In the shade of century-old water oaks, I waited, car windows down, listening to the serenade of robins and delighting at the acrobatic antics of three squirrels enjoying a rodent variation of tag.

I sat off the side of a long tree-lined drive that, once past the mansion, curled around a garden to the carriage house, once a repository of fancy horse-drawn conveniences, now a storage facility for white folding chairs. I left the car, following the drive, feet sometimes pressing on cobblestone, sometimes brick, sometimes asphalt, reflecting, no doubt, the history of repair through generations.

The driveway ended at the bolted carriage house doors. I wandered around the structure through a horticulture major’s delight of rose bushes to a rut-worn dirt trail leading to a rustic barn nestled among dogwoods. The inside was cool, the air scented with that sweet smell of trampled barn soil mingled with rotted, ground-in, manure and hay. Generations had passed since more than two-legged animals walked here. The essence of their presence inhabited the stalls still. Sleek, muscular, thoroughbreds they must have been. None other would have fit such a majestic estate. 

Creaking of ancient hinges upholding weathered doors broke my reverie. The noise of giggles from a bevy of bride’s maids rippled through the trees. As I returned their bare feet were scampering across the cobblestones and up the back stairs of the mansion, in a silly-punctuated search for the dressing room.

The moment was shattered with the firing of the lawn mower engine. From the carriage house a riding mower emerged pulling a trailer loaded with the folding chairs. It chugged, chugged up onto the manicured grass and stopped with a jolt. The bent, elderly, man alighted with a bounce that defied his years. One could imagine him having been a part of this place back when families still lived here. With the practiced gait of having done it a thousand times, he began unloading and placing chairs in straight, orderly, row upon row with a green aisle down the center. His response to being asked if he needed help was a flicking on the fingers with palm pointed down shooing me away. 

Cars were arriving, each progressively seeking out the diminishing shaded spots. From each debarked young adults with joy-filled demeanors, each headed to the mansion and its massive interior. The bridal party was arriving.

I retrieved my Book of Worship, robe and stole, and waked the monkey grass bordered brick walkway to the front door. Inside young helpers were finishing floral arrangements in elaborate vases while others iced down bottles of wine and beer. One could imagine the activity that once was part of this abode. Now, despite this busyness it echoed with emptiness. 

The happiness of those who now prepared for festive occasion filled not the soullessness of this structure. It was a place, a magnificent place, to be sure, but it was a listing on the National Registry of Historical Sites only. People gathered her for events not for living. Horses never whinnied in the stalls; children never scampered through the garden. It was poignantly sad.

But an hour later the groom and I stood at the end of the aisle; the bride came smilingly down on the carpet of rose petals. I proclaimed, “Dearly, beloved, we are gathered here in this place to unite this man and this woman ….” And for a moment the mansion was alive again.