August and Labor Day are behind us, but it remains stunningly hot. And humid. Worse than any stretch of days during the summer months just past. Occasional breezes, but not consistent enough to keep us cool.
Even on the coast, some people want to have an outdoor wedding in the summer that would be delightful in the fall. But there are grapes to harvest in the fall, so it was now or much later, I suppose. Marti and Wally married at Bennett Vineyards (noted in a previous post) near Edward, a blink of a crossroad west of Aurora, itself not much more than a blink of a town that has left its best days behind, but still boasts the Aurora Fossil Museum.
For an outdoor wedding, the day was perfectly filled with sun and blue skies. It was a searingly bright afternoon with a few scattered but innocuous clouds drifting lazily in the heat. On the farmhouse porch, a wind quartet played classical music as the arriving guests collected under the only available shade, a massive oak at the corner of the house. In front of the porch, rows of chairs smoldering in the sun. We procrastinated, delaying our move to sit until it was clear that, if we did not sit, the bride and groom would reach the preacher before we reached our seats.
Sun burned above the rooftop, too high to set during the wedding. Why had I worn a black jacket? (It is the only one I carry on the boat.) Searching the skies for relief, I watched a small cloud develop some promise. A breath of air? A shadow to block the sun? Ever so slowly, the cloud eased closer to the sun. Closer, closer, closer. We were midway the ceremony. I hiked up the back of my jacket; on the last row, no one could see me inviting air up my back. And then it was there, a cloud over the sun (physically below the sun given altitude etc.).
A soft breeze teased us where we stood, the preacher reciting the vows for assent, familiar, but new. Then a drop, plop. Thud, plop. Thud, plop, thump, thud, pop. Plop. Raindrops falling on our shoulders, on our laps, on our heads. Coolish drops, plump and far between. The preacher continued to marry Marti and Wally, wondering why the audience was looking skyward instead of at the porch.
As he started the end of the litany -- "By the power vested in me..."-- a new sound floated across the vineyard. A rustling, hissing pulse of approaching rain. Not raindrops. Lots of rain, rain shaking every leaf in the woods and every vine in the vineyard. Noisy rain rushing toward us.
We, the invited audience, sat politely and patiently waiting to get soaked, hoping there was more sound than rain, but knowing it was not likely so. Waiting for the preacher to pronounce the bride and groom man and wife, or husband and wife or whatever phrase he was planning to use, he needed to step it up and speak it quickly before the rain drenched us all (which did not include the bride, groom, preacher or musicians who all huddled safe and dry on the porch).
Too late, the rain poured just as the preacher completed his pronouncement. And then we were up and shuffling back to the shade tree for some protection from the rain, no matter how good it felt to be slightly damp and cool.
It was a fifty yard dash to the shelter of the old barn and tasting room where dinner and wine awaited us. We walked.
My jacket was wet on the outside and damp on the inside when I removed it. Guess I should have left it on the boat. The smart guests were the ones in polo shirts, short-sleeved and lightweight. Smarter still was the young man who wore shorts. You can do that when you are five. Before I could fetch a glass of chilled white wine, my shirt was drenched to saturation from the inside and out. I sat very still in hopes of drying a bit before dinner. More soaking sweat rose to the surface. I began to smell stale like wet socks in a gym locker. I felt sorry for the woman to my left. She did not know me and therefore could not know that I did not usually smell that way and was embarrassed to be sharing my malodorous condition with a table of guests who planned to eat dinner soon.
Would there be no wind to rescue us?
Music started, and a couple of folks trotted onto the dance floor. Appetizers were served: scallops wrapped in bacon, stuffed mushrooms, filo stuffed with cranberries and feta. Yummmmm. Hot and wet, I drank two more glasses of chilled white. I needed a quart of anything cold and switched to iced tea with the emphasis on ice. The cooks hefted huge sides of prime ribs from grill to table. A chef sauteed onions, squash, eggplant and more for a red sauce pasta as well as a pesto pasta. More yum, conversations and laughter.
The rain ceased, but no wind found us. The air was damp and still as the sun set beyond the creek and woods. Desserts disappeared swiftly. People sauntered down the dirt road to the field where we had left our cars. Sweety Pie, the horse crippled in a car wreck, watched from her barn across the road, attended by the young mule. She had waited patiently (and, I imagine, wistfully) while the festivities confined her to the barnyard; she usually wanders the vineyard like a dog. We never saw Merlot, the cat.
It was a fine event with good folks, good music, good food and good wine. But man it was hot.
Cheers. May autumn relieve us soon.