The Wedding and a Goat
A number of years ago, back when I was still in high school, my next-door neighbor’s daughter got married. Not in a church, not in a chapel, but in the backyard of a township justice of the peace several counties over. Why there? Well, it turns out the justice was a distant cousin of the groom, and she reluctantly offered her backyard for the ceremony. That backyard, while spacious, was basically a clumpy, uneven field of dead grass and dirt that bumped up against a dusty cornfield.
The night before the wedding, the bride and her friends “decorated” the backyard, by which I mean they wrapped the old clothesline pole in crepe paper and streamers while drinking cheap red wine. It rained that morning, so by the time the ceremony began, it all looked like a wet birthday party for forgotten balloons: saggy, streaked, and slightly tragic.
Now, I, 15 years old, a proud member of my high school yearbook staff, was asked to be the official wedding photographer. Because nothing says "capturing the most important day of your life" like a teenager with a borrowed 35mm camera and a vague idea of aperture and film speed.
When we arrived, there was a goat tied to a tree near the clothesline. Just hanging out, chewing... something. You know, goat things. There weren’t many chairs, so guests clustered around the bride’s mom, who was beaming like her daughter was about to marry royalty instead of... well, we’ll get to that.
The justice of the peace made her grand entrance from the back porch an imposing, matronly woman in a faded red dress with white dots, clearly irritated that this event was interrupting her afternoon soaps. She stomped across the yard, clapped her hands like she was calling in a kindergarten class, and barked, “Let’s get this going!”
The bride and groom took their place under the droopy streamers, both wearing jeans and matching Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirts, souvenirs from the concert where he proposed. It was... casual.
Just as the justice began the ceremony, the goat, who had apparently not been securely tied, decided to join in. It ambled over and stood proudly next to its owner, instantly becoming an official member of the wedding party.
The vows were short, the justice said her piece, and before anyone could rise to congratulate the couple, she turned on her heel and disappeared back into her house without another word. The goat slowly wandered back to its tree.
Guests offered a few handshakes, a couple of hugs. Then we all migrated to the gravel driveway to wave goodbye as the newlyweds drove off in the groom’s Sunbeam bread delivery truck, which they had temporarily converted into a makeshift honeymoon camper. They were headed to the Six Flags amusement park for a romantic weekend with a collection of their friends.
Now, I wish I could show you the pictures, but just before they left, the bride asked for the rolls of undeveloped film, insisting she'd take care of it herself. Said she didn’t want me to be burdened by the cost. I never saw the photos.
Three months later, she managed to get the marriage annulled. He’d left one night to make an "emergency bread run"... and never came back.
And I’ll tell you what really haunts me.
It’s not the annulment. Not the Sunbeam truck. Not even the sagging crepe paper.
It’s that I never got a photo of that goat.