Regular Life

The summer of 2004, I did something I’ll never forget as long as I can remember anything. For many it’s impossible, because it only happens before they ever take a breath.

At age 30-something, I helped escort my mother down the aisle and give her hand in marriage — to my dad.

So they finally got married after raising children out of wedlock?

Nope. That’s not how it was at all. They did the whole wedding thing back in the late 1960’s, and it stuck for about 15 years. Like all married couples, they had their rough patches. I certainly never noticed, which is a testament to their parenting skills. Something, or a combination of things, moved them to dissolve their union and live separate lives. Man had, indeed, put them asunder.

On their first go-round, they went through a lot together. From building my father’s dental practice from scratch in a small rural town, to bringing up two fairly responsible and upstanding young lads, they made a great team. They sailed the Virgin Islands together, and they shot and gutted deer together. Although, in at least one case, Mom more or less shot toward the deer.

It must be hard to think you’ve left all that behind forever.

Each of them dated while they were apart, but neither remarried. I thank them for never bestowing upon my brother and me a stepmother or stepfather. Not that there’s anything wrong with those people as a group, but it helped keep things simple.

Only they know exactly when they started seeing each other again. With all the joyful and painful memories of their past still available to their agile minds, they took the leap a second time, and we were fortunate enough to take part.

I know there are lots of couples who give it a second try, but after more than 20 years of divorce?

The wedding was in the Old West style. The inspiration for this came from their hobby, dressing up as wild west folk and firing more rounds at targets in one day than some hunters fire at animals in a lifetime. They belong to at least one chapter of the Single Action Shooting Society, and have made lots of friends.

The wedding day featured a competitive shoot in full regalia. Ladies’ groups, Men’s groups, Seniors — they all got a fair shot.

I’m not qualified to describe the outfits at the wedding. The thing that always strikes me about the group is that they are not in black and white. If westerns aren’t filmed in black and white, then they are done in muted colors. That’s the image I always had. This group donned bright purples, reds, greens, blues, yellows, and of course all manner of browns and grays.

There were sniffles and tears aplenty at the ceremony, and they started pretty much the moment my brother and I walked Mom down the aisle. Even some of the crustiest old cowboys couldn’t keep a tear from welling up. One of the shooting club members had gone and got himself ordained just in time to perform the ceremony. Reckon he’ll have a good side job now.

My wife and I had prepared a song to sing together. We sang, “Forever and Ever, Amen,” by Randy Travis. For accompaniment, we had my brother play guitar. Although we had never played it together until that day, we pulled it off. My wife sang a beautiful rendition of the Sinatra tune, “The Second Time Around.”

Some of the women (read: at least one) at the reception were screaming “Randy, Randy!” encouraging us to take the stage for an encore performance. I was a little disappointed that nobody threw any panties. Probably couldn’t get them off because of the corsets. My brother played a few other songs that night, too, including the Willie Nelson classic, “My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys.”

There was much drinking, much dancing, some more drinking, and then some rhythmic wobbling around on the dance floor.

For pics covering the whole shindiggy day, go here. (Look out for the guy in the huge-mongous straw hat!)

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