Blogs by Robert A. Mills
THE WEDDING
7/24/2010 5:46:58 AM
There are a number of reasons why I don’t envy former president Bill Clinton, but right now chief among them is his duty to walk his only daughter down the tear-stained and infamous center aisle.
Chelsea, at long last, is getting hitched next week. And ol’ Bill, poor bloke, moist-eyed and trembling, has to “give her away.”
Well, Prez, I been there and done that—twice. And let me tell you, it’s a tough assignment.
The first time was back in the Dark Ages of the early ‘70s. My eldest daughter snagged a high school hippie with hair to his shoulders, and I gave them six months, tops. They’re going on thirty-nine years and still on their honeymoon. Whadda I know?
Two years ago daughter No. 2 married her college sweetheart, and maybe because it’s still fresh in my mind, the traumatic recollection of that June day remains intact, perhaps, in part, I don’t know, due to all the media hype re the Clintons.
But the DVD in my brain keeps replaying over and over again that marvelous Saturday:
I see myself looking down the long, wide aisle centered between rows of pews and ending at the ornate altar of the asp, which was cluttered with flowers, the groom, the bridesmaids, maid of honor, groomsmen, best man, clergy, Communion paraphernalia and candles-—and here comes my daughter, resplendent in the most perfect wedding dress ever designed, her right arm snagged firmly in mine-—and I am genuinely surprised how crowded the church is!
I wondered what was its normal capacity, and how this congregation would compare to Christmas and Easter? I quickly calculated today would fall short by no more than fifty or seventy-five people, if that—well, yes, at least that many, I suppose.
I am aware that some, a few at the rear, have turned to catch a premature glimpse of the bride-—my God, I thought, she was more beautiful than any bride had ever been!-—and I am conscious of the music as if it were a melodious background to a dream, up there, out there in some phantom mist, floating about with no recognizable substance other than the effervescence of a gaiety framing this occasion of joyful purpose. The music, such as it was, was familiar; but he had no idea what it was.
Although I have no notion what the mellow prelude is, I do know, thanks to Friday night’s rehearsal, they will exit to Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”—-and it occurred to me that perhaps this, now, was the lesser known lyrical 3rd movement of the famous Ninth Symphony. Of course it is not, and it doesn’t matter; I am too far gone by the abstract rapture of my beloved daughter’s wedding day to intelligently differentiate between Ludwig van Beethoven, George M. Cohan, or even Jerry Lee Lewis.
My serene wife, already seated just inside our pew, second cushion from the center aisle, saving the edge for me, had been escorted to the second row by one of the groomsmen performing also as an usher. Christine, mother of the bride, is glamorously effervescent in her chocolate brown dress, the jacket tenaciously embracing her shoulders, an ample supply of Kleenex peeking from the box on the seat beside her. On her way from the Narthex she passed many friends and relatives whom she acknowledged with an all-knowing nod and a wry smile.
I am alternately pleased and concerned the church is so full, and I wonder how many will actually attend the reception in the Parish Hall. My daughter had frugally insisted the post-ceremony celebration be limited to no more than two hundred, but to my practiced eye there seemed nearly half a thousand in the pews-—from the third row as far back as the baptismal font.
What I did not count on, it being a Saturday, at least half the assembled group was there for the late afternoon High Service, scheduled an hour and a half after the wedding—-assuming, of course, that the nuptials began on time. And of course, they would not; we are already fashionably late.
Not that it really matters. Episcopalians are a strange breed; once the Saturday ‘regulars’ learned the deacon’s son was marrying the charming, longtime member and debonair daughter of Atlanta’s preeminent blogger—-and it was to be a full-blown Communion service with “all the bells and smells”-—they adjusted their own plans to witness the wedding, then stay for the usual afternoon service, enjoying a second Communion, after the invited revelers abandoned the Sanctuary for the bacchanalia of the Parish Hall, a hundred fifty feet away.
My gaze wanders across to the groom’s side, and I see many of his friends and family I do not recognize. Several are his friends from post-grad college, old fraternity brothers and roommates from a past not too distant; some I am certain, especially some I reckon might be far-removed relatives, come from that strange side of life all handsome young men subscribe to in restaurants and bars, golf courses and class reunions, homes in old suburbs overly warm and heavy with cooking odors, comprised of people one tolerates during certain periods, then casts off like casual sportswear that either fits poorly or has become totally out of fashion as time creeps by.
Who are these derelicts? I wonder. Are they seriously here to eat our food and drink our wine-—while ostensibly honoring the youngsters?
“Here we go,” is the last thing I remember saying to my daughter as we start what I expect will be an interminable journey.
It is not. But neither is it an instantaneous perambulatory march from one episode to another. Being careful not to ensnare myself in her billowing train, I am aware she has tightened her grip on my left arm, pulling me closer to her side and grasping my right hand as it crosses my body—-grasping my hand so tightly in hers I can feel both our pulses racing disharmoniously.
Although I would have no memory of saying a word, I was later told I spoke constantly, babbled actually, incoherently, trying to make light, meaningless and comical remarks that would relieve any tensions my daughter might have. Unknown to me, she had none.
She was focused on the groom and Reverend Patty Roberts waiting for us at the altar, at the far end of the long aisle. All she was thinking was that with everyone in the church staring in wonder at her, she wanted nothing more than to look incomparably beautiful for—-him.
If she thought of me at all, it was the brief hope that I would hold together and not break down like some ill-trained swayback that had suddenly found himself in the Kentucky Derby along with Secretariat, Affirmed, War Admiral, and Seabiscuit.
Reverend Patty was saying something, and I, an automaton replied, “I do. That’s is, both of us do-—her mother and I. Me. I. . . . Me.”
With that I leaned forward and kissed my daughter’s veiled cheek, trying to catch her eye, but she was not looking at me. I turned to move away, but suddenly I stopped and came back, perhaps reluctant to be removed so quickly from the tableau. I glared meaningfully at the groom, taking his arm and shaking his hand. I started to say something that would probably have been sans context; no words came to mind that might have made sense, so I said nothing.
Careful not to step on the swirling train and become entangled, I moved to the left and before losing my mind completely found my seat in the pew next to my wife, who was already misty-eyed and no longer serene. I took her hand as the ritual began.
In an instant it was over.
My most vivid memory was a brief few seconds during Communion when, kneeling at the rail, I wondered what the deacon would do if I suddenly grabbed the chalice and drained it.
Reverend Patty introduced the newly-weds, the congregation burst into applause, and “Ode to Joy” erupted from the organ loft. Beaming, the young couple went up the center aisle, the very one down which I had just escorted my baby daughter and given her away to Whatshisface.
So hang in there, Bill. You’ll make it; you’ll get through it. It won’t be easy, but it was never intended to be. Everything prior to that short hike down the aisle was just a prelude.
(Other than mine, a name not on the Clinton’s guest list is Monica Lewinsky, who just turned thirty-seven, would you believe? Turned thirty-seven. Not reached or pushed. Turned. As George Carlin would say, turned, like old milk.)
Copyright©2010 by Robert A. Mills
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