Over nine years ago, I wedded my bride on a crisp, clear February afternoon.
At my friend Paula's house, just about everybody that I gave a damn about gathered to eat Blake's good barbecue and beans, drink my home-brewed beer, and generally have a good time. My friend Billie took some pictures.
Here we are with (left to right) my step-father-in-law (nickel-plated Luger), my friend Dick (ivory stocked 1911), my old roommate Bill (I disremember which, perhaps a Star P.D.) my father (engraved nickel 1911A1 with mother of pearl stocks inlaid with gold and rubies ), me (sporting a beard and a Gold Cup with mother of pearl stocks), my bride (flowers and a phalanx of armed men-- she turned down the garter pistol), and my best friend Scott (with, as I recall, a borrowed .357).
One of the happiest parties of my life, and they made me leave early so that they could throw grain at me as we left. Dammit.