I Blame the Washing Machine

Preparing a wedding in six weeks seemed possible but a bit scary, given all that has come to be expected of weddings these days. All of the bride’s women, Wedding Swat Team was our label, were meeting weekly on Zoom, from our locations all over the country. The important elements were gradually falling into place. I am the proud and excited mother of the bride.

A week ago, the husband and I traveled two days by car to the wedding city. The final two weeks before the big day kicked off with a bridal shower given by the groom’s family, and things started getting real. We jumped into the world of final decisions, last minute invitations, wedding gifts coming in the mail, and my job which was customizing the wedding dress.

The beautiful, expensive gown was a gift from the bride’s sister. I had only seen it in pictures. I was asked if I could help save costs by hemming it, fixing a bustle for the train and lining the bodice. To many, those sewing terms are like a foreign language and I was somewhat fuzzy on them myself but, eh, sure. I agreed to do the work.

My first look at the dress made me wonder if that had been a wise decision. There was a complex lace outer fabric over three layers of tulle and two taffeta linings, all needing to be shortened four or five inches. For some strange reason wedding dresses often have a long skirt that drags on the ground in the back, aptly called a “train”. The train has to get hiked up out of the way at some point so the bride can dance without tripping over it – that process is called “bustling the train”. And most puzzling to me is why any dress would be made with a top that is pretty much transparent and in need of a lining. But there you have it.

I spent a couple days watching tutorials on bridal sewing and shopping for things I didn’t know existed. Then came the scary cutting parts and all the stitching. It was with great relief that the final fitting yesterday morning showed it to be quite right. The bride will be lovely.

But wait, you’re thinking. When does it get ruined in the bad washing machine? This is not the end of the story, clearly.

The beautiful prospective venue

Yesterday, after taste testing the reception menu, I went out to work on the venue – the groom’s farm and barn. I love to dig into dirt and dust where I can really see I’ve made a difference. There was an area of the barn that met this description so I started dragging things out to be washed and de-spidered. Here’s where the washing machine enters the story.

It was there for washing horsey things. It was dirty and heavy but I wrangled it out on the lawn and sprayed it off. Later, I was again wrestling it in, inch by inch, back and forth. I distinctly remember the groom’s eight year old daughter looking at me, watching intently, as I muscled the machine around for the last time. And then my wet, gloved hand slipped on a backward pull and I fell on the concrete floor. In retrospect I should not have broken my fall by breaking my wrist. Surgery tomorrow with a nice doctor and maybe, by Friday, a splint small enough to fit through the sleeve of my beautiful, mother of the bride dress.

Now, instead of helping, I need people to take care of me and that’s awkward. It’s kind of fitting though, for a wedding in an already awkward pandemic year. There are reasons for all of this, but I’m blaming the broken wrist on the washing machine, just sayin’…. That’s my story.

More pics of me in splints and casts….

Family Wedding Post 1

My niece is getting married this afternoon, outdoors in her brother’s back yard. I have traveled the three hours to my brother’s city where all this is taking place, to represent my family at the occasion.  It’s been years since I’ve been at a family wedding and I’m aware that my status has changed. Instead of being involved in the necessary prep, I am an elder watching the busy-ness of the younger generation.  I hadn’t thought of this as being the case before, and it’s kind of a nice surprise.

Even as I sit down to write in a quiet room, the mother of the bride comes in to take a few deep breaths and we talk for an hour, then the father of the bride also joins us and we talk. The bride comes in and needs to sit for a few minutes even though she has nothing to say.  In the managing of a thousand details, people still have the need to step back and evaluate, to hear their thoughts articulated and validated. I get to listen and hear my family.

In the kitchen the groom’s cousin, a chef, is making sauces and marinades for the food.  There has been much cooking, baking and tasting going on the past couple of days.  It is a hands on wedding with the food being prepared by friends and family. It is also inclusive of a different culinary culture, the Hispanic Miami vibe being present in the background music, the exotic smells, the names of dishes being prepared.

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A wedding story in the making.

Yesterday afternoon the decibel level went high in the kitchen and dining room as the friends of the bride gathered to do table decorations. Laughter, loud discussions, and the occasional episode of dog barking sent me looking for a place apart where I could observe and listen without being overwhelmed.  Problems with the candles were solved, people were dispatched to pick up needed items. Everyone had a job or was given one.

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A wedding story in the making.

When I did venture out I was assigned to watch the frosting on the stove top, which, according to the recipe was supposed to get thick and fluff. Counters were laden with food items and dishes. The sister of the bride was making the cake and stirring up generous amounts of butter, eggs, and flour. Nuts, pineapple, cherries, brown sugar – all this and more adding to the smells to be smelled and the flavors to be tasted. It seemed like each new person who appeared at the door had more food in hand. Throw in a small fire as parchment paper in the toaster oven burst into flames and you have an exciting kitchen.

I finally saw the place where I was comfortable making a difference – the sink full of dirty dishes. I know how to wash dishes.  I am a part of this wild, family adventure. It is good.

 

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Oh yeah, a place for someone who likes to wash dishes – me!