Forty-five years!?! Where does the time go?
John's grandfather, with whom I am exchanging an air kiss here, and his wife had just celebrated their fiftieth anniversary a few days before our wedding. Back then, I thought they were really old . . .
The reception was held at my maternal grandparents' house, which had, in 1941, been the scene of my parents' wedding, and the wedding cake was a duplicate of theirs, baked by the same lady and in the same cake pan.
Of course there were little silver dishes of homemade butter mints on the table. It wouldn't have been a real wedding without them -- at least, that's what my mother and grandmother seemed to think.
Between mothers and grandmothers and the mandates of the Episcopal Church, John and I were swept away on a tide of This Is How It's Done -- lots of carrying on that, in retrospect, seems hard to believe.
Long ago and a galaxy far away. But it seems to have worked.
Of course there were little silver dishes of homemade butter mints on the table. It wouldn't have been a real wedding without them -- at least, that's what my mother and grandmother seemed to think.
Between mothers and grandmothers and the mandates of the Episcopal Church, John and I were swept away on a tide of This Is How It's Done -- lots of carrying on that, in retrospect, seems hard to believe.
Long ago and a galaxy far away. But it seems to have worked.
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