As friends announce their children’s or grandchildren’s weddings or their wedding anniversaries on Facebook, I think back to some of the weddings I have endured. Two weddings stand out.
WHO’S THE DONKEY, OR HOW DO YOU KEEP FROM HAVING HYSTERICS IN CHURCH?
The first wedding took place on a hot summer day in my small Midwestern town. Two of my friends were getting married on the same day, and Mom and I should have attended the wedding for one friend and the reception for the other. Mom chose for us to just attend the wedding that was closer. Mom had grown up during the Depression, and those Depression-era kids didn’t waste money; spending the gas money to attend a second wedding was beyond Mom’s comprehension.
We were happily ensconced in a local church, listening to the organist, also a family friend and an accomplished musician, play a thirty-minute prelude. Unfortunately, one of the selections the organist chose was a medley of old songs, one of which was “Donkey Serenade.” Imagine Mom’s and my surprise when we suddenly heard the organist begin playing a song with these words, “There’s a song in the air
But the fair senorita doesn’t seem to care
For the song in the air
Oh, I’ll sing to the mule
If you’re sure she won’t think that I am just a fool
Serenading a mule…”
Call us weird, but at that point, Mom and I both lost it! Was this unfortunate choice of music an editorial remark on the bride, the groom, or the entire wedding? And who was the donkey? I looked at Mom; Mom looked at me, and both of us grabbed our white lace handkerchiefs to smother our giggles. We would have left the church; however, just then, the bride appeared and the organist began playing the wedding march. Hopefully, those around us thought we were weeping tears of joy….
SWEATING ON THE RIVER-AN ORGANIST TAKES ON PURCELL AND PURCELL LOSES!
It was a breathless August night in Burlington, Iowa, a factory town on the Mississippi River. My boyfriend and I had accompanied his parents to the wedding of one of his cousins. The church was not air conditioned, and the heat and humidity were so high that we were all sweating heavily before the wedding even began. A beloved aunt from Indiana had been asked to play for the wedding; unfortunately, Auntie was NOT an accomplished musician. After fumbling through the standard wedding music (likely the big notes versions), Auntie chose to close the program by playing an organ version of Purcell’s Trumpet Voluntary while the congregation filed down to the church basement to congratulate the happy couple.
There were several problems with that basement. Only one room in the basement was air conditioned, and one had to pass through that room to reach the un-air-conditioned fellowship hall where the main reception was to take place. Being no fools, the wedding couple chose to stand in the air-conditioned room to receive their guests, assuming the guests would then pass on to the fellowship hall. But once the first guests realized that this room was the only one that was comfortable, they were in no hurry to go back to suffering in the heat and humidity. This reluctance created a foot traffic bottle neck in the air-conditioned room.
Meanwhile, back in the main body of the church, the congregation was exiting VERY slowly. Having had to drive for nearly two hours to reach the church, we had the misfortune to be sitting at the very back of the church, and the congregation was exiting from front to back. As time crept onward, our ears continued to be assailed by Auntie’s wrestling match with Purcell. In that match, Auntie won and Purcell emphatically lost! “Dah, dah, dah de dah, dah, dah de dah, dah dah dah, !#*&!, !#* &! ,!#*&! Yes ! You guessed it! Those last three notes in the main theme of the piece? Auntie couldn’t find them, but she succeeded in hitting the SAME WRONG NOTES over and over and over and over and over and over! Auntie was nothing if not consistent. Think of the most irritating sounds you have heard-fingernails on a chalk board, the neighbors’ cats having a fight, someone with a ginormous bass speaker in their vehicle circling your block ad infinitum, microphones screeching in a huge meeting space-none of those sounds could compare with the cacophony of Auntie murdering poor Mr. Purcell’s previously beloved music. Even though we were at the back of the sanctuary, we left other unfortunates to continue to suffer, and Auntie did not disappoint, persisting in repeating her fingering mistakes.
By the time we finally made it down to the basement, the happy couple had already cut the wedding cake; in fact, all we got for our suffering was a few crumbs, plus some nuts and some mints. We didn’t even get any of the punch made with lime sherbert, pineapple juice and ginger ale. The bride’s sisters who were responsible for the reception had obviously underestimated the number of people who would attend as well as their thirst. While we were waiting to exit the sanctuary, those fortunate enough to make it to the basement earlier had drained every bit of liquid available. The only thing left for us to do was to congratulate the couple and leave on our two-hour return journey, hot, tired, hungry, and thirsty. I think we hit a root beer stand on the way home.
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