Why The Bride Cried

1 Do You Wonder Why the Bride Cried? My wedding was a disaster. It had been a spur of the moment idea, from a particularly fertile but immature mind: mine. I had just graduated high school the month before, and my father and I were beginning to butt heads regularly. After one such spat, I announced to the room in general, and my father in particular, that I was getting married the next week. For bad or worse, I did. The result was a disaster worthy of an epic poem. Shimmering white satin flowed from the empire waist of my gown to a small train. Puffy lace sleeves billowed before gathering at the close satin cuffs, fastened by six small pearl buttons on each sleeve. The neckline was a simple U, with a hint of lace. The veil poured from the white satin and lace Juliet cap. It was a simple look, and that was very good. I made the gown myself, with a little help from my mother, in a week. The sewing machine made the long back seam and then broke. We had to finish the dress, and the veil, by hand. My mother sewed in the horsehair tape in the hem – so that the hem would flair appropriately – late the morning of the wedding. With the wedding planned to begin at one that afternoon, we breathed a sigh of relief when the last stitch went in a little after noon. About that time, as I was fussing with my thick nearly waist-length hair, the phone rang. The organist, a good friend of my fiancé Russell, bailed on me. He was too nervous, he said, to play the organ at a wedding. In shock, I hung up the phone. One other person I knew could play at least the melody of the “Wedding March” besides myself, but she was already busy. The backup organist was my maid-of-honor. Bribing my brother, Alvin, to find sheet music, I called her at the pool where she was the lifeguard and told her of the change in plans. Mary agreed to go to the church early.

2 As I swept into the vestibule of the church, my younger brother, John, brought me the next installment: Mary’s clothes were locked up in the pool office and no one could find the key. Jodie, one of my good friends, was about Mary’s size, so she was drafted to take Mary a dress. Any dress would do. Within a short while, Mary was there; her bright blonde hair was a wet mop but she was at the organ and recognizable music was coming out of it. Next, I realized I was standing in the vestibule with just my father. Dad did not look happy. I wasn’t very merry myself. Fourteen year old John came back through and I grabbed his arm. I ordered him to find me a maid of honor and I didn’t care who as long as I had met her before. Faithful Jodie in her sundress hurried back. I was determined this wedding was going to happen. Turning to Dad, I waited for the cue to enter. After several very long moments, Dwight, my uncle and best man, came back. My husband-to-be was literally frozen and could not be moved. As I fought back tears of complete frustration, Dwight assured me that Russell would be at the altar in, say, fifteen minutes. He dashed back into the nave. One long look after him later, I turned to Jodie and stuffed the blue-and-yellow daisy bouquet someone had picked up for me that morning at a grocery store into her hands. I told her to marry him, this just wasn’t working. She shoved the bouquet back at me, whispering fiercely it was my wedding not hers. The “Wedding March” began. The rest of the wedding was a blur. We did both say the magic words and the minister gave us his blessing. Because of the suddenness of the affair, there were few people present, and only an amateur photographer documented the “happy” event. The one photo I have left showed my Dad and I walking down the aisle. He still looked pretty mad, and so did I. That wedding was truly a complete disaster.