Marriage...part 4
Written by Louise Evans
As the months pass from our wedding the memories I thought I had in my possession shift and change. Certain things become more distant and others more meaningful. For both there is a sense of mourning, for the loss of a memory, and for things not appreciated for their full glory.
Though at the time, I was so full up with organisation, expectation and exhaustion that there was not one inch of room for me to absorb more.
Everywhere there were people, people, people. After the stag and hen ‘do’ everyone started turning up, steadily but surely. We had a solid contingent of Scandinavians and Australians, and as with all weddings, it’s a curated bunch of people from various phases of life and various levels of meaningful relationships. This in itself is enough to make you giddy. Our backyard in Western Springs was filled with tents, and our tiny basement flat squeezed in with rowdy and jubilant wedding guests.
I was happy to bolt out of town, steer toward the horizon and go home to the Hokianga. We were getting married near Kohukohu at The Tree House eco lodge, my childhood home and now a part of Josca’s life since my family had so readily welcomed and embraced him. The size of the property made it perfect to house all the campers, and the Kohukohu town hall would be where the Friday ceilidh and the Saturday reception would take place.
The Scandinavians, most of them known to each other previously, made good use of their re-acquaintance and joined forces to form an impressive pre-wedding taskforce. ‘Tent Town’ was assembled with alacrity as everyone saw the sense in having more time to enjoy it. Charlotte and Bjorn, the ‘parents’ of the group, hired a Jucy Lucy van and dispensed gin and tonic by the campsite. A giant camp tarpaulin was erected over the grapevine terrace, complete with barbeque and picnic tables.
The taskforce then moved onto the hall, and with good Scandinavian sense and aesthetic proceeded to put up the kilometres of famed handmade bunting, lanterns, and giant paper pompoms. The result was dazzling - the grand old colonial hall transformed with light and colour.
On Friday night the locals and another wave of guests flooded into the hall for the ceilidh (dance). A good 150 people stomped and swung to live music under the cosy glow of the lanterns. I, in the meantime, hid in the kitchen feeling immense guilt at the task I’d created for everyone, and at all the work that still needed to be done. I made tea, washed cups, cleaned up tables and felt very quivery in my bottom lip, but was determined not to cry just yet....
Later that night Josca and I were tucked up in Tin Lizzy, the little Bedford bus, backing onto Tent Town. We spent our last waking hour finalising the vows which had somehow not been done until now. Out the window lots of happy campers were telling each other bedtime stories or merrily snoring under the stars.
The wedding day dawned - cloudy at first and then the sun shone brightly. A festive al fresco breakfast in Tent Town made for a great start before the action began. Daniel, the indefatigable best man, coordinated a team putting up bamboo and bunting for the ceremony on the grassy knoll. Others couriered booze and food to the hall and set up long tables with bright tablecloths. Sleepy old Kohukohu was awash with wedding fever.
Leaving the hall a hive of activity, I was whisked to Auntie Liz’s house next door to get changed, with a few select lady friends and my brother Rhys, who was taking bridal snaps. It was marvellous - we giggled and nibbled and painted our faces, sharing my last precious hour prior to becoming a Mrs. All hands were on deck to wind up my hair in plaits and roses before I put on my wedding dress - a beautiful silk gown splashed with vibrant dyes.
It rained in time for the ceremony at 4pm, but cleared up shortly after. Luckily we were late. Halfway down the hill we met an uncle looking for Josca’s dad Lyndon who, it turned out, was still asleep in the hilltop cabin. Back up the hill we went. As we lingered in the fern grove various people tried to cajole him down the hill to the wedding site. Mosquitoes began droning with glee around us. When Lyndon at last appeared, I was a little on edge, though thankfully saved myself from being overcome with tears.
Hand in hand with Dad, and with Mum and Rhys behind me, I walked up to the wedding site, where Josca was standing with his best man Dan looking both nervous and relieved I’d turned up. The ceremony was sweet and full of unplanned moments: Josca’s uncle falling off the hill while trying to film the wedding party; the little ring bearers holding the wrong boxes so we had to swap rings, and after an awkward struggle put them on the wrong hands; the perfect comic delivery of Uncle Lindsay’s reading; the celebrant’s obvious distress at trying to get all of Josca’s names right. It flew by and before I knew it we were down the hill and being enveloped by masses of hugs and teary friends, toasting glasses held high. We were married!
The rest of the night was a haze. Maryellen’s impressive team of local foodies had made a feast for several hundred more than those invited. The speeches covered a wide and rich spectrum. Josca’s mum surprised her entire family with a speech in the form of performance poetry, moving from Sam Hunt to the Romantics. Dad delivered a moving, near perfect father-of-the-bride speech in which the epithet, “it takes a village to raise a child” was appreciated by the local guests who played a large part in supporting my parents to bring up their overly adventurous daughter. Uncle Hugh’s became unintentionally comic due to the loss of reading glasses and Bjorn related a late night phone conversation from Sweden with a naked member of my family about a choice of tablecloths. 
The night moved onwards, and the music and merriment continued but my weary bones were aching, and most of the time I sat like a big fancy jelly on the sidelines. All our friends in their colourful attire danced and laughed with each other and tried to wade through the mountain of food and drink.
Johan, one of the Scandinavians, took Josca and me outside to sing for us a special wedding ballad in Swedish. A light misty rain had begun to fall and the sweet undulating tune seemed to be caught and held longer in the air, while my husband and I stood hand in hand. 
In all the months since the wedding, this is a memory that remains with me with the most emotion, encapsulating of all the care, generosity and loving spontaneity of the people who helped us to craft the days around the wedding. After all the slog and stress, there was still the time to sing us a beautiful song, to say a few lovely words, to celebrate us being in love.
And with that I leave thee!
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