Elegance. Defined as the quality of being graceful and stylish in appearance or manner; style. Doesn't sound too hard, does it? Let's wander back in time to a beautiful July day in 2021. My soon to be husband's request was for our beach wedding to be elegant and simple. For his blushing bride to rein in her more "feral" tendencies for one day and exude the beauty and elegance of which he was quite confident I was in possession. I took his word for it (about the possession of beauty and elegance) and vowed to pull this off. Isn’t this how the biggest messes in the world begin? I had every intention of behaving in an elegant and sophisticated manner on my wedding day. The dress was carefully selected with the help of my older sister Andrea. She reined in my inner drag-queen when we narrowed it down to two final dresses and (I quote) “It has to have buttons down the back. All the best dresses do!” It was simple and understated elegance from the front with a flash of pizzazz in the beaded sheer back and the sophisticated white buttons and a train. It made me look very statuesque and caused me endless anxiety over how I would carry this off. The plan was that our piper and drummer would, after entertaining the waiting guests for a wee while, proceed to the patio doors behind which I was carefully hidden from view while being able to watch everyone gather and prepare for the ceremony on the patio at the Long Beach Lodge. They would turn to face the waiting guests, and begin piping “Highland Cathedral” while proceeding down the walkway. As a specific part of the shrubbery was passed, I would emerge at a sedate distance behind them and glide in a most elegant manner down the brickwork pathway and around the grasses to our makeshift aisle and the stunning backdrop of Cox Bay Beach. (Fans of "Bridgerton" can surely hear Lady Whistledown's voice in their heads at this point.) Here I would join my darling David and the officiant and formalize our marriage. There would be oohs and aahs. This would then be followed by some toasting with the quaich (kway-ich - the "ich" being very Scottish and hairball-ishly pronounced), some merrily blown and environmentally friendly bubbles instead of confetti, and sunshiny walk down the beach for some group photos amongst the rocks with the sea and mountains as a backdrop--our “mini Scotland” for my homesick husband to be--and the perfect backdrop for the boys in their magnificent kilts. After which, my wedding dress would be carefully laid aside in a garment bag to travel with us on a post wedding trip to see my parents and surprise them with us in all our wedding finery on a wee visit. That was the plan, anyway... Reality can be such a beach. The morning dawned magically misty with a fine drizzle. Very atmospheric although we had been hoping for sun. My friend Jane joined me for reassurances and hand holding while a highly skilled team of makeup artist (yes, a team of ONE - Rhonda Grahame from Cedar and Rose, Tofino, BC) turned yours truly from the usual, basic me into Mrs. David Noble--a carefully coiffed and beautiful new bride with eyelashes that cows would kill for! Rhonda also adorned Jane with curls and a look that would give men a cardiac arrest mid-stride! Where was she for all our costume nights in Nunavut? All of this while giggling as we watched all the ceremony space preparations. Cheekily, we asked each other how long should we wait before texting our own darling KT that we wanted everything moved precisely 3.274 inches to the left? With perfect timing and a dramatic flair that would have made Elizabeth Taylor envious, the sun broke forth in full resplendent glory just as the guests began to arrive at the ceremony space to find their seats. Ah, but the best laid plans of mice and men always go astray. It wasn’t the elegant bridal entrance to pipe and drum where it went wrong. It wasn’t the braw and handsome men in kilts awaiting me at the altar. David flanked on his side of the floral arrangement by Christopher, his younger son, and on my side by James and Eric Funk, my oldest and youngest sons. There were gaps as we were missing Dave’s older son Michael and my middle son Ross, causing twinges of longing and wishes that both had been able to come. But still, those that came, were perfectly attired. Nor was it the vows, although I shudder about the teary puddle I made while trying to say mine. Crying is not for weddings…. The toast with the quaich also went smoothly. Nary a drop of the sparkling apple beverage spilled on the pristine gown or David’s handsome kilt. The bubbles were mildly delayed as the guests fumbled with trying to get the pesky wee vials open quickly but they were still a pleasant and a lovely way to end the