I have become an avid fan of the writer, Jill Conner Browne, who wrote all of the "Sweet Potato Queens" books.  My friend, Marcia, (she's a Mar-see-a, not a Marsha - speaking of which, did you know that Maureen McCormick who played little Marcia Brady on "The Brady Bunch" is 50-years-old?!  And still GORGEOUS!) said, "You HAVE to read these!  They are hilarious."  Indeed they were and I was fully hooked.

I like to listen to them on CD because I love the sound of her voice.  She is from Jackson, Mississippi and for those who have not met me in person (and those who have and didn't guess), I am from Kentucky, which while it was not considered to the the South in the Civil War is definitely considered to be the South by most people, especially after we start talking.  As many un-accented folk are unaware (although we often think y'all are the ones with the accents), there are regional differences and nuances to the Southern Drawl.  If you watch an episode of "Dallas," then watch "Divine Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood, then watch "O Brother, Where Art Thou" then watch "Elizabethtown" then listen to Jill, you'll likely notice a difference.

Anyway...

I love to listen to her voice because even though it's a shade off of the way we talk, it still sounds like home.  I do so love to read a good book the old fashioned way, but slipping one of her CDs into the player is my equal to saying, "Aunt Jill, tell me a story," and lordy, does she ever.

So I told you that to tell you this...

I have been listening to The Sweet Potato Queens' Wedding and Divorce Planner and it got me thinking about my own weddings.

Yes, as is often the case in the over 40's crowd, it's plural.

My first one was in 1978 to a fella named Paul who I dated in High School.  He was a strapping young Air Force boy with flaming red hair, a quick humor and a ticket out of Kentucky.  I loved him dearly.  Since was was not yet "of age," my mama had to go down to the court house with me to sign a marriage license and she was none too happy about that.  My dad had already not been thrilled with the idea of his oldest and only daughter marrying at a young age, but circumstances conspired for such to occur and before long, Mom's shaky hand was signing that paper and we were off and running.

Paul had flow in from Guam, where he was stationed at the time, and had exactly one week of leave to cover all that a marriage would entail.  [It should be noted that I did not find out until after we'd been married for 8 years that he never actually proposed.  I misunderstood what he said and he didn't think it was a terrible idea, so he just never corrected my mistake...at least until he divorced me a couple of times.]  My family had not prepared financially for the princess wedding of my dreams and were, in fact, barely able to provide suitable accommodations for my Barbie and Ken dolls to get married, so it was a challenge. 

First, Mama went down to Hancock fabrics and bought a few yards of white eyelet.  In less than a day, she'd whipped up a very respectable, yet simple, wedding dress, complete with a lace covered bodice.  My cousin's wife had a veil I could borrow.  We found my shoes on sale for $8 (I did not own a pair of white shoes).  My aunt bought the cake.  My other aunt had a punch bowl.  The church into which I'd been baptized said we could use the building, but the minister was unavailable.  As it turned out, my betrothed's father was a licensed minister of the unseminaried variety, but legal, nonetheless.  Things were going fiiine like wiiiine.

Paul would, of course, wear his military uniform.  Fortunately, I married in April, so my friends had already scouted out their prom dresses.  Insta-bridesmaids. 

All that was left were the flowers and in April in Kentucky, there might be a few daffodils and irises sprouting, but beyond that, you were going to a florist, which was just not an option for us at that point.  Mama thought on it for a while, then the day before the wedding, she told me to get out to the Gremlin and pile in.  She had an idea.

She took everything out of the old Gremlin that wasn't bolted down and off we went.  I was a little surprised when she drove us up to the Baptist church not far from where we lived.  My church was also Baptist, but was a community or two over from us.  Mama told me not to worry.  We'd get all the flowers we needed and they'd be just as good as gold.

As we approached the (massive) cemetery, she waved her arm grandly and said, "Honey, start pickin." 

I was stunned.  I said, "Mama, we can't take these flowers."

She looked at me sternly and said, "Honey, they are dead and you are alive.  They don't mind a bit.  Now it's almost Memorial day and all of these flowers are going to be pushed aside for new ones anyhow and besides, we'll have'em all back in place by Saturday (my wedding was on Friday), so when people are here on Sunday, nobody will be the wiser."

I promise you this is graveyard true.

We picked enough silk flowers to make my bouquet,  one for my bridesmaid, my maid of honor and my matron of honor, a corsage for Mama and my new mother-in-law (they got to keep those), small bouquets to tie to the banisters and the church pews and a big basket for the front altar.

The Gremlin was filled with muddy silk flowers by the time we were done and true to her word, Mama had kept careful records of where each flower went in the cemetery.

We drove home and she piled all of the flowers into the bathtub and ran hot water all over them until they were clean and looked like new.  After that, she laid them out to dry and got busy doing what my mom could do effortlessly and I couldn't do with a gun to my head.  She got creative.

The church looked lovely and all together, my wedding cost my parents less than $40.  I was still just as married as if they'd spent $40,000.  True to her word, every flower was back in place before the sun set on Saturday.

