And the Hippies Can Party!
Except for an abiding love of high-quality patchouli, I will never be a hippy. I’m way too uptight. And it’s definitely a misconception when people say the world would be more peaceful if hippies were in charge. They fall into human folly and meanness just like the rest of us, even if they are more laid back about it. But, as I evidenced this weekend, nobody can throw a wedding like these guys.
Pure joy. And shouldn’t the celebration of a sacred union be all about joy? Usually it isn’t. It’s more about who will be sitting next to whom and making sure Aunt Matilda is invited because one wouldn’t want to offend her even though no-one wants her around. What to serve? Open bar or cash bar? Tux or suit? She showed up wearing, what? I can’t believe she didn’t ask Mitzi to be a flower girl! Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah until the bride ends up on Valium and the groom shows up drunk and the celebration becomes a mockery of the wedding itself.
Unless you are a pure of heart hippy, like my two friends are. Their wedding was most definitely a celebration of their union, their family and friends, and the ideals of hippydom – peace, love, and generosity.
High on a hilltop in rural Vermont, next to a pond, about two-hundred guests wandering around in their Sunday best – some in suits, some in jeans and high-top sneakers – all wearing smiles, hanging out in the sun, playing baseball or Frisbee or guitar or just sitting around and talking while dogs chased each other and kids ran amok until the bugle was sounded for the ceremony, which I missed because my toddler decided to ask his “Why?” questions in that high-squeaky voice. We went for a walk.
And the food! Roast pig, vegetable dishes, cheeses, five cakes, pasta, potatoes, kegs of beer, bottles of wine, water, juice boxes, fresh berries picked from local bushes... A guest could want for nothing. And it just kept coming. Some donated from the community, some catered, all yummy.
The happy couple, bless them, even provided a child activity center complete with paints, crayons, reams of paper, Play-Doh, balls, bats, frisbees, bubbles, a toy shop right on top of the hill.
And it just kept going. Torches lit, bonfire blazing, the groom and all his pals set-up stage and played all night in a Roots Music Lollapalooza. A small miracle getting all these folks together – Session Americana, Bow Thayer, Jabe, Dana Colley, Tim Gearan, Jeremy Moses Curtis, and the list goes on. I felt like I was front row at Lollapalooza. And people just danced and danced – best was watching all those little kids shaking it loose.
I had to leave for the inn at the bottom of the hill before the fireworks – keeping a toddler up three hours past his bedtime didn’t seem wise at the time (won’t make that mistake again) – and let me say that meandering down a wooded hill under a full moon in a black Vermont sky is not a serene experience, especially if one has read Joseph Citro’s Shadow Child, but once safely ensconced in our room, I listened to the creaks and moans of the old inn, my son’s breathing, and felt all was right in the world.
Reading: Thoroughly enjoying Alistair MacLeod – the man can write. Also reading Potty Training Made Easy, Fast and Simple. Riveting. Let's hope it works.
To Split Your Belly Laughing: Rent Flight of the Conchords.
Pure joy. And shouldn’t the celebration of a sacred union be all about joy? Usually it isn’t. It’s more about who will be sitting next to whom and making sure Aunt Matilda is invited because one wouldn’t want to offend her even though no-one wants her around. What to serve? Open bar or cash bar? Tux or suit? She showed up wearing, what? I can’t believe she didn’t ask Mitzi to be a flower girl! Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah until the bride ends up on Valium and the groom shows up drunk and the celebration becomes a mockery of the wedding itself.
Unless you are a pure of heart hippy, like my two friends are. Their wedding was most definitely a celebration of their union, their family and friends, and the ideals of hippydom – peace, love, and generosity.
High on a hilltop in rural Vermont, next to a pond, about two-hundred guests wandering around in their Sunday best – some in suits, some in jeans and high-top sneakers – all wearing smiles, hanging out in the sun, playing baseball or Frisbee or guitar or just sitting around and talking while dogs chased each other and kids ran amok until the bugle was sounded for the ceremony, which I missed because my toddler decided to ask his “Why?” questions in that high-squeaky voice. We went for a walk.
And the food! Roast pig, vegetable dishes, cheeses, five cakes, pasta, potatoes, kegs of beer, bottles of wine, water, juice boxes, fresh berries picked from local bushes... A guest could want for nothing. And it just kept coming. Some donated from the community, some catered, all yummy.
The happy couple, bless them, even provided a child activity center complete with paints, crayons, reams of paper, Play-Doh, balls, bats, frisbees, bubbles, a toy shop right on top of the hill.
And it just kept going. Torches lit, bonfire blazing, the groom and all his pals set-up stage and played all night in a Roots Music Lollapalooza. A small miracle getting all these folks together – Session Americana, Bow Thayer, Jabe, Dana Colley, Tim Gearan, Jeremy Moses Curtis, and the list goes on. I felt like I was front row at Lollapalooza. And people just danced and danced – best was watching all those little kids shaking it loose.
I had to leave for the inn at the bottom of the hill before the fireworks – keeping a toddler up three hours past his bedtime didn’t seem wise at the time (won’t make that mistake again) – and let me say that meandering down a wooded hill under a full moon in a black Vermont sky is not a serene experience, especially if one has read Joseph Citro’s Shadow Child, but once safely ensconced in our room, I listened to the creaks and moans of the old inn, my son’s breathing, and felt all was right in the world.
Reading: Thoroughly enjoying Alistair MacLeod – the man can write. Also reading Potty Training Made Easy, Fast and Simple. Riveting. Let's hope it works.
To Split Your Belly Laughing: Rent Flight of the Conchords.
posted by Dina Keratsis at
6:23 PM
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