You laugh as the table is cleared away and

we sit talking with the others.

You laugh, a little at first as you set down your glass,

then your head back to great unselfconscious

laughter, mouth open, smiling, eyes closed,

and your head goes back again to laugh.

I see all at once you and

the little girl you were in yellow curls

the woman tonight with hair of fire

the lady you will become

long hair flowing gray and up in a loose bun.

All of you laugh together and it is like

the surf that pulses the shore across the balcony and

rolls into crashing white spray

and rises up in the clear night

and falls again as drops of rain

at the top of a tall mountain

and trickles back down to the forest

where a boy who already unknowingly loves you

stands at the edge of the laughter

and enters and climbs all the way to the man

tonight who measures his breath

on your fingers around his hand

that you squeeze gently as you talk

and keeps climbing into the old man who will stoop down

as you laugh in the room of a lived-in house

and kiss the back of your neck beneath the gray bun,

and has already loved you his whole life.

………………………………………………………

I don’t talk much during the dinner

but smile and nod and someone asks

if I am sleepy though I am not and

you say you have to get me home

and outside you say, What?

and you smile and pull my hand and say

Why are you looking at me like that?

and I can only think to say,

I love your laugh.

I took her to climb my favorite mountain in the world.  We drove 12 straight hours to get there, singing all the way to Kings of Leon and Waylon Jennings, and parked at the end of a washed-out gravel road.

She was ahead of me into the rocks, past boulders bigger than a house, past the Indian cave paintings, back and forth along the switchbacks, always ascending, steady under her pack.  We crossed an alpine meadow with yellow grass and on the far side a line of white-trunked birch trees, and after the birch trees vistas opened to the heat-shimmering desert below.

The last part of that mountain is a hand over hand climb up the steep northern slope.  We pulled ourselves to the very top and the cold wind washed over us and the sun poured down and the limitless world stretched green and gold in all directions beneath a hazy blue.

I was as nervous as I’ve ever been, and told her my ruse:  that hidden somewhere on this peak is a small white container with a sign-in sheet, and it has the signatures of everyone who had ever climbed the mountain, and did she want to sign it?

She searched the peak, hardly bigger than a kitchen floor, turning over the rocks and long flat stones.  Finally she found it, deep in a crevice, the dusty old PVC pipe case I had made and buried there.  She took the cap off, and there was not a sign-in sheet, but a note, in my handwriting, that said,

Marry me, Kayla, you, the other half of my heart…

She looked up from the note with the white sun blindingly behind her, and I was down on one knee with the ring, and she said yes, yes, yes.

That night, after a supper of antelope jerky and dried dates and homemade bread with wild grape jelly, we lay down under a soft thin blanket. The full moon shined above the mountains like a lantern.  She nestled closer into my shoulder and asked if I would have thrown her off the mountain, if she had said, No?

We had a surprise wedding at the farm over the weekend.

Our friends and family thought they were coming to a casual reception, until I walked out of the house in a tuxedo and gathered the guests around.  I explained that, yes, Kayla and I were married in Ireland, and we wish we could have taken everyone with us.  But we had decided from the beginning to also have a simple ceremony on the farm, to share our marriage with our loved ones, and to make it official.

We made it a surprise to save our guests from the headaches of a traditional wedding: bride’s maid’s dresses, suit jackets, wedding gifts, and all the rest. We wanted to provide only the up side; great food, great music, a great party.

Our guests sipped cocktails during the short exchange of vows; except, hopefully, during the prayer.  The dress was casual.  It was so casual that my father, who drove himself to the party on a tractor, and who stood at my side, as surprised as everyone else, wore an old t-shirt and burmuda shorts.

Kayla appeared in her beautiful white dress, and everyone knew that I am the luckiest man in the world.  I told our guests that the last time I saw Kayla in that dress, she was walking up a long winding road (the coolest thing I have ever seen) to a grass-covered cliff beside the ocean.  But that is not technically accurate.  My wife and I respected each other, in a very old-fashioned way, until our wedding night.  The last time I saw that dress, it was flying across the room of quaint little guest house.

Dr. Yandell, Kayla’s mom, who has always been there for her, walked Kayla down the aisle (across the lawn). She placed Kayla’s hand in mine and said, “I’m turning her over to you, so take good care of her,” and I will.  Later, Dr. Yandell said there was a silent clause that she could take her back anytime, but I don’t think she can legally do that.

The Menu

Our friend Karey Johnson of GLOW graciously agreed to cater the event.  Karey managed her own catering business in Europe for many years before she relocated to Rockport and opened GLOW Boat House.  GLOW is one of the finest bistro restaurants on the Gulf Coast.

We sent Karey a list of farm fresh items we would like to feature at the party:  our own sausages, chicken, tomatoes, ground pork, peppers, and etc.  We asked her to prepare them, somehow, in a theme of “Ireland” and “Greece”.  Since these two countries have the worst cuisine on the planet, you can imagine what a challenge that was.

Karey responded brilliantly with the following menu.  We called it Four String “Bangers and Mash”:

Platter of Four String Chicken Pate, Glow Bread & Balsamic Red Onion Marmalade

Rosemary & Honey Glazed Four String Sausages with Bourbon Mustard Dip

Greek Four String Meatballs with Tzatziki

Crudités Platter with Four String Vegetables, Chipotle Hummus & Grilled Eggplant

Four String Tomato Galettes with Four String Chili, Mozzarella & Basil

Four String Homemade Wheat Bread and Mesquite Pecan Shortbreads

The food was unique, interesting, and so incredibly delicious.  Fortunately, no one was bothered during the meal by the distant view of chickens and pigs whose relatives helped with the menu.

