i wanted to do something for them for valentine's day, but i didn't want to make anything nor buy anything. they are my heroes and i wanted them to know how much i care.
letting that thought rest, as i was looking for my exercise dvd on february 13, i spotted a cd, "paul potts: one chance", which ashley gave me for christmas. using a knife to remove the plastic, i opened the cd and inserted it into the player. with the first note, i recognized paul potts as being the guy i had seen on the english version of american idol.
on june 7, 2007, paul potts strolled onto the audition stage of britain's got talent. he looked a fright, as if he had rolled out of bed, went out the door, and here he stood in rumpled clothes, hair sticking up, teeth sticking out--didn't look like much of a talent to simon cowell, who sneeringly asked him what he was going to do.
"opera", said paul.
"let's hear it", replied simon in a derisive tone of voice.
suddenly, out of the misshapen mouth of an employee at a mobile phone store, arose a magnificent version of puccni's "nessun dorma". at the conclusion of the aria, paul potts received a standing ovation from the audience of 2,000 people. even simon was grinning ear-to-ear.
as i listened to the cd, i knew this was my valentine to give. the next day, february 14, twelve residents of the new horizons assisted living center, plus ten of us from the plains/paradise united methodist church were seated together for our weekly hour of singing, laughing, joking, and story-telling. we sang five foot two, eyes of blue, down by the old mill stream, a tisket, a tasket, and several other songs with funny actions. cliff and harry accompanied us on their guitars. several of us told stories about being in the rain or in a hailstorm. as usual, jack, our 93-year-old songster, had entertained us with his good wit and a capella folk-songs.
it was close to the end of our hour, when cliff said, "stephany, do you have something for us?"
"yes," i said, as the director of the center inserted the paul potts cd into the machine and pressed the play button.
strains of nessun dorma filled the room, as each person felt their own emotions to the stirring rendition. as the aria ended, the door opened, as if on cue. five members of the sheltered workshop joyfully burst into the room, carrying a huge pink and red balloon bouquet for each resident.
we paused, held hands in a circle, and recited the lord's prayer. like i said, they're my heroes.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
22 years later.....
She gave it to me for Christmas when she was 15. I don't recall asking for it, so she must have thought I needed it, the brown leather address book with gold lines running around the edges. It was an ordinary book, yet special because she gave it to me.
I think another part of the gift was for her to write all my addresses in it, because as I turn to the A section, I see Ashbill's TV Service, Dave & Jean Arnold, Doris Anderson, Roger Allenbrand, and Linda Affholder, all in her handwriting. Turning to the B's, I notice Helen Betts, Boschi Family, Blue Valley Schools, Dr. John Berry, Dermatologist, Blue Valley North, and Blue Valley High, again in her handwriting. Curious, I flip to the C's, and--nothing. She had good intentions, but some holiday vacation activity lured her away from the task.
Taking over the task, I completed the book in a few weeks, or so I thought. Little did I know it then, but that address book would chronicle our lives for the next twenty-two years.
Ten years after receiving my beloved address book, I realized I needed a new one, and during that time I bought several that ended up on a shelf. Two years ago, an address book caught my eye as I wandered through Border's. On the cover was a blonde bombshell from the 1930's. The title, "Born to Be Bad" was emblazoned in large letters on the front cover. Hidden in the bombshell's tresses were the tiny letters, Address Book.
"Now this is an address book I could like," I said to myself, as I purchased it without looking at the price. I took it home and stuck it in my closet, still in its sack.
The next year, I was getting more serious about my new address book. I took it out of its sack and vowed that whenever I received a new phone number or new address or made a new friend, I would write this information in the new book. I would do this with pencil, I vowed, so I could erase people who died, people who got married and needed to change pages because they had a different last name, or just plain eliminate people with whom I had lost contact over the years. It seemed like a workable plan.
Then my emotions took over. I didn't want to erase people who died. I wanted to remember them. I didn't want to forget about people I hadn't seen nor talked to for years. The people who got married were no problem. This emotional stall lasted another year.
This Christmas, when it was time to send out my Christmas cards and letter, I got tough with myself.
"Okay, whenever you write a card, simply write the address two times--once on the envelope and once in the new address book," I told myself. This actually worked, although I loved looking at all the people who died, people who had changed names, and people who no longer made the cut for Christmas cards, all in my old book. I realized that my old brown leather address book, now held together with packing tape on the outside and hole reinforcers on the inside, was a chronicle of my life and by eliminating it, I was moving on to a new life.
