Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul (12 page)

As Michael and I wrote out our seating plan for the
fifth
time, an ingenious idea hit us. It would give an opportunity for our guests to interact and allow them to be creative. But best of all, they would have FUN in the process, which is really what attending a wedding should be all about. It was perfect.

Our reception night arrived, and no sooner had we taken our seats in the dining hall, than the
clinking
began. Before it reached a crescendo, our best man, Tom, announced, “There will be no clinking of glasses tonight to get Theresa and Michael to kiss. Instead, they ask that you each perform the unique request on your tables and they would then be happy to kiss for you.”

On each table was the following poem:

The bride and groom will kiss for you
Read on to see what you must do
Each table has a unique request
So get together and do your best!

Each request was specifically chosen according to the guests seated there.

One table of Michael’s old friends was requested to relate childhood stories about Michael. Laughter bubbled as they reminisced and shared tales about their high school antics. They debated which story would or could be shared with all the guests. The one chosen received chuckles at the expense of the sheepish groom.

A table of couples married thirty years or more were asked to recount their marriage proposals. Another group of friends present when Michael and I first met were asked to tell the story of our “beginning.”

One of the more daring requests was a “celebrity impersonation.” This group caught everyone’s attention when, en masse, they proceeded to center stage wearing pristine white dinner napkins on their heads. Arranging themselves into a choir, they made the sign of the cross and sang their rendition of “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?”

But, they altered it to: “How do you solve a problem like Theresa? How do you make Michael understand?” It was a creative collaboration in words, melody and choreography that kept the audience in stitches.

Looking back, Michael and I realize those moments of spontaneity provided memorable entertainment and made our wedding day both fun and personal. Friends and family members exceeded our expectations and we could do nothing more than sit back and enjoy their creativity and presentations of love.

As we promised, we returned our humble appreciation and thanks in the only way we could . . . with warm and loving kisses.

Theresa Chan

A Bouquet to Remember

Y
ou know, fathers just have a way of putting everything together.

Erika Cosby

“Where are the flowers?” My sister panicked pacing the living room dressed in her wedding gown.

“I don’t know, sweetie. They were supposed to be here an hour ago. But don’t worry; I’m sure they’ll be here promptly,” my mother assured Kathy to calm her down.

“Oh, no, the photographer’s here. He’s early!” the bride yelled hysterically. “I need my bouquet for the pictures.”

I was seventeen years old and the bridesmaid. As a girl who always planned on getting married one day, I considered my sister’s wedding day a learning experience.

That morning, Kathy was a wreck. She had planned every detail of her wedding carefully. The invitations, personalized napkins and matches, the bouquet with white roses, calla lilies and baby’s breath. All planned a year in advance. The one thing Kathy didn’t plan was the fact that something could go wrong.

We waited and waited for the flowers to arrive. My sister looked enchanting with her classic fairy-tale gown and full skirt that gathered at the waistline. But for her, no flowers meant no sweet fragrance, no delicate decorations, no beautiful pictures, no mementos, no wedding.

The groom was often called “a romantic fool” in the good sense of the word. He was the kind of guy that would leave little notes saying “I love you” for no special reason. The night before the wedding, he gave my sister a bracelet proving he was a hopeless romantic.

But there was nothing romantic in the air the next day. Trapped in an apartment filled with desperation and nervousness, I noticed my father open a window to smoke. It was interesting to see how one stressful situation could drive a man who had quit two years before to suddenly go back to the habit.

The doorbell rang.
The florists,
I thought, running frantically to answer the door. Disappointed to find a young delivery boy, I asked in my annoyed voice, “May I help you?”

“It’s a delivery for Kathy Lassalle from her future husband, Hernan,” he said, trying to keep my attention.

He pulled out a huge floral bouquet of red roses. My father’s lit cigarette fell to the ground. He immediately grabbed the bouquet and took off for the bedroom, leaving me at the door to sign the paper.

“Thanks a lot,” I said to the delivery boy as I watched my father mysteriously disappear. “Dad, that’s not for you. Give Kathy her gift!” I shouted down the hall, wondering what he was up to.

Minutes later, my father reappeared in the room where we all waited. He had a big smile on his face; his way of saying that things were going to be all right. He then presented to us three gorgeous bouquets he had arranged from the groom’s beautiful red roses.

We couldn’t believe it. Dad (and Hernan) had saved the day.

With little time to spare, the photographer took pictures of the bride, bridesmaid and flower girl as planned. Not with the wedding bouquets, however, but with bouquets made out of love, creativity and
urgency!

The scheduled flowers finally arrived just before we entered the church. My sister was happy to have the bouquet she designed herself; and the flower girl had her basket of flowers. I, On the other hand, decided to keep my dad’s lovely red-rose creation, giving my original white bouquet to my mother.

Ten years later, when we look at my sister’s wedding pictures, we notice something that nobody else does. In fact, we think it’s cute that some pictures show a red bouquet of flowers and others show a white one. But each time, we are taken back to that eventful day. A day of emotion and stress, but most importantly a day where a groom’s romantic gesture and a father’s hidden talent made a bouquet to remember.

Cindy L. Lassalle

Flower Princess

I patted the tulle clouds of my white dress as Mama brushed my dark hair. She clipped tiny ivory flowers to the top of my head, and I was complete—a real princess. Flower girl, they called me, but in my four-year-old mind, I was Cinderella.

We arrived at the church early to practice, and Bonnie, the bride, handed me the basket of all importance. Tucked inside lay dozens of crisp purple orchids. The outside was white wicker, adorned with bows and satin ribbons. It whispered to me, “Princess, princess, princess.”

