Jake and Sara went to an inn on the Fundy coast. They returned two days later, and soon guests began to arrive. There was an accumulating tumult of juxtaposition, the blending of friends and families into one enormous clan. On Saturday, July 1st, dozens of guests spent the day decorating the hall with wild blackberry blossoms, lupins and roses. As shadows lengthened and the eastern hills flushed with evening light, 150 people gathered in front of the hall. The stirring drone of a bagpipe floated through the air and Jake and Sara appeared at the end of our lane. They paced slowly down the dirt road, preceded by a piper. Baskets of rose petals were passed through the crowd and as the couple approached the hall, guests parted to make a path. Jake and Sara raised their arms, laughing, ducking through an explosion of petals. Inside the hall, the master of ceremonies invited guests to the microphone. Cousins shared memories; Sara's mother spoke holding a grandchild in her arms; Jake's childhood doctor remembered his birth; friends, uncles, grandparents spoke of the trials and rewards of marriage. I stepped onto the platform and was overwhelmed by the love suffusing the room, tangible as the delicate scent of roses and lupins. I looked at my son and new daughter and let tears fall even as I smiled. Publicly, we spoke intimately and without reserve to the newlyweds.
And then, surfeited with emotion, we went to eat, drink and dance. In the cookhouse, a long table was laid with food; cookies, squares, sumptuous cheesecakes, braided bread made by one of the grandfathers, salmon, a wedding cake. As darkness fell, luminaries were lighted, candles in white paper bags marking pathways. The irresistible sound of fiddles came; Jake and Sara began the dance, spinning, arms linked, heel and toeing. I was filled with a rare, pure happiness as our neighbours handed us through old country reels. Grasping hand after hand, I felt linked to an ancient formality, festivals of renewal, celebrations of hope, all the marriages of human history.
Like meadow stars, fireflies burned and vanished. The river ran over mossy rocks and cows drifted ghostly in the darkness, pursuing sweet grass. Forty people, late that night, found beds at our home, on porches, in tents, on couches and floors. We were still asleep as the sun came over the hills. It shimmered through the spruce trees, announcing another day of celebration, its light glittering in spiderwebs necklaced from the bent and dew-drenched timothy.
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