Divisions and Precisions

I Didn't

Where were you eight years ago today?

"I was young and foolish then, I feel old and foolish now."
-- "Lucky Ball and Chain", They Might Be Giants

July 27, 1991. Brighton, Michigan. Right about now, in fact, I was in one of the upstairs classrooms at the Brighton Church of Christ, having the ultimate slumber party fantasy. I was getting dressed for my wedding along with my bridesmaids Sheri, Dawn, Dana and Sharon. We were giggly and slightly ribald with each other, a virgin bride and her more experienced bridesmaids. I don't remember being nervous. I remember wanting everything to look just so. My nails and hair I'd left to professionals, but I was determined to do my makeup myself. I remember being anxious to put my dress on, and the veil, wanting to see exactly what the end result would be. Never mind that I'd done a full dress rehearsal of it all a week prior. Dress rehearsal. It's odd, but in a way, getting ready for my wedding was remarkably similar to getting ready for all the plays I'd been in. Only this time, I was the star of the show.

There were, of course, somewhat more somber moments. Brian came upstairs at one point, dressed in his tux. It was shortly after I'd put my dress on. We spent a moment just smiling at each other. As always, if anybody understood my thoughts right about then, it was Brian. Or maybe it was just that neither of us needed to speak. My bridesmaids, which included two of my best friends from high school, a college roommate and my cousin (who's more like a sister), understood how I felt, but Brian (the one just to my left) knew my mind. I think we said something appropriately serious and nostalgic, but that didn't matter. We said what really needed to be said when we were smiling at each other.

Once we were all dressed, we went outside to take pictures in front of the church. Of course, Gary and I didn't go out at the same time. We did it in shifts, all the pictures of me and everyone but the groom, then all the pictures of him and everyone but the bride. There are times when I adore Michigan in the summer. That day was one of those times. Maybe memory is coloring it slightly, but it was as picture perfect a day as any bride could have wanted. Sunny, not too hot, fluffy clouds in the sky, a nice breeze. My mom and I threatened to get weepy with each other, although I can't remember if either of us mentioned my dad. One of us must have, because I remember feeling like he was there watching. Then it was back upstairs with me to wait.

The wedding was late in getting started. Aren't weddings always? I paced in the hallway outside the auditorium, listening to the last of the taped music I selected. (Everything had to be taped, by the way. The Church of Christ is against instrumental music in worship. I almost wasn't even allowed to use taped instrumental music.) Now I was starting to get nervous. Why wasn't the march starting? Steve, a friend of mine who was running the music started playing something that I hadn't chosen, to fill time. Finally our parents and grandparents were seated, and the music started. "Spring" from Vivaldi's Four Seasons. That was for the bridesmaids. I stood next to Pat Smith, an old friend of my father's, holding his arm and listening. Sheri, my matron of honor, was the last one to go down the aisle. Sheri (the one immediately behind Gary) and I have grown up together. We played together from the time I was born, got in trouble together at family gatherings, got in more trouble as teenagers. I was in her wedding too. Before she started her walk, she turned and gave me a look. She looked so serious, I knew she would end up crying before she even got halfway down the aisle. So I stuck my tongue out at her. She gave me a mock look of shock, but grinned. Mission accomplished. Of course, we mistimed it and the music ran out before she got all the way down the aisle, but that's okay.



A hush in the auditorium now. The music started. Not the traditional wedding march. Very little about my wedding music was strictly traditional. Instead it was a piece by Michael Kamen, from the soundtrack to Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves. That movie was very big that summer, at least to me. The piece, called "Maid Marian", started out quiet, almost expectant, a whisper of strings and flute. Gradually, people stood up, realizing that this music was for me. I had coached Pat on exactly how we were to walk down the aisle, timed to the music, step-together, step-together. Through my veil, I could see everyone smiling at me. It was like looking at the world through a soft-focus lens. At the end of the aisle, Gary waited. I can't remember what he looked like at that moment.

The timing was perfect. I reached my mother's row just as the music reached its climax. Hidden in my bouquet of pink carnations and white roses were two loose carnations. I stopped and surprised my mom by pulling one of the carnations out and giving it to her, along with a hug. Then I turned and faced my groom.

