I’ve reached an age where I accept invitations carefully, graciously declining to attend weddings, funerals, graduations and the like. But recently I agreed to go to our yoga instructor’s wedding. Wow, was it different: outdoors, relaxed and totally wonderful.
Five of us yoga enthusiasts rode to the site together, four miles east of Bozeman, Mont., in a Prius (not designed for deeply rutted roads and in grave danger of tearing out the pan, but comfy and not too crowded.)
Shortly before the frontage road became a dead end, we saw three white balloons tied to a mailbox. That was it, but a clue nonetheless. We turned and very soon became lost, realizing we had gone wrong. Two more wrong turns and, being females all, we stopped at the Rocky Creek Farm store and asked for directions. Had a male been driving we probably would still be bumping around on the wrong road.
Apparently, we weren’t the first to ask and were given detailed instructions by a patient clerk. We had been told that there was very little room to park near the site so a van would be provided to shuttle guests. However, as a nod to our advanced ages, they would save us a closer parking space and the van would guide us to it.
Our parking space was so close we were almost in the ceremony. Actually, we were treated like royalty and guided to an open-sided tent where a picnic table and chairs awaited us. We had been warned to dress casually and not to wear heels (as we surely would get stuck in the deep sand, embarrassing ourselves but providing merriment to other, more sensibly shod guests). The younger folks all seemed to be wearing short summer dresses and western boots. Well, come on, this is Montana.
The focal point of the secluded site was a small spring-fed lake (or large pond, if you prefer) with three rowboats tied together close to the shore. The first part of the wedding party, three bridesmaids, also in short dresses and western boots, climbed into the first boat where they stood for the entire ceremony. Two young flower girls scattered flower petals around, followed by the groom and best man (his brother, I think), who waited on shore with a tall gentleman dressed in forest ranger gear. Then the bride, resplendent in a long white dress, walked down the path on the arm of her father. Bride and groom climbed into the center boat along with the “ranger” who performed the ceremony. Poetry was read, music (bluegrass, not the traditional wedding march) was tactfully played by a trio, the vows repeated, rings and kisses exchanged, after which the boat with the bride and groom was severed from the others and rowed to the far end of the lake, where pictures were taken (mercifully) out of view of the guests.
It all went off without a hitch. Well, they got hitched, but no thunderstorms threatened to disrupt the serenity of the moment. Right on cue, the sun sank behind a tall forest across the lake as guests queued up for Mexican food, margaritas, sodas and beer.
It was the Old West version of a European wedding, which is traditionally held in the backyard of the bride or her parents with food prepared by loving relatives and guests limited to family and very close friends.
I remembered that the bride had chosen REI as one of her gift registry stores and we all chipped in for a gift, which she chose herself: a double sleeping bag to be enjoyed on their camping trip/honeymoon.
What a sensible, relaxed, well-planned wedding, perfectly suited to the couple, who didn’t have to take out a loan or go into debt to pay for it. It was a stark contrast to the usual formal weddings held in stuffy churches with way too many flowers, and catered reception dinners in rented hotels.
May their lives together reflect the natural beauty of their wedding, the closeness of their families and friends and the warmth of that summer afternoon. If rice was thrown, we missed it. If anyone cried, we missed that, too. If anyone sweated the details, worried about gaffes or sought perfection, nobody noticed. We can only hope it was a magical start to a long and happy life together.