My husband’s friend, Michael, moved back to his home state of Vermont from Colorado over a year ago. In that time, he met a girl and fell in love so my husband and I flew across the continent to witness their nuptials in the hill country of Southern Vermont. We had heard how magical Vermont was in the fall, but what would it be like for a June wedding?Our arrival was greeted with rain, a steady hair-soaking rain. When we got out of the car at Michael’s parents house in northwest woods of Dummerston, there was no other sound, just the white noise of the rain hitting the trees. The leaves and bark glistened with it. While our own state was in middle of a drought and our front yard a lovely shade of brown, Vermont was bursting with green, the ground soupy under our feet.
We spent the evening meeting Michael and his bride, Melanie, and their families. With counters full of home cooking and coolers full of soda and beer, we met all the moms, dads, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins and renewed our friendship with Michael’s big black Great Dane, Boomer. Boomer had spent his puppyhood in Colorado wrestling with (or pounding on, depending on your point of view) my husband’s dog, Jasmine. We didn’t think it was possible, but Boomer had grown bigger and he even had a little gray fur on his chin. He recognized us immediately, bouncing around with delight and bruising everyone around him with his enthusiastic tail.
Late in the evening with the relatives gone, Michael, my husband and I had a chance to chat. For the two former roommates, there was a lot of catching up to do. During the conversation, Christian asked Michael where the wedding would be.
“It’s in the garden at my brother’s house just down the road. I have a map for you.”
“It’s outside, huh. Well, I hope it stops raining,” my husband said.
“It’s been raining nonstop for the last two weeks.”
“What are you gonna do if it doesn’t stop raining?”
Long pause. “We just don’t even talk about it anymore.”
The morning of the wedding, the first thing I noticed upon awakening was the sound, or lack of it. The rain had stopped. I looked out the window for proof it had indeed stopped, but the gray sky was a reminder that it could start again any minute. That morning we enjoyed Michael’s parents’ hospitality with a huge breakfast of bacon, eggs and pancakes with syrup from their own maple trees. With the rain stopped, we were able to sit on their back deck and watch the hummingbird that buzzed around the feeder Mrs. Chamberlin had put in the yard. As we admired the ancient trees around house connected by syrup tubes, Mrs. Chamberlin told us about the rhododendron bush in her back yard. Michael’s father had helped take care of Rudyard Kipling’s Vermont estate of Naulakha over the years and after pruning some wayward plants, he brought a rhododendron bush home to his wife. She now proudly tells everyone who visits how she acquired the burgundy blossoms.
We promised Michael we’d help him decorate for the wedding so we headed out with his map after lunch. As we drove through the countryside, the dirt roads of Southern Vermont were starting to become familiar. We recognized the small, white church at the fork in the road from yesterday and the road to Michael’s brother’s place wasn’t far past the building marked “sugar shack” on Michael's map, so we knew we were headed in the right direction. Michael and his family humbly called the large wooden building where they processed maple sap into syrup the "sugar shack," but it was known to syrup connoisseurs throughout the country as Barefoot Farms.
Michael’s brother’s house was a large home in a clearing at the end of a long driveway. We could see the white reception tent as we pulled up to the house. Next to the tent was the rented smoker that Michael’s uncles would use to cook everyone’s dinner. All the men hovered around it like Tim the Toolman Taylor trying not to drool on themselves at the prospect of all that grilling. Inside the tent, the tables and chairs had been arranged along with a small dance floor set down. Next to the tent the chairs for the wedding guests were set in tidy rows. Despite their defiant exposure, rain still did not fall.
Christian and I were put to work placing Christmas lights on the small evergreens around the house. Melanie’s sister insisted we put them on just right with no bare spots. Then Christian helped Michael stock a large tub cooler with every kind of beverage from Coke to Champagne while I swept the dance floor. For our last duty we placed the centerpieces on the tables.
That evening the ceremony was held in front of a flowerbed, which served as the altar, with a row of flowering plants hanging from large metal hooks on each side. Beyond, facing east, were the rolling green hills of Vermont, which at some point on the horizon turned into New Hampshire, very different from the jagged, red rocks that served as the back drop for my own wedding. Above us the gray clouds grew whiter and whiter by the minute. As the guests arrived, patches of blue peeked between the clouds. By the time the minister arrived, the clouds had parted and blue sky finally prevailed. The crowning touch was the sun showing itself and making every color in the garden turn 10 times brighter. Everyone thanked the minister, but he insisted he had nothing to do with it. It was simply “God’s will,” he said.
With this spectacular backdrop, we watched the happy couple wed followed by a celebration under the tent. After sunset the Christmas lights we worked on so diligently sparkled around the grounds along with the stars in the sky. Twelve hours ago, I didn’t think there would be this beautiful day behind me. I am still in awe of how the Vermont sky relented just before Michael and Melanie exchanged their vows and feel so fortunate I was able to share it. Vermont is truly a magical place.
For more information: Dummerston, Vermont & Naulakha House
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