I have so many mixed feelings, looking back and thinking about Gary. We were so young. I was just barely nineteen and he was twenty-two. I don't think either of us ever looked at anyone else for the rest of the ceremony. Jeff Rich was the minister, and (I'm sorry to say) typical of most Church of Christ ministers, he used my wedding as an opportunity to try and convert any non-believers in the audience. It was a full-fledged sermon, and my feet were getting numb in my shoes. Finally though, we exchanged our vows. We had them memorized beforehand, so we could speak them to each other rather than repeating them. They were fairly traditional. Too traditional, given my bridesmaids' reactions at the rehearsal. Yes it's true. I used the word 'obey'. I'd be given cause to regret that later, but that's a matter for another entry.

Unity candle. The music was "Ubi Caritas", a motet by Maurice Durufle`. The idea, if you've never seen this particular ceremony, is that the bride and groom jointly light a center pillar candle with two separate taper candles. Then the tapers are blown out, symbolizing two becoming one. In theory, at least. Now... as lovely an idea as this is, it doesn't allow for certain things, like shaking hands and uncooperative candles. We managed to pry the candles from their holders, and light the center candle. I was very careful to keep my lit candle away from the front of my veil. Wait a minute. My veil was still down. That was the plan, of course, I had wanted Gary to be the one to lift my veil. What I hadn't foreseen was the difficulty in blowing out a candle with a veil on without setting myself on fire. After a moment of panic, Gary and I put the tapers back in place, still lit.

Here, memory fails me a bit. I know what happened, but not the order. Gary and I sang a duet then next, for sure. "To Me", originally done by Lee Greenwood and Barbra Mandrell. (Yes, I sang country, and I'm telling you about it. I have no pride.) I found out later that everyone cried when we sang together. "No road is too long, as long as you belong to me.." Somewhat cheesy, but romantic nonetheless. We exchanged rings. Then he sang to me.

A side note here. When Gary and I first met, we had a conversation once about things we'd always wanted to do. He said that since he was thirteen, he'd planned to write a song for his wedding day, and the first time anyone would hear it would be when he sang it to his bride at the wedding. He did just that. The song was called "This Day", and it was done in Gary's trademark Elton John/Billy Joel style. Anyone who didn't cry during our duet cried at that. Except for me. I just remember being dazed. I came close to crying at the end, when he knelt and took my hand.

That was it. A few more words, a kiss, Bach's Sleepers, Awake! filling the air. I was no longer Lisa Bentley, no longer the me I had known for nineteen years. I paused to give my new mother-in-law the second carnation, then down the aisle we went again. The receiving line was a chaotic, cheerful, informal thing, with all our friends making off-color jokes and all our relatives looking shocked. The reception I remember hardly at all, except that the best man (Gary's brother Joseph) and Brian and a few of the other guys in the wedding party all tried to sing Monty Python's "Lumberjack Song" while we were cutting the cake. They forgot the words and ended up grinning sheepishly. I was tired and cranky and was ready to stop being the center of everyone's attention. Gary and I got into a fight just after cutting the cake.

In complete honesty, the wedding was the last perfect part of my marriage to Gary. Weddings are beginnings, its true, but they shouldn't be the beginning of the end. Three years, one month and twenty days later, I was in Martin, Tennessee loading a few belongings into a 1992 Ford Festiva and saying goodbye. I imagine one month and twenty days from now, on September 16th, I'll be writing about that in more detail.

I thought I'd be more snarky about all of this. Instead, I've been nostalgic, almost. I feel like I've given myself a glimpse of me at nineteen, eight years ago. Eight years. I'm not really even the same person anymore. My dreams have changed. My beliefs have changed. I was so innocent then. It's hard for me to even see the seeds of the woman I am now in the girl I was on that day, clutching a bouquet and trying to play my part as perfectly as I knew how. That girl, with the flowers and the lace and the dreams, she had fires and darkness to walk through before she could start to grow up. She did it though. On most days, I'm proud of her.