I was young. I was foolish. I was plastered.
Well, not until midway thru the reception, anyway. But the highlight of that blowout par-TAY at my folks' East Dallas home wasn't the larapin, 3-tiered cake with buttercream icing. Not the cool Western hats Mr. Fairway purchased for his groomsmen at a store in the Fort Worth Stockyards. Nor the luscious Spanish Paella my Aunt whipped up for those who lingered longest.
The centerpiece of the celebration involved the bouquet...or lack thereof.
First off, I need to explain that the union of Mrs. Scribe & Mr. Fairway was planned to the Nth Degree. That's Scribe-speak for a whole heckuva lot of lists, bickering & endless, unnecessary worry.
And what happens when all that organization goes awry? When the best-laid plans slant slightly askew?
You punt. Pass. Or throw.
The church was lovely. Festooned with flowers, crammed with friends & family in a cacophonous array of goodwill & glad tidings. All we could have expected, and, to insert a little ol' cliche here (this is a wedding post, after all), more.
The "homey" reception Mom planned for her 1920's-era abode, however, featured a more impromptu vibe.
The guys Daddy hired to serve champagne didn't show. So Dear Old Dad enlisted my cousin, and, presto! Waiters, who didn't charge by the hour & even had their own tuxes.
The backyard, which Daddy had painstakingly nurtured all Spring (Dallas is not known for lush vegetation), was pretty much a backwater swamp after 2 solid weeks of uncharacteristic rain. So the overflow crowd had to congregate either inside, or on the front lawn.
Well, we made do.
My BIL, at some point, commandeered a bottle of champagne. My Lil' Sis, as I recall, did the same.
And after that, the memory of the best party I ever attended goes a little fuzzy, if you know what I mean...Let's just say the Bride couldn't find her bouquet. So I tried to throw my Maid of Honor, instead.
I do have photographic evidence. Drunk with Happiness? Try Drunk as a Skunk...