The Wedding

You would think that getting married in California on December 22 would not be a problem. But as luck would have it, Mimi and I were wed on the coldest day Marin County had seen in 25 years. Though the skies were clear, the temperature hovered well below freezing, leaving patches of ice in the parking lot of Tiburon Baptist Church. Inside, the sanctuary was decorated for Christmas—awash in holly wreaths and brilliant red poinsettias.

And that’s about all I can remember of our wedding day. I know that at some point, Mimi and I exchanged solemn vows at the front of the church, flanked by my brother, Mimi’s sister, and an assortment of seminary friends. But the specifics are pretty hazy. That’s normal for weddings, where nerves and stress combine to render the mind incapable of accurately processing the surreal events that are unfolding. Which is why video cameras were invented, right?

Well, here are a couple of tips for you. Tip #1: When your father offers to record your wedding for posterity, don’t suggest that he just enjoy the wedding and give his camera to your mentally imbalanced friend Bill. Because Bill will use up 90% of the camera’s battery power shooting inane footage in the frozen parking lot.

Tip #2: When your father offers to mail you your wedding tape so you won’t have to deal with it on “your big day,” take it from him immediately. Otherwise, six months later, you will receive a tape labeled “Wedding,” only to find that the 10 minutes the ceremony that got recorded before the batteries failed have been taped over with a college bowl game.

I could add a third tip on things to say to your wife upon realizing that your wedding has been taped over, but you’ve probably already figured out that “Well, that was a good game” is not the smart choice.

The reception is clearer in my mind, mostly because Mimi coaxed three of her bridesmaids into singing Tennessee Christmas after dinner was served. My mother, who had been holding it together admirably to that point, was reduced to a whimpering bucket of tears by the poignant strains of the Amy Grant classic. Her breakdown was so complete that it seems to be the most memorable part of the day for anyone who was involved, to the point that I can never hear Tennessee Christmas without expecting to be asked “Hey, isn’t this the song your mom went ape over?”

“Yes,” I always say. “That’s the one.” And I wonder if getting married during the holidays was such a smart thing.