When I saw the Sepia Saturday prompt photo of several portly gentlemen filling their plates in a buffet line (all smiling over a buffet table groaning with delicious offerings) dressed in suit jackets, neckties and, of course, nametags, I was reminded of a wedding reception I attended years and years ago.
It was one of those perfect summer days here in
warm, blue skies, sunshine, slight breeze. The gathering was beneath a striped
marquee pitched in a field overlooking a quiet cove; people strolled down to
the reception from the road by way of a mown pathway through thousands of
blooming wildflowers; everybody was in linen and silk, dribbed and drabbed in
gold and silver and pearls. Maine
It was, indeed, a high affair!
It was one of those “blended family” things—everybody’s parents seemed to have been married more than once, so there were ex-wives and partners, divorcees and stepfathers, half-siblings and step-siblings, an occasional stray cousin a few times removed; there were also about two hundred friends.
It was a huge wedding reception!
We all wore name tags, which was bad enough, in my opinion (whatever happened to simply introducing yourself to people you don’t know?), but compounding the issue was the fact that everybody’s name tag carried an explanation that clarified one’s relationship to either the bride or the groom:
Groom’s first cousin
Groom’s college roommate
You get the idea.
Everybody spent the afternoon navigating a drink and a small plateful of tastefully served hors d’oeuvres, staring at each other’s chests and mentally leaping through branches of various family trees...and the winner was:
My Name Is
Bride’s mother’s third husband’s second child