For me, marriage is about commitment and partnership. I never grew up dreaming of the perfect wedding nor what my dress might look like, and for a proposal, I insisted a Ring Pop was all I needed. (And a Ring Pop I got!) In my eyes, marriage was about the act of promising permanence, rather than the materialistic flourishes of a pricey wedding.
But when Sean insisted on a traditional wedding rather than an elopement, I decided (in my typical scholarly manner) to research the origination of the popular rhyme "Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue."
First off, American brides are missing out on arguably the most exciting line of this old verse! It turns out the original English version includes a final line, "and a sixpence in her shoe," signaling financial prosperity. You better believe I found a sixpence to add to my conveniently hollowed shoes...though being the rebel I am, I went with an Australian sixpence boasting a kangaroo and an emu. (Because who doesn't want a kangaroo in their wedding?)
For something old and something new, I turned to jewelry—with a fresh pair of earrings and sophisticated bracelet by Kendra Scott for the "new," and my great-great-grandmother's bracelet for the "old," symbolizing lineage and family who could not be present at the event.
Yet "something borrowed" had me stuck. The tradition calls for brides to borrow an item from someone in a healthy marriage, in essence a role model. Meg and Bob Marsden immediately came to mind. As longtime neighbors of my parents (and essentially a third set of grandparents for me), I grew up popping by their home regularly to show them my latest Halloween costume or, in later years, to chat with Meg about the latest fashion trends while she pointed out the "handsome young men" jogging by (who she had stopped with her walker earlier that week to casually inquire if they were single!). Meg was a role model of brains, humor, and tenacity. Her sharp wit never left her, even as her body deteriorated with age, and the supportive steadfastness of her marriage with Bob never ceased to amaze me. I particularly recall one occasion in which Meg discussed this and even proffered me advice: "Wait until you're 30 to get married," she advised, "That's what I did. You don't know who you are as a person until you're 30, and that's the most important thing to know before you marry."
Fast-forward many years later to Sean and me driving down the highway to visit my mother in Concord, MA... I had just told Sean how I wished I had something physical to "borrow" from Meg beyond her excellent advice; something tangible. Not being a member of Meg's family, I had no physical token from our friendship after her passing, only the memories of moments shared. Sean heard me, and it was because of this car-ride conversation that we both stood eerily stunned in my childhood home a few minutes later when my mother handed me a perfectly preserved envelope, saying, "Look what I found in my stack of old files today! I was just about to shred everything, but decided at the last minute to sort through it—and look, somehow this note from Meg was in there!"
I couldn't believe the timing of its unburial. There, in my hands, was the physical token I had hoped for in this cheerful note from Meg (dated 14 years prior), allowing my fingers to touch the indentations of the ever-familiar luscious handwriting.
That night, Sean and I enjoyed Restaurant Week at a Concord restaurant neither of us had previously tried, and I ended the day by emailing my father in Paris to tell him of the note's synchronous unearthing. In the morning, I awoke to a reply with yet another overlapping—my parents had dined at that same restaurant only once: the day of Meg's funeral.
Wanting to keep Meg close during the wedding, I dashed to my local Joann Fabrics, and immediately spotted a beautiful blue lace that would be perfect for making a simple pocket on the inside lining of my dress to hold Meg's note during the ceremony. Without reading the label, I walked up to the cutting counter, was handed a slip of paper and my folded blue lace, and headed for the register. It wasn't until I began getting antsy in line that I finally noticed the name of the color blue I'd selected: "celestial" (synonyms: "heavenly," "ethereal"). "Ok, Meg," I whispered under my breath, "You don't have to be quite so obvious."
So although my desire for elopement was thwarted by my ever-traditional husband, I am grateful to have delved into the symbolism of this traditional verse to bring good tidings. The strength of Meg and Bob's marriage was present physically and metaphorically that August day, and as I tucked Meg's note into my dress that afternoon (while Sean waited under a celestial blue sky), I remember laughing and shaking my head upon finally realizing—in a matter of weeks, Sean and I would both be turning 30.
This entry is lovingly dedicated to Meg and Bob Marsden of Concord, MA.
