Oom-pah-pah

Westcott Vineyards

Stockton, California

George Gordon Byron, pen name ‘Lord Byron’, was regarded as being among the greatest British poets and a major figure of the romantic movement which earned him the status of required reading in most higher-learning institutions’ English departments. Although Byron’s popularity excelled, he fell short as a top choice with some young men whose tastes in literature favored transcendental verse balanced out by a few pub-drinking limericks beginning with ‘There once was a man from Nantucket.’

Grin.

The pencil in its silver holder paused on a thought as Scott glanced out the bedroom window. Perched on low stucco walls, flickering lanterns continued to cast shadows dancing in a courtyard where wedding guests had earlier done the same in celebration. 

Most of the poetic insights Byron blessed his readers with never found a permanent residence in my noggin except for one that managed to hang on, I believe, to present itself on this day -

‘All tragedies are finished by a death, all comedies by a marriage.’

I assume those words reflected the author’s satirical view of life’s predictable experiences as either culminating in tragedy or settling into the social institution of matrimony. And even though I’ve been accurately accused of being unable to resist sarcasm when called upon, I appreciate Byron’s statement more for its perspective than its jesting. Although, I will disagree with the gent on one point. Life, in my opinion, is rarely predictable. 

*********

“Young man, there’s a tuba in the vineyard.” Roberta Westcott’s disdainful observation carried an elitist inflection that possessed a noticeable fill in the blank quality, usually present when the act of judging situations occurred frequently in conversation.

Young man, there’s a fly in the soup.

Young man, there’s a beggar at the door.

Young man, there’s a stench from the pissoir.

Seeing that his search for Emily’s face among the post-ceremony’s mingling guests would be inconveniently delayed, Scott joined in on the woman’s scrutiny with an agreeing nod that would hopefully resolve her issue. “Yes, ma’am. There is. However, I believe it’s called a sousaphone.” Due to train travel and limited room, the musician had chosen a smaller version of his oom-pah-pah instrument. Oh, to have had extra space in the luggage car for this exact moment.

Eyes darkened in a verdict not needing a jury. “My daughter-in-law appears rather pleased with the presence of a sousaphone in the vineyard.”

“Yes, ma’am. She does.” Surprising his little cousin with Omaha’s Orchestraband providing toe-tapping selections for the guests’ entertainment had been received with the bride’s hugs, laughter and a how extraordinary. Yes, successful execution of a meaningful gift by the best man proved satisfying, indeed.

“One would think a string quartet familiar with the classics would’ve been considered more traditionally acceptable at my son’s wedding breakfast.” 

Wedding breakfast. A befuddling term from a boyhood past.

It’s afternoon, Winnie. Why are these people calling it a breakfast? 

Ye see, ScottyGarrett, the name comes from a time when religious practices insisted the bride and groom didn’t eat before the weddin’, so, the first meal they’d be havin’ afterwards would be their ‘breakfast.’ Knowin’ that, is it makin’ more sense t’ye now, lad?

Only if I was wondering why people’s stomachs were growling.

Unfortunately, reminiscing with Winnie was quickly overshadowed by Roberta’s opinion of proper protocol. “But… ” A sigh indicated the pressure of pointing out displeasure could be exhausting. “I fear beau monde traditions were never given a moment's thought for this rather important day.” A lace hankie dabbed the corner of The Cobra’s patronizing smile. “However, we should never judge harshly when it’s simply a case of innocent ignorance stemming from a female’s upbringing in her limited social circles.” 

“Yes ma’am. Agreed.” An eyebrow rose to the occasion. “I’ll certainly keep that in mind for a possible explanation during any of our future conversations on etiquette. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Westcott, I have a few musical selections to pass along to the sousaphonist.”

The gradual frown on Roberta Westcott’s face suggested subtle sarcasm had been correctly identified and landed where most needed. “Of course, Scotty, by all means. I’d never forgive myself for delaying a rousing rendition of Camptown Races.”  

Touché 

Scott regarded Roberta Westcott walking away, her back dismissing further acknowledgment of Harlan Garrett’s grandson and his indirect views on her Boston lifestyle.

Well, old boy, haven’t you set the cat amongst the pigeons.

There goes one unpleasant woman, George.

Yes… however, you must admit… Camptown Races. That retort was damn humorous.

True. Grin. But, not nearly as funny as when I request it be played.

Ho-Ho! Good show, Lancer!

“Excuse me, sir, but aren’t you the devastatingly handsome gentleman who flawlessly fulfilled his duties of best man earlier?”

The playful question belonging to the lovely face he was in search of flanked Scott on the right. Guiding Emily’s hand to rest in the crook of his arm, mischief continued. “Flawlessly? Your keen observation, my dear lady, has missed the target.”

“I see. And how was my aim with devastatingly handsome?”

“Bullseye.”

“Brother, those McGuire Magpies can’t stop chirpin’.” 

Ambushing Scott's left, Johnny swept an arm towards the gaggle of guests. “Hell, durin’ the I do’s I wouldn’t a been surprised if both a ‘em had stood up and squawked me too.” 

“Pardon, sir, but is a McGuire Magpie any relation to the Casanova Crow?”

The embellished tale of escort escapades abruptly ended with the query of curiosity. Leaning forward, Johnny’s head tilted to the left, assisting in the identification of the inquisitor. 

“Ah geesh.” A hand swiped over an embarrassed grin followed by the whispered hint of an apology. “Didn’t see her standin’ there, Scott.”

“Miss Browning, you remember my little brother, Johnny; the one who made a lasting first impression at the haberdashery and now fully clothed in pursuit of his second attempt?”

“Hello Johnny.” An impish smile forecasted a good-natured poke. “No dressing screen needed today?” 

“No ma’am. Truth be told, I’ve never had much use for those foldin’ contraptions.”

“Oh?” Ignoring Scott’s slow shake of a head of don’t ask, Emily pressed on. “And why is that?”

“They always seem to get in the way. In fact, there was this one time in Abilene with a lacy corset- ”

“Halt.” A lieutenant's raised palm ceased forward movement of a new exaggerated tale.

Grin. “Maybe I best finish that story another day, Little Minnow.” Johnny tipped an imaginary hat slandered off in search of magpies.

Emily cocked her head. “Did your brother just call me a little minnow?” 

“He did. See, there was this one time in Sacramento with a lobster canapé- ”

“Halt.”

*********

Scott’s pocket watch displayed the late hour creating a wrestling match with his body’s request for rest over his mind’s wanting for words. 

Today was no exception to unpredictability. As I celebrated my cousin’s happiness and future, I, in turn, contemplated my own throughout the day.

The silver-cased pencil paused in reflection before continuing to the next journal page.