A Honey Bucket Wedding

When you say, “Wedding,” most people do not also automatically think, “port-a-potty,” but thanks to Mom, we do.  And although my sister Sally may deny it, it probably had a lot to do with her decision three years later to have her own wedding in Hawaii.  But let me explain.

I grew up in a one-bathroom house.  So, just to be clear, that would be eight people to one bathroom, every morning, getting ready for work and school at the same time. I’m not saying this excuses our collective appearance in family pictures, but it does go a long way to explaining it (also, Mom trimmed up our bangs by slapping scotch tape across our foreheads and sawing away with the kitchen scissors).

Luckily for Tyrone, he had no bangs to cut.

My friend, Diane, who grew up with ten family members, described the situation best. “People who don’t grow up in a one-bathroom house have no idea why you’re walking around saying, ‘Do you need to use the bathroom? Do you need to use the bathroom?’”  The answer, of course, is because if you don’t, the minute you get into the shower, someone is certain to pound on the door, demanding to be let in, or else that you cut your personal hygiene time drastically short. Hence, nobody ever enjoys leisurely bathing, and everybody starts the day grumpy since a) the hot water runs out mid-way through shampooing for the second person, b) three people are always waiting to use the toilet, and c) by the time the last person is ready to go, everybody is late.

Mom’s own wedding was planned and executed in a matter of weeks.  Unfortunately for her, we had a year to plan mine; a year to draw up budgets, to worry about hundreds of details, to convince ourselves that everything should be just so. 

Mom knew the logistical difficulties we faced with a wedding.  Relatives were coming to Washington from as far away as Oklahoma, Arkansas, and Hawaii.  Even if they didn’t stay overnight with us, they would be at our house for some part of their stay.  So she did the logical thing: she rented a port-a-potty for our house.  Then she did the next logical thing: she didn’t tell any of us.

As luck would have it, the Honey Bucket truck delivered it just as James’s parents arrived in their rental car from the airport.  I defy anybody to make a more memorable first impression.  My future mother-in-law, bless her, said it was perfectly understandable, but all of my family, including my younger brother, Tyrone, who was running by with his track-team buddies just then, prayed for nothing less than for a sinkhole to open up and swallow the port-a-potty, or even better, us.  If memory serves, Dad actually slunk away to hide in the house.

Ten years later, as my brothers and sisters and I sifted through Mom’s letters and pictures, I came across a manila file labeled, “Martha’s wedding.”  In it were random notes, some jotted down on the back of junk mail envelopes, Mom’s budgets and records of deposits:  Photos -- $600, Bldg. -- $625, Tuxes -- $246, Cake -- $150.  There were tux measurements, dress patterns, and instructions for applying for a special license for the minister.  Upside down on one page already filled with details about a wedding cake, there was a note to “Feed the bunny.  Carry out the compost.”

On one lavender sheet of paper was Mom’s pep-talk to herself, which I’m sure she copied out of a bridal magazine:

The BRIDE’S WISHES ARE THE LAW.

Control ALL THE PEOPLE YOU HIRE.  YOU ARE BOSS.

Send invites 6 weeks before wedding

Make lots of lists (she got that one down)

There must be an organizer to oversee everything.

I did not find a receipt for the port-a-potty.  I’m pretty sure Mom was the only one who used it.  But if it gave her some peace in a time of chaos, it was worth every penny.  I did not see it in the months leading up to the wedding, but years later, this pile of scribbled notes was proof of how Mom must have fretted over her part, trying to make sure our day went off without a hitch.  If someone could have reassured her that no wedding goes off without a hitch, that it’s those hitches that make the wedding not just unique, but really worth remembering, perhaps it would have eased her mind.  I would tell her now that I’m not even sure I would remember my wedding, except for moments like those.  Perhaps if somebody had told me that then, I wouldn’t have been so mortified by the port-a-potty.  Perhaps.  But I think I will strongly encourage my daughters to elope.

May 18, 1996