(Vic, Natasha and Grace a few days ago).

The year is not over, but there is a small list of things that needed to be accomplished against the tyranny of the clock and calendar. The Wedding naturally was on the top, since our new status needed to be registered with the instruments of the State. You know about the first two requirements, the first of which we acknowledge as inevitable and the second of which is “taxes.” So, first up, around 0730 on a Monday following the delirium of a wonderful weekend Christian holiday, was “call the Commissioner.”

That refers to the first name on the sheet provided by the County government for those officials empowered to provide legal certification of marriage. The first call had seemed to work, and an hour and day were established for the Commissioner’s transit across the State Road from Fredericksburg to The Farm. I stopped at the cash machine on one of the few trips off the property to prepare for payment. Intent on timing had been compliance with the tax year, with suitable attire being what we had worn to bed the night before.

I marveled at the call an hour or so ahead of the established time. The pyjama-clad plan had already been disrupted by the prospect of guests, so there was a certain disruption in the morning to prepare for a ceremony that could not legally occur, but which had evolved to a delightful small affair in the Great Room at Refuge Farm.

DeMille, Splash, Loma and Rocket, being largely imaginary associates, sent their best wishes. And a delightful if unofficial ceremony was conducted with champagne, well-combed and well-rollered hair, appropriate and festive garb. The equally imaginary, but sincere, ceremony was conducted by an astrophysicist from Crimea in the former Soviet Union, who waved a solemn benediction with three fingers extended, solemnified by the first book she could grab. It turned out to be an ancient tome from an old collection that may have been random but appropriate:

But Monday, after the weekend holiday, the Commissioner was texted to determine availability. We were prepared to drive to Fredericksburg if necessary. No response. A riffle through the small stack of papers produced the list of approved Commissioners and their phone numbers. The next name with an “asterisk” signifying something unknown was called. A woman answered, shortly after business hours commenced around 0900. She responded that the person in question was still abed, but that she would rouse him. Embarrassed, I sought to leave him to his slumber, but after a pause, a reasonably coherent male voice spoke, saying he was the individual empowered by the Commonwealth, and he could be available for a drive-by visit at 1100.

That matter complete, there was a short internal discussion about preparations, which were abandoned as the hour approached. We had agreed that it was in keeping with the extended duration of the process, which had involved the trip to the County Clerk’s office for a license to conduct matrimonial operations, a formal appointment with a designated Commissioner disrupted by Covid, arrival of guests and an afternoon of entertainment, and now a second Commissioner for completion of ritual.

At eleven sharp, a well-appointed truck arrived at the end of the gravel driveway, which motored slowly past the Farmhouse, parking near the Barn where the Writer’s Section conducts their imaginary deliberations. The phone rang a minute or so later, indicating the named person was parked, and to announce his arrival. It was in keeping with the nature of rural living. “I don’t want to get shot at,” he said in a matter of fact tone, indicating a familiarity with rural property owners.

A well dressed man than approached the front door, and we welcomed him warmly. “Frank Reaves,” he said. “Mayor-Elect of Culpeper.”

(Culpeper Mayor-Elect Frank Reaves)

The Mayor was efficient and conducted the ceremony with a warm and traditional but businesslike administration of vows. He looked around the otherwise empty but well decorated room after the phrase “Should anyone object…”

There were none. He finished with appropriate dignity, gathering the certificate from the County Clerk, and another which he promised to execute under his official hand and be presented directly to Sylvia, the Clerk of the Clerk’s Office who would enter the information into the Official Record. He also agreed to place a mis-delivered card in the box up by the county road on his way out. With that he departed with grace.

Not Grace, of course. She remained. And we both sighed. Done with that one last thing. And a holiday of joy.

Copyright 2021 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com