My turn in the rehearsal came, and Bonnie leaned over. “Now, don’t put any of the flowers down yet,” she said. I nodded, thinking Mama must have been wrong when she said my job was to drop flowers on the carpet. Poor Mama. She must have never been a flower princess.

I marched to the front of the church, clasping my basket, holding my head even and stiff. The prettiest bridesmaid, Josephine, winked and said how grown-up I was. My fingers longed to touch her long satiny skirt, but I stood tall and still, like a real lady.

Then the people came. Tall people, squatty people, people in hats and vests and polka-dot dresses. Men in collars and aloha shirts. Women in heels as tall as pencils. I watched the other kids in their suspenders and pigtails and long flowered muumuus.
Well,
I thought, feeling sad for them,
I suppose we can’t all be princesses.

They filled the church with their hushed laughter and rustling dresses and warmth. Up front, Mrs. Ayabe plunked beautiful music out of the old piano. Mama kissed my forehead. “You’ll do just fine, sweetie.” She put my hand in Bonnie’s and left.

Bonnie and I waited at the very back in our matching Cinderella dresses. We waited through the music and the praying and the turning pages. We waited as the bridesmaids in their satin skirts went before us—one, two, three, four. And then it was my turn.

Hundreds of eyes rested on me, but I stared straight ahead to the front of the church. Watching only the old man with the Bible, I slowly traveled the skinny aisle, just like Mama told me—first foot, together; second foot, together.

My fingers gripped the handle of the wicker basket as I guarded my treasure. I wished right down to my toes that I could sprinkle a few flowers, just to show everyone how purple they were. But Bonnie’s words whispered in my head.
Don’t put the flowers down yet.

As I reached the man up front, I saw Mama smiling. It was a funny smile. The kind she gives when I mix the buttons on my shirt, or forget which shoe goes where. I thought maybe her strange look was from being so proud, but a little part of my stomach tied worried knots.

After lots of talking and praying and singing, when I almost had to yawn, I saw one of the men kiss Bonnie smack on the lips. I didn’t think God allowed kissing in church, but the man with the Bible was nodding, so I let it pass. Then everything was music and clapping and people swarming around Bonnie and the kissing man.

Mama found me after the wedding, and knelt down to my size. She held both of my hands, even the one still clamped to the basket. “Sweetie,” she said with that smile, “Sweetie, why didn’t you put down the flowers?”

I opened my mouth to explain when Bonnie glided by, all lace and white and tulle.

“You were adorable, Nicki, absolutely adorable!” she gushed. “And it’s okay that you forgot about the flowers.” Then the sea of fancy people swallowed her back into their handshakes and hugs. I couldn’t believe it.

I stood very, very still. I didn’t look at Mama. The tears spilled down before I could stop them, splashing my cheeks, my dress, the rounded toes of my glossy white shoes. I wanted to use my screeching voice.

I had listened! I really had. I listened all perfect but I still did it wrong, and now I can’t be a princess!

Mama hugged me close, saying, “It’s okay. It’s okay to forget. Everybody forgets sometimes, even Mama.”

I made my body stiff in her arms. “But I didn’t!” I protested between gulping sobs. “Bonnie said not to do the flowers! I didn’t forget!” Mama patted and shushed and peppered me with kisses, but I knew she still thought I’d forgotten.

Then I felt a new hand on my back. I blinked up into the sunlight, and saw Josephine’s soft smile. She whispered something to Mama, who nodded. Josephine took my hand and led me back to the sanctuary, her satin skirt swishing.

The church was empty and quiet and big as we stood at the wooden doors. I looked at Josephine. “Go ahead and put your flowers down,” she said. “It’s time now.” She waited at the very back, and I walked slowly, carefully down the aisle of the empty church. I fingered the smooth flowers and dropped one here, then here, then here. The last orchid fell just as I reached the front of the sanctuary. Perfect. Just like a princess.

Turning toward the back of the church, I stretched my skirt wide and curtseyed deep to my imaginary audience. Josephine’s laugh was like silver. When I looked up, Mama was standing beside her. She beamed my favorite smile, all shining and rounded cheeks—the kind that means she’s so glad I’m hers.

I raced back over the trail of scattered flowers. Then we left the wedding, Mama with her smile, and me with my empty basket and a glow that rivaled Cinderella’s.

Nicole Owens

What Could My Country Do for Me?

O
ne of the best ways to persuade others is with your ears—by listening to them.

Dean Rusk, former U.S. Secretary of State

It was March 1963.

At nineteen, I was the first in my crowd to get married, certain this young sailor was the man with whom I was supposed to spend my life. Everything was arranged. I could hardly wait to see my fiancé, Robert Frisch, when he came home for the first time in seven months, just a few days before our wedding.

He called Sunday evening. “I won’t be there for the wedding.”

My heart did a loop-de-loop.

“I’ll be in the middle of the Pacific,” he explained. “All military flights from Hawaii have been canceled.”

“Can’t you find another way back?”

“I wanted to get a commercial airline ticket with the money I’ve saved for our honeymoon, but they said ‘no exceptions.’ So, cancel the wedding and we’ll get married later.”

“Cancel the wedding? I can’t just cancel the church, the flowers, the caterer—everything.” Panic crept into my voice. “They can’t do this. I’ll find a way. I’ll call someone in Washington. I’ll call, um—I’ll call President Kennedy!”

“Well, you could try, but I doubt it would do any good,” Robert replied. His lack of surprise at my idea was a reminder that he accepted me and loved me just as I was— impetuous, stubborn and perhaps a bit eccentric.

The next morning I told my mother about my plan and phoned the information operator. (This was before the days of Directory Assistance.)

“I want to speak to the president.”

“The president of what?”

“The President of the United States, of course.” I tried to sound business-like, yet nonchalant. I was neither.