I am not legend but I am lore

So after the wedding and reception on Saturday, despite the execrable weather and two- to three-hour journeys into the darkness in store for everyone, we moved our immediate family a few miles away to Atlanta Bread Company at Greenville's Cherrydale shopping complex.

It wasn't that we hadn't had enough socializing and rich food for one day.

See, my second and fourth children's birthdays are exactly one week apart.

As in, Audrey's is March 22nd and Andrew's is March 29th.

And since we could not all be together on either of their birthdays because they fell on Tuesdays and we all work during the week, not to mention we all live in different states, we decided to celebrate following the wedding.

I was too lazy busy to bake a cake, so on Friday night I sent TG to the store for a ready-made one.

OK so I'm not Debbie Domestic! Step off. Bigger fish to fry and all that rot.

Everybody ordered a beverage and a few ordered food and we pushed two tables together. I put all the presents at one end of the commodious space and the cake and birthday plates at the other end.

I had brought my own serving utensil for ease in divvying up the delectable cake (strawberry crunch), planning to deliver dizzyingly huge planks of the confection to each of my assembled brood.

Now, here's where the story gets interesting.

When we arrived at the wedding earlier that day, practically the first person I saw after divesting myself of my dripping umbrella was my Aunt Linda.

Aunt Linda is my mother's only sister and she lives in Atlanta.

I don't get to see her very often so of course I was overjoyed. We sat together during the ceremony.

The wedding didn't start on time, giving us ample opportunity to get caught up. Aunt Linda said she had a story to tell me and she hoped there was enough time.

I looked around. Everybody was milling and talking. The bridal party were nowhere in sight. "You've got time," I said.

Whereupon Aunt Linda launched into a tale involving a family we both knew from the early '70s when we were all members of Forrest Hills Baptist Church in Decatur, Georgia -- the church where TG and I were married.

This particular family, name of Johnson*, had a mom, a dad, two daughters, and one son. The girls were around my age; the boy was much younger.

My Aunt Linda proceeded to tell me that she happened to be a guest in the Johnson home not too long ago, and that inevitably the conversation turned to the old days at Forrest Hills.

No sooner had the topic switched to said subject than the Johnsons dared my Aunt Linda to take a wild guess as to whose name from our distant shared past at FHBC came up the most at their house.

Aunt Linda couldn't imagine, so she gave up almost before even trying. "I don't know. Mine?"

At least she made a stab at it.

"Nooooo!" The Johnsons chorused. "It's Jenny McManus!"

In other words, me.

I stared at my Aunt Linda, wondering (and frankly, a trifle worried) why in the sam hill my name -- a name, by the way, to which technically I have not answered in nearly thirty-two years -- would come up at the Johnsons' at all, much less with any sort of frequency.

I mean, the last time I recall clapping eyes on a Johnson, Jimmy Carter was midway through his single term as the worst president in anyone's memory.

"Whaaaa ..." I began.

Aunt Linda was eager to fill in the blanks. She told me that in the Johnson household, there is a story about me cutting and serving cake at weddings -- and for all I know, other events -- held at Forrest Hills Baptist Church when I was a teenager.

And as the Johnsons tell it, I was KNOWN for being stingy with the dimensions of the pieces of cake I carved out and plopped onto plates for people to eat.

So much so, that TO THIS DAY whenever ANYTHING is too small for the liking of anyone in the Johnson clan, they whip out their code taunt of "It's a Jenny McManus!"

Or something similarly ridiculous.

Lies! All lies!

I felt my hackles rise as Aunt Linda neared the end of her little revelation. She noticed and, wisely, sat back and waited.

She knows me all too well.

First of all, I began. I have absolutely NO MEMORY of EVER being asked to cut or serve a cake for any social occasion, nuptial or otherwise, at Forrest Hills Baptist Church.

I didn't even drive, for heaven's sake. I only showed up at church with my mother and maybe a few times when a friend gave me a ride. I certainly wasn't on the cake-serving committee.

Second, I continued, if by chance I HAD been asked to serve cake, I most certainly would have, BUT I would have done exactly as I was told with regard to the size of pieces to dole out.

Not only that, but come on, people. If you wanted another piece of cake, you could've just asked for it. Or better yet, served yourself.

