Autumn Wedding

I realize I've been telling you the story about Marilyn and Vic for quite some time now, and as a result, I haven't told you much about what's going on Confluence. Forgive me. It's easy sometimes to get wrapped up in putting things together piece by piece. The story of those two is quite dear to my heart, and I want to make sure I cover all the bases as I relay it to you.

But that means I haven't gone back to the zany stories that make this town what it is. I haven't taken you back up toward Howard's Peak, up in Confluence North, where poor old Ricky burned down the Post Office while trying to kill a family of skunks. And I haven't walked with you down Main Street, past my office, down to Mary's Cafe, where we can sit and talk.

There's a new dress shop that just opened up this fall, and a little coffee stand that is attached to a narrow entrance in the storefront just to the left. It's called Buttons, and it's owned by Joshua and Christine, two relative newcomers to town. They are a young couple, and I like them a lot.

Joshua comes to Confluence by way of the West Virginia mountains. He met Christine in college at Penn State, and they eventually settled in a place that reminded him of home. They live now up toward the Peak.

I know plenty of people who might describe these two as "crunchy," but the older folks in town would simply think of them as hippies. They're not really either, but they seem so by outward appearances. Their clothing is simple, their tastes are organic (most apparent by the selections in the coffee shop), and their ideas are sound.

As you know, I am a sucker for coffee, and that's how I first got to know them, and that's how I was invited to their wedding a couple of weekends ago.

The day was calendar-page perfect, all bright and cool and nimble in the morning. They were married in the old country chapel we now call Lily of the Valley. The chapel sits up on a hill that looks out on the spot where the Upper Point River is dammed to create a small pond before it continues a long, twelve mile course down a twisting and rocky valley toward town. Every spring, lillies peek up, sometimes through the snow, and blanket the entire shore in yellow.

The chapel is only twenty or thirty feet across, but it's nearly twice as tall. On a good day, about fifty people can fit in. Maybe sixty, if they're all slender. There are three narrow, tree-like windows behind the altar that look into the woods.

The wedding began at 7pm sharp, and given that I am often quick to forget the standard protocol of my southern upbringing (always, always arrive at a wedding thirty minutes early), I slid into one of the last seats at the back. A friend of the bride played a fiddle; Christine walked up the aisle to "Blest Be the Tie."

They spoke their vows, and the minister blessed the tie that bound them as one. In its simplicity, the wedding left room for incredible meaning; I was overwhelmed by how full this service felt. Yes, God was here, but God was everywhere: in the candles' dim reach toward the chapel's high ceiling, in the fabric of dress and vest, in the last daisies of the year sitting alone on the altar, and in the fresh cold air of fall lofting through the open windows and curling at our feet, full of chill and soul.

The late wedding meant the reception was a moonsong. We toasted the bride and groom in the yard next to the chapel. The fiddler came outside and we danced under the glow of lanterns and by the end of the hour, all of us had fallen in love with Joshua and Christine, all of us felt our hearts grow tender and fill with warmth.

Then it was back to our cars and down the tiny county road that switches back and forth across the mountain to get to town, a goat path, really; some folks riding home together, some like me alone in our cars, all of us separated on the narrow lane by the sharp curves, our headlights looking out for deer and elk, our eyes looking eagerly ahead for the straightaway sight of tail lights, of someone there, someone else, with whom we can share this glow.