the bouquet I carried in our daughter's wedding, dried in l'atelier;
with my stick woman
I love a wedding, with its organza and lace, armfuls of flowers, pretty white chairs, music, sacred ceremony, and dancing, though part of me would like to avoid expensive wedding balls, if they are built on prestige and poppycock. As for Valentine's Day, I have always felt that love is for every day, and a box of chocolates, though tasty, lacks a bit by way of imagination.
But ain't love grand? Mais bien sûr! Our son is just engaged to be married to a woman he is in love with, and so are we. They will be married here on our hobby farm in August, three years to the month after his sister was married to her love here on the farm. (I posted about their wedding here.) Once again we get to mix satin and straw, quilts and lace with Queen Anne's lace, golden sunflowers and golden rings. There will be games, Mason jars with lemonade and beer, blackberries and golden raspberries, family and friends, torches and bonfires, music and laughter, kisses and tears. These are our children, grown and happy. And won't James be bouncy in his seven-month baby fat watching Unkie Pete wed his bride and new auntie? Or will he be crawling after a damselfly dressed up in gorgeously iridescent tulle wings?