Going to Grandpa’s Wedding

By Big Sis, 10-03-07

I just got back from Grandpa’s wedding.  Not a sentence you read every day, huh?  On the one hand, I’m slightly stupefied that even my Grandpa can find a special someone quicker than I can.  And this is the second love-of-his-life, too.  On the other hand, it gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling in my belly—some might call it “hope.”

Granted, Grandpa’s hot stuff, especially in the over-70 crowd.  Doesn’t look a day over 62, and active to boot.  He and his lovely new wife are off to Timbuktu for their honeymoon—they’ll be riding camels across the desert in Mali to an African music festival.  I’ll be in Missoula, pretending my office chair is a camel and my keyboard is a tribal drum.

Grandpa’s second wedding was an intimate ceremony-and-dinner combo at a nice restaurant in La Jolla, California, featuring fun-filled things like:

• a smidgen of sorbet served in your very own, 14-inch tall ice sculpture
• a slightly drunk Little Sis who didn’t touch the sorbet because she was convinced it was butter
• dancing with my dad and my grandpa to foxes and waltzes played by the solo pianist
• re-introducing myself to relatives I’ve known for years, who then exclaimed, “You make me feel so old!”
• answering many questions about how Little Sis and I actually survive in Montana, such as: “Do you live near a road?” and “Do you have electricity?”
• answering many questions about why I don’t have a husband and several offspring yet
• answering many questions about what, exactly, does a “conservation non-profit do” and how, exactly “do you make a living” from doing it?

Luckily, Grandpa helped out with answers to these tough questions, as he’s been to Missoula a couple of times.  The last visit was over Saint Patrick’s Day weekend in 2006, just a week after he’d first met his new bride.

He was already smitten then.  While Little Sis discussed the March Madness intricacies of who’d be in the “sweet sixteen” and I tried to muddle through the worst hangover of my life after a particularly rousing celebration at Sean Kelly’s, Grandpa stared dreamily into space with a teenager-in-love grin.

We took advantage of his blissful state to give him the full Missoula tour: we dragged him to the St. Paddy’s day parade down Higgins, watched hours of college basketball at various downtown venues, took him to the Kettlehouse, and threw a potluck/barbeque in his honor.  Grandpa was a hit with all of our friends, and he enjoyed participating in our strange Montana lifestyle.  That’s why his summary of Missoula to family and friends in San Diego this weekend included heart-warmingly accurate comments like:

“In Missoula you have to take your own giant jar to the bar so they’ll fill it up with beer.”

“They seem to have a protest about something every few minutes, no matter how cold it is outside.”

“My granddaughters have parties all the time, and people even bring deer and elk to their house.  Remember how they grew up as vegetarians?”

Yup.  No doubt about it: life in San Diego is as different from Missoula as living on Mars.  And just as I was seriously questioning why I ever left the beaches of 72-degrees-and-sunny, super-diverse San Diego, I started to miss the simplicity of a Friday night carrying around my giant jar of local beer.

Grandpa’s wedding has given me new-found hope that I, too, can find a love-of-my-life and ride to Timbuktu.  Plus, I returned from San Diego to full-throttle fall, the season that makes a woman yearn for extra body heat—preferably from a man who’s bringing her lots of freshly-killed game. 

So watch out, Missoula: I’m on a mission.  Again.  Because next time one of my grandparents gets married I’m bound and determined to have my own special someone to foxtrot with.

To read more about life and love in the Garden City (and beyond), check out www.newwest.net/makingit

If you’d like to tell a story about your grandpa’s wedding, or maybe just a story about your favorite night with a giant jar of beer, email