The Desserts

We asked several of our guests, wonderful bakers, to bring their favorite homemade desserts.  We didn’t want a big fancy cake, but instead wanted our guests to enjoy a variety of unique and delicious sweets prepared by our nearest and dearest.

There were carrot cakes, chocolate cakes, white wedding cakes, cookies, brownies, crème Brule, tiramisu, sweet yogurt with fruit, and more.  Just one example from the desserts:  our friend Gerlinde made an apple pie with every thin slice of apple amazingly carved into the shape of a leaf, with the ribs of a leaf carved delicately into each slice, and every slice lined on its side in a continual circle growing from the center of the pie.  My mom, ever thoughtful, saved a piece for me in the fridge, and later that night, after all the guests had gone home, I visited apple pie heaven.

The Band

Years from now, when our kids ask us why we think we’re so cool, we’re going to say, “Put it like this, children, HOBO played at our wedding.” HOBO plays high energy country music, rocked-out bluegrass, with virtuoso skill.  They have long beards like Civil War generals.  They are brilliant and funny and they write completely original songs about love and fried chicken.

They use racy language, to put it mildly, in some/most of their songs.  They asked if they should reel in the language for the wedding party.  I pointed to my Aunt P at a far table, and said, “Keep an eye on that lady.  If she looks at you over her spectacles with narrowed eyes, reel it in right away.  If she doesn’t notice, let it fly!”

If you can possibly catch a HOBO show, don’t miss it.  It’s hard to appreciate how good these guys are until you see a mosh pit develop in front of the stage to a bluegrass tune.  When the entire bar sounds off with a long wolf howl, you’ll know what I mean.

The Guests

My oldest friend, Sam, came down and helped with the party. Sam and I formed a band in junior high, and played ‘80’s cover songs when they were new, and even after 20 years of stockbrokering, he still rocks.  Kayla’s friends from kindergarten, and since, were there.  All of our family came, and our friends, old friends and new, from Rockport, Corpus, San Antonio, Austin, Dallas, California, and as far as Portland, Oregon.

Some of them arrived early to help set up the tables and chairs.  We didn’t ask them to do this; they just did.  Kayla’s cousin picked wildflowers from around the lake for the table arrangements.  I counted seven different kinds of flowers, from frog fruit to sunflowers, and we still have them in every room of the house.

Other guests kept the coolers and cattle watering troughs full of ice, for the beer and cokes.  Everyone took their dishes to the cleaning table and rinsed them.  People took down the tables, folded the chairs and stacked them by the porch, and brought in all the linens, dishes, flowers, and decorations. We didn’t ask anyone to do this work; they just did.

What’s more, we asked our guests prior to the party to please not bring gifts.  But they brought gifts anyhow:  enough cash to pay for the party and enough Lowe’s gift cards to turn this “sharecropper’s shanty” into a real shack.

Thank you, friends and family, thank you so much for sharing that special day with us.  Thank you for your presence, your prayers, your best wishes, the desserts, and all the other gifts.  Thanks for making it possible for us to have not one, but two dream weddings.

Come back and visit soon.  As you know, you are always welcome.

The sun broke through the clouds over Renvyle, as if on cue.  The breeze softened and the sky opened to a brilliant blue.  I stood at the edge of the grass-covered cliff in a tuxedo jacket, the rocky shore far below, the waves crashing against the rocks, the dark Atlantic behind me.

In front, green pastures sloped gently down to a rock wall, hedgerows, a farmhouse, an old stone mill.  To my right, white sheep grazed quietly in the sun.  To the left, in the distance, the ruins of an Irish castle stood like the barely remembered dream of a little girl.

She stepped from the shadow of the castle, my love, my life, my beautiful bride, in her flowing white dress.  I asked the minister to drive her, but she has her own mind, and she walked, the minister beside her, all the way up the long rocky road.  She lifted the flowing dress, every stitch sewn by her grandmother’s loving hands, over the puddles, and steadily climbed the winding road.

Her gaze did not waver as she approached, as she crossed the dew-soaked field straight up to me, her hair wrapped perfectly in braids, her ivory skin, her clever smile, her green eyes sparkling in the sun.  She laid the flowers at her feet that I picked that morning, and took my hands, and whispered something, only for me, as the minister opened his Bible.

We faced him, and beyond him the rolling ocean, and he said a blessing over us, and I read to her from the Song of Solomon, and she read from the New Testament.  The minister led us in vows, and we held up our silver rings, and with the cliff and the ocean and the blue skies all around her, I kissed my wife.

As we offered a Gaelic prayer, deep peace of the running wave, a small crowd climbed over the rock wall and hurried up the hill to us, the family from the farmhouse below.  They surrounded us and cheered and hugged us and the little woman wiped her smiling eyes.

We went back down the hill, all of us, to celebrate beneath the watchtower.  Our host came out with a marvelous gift, a painting in her own hand of the castle, the ocean, and the grass-covered cliff—our windswept alter.

I am standing now in the sand, in the thatched-roof shade, with a sweet hot coffee.  The island of Cephalonia rises to mountains behind me, and the beach slopes under my feet down to the wine-dark sea.

I am watching her dive in and out of the waves.  She dives and goes under with the wave for a long time, and then dives again, and now is coming out, walking up the beach in the white sand, the blue Mediterranean behind her, droplets of water glistening on her ivory skin.  She shakes the water from her tremendous curls, my beautiful wife, and kisses my neck, and sings softly against my ear, the love of my life, the song of songs.

Thank you Mary Nee and family, Jack, Amy, Sinead, and Kirsty, for sharing your beautiful farm with us, and for the great photos.  Thanks Dee Walsh for your painting; it will always have a special place in our home.  And thank you so much Reverend Peter Berrill.  You are man of faith and you are a poet.