A Beachy Explosion

Last night, I wrote about the Sons of Ipswich and their magical stripping. It was OK, but nothing compared to today. Martha's beachiness is catchy. Today, I finished the rehearsal and the rehearsal dinner, and I had So. Much. Fun. because of Martha and her beach crafts. Be prepared to be overwhelmed by beach-themed crafts. It;s a little long, but it's only because I had to incorporate a total of TWENTY (!) beachy crafts.

And I am so close to finishing, now at 48,573 (!!!) with only the wedding and the reception, plus they morning-after breakfast to write about. I'm going to have to slow it down.

The caterers were already there, and had been busy at work for what appeared to be hours. On the porch, this had been set up with a table, chairs and a couch, clearly set out for the guests to enjoy the beautiful evening after the meal. The couch was adorned with seashell print pillows, and the table had on it a tray filled with sand and oversized lion’s paw shells with candles in them. No doubt, this set-up gave an undeniable beachy, and not to mention romantic, feel to the porch, especially when paired with the seashell wind-chime that hung by the door, and the beach diorama that had been lovingly placed next to the guest book in a table by the door.

The moment we walked into the, we were greeted by an attractive young man, who may or may not have been a Son of Ipswich, with a tray full of hors d’oeuvres. He was wearing what would have been a plain whit T-shirt, save that it had been printed with a seahorse and seashell motif. I thought that this would have been charming on kid’s beachwear, but on this gentleman, it was scintillating. Not to mention iridescent. I selected a tiny, crispy bruschetta from his tray. Lily went for the shrimp with seashell skewers. While I thought that this was a particularly enticing way to present poached shrimp, I have never liked shrimp. I simply admired the skewers and moved into the dining room where I was instantly overwhelmed by how beachy it was. I knew that the rehearsal dinner was supposed to be in a theme that was quite different from the wedding, so as not to overshadow the day itself, and it appeared that Enid had taken this to heart. The beachy theme of the rehearsal dinner was an interesting juxtaposition to the very traditional and semi-ironic theme of the wedding itself.

The room itself looked like a beach full of shells had exploded inside of it. But I knew that Enid had spent many hours carefully making each of the beach and shell-themed decorations. I reflected back to the invitations to the rehearsal dinner, which had been printed on seashell-sprayed stationary that Enid had made herself, and to the decorations on the patio. Enid had put in so much time and effort, and I knew how much she loved me, and how excited she was about the wedding. But the rehearsal dinner was her night. The wedding she had never planned herself. I was so happy that I had let her have free reign over the plans for the rehearsal dinner, and let her have this amazing experience. I looked over at her and she was beaming, then instantly ran over to a table and started fussing about the centerpiece and decorations.

I took a moment to appreciate all of her hard work. It actually turned out to be more than a moment, since there was so much to take in. There were shells everywhere. Hanging from the ceiling was a string of seashell lights. Well, it would be more adequately described as a string of beach treasures, casting a dreamy glow about the entire room. Adorning the walls were mirrors, with frames covered attractively in shells, as well as two different varieties of shell wreaths. One was made of clamshells, the other made of mussel shells.

There was a four-piece sting quartet playing New Kids on the Block classics in the corner. Currently, they were playing a lively version of Summertime. As I looked closer, I noticed that corner was decorated with seashell planters and shell-covered pots filled with tropical-looking plants that I could not identify, although, no doubt, Enid had grown those herself.
After admiring the shells decorating the room, I decided to socialize. I went over to Enid, and congratulated her on successfully, and stylishly, pulling off the decorations for the room. She beamed, and said that it was nothing. But I could tell from the circles under her eyes, the calluses on her hands, and the sand under her nails that she had nearly killed herself with the preparations for this evening.

“Let’s all sit down! Dinner is about to be served,” Enid notified everyone.

And we all obeyed. We sat down at the long rectangular table, which was the image of perfection. At the very center of the table was Enid’s masterpiece: a seascape centerpiece. It would have dressed up any table, but on this table, it was breathtaking. Large conch shells were filled with Enid’s prize cattleya orchids. There were smaller marlin spiked shells surrounding a vase filled with tiny shells and a large pillar candle. The pieces-de-resistance were the red painted manzanita branches, which probably were a stand-in for real coral. It was truly lovely.

The rest of the table was covered in a variety of different shell types, each filled with a votive candle. There were seashell salt and pepper dishes, and there were seashell printed napkins. When I looked at the napkins, so carefully adorned with vintage prints of shells, I thought that even if the only water in sight was in a pitcher, these napkins would have brought the beach to any room, and I imagined warm sand between my toes. This was probably the effect that Enid had gone for, clever lady that she was.

Our first course was a lovely fresh salad, with a tangy dressing. And of course, there was wine. For a moment, I felt that I had overdone the wine and I excused myself to the bathroom, where the beach theme continued with a seashell soap dish, and seashell koalas and butterflies.