States' Line-Drive, and a Grove Goes Holm, Pt.2

Saturday, March 6, continued...

All the photos had been taken, and all the preparations made, including the mischievous ones, which we'd practiced over, to make sure we were ready. "Best Man" John, "No.2 Groomsman" Bryan, and I were dapper as rental money could afford, as was our charge, with his added "pocket square" which is what they call the silk kerchief you wear with a rental tux. I helped him make the square look right, though we were woefully without an iron. The result was still pleasing. Now, all weekend I had been seeing a side of Andrew I had not often seen before, and I wondered at it.

Andrew Holmquist

Andrew has always been as stubborn as a mule, though calm, and occasionally, explosively exuberant. His blond curly head has always been as hard as it was screwed on straight. And while he had the optimism and energy of a one-man industrial revolution, when appropriate he could also be as damp as a blanket in the rain. He wasn't the sort of fellow you'd consider remarkable or exceptionally good looking, but maybe that was due to the low profile he kept, the fact that he dressed like a man in his forties when he was in high school, and the acne he fought for years. Still he grew tall, was always fit and ruddy, and had a knack for craftsmanship of all kinds, from woodworking and metalshop to making jewelry. And he had quirks; for instance, he refused to wear shorts or sandals, and didn't like to ever go in the water, whether at the pool or in the ocean.

We grew up together. As children, no matter what I wanted to play at - the themes changed with regularity - he wanted to play railroad engineer. I mean he literally always wanted to play with his toy train set. That's an important point in understanding Andrew.

Flipways, I did not care about trains. There was something about them that caught my imagination, but not like Andrew. Andrew was dead-set on them. There was no other theme for play time. This of course made us a bit distant in our preferences if close in proximity and friendship. As we grew up, we had at times grown apart and back together again, my being a home-schooled boy who had something to prove to the world, his being perhaps the only kid to ever survive the public school culture completely untainted by the world. We became friends again in high school when I was the leader of our Boy Scout troop and he joined up. Those years were wonderful for all our friendships, Andrew's and mine being no exception. From constructive projects to combat with sticks and acorns, we were all a part of a team. We each took high school classes through the local community college, so we had some classes together, too.

In the summer of 2000, before I went away to college, I was convinced that every person needed to finish a BA or BS degree. Andrew and I had a job that summer painting a huge block of storage units, and I spent the whole time dogging him about finishing his education. Both our families were poor, his more than mine, and I was convinced his fixation on railroading had gone far enough, and would land him on welfare. In the end I am an office worker with a two-year degree and a four-year degree, a mixed skill-set, a jumbled résumé, and seeking direction. Andrew has now been settled as a railroad man in Oregon for five or six years, pays a mortgage, builds his own canoes, ukeleles, cabinetry, kitchen utensils, and anything else you can imagine, and is far and away more prepared to support himself than I am. He just always knew what he wanted, and while I was distracted by shiny worldly ambitions, he quietly grew into an impressive man. It still boggles my mind that anyone could know what they want to do with their life already at age three.

Of Husbandry and Lip Balm

But I had rarely seen him on-edge like this. The previous night I'd seen him vocalize some small disrespect to his weather-worn, soft-spoken patriarch. Mr. Holmquist has always been incorrigible with the puns, and I always thought Andrew had liked punny humor, but now his father's nervous punning was driving Andrew nuts, and he said so. Being groomsmen, it seemed appropriate we do something to keep our charge on track. Our way aiding Andrew in keeping his usually respectful, good-humored sunshine was by stopping to pray with him intermittently throughout Friday night and Saturday morning, starting with the Friday night frayed ends we started to see. He was grateful and responded well. I think we gathered to pray perhaps four or five times on Saturday morning, which seemed to leave a glow on everything from the simple dresses to the rubberbands we kept shooting at each other during the wedding photos. Andrew loves God, and loves people, especially his family. He was just frazzled because he was already engaged in careful husbandry, preparing his home for his bride's return post-honeymoon, attempting to keep the wedding humming like one of his well-maintained pieces of woodshop machinery. By praying, we kept him well-oiled. He was still nervous, but his lanky frame stood a little more confident, and his now-handsome, rugged features more at ease.

The one tick our groom continued to display was a fondness for his Burt's Bees chapstick. Saturday morning it seemed he couldn't get enough of it. He'd set it down and forget about it, then miss it and search around diligently for it, asking if we had seen it, apply some, then misplace it again. I thought it odd to worry so much about chapped lips, and tried to remember if he'd always been lip-focused before.

The Ceremony

Soon the guests were creaking in the pews, roaring softly their anticipation for the big day. The music started, simple piano. The grandparents and parents were ushered down the aisle. The sun shone through the winter windows on a clear-weather wedding day. Soon it was our turn to go. I (trying to keep my tux from looking bluged and lopsided) escorted the best friend of the bride. No one noticed the ill-fit of my treasure-laden rental tux. The second groomsman and Karena. John and Lisa. We all took our places and watched, with everyone else, as the music changed for Loree.

