GENE ASTAIRE
The first wedding in my generation of Roemers came off quite smoothly this weekend. My cousin looked radiant, and showed no signs of all the stress I know revolved around the event. The ceremony was sweetly located on beach in the south sound, and the reception was fun even without alcohol.
Since I’m moving into my roll as the family spinster, and couldn’t drum up a date for the occassion, I was tasked with transporting Granny and Auntie to and from the festivities and manning the guest book at the reception. The taxi services went smoothly, though the drive was even longer than I’d expected at nearly two hours each way. The guest table I shirked a bit, but it wasn’t entirely my fault. Due to having the family photo session immediately after the ceremony, on the beach, while most of the crowd moved on to the snacks and dancing, everyone was well past the signing in by the time I was ready to man my post. Considering the guest book table was down hall from the party area, near the door and the restrooms, I couldn’t really bring myself to stay there much past twenty minutes. A few people filled out the cards with well wishes, and I tried to keep an eye on it while sampling all the food and dancing with dad. Generally, I’m sticking with timing being at fault for my neglect rather than my dodging the wall flower station.
Like most weddings I’m emotionally invested in, there were several bright moments. The ceremony setting was entirely charming, granny was escorted down the beach by a most solicitous groom and most fantastic of all, my dad is a spectacular dancer.
Dad was have a good health day in general, but on the dance floor, he positively lights up. He kicked off his sandals because they were slowing him down and spun me, my mom and his sisters around the floor like a barefoot pro. He said I was a quick study with the East Coast Swing, and even if he was just being kind, it’s the 
Yeah, I’m daddy’s girl. What of it?
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