Snow came down for twenty-four hours. The storm started around two-thirty or quarter to three On February 5. At three-oh-five on February 6, I put the chicken in the oven to roast. It may have been the changed quality of the light that caught my eye: the air was clear, no flakes tumbling and slanting in the wind. Around five, sun gleamed briefly making three bluebirds—of happiness?—glow cerulean. I felt relaxed; after calls, consultations and confirmations, we rescheduled for February 7.
On Super Bowl Sunday, our wedding day, drifts of brilliant white snow filled the house with reflected light. I shoveled snow, tidied the house, and retreated to my boudoir.
I know I look more and more like my mother with every passing day: white hair, ample form, and wrinkles. Now I replicate her fumbles.
It took about an hour to get dressed for my wedding. I showered, dried my hair, dabbed drops of Hermès rue Faubourg, 24 on pulse points and a small amount of makeup around my face. I donned my bridal couture. A lot was old, the blouse was new, the amethyst earrings and bracelet were borrowed from the heirloom Crown Jewels currently in my custody and my—ahem—unmentionables provided a touch of blue. I searched through a sack containing coins of various defunct currencies and found the sixpence, which I certainly hoped would be lucky, for my shoe.
I inspected myself in the mirror. Oh-My-Gawd. What was that spot near the hem of the brand-spanking-new pale-pink silk charmeuse blouse? It didn’t wash off with water; it didn’t disappear with an application of soap. It was a drop of liquid foundation. Oh c***, there was another spot on the camisole that goes under it. I vividly remember my mother splashing makeup all over a new dress; I also remember throwing that dress away as irreparably damaged. Since the spots on the blouse are very tiny and near the hem, I’m hoping the drycleaner can perform some chemical magic.
Well the spots were small, in a relatively unobtrusive location, and would be entirely hidden by the embroidered manton de manila my Dear One had bought me on a trip to Madrid. Come to think of it, he bought me the pink pumps too, in La Jolla, California. When was that? 1985?
I set the wreath of woody vine and pink rosebuds on my head, draped the shawl over my shoulders and went downstairs. My Dear One looked happy. I set the shawl aside, tied a ribbon over the couture, and prepped hors d’oeuvres. I let the oven preheat while I sliced apples, put out dip, and unwrapped crackers.
Suddenly the kitchen air was thick and acrid; the smoke pouring from the oven was as black as the cloud above the Sistine Chapel after an unsuccessful vote for a new Pope. Oh, yeah, right. I had dropped that roaster while extracting it from the oven yesterday. Apparently I had also slopped schmaltz everywhere.
No matter. We opened the doors to the front, back and garage to air out the room. Then I wedged the stuffed mushroom caps into a smaller pan and stuck’em in the toaster oven.
Family started arriving around 1:00. Our Astronomer transformed into Our Photographer. I found my nosegay and pinned the gardenia to my Dear One’s lapel. Elder Daughter and Younger Daughter were full of cheer. My Tattooed Boy raced in on time, having been at work. The Clerk of the Circuit Court was punctual and filled out the paper work, read our words, and pronounced us wed.
The limousine, however, was late. The dispatcher had telephoned around noon concerned about the roads. I said that my son had made it into Baltimore and pronounced I-95 perfectly dry and the other roads passable. The dispatcher said dubiously, “I’ll check with the driver.” I figured I’d hear back if there was a problem. At four, the hour that the limo was due to depart with us for Baltimore, I was feeling concerned. I called the dispatcher; the dispatcher called the driver; the driver said he was stuck in snow and would not be there for an hour. I canceled. I suspect I won’t be seeing a refund.
We piled into cars, convoyed behind my Tattooed Boy and had a wonderful dinner at the B&O American Brasserie. We were the only customers that I could see.
But then, who was looking? I only had eyes for my Dear One.