So in the wake of "formal portrait Saturday," my sister had a new means of tormenting me, or at least of pushing my buttons, so to speak. I wouldn't consider it "torment," actually. My mother had her very formal photos of us, and my sister, much to her pleasure, now had a "bridal gown."
That began what turned out to be a seemingly endless string of "weddings" to which I was subjected. My sister had her little handful of friends, all about the same size. They'd take turns wearing the "bridal gown," from one weekend to the next, as the bride, with me in all my suited, buttoned-up, bow tied glory as the groom. It wasn't every weekend, but the weddings came with some regularity.
My mother was even complicit. At my sister's request, my mother went to a second-hand store and purchased a tiara headpiece with a huge traditional bridal veil with a blusher. She also got hold of some white silk roses and crafted a bouquet for the bride and a boutonniere for me. So now my sister's bridal look was complete. She and her friends couldn't have been happier. My mother even got a tape of organ music which included The Wedding March, or Here Comes the Bride, so now we even had the proper music for the weddings.
The venue for our weddings was the cause of my greatest concern. Our house was a corner lot. We had a big backyard. Over a hundred feet from the back door, down a flagstone path, was a decent-sized white gazebo. The deck of it was at least three feet off the ground. Right over the back fence, not even twenty feet from the gazebo, within easy sight, was the well-traveled road you'd turn off of to get on our street. With the exception of some rainy days, the weddings would take place on the gazebo, with the flagstone path serving as the aisle down which I'd walk with my bride du jour to be wed. On rainy days the weddings would be held in the living room, with me and my bride du jour walking down the stairs and into the living room.
The weddings would typically take place on a Saturday, occasionally on a Sunday. I'd usually find out that morning, sometimes the night before. It was usually my mother, sometimes my sister, who'd inform me of the impending nuptuals.
"Wedding tomorrow at three!" I'd be told. Or, "Today's your wedding day!" I'd be told. "The wedding's at five." That was my signal. I'd head upstairs and shower. No matter how many hours remained till the wedding, after my shower I'd just get dressed up. I'd always wear my nicest navy blue three-piece suit, along with a heavily-starched white shirt just back from the dry cleaner, and one of my mostly navy blue bow ties. On some occasions, I'd be dressing in my bedroom and my mother would knock. She'd come in holding one of her "fuller, poofier" bow ties, navy blue, of course.
"Here," she'd say, "wear this for the wedding today. You look so formal and handsome in these!"
She'd watch as I'd tie it into a perfect "fuller, poofier" bow tie up against my stiff, white collar, remarking how perfectly I tied them. Then the waiting began. I'd be doing whatever I had to do that day, all dressed up, usually with my jacket still hung up. Once it was later in the day and the wedding was approaching, I'd keep to my room, watching the clock, and actually getting increasingly nervous! Eventually, there'd be a knock on my door and my mother would come in, looking prim and proper in one of her skirted suits and starched, buttoned-up blouses, to pin my boutonniere on my lapel. She'd do a final inspection of my suit, making sure my vest and jacket were properly buttoned, and one final, unnecessary adjustment of my collar and bow tie. Then she'd slip her arm through mine and walk me downstairs to the back door, before leaving me there to take her place out by the gazebo where a few lawn chairs were set up.
I'd wait there at the back door until one of the girls would escort my bride down the stairs from my sister's room and to the back door. It wasn't till then that I'd know for certain who my bride was that day, making out her face beaming at me through the blusher as her right arm slipped through and closed tightly on my left arm. Whoever escorted my bride downstairs would step over to the stereo. The speakers had been propped up in the window to direct the music out into the backyard. She'd hit the switch on the stereo, then head out to take her place by the gazebo, leaving my bride and me standing there waiting for the organ music to start. Once the organ music was blaring out The Wedding March across our backyard, my bride and I would step down the back steps, her crinoline rustling beneath her bridal gown, ever-so-slowly, heel-to-toe, across the back patio and down the hundred feet or so of flagstone walkway out to the gazebo, where we'd carefully mount the three steps and take out place on the deck in front of whichever of the girls was officiating. Then our wedding would begin.
