My Sister's Wedding

My Sister's Wedding

I thought my sister was crazy when she suggested getting married on a Florida beach. Even more quirky was that she and her clueless, geeky, husband-to-be insisted that the minister, the musicians, and all the guests had to be barefoot. But that was Heather!  Drama queen extraordinaire and wanna be hippie!

“Heather, are you insane?  You want us to travel 1500 miles and spend gobs of money just to witness your Queen for a Day moment?”

“Sorry Erin, but John and I have our hearts set on creating the most romantic day possible. Besides, it’s a family tradition—mom and dad had a beach wedding and mom thinks it’s a great idea for us too.”

I knew then the matter was settled.  I didn’t even bother to point out that mom and dad tied the knot on the sand in Santa Monica not to show off, but because they were broke. All they possessed in 1974 was a rusty Volkswagen and two hundred dollars.  My dear entitled sister, on the other hand, had hired a wedding planner, a string quartet, an exotic florist, a portrait photographer, and a videographer! 

Alas, the blessed day finally arrived. At 5:00 pm, the wedding clan was summoned from our comfy climate-controlled 4-star hotel rooms.  We trekked down to the beach, leaving untied and unbuckled shoes in a pile, along with whatever socks were not pocketed.  Twenty-four chairs set in rows faced the Gulf of Mexico and a tall wicker archway festooned with pink Hibiscus blossoms.  The string quartet already was seated a few feet away, sandy-toed and bows at the ready.

After the guests settled in their seats, even I had to admit that the strains of Bach lilting over the soothing rhythm of ocean waves and the blazing sun crouching low over the water created a mystical, fairy tale air. And Heather was stunning in her flowing chiffon dress, her auburn hair pinned with gardenia blossoms. 

The minister took his place under the arch and soon was joined by the grinning groom. When the barefooted men turned to face cozy gathering, I saw it. The intruder rounded a small cluster of sandy rocks and began a slow, steady trek toward the wedding party.  No one else seemed to notice. Closer and closer it crept. Much too close, dangerously close.  I had to do something. Just as cello and violins segued into “Here Comes the Bride,” I shouted, “Stop! Look out!”

All eyes turned from Heather and fixed first on me, and then where I was pointing—directly at the groom’s feet.  The startled wedding guests screamed and scrambled in all directions, fleeing from a three-inch walnut-colored scorpion as if the creature could grow five feet or leap and launch a dive bomb attack.

After several minutes of mayhem, the intruder was captured in a Styrofoam cup and later set free, no doubt to terrorize some other group of unsuspecting beach goers.  The ceremony resumed, but the fairy tale spell was broken.

Heather of course blamed me for “ruining” her wedding. But I believe she secretly loved the drama of that moment. After all, the newlyweds never edited the crazy scene from their wedding video. Rumor has it that John, who by the way is becoming less clueless, watches the video regularly, chuckling and chortling about married life. He never imagined it would begin this way.



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