So, today, twenty-two years later, I closed the old brown address book for the last time. I can't bring myself to throw it away--not yet, at least. That will take more mental toughness than I possess right now. I'll still have it, but not be using it. I'll love it forever, that silly thing.
It's just one more reason I'll love Ashley forever for giving it to me.
I think another part of the gift was for her to write all my addresses in it, because as I turn to the A section, I see Ashbill's TV Service, Dave & Jean Arnold, Doris Anderson, Roger Allenbrand, and Linda Affholder, all in her handwriting. Turning to the B's, I notice Helen Betts, Boschi Family, Blue Valley Schools, Dr. John Berry, Dermatologist, Blue Valley North, and Blue Valley High, again in her handwriting. Curious, I flip to the C's, and--nothing. She had good intentions, but some holiday vacation activity lured her away from the task.
Taking over the task, I completed the book in a few weeks, or so I thought. Little did I know it then, but that address book would chronicle our lives for the next twenty-two years.
Ten years after receiving my beloved address book, I realized I needed a new one, and during that time I bought several that ended up on a shelf. Two years ago, an address book caught my eye as I wandered through Border's. On the cover was a blonde bombshell from the 1930's. The title, "Born to Be Bad" was emblazoned in large letters on the front cover. Hidden in the bombshell's tresses were the tiny letters, Address Book.
"Now this is an address book I could like," I said to myself, as I purchased it without looking at the price. I took it home and stuck it in my closet, still in its sack.
The next year, I was getting more serious about my new address book. I took it out of its sack and vowed that whenever I received a new phone number or new address or made a new friend, I would write this information in the new book. I would do this with pencil, I vowed, so I could erase people who died, people who got married and needed to change pages because they had a different last name, or just plain eliminate people with whom I had lost contact over the years. It seemed like a workable plan.
Then my emotions took over. I didn't want to erase people who died. I wanted to remember them. I didn't want to forget about people I hadn't seen nor talked to for years. The people who got married were no problem. This emotional stall lasted another year.
This Christmas, when it was time to send out my Christmas cards and letter, I got tough with myself.
"Okay, whenever you write a card, simply write the address two times--once on the envelope and once in the new address book," I told myself. This actually worked, although I loved looking at all the people who died, people who had changed names, and people who no longer made the cut for Christmas cards, all in my old book. I realized that my old brown leather address book, now held together with packing tape on the outside and hole reinforcers on the inside, was a chronicle of my life and by eliminating it, I was moving on to a new life.
So, today, twenty-two years later, I closed the old brown address book for the last time. I can't bring myself to throw it away--not yet, at least. That will take more mental toughness than I possess right now. I'll still have it, but not be using it. I'll love it forever, that silly thing.
It's just one more reason I'll love Ashley forever for giving it to me.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
no place like small town montana
i entered the clubhouse of the paradise united methodist church after an absence of four months and found instant warmth and welcome from the five women gathered there. dorothy had invited me to come help make gift bags for the residents of new horizons, the assisted living facility in wild horse plains, montana.
dorothy, betty, and charlotte had gone shopping a few days before to purchase the gift items; the others, judy, mary lou, and shirley were there, like me, to create the bags. dorothy handed me a white gift bag and told me to let my creative juices flow. wow! what fun!
she brought a boxful of sewing notions left over from projects in years past. others brought magic markers, colored pencils, and photos of the two churches in paradise and plains. shirley must have been a stamper in the past, because he brought christmas stamps and ink pads for us to use in decorating the bags. dorothy brought a hot glue gun to use in attaching the various colorful ribbons and balls to the bags.
dorothy had a list of the thirteen residents, and each of us personalized their christmas gift bags. after an hour, the bags were done. then came the fillings--candy, candy canes, an orange, an apple, a cross in your pocket card with a cross, and finally, a red-ribboned christmas bell. we left the red ribbon hanging out of each bag, anticipating how each person would pull that out of the bag first and put it around their neck.
i was saddened when i chose the names of the people for whom i wanted to make the bags, as i had my favorites every thursday when we went to new horizons to sing, talk, laugh,and reminisce.
"why isn't phyllis' name on the list?" i asked, remembering the small 94-year-old witty, bright woman who had captured my heart.
