THE COLOR OF THE FUTURE
A Widow Bit – July 17, 2011
By Mary Koch

            If the wedding I attended last night is any indication of the future human race, we are on our way to being a beautiful people. Diversity has become a tired word, akin to political correctness, but when you see it in the flesh, it is gorgeous.

            We who gathered to witness a young couple’s vows were a broad spectrum of ages, skin shades, cultures, costumes and convictions. The bride and groom both have Native American roots, sharing a local heritage that dates back countless generations. At the same time they have global awareness and connections.

            I looked at their friends – the 20-somethings – and saw representatives of the wide world. We gathered like colors of the rainbow at the edge of a pristine lake on the Colville Indian reservation. I was particularly intrigued by one couple – he quite black, she not at all – both dressed in matching traditional-looking garb, possibly African, fashioned from brilliant, printed cotton of deep violet.

            The ceremony was elegantly simple with grandeur provided by surrounding mountains and a soft blue sky, its clouds reflected in the water. The bride’s short white dress was stunningly set off by knee-high deerskin boots and belt that her father had beaded. The couple had written their vows; the groom took a while to read his, unabashedly wiping tears from his eyes as he struggled to locate the vocal cords that were choked with emotion.

            The maid of honor read a profound statement about the beauty and importance – indeed, the necessity – of marriage for all human beings. It came not from holy scripture but from a federal judge’s ruling upholding the right of gay and lesbian couples to marry. This generation will inherit both good and bad from my generation, but they refuse to take on the baggage of our tired and tiresome arguments.

            In her vows, the bride made reference to the lake’s healing waters. After the ceremony was over, I and a few others went wading in the mineral-rich water. The lake, although spectacular, has been undiscovered by the world at large and is pretty much known only to locals. My husband, too, was convinced of the lake’s healing powers. Before his stroke, we often swam and boated there. It had been too long since I’d stepped into those waters, and I reveled in their cleansing, cooling power as waves gently lapped about my feet and ankles.

            We ate Mexican food from a taqueria truck with side dishes of native roots – camas, wild carrots and bitterroot. The tiered cake was white coconut, a nod to tradition of another sort. We were asked to write our secrets for a happy marriage on cutout hearts and pin them to the marital blanket. The only secret I know is to find the right person.

            I left just as the bride was preparing to toss her bouquet. My bouquet-chasing days are long since over, at least that kind of bouquet. Surprisingly though, bouquets still seem to come my way, almost daily, in an array of unexpected colors.