Admirably wheel chair assisted through airport checkpoints, equipped with doctors’ permission, a few weekends ago, I attended a family reunion in England. The occasion was the wedding of a nephew. Generations of relatives were present, some of whom previously had been only names to me, as I to them. Facial resemblances were remarkably easy to trace through the ages. So many variations on a theme.
The marriage ceremony was a glorious, sunny affair with a breeze just gusting enough to cause the unwary to grab at their hats – marvelous creations – to clamp them more firmly on their heads. The wedding reception was held in my nephew’s boatyard constructed out of his own sweat and vision on a wedge of meadow land beside the Grand Union Canal. With the dedicated love of a craftsman, there he builds and restores wooden narrow boats.
For this grand occasion the yard had been converted into a country show ground with bales of straw, festoon lights, and traditional, fairground games each with its own tastefully, hand painted sign. One of the oldest barges on site served as fitting backdrop for the wedding bands that joyously belted out a meld of nostalgia and current pop. Boogie for all. The wedding was a celebration of work accomplished so far. A pause for breath. A harvest home.
More than that – studiously ignoring Dr. Pangloss and Polyanna both - for me the wedding seemed, also, to enable for one delightful day a marriage of minds of good intent; the mutual well wishing and warm heartedness of a group of quite disparate people - age, background, life experiences. An unconscious (perhaps), generous, reciprocated acceptance. No sly looks, barbed comments. This wedding was a veritable communion.
With all my heart I wish the married couple and their enterprise well.