So there I'd be, fully suited, buttoned-up, and bow tied, with my bride in her big, white gown and veil clutching my arm, standing up on that gazebo and very clearly being wed in plain sight for all the world to see. We'd be up there on the gazebo and I'd hear a car coming down the road just over the fence, and I'd be thinking, Someone from school is going to see me! The fact was I was the only one from my school who lived in our area at that time, so the likelihood of anyone finding out about the weddings was probably pretty slim.
Wedding after wedding, my self-consciousness never lessened, but I also found myself enjoying the increasing nervousness that would accompany the "wedding days." The weddings, however, didn't go wholly unnoticed. The first wedding or two, our neighbor lady next door, the college professor, watched from across the fence. After that, at my mother's invitation, she'd often come to our yard, having been notified of the day's impending wedding by one of the girls. Occasionally my mother would have my aunts and cousins come over on a wedding day. After the wedding, standing around the backyard with my bride on my arm, we'd hear from the aunts, "What a beautiful bride!" and, "Such a handsome groom!" My sister and her friends, before long, had other neighborhood kids in attendance at our weddings. It became almost a regular neighborhood social event, which did nothing to allay my nervousness and self-consciousness.
My sister not being one to waste any time, the first of the weddings took place the weekend after "formal portrait Saturday." My sister, naturally, got to be the bride that first time out, with her friends attending her. Between "formal portrait Saturday" and that following weekend, she'd also not wasted any time in getting our mother to get the headpiece, veil, and blusher, as well as the flowers and the wedding music. By that second Saturday that October, everything was set for a full-blown wedding. There were even a pair of plastic gold rings to slip on eachother's fingers as we said, "With this ring, I thee wed." One Sunday at church, as my mother, sister, and I were sitting there in the pew, my mother quietly tapped my left hand, pointing out that I was still wearing the wedding ring from the previous day's wedding!
At first, starting that October, the weddings took place every weekend, at least up until Christmas break. Starting with my sister, the girls took their turns as my bride.
That began what turned out to be a seemingly endless string of "weddings" to which I was subjected. My sister had her little handful of friends, all about the same size. They'd take turns wearing the "bridal gown," from one weekend to the next, as the bride, with me in all my suited, buttoned-up, bow tied glory as the groom. It wasn't every weekend, but the weddings came with some regularity.
My mother was even complicit. At my sister's request, my mother went to a second-hand store and purchased a tiara headpiece with a huge traditional bridal veil with a blusher. She also got hold of some white silk roses and crafted a bouquet for the bride and a boutonniere for me. So now my sister's bridal look was complete. She and her friends couldn't have been happier. My mother even got a tape of organ music which included The Wedding March, or Here Comes the Bride, so now we even had the proper music for the weddings.
The venue for our weddings was the cause of my greatest concern. Our house was a corner lot. We had a big backyard. Over a hundred feet from the back door, down a flagstone path, was a decent-sized white gazebo. The deck of it was at least three feet off the ground. Right over the back fence, not even twenty feet from the gazebo, within easy sight, was the well-traveled road you'd turn off of to get on our street. With the exception of some rainy days, the weddings would take place on the gazebo, with the flagstone path serving as the aisle down which I'd walk with my bride du jour to be wed. On rainy days the weddings would be held in the living room, with me and my bride du jour walking down the stairs and into the living room.
The weddings would typically take place on a Saturday, occasionally on a Sunday. I'd usually find out that morning, sometimes the night before. It was usually my mother, sometimes my sister, who'd inform me of the impending nuptuals.
"Wedding tomorrow at three!" I'd be told. Or, "Today's your wedding day!" I'd be told. "The wedding's at five." That was my signal. I'd head upstairs and shower. No matter how many hours remained till the wedding, after my shower I'd just get dressed up. I'd always wear my nicest navy blue three-piece suit, along with a heavily-starched white shirt just back from the dry cleaner, and one of my mostly navy blue bow ties. On some occasions, I'd be dressing in my bedroom and my mother would knock. She'd come in holding one of her "fuller, poofier" bow ties, navy blue, of course.