Aunt Linda was amused at how het up I got over it.

Well, she said, don't worry about it. You'll never convince the Johnsons otherwise. As far as they're concerned it's, like, engraved in STONE that a stingy morsel of anything is a Jenny McManus.

Hmmmmph.

Talk about being unjustly accused. I serve lavish portions of simply everything. You can ask anyone.

So anyway, as we arranged ourselves at ABC in Greenville on Saturday and prepared to devour every last crumb of our cake, I told my family the story Aunt Linda had told me earlier in the day.

We were all laughing and commenting as I took up my cake-serving utensil from home and began cutting into our dessert. One by one, with a point to prove, I heaped thick slices of whipped-creamy strawberry-crunchy cake onto happy birthday plates and handed them to my left down the table.

Only, Allissa was seated directly to my right. Not only had she heard the terrible story of her Mamaw being parsimonious when cutting long-ago cake, but she was watching the cake of the moment dissolve piece by piece and go the opposite direction of her no-doubt watering mouth.

TG watched Allissa watch me. He saw it when concern began to furrow her brow, but she never said a word.

There was plenty for everyone ... even Allissa. And we ate it all.

Then we gave Audrey her presents and Andrew got a few presents and soon enough it was time to face the music: the cars weren't going to drive themselves to their respective homes.

All the way back eastbound on I-26 headed for Columbia in relentless rain, I thought about the things we hear and believe about people -- things of which seemingly nobody has the power to dissuade or disincline us -- that may not actually be true.

But what can you do?

My advice is to cut ever-larger pieces of cake. Everything else will come out in the wash.

*In the interest of protecting absolutely no one, the name has not been changed.

Wedding daze

The newly-minted Mr. and Mrs. Damon and Genevieve FrahlerOkay! Despite certain obstacles, it got done.

Damon and Genevieve are hitched.

It was lovely.

Except for the weather, which couldn't have been less cooperative unless it had decided to start snowing.

I won't lie to you: the rain and cold (the high in Greenville on Saturday was 46, and this after a week of temperatures so warm, the wedding party picnicked outside and many got sunburnt) made everything more difficult.

Audrey had driven to Columbia from Knoxville on Friday night, so she rode with us to the wedding.

Damon looks around at the crowd assembled to witness his marriage to Gena

It's not quite a two-hour drive from our house to Greenville.

But making a somewhat longer day trip of it were our daughters Stephanie from Lenoir, North Carolina, with her two girls; Erica from the Atlanta area; and son Andrew from Knoxville.

If you're a mom whose kids are old enough to drive, you know you never stop thinking about all that can go wrong.

Pastor Chris Folkerts, brother-in-law of the bride, officiated

Especially when they're each on a separate Interstate and the weather is inclement.

But we all arrived safely even if everyone was a trifle more damp, chilled, and bedraggled than we would have liked.

The ceremony was beautiful in its simplicity.

Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favor of the Lord. Proverbs 18:22

Two of Gena's four sisters served as her bridesmaids. Damon's two brothers were his groomsmen.

All seven of my sister's grandchildren paraded down the aisle and stood briefly with the bridesmaids before being seated on the front row beside their grandmother.

Sisters! L to R Rebecca Cabaltica, Susanna Garreau, Joanna Garreau, Genevieve Frahler

Most of them are girls because on our side of the family, it's almost unheard of to have a boy before you've had a bunch of girls.

Until Saturday, Damon had no sisters ... just two brothers.

In fact, it's because of one of those brothers that Damon met Gena in the first place.

The bride and groom with her parrots

Are you listening, Hobbit? I got the whole story just because you asked!

See, Damon's brother, Trey, is a pitcher for the Bucknell University baseball team.

Last year in the late spring or early summer, Damon's whole family (who are from Chicago) had traveled by air to see Trey play. I'm not sure where he played, but for the final leg of their journey back home, they were obliged to catch a flight out of Charlotte-Douglas International Airport.

My niece, Rebecca, with TG

Genevieve, who also lives in the Chicagoland area, was on the same flight. She'd been in Greenville visiting her parents.

When it was time to board the plane, Damon's dad handed out boarding passes (and seat assignments) willy-nilly to his party.

The bride's family

Just get on and sit down, he said.

