I need to think.
Dawn Friday. Ocean Beach. I force myself out of bed and log stiff morning miles. Sports park with too many holes in the turf, straight along the bike path above the estuary. Salt air blowing in from the dog beach. White herons standing up to their knees in low tide. Tomorrow is my oldest son's wedding and I have a toast to write. At 6:30 sharp, San Diego International announces its daily opening as a long twin-engine banks toward the sunrise. Every minute, on the minute, another plane roars overhead. I time my run by the departures. The words won't come.
"Do you know what you're going to say?"
That's what I've been hearing all week. Father of the groom. Speaking off the cuff is not OK. I preach without notes in front of large groups all the time. Book signings, book clubs, college classrooms, team practices. I just riff. But words have to be precise when your oldest son is tying the knot.
So I procrastinate. I've been a writer long enough to know words will come in their time. So even, after months of dodging style choices, I purchase a new blue suit at Nordstrom, the words won't talk to me.
"Is tomorrow ok for the alterations?" asks Debbie, a superhero in the men's department.
"How about one hour?" I respond.
Last minute. Time to leave for San Diego. I never wear suits. They're not me. I show up at Nordstrom wearing a baggy t-shirt bearing a logo from a Portland brewery, even baggier running shorts, and crisp pre-wedding haircut at odds with my lack of style.
Debbie makes it happen.
Saturday afternoon. Time to put on that tailored suit and drive to the ceremony. Still, no speech. Tick tock. Calene and I walk into the venue as the event planner sets up. Navy losing to Army on the TV, not a good omen for a wedding soon to be full of Navy pilots. Elvis singing "take my hand, take my whole life too" as she grabs my wrist and we slow dance in the empty hall. Our wedding song. Her eyes sparkle. Something clicks. One hour to go.
"I need a few minutes," I tell my bride. "Come with me?"
"I'm good." Callie knows me. Knows I'll find the words but only if I'm alone. I leave the venue, setting off down the streets of Little Italy in search of a place to think.
Dressed in blue suit, carnation in my lapel, and leather shoes, I walk a block. If you ever charge down a busy city street wearing a bright blue suit and a boutonniere, be prepared for looks. I find Bottlecraft, order a Pliny, and write a speech at the bar as Army-Navy plays on the big TV. Words pour out in a flood of emotion. Too many. Needs an edit. Tick tock. I indulge my deepest emotion at Bottlecraft so I will keep it straight when I speak to parents, friends, fellow guests, and to Devin and Anne. A funny story, a transition to something heartfelt, close with the toast. Ninety seconds. Seventy-five is better.
"Get back here," my son texts. "I need you."
What parent doesn't answer that call? I slam my beer and return in time for pictures. Barely.
The speech still isn't right.
Ceremony (beautiful). Soft music playing. Time to talk. Best Man first. Calene and I go last. We get up there like Steve and Edie, she in her long slinky dress and me in my suit which I am beginning to like very much. Callie speaks from the heart, a loving mother telling truth, words like gold — so much so I stop listening to keep from choking up. Then I say what I came to say, penciling the final edit in my mind even as I speak.
No one's going to remember it. That's the way of wedding speeches. The best toast I ever heard was by my own best man, the sainted Groover Bentley.
But I say what I have to say to my son and his bride in words I will never consider easy or casual, but as heartfelt and honest as I know how. Because if they don't matter to me and Calene they don't matter at all.
People laugh a little in the right places. I slip in Springsteen for the final line, just to see who notices.
“Raise your glass," I tell the crowd. "Two hearts are better than one."
Then we all party very late into the night.