By Eileen Fulton
As I look back I can remember I was always in other people’s weddings. My father was a Methodist preacher. Early on, I tired of being that “cute little flower girl,” so at the age of six I tossed my rose petals, dawned my mother›s white satin slip and stuck a lace shower curtain on my head. I was a bride. I yelled across the street, “Hey Russell, come on over here. We›re going to get married!” Russell was an older man. He was seven. My cat, Pudd’n Head, was our preacher. I grabbed Russell by the hand and gave him a big kiss. He shoved me away and yelled, “What are you doing? You crazy?” He turned and bolted down the street wiping his mouth with his shirttail. Soon after, his family moved away. That was the end of my first marriage.
My second marriage was when I was twenty-three. This time my daddy was the preacher. His brother and father assisted in the ceremony. They were also ministers. As my new husband and I rushed out of the church, I overheard someone remark, “with all those preachers, this knot won’t come undone.” Little did he know, I wanted it undone before I said “I do.” We were divorced on Thanksgiving Day.
My third marriage took place ten years later. We were married standing on a high rock in the Appalachian Mountains overlooking the Swannanoa Valley. Nine years later, our marriage was on the rocks.
My fourth marriage was not legal at the time, but it meant a lot to me. We each wore shades of lavender. We stood in the middle of The River Walk in San Antonio, Texas. We exchanged silver pinky rings and vowed to be together always. (I wish I could remember the people who were involved).
My last marriage was performed at my Connecticut home on my shaded deck. Both of our families were there. I wore a white, crocheted, see-through dress and a tasteful Channel bow in my hair. It was the season of the gypsy moth worm infestation and those little critters were in the trees high above our heads munching on the leaves. We were peppered with worm poop! It was a bad omen. By the time I opened the last present, our marriage was about over.
All those gifts, all those kisses, all those parties and all that gin... I can’t do this anymore! Just save me a piece of wedding cake! •
