Somewhere, in a long-forgotten book in some dusty corner of a decrepit building in a burned out city, there is a sentence that says vacations are supposed to be restful. And someone is going to a lot of trouble to make sure I can’t find that sentence.
Last week, starting very early on 3 August, I flew to Ontario. As luck would have it, I was on the same red-eye flight with my cousin Pam and her beau, Sean. Normally, this would be reason for celebration, but flying red-eye basically means you sleep the whole way. And believe me, sleeping is far easier with leather seats.
Yes, leather. I don’t know what’s gotten into WestJet, but at least one of their planes has leather seats. Not just one. Not just a few. All of the seats. The only downer: The ones backing onto the emergency exit rows don’t recline. (I found out the hard way.)
You’re probably wondering what I was doing on a red-eye flight given my dislike for them, but it came down to an issue of price. Red-eyes are cheap. And with leather seats, I might be doing more red-eyes in the future.
This was the first time I flew into Pearson on WestJet, and I reminded myself yet again why I hate that airport. It’s too slow. Cathy was circling for over 20 minutes before hearing from me. I told her to park — I was going to be a while longer.
Bags in hand, Cathy and I headed to Oakville. Pam and Sean disappeared to Stratford. We wouldn’t see them again until the following Friday. Arriving home, my mother welcomed me at the door, and I made a beeline for the bed.
Leather seats or not, I didn’t get enough sleep.
The Saturday, Sunday, and Monday were filled with various wedding-related tasks, not the least of which was picking things up, dropping things off, and getting things organized. (Yeah, real vague, I know, but I’d be writing an entire log entry just on that stuff alone.)
Oh, whose wedding, you ask? I’ll give you a hint: Not mine.
After a long wait, my sister’s beau, Craig, finally proposed to her on Christmas morning, making not only Cathy very happy, but the rest of my family as well. And after almost eight long months of waiting, it was time for the happy day to arrive.
I had originally come out to Ontario a week in advance to help out with all the little last-minute details that I expected would crop up. But unbeknownst to me, events would transpire that would change the course of my week.
Details on that in a following log, of course.
Suffice to say, come Tuesday, I was no longer in Oakville. Instead, I spent a lot of time at the CBC head office on Front Street, working for my friend Brenda. That sucked up pretty much every spare second I had for four days, although I did manage to leave at a somewhat "respectable" hour on Thursday to return home for dinner (the family invasion formally began that evening) and early on Friday (for obvious reasons).
But even on Saturday morning, we didn’t get a chance to slow down. It was go-go-go from the moment my alarm went off at 8:00am. The first task for me was to get Craig and Dave (Craig’s best man) over to the barber so we could get our haircut. (Mine was looking something like a floor mop.)
Craig and Dave were the first ones up, disposing of their excess locks. Completed, they disappeared off to Craig and Cathy’s house to await orders. My turn. So in addition to looking respectable again (yeah, tough as that might sound), I also had a shave. A real one. With a straight razor. Luckily, Sandy is one of the best barbers in Ontario; certainly the best I’ve ever had. I had complete faith in him not to slice something off.
I should point out that I’ve never had a shave with anything but an electric razor. So my skin is quite sensitive. Sandy had to shave me twice to prevent slicing me open. But he did a good job — even by 11pm, I hadn’t grown much of a beard back, and I grow fast.
Following the shave was some chores around the house — mostly moving things. (Aunt Ruth was madly preparing flowers, which needed placing; Aunt Karen brought a light trellis that needed assembling; and flowers all over the place needed watering.) And somewhere in all that, I ran to the grocery store to stock up on almost $80 in Clamato and orange juice.
After a quick bolt through the shower, I rode over to pick up Craig and Dave. They were dressed in their finest, ready for the show. I piled them into the minivan, and hauled them back to the Sowrey homestead. People had started to arrive, though it was mostly family. But you could hear the Great Engine beginning to turn over...
Inside, people were officially going crazy. Mom was getting dressed, Cathy was talking with everyone, the caterers were running around ... I almost felt like I was in a Keystone Cops short. But it was time for myself to get dressed. Unlike Craig and Dave, though, I would not be wearing a tux. Cathy had made one request: Wear Dad’s kilt.
When Dad had been diagnosed with brain cancer, he had been told he had a year to live. All he wanted to know was if he would live to see his daughter’s wedding. When he passed away in March, there was a hole that needed filling.
Instead of Dad, it would be I who would walk Cathy down the aisle. And she was only walking down it if there was someone next to her wearing Dad’s kilt. Luckily for me, it fit, albeit a little tight and very warm in that mid-August heat.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I did not wear it regimental style. (That means sans undergarments.) Why? Well, originally I was going to, but then I remembered all the troublemakers C&C had invited to the party, and suddenly I wasn’t really filled with a great deal of confidence about their abilities to remain mature. (I was right, too. Cathy’s boss shoved one of the disposable cameras under my kilt while we were engaged in group photos.)
The minister arrived and gave the "pep" talks with Craig and Cathy (independently — Cathy forbade Craig to see her prior to the ceremony). There was no practice ceremony — C&C (as we in the family refer to them) like flying by the seat of their pants.
After running around for about 20 minutes, Cathy finally pronounced she was ready. The minister pronounced he was ready. (I don’t think Craig had a choice.) It was time. The music was cued, and Cathy went out the front door.
The guests waited in the backyard. Cathy, Julie, and I walked to the side. Julie took a deep breath, and then walked through the gate to the snapping of shutters. We’d been told to give Julie lots of room before coming in. Dramatic pause, dawdling, psychological torture, call it what you will. Right up until we started walking in, arm in arm, Cathy had been cool and collected. The second we rounded that corner, she couldn’t stop shaking.
