Here's something that was told to me after my grandmother's funeral, when we were all reminiscing and telling stories:
Apparently my mother's cousin had the Worst Wedding Ever back in the '50s. Now this was out in rural Kentucky where most weddings were fairly small affairs.
My great aunt's mother (Jessie) and my great aunt had planned every detail meticulously. My mom and her three siblings (or “the babies” as they were collectively known) were going to be a part of the wedding. Every one from the bride to the babies would have a dress that was handmade by my aunt, with fittings the likes of which still impressed my mom to this day. There were flowers, and there was a church, and there was going to be pomp and circumstance.
But then there was a freak blizzard, which nobody saw coming. The only people that were able to get to the church were the people in the wedding.
There was not a single person at the church sitting in the pews.
Then my mom, because she was five and had been brought up with the “proper way to pray,” lost the rings. In her words: “It never occurred to me that I could pray with my eyes open. So I closed my eyes and they just sort of fell off the little pillow.”
Then, because of the snow storm, the heat was cranked up so high that the groom passed out.
The last time he couldn't be revived right away, and they literally carried him away from the altar.
The preacher looked my great aunt in the eye and said “Don't worry. I don't care if you two never got to say ‘I do.' You're married.”
As she told me the story my great aunt cackled merrily.
“And I was married for fifty-four years! So don't worry about your wedding, even if it's a disaster, it doesn't mean the marriage will be, too.”