Damon, however, was hoping against hope he would not end up seated next to Chatty Cathy. He wanted to study.

Then he saw Gena.

Just a plane old wedding cake topper

(Here is where the story gets murky because some say he was assigned the seat beside her and others contend he just sat there because she had earbuds in her ears and was listening to something on her iPod, and he thought that might make her less likely to engage him in conversation.)

(Twaddlespeak, says I. First of all, if you don't want to talk, you don't sit beside a girl. Second, if you don't want to sit beside a talkative girl, you don't pick Gena. Third, if the girl in the seat beside him -- assigned or not -- hadn't been cute, I'm pretty sure we wouldn't be talking about this at all.)

My sister and my mother. They are not pirates.

No sooner were they airborne than Damon made the mistake that would make him a married man less than a year hence.

He whipped out a Bible and began reading.

Genevieve's father, my brother-in-law Pierre-Philippe, is French

In addition to being eager to converse under the proper circumstances, Gena is a fine Christian girl. At that point she was a very single fine Christian girl. A girl with purpose and morals and integrity. A girl who, it is perfectly understandable, wanted a man of her own.

And she's cute.

Chicago-style hotdogs were served at the reception

Taking advantage of the supremely opportune moment (where was he going to go?), Gena removed her earbuds and got the attention of her future husband.

Somewhere along the way Damon decided to talk enough that he got Gena's phone number in case he wanted to ask her out on a date.

The dogs were consumed with great relish ... and sport peppers

Which he did.

And now you know the rest of the story.

They lost their hearts at 30,000 feet and now another Christian home has been established, grounded in the truth.

The guest favor table was laden with honey, chocolate-covered nuts, and dipped pretzels

Take that, godless progressiliberals.

The reception venue was on the same property where the wedding was held, but it was a wee hike from Point A to Point B, and it was still raining.

TG drove me because ... well, you know how it is. That's what gallant gentlemen do.

Melanie

There was a sweet table and a Chicago-style Vienna hots table and a French buffet table. Everything was scrumptious.

I know this because everyone said so. I myself ate two grapes and drank part of a Diet Coke.

Dieting? No. I was taking pictures. And I apologize for all the "noise" in said photos but I was constantly having to jockey for position to get the shot.

Audrey comforted Allissa, who had been gently chastised for something or other

There existed a formidable phalanx of amateur shutterbugs. Everybody thinks they're a photographer these days.

Plus which, much of the time I was too far from my subject to get a good shot without using the full range of my zoom lens. Makes for images that are less than crisp, like the kiss picture at the top of this post.

Avuncular interest

Apologies. My hand may have trembled on that one because the kiss is my favorite part of every wedding and the bride and groom did not disappoint.

I mean, how could they? Just look at the two of them.

At long last the lovebirds posed for me alone

If you'd like to see my best pictures from Saturday, nice and big, with descriptions of who everybody is and how they're related and what all went on, click here.

You can look at each picture individually or make it a full-screen slideshow.

To watch the same pictures (only much smaller) in a slideshow without leaving this page, click on the picture of TG below.

And your wait won't be a long one

I'd never heard of comic Ross Bennett until one of my daughters sent me a link to this YouTube.

Pretty good stuff. He's spot-on concerning the double standard by which we all must abide when it comes to our historic president.

It's open season on conservatives, though ... and the nastier things get, the more the lascivious, licentious left likes it.

Think cretinous, blasphemous Bill Maher's cad-worthy, uber-crass characterization of Sarah Palin in recent days.

It got so bad, the National Organization for Women (NOW) had to step in and spend a few moments of their precious time -- which, according to them in a diatribe issued come-to-Jesus fashion to the Tea Party faction, might have been better spent protecting women's "reproductive rights" (read: abortion on demand from conception to as-late-stage-as-you-can-stomach) -- grudgingly sort-of defending Sarah while letting everyone know they resented having to do it if it looked even for a second as though they thought she had any intrinsic value as a politician, much less a woman or even a human being.

I guess in light of that crude event, not even going into the extent to which the left loved to pillory President Bush for most of his administration, calling him everything but a brainless troll, a minute or two of levity with regard to Chairman Maobama's intellectual capacity and certain physical characteristics won't hurt anybody.

Sticks and stones, luv.

