I’m at my stepson’s wedding reception, and the summer of 2000 flashes before me.
It’s seeing Johnny, the groom, and his first cousin Mikey together. They’re both over 30 now and probably introduce themselves as John and Mike, but it’s how I distinguish them from their fathers.
Mikey is approximately eight feet tall. My husband and I agree he resembles a Greek god. Johnny is the oldest and first of the group of cousins to get married; Mikey is a year younger.
That summer, we all vacationed in this huge house together on Lake Winnipesaukee.
There was a floating dock some distance from the shore. Johnny was fishing with Mikey; two shirtless little boys happy as clams, casting their lines from the dock.
I was standing at the kitchen sink. Suddenly I hear Mikey, managing to bellow despite the high pitch of his voice. It was shocking how loud he was; an alarm bell in a seven-year-old body. He bleated,
“HELP! HELLLLLLLLLLLLLP! HELLLLLLLLLLLP! HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLP!”
I bolt down the stairs. I can see from the shore that Johnny is holding his hands over his face.
Immediately, I know what happened. My husband tells a story about fishing as a kid, and a fishing hook went through his eyelid as he was trying to cast a line. He had to travel to the doctor with the worm attached to the hook; it was too dangerous to detach it.
Please, I think, as I dive into the water, don’t let him lose an eye. What if the hook went in his eye?
Adrenaline is amazing; I swim out to them with the speed of an Olympian. My father-in-law is behind me in a boat. I beat him to the dock.
Mikey is silent, his job done. He looks at me expectantly. Such trust.
“Johnny,” I say from the water. “Let me see, sweetie. Just slowly take your hands away from your face.”
Johnny does as I instruct.
The fishing hook is through his nose, just underneath the tip. Plenty of people have piercings in the same place.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Johnny says, “but it’s VERY SCARY.”
He reaches his hand up to feel it again. Just like that, the hook comes out. It must have been attached at only the top layer of skin.
I can walk for miles, but standing kills me. I had a successful lumbar spinal fusion in 2014. The area rarely bothers me anymore, save long airplane rides, the days I work as an election inspector (16 hours in a folding chair, thank you very much) and standing for too long.
This is a wedding, and I’m immediate family. There have been hours of standing, days of standing. I am in danger of no longer standing.
I tried dancing. I was so moved by my stepsons and all their cousins whooping it up together, I got up and went out on the dance floor.
Well over a dozen people were dancing together. I knew them when they were all so wee, and now they’re beautiful adults, mostly in their twenties.
They know all the words to the songs. They pose like they’re in a music video. It’s breathtaking, all of them in a circle, the joy on their faces, the shared language of a generation and beloved party anthem.
My dancing is stilted. I don’t bounce like I used to.
We used to see each other all the time, at birthday parties and holidays. Then they grew up. You don’t go to your cousin’s birthday party when you’re in college studying for exams.
Family parties pause between generations.
Tonight is like being at a birthday party, or on Long Beach Island. Instead of swim trunks, there are suits and ties and evening dresses.
They’re still cousins having the time of their lives together. But watching them all at this age is like being in a dream. They’re so beautiful.
I know very few songs on the playlist, but they know all of them. It’s a joy explosion. This is exactly what a wedding reception should be like.
Well done, I think to myself. Samantha and John knew what they were doing when they planned it.
In an act of extraordinary generosity, the bride and groom invited both of my brothers to the wedding, their wives, and the kids of my youngest brother, who they know well.
Both my stepsons took several trips to Virginia with me.
Once, when we were all going to Virginia Beach, my sister-in-law Julie and I took the kids to Jamestown first.
I went to Jamestown as a kid on a field trip. It’s the hottest, most humid place on earth. I say this as someone who once was in Orlando in August, and southeast Texas in July.
It’s not a mystery why the colony of Jamestown was almost wiped out. Between the preternatural heat, mosquitos, and those absurd Puritan outfits, it’s amazing any lasted as long as they did.
I have a photo of all four kids that day standing on a replica of a tall ship. They look out at the camera, smiling, cherubic pirates.
Jamestown is still hot.
On this day, Julie, a nurse, noticed my nephew Mac was showing signs of a heat stroke. She picked him up and started running to the air-conditioned museum, which seemed a half mile away.
Mac was not a small child. He and his sister were two of the biggest babies the world has ever seen. If you took one look at them as toddlers, you’d be convinced they were headed to a lifetime of morbid obesity.
But baby fat is a thing. By the time they started school, they easily fit into a regular size.
I could not believe Julie could run in the heat, much less carrying the world’s most rotund toddler.
I walked with the rest of the kids, following them. When we got to the blessedly cool museum, Mac was splayed out on the carpet, his body temperature returning to normal.
Now he and I are sitting on the sidelines of the wedding, talking about the importance of sourcing news stories. I tell him I learned to do it in 2016, when I was hearing incredible things about Hillary Clinton out of the mouths of intelligent people.
The conversation cheers me. Young men in his demographic are, like the rest of us, targeted by political campaigns. Mac is highly intelligent, and I remind him of something I told him years ago, even more true today.
When his dad and I went to the library as kids, we chose what books we wanted to read based on our own curiosity and interests.
Most of what he sees online has been chosen for him.
