My Step-Mother's Garter

I'd totally forgotten about this story. It's a gem. I don't know that my writing skills are up to par with my story telling skills. So if you don't enjoy this, ask me for a retelling in person.

So back in...May?....I think, my Dad got married for the third time. This time he decided to forgo creating six kids himself and opted to have them included in the package. Now lets put this all into perspective. My dad is 60. His new love - 42. His six new children are ages 6-18. Even now, almost half a year later, my eyes grow wide just thinking about it.

H'anyway, so all of my father's children attended the wedding in little old Idaho. That's 12 kids....12. Now somehow my father and the bride missed the memo on remarriages, so they decided that they wanted a traditional wedding. That's right. It was held in a cultural hall complete with a tacky backdrop, aile, ring bearer, boutinears, corsages, luncheon, reception, book signing, tux, white dress, and marching music.

The wedding rolled ok and things were, for the most part, smooth. That is except for the ring being dropped three times during the ceremony by the poor little 6-year-old ring bearer. The reception, however, turned out to be a bit of a disaster. Besides having one of my siblings break down into tears and disappear, along with the others who went to find her, there were some other choice moments. First, having stayed up late the night before, the three eldest children (My older sister, along with her husband & child, my older brother, and I) oversleep our afternoon nap. We rolled into the reception post receiving line and cake cutting and were pleased to receive the scowls of our new step-mother. The reception continued to head towards its climax with a newlyweds dance that turned into a 6th grade snowball (you know where every 20-30 seconds you split and find a new partner). After that pleasent affair there was the bouquet toss followed by every man's favorite: the garter toss. The GARTER toss! You're 60!

When all of the eligible bachelors at the reception were rounded up to the center of the floor there were only three. Just three. My two brothers and me. We stood arm in arm trying not to watch as our father started the dig required to retrieve the abominable hidden treasure. While my father held up the gatter like an archeologist that just uncovered the treasures of Giza, my older brother and I began making our solemn pacts and vows, "Daniel (our younger brother) gets the garter. No matter what, Daniel gets the garter." The moment of truth arrived and my father shot the garter over his shoulder like discarded beer can. The garter hooked south in a low glide off to my right. There was nothing I could do. My other brothers were out of reach. It was going to be my catch. My mind began racing. What do I do? I can't just watch it hit the ground, that would bring the old man to tears. But I couldn't catch it. Maybe I could make a token effort. Perhaps I would act like I was trying but just miss it. The decision was made. The old man's emotions must be protected. I gave a small token effort and began reaching out toward the garter. From out of nowhere, my six year old ring-bearing step brother comes sliding in on his knees and snags the garter! Safe! Safe! Touchdown! It was all I could do to not throw my hands up like a referee and declare the field goal good. I was hugging my brothers and almost crying. "We made it boys. We made it."