"Here," she'd say, "wear this for the wedding today. You look so formal and handsome in these!"
She'd watch as I'd tie it into a perfect "fuller, poofier" bow tie up against my stiff, white collar, remarking how perfectly I tied them. Then the waiting began. I'd be doing whatever I had to do that day, all dressed up, usually with my jacket still hung up. Once it was later in the day and the wedding was approaching, I'd keep to my room, watching the clock, and actually getting increasingly nervous! Eventually, there'd be a knock on my door and my mother would come in, looking prim and proper in one of her skirted suits and starched, buttoned-up blouses, to pin my boutonniere on my lapel. She'd do a final inspection of my suit, making sure my vest and jacket were properly buttoned, and one final, unnecessary adjustment of my collar and bow tie. Then she'd slip her arm through mine and walk me downstairs to the back door, before leaving me there to take her place out by the gazebo where a few lawn chairs were set up.
I'd wait there at the back door until one of the girls would escort my bride down the stairs from my sister's room and to the back door. It wasn't till then that I'd know for certain who my bride was that day, making out her face beaming at me through the blusher as her right arm slipped through and closed tightly on my left arm. Whoever escorted my bride downstairs would step over to the stereo. The speakers had been propped up in the window to direct the music out into the backyard. She'd hit the switch on the stereo, then head out to take her place by the gazebo, leaving my bride and me standing there waiting for the organ music to start. Once the organ music was blaring out The Wedding March across our backyard, my bride and I would step down the back steps, her crinoline rustling beneath her bridal gown, ever-so-slowly, heel-to-toe, across the back patio and down the hundred feet or so of flagstone walkway out to the gazebo, where we'd carefully mount the three steps and take out place on the deck in front of whichever of the girls was officiating. Then our wedding would begin.
So there I'd be, fully suited, buttoned-up, and bow tied, with my bride in her big, white gown and veil clutching my arm, standing up on that gazebo and very clearly being wed in plain sight for all the world to see. We'd be up there on the gazebo and I'd hear a car coming down the road just over the fence, and I'd be thinking, Someone from school is going to see me! The fact was I was the only one from my school who lived in our area at that time, so the likelihood of anyone finding out about the weddings was probably pretty slim.
Wedding after wedding, my self-consciousness never lessened, but I also found myself enjoying the increasing nervousness that would accompany the "wedding days." The weddings, however, didn't go wholly unnoticed. The first wedding or two, our neighbor lady next door, the college professor, watched from across the fence. After that, at my mother's invitation, she'd often come to our yard, having been notified of the day's impending wedding by one of the girls. Occasionally my mother would have my aunts and cousins come over on a wedding day. After the wedding, standing around the backyard with my bride on my arm, we'd hear from the aunts, "What a beautiful bride!" and, "Such a handsome groom!" My sister and her friends, before long, had other neighborhood kids in attendance at our weddings. It became almost a regular neighborhood social event, which did nothing to allay my nervousness and self-consciousness.
My sister not being one to waste any time, the first of the weddings took place the weekend after "formal portrait Saturday." My sister, naturally, got to be the bride that first time out, with her friends attending her. Between "formal portrait Saturday" and that following weekend, she'd also not wasted any time in getting our mother to get the headpiece, veil, and blusher, as well as the flowers and the wedding music. By that second Saturday that October, everything was set for a full-blown wedding. There were even a pair of plastic gold rings to slip on eachother's fingers as we said, "With this ring, I thee wed." One Sunday at church, as my mother, sister, and I were sitting there in the pew, my mother quietly tapped my left hand, pointing out that I was still wearing the wedding ring from the previous day's wedding!
At first, starting that October, the weddings took place every weekend, at least up until Christmas break. Starting with my sister, the girls took their turns as my bride.