A Cowboy Wedding

There were roughly 750,000 weddings in America on that July evening, each special in its own way, but none finer than the one near Sedalia.  On the rolling piedmont beneath the Rampart Range a few clicks south of Denver, where Cheyenne and Arapaho once married in much the same way, two souls became one as the traditions of a thousand generations danced joyfully into the night.  Luckily, they invited us to attend.

A wedding gladdens the hearts of all assembled on a new-mown meadow where the earliest hints of Plum Creek gurgled nearby – the same creek that would charge the South Platte River, which occasionally rose to a raging monster capable of inflicting horrible damage from Denver all the way to Nebraska.  

A beaming father led his daughter to the altar along a sloping path of native flowers.  The groom waited near a rough-hewn altar beneath the tallest tree for miles.   An assemblage of guests from many places sat on rough planks and hay bales the way a cowboy wedding ought to do.

Umbrellas were deployed several times as light rain seemed to test the resolve of the hearty souls attending this affair. No one complained.  They gasped when sunlight broke through and illuminated a near white gown like a thousand-watt bulb.   

Safely joined, the new couple endured the photos, oblivious to the  main storm dripping with angry factories of bruise-colored clouds, which looked down and seriously considered  some mischief. Only a dozen practice raindrops fell — a half dozen overturned flower jars, and one incredible rainbow painted across the sky from Castle Rock to Daniels Park lasted almost through the end of grandma’s blessing:

“Eternal God, in whom mercy is endless, and the treasury of compassion is inexhaustible, look kindly on us, and increase Your mercy in us, that in difficult moments, we might not despair, nor become despondent, but with great confidence, submit ourselves to Your holy will, which is love and mercy Itself.”  

The storm continued to fling lightening darts at  Kiowa and Limon and Burlington all evening as if war between the darkness of a nearly moonless summer night and the incandescence of million-watt fingers across the sky had to be settled, once and for all, on this very night.  

But by then the evening belonged to Gigi and James with their hearts aflame and their sights set due north, yet we are grateful to them for lending us one golden moment.

After all the food, the toasts and cheers, promises and vows, carefully cut cake; the dusk brought more and more traditions that must never be edited from any wedding reception.  

A fine performance led off by the bride and her father; swing dancing to the Beatles, “I Wanna Hold Your Hand.” Then groom James’ first dance with his mother to James Taylors’s classic, “Sweet Baby James.”  Perfect.

Eventually the disc jockey got down to the must-do tomfoolery of every wedding reception – The “longest married” dance off.  The dance floor filled immediately.

DJ, “All right, people, if you’ve been married more than one year, keep dancing, everybody else is excused.”

The dance music blared, couples young and old gave it their best.  A few couples left the floor.  On the outskirts of the gaggle stood two – who just stood.  

DJ, “Now let’s ask those couples who have been married less than five years to step off the dance floor.”

A few more smiling couples headed for the fringe.  The ones who could cut a rug did so, willingly.  One couple assumed the proper pose yet stood immobile.  Looking closely perhaps a leg trembled slightly in rhythm to the tune but that was just Parkinson’s sounding off, their feet did not move.  Nobody noticed.  In their mind’s ear they only heard Garth sing “The Dance.”

DJ, “Okay, let’s get this contest moving.  Everybody married less than ten years please leave the dance floor.”

An exodus of young middle-agers skipped off the floor.  Roughly half the original couples remained.  A few seconds later, 

DJ, Now this is getting interesting.  If you have been married longer than twenty years, please keep dancing.  Everyone else is excused.

Perhaps a dozen couples remained on the floor.  The music blared something respectable.  

“Boot Scootin’ Boogie” and “Redneck Woman” were saved for later in the evening.  

DJ, “All right, who’s been married longer than thirty years?

A dozen couples remained on the floor.

DJ, “Longer than thirty-five years?”

Now a half dozen are left.  One couple hasn’t moved an inch.  They clutched one another as they have for many years.  Immobile, perhaps no one will notice that their feet  are precisely where they began.  Glued to the floor, painful to move.

DJ, “Longer than forty years?”

Just two couples remain.  The sidelines are clapping and dancing and shouting, eager for some action.  Artificial drama.

DJ:  “Longer than forty-one years?”

And suddenly it was over!  One couple walked away, the other savored a long moment — remembering.  

Someone shouted “How long?”

“Forty-five years,” she replied as they shuffled to waiting chairs. 

A fresh song blared from the speakers.  The dance floor filled. 

And once again the night belonged to the young.