A dry stretch in July provided hay making weather but the Saturday of my cousin's wedding , thunder clouds moved in with serious intent. The outdoor ceremony was to be held at his small farmstead. I parked my truck, caught sight of my parents maintaining a dignified huddle under the one remaining white tent with strings of lights that had not collapsed.
One look from my father told me the situation was ripe for chaos. Water ran off the tables, chairs were over turned and the table decorations were strewn all over the lawn. Dogs were carousing under foot and a shirtless boy munched potato chips from the bag in the down pour.
"We'll be in the van. This tent is coming down too", my mother said with her usual candor. I nodded and sipped my drink. A few brave souls held out under the tent but most of the guests were in two large open bays of a nearby barn.
The young bride, pregnant but not barefoot strode from the house to the barn. She has an infectious smile and a mop of curls. I like the fact that she isn't pouting inside but has come to join the guests who are smoking and pacing in the barn. I abandon the tent when lightening erupts above me.
I see my cousin, the groom. he is unfazed by the rain. He winks at me and his cigarette bobs with his grin. Once in the shed, we get the kegs tapped, laugh and tease the preacher. Children are running everywhere, soaked and barefoot. They sit astride four wheelers and blow the soap bubble wands intended for the reception. In the darkest corner of the barn I hear the clink of shot glasses. My brother, strong in his Christian faith steps outside, upset at the consumption of liquor before God's word.
The rain relented and the men step out to resurrect the fallen tents. We wiped tables, collected the damages decorations and restore some order. I glimpse the soon-to-be-weds hugging in the barn before they come out to seat some of the elders. Soon the minister is reading, and two young people are promising to protect each other from eternity.
This crowd resembles a tattooed mosh pit rather than a wedding congregation but they came together to not only celebrate but make sure the wedding went forward despite the storm. Appearances aside, their actions today define community.
My mind wanders to a few days prior. The news commentators on the radio discuss Trayvon Martin and the result of the trial. One commentator repeats the President's sentiments and then says "We all know it would have been different if Trayvon had been a white kid in blazer".
I look around me at the sun hardened farmers, lean oil field workers drinking grain alcohol from jars, itinerant mechanics and brick layers, the few felons and the many Christians who populate this crowd. A young white mother furiously text message while holding two babies, one black and one white. A former marine stands amid several generations of children he has proudly raised.
These are people who live harvest to harvest, oil boom to oil boom and in some cases pay check to pay check and pack of smokes to pack of smokes. I doubt any of them under 75 even own a blazer or even use that term. Yet this, hip, educated and urban radio commentator has made the essentially racist and ultimately absurd and arrogant assumption that America is divided simply by poor blacks and blazer wearing whites with Mitt Romney haircuts.
There is more to America. There is more to my state. We live below interstate 70 in the part of Illinois where the governors don't campaign because we don't count. We may think a Blazer is something made by Chevy, but you should see a July redneck wedding in the rain, it brings out the best in us. It reminds us of community. Taking care of each other. Helping the young to get a start at life.
