Not A Bed Of Roses

Along with most other folks, I complained about the cold weather so long that, apparently, the Lord got weary of listening and rewarded us with an ongoing spate of semi-hemi-Hades hot weather. So far, in the leafy month of June, on the verge of swoon, I’ve sweltered in heat that would turn the plumpest plum into a prune.

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When it’s hot anywhere in the South, it’s twenty degrees hotter in the Mississippi Delta, and this past weekend, decked out in my best Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, I endured the flatland’s sultriness, mugginess and humidity while attending my goddaughter’s wedding. At the appointed time, 6:30 P.M., the outside temperature was ninety-five degrees. Inside the Lord’s House, it was even hotter. Shoulder to shoulder in the tiny country church, friends and relatives crammed the pews. Above the chancel, one solitary air-conditioning vent didn’t even dent the collective 98.6-degree body temperature wafting up from increasingly soaked spectators. Delta folk are raised up to maintain dignity and poise, even in situations where they are tested to their limits. While waiting for the bride to make her entrance, dignity and poise fell by the wayside, as menfolk began loosening ties and removing coats, and womenfolk fanned frantically, trying to keep their made-up faces from relocating below their chins. There was enough sweat flowing in that hallowed edifice to float a boat. Finally, my goddaughter entered and began her last walk as a single woman. Her father, my best friend, escorted her. He is almost as ugly as I am, and every time I gaze upon his gorgeous daughter, I’m amazed that he participated in her making. Clasping a bouquet of flowers to her breast, with gown trailing behind, she strolled forward, as row upon row of heads turned to admire the quintessential beauty of a young woman about to become a wife. Even so, fans kept flapping, and bandannas kept mopping. Behind them, the priest, a large, jovial man, swaddled down the aisle in his polyester robe. In the land of cotton, especially in summertime, wearing petroleum-based garments is tantamount to masochism. While officiating the ritual, Father O’Flannery’s face became redder and redder as he juggled turning the Good Book’s pages, waving the cross and censer, preaching, and fanning himself — all at the same time. Doubtless, he performed the shortest nuptial rite on record. Under his breath, I could almost swear I heard him say, “…in sickness and in health, until death (or heat) do us part.” When the ceremony was over, I kissed the bride, shook her husband’s hand, hugged my best friend, began the long drive home, and reflected on the wedding. It occurred to me that the torrid heat was a good omen … the first of many uncomfortable situations the two young people — now one — would face and overcome, as each new struggle strengthens their marital bond. A Robert Louis Stevenson quote assured me my thoughts were right: “Marriage is like life — it is a field of battle, not a bed of roses.”