Went to a wedding a couple of weeks ago. Nothing very unusual about that, you say. And you’re right.
You can’t expect everything I write to be earth-shattering, just because you want to read about it here.
This wasn’t earth-shattering, but it was different. Different enough to be interesting, significant, entertaining and well worth reading about. I’m doing so here for your reading pleasure as well as your greater edification.
The most significant thing about it from my point of view is that it was my niece’s wedding. Her name is Jacquie. That’s pronounced Jackie, as in jackie sculpin, a very strange looking fish with a big mouth. I hasten to assure you that neither description applies to my niece. I’m just trying to explain things in my own “innimimimable” way.
Perhaps she would have appreciated it more if I had compared her with Jackie Kennedy or Jackie Onassis — one of them, anyway. Sorry, love.
Actually, she used to spell it Jackie before she went off to Carleton University, got a degree and went all grand on us. I was years pronouncing the new spelling as Jack-quee until I was told I was ignorant. Don’t know what that had to do with it.
Jacquie married her partner of several years, Carmelita. Jacquie and Carmelita are two really beautiful names. Anyway, the wedding was a grand affair, held for the most part at the Glendenning golf club out there by St. Shotts. If that confuses you, it’s just another interesting thing about that wedding. I’ll explain later.
The vows were exchanged in a lovely open-air setting with a beautifully well done ceremony. Then everyone went inside for the traditional marriage feast.
The terrible thing about it all was that everything went perfectly. Column writing is like news reporting — only the things that go wrong are worth writing about from an entertainment point of view.
The 160 guests had a marvelous time, or so they all said, ably assisted in that regard by son Rob’s one-man show.
He’s a great singer and entertainer. I hesitate to say that because it sounds as though I’m bragging, having taught him everything he knows. There are those who would say I must have taught him a few things I didn’t know because I was never that good.
I screeched in four rather nervous mainlanders. It was hard to tell when it was over who was happiest — the four new Newfoundlanders or the happy couple. Right.
Rob was also asked to sing one of their favourite songs during the ceremony. This may be as good a place as any to explain why that golf club is so close to St. Shotts, which is itself just a few hundred miles south of the Avalon Peninsula.
Rob, OH, Daughter No. 3, her husband and I were in the white elephant, which is as good a description as any of my new van.
We were on our way from Holiday Inn to said golf club somewhere out in the boondocks. Following close behind were Daughter No. 2 and two of my grandchildren. They were following behind us because we had been given explicit directions on how to reach this establishment from the hotel.
Son was driving and following my directions, according to what I was sure I had been given, which included the little sentence, “Go to end of Commonwealth Avenue.” Those of you who live in that area may be wondering what we were drinking. Those of us who are blessed with living in boondocks six hours away didn’t think any more about it than that.
I have to say in all honesty — something you’ve come to expect from this column — that there were those who initially expressed some misgivings about it. But I was sure and insisted we keep on driving. So we did.
Some time later, someone ventured the view that we were now getting close to St. Shotts and that just didn’t seem right, somehow. Someone else pointed out we now had 10 minutes to get to the wedding and we may have overshot our mark by considerably more than that. A third-party muttered something about Rob having to sing during the ceremony. The fourth party, being from New York and not knowing where the hell we were, wisely kept his mouth shut.
Rob pulled over and stopped. Indecision permeated the rather animated discussion.
We were interrupted by a light tapping at the window. Standing there was Robyn, the only female grandchild still at home. She was holding up one of those cellphone affairs that can fry eggs and do light housework.
On it were the directions to the golf club from where we were. She had gone to the source of all knowledge and Googled for help.
Rob swung the van around and this time with Daughter No. 2 in the lead headed back in the general direction of St. John’s at high speed. Shortly after that, we arrived at the club.
A large group of people was standing outside, obviously watching something important. We were pretty sure we knew what it was.
“Quick, Rob,” OH urged, “grab your guitar and run!”
He did, and made the ceremony just in time to find the proper chord and start singing his solo. Looked as if he had been waiting an hour.
Celebrations continued next day at the home of the happy couple in Kelligrews. Jacquie’s uncle cooked up his famous Jiggs dinner.
Someone who didn’t know who he was asked during the meal who had called the cook a doctor. Someone else replied that what they wanted to know was who had called that doctor a cook.
Rob dug out his guitar again and we finished off the celebrations in great style. It wasn’t the Kelligrews soirée but close. Everyone said there was something about that wedding that made it really beautiful, and there certainly was — Jacquie and Carmelita.
Ed Smith is an author who lives in Springdale. His email address is firstname.lastname@example.org.