Backyard Wedding
The smell of grass and cigarettes makes me remember summers growing up. My brothers and I would hide in the back yard, lying on our bellies covered by the jungle growth.
Our neighbors would be mowing and the scent of the fresh cut greenery would waft into our yard and we were thankful that it wasn’t coming from our house. My mother always said that she was going to cut the grass, but it rarely happened. She would stand on the back porch in the shade lighting one cigarette off of the last and our wonderland would remain intact.
We could be lions on the savannah or hunters searching for big game and when we were finished pretending we would create mazes and paths through the overgrowth. Our friends would come to our house to lose themselves in our yard and our games would last until dark – the grass was scary at night.
Who knew what lurked beneath the surface? We imagined wolves and monsters. Once, my older sister, too mature to take part in our day time games, dared me to stay out all night and when I got so frightened that I couldn’t stand it any longer, I screamed for her help and she froze in fear unable to come after me.
The back yard was many things for me, but my sweetest memory comes when I hear sounds of whippoorwills, hoot owls, and crickets. I am reminded of the tall grass in the back yard during the hot summers of my youth. Everything was innocent, even the kiss that Oliver gave me at our outdoor wedding.
We had picked dandelions and braided them together to create a wedding veil and an old lace table cloth with more holes than fabric was my gown. The rusty metal swing set that had been my mother’s when she was a child stood as the pulpit where my sister and my groom stood for the ceremony.
Our attendants consisted of the rest of our siblings and together we all sang, “bum, bum, bum, bum,” to the tune of the wedding march as I walked down the aisle, the one strip of grass that had been mowed down just to this occasion.
I held in my hands a bouquet of carefully picked wild flowers and weeds and when I reached my soon to be husband, I handed my flowers to my brother and my sister began to speak.
“Dear beloved, we are here today to join in holy moly these two people. Oliver do you take Leslie to have and to hold for sick or sicker until you both shall live?”
“I do.”
“Leslie do you take Oliver to have and hold for sick or sicker until you both have lived.”
“I do.
“Oliver, you may kiss the bride.”
With that, I closed my eyes, pursed my lips and waited. Oliver leaned in and for a brief second his lips touched mine, my first kiss. Magically, the outdoor building became our house; the lawn mower was the stove where I cooked while Oliver went off to work.
The people who were our wedding party moments before became our children and in our backyard bliss we lived until the sun came down and we were called back to our realities.
Our neighbors would be mowing and the scent of the fresh cut greenery would waft into our yard and we were thankful that it wasn’t coming from our house. My mother always said that she was going to cut the grass, but it rarely happened. She would stand on the back porch in the shade lighting one cigarette off of the last and our wonderland would remain intact.
We could be lions on the savannah or hunters searching for big game and when we were finished pretending we would create mazes and paths through the overgrowth. Our friends would come to our house to lose themselves in our yard and our games would last until dark – the grass was scary at night.
Who knew what lurked beneath the surface? We imagined wolves and monsters. Once, my older sister, too mature to take part in our day time games, dared me to stay out all night and when I got so frightened that I couldn’t stand it any longer, I screamed for her help and she froze in fear unable to come after me.
The back yard was many things for me, but my sweetest memory comes when I hear sounds of whippoorwills, hoot owls, and crickets. I am reminded of the tall grass in the back yard during the hot summers of my youth. Everything was innocent, even the kiss that Oliver gave me at our outdoor wedding.
We had picked dandelions and braided them together to create a wedding veil and an old lace table cloth with more holes than fabric was my gown. The rusty metal swing set that had been my mother’s when she was a child stood as the pulpit where my sister and my groom stood for the ceremony.
Our attendants consisted of the rest of our siblings and together we all sang, “bum, bum, bum, bum,” to the tune of the wedding march as I walked down the aisle, the one strip of grass that had been mowed down just to this occasion.
I held in my hands a bouquet of carefully picked wild flowers and weeds and when I reached my soon to be husband, I handed my flowers to my brother and my sister began to speak.
“Dear beloved, we are here today to join in holy moly these two people. Oliver do you take Leslie to have and to hold for sick or sicker until you both shall live?”
“I do.”
“Leslie do you take Oliver to have and hold for sick or sicker until you both have lived.”
“I do.
“Oliver, you may kiss the bride.”
With that, I closed my eyes, pursed my lips and waited. Oliver leaned in and for a brief second his lips touched mine, my first kiss. Magically, the outdoor building became our house; the lawn mower was the stove where I cooked while Oliver went off to work.
The people who were our wedding party moments before became our children and in our backyard bliss we lived until the sun came down and we were called back to our realities.