Today's Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

[Guest guest]

She Did It Her Way

By Firmin

" Mom, we're getting married. . . sometime in June. " This from my hippie daughter

calling on a pay phone in Maine. (No phone or electricity at her house - or

perhaps cabin is a better word.)

" We don't want a fancy wedding or dressy clothes or a lot of guests. We just

want to be married in your backyard. I'll let you know the date. "

Long ago, her father and I made up our minds to listen to her and do things the

way she wanted as much as we could. And of course, I was thrilled she was

getting married. I was always secretly worried that marriage was too

" old-fashioned " for her. She was a child of the '60s, eager to right the wrongs

of the world, to live life on the edge and to never be part of the

" establishment. "

Well, backyard weddings can be lovely, I thought. It's not our beautiful church

with a majestic organ, flowing white dress or bridesmaids. But, still. . . . I

took an upbeat approach, which was really the only sensible thing to do under

the circumstances.

Later with dates arranged, a guest list of sorts (our family and best friends

and " a bunch of friends . . . we'll let you know how many " ) and the food decided

on ( " only veggie stuff and some champagne " ), she agreed I could ask the minister

of our church to perform the ceremony " for legal purposes. "

All negotiations were going well until I mentioned the wedding gown. " No special

dress, Mom. Sorry. Your first daughter, your good daughter [said with a wry

smile, a favorite family joke] did the white dress and veil thing. Not me. I

have lots of clothes that would do for a wedding. "

I thought of all her dresses (short, wild, braless) and realized that she mostly

wore jeans or cut-offs. Nothing I had seen her wear in years even whispered

" wedding " to me.

So in the following days, ignoring my own good advice to let her do it her way,

I wandered around different stores and looked at dresses that might do for my

bride-to-be daughter. Then I saw it: simple, unbleached muslin with a shirred

waist, scooped neckline with just a bit of Irish lace and little capped sleeves.

It was long, but not floor-length. It was graceful, but not formal. It was

lovely and simple, and it was my daughter.

Envisioning her wearing it, I bought the dress and took it home.

Later that day I placed the box on her bed with a little note stating: " I just

happened upon this while shopping (okay, a small white lie). This looks like

you. Would you try it on for me? "

When she came in that evening, she went to her room and all was quiet. A bit

worried I had hurt her feelings with my purchase, I went upstairs to her room

where she sat on the bed holding the dress on her lap while tears rained down

her cheeks - and she was smiling.

" I never knew you thought of me like this, Mom. The dress is so lovely and soft

and simple. I love it. And I'll love wearing it for the wedding. Thanks for

knowing me so well. "

Two weeks later, on a sun-filled afternoon, friends gathered in our backyard.

Our daughter walked down the steps - to the strum of a guitar - smiling proudly

in her surprise dress. She looked wonderful, like I knew she would.

It was a perfect wedding . . . almost.

Had I known her fiancé would be wearing yellow paisley bell-bottoms, I might

have shopped for him as well!