by Medusa
© 2001 B. Howard, all rights reserved
She is a Catholic from a tiny town in Italy. He is a good old boy from one of those square western states. Her son, an acquaintance of mine, divides his time between tossing Bible verses at innocent bystanders, sewing, and trying to throw his virginity at any girl who can bake a good cheesecake.Separately, these people have some eccentric ideas. Together, they are terrifying. They invited me to the wedding.
The ceremony, attended by dozens of traditional conservative types, took place in a halfway house, run by the honored couple. Where they hid all the junkies, I don't know. The reception table overflowed with such culinary delights as lasagna, ham-and-cheese sandwiches, jello and jumbalaya. And of course, those little party mints everybody loves. The place was wonderfully decorated. It looked like a halfway house, pretending to be a synagogue.
I arranged my expression into something I hoped was solemn as I took my seat in the back of the (sanctuary?) room. I glanced behind me as others took thier seats. A woman, middle-aged, dressed in a conservative beige dress stood behind me clutching a six foot long piece of wood. I did a not very solemn double-take at her. It was one of those horns that goat-herders allegedly use in the Alps. A woman in another corner held the same type of instument. Then, the bride's son, standing at the alter, picked up a goat horn of his own. Instead of "Here Comes the Bride", there was a low-pitched moan of what sounded like a moose in heat in my left ear. The tiny lady across the room took up the call as the bride marched down the aisle to the waiting groom. The noise of the horns swelled until I didn't know whether to cover my ears or try to lock horns with the person sitting next to me. Then, silence, as the bride's son - a big guy - smiled at his mother, raised his horn to his lips, and blew. That noise resembled a ferret's sneeze.
The remainder of the ceremony, I spent with my handkerchief over most of my face, hoping the tears in my eyes would be construed as suppressed emotion. The elderly Jewish couple in front of me occasionally glared at the mirth in my eyes, and when the best man accidentally caught my eye a few times, his face would twitch.
The wedding went well. It was interesting, and I did finally manage to maintain my composure. Until the call went out for the bouquet-tossing. "All you single ladies, you'll have the chance for a beautiful wedding of your own."
I fled.
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