Happy Wedding
So Red Strike was getting married on a rainy afternoon in December. (The Koreans would say that was lucky.) Running through that rain to the “chapel” cathedral on Wash-U’s campus at 12:30, a pipe organ, and those stained glass windows formed with white stone like sculpted sugar cookie dough. Puck and I waited around for an hour before start-time.
“I haven’t been here in weeks,” Puck informed me, marching off into the corridors. “I’m going to do a little exploring.” (He had never been there.)
I recognized one of the bridesmaids after awhile, the younger sister of a girl from my Sunday School class at Kirk of the Hills fourteen years ago. I guess that’s just St. Louis. The little-big city. Anyway, the service was long enough for the bridal party to sit for half the ceremony. Simple. Simple is good. Puck and I sat in the balcony. I decided that was a little more safe, for everyone concerned. Fortunately he dropped his wallet off the edge of it before the ceremony started.
There was also one point of mild concern on Puck’s behalf when he saw Caroline escorted into the sanctuary by her father, and not Red Strike. He whispered loudly into my ear, “THAT’S THE WRONG PERSON!”
After snapping a few photos (even I was included on that one; all the bridal party’s spouses), the reception was just a little across town on SLU’s campus. 2:00. Joe and Jaya were already snacking at tables stacked with old books, china teacups, and vases of green and blue garden flowers. Puck stuffed his plate: little pork slivers and goat cheese with green things on herb toast. Skewers of tomato, cheese, basil, and sweet stuffed pasta. Stuff like that. No official cake cutting, but there was cake. I don’t think anyone serves just plain wedding cake anymore, the kind you picture housewives baking from scratch with three dozen eggs back in the 1950’s. Maybe that’s just me who pictures that …
Puck found a friend and doodled around with Legos for some time. Then they started up a game of hide-and-go-seek, which was fine, as long as they didn’t spill over the candles.
“What’s that?!”
There it was. The question that children always want to know about the brown “earring” in Bær’s ear. This time, it was the son of his co-worker who wanted the scoop.
“That’s a mole. It’s sort of like a freckle. See? Puck has one on his neck, too. Do you have any?”
The young chap rolled up his sleeves to scout out a good one. While he searched, Puck added his own thoughts on the subject.
“I have a mole on my bum.”
“You have a mole on your butt?!”
“No, my bum.”
“Your butt.”
“Yes, but that’s not an appropriate word for bum in public.”
They returned to their game of hide-and-go-seek until departure at around five.
And now it was time for Christmas.