"To Mountainous Marriages..."

For the second time so far this year, I witnessed a wedding in the mountains.

In March, I celebrated the joining of a handsome Namibian to my down-home college friend from Albany. Their Adirondack chapel service was among the most unique and lovely I have ever attended.

The Rocky Mountain-side ceremony I saw 3 days ago was also one of a kind. Not only did the majority of the guests arrive in a converted WWII Army transport vehicle provided by the host site, the Elkhorn Lodge, but this was my first and probably sole experience as “pastor’s wife.” In the state of Colorado, where couples can—if they so choose—marry themselves by signing a few simple forms, Will the non-licensed newsman guided the vows of his lifelong friend Dave to Christina, a lovely woman of Irish descent from—believe it or not—Watertown, snow capital of New York.

About 80 people attended the late afternoon nuptials mere miles from Rocky Mountain National Park. There were blessedly few frills—no bridesmaids, no groomsmen, no birdseed, no pastel mints. Just the blonde bride holding a bouquet, the bald groom holding her free hand, and the “Rev. Will Waters,” holding it together. The patchwork families and faithful friends of the couple encircled the spot. It was, at moments, quirky, comical, heart-rending…unforgettable.

Will was very nervous. I knew he would be. If he’s not talking agriculture (his main beat for the paper), public speaking makes him sweat. So the request by his buddy to fulfill this solemn service was, like the peaks surrounding us, daunting. To counteract his jitters, Will welcomed the guests a tad too enthusiastically and proceeded to project both his voice and his emotions throughout the 20-minute rite. I fell in love with him all over again as I watched him dutifully, honorably—albeit loudly—carry out the charge he had accepted out of devotion to his friend.

Dave and Christina had carefully compiled a series of readings that were meaningful to them: a prayer from Robert Louis Stevenson, a passage from Kahlil Gibran, and “Loving Cups,” an Irish tradition in which the couple toasts each other drinking honey wine (otherwise known as mead, a key beverage in the recent Harry Potter film). As often happens this time of year in that part of the Rockies, the afternoon skies sprinkled their own blessings on the wedding couple and witnesses, thus postponing the mead rite until the reception. In a gesture at once amusing and touching, Dave’s gallant brother Mark swooped to center stage, knelt down and held high a sunny yellow umbrella to shield the groom and his beloved. Only the homily and the vows were off script, and all 3 purveyors of those messages spoke earnestly, even eloquently—even Will.

He told the guests that, over the years, Dave has demonstrated remarkable allegiance to the people present, and likely more. In a society where many men seem to neglect their relationships (marriages and friendships alike), Dave has behaved counter-culturally. Every spring for the past several years, he has flown across the country, reunited with his college pals, and then driven 2 hours further to visit us and our kids. We eagerly anticipate our annual 24 hours with Dave-O (or Dah-Veed—whichever silly nickname happens to tumble out), during which the kids overwhelm him with well-intentioned offerings of used toys, hastily crayoned sketches, and other gestures of genuine affection. Meanwhile, we adults attempt to converse meaningfully in between gift presentations, screeches, shrieks, and other sound effects of lively kids. We typically talk late into the night, solving the world’s problems, as well our own. Dave is an earnest listener and a thoughtful person.

Rev. Will told the “Dearly beloved” that it was only 3 or 4 weeks into the relationship with “Little C” that Dave visited us last spring. After spilling a year’s worth of guts to Dave’s patient ears, Will finally asked: “So, how are you? Any special LLLLLadies in your life???” (A-Town readers who know Will in person can imagine the peculiar inflection and mildly teasing tone that accompanied the question.) Dave quickly, frankly replied: “Actually, I think I’ve met ‘the one.’”

And so he had. And what a gift, as Rev. Will put it. “When you meet ‘the one,’ not being with that person is simply not an option.” Okay, okay, I know—double negative. He’s not an orator, but his sentiments were well said just the same. Dave and Christina should be so blessed as to enjoy at least 12 years and 338 days of wedded…well, maybe not bliss, but goodness, as we have. May our marriages prove as immovable as the mountains. Amen.

(The touristy stuff will have to wait for a future A-Town installment. I wonder what is more difficult: To write, to paint, or to compose music while in the presence of boisterous children. This entry has come together, in stops and starts, over several hours. I do hope it lacks any ghastly gaffes.)