Bowers of power flowers

Everything in the Midlands of South Carolina is covered with a veil of electric-yellow powder.

Spring has officially sprung.

With a vengeance.

Each morning I hose down the deck by the pool in hopes that Javier won't transfer a pound of pollen from his wee paws onto my floors and furniture.

Who am I kidding? His coat fairly glistens with spores.

For all I know he glows in the dark.

But isn't it amazing to look out of your bedroom window and see fluffy white dogwoods fretted by a warm breeze against the blue sky?

And the azaleas nearby, their fuchsia blooms practically screaming "Look at us! Hey you! We're over here!"

The pink dogwood at the edge of our property chimes in, but much more softly.

It seems shy this year but perhaps there is greatness in this tree that will become evident in a day or two. 

I'll keep you posted.

There is a hysteria of wisteria in the neighborhood too. Purple profusion. 

Isn't it early for wisteria? I always associate it with Mother's Day.

There is a possibility I am mistaken. At any rate, our local wisteria didn't get the memo.

In some places on the side of the road you'll look over and see towering walls of wisteria vine covering hundreds of square feet of space, the fragrant clusters dripping with abandon, their perfume decorating the air.

Bees are nosing around as well, all fuzzy-buzzy and full of themselves.

My eye is always drawn back to the white dogwood whose pristine blossoms seem to flutter and float, free of their branches.

I could watch it preen its petals and flirt with sunbeams for hours.

Soon there will be confederate jasmine and if you take a walk at night, you'll become intoxicated by their scent.

Then there's my demure little creamy rose. It blooms randomly year round, whenever it feels the spirit move, seemingly impervious to the season.

Believe me, it gets no help from the homeowner. I'm a dork when it comes to plants.

So ... amid a riot of season-specific floral splendor, there stands a tiny timeless self-starting rose with a mind of its own.

I like that.

A wedding! I love weddings!

No ... not Audrey.

And not Erica.

Sigh.

You'll have to wait for that news.

It's my niece, Genevieve!

Genevieve will marry Damon, and he her, this Saturday in Greenville, South Carolina.

I am so excited.

The only thing better than wedding days are the days babies come.

Several times in the past few weeks when I've thought about the approach of Gena's wedding, I've become verklempt.

Because to me, she'll always be the baby standing silently in her crib. 

In the dark.

In the middle of the night.

Watching me.

It wasn't that Gena was a strange baby; she was adorable.

She's just always been a bit of a character, our Gena.

In the week or so before my marriage to TG in June of 1979, I stayed at the home of my Aunt Linda.

My sister was there too, and her two little girls: Elisabeth and Genevieve.

Baby Gena and I shared a spare bedroom in the basement of my Aunt's house. My sister had set up a crib up for Gena at the foot of the bed designated for me.

I was pretty tired every night, but Gena never was.

I'd wake up at all hours and, when my eyes adjusted to the dark, I'd realize that six-month-old baby Gena was standing in her crib, just watching me.

I don't remember if I said "Hi," or went back to sleep without speaking. Gena has no memory of the event.

Genevieve is the fourth of my sister's seven children to marry.

There was a broken engagement a few years back which put our Gena back to square one, so to speak.

Until sometime last summer -- I don't remember exactly -- when Genevieve and Damon met on a flight from Charlotte to Chicago.

And the rest, as they, say, is the stuff (nuptial) dreams are made of.

Now I, Gena's eccentric Aunt Jenny, have been known to glom onto a mushy country song or two or ten.

I'm not sure why the 1998 Mark Wills classic I Do (Cherish You) popped into my head this morning, but it did.

Serendipity, perhaps? I don't know but it induced me to pull out my own wedding gown and look it over.

The last time I did that, Gena was probably an eighth grader.

The dress seems to have shrunk, and my veil looks as though Miss Havisham used it and forgot to get it dry cleaned.

C'est la vie! Vive l'amour! Love and marriage. I'm all about both.

And so here, dedicated to Gena and Damon in their wedding week, is Mark Wills himself singing I Do (Cherish You).

Come Saturday, I'll look up and there will be baby Gena again. Only it won't be dark. I can already see her radiant smile.

And a few days after that, I'll have some pictures for you of the lovely bride and her handsome groom.