"phyllis died in october," answered judy. my heart sank. i was looking forward to seeing her most of all. i knew phyllis would be fine wherever she was, so i was sad only for myself and the others who will miss her.
soon, our job was completed. we cleaned up and departed for lunch at kathy's whistlestop cafe. we'll go to new horizons on thursday with the gift bags. we'll sing christmas carols accompanied by cliff on his guitar, joke, listen to each other's holiday memories, and i'll become attached to a new resident.
like i said, there's no place like small town montana.
dorothy, betty, and charlotte had gone shopping a few days before to purchase the gift items; the others, judy, mary lou, and shirley were there, like me, to create the bags. dorothy handed me a white gift bag and told me to let my creative juices flow. wow! what fun!
she brought a boxful of sewing notions left over from projects in years past. others brought magic markers, colored pencils, and photos of the two churches in paradise and plains. shirley must have been a stamper in the past, because he brought christmas stamps and ink pads for us to use in decorating the bags. dorothy brought a hot glue gun to use in attaching the various colorful ribbons and balls to the bags.
dorothy had a list of the thirteen residents, and each of us personalized their christmas gift bags. after an hour, the bags were done. then came the fillings--candy, candy canes, an orange, an apple, a cross in your pocket card with a cross, and finally, a red-ribboned christmas bell. we left the red ribbon hanging out of each bag, anticipating how each person would pull that out of the bag first and put it around their neck.
i was saddened when i chose the names of the people for whom i wanted to make the bags, as i had my favorites every thursday when we went to new horizons to sing, talk, laugh,and reminisce.
"why isn't phyllis' name on the list?" i asked, remembering the small 94-year-old witty, bright woman who had captured my heart.
"phyllis died in october," answered judy. my heart sank. i was looking forward to seeing her most of all. i knew phyllis would be fine wherever she was, so i was sad only for myself and the others who will miss her.
soon, our job was completed. we cleaned up and departed for lunch at kathy's whistlestop cafe. we'll go to new horizons on thursday with the gift bags. we'll sing christmas carols accompanied by cliff on his guitar, joke, listen to each other's holiday memories, and i'll become attached to a new resident.
like i said, there's no place like small town montana.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
the end of my sag career
yesterday at 4:30 p.m., i completed my professional sag driver career. that day would have made anyone quit.
it all started out in a little town in minnesota. i couldn't make hide nor hair out of the directions on the cue sheet. luckily, i saw a few bikers across the street talking to a local guy, so i turned around and he told me how to get out of town.
on the way out of town, we were to turn on county road 9, but when i arrived there, it was closed under construction. my phone rang about then and it was jan. she was up ahead and told me to tell everyone to go on to county road 11. nine riders were at the construction sign, so i told them i would go ahead and find road 11, then come back and tell them.
i sped ahead three miles and surely enough, if you turned left off of 160 north, there it was. i raced back, found a turn-around, and told them it was straight ahead. then i decided to go back to the construction block and leave a message for the other riders.
i found a black marker in my purse and a rumpled paper on the clipboard, then wrote the directions on it, taped it to the road closed sign, and hoped for the best. i then raced ahead of the front-runners to give them a sag stop. i then waited for the rest of the group.
right in the middle of groups, i received a call from janet saying that vickie had been knocked to the ground by a big dog about a half-mile from where i was. i waited for the other riders, then drove quickly to the rum shack to await the front-runners, of which vickie was a part.
vickie was still riding, but her mouth was badly swollen and she had road scrapes on one arm. she didn't want me to call 911, so i went into the rum shack, got her some ice, and kathryn fashioned a neck-piece with ice inside it so they could continue on the ride. talk about tough!!
next, it was time to go see how the ones in the back of the pack were doing. i had picked up georgia along the road because her cracked ribs were giving her fits. thank heaven for her. she was navigating and answering the phone on this terror ride.
we found everyone else at the pub and grub. the best thing about that place was the proprietor, whose t-shirt read: i'm in the business of pussy and business is great. i guessed this was a red-neck place. he was talking about the three funerals in the community that week. we couldn't see a community, but surmised it was the farmers who lived nearby.
getting ready to leave after a huge blt sandwich, the phone rang. it was a voice saying, "we're six miles from town and need a ride." we didn't know who it was, but there was a note of desperation in her voice.
georgia and i sped off, trying to keep our promise of being there in 15 minutes. suddenly, we saw a sign pointing to the left: little falls - 11. we took a left, then ran into highway 10.
"none of this is on our cue sheet," georgia said.
"maybe we need to turn around," i said.
re-tracing our path, we finally found county road 35, which we had completely missed the first time round. about four miles down this road, we found patty sitting on the side of the road, with ann administering help to her, having waited more than an hour while we wild-goose-chased around the county.
it seems that patty started to pass out on her bike, then couldn't breathe. she used her inhaler to help that problem, then her blood pressure started tanking out. thank heavens she was with ann, the only medical doctor in the group, who started giving her liquids and other bike-rider concoctions. georgia and i helped patty into the car, and about this time, ann's hip started acting up. so there we were, the wounded helping the infirm. between the three of us, we finally got all the bikes on the car and started toward town.
