Summer time...

My wife and I went to a wedding Saturday night. It was lakeside. It was warm and summery, the end of June. Friends and family sat in folding chairs looking out over the water. Wedding helpers rolled out the equivalent of a red carpet on the grassy aisle between the two groups of chairs. It was a thin, white cloth walkway, very floaty, and it was a big challenge for the bridesmaids to navigate with their high heels. The bridesmaids leaned just a little on the arms of the groomsmen, stepped as lightly as deer, and even though the gossamer wrinkled and tried to snag the unwary, they all walked the walk without accident. Whew! The groom arrived in a canoe paddled by his two best men. He stepped out of the boat, teetered for a split second between water and dock, recovered smoothly, and strode toward the flower-draped arbor where the ceremony soon commenced with the arrival of the bride. I watched these two attractive, bright-eyed, smiling young people, I listened to the officiant's well-spoken words about love and happiness and relationship, and I felt the way I always do at these moments--like someone has just plucked a guitar string attached to my heart and tuned it to the people around me. And I hadn't even drunk a beer at this point, I swear.
After a lovely ceremony that reminded us of just how wonderful marriage can be when two people cherish each other, that ended with the bride and groom's pledges to each other, the festivities began. I did wrap my fingers around a beer at this point and thought about what to do next. Should I talk with my wife and a group of old friends already engaged in conversation or should I "mingle?" Mingling is, I'm guessing, not the first choice for many of us. It's not mine (or it never used to be). Sometimes, like Saturday night, that's just why I do it. I walked up to a group of about seven people standing by the lake talking like they knew each other well. They looked to be in their twenties or thirties. I am sixty-three. "Hi," I said. "I decided to walk up to a group of complete strangers and say hello. My name is Alec." Introductions followed. Then one of them asked, "How are you connected to the bride or groom?" "I'm not," I replied. "I'm crashing the party."
Fortunately, I had sized them up correctly. They were young and full of life, and this was funny, especially when--after a drawing out the comic moment--I reassured them that I was joking. In no time at all I was telling them a story about myself (the one about hitchhiking to Arizona when I was eighteen), and asking them for their own stories. Soon, we were all at ease, getting to know each other, and having fun. When my wife and I ventured out on the dance floor later, these new young friends made us feel right at home.
We danced and danced like we were still kids, and we were--at least, until the next morning. We danced to the B-52's "Love Shack" which is the nickname someone once gave our humble home in the Vermont woods. We danced to Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock and Roll" and we danced to new music I've never heard of because--I'm sorry to confess it--I sort of stopped listening to new music after the eighties. Near the end of the evening, the DJ lined the women up on one side and the men on the other, and we danced down the lane, a couple at a time, in a "soul train." Finally, Denise requested Mustang Sally, and we danced our last dance at the wedding.
The night was not over, however. As we passed by the bar upstairs, a live band of "old guys" (our age) was playing Mustang Sally--deja vu! I went to the men's room quickly, and when I rejoined Denise, she said two guys had started dancing with her as soon as she stepped onto the dance floor. Made her feel pretty good! We danced in the bar until they switched to Richie Valens' "Oh, Donna" which was too slow. We got permission from the desk clerk to park our pull-behind camper in the resort's parking lot across the street, and then we drove a minute down the road to the town's public beach and went skinny dipping, a necessary preparation for bed because I, for one, had engaged in the act of perspiration. We finally dropped into bed with satisfied sighs a little before midnight, listened to the rain just pattering on the roof, and drifted off to the mysterious land of dreams.
Probably by now, you are wondering about the point of this particular blog. I am too, but I'm not going to dig too deep for this one. I think it's as simple as this. Moments come when we are reminded of how ephemeral life is, and we are reminded of how sweet life is in spite of whatever hardships we meet and suffer through. A summer wedding is an especially sweet reminder. Seeing the bloom and beauty and joy of youth, and feeling deliciously alive on a summer night with fireflies sparking and wine flowing and friends cavorting... well, it just twangs that guitar string inside me and makes it sing.