Montana Wedding

Ruby (or whatever her name really was) seemed not only grouchy, but forgetful. With her permed hair, plastered make-up, ancient lines surrounding eyes, nose, mouth, pink starchy uniform, tiny waist apron, and (the crowning touch) a pencil stuck in her hair over her right ear, she was without a doubt the Last Chance Gulch Saloon’s longest serving waitress.

That didn’t make her competent, however, only senile. She forgot my French fries, but the chili burger was more than enough to keep me occupied, along with the Arnie Palmer she graced me with (and a refill, too.) How could she know I have a life-long speech deficit, and can’t really say, “Arnold Palmer” without swallowing all the “l’s”. But “Arnie” works. Apparently, throw some lemonade in your iced tea, and you’ve got Arnie’s favorite drink – maybe a variant on “Roy Rogers”, which my kids loved so much. At least his name (and Trigger’s, too) I could pronounce.

“So what was your favorite part of the wedding?” I asked Chris. He’d come over to the Old Folks’ table after most of Shaine’s remaining Wesleyan/East Coast friends had left for the airport. He didn’t know whether to quip, or give me a serious answer.

So I jumped in and said, “People were buzzing about your duet with Shaine. The fact that some people left before she went up, and others got to tell the story, makes it all the more legendary.”

Shaine, my middle daughter, inherited a lot of things from me: the packing gene; an overly confident, sometimes-too-quick brain; a penchant for bossiness, and an air of being right even when she wasn’t (Cody got that, too.) Oh, yeah, she also can‘t sing very well.

But being a lifelong extrovert, she doesn’t care. She’s a born performer, and loves to jam with her friends who CAN sing, helping create an air of amateurism to even the most practiced chanteuse of chanteur.

And one thing she and Chris apparently love to do is sit around on the rare quiet evening at home, and improvise together. Chris, with his brothers Dylan and Nick, has been fronting their band for years, singing, composing, and playing lead guitar. Dispersed across the country now, they came back for a brief reunion the night before the wedding, at Miller’s Crossing in downtown Helena.

After an hour long set of almost every song they still remembered the chords to, Nick and Dylan had left their drums and bass to mingle with the crowd, Shaine clomped on stage in her cowboy boots and bouncy pink dress. Looking mostly at each other, they traded lines and choruses back and forth in front of the simple three chord progression slowly strummed out of Chris’ still amplified guitar.

Mostly they sang about each other, how happy they were together, and how they wanted to stay together their whole live-long lives. And, the sang about how warm it felt, having 100 friends and family their to celebrate that promise with them. I rushed the stage, like any rock groupie, and stood with my wife and two other (now adult) children, while we beamed at the happy couple, so nakedly emotional and obviously in love in front of us. We all teared up, and, after the applause and cheers when Shaine came off the stage, we got together for a big family hug, inviting Chris in with us.

“Well, that was cool,” my sister, Leigh said, “but I was impressed that not only did Senator Tester actually make it on time to your officiate your wedding, but he also stayed for hours and hours to watch us drink and dance, and even gave a little toast to you.

“He is just a regular guy, not like a US Senator at all,” said Chris. “That’s just him.”

The Keno balls bounced in the background, and the oddly computeresque voice of the lady calling them out in the background (18…36…2…11… …) blended with the sound of crashing glass back in the kitchen. Labor Day Monday Brunch at the Last Chance Gulch.

“Don’t forget the pies,” Terry Stewart said. “That was such a neat idea.”. Shaine had formed a Pie Committee, headed by lifelong friend and childhood next door neighbor Erica Smith Gritter. Peach, Blueberry, but (oddly, for Montana) no Huckleberry. They’d spent the day before baking pies which were laid out on rough hewn pie stands crafted by Erica’s father, David.

Consisting of a round slab of inch thick wood, nailed to a smaller, taller pedestal, and fronted by a small blackboard with the cheery words “Eat Me!” out in front, they looked for all the world like a giant mushroom Alice finds in Wonderland, imploring her to take a bite.

“The peach pies were surprisingly tasty,” Chris insisted. During the reception dinner, Chris had noticed that our table had a peach pie, and he grumbled (as much as is possible for such a perpetually cheerful fellow) that he’d prefer a blueberry. I did, too. So I goaded him into making an announcement that our table would trade a peach for a blueberry, and Dylan, never shy, grabbed the mike and someone quickly whisked our (whole, uneaten) one away, exchanging it for a half-finished blueberry. In the end, Chris was right; the peach was better.

Terry’s husband, Jack, jumped in: “Wasn’t Katerina great? Leading the Croatian dance?

“That’s what we love about Katerina.” Cheryl responded. “She’s so irrepressible – she’s got such life.”

Chris Laslovich is Croatian, back aways. Katerina, and the rest of the Batinas who came (Mila, Jozo, Lora) are real Croatian, having come her about 20 years ago, and returning annually to the homestead. Katerina, as usual, had spent the summer there, and brought back some genuine Croatian folk music. She handed the disc to the DJ, Dylan, and got on the mic to lead everyone in a rollicking group dance, complete with raised arm archway, circle snake line, and wild clapping hilarity.

“But really, my favorite part was the ceremony itself, and our vows. I almost didn’t make it through that.” Chris was serious this time.

(To be continued)