It rained on our wedding day until a few minutes after three. I know because I was standing in the open door of a barn outside Lowell, refreshing the radar on my phone for maybe the fortieth time, when it stopped. Tessa, who hadn't looked at the radar once all day, came up behind me, looked at the sky and said, "Told you."
That was Saturday, September 13. We've been married ten days now, back from up north for three of them, and I wanted to write this down before it blurs. This isn't a house post. There's one house joke in it, and I'm only allowing myself the one.
The morning was quieter than I expected. Tessa got ready at her parents' house in Rockford with her mom and Kayla. I got ready at the Cape with my dad and Josh, which mostly meant Dad ironing a shirt that didn't need it and Josh eating our cereal. Moose followed me from room to room all morning, sure that something was up, and lay across the front door when I went to leave.
The rain plan
I plan inventory for a living, so of course I had a rain plan. The ceremony was supposed to happen in the field beside the barn, with the chairs in rows facing a line of old maples. The backup was inside, with the chairs squeezed in between the dinner tables. At noon, with the rain coming down steady, the venue coordinator asked when we wanted to make the call. I said 2 p.m. Tessa said 3. We went with 3.
At five after three the rain quit, and by four the sun was out and the field was steaming a little. The crew dried the chairs with towels. The grass stayed wet, so plenty of our guests sat through the 4:30 ceremony in damp shoes, and nobody complained where I could hear it. There were 85 of them: my parents, my sister Erin, Tessa's parents Rick and Diane, her brother Josh and Kayla, a lot of aunts and cousins, college friends, people from both our jobs, and Gary and Linda from next door.
Moose in a bow tie
Gary and Linda had volunteered weeks earlier as Moose's chauffeurs: bring him out to the barn for photos, then take him home before dinner. Moose came for the photos. He wore a navy bow tie on his collar, which he tolerated better than I expected, and he sat for exactly one picture with the two of us before deciding the wet field was the most interesting place he had ever been. There are several pictures in which a muddy paw print is clearly visible on the knee of my pants. Tessa wants one of those framed.
Around six, right on schedule, Gary and Linda loaded seventy pounds of damp, happy dog into the back seat of their car and drove him back to their place next door. At 8:30, Linda texted us a picture of Moose asleep on their couch. He still had the bow tie on.
The rest of the night
Erin gave a toast that was mostly about me failing to put together a bunk bed when I was twelve, and Josh gave one that was short and made Tessa cry, which I believe was the plan. My dad danced with my mom, then with Tessa, then with Diane. I danced the way you'd expect a guy who loves spreadsheets to dance.
At some point after dinner, Tessa and I walked out to the edge of the field by ourselves. The sun was going down behind the trees, everything smelled like wet grass and hay, and the noise from the barn sounded far away. We stood there for maybe five minutes without saying much. I think that's the part I'll remember longest.
Now, the house joke. Around the side of the barn, both downspouts emptied straight onto the gravel walkway by the main door, so everyone stepped through a puddle on the way in. I noticed this at about 12:30 and said nothing all day. Tessa says that silence was the real vow.
On Monday we drove north for five days near Sleeping Bear, and Moose went to my parents' house in Jenison, where he was spoiled past the point of repair. That's the next post. For now: we're married, the rain stopped and the dog wore a bow tie.
