Ariel, my college roommate, approached her wedding much like all else in life: utterly relaxed, in control, and ready to have a good time. The scene was Loch Lyme Lodge, on the beautiful Post Pond in Lyme, New Hampshire, New England barns and cows abound, pines ripe with needles. But the rain started falling late Friday night as we pulled up by the big bonfire, mosquitos snapping and flames cracklin'.
We settled into our cabins -- small homes, really, with exposed wood beams and wainscoting and curtain fabrics certainly chosen by a regular sewer. Our cabins came equipped with fireplaces, and thank goodness, because when we all woke on Saturday morning, the rain was falling. And it fell. And fell. And fell. The wind gusted, and the wedding tent went all rickety, it's yellow and white stripes swaying here and there.
We went and had country breakfasts -- at the Whistlestop and Isabel's -- and hunted for wellies in Hanover, knowing all our shoes would be ruined by night's end. We made fires and cozied up inside, then pulled ou our ponchos and rain boots for the celebration. The wedding was on.