In 1988, Paul and I decided to renew our vows, so we planned our own little wedding on Big Bear Lake.  Of course, it stormed that day, so we had to move inside to our hotel suite at the Marina Riveria Hotel.  Fortunately, we only had about 20 people there.  I bought the dress at a thrift store (it was actually very similar to the one my Mama had made 10 years before and that I could no longer fit into) and Paul wore a nice vest, shirt and dress pants.  Everyone else was in casual attire.  Since no legalities were necessary, the president of our motorcycle gang club officiated.  It was lovely.  I made the cake and did a fine, fine job, including a photo from our first wedding in the cake's decorating scheme.

Our reception was at the nearby Sizzler, whereupon my groom proceeded to get plastered on the never ending pitchers of beer.  By the time we got to our honeymoon suite to re-christen our 10 year hitch, he was passed out and I was hauling him up two flights of stairs and into the matrimonial sleep-it-off bed.  We left for home the next day, him nursing the mothah of all hang overs and me nursing one hell of a snit.

We divorced in 1992 without fanfare.  He had me served with divorce papers on my birthday.  We parted ways and after a couple of years spent in Japan, he missed his family and wanted to be married again.  This time, I made him say the words and verified it was actually what he was asking.  At the tender age of 31, I still had not figured out that thing about leopards and spots again, but I was willing to do things a little different for the kick off ritual.

We were married in the True Love Wedding Chapel in Lancaster, California.  I wore black, figuring the white hadn't gotten me anywhere.  We didn't bother with photos, figuring we could just reference the ones from '78 if need me.  The minister was a little woman in emerald eye shadow who had us repeat the vows "I consummate myself unto thee" instead of "I consecrate myself unto thee."  We were having a bit of a giggle about that. 

He found himself another woman in Spring of 1996 and our divorce was final on Christmas Eve of that year.  A few months after he left, I met this truly enchanting man who I could not get off my mind to save my soul, no matter how hard I tried and no matter how intent I was to never get married again.  He wasn't interested in being more than friends anyway, so that worked out OK.  He was fun to be with and made me laugh and quoted all the right movies on a regular basis.

I was being a single mom and he was being a barracks rat and he could come over a couple of times a  week to visit.  He was close with my three older sons and we all enjoyed spending time together.

The following September, Eric was sent to Saudi Arabia for Desert Storm and I felt like a huge hole had opened up in my life.  I was a night telephone operator (Operator 12, in fact) for McClellan Air Force Base and he was in the Communications Squadron.  Our work shifts meshed so that he was just getting off work while I was still on duty, so he would call base to base and we would talk when the calls were slow.  In fact, he phoned me as the plane was taking off from Sacramento to tell me he missed me.

About halfway through his stint, we decided it would just be too tragic if he were to get orders and we didn't see each other any more.  The obvious solution was that we would get married so that if he got orders, the kids and I would move with him and we could stay friends.  As it turned out, his squadron had the shortest tour of Saudi Arabia ever and were back in about 45 days.  We planned to get married the Thursday after he got back on Monday. 

That day in November (13th, also Eric's birthday), is started to snow a good bit, but we were bound for Reno.  It was a little uncomfortable and funny that it was US, Katrina and Eric, going to get married.  I remember Joshua, my #3 son (the one who gifted me with grandbabies), saying, "Mom, you're going to screw up a great friendship." 

We didn't talk a whole lot on the trip up.  I'd made a reservation at the Candlelight Wedding Chapel for their cheapest wedding.  The snow made us late, so I called them from Truckee.  All through applying for the marriage license, I kept waiting for him to back out.  Throughout the wedding, we both giggled and felt weird.  We'd bought rings a couple of nights before and Eric wanted one that was huge and wide and too big.

I was shocked that he went all the way through with the wedding.  I expected at any moment that he would say, "I can't do this" and I'd say, "No problem; lets go hit the slots!"  No harm, no foul.  After the wedding, we had to return to the courthouse to file the license and then it was done and it was real.  (In fact, it was just under 2 weeks before Paul and his lady tied the knot and honestly, it wasn't planned that way).

We didn't really know how to be around each other, so we moved onto my other plan and hit the slots, enjoyed the buffets and made a pit stop at a pawn shop to get his ring sized while we were playing so it wouldn't fall off his hand.  We went home early that evening after a good day.   He spent our wedding night watching movies with Joe, my oldest son, and playing guitars in the living room. 

We had five days of awkwardness, each unsure and uneasy with our change of status.  On that fifth day, conversation brought us around to admitting that we both went through with the wedding with the ulterior motive of getting the other to fall in love with them and wanted more than a platonic marriage. 

That was a while back and it's been a whole lot of happy ever after.  I'm really grateful that I took a chance on that friendship and rolled the dice in Reno with a really great guy.  We've had ups and downs like anyone, but overall, I got a heck of a jackpot.

Best to ya,