I’m in a winged, tin tube in a seat above the clouds. I can see purple mountains far below, purple as if smoky eye shadow could be mined there. My fear of flying sulks like a child fighting for my attention and I’m forced to write this blog in the dubious sands of my own memory because my keyboard is in the overhead, but all I can think about is how unnecessary it is that, before take off, we’re all told how a seat buckle works, as if anyone is listening, as if it would make a difference should our plane come screaming out of the clouds and explode into a Smokey Mountain valley. Despite this, my mood is good because it’s Christmas vacation, and also, I’m clearly distracted, because I’m trying to write a blog about this wedding and life is rich, full, busy, and distracting, even without cellular devices. Don’t fail me now, poor brain.
I Remember it Thus:
This wedding took place on the ground and during warmer days, at The Captain’s House—a nautical-themed mansion in Chester, Nova Scotia. I witnessed it like I do nearly all weddings, through the lenses of cameras that are as familiar to me now as my limbs. It was a postcard kind of day, complete with pillow clouds and gorgeous faces, a golfing groom and a captivating bride with one of those smiles everyone instinctively reflects back. Beautiful photos were low hanging fruit. The day was a rare gem; the sort when two best friends snicker and cry and make lifelong commitments in front of loved ones and the sea, then the sun goes down in ceremonious splendour and the night is refreshing and fun, but made louder and better with free-styled dancing, cupcakes and games, and shots from an open bar. I remember laughing a lot behind my camera, admiring the good will so obvious exuded between everyone. It was the sort of day that ends later than expected and with fewer casualties, and side-hugs for all. Scratch that—front hugs! We’re all friends now!
In a summer that tended to string together brooding weekdays that exploded into rainy weekends, this day was a rare, sunny find—one made all the rarer by the next day, when they did it all over again, according to the groom’s ancestral traditions, and on another unlikely perfect day. To describe the next day, I’d have to conjure up a bunch of adjectives that mean “awesome” and “loving” and “joyously fun”, and pepper them into sentences that described how dazzling it looked and how firmly it pulled at the heart.
But I won’t. I’m instead going to eat these two rectangles of mediocrity that are the air plane cookies, and then shuffle down the isle to pee in a cramped box, 10,000 feet above Tennessee.
I hope you enjoy these photos nearly as much as I do. It really was this beautiful.