As a child, it was obvious to me that weddings and funerals are the great ceremonies of life. Even long-suffering Annie in Imitation of Life used her last moments on her deathbed to talk (whisper, really) about her funeral and Miss Suzie’s wedding.
When it came to weddings, I remember the distinction between Baptist ceremonies and other—higher?—Protestant nuptials. Attendance at the former meant one probably had to satisfy oneself with refreshments of lime sherbet punch, pillow mints and the invariably chocolate groom’s cake, though not necessarily of the bleeding armadillo variety.
On the other hand, receptions for the Episcopalians, Presbyterians and Methodists might include some type of buffet along with dancing and (horrors!) alcoholic beverages. Sneaking sips from temporarily deserted champagne coupes was a real score at age twelve.
Back then, to avoid criticism for either a wedding or a funeral, it was necessary to walk the fine line between doing anything construed to be tacky or cheap without giving the appearance of “putting on the dog.”
There was a little more latitude with weddings, since they were supposed to be celebrations, back in the day when funerals were funerals and had not yet morphed into “memorial services” and “celebrations of life.”
Of course, “putting on the dog” is the whole point of a royal wedding. Or a royal funeral, for that matter. Over the years, I’ve gotten up in the middle of the night for both, but not this time. Not because of any newly-emerging Republican sentiment (in the British meaning of that term), but because I had a nail day and a dinner party on Saturday. Regrettably, I’m past the age to give up beauty sleep (or “still trying to be pretty” sleep) lest I pass out over the third course.
But choosing to savor the event at my convenience in no way diminished its enjoyment. So here’s the color commentary.
I’m not the first to be pleased, if not downright relieved, that it was the white side of the new Duchess of Sussex’s family that made an ass of itself. As everyone knows, no American wedding is complete without some family drama.
Additionally, it was appropriate that no Clintons, Obamas or Trumps were there. Despite so much speculation leading up to it, the wedding was not supposed to be about us (or U. S., in this case). And with Oprah Winfrey, George Clooney and Serena Williams in attendance, American A-list celebrity was well represented, if not downright defined.
And what about that ensemble worn by the Countess Spencer? That wasn’t grape or aubergine; that was royal purple. And was it a bit of shade she was throwing? Are the Spencers still smarting from the removal of the HRH from Diana, Princess of Wales?
As the wife of the Earl Spencer, brother of the late Diana, I’m not sure she is entitled to wear purple (just yet) under the Sumptuary Law of 1574. I think her husband can, being an earl, so maybe she can, too. But it seems to me she should wait until Prince William ascends the thrown, at which time she becomes the aunt (by marriage) of the sovereign.
I’m probably putting too fine a point on it, and that law probably has gone the way of the rules about when to wear white and patent leather. But if it was shade? Well done.
And I totally love that Zara Tindall, the Queen’s granddaughter and eight months pregnant, was there with her husband Mike, a former rugby player. Even with her fascinator, she wasn’t taller than her strapping husband. I give that another “well done.”
But the best, the very best, of all was Doria Ragland, mother of the bride. Her quiet dignity and grace as she sat alone in that assemblage of royals, celebrities and aristocrats provided an elegant counterpoint to all the dog that was being “put on.”
All in all, it was a good time for our British cousins. And pretty good for Americans, too, as long as we only gaze at that side of the pond.