wedding. It continued on, most successfully. Nary a hint of disaster anywhere. The merry band of guests joined us on our saunter down the sandy shore for photographs to the sounds of the pipe and drum again. Joe and Mike outdid themselves musically and there was many a giggle over how many TikTok or YouTube videos we might feature in. Perfect! We clambered up onto the rocks without splitting any seams or tripping on any hems. There was a wee debate about whether this was good for the boys’ new brogues, mostly brought on by our sons and not we - ahem - responsible adults. Elegant photos were taken by one and all. Couples took and received lovely shots of themselves as well, as we milled around setting up different photo groupings. Again, we couldn’t have asked for a more perfect setting or a sunnier day! It was gorgeous! I carried it off with barely an eye roll from my beloved husband. He was all proud and indulgent smiles and... and... therein lies the rub. The guests and our musicians were meandering back to the hotel patio, full of charcuterie and fruit, for a wee nibble preceding supper. David was deep in discussion with our videographer Mike and our photographer extraordinaire, Paul, had kidnapped our rings for a few photos of the rings on their own. This left innocent little me wandering the sand, watching surfers and sailboats, and staying on the drier sand above the tidal line. My eye wandered over some treasures washed ashore by timeless waves. A bit of bull kelp, some popping wrack (a particularly amusing bubble-wrap-popping type of maritime weed), some empty and weathered mussel shells, the odd limpet shell or barnacle covered rock, and a poor, stranded, desolate, completely helpless jelly fish… (Dave interjects: couldn't she resist just for one day? JUST ONE DAY? Seriously? Oh Lordy...) It was the fault of the jelly-fish. In his tiny gurgling voice asking me would I be so kind has to relocate him from this hot desert plain back into the pleasantly cooling surf? Would it be too much bother? Being a kind hearted sort of jelly-fish rescuer, I complied. After all, he was a particularly interesting reddish jelly-fish. Not like those run of the mill clear ones that look like so many lost breast implants lying on the beach. No, this was a jelly-fish of the finer sort. A red one. Clearly, royalty was involved. In my head I could faintly hear a gurgling slow motion version of “La Bamba” being sung by this poor stranded soul as I scooped him up, and gathering a handful of pristine and elegant ivory wedding dress in my hand I strode heroically and purposefully into the shallows where I restored Julian Jellybaby IV to his watery domain. I fancy that I heard an ever so posh gurgly voice thanking me effusively as the ebbing waters pulled him out to sea. (Dave interjects: Jelly-fish cannot speak. Everyone knows this. Crabs, octopi, tidal pool guppies: well, maybe they have a shot at Serbo-Croat. Jelly-fish? Nada.) The tiny wavelets lapping at my toes and ankles felt so cool after the warm sand, and a delightful sailboat was performing magnificently as it rounded the point to proceed southwards toward Long Beach. I could feel the salt spray on my nose, the breeze stirring my hair, the cooling water around my... KNEES? I gathered my skirts to wring them out, and started back toward the beach. Dave, Mike and Paul were in a row looking on incredulously, albeit Dave looked slightly less shocked having had more experience with me than our media team... "How in seven hells did you manage to...?" asked my beloved. "It was the jelly-fish!" I protested. "The... what?" the stunned Scot responded. "It was dying. I had to rescue it." "Dearest, there are millions of the wee jelly fiends-- billions--all over the world and they are regarded as pests by almost all sensible people. They are over-populating the world. A cull would be a good thing." "But it was talking to me!" I defended myself. "Oh my Lord. The sun has addled my love's brain. Again. Un-freaking-believable. See here, give me a kiss." I kissed him before adding one more defense tactic. "Well, I was completely unsupervised..." Dave sighed and audibly rolled his eyes at me (they actually squeaked) before taking me by the hand to dance and run back down the beach to finish the rest of the wedding celebrations with our guests. Guess it’s a good thing I had another dress to wear to dinner. The moral of the story, however, is that the "road to hell is paved with good intentions", or "you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear", or "never leave your wife unsupervised near a beach, some water, and random wildlife of the squishy variety"....something like that.
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