Sylvia's Journal

Instead of worrying about plan B through Z, as hurricane Earl was creeping up to coast in our direction, we enjoyed a good part of the day on the waters of Essex River as if we had no worry in the world. Friends and immediate family piled onto a pontoon boat and cruised along the Essex River until we found the perfect sand flat where we moored. It was dead low tide.

While the boat crew cooked us a clambake, we played, walked and swum on and off ‘our island’ enjoying the pristine beauty of the tidal watershed, the hundreds of cormorants, sandpipers, terns and sea gulls who had already taken possession of the place before we landed.

I learned that the tiny sandpipers, mere toddlers, had flown in from Alaska and where feeding busily for their much longer trip to Argentina. The parents had already gone ahead, entirely trusting that the inner GPS of their offspring will get most of them safely to their winter abode.

After the boat ride some of us girls went to a spa to be prettified. Sita got the bridal treatment, a facial, a manicure and a pedicure. This bodywork was a new experience for her and full of surprises. She underwent it all with courage and a sense of adventure but when it came to painted nails she drew the line. Her husband-to-be would kill her, she convinced us all if she showed up with painted nails. It’s one of his quirks, she admitted lovingly and then all of us women started to talk about the quirks of our men.

Back home we were forced to confront the notion of having more than one plan for the wedding. The Senegalese band had canceled, concerned about their equipment getting wet (we have tents with side flaps, we countered but this had no effect on their decision) or risking the trip up and down the coast to get to us. That was a serious blow to the overall gestalt of the wedding. I offered my iPod full of Senegalese music but it is not the same of course.

Dinner procured at the Gloucester farmers market was served by a cooking crew consisting of friends and in-laws. We ate, rather chaotically, sitting at long tables, lit by hurricane lamps, with the inner group of the wedding party. We went over last minute tasks and identified those most stressed who needed help.

The bride, in the meantime, was given a basic lesson in makeup by her experienced sister in law and under the watchful eye of her sister, both more knowledgeable in the ways of beauty treatments. She selected something that is the equivalent of clear polish for nails.

Later we watched the groom model outfits A, B and C. Tomorrow someone will go on a last minute search to find the matching tie for Central Asia-American arrangement, (a Turkmen chappan from Mazar-e-Sharif with corduroy pants from the US). This would match the dress of his bride and his father-in-law’s Afghan outfit. All of these outfits will be too hot for the kind of weather that Earl is pushing our way. My mother-of-the-bride dress, on the other hand, will not match anything, only my blues eyes and pink toe nails.