It was a Sunday early in September. For many moons, I had been planning a beautiful outdoor wedding reception in the garden. With six hours to set up and prepare the magic, I looked to the skies to make a judgment call. A dark mass had been accumulating above Cedar Mountain and the deep, mottled gray extended through much of the visible sky.
It is a critical moment, the judgment call. I rushed to the computer to check the local radar. From what I could tell, the rain could easily skirt to the south of Cody and we could end up with a gorgeous evening. Though I knew that, just as easily, a storm could swoop in and put a giant damper on the bride’s big day. I also knew how much she wanted her reception to be outside. “We’ll go with it. It’s NOT going to rain,” I said. My catering staff exchanged nervous glances. “Okay,” they said, “if you say so.” As he overheard, a gallery guard nearby let out a low whistle.
We spent the next several hours dressing the tables with linens, namecards, glasses, and delicate china. We arranged the fragile crystal centerpieces. In neat rows, champagne glasses lined up near the three-tiered, velvet cake. The band plugged in their sound system and tested their instruments. All the while, the sky continued its ominous, ever threatening approach. “It’s NOT going to rain,” I said again, this time with just a hint of fear wrapped around the tip of the final word. It was 6 o’clock. Guests were on their way from the chapel. I half scolded and half pleaded with the rain gods and refused to allow myself to picture the kind of damage a Wyoming rainstorm could inflict on our delicate, intimate garden dinner.
As the bride made her way to the garden, the sun came out and chased the storm clouds away. It was a moment of perfection. The timing couldn’t have been better.
Wedding guests indulged in delicious food, and champagne glasses clinked to a touching toast before they danced the night away.
It was a gamble worth taking.