She looked positively angelic in her slender dress and streaming veil, neither of which I can describe properly, being that I am a gent, and have no knowledge of the requisite terminology. She wore her small glasses in the wedding, which I thought was cute and apropos to the practical beauty of their ceremony, and they gave her eyes an extra glint in the sunshine still warming the proceedings. Her carriage was direct, graceful and serene, her expression warm, not betraying the nerves she had assured us, in her brief way, that she would undoubtedly feel in front of so many people. She gave her promise ring back to her father, which he had given her when she was 14. The bronzed, flat-topped, tight-lipped fire captain's chin quivered a little, as he hugged his middle daughter away, and he nevertheless enthusiastically presented her to Andrew and vigorously shook his hand.

The preacher was decidedly cowboy, smelling of Barbasol and lumber, with a broad, Baldwinesque expression. His salt-and-pepper hair that bounded neatly back from his slightly beading forehead was pomaded in combed rows, and his open tuxedo collar and black boots bespoke a man who perhaps knew his way around the brush as well as he knew his way around the Bible. He beamed at Andrew and Loree emotionally, as though they were his own children. Perhaps in a sense they were. He then spoke about Jesus, explaining that the greatest marriage proposal ever had been given by Christ, to us, at Calvary. The vows were so beautifully self-effacing and simple, and when Loree said those words of commitment to my friend I lost all visual focus as my eyes swam in happiness that spilled down my face and into my stubble.

The preacher asked for the rings. Andrew feigned a befuddled response, felt rapidly through his coat and pants pockets and turned agitatedly to his best man. John was convincingly absent-minded as he patted himself down and turned to Bryan. Bryan, apparently at a loss in turn, looked at me, believably puzzled. I had already turned to look in my own right pocket, and when I turned back toward our audience I had on my face not only a confident expression, but also a pair of cheesy white aviator sunglasses. With an exaggerated, smarmy look at John, I unbuttoned my tuxedo jacket and swung wide a right lapel to reveal my wares, Andrew's carefully arranged assortment of junk jewelry and the two beautiful rings he and Loree had made for each other. John was so choked up and tear-glazed by the beauty of his cousin's wedding that as hard as he tried to keep up the charade and pick the right rings, he came away with Andrew's ring and a cheap crackerjack ring with an enormous fake diamond instead. Andrew came back to my coat and unpinned the two diamonds and two emeralds he had set in white gold for Loree, and the rings were exchanged. Their first act as a married couple was to take communion, a tradition of which I will never tire. After Andrew and Loree each tied their half of the true lovers knot, all of the bridesmaids and groomsmen pulled each end to make it firm.

Photos courtesy of Wikipedia

It became clear to me then why Andrew had been so nervous with the lip balm; when the preacher told him to kiss his bride, it was for each of them their first kiss. Their faces had been close all morning, and both of them acquitted themselves of the task masterfully. The true lovers, Loree with her bouquet and Andrew with his coil of rope, and wedding party exited exuberantly to strains of "signed, sealed, delivered." After a lot of handshaking and becoming reaquainted with friendships that predated our births, we were ready to make our way to the reception in the town's refurbished antique fire engine, driven by the father of the bride.

The happy couple. That's the father of the bride in the driver's seat, and thats me in the back of the fire-truck, on the far left. Photo credit: Keri Herbert

The reception was great fun, complete with a seven-tier cake that Andrew's sisters had been up all night finishing, and a rubber-band fight in lieu of rice-throwing. We of the wedding party had done a thorough pranking of Andrew's vintage truck, including our tin cans, duct tape on the doors, and inscriptions of Andrew's characteristic idioms such as "This is sure going to be neat," and "She's a swell dish!" We pinned my lapel cloth, with all its odds and ends, on the bench seat in the cab. As a testimony to how fun both families are, the rubber-band fight persisted a full hour after the bride and groom were long gone.

The exiting bombardment. Peter and I hid ourselves in the truck bed in order to better pelt the couple with rubber bands. Photo credit: Keri Herbert

Our family enjoyed a nice dinner with the Spaliones, and then Peter and I went to meet up with the Grove girls and some of their cousins to play some games. We got to bed around 11:30 pm, tired to extreme satisfaction from a fun and emotional day.

Sunday, March 7

We got up at five, and Peter and I took turns driving back through the countrysides and McDonald's coffee stops on the way to Portland, while Dad and Mom read out loud from the Bible and (I think) Roy Hession in lieu of church. We also did some praying, and Dad jokingly reminded me not to close my eyes while driving. The flight was generally uneventful, apart from being filled with noisy Dairy Quiz competitors from Cal Poly. I suppose that's a hazard associated with flying out of Oregon. Soon we were at our respective homes, trying to get caught up on the hum-drum we had missed on our memorable weekend.