My sweet husband has been wrapped around his little girl’s finger since the day she was born. So when our daughter announced she wanted to get married in our yard on July 11, I knew my husband would move into high gear.
The minute spring sprang he was out in the yard, picking up sticks in “the sanctuary” as he now refers to our 1.3 acres of lawn and garden. “If there’s gonna be a wedding out there,” he declares about once a week, “it’s a sanctuary.” He’s been mowing and trimming and weeding and spraying with a vengeance. Last weekend, he grabbed his chainsaw and attacked the ugly old stump in the side yard. Hallelujah!
Like I said before, it was no surprise when our daughter’s doting dad started sprucing up the place. However, I never expected the city road crew to get into the act, too. But last Monday morning, the road grater roared by when I sat down to work. Pretty soon, a gravel truck rolled by. And another. And another. Before noon, they’d laid a thick layer of the prettiest white gravel you’ve ever seen down the center of our little road. Over the next few days, they grated the road and added more gravel every morning. They didn’t sprinkle one iota into the washout in front of our mailbox, but beggars can’t be choosers.
How did those city workers know that the first thing on my to do list last week was to call the city road department and complain about our road? Normally, I don’t do that, but the road was in such bad condition, I wasn’t sure people would make it to the wedding in July if something wasn’t done.
The road hasn’t been graveled in years and this spring, sections of it heaved and buckled, exposing road bed. No matter how well the road grater smoothed the surface, every time it rained, the road bed turned to mud. Vehicle immediately cut deep ruts in the mud, and the road was nearly impassable. But not anymore. Today the road looks as good as the sanctuary. The swath of white gravel looks like a white carpet for my daughter, the bride.
What are the odds of it staying like that until July 11?
Don’t press your luck, mother of the bride. Beggars can’t be choosers.