"do you want to go to the emergency room?" i asked patty.
"no, i think i'm starting to feel better," she said.
after delivering georgia, ann, and patty to the hotel, i still needed to find the last three sheep--linda, barb, and lorrie. going backwards on the cue sheet, i found them seven miles from town.
i went on ahead of them, then waited at the turn that wasn't on the cue sheet. in the meantime, barb had a flat and lorrie gave her the front tire from her bike so she could continue on. i went back to lorrie, who had just completed the tire change and was installing barb's front tire on her bike.
"wanna ride?" i asked.
"no, i think i can make it," said lorrie, just as exhausted as everyone else had been.
"i'm calling it a day, then," i said.
"see you in town," lorrie replied.
about at the end of my rope, i drove to town, gassed up the car, and vowed that this was the end of my short sag driver career. janet bee did an intervention hug with me in the lobby of the hotel and offered to do the dishes after supper. that's the part of driving a sag wagon i will miss the least.
it all started out in a little town in minnesota. i couldn't make hide nor hair out of the directions on the cue sheet. luckily, i saw a few bikers across the street talking to a local guy, so i turned around and he told me how to get out of town.
on the way out of town, we were to turn on county road 9, but when i arrived there, it was closed under construction. my phone rang about then and it was jan. she was up ahead and told me to tell everyone to go on to county road 11. nine riders were at the construction sign, so i told them i would go ahead and find road 11, then come back and tell them.
i sped ahead three miles and surely enough, if you turned left off of 160 north, there it was. i raced back, found a turn-around, and told them it was straight ahead. then i decided to go back to the construction block and leave a message for the other riders.
i found a black marker in my purse and a rumpled paper on the clipboard, then wrote the directions on it, taped it to the road closed sign, and hoped for the best. i then raced ahead of the front-runners to give them a sag stop. i then waited for the rest of the group.
right in the middle of groups, i received a call from janet saying that vickie had been knocked to the ground by a big dog about a half-mile from where i was. i waited for the other riders, then drove quickly to the rum shack to await the front-runners, of which vickie was a part.
vickie was still riding, but her mouth was badly swollen and she had road scrapes on one arm. she didn't want me to call 911, so i went into the rum shack, got her some ice, and kathryn fashioned a neck-piece with ice inside it so they could continue on the ride. talk about tough!!
next, it was time to go see how the ones in the back of the pack were doing. i had picked up georgia along the road because her cracked ribs were giving her fits. thank heaven for her. she was navigating and answering the phone on this terror ride.
we found everyone else at the pub and grub. the best thing about that place was the proprietor, whose t-shirt read: i'm in the business of pussy and business is great. i guessed this was a red-neck place. he was talking about the three funerals in the community that week. we couldn't see a community, but surmised it was the farmers who lived nearby.
getting ready to leave after a huge blt sandwich, the phone rang. it was a voice saying, "we're six miles from town and need a ride." we didn't know who it was, but there was a note of desperation in her voice.
georgia and i sped off, trying to keep our promise of being there in 15 minutes. suddenly, we saw a sign pointing to the left: little falls - 11. we took a left, then ran into highway 10.
"none of this is on our cue sheet," georgia said.
"maybe we need to turn around," i said.
re-tracing our path, we finally found county road 35, which we had completely missed the first time round. about four miles down this road, we found patty sitting on the side of the road, with ann administering help to her, having waited more than an hour while we wild-goose-chased around the county.
it seems that patty started to pass out on her bike, then couldn't breathe. she used her inhaler to help that problem, then her blood pressure started tanking out. thank heavens she was with ann, the only medical doctor in the group, who started giving her liquids and other bike-rider concoctions. georgia and i helped patty into the car, and about this time, ann's hip started acting up. so there we were, the wounded helping the infirm. between the three of us, we finally got all the bikes on the car and started toward town.
"do you want to go to the emergency room?" i asked patty.
"no, i think i'm starting to feel better," she said.
after delivering georgia, ann, and patty to the hotel, i still needed to find the last three sheep--linda, barb, and lorrie. going backwards on the cue sheet, i found them seven miles from town.
i went on ahead of them, then waited at the turn that wasn't on the cue sheet. in the meantime, barb had a flat and lorrie gave her the front tire from her bike so she could continue on. i went back to lorrie, who had just completed the tire change and was installing barb's front tire on her bike.
