WEDDING NIGHT BLUES
By Sue-Ellen Sanders
It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.
But, on my wedding night, as the drenching rain soaked
through my ecru lace wedding gown and my carefully coiffed hair wilted against
the storm, I was running through the backyards of my neighbors, crying,
calling, “Honey! Honey, come back.”
I could feel them behind their curtains, staring, wondering
how what was supposed to be the best night of my life, had turned out so badly.
I imagined how my carefully applied make-up was probably giving me raccoon eyes
and wondered if the grass stains would come out of the bottom of my once-lovely
gown.
“HONEY,” I was almost screaming now. “Honey, please come
back! Please!” I could feel their pitying eyes, as my pleas became more desperate
and the rain pounded down on my back.
HONEY!
It was just after midnight on our wedding day.
……
It would all work out; I was married, now. The minister had
declared us husband and wife much earlier that evening, before 5 pm, outside
the small Baptist church where my betrothed had once attended Sunday School
classes.
The wedding vows had been fairly short, but the typical
Florida summer rain had started its drizzle before we even left the church.
“It’s good luck when it rains on your wedding day,” everyone was telling me,
and each other, as we tried to dodge the rain, at least until we got to the
hotel where the reception would begin and where the majority of the wedding
photos would be taken. I’m not sure if
it’s an old wives’ tale or just because people feel sorry for the bride who has
to deal with rain on her wedding day.
We made it through the vows and when my husband-to-be gazed
at me, there were tears in his eyes. Tears of joy, I assumed. There was a brief
moment of concern, when we were lighting the unity candle and I caught my veil
on fire, but quick action by my betrothed smothered it out and I don’t think
most of the guests even noticed.
The reception was a glorious gathering of our closest
friends and relatives, with an open bar. We made the rounds of the tables,
danced to deejay’s tunes that we had pre-selected together and then laughed and
cried as we got ready to leave.
My bridesmaids had loaded my car with boxed gifts, cards and
we planned to drop them by my house—now, our house—before we went to the hotel
where we would be spending our wedding night. Our flight out to San Francisco
wasn’t until afternoon the next day and a honeymoon in the wine country. I
looked forward to sleeping in through the morning.
The house was only 5 minutes away from the lovely
turn-of-the-century hotel where we’d hosted the reception, so we figured we’d
leave the gifts there and take my dog out. That would hold the little
Australian Shepherd until the next morning, when my friends were coming to take
her to their house.
I unlocked the front door and held it open, as my husband
carried in a balanced load of boxes,
wrapped in glittery white and silver
wraps. As I stood in the doorway, in a flash the honey-colored shepherd dashed
past us, into the rain.
By the time we put the gifts on the dining room table and
ran after her, the dog was gone, running free throughout the neighborhood. She
was no where to be found. And that’s why my husband and I spent the first hour
after our wedding reception, shortly after midnight, tired, wet and more than slightly drunk,
running around the neighborhood, calling desperately for the dog named Honey.
We finally cornered her, filthy and wet, and smelling- well,
like wet dog—and brought her back into the house, wiping her down with a towel
as best we could. Then, we went on to our hotel and the next day, flew off to
our honeymoon.
But from the time we began our married life in the little
Lake Worth neighborhood where I owned my first house, until when we moved
together, along with the dog, an hour north to Port St. Lucie, I imagined I
could feel the pitying eyes of the neighbors, who probably still imagined that
I was chasing my new husband that rainy wedding night.
