Steph. Somehow, apparently, they'd gotten the impression that our betrothal was happening in the 1647 settlement, so watching strangers instead was a great disappointment for them. We hung out in the yard of the bride-to-be's family home, eating strawberries and spice cake, and singing psalms, while Greg fielded wedding questions on my traditional seventeenth-century cell phone in a nearby garden.

Alan and Steph split off to check out the native settlement and head out, while we spent some more time wandering around the colonists' town. The blue sky set off the gray buildings so beautifully, I took entirely too many pictures. Later, a kid who had clearly worked at Plimoth before started singing along with the psalms, and even requesting a few of his favorites; his shorts and t-shirt looked a lot more comfortable than the layers the others had on.

When we got back to Cedar Street, the tent was up in the back yard, the port-a-potty was tastefully hidden behind it, and it was actually starting to look as though a wedding might take place. At the Simpsons' for dinner—our first without margaritas - we met Martin and Judy West, the hands-down winner of the "longest journey" award. The Wests had come all the way from England for our wedding, and they made themselves very useful the whole weekend by watering and weeding around the yard, and by videotaping every event.

After dinner, Hannah correctly identified the moon. Hundreds and hundreds of times.

Gentle reader, when you decide to get custom-printed pencils for an event, and you are given the opportunity to have them pre-sharpened for three cents apiece, do it. Virtually all of Wednesday was spent trying to find an office supply store to get a pencil sharpener. Also on the list: some kind of semi-interesting mold to make giant ice cubes for the cocktail hour jars, found at [the second] Christmas Tree Shops for cheap, and inexplicably elusive fishing line for the ribbon project. I had every opportunity to buy it in Maryland, but figured why drive it up when it's surely something common on the Cape. Do people not fish on the Cape? Do they not play April Fool's Day pranks involving large-denomination bills lying suspiciously on the sidewalk? Eventually, fishing line was acquired at a tiny Ace Hardware, minutes before it closed. Fortunately, Greg asked "is that going to be enough?" before we'd driven off, because of course it wasn't; I ran back in and got three more spools.

At the Woods' for Marion's chicken pie, the daily margarita testing was preceded by a vodka tasting. Buffering our stomachs with snacks, we threw back one Russian vodka and one cranberry Smirnoff each. Sue didn't fare well. After the margaritas, neither did I. Tonight's tasting was Ron versus Jeff; I forget the crucial difference (I believe it involved sour mix), but Ron won unanimously. Not surprising, given that it was his fourth attempt and only Jeff's first.

Tuesday morning we walked to the town offices on Main Street to apply for a marriage license. This was literally the last day we could apply, so I was a little concerned about how it would go. There was a lot of information on the website, but never anything about bringing, say, a birth certificate or anything; as it turned out, it's because we didn't need to. As the assistant clerk checked over the two cursory forms we had filled out, we tried not to laugh at the list of illegal marriages posted on the wall: it started with basic stuff, like marrying your sister or your daughter, and moved on down the line to things like marrying your grandson's daughter. Ew.

We went back to Cedar Street for the car, then dropped the gown off to be pressed. The pizza place in the same shopping center had awesome steak and cheese sandwiches, so we ate there while fielding phone calls adding to our shopping list. We picked up rum punch ingredients at the liquor store, and stuff for the other cocktail hour jars at the Stop 'n' Shop.

That evening, the Simpsons came over for dinner, where we tried Greg's first attempt at chocolate sauce for the cake (a no-go), and the third round of cranberry margaritas. Apparently Greg's dad had been experimenting with a variety of recipes for Friday's Welcome Party, and now that Jeff was home, he had been looking for more recipes online. No one was terribly impressed with this iteration until Greg Howard doubled the tequila.

My little notebook for June 18 just says "11:00 pick up car @ Hertz; drove up, arr. 1:15 am," but there was a lot more to that day. Once we got the car, I made a last minute craft store visit, as required by all brides (as far as I can tell from the internet), and we grabbed lunch at Baja Fresh. Once home, Greg started loading suitcases and wedding stuff into the car, while I made memorial candle mock-ups for his approval. By the time we actually got on the road, it was 3:00. Rather than surf the outer ends of the radio spectrum for NPR stations as we usually do, we amused ourselves by reading to each other. That stopped me from staring into the middle distance and crying, so that was good. We slowed our progress by trying to find interesting places to eat in suburban New York before giving up and eating in Connecticut like sane people.

That "arr. 1:15 am" part is right, though.

Our trip to Illinois was exhausting but reassuring. It seems almost ridiculously trite to say that going ahead with the wedding is "what he would have wanted," but it's the absolute truth. He'd given us a lot of crap about the fact that we were making him wear a tux, but we found out at the wake that he'd been gloating about it to all his friends (probably because it meant he didn't have to think about what to wear). Almost immediately after the proposal, Dad started signing his emails "Father of the Bride," so when we found socks that said that, they were an obviously perfect gift. Yesterday, he was laid to rest wearing them.

It's now the calm between two storms, if there is such a phrase. To all of you who we saw in Illinois or who expressed sympathy in other ways, thank you. To all of you who will be joining us in Massachusetts, we look forward to celebrating this cheerier life transition with you.

We've received some terrible news.

At about 11:30, we got a phone call from Sarah's Aunt Carol. She let us know that Sarah's dad and his wife Penny were in a severe car crash, and Sarah's dad died.

We're not sure what's going to happen right now; we're just trying to grasp everything. We'll post more information as it comes.

UPDATE

Wednesday, June 13, there will be a wake from 6-9 p.m. at Burkhardt Funeral Home
606 E. Arnold St.
Sandwich, IL 60548

Thursday, June 14, there will be a visitation from 9-11 a.m. at Salem Lutheran Church
1022 N. Main St.
Sandwich, IL 60548

The funeral service will be at 11 at Salem, followed by a luncheon.

Following this, we will travel to Memory Gardens on Euclid Avenue in Arlington Heights for interment.

The issue he felt most strongly about was organ and tissue donation. If you are already a registered donor and wish to make a contribution in his memory, please visit Donate Life. If you are not a registered donor, please consider becoming one; information is also on the Donate Life website.

Contributions may also be made to the American Cancer Society or the national charity of Pi Kappa Phi fraternity, Push America.

Condolences may be sent to Penny Anderson
c/o Rhonda Mack
2143 Mallard Lane
Hanover Park, IL 60133

UPDATE 2

To view his obituary and sign the guest book, please click here.