Come my love, I'll tell you a tale
Of a boy and girl, and their love story
We got married July 6, 1996. Wedding plans culminated in a day of no worries, of sun, of happiness. We were married in the beautiful St. Cecilia's Catholic Church, where my grandparents had been married; officiated by Fr. Jerry Keaty, who had given me my first communion, baptized my two sisters, wed my cousin and his girlfriend, gone on vacation with our extended family. Intertwined. Steeped in nostalgia and tradition and connection, which is saying something, coming from a girl with no tradition or connection to much of anything. We took pictures in Tower Grove Park, with medieval weaponry (many of our friends are dorks, I mean members of the SCA). Fun, inventive, different. Our reception was at a now-defunct hall, very St. Louis standard, with the amusingly stereotypical mostaciolli (pronounced, incorrectly, "muskacholly"). Open bar, great speech, good time.
This was our first dance. Mike's idea--I'd balked at the idea at first--it seemed too typical. Too traditional, or stereotypical, or even a bit dorky. But then I reflected and realized that was who we were. We were all that in a nutshell. So in front of family and friends and amused onlookers, we scooted around the tile dance floor. My love may be like a storybook story, but it's as real as the feelings I feel.