The loveliest of days

Ah. It was beautiful and special and sweet, the wedding day.

The bride- and groom-to-be prayed for weeks that there would be no rain. Their prayers were answered.

I prayed for temperatures in the mid fifties and overcast, so that we'd have the silvery light I love, without the too-eager sun causing everyone to squint me to be too hot.

My prayer was answered too. It was a Goldilocks kind of day, weatherwise: just right.

Amidst the blur of bliss enfolding the happy moment, I took time to be grateful. And I told the Lord so.

Yes, I cried too. I almost always cry at weddings but when it's your own beloved child making those promises, it can become intense. The tears felt good.

Everyone was there: family members from far and near, as well friends of many decades or, no less precious, of the last few years. People who have been special to Andrew and Brittany, and therefore to us.

Our Stephanie and Joel and their three darling children, Melanie, Allissa, and Andrew; our Audrey and her Dagny; our Erica and her Chad. All were present to lend love and support. As ever.

The venue chosen by the bride and groom reflected their love of nature, and particularly Brittany's love of being near water.

The sound of the French Broad River rushing on its unhurried way past the land, under the sky, was enchanting. 

At Olivette Asheville -- specifically, a portion of it named Rosebay Park -- there is a small bridge leading to a long and narrow island, where the wedding ceremony took place.

Olivette is a new development where million-dollar houses are being built on the banks of the river. You'll see in-progress construction behind the kids as they feed each other wedding cake. 

That lovely cake was made by the bride's mother, and it was as delicious as it was pretty.

We also had fresh, hot barbecue with scrumptious sides, served by kind and courteous local folks. Pork and brisket with sauces, potato salad, green beans, mac and cheese, soft rolls -- it was all heavenly. 

The party pavilion, a mere twenty feet from the river's edge, was warmed by standing heaters and a roaring fire.

Rambo served as Dog of Honor. He was as comfortable at the wedding as he is on his blanket at home. And as universally loved.

TG and I, following the bride's parents, lit the candle signifying Andrew's life. The wind had played up, extinguishing Brittany's candle. We re-lit it and the flame endured.

Major Derick Wakefield, a chaplain at McGhee-Tyson Air National Guard Base, home of Andrew's unit, the 134th Air Refueling Wing, performed the ceremony with grace, emphasizing the sacred solemnity of the vows about to be taken.

But before the bride entered, Dagny as flower girl was to strew petals on her grassy path.

She threw out too many at the beginning and, halfway down the aisle, became concerned.

Oh no! I did it wrong, she was heard to say.

She retraced her steps -- backward -- and began gathering all the petals back up. Audrey zipped around and hustled her out of the way.

So darling. So so darling, I cannot tell you. You'll have to imagine it. A three-year-old taking her office so seriously.

Andrew had turned his back as Brittany approached from afar -- brought on a golf cart (I thought of Rebekah, who lighted off the camel when she lifted up her eyes and spotted Isaac) -- so that he wouldn't see her until she was all set to walk to the altar.

Another genesis.

Then Brittany drifted toward Andrew to the strains of All I Ask of You played on classical guitar. Like Rebekah, the damsel was fair to look upon. The moment was laden with exquisite emotion.

Andrew cried a tear or two but quickly stopped. She was there, her hands in his. I'll never forget the way she looked at him. It's the way she always looks at him: with love shining from her eyes.

It isn't the sparkling, laser-beam look you sometimes see; it's quiet and deep. I believe it and it brings me joy.

TG said a few words about the bride and groom's relationship, and about their commitment to cherish one another forever.

Then the promises had been made, swiftly and publicly.

The couple used their individual candles to light another, larger candle, then snuffed out their candles. The two become one.

I was snapping these photos from the front row; I was so happy to get a picture of the smoke against Andrew's dark blue uniform as the candles went out. I love pictures of smoke.

They returned front and center. Andrew kissed his bride and dipped her. It was done: Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Weber had been established.

And then we all posed for posterity as the photographers did their excellent work.

Of course, my camera was never out of my hand.

As the reception got underway, everyone was ebullient as is usually the case at such times.

Eventually, celebration sparklers were lit. TG made sure our grandson, Andrew, had one to hold out.

A freight train went by on the nearby track. The wedding guests gestured for a whistle, and got a double one from the conductor. It was thrilling.

Before they left for their honeymoon, Andrew and Brittany took a few moments to be alone by the river's edge.

It was happy-sad when they drove away; I'll never forget it.

Then it was time to break up the party. Folks were already leaving. It was time-change Saturday; an entire hour would soon be gone wherever it is that those hours go, not to return until next November.

TG and I went back to our hotel and crashed. I lay in happy exhaustion propped on three pillows, looking at my pictures. The next morning, my left foot was swollen and painful.

I think I overdid walking on hard surfaces in black velvet boots with no cushion in the sole.

But I've rested now; my foot is much better.

The newlyweds will soon return from Jamaica. It will be so wonderful to see them.

And now we have another wedding on the horizon: Chad and Erica, in seven weeks. The invitations have been sent.

I may expire of happiness. What a way to go.

If you'd like to see the entire wedding gallery -- my pictures, that is; not the official ones -- go here. They're in the process of being edited but you're welcome to look, and to rejoice with us.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Tuesday

And Rizzo is his name-o

Recently I read the shocking story of a young woman who had occasion to travel from one place to another via commercial airplane.

Something I would never do.

