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Authors: Laura Wolf
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shoot, but for a wedding reception?
I composed my list of holiday-oriented story ideas on the bus ride to work.
Kate’s gotten in touch with twenty-two of the reception sites I asked her to call. Half were already booked for our date. She scheduled appointments for the remaining eleven. Unfortunately, Stephen’s so busy with his project at work that it looks like I’ll be seeing most of them myself. Hopefully Kate will be able to contact the remaining thirteen places.
As for the ceremony, Stephen and I have chosen a church on the Upper East Side—First American Presbyterian. Since Stephen’s family is Presbyterian and my family is only vaguely Protestant, it makes the most sense. It’s beautiful and classy and available for our date. We have an appointment to meet the minister next Saturday.
While Stephen thinks his mother will be disappointed that we’re not being married by his family minister, Reverend MacKenzie, in the church that he attended as a child, he’s fairly certain that she’ll accept our decision to marry in the city. After all, First American is on the Upper East Side.
Besides, Stephen says Reverend MacKenzie gives him the creeps.
As for my parents, I’m certain they won’t care. They didn’t bat an eye when Nicole and Chet were married by Chet’s renegade Baptist minister cousin who arrived five minutes before the ceremony after driving sixteen hours from Louisiana without stopping to shower. Trust me. The guy didn’t shower.
I just hope my parents understand why I want to get married in the city instead of their backyard. Unlike Nicole, who’s permanently ensconced herself in our hometown, I am no fan. Just going back to see my parents givesme the shakes. It’s quiet, it’s manicured, it’s boring. It’s like the whole place is on life support. Getting married there would be tantamount to running a lawn mower over my head.
Not to mention the fact that if we get married in the city, our folks will be too far away to attempt a coup. I’ve seen
Betsy’s Wedding
a thousand times on cable and I’m determined that this wedding be our personal expression, not some parental fantasy come true.
september 29th
M y mother and Gram came down to the city to do some shopping today. Before heading home they stopped by my office. While my mother was in the ladies’ room I proudly held out my hand to show Gram my engagement ring. Gram took one look at my ring and clapped her hands in delight. “Would you look at that! It’s lovely!”
“Stephen gave it to me. It’s my engagement ring.”
Gram’s delight turned to concern. She looked me straight in the eye as if she were about to tell me I had male-pattern baldness, and said, “But that’s an emerald. Engagement rings are supposed to be diamond.”
“Typically yes, but there’s no reason to be trapped by the shackles of tradition.”
Gram shook her head. “Sure there is. Diamonds are tough as nails. They symbolize strength and fidelity. Emeralds are weak and unreliable. Liz Taylor wears them all the time.”
Weak and unreliable? Elizabeth Taylor? Was she kidding?
“Come on, Gram. You don’t really believe that. Besides, this ring belonged to Stephen’s great-grandmother.”
Gram clutched her heart. “You mean he didn’t even buy it?”
“No. It’s a family heirloom.”
“Heirloom? That means
free.
He should’ve spent some money on my beautiful granddaughter.”
Forget that this ring and I have bonded. And that it makes me smile every day. All of that meant nothing. Because in under thirty seconds Gram had somehow managed to turn my stunning emerald ring into a stinging source of shame. Like the magician pulling a rabbit from a hat—you don’t know how it happens, but it does.
Just then my mother returned from the bathroom. I stuffed my hand into my pocket and quickly asked about their train schedule. I’d show her my ring some other time. Maybe in a year or ten. But right now I’d had all the family support I
I composed my list of holiday-oriented story ideas on the bus ride to work.
Kate’s gotten in touch with twenty-two of the reception sites I asked her to call. Half were already booked for our date. She scheduled appointments for the remaining eleven. Unfortunately, Stephen’s so busy with his project at work that it looks like I’ll be seeing most of them myself. Hopefully Kate will be able to contact the remaining thirteen places.
As for the ceremony, Stephen and I have chosen a church on the Upper East Side—First American Presbyterian. Since Stephen’s family is Presbyterian and my family is only vaguely Protestant, it makes the most sense. It’s beautiful and classy and available for our date. We have an appointment to meet the minister next Saturday.
While Stephen thinks his mother will be disappointed that we’re not being married by his family minister, Reverend MacKenzie, in the church that he attended as a child, he’s fairly certain that she’ll accept our decision to marry in the city. After all, First American is on the Upper East Side.
Besides, Stephen says Reverend MacKenzie gives him the creeps.
As for my parents, I’m certain they won’t care. They didn’t bat an eye when Nicole and Chet were married by Chet’s renegade Baptist minister cousin who arrived five minutes before the ceremony after driving sixteen hours from Louisiana without stopping to shower. Trust me. The guy didn’t shower.
I just hope my parents understand why I want to get married in the city instead of their backyard. Unlike Nicole, who’s permanently ensconced herself in our hometown, I am no fan. Just going back to see my parents givesme the shakes. It’s quiet, it’s manicured, it’s boring. It’s like the whole place is on life support. Getting married there would be tantamount to running a lawn mower over my head.
Not to mention the fact that if we get married in the city, our folks will be too far away to attempt a coup. I’ve seen
Betsy’s Wedding
a thousand times on cable and I’m determined that this wedding be our personal expression, not some parental fantasy come true.
september 29th
M y mother and Gram came down to the city to do some shopping today. Before heading home they stopped by my office. While my mother was in the ladies’ room I proudly held out my hand to show Gram my engagement ring. Gram took one look at my ring and clapped her hands in delight. “Would you look at that! It’s lovely!”
“Stephen gave it to me. It’s my engagement ring.”
Gram’s delight turned to concern. She looked me straight in the eye as if she were about to tell me I had male-pattern baldness, and said, “But that’s an emerald. Engagement rings are supposed to be diamond.”
“Typically yes, but there’s no reason to be trapped by the shackles of tradition.”
Gram shook her head. “Sure there is. Diamonds are tough as nails. They symbolize strength and fidelity. Emeralds are weak and unreliable. Liz Taylor wears them all the time.”
Weak and unreliable? Elizabeth Taylor? Was she kidding?
“Come on, Gram. You don’t really believe that. Besides, this ring belonged to Stephen’s great-grandmother.”
Gram clutched her heart. “You mean he didn’t even buy it?”
“No. It’s a family heirloom.”
“Heirloom? That means
free.
He should’ve spent some money on my beautiful granddaughter.”
Forget that this ring and I have bonded. And that it makes me smile every day. All of that meant nothing. Because in under thirty seconds Gram had somehow managed to turn my stunning emerald ring into a stinging source of shame. Like the magician pulling a rabbit from a hat—you don’t know how it happens, but it does.
Just then my mother returned from the bathroom. I stuffed my hand into my pocket and quickly asked about their train schedule. I’d show her my ring some other time. Maybe in a year or ten. But right now I’d had all the family support I
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