What I Did On My Fourth Of July Vacation…
Dear Mr. Jaunty,
Goodness! What a weekend! The pomp, the pageantry, the family-enlarging, the gorging, the laughter, the religiosity, the destruction! You would have been proud.
We took something of a back way from San Diego to Pasadena for my sister’s wedding rehearsal dinner and ended up arriving just in the nick of time. Our alternative route, while kind of crowded, made sitting in traffic much more interesting than sitting in any old parking lot on any old freeway in Southern California. My eyes didn’t start tearing up from the smog until we had almost arrived, and that made my sore left foot feel a lot better (you know how the traffic miseries pile up when you have nothing but time to think about them).
We checked in, freshened up, and beat feet over to the groom’s father’s private club. My nieces and nephew were invited and proceeded to race around the banquet room. When asked, “do they allow many children here?” the groom’s father replied in his sly, quiet way, “not that I can ever remember.” Now that’s some pull.
As rehearsal dinners go (like I’m an expert), there was a lot more speechifying than I had anticipated. The groom’s chums let fly with the tributes and mildly embarrassing anecdotes. “Ho ho!” and “oh dear!” chuckled the mildly amused aunties. Then, more speeches, and toasts, and tribute. The groom is a wonderful person (true), the bride is a wonderful person (also true), they light up a room when together (handy in a blackout), they are nice… and so on. I was pressed into service to say a few words, and with the help of a niece and nephew under each arm, I advocated in favor of their happiness. I kept it brief only because by that time crowd was well aware of how wonderful the bride and groom are and have been. As you know, I’m all about the future, man, so I wished that they will be well later. Like tomorrow.
And what a good idea that was.
The big wedding was at a big Catholic church with a big Catholic mass. You may recall, dear sir, that I call myself a Recovering Catholic. I listen to the sermons, I remain respectful, but I don’t take part in any of the rites from kneeling to counting myself among “us” when the call goes out “let us pray.” That’s not my speed, chief. The people there who didn’t know anything about the religion felt comfortable playing along with the kneeling and the nodding, but I couldn’t manage it.
That said, the setting was lovely and my sister more so. The train of her dress was plenty long enough, certainly long enough to trip up the groom once or twice. Anywhere else, this would’ve drawn a chuckle, but we were all being very serious about the happiest day in their lives.
The reception, at the groom’s parents’ home was low-key, which leads me to this little observation from my Mom: “doesn’t [the groom’s father] remind you of your dad’s dad?” And indeed, he did, except with a drink in his hand that I never saw my grandfather holding. It was the mannerisms, the little grin, the deliberate shuffle, and the style. That style. Visiting his study was like visiting my grandfather’s own with leather bound books lining the shelves from floor to ceiling, a small lamp over the blotter on his giant oak desk. All those things, plus the Catholicism, plunked me right down at the kid’s table again. I wonder if I the only one who noticed.
But I know that you’re waiting to hear about the bride and groom’s new house. We took the tour yesterday, and I have to say that I was impressed. The view over Pasadena from their new hillside perch is dramatic, as are some of the problems with their new honeymoon bungalow. I’ve used the term before, but “advanced fortbuilding” applies here too. I’ll tell you a little fairy story:
Once upon a time, there was a little house. It was a cute little house with a great and productive orange tree in front on the side of the hill. All was well with the little house, and the little old man who lived in it, until one day, when the rains came. Oh! The great and powerful rains pounded down on the poor little house, and try as it might, the poor little roof on the poor little house simply couldn’t keep the thunderous downpour outside any longer. It was like it was raining inside too! “What will I do!” the little old man worried. “My beautiful little walls! My beautiful wallpaper with the little flowers! My beautiful ceiling! All ruined! My little old bank account surely can’t afford to fix all of this!”
But then, the little old man had a thought. “I’ll be smart! I’ll cover over the damage with wood paneling on the walls and acoustic tiles on the ceiling. I can modernize my little house AND fix the damage without draining my poor bank account.” So the little old man set about modernizing his little old house with much dark wood paneling and many ceiling tiles. “There!” he proclaimed proudly “it’s even better than new!”
Yep. Just cover it up.
(woof. I’ve got a lot of work to do, and yes, I’ve signed on to help, and no, the fairy story only scratches the surface.)
Your pal,
bob
Author’s Note: Other fairly significant events also occurred this weekend, but I couldn’t figure out how to write about them without sounding like a jackass due to some of the restrictions placed on this thing from outside sources. I wish I could though, because there’s a funny bit about the boy dog lifting a leg on somebody’s beach chair, but, well, apologies will have to do.