"wanna ride?" i asked.
"no, i think i can make it," said lorrie, just as exhausted as everyone else had been.
"i'm calling it a day, then," i said.
"see you in town," lorrie replied.
about at the end of my rope, i drove to town, gassed up the car, and vowed that this was the end of my short sag driver career. janet bee did an intervention hug with me in the lobby of the hotel and offered to do the dishes after supper. that's the part of driving a sag wagon i will miss the least.
minding my own business
there i was, in loretta's driveway, getting ready to get in my pick-up and head back to new liberty after planting loretta's spring garden for her, when a tall, dark-headed gal dressed in bike clothes walked across the street fron the service station and approached me.
"would you help us?" she asked. "we're a group of women on a bike trip and need some transportation. our support van had to go to the hospital to take one of our riders who has a medical emergency, and some of us can't go on right now because of the wind."
"sure," i said. "where do you want to go?"
"if you take two women to the arrow cafe in the next town, then we can re-group from there," she answered. "by the way, i'm stephany hughes from kansas."
"pleased to meet you. i'm jack grage. i was getting ready to leave. i came over to help my friend, loretta, who lost one of her arms this year. she always has a large garden, but couldn't plant it herself."
"thanks so much," she said. "i'll go over and tell the women you'll take them."
so, not knowing what i was getting myself into, but also not having anything else to do today, i drove over to the gas station to help the women get their bikes loaded into the back of my pick-up. they got in the cab with me, and off we went to the cafe.
"we want to reimburse you for your gas," said judy, one of the bikers, as she handed me $20.00.
i didn't want to take money from them, but i just installed a new transmission in this old pick-up i bought last week. that $20 will come in handy to pay those expenses.
arriving at the cafe, i saw a sea of bicycles parked outside. about six women came out of the cafe and wanted to take my picture, then they wanted their friends to take pictures of them with me in it. on top of that, they wanted my address.
what was all the fuss about? i was just doing what any neighborly iowa guy would do. that's the way we do things around here.
"would you help us?" she asked. "we're a group of women on a bike trip and need some transportation. our support van had to go to the hospital to take one of our riders who has a medical emergency, and some of us can't go on right now because of the wind."
"sure," i said. "where do you want to go?"
"if you take two women to the arrow cafe in the next town, then we can re-group from there," she answered. "by the way, i'm stephany hughes from kansas."
"pleased to meet you. i'm jack grage. i was getting ready to leave. i came over to help my friend, loretta, who lost one of her arms this year. she always has a large garden, but couldn't plant it herself."
"thanks so much," she said. "i'll go over and tell the women you'll take them."
so, not knowing what i was getting myself into, but also not having anything else to do today, i drove over to the gas station to help the women get their bikes loaded into the back of my pick-up. they got in the cab with me, and off we went to the cafe.
"we want to reimburse you for your gas," said judy, one of the bikers, as she handed me $20.00.
i didn't want to take money from them, but i just installed a new transmission in this old pick-up i bought last week. that $20 will come in handy to pay those expenses.
arriving at the cafe, i saw a sea of bicycles parked outside. about six women came out of the cafe and wanted to take my picture, then they wanted their friends to take pictures of them with me in it. on top of that, they wanted my address.
what was all the fuss about? i was just doing what any neighborly iowa guy would do. that's the way we do things around here.
Monday, June 11, 2007
unexpected surprise on a sunday morning
sunday's ride was perfect, only 32 miles, so i had most of the day to mess around. thirteen miles into the ride, we rode into lake city, minnesota, a town located on the shores of lake petin. the lake was somehow formed by the mississippi river, but i couldn't really understand why the lake was sapphire and the river was so brown.
right in the center of the village was moz' coffeehouse. we put on the brakes for it, because it was only 9:30 a.m. and we had all day to get to our short destination.
dave, owner of the shop, was working his fanny off to get all of us served our various latte's, fruit smoothies, green teas, and the other various iterations of things to drink. he and his wife had transformed an old gas station into a multi-level charming area where we could spend some real down time.
as our fellow riders drifted out, i told jenna i would wait for her, as she had been the last person served. "i'm looking for a church today," i said, "and i don't want to go looking for it. i want it to be right on our route."
