As we stood under the tree, I saw the strangest sight: a flower girl, all dressed in lace, barefoot running across the field squealing joyfully. Trailing after her were two more flower girls, squealing equally loud and dancing after her in the rain. The ends of their dresses were already muddy. Running after them was a posh woman with an armful of shoes, yelling that "the car was the other way!" But the girls ran on, with barely a backwards glance, twirling their muddy skirts in the rain.
Behind the woman I saw, like wet petals blowing in the wind, five bridesmaids dressed in shocking violet arrive breathlessly under the cover of one of the park's famous bleached white birch trees. They huddled together laughing and clinging to the trunk and each other.
And finally, behind them came the bride and groom. The groom had clutched the huge meringue of netting that made up her skirt and was holding it, as they ran laughing, for another tree. The bride carried her tiny beaded slippers in one hand and held onto her soaked veil in the other. When they reached the shelter of a large maple tree, the bride looked at her muddy feet and I could hear her pealing laughter from where I stood under my tree.
It was delightfully surreal.
That's when I saw their photographer. Standing under a tree, probably with the father of the bride, checking his cell phone. Maybe he was looking at the radar, trying to see when the rain was going to let up. My guess was that they were taking pictures before the wedding against the Cleveland and lake skyline, like many people do at the park. And I wanted to scream at that man, "What the hell are you doing??? This is it! This is the moment they will want to remember! They won't care about your staged beach shots twenty years from now! They will remember running and laughing in the rain and hiding under trees in beautiful random clusters, the flower girls vanishing across a muddy field! Get your camera out! This is it!!"
I have a wedding album somewhere. I remember it was expensive. I'm sure I could find it if I had an afternoon to search. But this is the picture for me; the one that I always think of when I think of my wedding day. Someone snapped it in the receiving line after the service. I look tired, and a little manic. Winston looks relieved the show is over and a little bored of shaking hands. But it looks like us. Together, tired and overwhelmed. Married. I love it.
Here's another family picture. It commemorates a terrible dinner. We were on vacation in northern Michigan. Because we never see the sun, we were sunburnt after spending the day kayaking and bobbing about in Lake Michigan. On our way through Traverse City, we passed this restaurant called Apache Trout. With a name like that, you would assume it was amazing. (Almost as amazing as Benton Harbor.... Don't Stop in Benton Harbor) We were tired, burnt, crabby and about to consume a historically awful overpriced meal of microscopic proportions. And we had to wait for a table. I took a picture of our misery. Apache Trout has now entered our family lexicon for awfulness and misery. I love this picture. It's awful. But it looks like us. No, I don't know what my son is doing.
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| BEWARE THE APACHE TROUT |
Another favorite. Every time I look at it, I hope my great great grandchildren find it and wonder, "What the hell?" Our furnace broke during a blizzard. Outside, the temperatures hovered around 5 degrees. Inside, the temperature fell to 47. One week till the part would come in. I wanted to go to a hotel, but the husband said, "Light bulbs and boiling water. It's not efficient, but it'll work for a week." Yes, of course he is crazed. Setka, my aunt, heard we had no heat and called wanting to know what we were doing about it, would we stay with her... yada yada. When we explained we had popped the shades off all the lamps and kept 2 stock pots of water boiling at all times (it actually got the temperature up to 62 degrees!) she accused us of mocking her. We sent her this picture of us huddled around the warmth of a 75 watt bulb.
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| The husband is a clever man. |
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| I love you, too, sweetie. But you're gonna die. When I can move. |
As for my parents and brothers, we don't do family pictures. I doubt one exists. I have this video instead. My family and I are pretty separated, but I love this because I can hear everyone's voice in the background and me and my dad are having a blast being idiots. And we were all getting along at the time. It all started with this shirt I own. It's just a gingham pattern, but my dad thinks it makes me look exactly like the foster mom in Terminator 2, after she is copied by the T-1000. I'm sure all of you want to hear that from your dads too.
My dad talked me into recreating the scene (badly) where she stabs her husband in the head through a milk carton. (That's a classic DeLaney family get together for you. ) We used a butcher knife and some Lactaid. The rest of the family took pictures, video and critiqued it heavily. You can hear all of their voices arguing in the background. I guess you could say this is my family portrait.
What about your family picture? You know, the one you just saw in your mind when I said "family picture." I bet it's not one you would put on your mantle.
~dana
