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Copyright © 2010 Andrea Langworthy
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Not long after my brother and his wife left my house two Sundays ago, I began filling in the wall calendar I’d bought for 2010. Starting with January, I jotted birthdays, appointments, and other things to remember. “I forgot so-and-so’s birthday,” I told my husband. “When was it?” he asked in that voice that says he’s glad it was my goof. “Three days ago,” I answered, mentioning I’d forgotten my brother’s and sister-in-law’s anniversary, too. Again, my hubby asked the date. “Today,” I said, feeling stupid. After all, just a couple of hours before, the four of us sat at our dining table for a lunch of soup and salads. My brother even lifted his glass and made a toast. Wouldn’t that have been the perfect moment to acknowledge their 33rd anniversary? To raise my glass towards them, saying, “Here’s to true love,” or, “Wow! You two really got it right.”
I couldn’t even share the memory lapse blame with my spouse. We hadn’t been married that snowy Saturday when my brother and his love said “I do.” For the 20-plus years we have been, though, a January snowstorm and weather people saying “stay off the roads,” is all I need to repeat the story of my brother’s wedding. My former husband and I — he a groomsman, I a bridesmaid — ignored weather reports and packed our outfits and kids in the VW for the trip from Bloomington to Stillwater. Snow blew sideways across the roads and when we got to the church, it was so cold our youngsters wanted to stay in the car. Just as I wanted to stay in my warm clothes instead of changing into the long, red jersey dress in the choir loft with the other female attendants.
It was still cold when everyone left the church and caravanned to the reception at the Lake Elmo VFW. But not until we’d cleared the new snow off our cars and scraped the windshields. Once inside the facility, we hung up our coats and took off our boots (the bridesmaids exchanging theirs for matching party pumps). We feasted on turkey, ham, scalloped potatoes, and cake. Then, got ready to kick up our heels to the oompah-pah-pahs of a polka band. Everyone was on their feet for schottisches, the Butterfly, polkas, the Twist, and even, Hava Nagila, my request. Someone suggested a bunny hop. We put our right hands in, our right hands out, shook them all about, and hop-hop-hopped. All the while, when a new bottle of champagne needed to be opened, my brother and his groomsmen made a big production of popping the cork like it was being shot from a cannon. Everyone yelled, “Bombardier,” as the stopper flew across the room. Hours later, when the festivities ended, we were toasty warm and no one complained about the cold outside air that greeted us. The children were asleep before we hit the Interstate and my hubby and I relived the excitement as we headed home. It’s a celebration I’ll never forget.
So how, you might wonder, did I not realize my brother and his wife were coming for lunch on the anniversary of that occasion? Perhaps, because they treat every day like it’s their wedding day. As one of my sisters said recently, “They’re still so in love.” It’s true. And this is a bit late, but I raise my glass to the lovebirds. May they always have reasons to uncork bottles of champagne. Bombardier!