And that's not all I wouldn't do; reader, read on.

Said female had acquired, during the course of an illness (of the non-life threatening sort) a medically-certified emotional support animal.

You've heard of that, surely? Like, someone who comes home from war afflicted with PTSD, is paired with a lovely canine companion whose presence calms and reassures the soldier? It's wonderful.

And I'm sure there are as many other iterations of that scenario as you could come up with in your spare time. Cats and birds -- maybe even ferrets and sugar gliders, bunny rabbits and three-toed sloths -- can fill the role as well as dogs, I imagine.

But even I didn't know that a peacock* (called Dexter, no less) could serve as an emotional support animal. And as much as I try to imagine the circumstances of not only how that could come about, but why, and of the ongoing ramifications of same, I cannot.

But the young lady of which I spoke at the beginning of this post was perhaps even more imaginative than Dexter's needy owner.

Her emotional support animal of choice was a one-ounce dwarf hamster. Name of Pebbles.

Pebbles, like most wee beasties of her ilk, resided in a wire cage lined with cedar chips and outfitted with an exercise wheel and a colorful plastic bowl brimming with hamster vittles.

It was in this cage that Pebbles' young owner transported her to the airport to board her flight.

She had called ahead -- not once, but twice -- to inform airline personnel of the existence of Pebbles, and to make sure that as her certified, card-carrying emotional support critter, she would be allowed to accompany her as she traveled from point A to point B.

And she was assured -- not once, but twice -- that the presence of Pebbles by her side on the flight would be not only permissible, but absolutely no problem.

Pebbles was welcome as a passenger. Bring her on, cedar shavings, exercise wheel and all. Nothing but green lights from here to Bedrock.

Except, when the young woman arrived at the airport and presented herself at the check-in desk with Pebbles riding shotgun, she was greeted with significantly less enthusiasm.

As in, she was told that in no way was Pebbles welcome to fly. Pebbles must remain on the ground. Most definitely not cleared for takeoff. No exceptions would be made.

Panicked, the damsel began a frantic search for a solution.

She said later, through her lawyer, that she had tried to rent a car so that she could drive with Pebbles to her destination.

But she claims no cars were available. Taking the bus was not an option, as she had only so much time to get home for a doctor appointment.

She renewed her earnest pleas for Pebbles to be allowed on board the flight. Again and again, her entreaties were met with stony refusal.

Finally, about to miss her flight, the desperate young emotionally-challenged would-be traveler arrived at the only conclusion she felt was available to her.

She figured she had no recourse but to execute her pet.

And that's exactly what she did.

Carrying Pebbles in her cage into the Ladies, our adventurer extracted her emotional support animal from its comfy safe nest and ... pitched it headlong into the potty.

And flushed. Sent the creature whirling to the sewers below.

It is not clear to me what she did with the empty cage, afterwards. Perched it atop the trash can? Left it, wire door ajar, on the soggy restroom counter?

At any rate, she boarded her flight, Pebbles-less, and got to where she was going.

Once there, she lawyered up. To explore the possibility of suing the airline for -- wait for it -- emotional trauma.

Rather predictable, wouldn't you say? I'd give anything to read the complaint in that case, when it's filed. Perhaps it would go thusly:

Feeling she had no recourse, and faced with the harsh reality of missing her flight, client was forced to endure the emotionally shattering experience of flushing the very animal who existed to provide her with emotional support. And it was entirely the fault of the airline, ergo they are liable for causing client excessive distress and pain and suffering, and should be made accountable by law and should pay damages in the amount of $$$.

Or something like that. You get the general litigious idea.

As I read this tragic no-happy-ending story, Rizzo lay snoozing on my lap. I idly stroked his soft ears. Every now and then, he opened his eyes to gaze up at me, which he frequently does.

I thought about the day I rescued Rizzo rescued me, exactly fourteen months ago. Having lost my beloved Javier to old age and renal disease on April 11, 2016, I'd made it nearly nine months without a pet.

And I came to the realization that all pets are emotional support animals. Because whether you're a cat or a dog person, or any-other-kind-of-animal person, you wouldn't take on the considerable responsibility of caring for a pet if you didn't have a need for the special, unconditional love they give.

My Rizzo has never traveled on an airplane (I don't think); he whimpers when he's asked to hop aboard an automobile. He's not much of an adventurer; mostly he prefers to be either napping in the recliner, basking in warm sun on the deck, or snugly ensconced in my lap.

I do believe his favorite spot is in my lap. He likes for my hands to be on him -- rubbing, petting, scritching, massaging. He's insistent on this point. He needs me.

And I need him. There is no need for Rizzo to ever fear plumbing.

The only thing I fear when it comes to Rizzo, is the inevitable sad day (unless I go first) that he's no longer with me.

But I won't think about that.

Instead, join me in mourning for poor unfortunate Pebbles, the emotional support pet grounded from flight and subsequently dispatched to a watery grave, drowned out of desperation by her no-doubt distraught owner in a cold and lonely, echo-ey airport restroom.

Rest in peace, Pebbles.

Oh and ... your former owner already has a new, replacement hamster. Just so you know. 

*Dexter the peacock was not allowed to fly either. Even though his owner had bought him his own ticket. Boarding pass denied.

I don't know how Dexter got home but I hope that in the process, not one bright feather was harmed.

Whatever transpired, I'm reasonably sure that he was not flushed.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday