18 August 2011

piney wedding

The morning after I arrived back in Gone West, we packed up my car and drove to Other Western State, where my friend R. was getting married.

The wedding was in a little piney grove on a bay. Fine, it was in a grove of Douglas Fir. Piney sounds so much more romantic, though. It's one of my favorite words.

The wedding was in a little piney grove on a bay, and the sun shined, and the trees shaded, and the water sparkled. There was rose champagne (love) and smoked salmon, and later there were little bitty burgers and jalapeno watermelon juice.

We married off the happy couple, and then we talked and ate, and talked, and ate, as one should at a wedding, and then we kicked off our shoes and danced.

The fiddle played. Feet stomped.

We circled and bowed and promenaded.

The ladies swung from one gentleman to another until our partner pulled us back into the square.

We held hands in a long, looping line, in tighter and tighter circles, and then out and out and through the door into the trees and back in the other door, arms outstretched as far as we could go, my sweater hanging off my shoulder, laughing.

And then, in the dark, we sat around a fire with marshmallows and chocolate, and I drove us back to our campsite, just trying to stay awake.

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