My mother-in-law Barbara and I skip the professional hair and makeup event held in the bridal suite. She and I get blowouts at 10:30, then drive to my brother’s Airbnb.
My niece Kindred has been drafted as our makeup artist. She has her tools of the trade on a clean towel, waiting for us. She does a stellar job of it. We’re both so pleased.
I’ve never been more well-groomed. My hair is blown out and newly cut. Kindred’s makeup magic took ten years off my dewy face.
Earlier in the week I had a lash lift (perm). It was terrifying, and although I like the results, I don’t know if I’ll go through 30 minutes wondering if I’ll be permanently blinded again.
My eyebrows are waxed and tinted. My pedicured feet have navy-blue nails, matching my shoes which tie with blue satin bows.
I even got manicured nails put on my hands, which for me is an anomaly.
Long nails are the high-heeled shoes of the hands. I don’t know how women stand them; I always clip mine down to the nub. I hate the feeling of both long nails and polish. And yet here I am with perfectly presented hands and nails.
I’m feeling as elegant as I ever will. After I put on my outrageously expensive dress, I ask my brother Sam to take a photo of me in my finery.
Sam frames the photo so it catches Mac, sleeping in the grass behind me. He grins after he takes it.
“This is a good one,” he says. “Send it to me, please.”
He gives me my phone.
I’m smiling and resplendent with what looks like a dead body in the background.
I do love my brothers. We’re three peas in a pod.
When we walk into the reception venue, there is a long table with votive candles. On it are many photos of people close to the bride and groom who’ve died; they’ve made a memorial to them.
When the kids were young, we visited my late mother, Bettie. They loved her and the old house in Virginia, spending hours with their dad and a metal detector in the yard.
Initially the boys called her Betty Spaghetti, named after a doll popular at the time. But my mother had a machete hanging from the wall in her dining room. They were unused to grandmothers with weaponry, and soon gave her the perfect moniker:
Bettie Machete.
There has never been anyone so aptly named as Bettie Machete.
Up front is my favorite photo of my mother and father. They’re at a picnic table. It’s obvious he’s just said some smart remark; he’s laughing, she’s giving him what for.
The label reads,
Bettie Grey “Bettie Machete” and David Grey.
It is 9:30 pm, and I’m watching my 87-year-old mother-in-law on the dance floor.
Surely, she’s tired now. It must be time to take her home.
Barbara will be known forever after as Dancing Queen. We got here around 2:00, the wedding started at 4:00, and she’s been dancing for two hours straight. If I’m this exhausted, she must be bone tired.
Still dancing.
I make an executive decision. We’ve been here a long time, after a late night rehearsal party. Time for Barbara and me to go home. My husband can stay if he likes.
We’ve been in two cars all weekend. Due to photo calls, hair appointments, makeup jobs, and about eleven other things, he has been going solo and I’ve been with her. She’s spending two nights at our house, so we don’t have to keep picking her up. The wedding and all our homes are in the same county, but it’s a very big county. The drive back to our house is forty minutes.
It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out I’m using Barbara as an excuse to exit.
This wedding could not have been lovelier. Truly. They did a spectacular job in both planning and execution. I was surrounded by family I rarely see, and everyone was in fine form and looking great.
Many different times, I was genuinely moved.
But I’m a solitary soul, a curmudgeon who works alone. Being around so many people for three days straight is a reach for me, no matter how much I love them.
Being around a lot of people in an evening gown, high heels, and manicured nails is unchartered territory. I feel like I’m on a different planet.
Both of my brothers and their families have said their goodbyes, back to Richmond and Atlanta tomorrow.
I am virtually comatose from exhaustion. My lower back feels like peanut brittle. If I move a fraction of an inch, I’m in danger of breaking.
I feel very virtuous that I kept my shoes on so long. They’re pretty in their dark blue satin heels. My feet look like little presents, and my matching navy toenails are witchy, Kindred says.
I’ve stayed dressed like a real grownup. But I’ve had it with wearing glamorous clothes. I go out to the car and trade the bows for the red satin Chinese Vans the bride and groom got me for Christmas several years ago.
When I opened the box that Christmas morning, Johnny said to me,
“Yeah, I saw these and thought, ‘I can just picture Liz standing outside, wearing these and her big white coat, smoking a cigarette.’”
His vision of me in the shoes still makes me laugh. Both stepsons know me well.
As I walk back to the Yacht Club, my body thanks me. High heels are torture. I should have taken them off ages ago. Maybe I would have danced all night, like Barbara.
I say my goodbyes, telling everyone it’s time to take Barbara home.
I catch Samantha and John giving a little speech before their after-party. I tell myself if it’s after-party time, I can definitely leave.
I say to Barbara,
“I’m going now, do you want to come with me…”
She says quickly,
“I’ll stay.”
As I say goodnight to the mother of the groom, I mention Barbara is staying. Bonnie says,
“Well, you know, her brothers are both here from out of town.”
I sure do.
And soon, I’ll be Barbara, and someone younger will be in charge of me.
I better do what I want while I can. I have neither her stamina nor her dance moves.
I sure wish I was there to witness evrything you described. Dress is fabulous as are the shoes...AND THE TOES!!!
Miss you!
Mulvey