BLOG - I have been to more funerals than weddings in my lifetime. It seems, however, like the tide is turning.
I am fast becoming the "favourite tannie", so wedding invitations are at the order of the day. Not that I mind too much. At least there is wine at weddings and that always makes being called "tannie" a little easier. As Mary Poppins sings, "A spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down."
Being a bit of a cynic, I don't find weddings particularly joyful. Again, the wine helps! It is in fact for a number of reasons. The elusive "happily ever after" never found my pin location.
Atop, the divorce statistics are so staggering, that getting hitched seems folly. Although it remains a gamble either way, statistics suggest that between one in three and 40% of first marriages end in divorce, with each subsequent marriage having an even larger likelihood of ending in divorce. For second and third marriages, statistics show the divorce rate being as high as 60 to 80%.
If you look at how lucrative the wedding industry has become, considering these statistics, it is an investment with questionable return.
The most recent wedding I attended somewhat pressed my reset button. The happy couple with stars in their eyes are a 19-year-old bride and an 18-year-old groom, the latter so young he still struggles with teenage skin.
The crisis came, however, when the bride's mother, a very dear friend, asked me to say a few words.
Prior to me taking the microphone, friends of the young couple showered them with words of blessing and goodwill. And here comes me, the one who places her coffee order as, "Make it white and bitter, just like me.…"
Facing the guests, I had an out of body experience, being at a loss for words. And then they surfaced from underneath layers and layers of cynicism. The story of *Bennie and *Frieda, whom I met on their 70th wedding anniversary. What struck me first at the time, is that many mortals hardly reach the age of 70, let alone survive another person in marriage that long.
Frieda was a little absent, dementia already stealing some of her precious memory, but Bennie remembered everything – clearly. He remembered Pretoria, April 1948. He remembered the reverend's name and the way the jacaranda trees swayed in the breeze that autumn afternoon as they stepped out of the church, newlyweds. He also remembered how wary he was of marriage.
By the time I had finished the story, you could hear a pin drop. Of course I had to reveal the purpose of telling it. It's simple: I wished them the gift of time and the preciousness of memory to at 70 years of marriage remember their wedding day. Like Bennie did. Clearly.
As for me, I reckon its hope. Hope had the last word after all.
*Not real names.
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