I felt a little guilty. This was Cathy’s big day, and I was sharing the limelight with her. At first, I was just walking my sister. But after a few moments, it suddenly became real. Like someone had wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror. To say the feeling was overwhelming is like suggesting a hurricane is a light breeze. It took everything I had not to cry.
Once Cathy was next to Craig, the ceremony started to take shape, and things went quickly. True to their word, it lasted only 20 minutes before the legalities were over, and the new Mr. and Mrs. were presented to the assembly. Many pictures ensued.
After they ceremoniously walked out as husband and wife (returning after a few photos on the front lawn), came the toast to the couple. Huntsville Dave would be the speaker, a neighbour of C&C at their cottage. He, like the rest of the ceremony, spoke without a script, and without a clue about what he was going to say before it was said.
(A note on Daves. C&C seem to know a lot of them. Too many, as a matter of fact. So many, that they all have qualifiers, usually denoting where they live: Huntsville, Scarborough, Ainsville, Oakville, and so forth.)
As the speech finished, I quickly ducked inside to take off the jacket to the kilt. Although I would later learn that it is customary to keep your jacket on until the groom removes his, I was wearing something designed for winter conditions. With all due deference to my new brother-in-law, I was dying in that thing.
Shortly after, we gathered the families, and went for the photographs. Cameras were everywhere. We were lucky that it was bright enough that most didn’t use flashes. I can only imagine the bright spots I would have seen.
While this was going on, the catering staff had opened the bar, and people not taking pictures (or being in them) had started to mingle. Hors d’oeurves were shortly followed, and quickly eaten. There was laughter, music, food, and drink. No-one, as far as I can tell, had a bad time.
The finger foods soon gave way to more "formal" foods: seafood (raw oysters, lox, shrimp), sushi, and roast beef on a bun. Yeah, doesn’t sound too fancy, but then the food should fit the couple. (I’m not saying C&C aren’t fancy, but they’re not pretentious.) And for the record, I’ve never had buffet-style roast beef that good before.
After a while, the speeches started. Cathy had hit upon the idea of using an old family gong to get people’s attention when words were to be said, and people to expect a kiss from the bride and groom. The first few were tame (even with a rather emotional speech from Cathy’s boss), but they got more interesting as the evening wore on.
The one that really surprised us was Julie’s husband, Dave. He’s a great guy, just not usually talkative. We were floored when he got up in front of 90-odd people to extol the virtues of his friends. (We were even more floored with his impassioned interpretation of the Village People’s "YMCA" later on.)
And somewhere in there, was my speech. But this wasn’t to C&C, it was on behalf of the family to everyone else. It was thanks for the effort and trouble people had to go through to come, some from as far as Anguilla and Vancouver. (Even Gerry and Sam dropped in for a while, who live in Bermuda. Although they were in the area for other reasons.) When it came time to end my speech, I needed a something interesting, funny, and appropriate. So naturally, I drew a blank.
I think that’s when Dad stepped in. Before I knew it, this is what I’d said:
"And if you should find that something is missing here tonight, please do not hesitate to let us know. We’ll make sure that you get so drunk that you won’t remember."
Dad had definitely made it to the wedding.
It wasn’t long before it was time for the first dance. Craig used to teach dance at Arthur Murray, so we all expected quite a show. Unfortunately, he hadn’t had a chance to teach Cathy yet. But it was still something out of a fairy tale to watch.
Following the dance, it was time to dance with the parents. I was to fill in for Dad. However, we had a slight change in plans, when Don stepped instead. Don is virtually a surrogate father for Cathy and I — we’ve known him that long. I think Cathy was a little concerned that I felt pushed out in favour of Don, but I think there was no better person for the job.
Besides, I can’t dance.
Admittedly, the rest of the evening gets a little hazy from there. About 11:00 or so, I made the mistake of switching from beer to wine, although I don’t know why. So come about 2:00am, I was apparently incapable of independent vertical alignment, nor could annunciate baby gibberish, let alone a coherent sentence. And I would pay dearly for it the next morning.
Which began at about 10:00am. We had to get ready for the lunch with family, as many of them would be taking off for home again. This also gave C&C time to unwrap the presents they received the night before.
The barbecue billowed smoke from all the hamburgers, the pot boiled corn, and we ate to our hearts’ content. It was a good day, following a great night. And the hilarity around the presents made it even better.
The single best one, in my opinion, was from the Navis family, an old family friend. They gave C&C a poem, on which was a series of instructions on how to build a fence. Each step corresponded to a numbered envelope, which contained a series of gift certificates representative of that step (e.g. coffee, wood, beer, and dinner). And to top it off, his and her hammers and pint beer mugs.
That night, we sat in the back yard, and listened to the crickets, the wind through the trees, and the complete lack of any semblance of traffic or other noises. As Don, another old family friend remarked, it was the end of an era. His era was the end of comfortable backyards. Mine was different. It was the end of the neighbourhood as I knew it. It would be the last night for me next to the pool. The last meal was Chinese. The last swim had been with my cousin, Jen. It would be the last night I slept in the house that I was raised in.
But no amount of sombreness would diminish the happiness of the previous days’ events. The wedding had been more than Cathy could have dreamed for. She and Craig were now readying for a week at their cottage to spend some much needed time relaxing. We would all be happy with the way things went, and with the way things would go.
Even with the killer hangover that I think I’ve still got.