"i hope you find it," she replied.
she finished her second breakfast and we walked out into the glorious sunshiny morning together. suddenly, i heard refrains of a praise song we sing at the church of the resurrection. i looked across the street and it appeared that a group was conducting church services at the waterfront park in between the coffeehouse and the marina full of gorgeous sailboats.
jenna needed to get on the road, and i walked across the street to join the services. an usher handed me a bulletin and a song-sheet. i was surprised to read i was at the united methodist church of lake city. i sat down on one side of a picnic bench and the service began promptly at 11:00 a.m.
as i sat there, i couldn't imagine a more heavenly place to spend sunday morning than where i was. we sang several songs, the organist gave her personal testimony, they passed the offering plates, we sang several more songs, and it was over. i didn't want it to end. it was just too perfect.
i mounted my bike and continued down the road twenty miles to our motel for the evening, knowing that my peak experience of the day had happened before noon.
right in the center of the village was moz' coffeehouse. we put on the brakes for it, because it was only 9:30 a.m. and we had all day to get to our short destination.
dave, owner of the shop, was working his fanny off to get all of us served our various latte's, fruit smoothies, green teas, and the other various iterations of things to drink. he and his wife had transformed an old gas station into a multi-level charming area where we could spend some real down time.
as our fellow riders drifted out, i told jenna i would wait for her, as she had been the last person served. "i'm looking for a church today," i said, "and i don't want to go looking for it. i want it to be right on our route."
"i hope you find it," she replied.
she finished her second breakfast and we walked out into the glorious sunshiny morning together. suddenly, i heard refrains of a praise song we sing at the church of the resurrection. i looked across the street and it appeared that a group was conducting church services at the waterfront park in between the coffeehouse and the marina full of gorgeous sailboats.
jenna needed to get on the road, and i walked across the street to join the services. an usher handed me a bulletin and a song-sheet. i was surprised to read i was at the united methodist church of lake city. i sat down on one side of a picnic bench and the service began promptly at 11:00 a.m.
as i sat there, i couldn't imagine a more heavenly place to spend sunday morning than where i was. we sang several songs, the organist gave her personal testimony, they passed the offering plates, we sang several more songs, and it was over. i didn't want it to end. it was just too perfect.
i mounted my bike and continued down the road twenty miles to our motel for the evening, knowing that my peak experience of the day had happened before noon.
wedding at waterfront park
i went to a wedding last saturday, a wedding to which i wasn't invited. i was walking leisurely along the waterfront park in lacrosse, wisconsin, when a flutter of electric blue chiffon caught my eye. investigating further, i saw six bridesmaids standing on a concrete stage, then six tuxedoed groomsmen, and finally, the bride and groom.
what drew my attention the most, tho, was the minister. she was a young woman, dressed in a white gown with a colorful vestment stole. her voice was entrancing. i decided to become a member of the wedding audience, so i found a place on one of the empty concrete benches on the back row.
the minister was totally in charge and capable. she announced that the next number would be a vocal solo by the groom's 12-year-old daughter. this daughter stole the show.
there she stood in her billowy bridesmaid's dress, belting out "at last" by aretha franklin, complete with arm motions. she finished, the audience cheered, and she walked over and hugged her father, whom i am sure felt he had gotten his money's worth out of his daughter's voice lessons.
soon, the wedding formalities were completed. the couple kissed, the audience cheered, and the processional began, complete with the red wagonful of requisite babies of family members dressed in their wedding best.
wailful sounds of bagpipes were heard and the bagpiper, dressed in his finest blue plaid kilts and navy blue cap, preceeded the wedding party to the reception area.
the only thing missing for me was the wedding cake and dancing the macarena on the banks of the mississippi.
what drew my attention the most, tho, was the minister. she was a young woman, dressed in a white gown with a colorful vestment stole. her voice was entrancing. i decided to become a member of the wedding audience, so i found a place on one of the empty concrete benches on the back row.
the minister was totally in charge and capable. she announced that the next number would be a vocal solo by the groom's 12-year-old daughter. this daughter stole the show.
there she stood in her billowy bridesmaid's dress, belting out "at last" by aretha franklin, complete with arm motions. she finished, the audience cheered, and she walked over and hugged her father, whom i am sure felt he had gotten his money's worth out of his daughter's voice lessons.
soon, the wedding formalities were completed. the couple kissed, the audience cheered, and the processional began, complete with the red wagonful of requisite babies of family members dressed in their wedding best.
wailful sounds of bagpipes were heard and the bagpiper, dressed in his finest blue plaid kilts and navy blue cap, preceeded the wedding party to the reception area.
the only thing missing for me was the wedding cake and dancing the macarena on the banks of the mississippi.
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