. . . my oldest friends, Tim and Betsy, got married in Williamsburg, Virginia, home of our alma mater. They sent me this picture of the wedding party today, which includes Professor Ceiling Cat in statu nascendi. Can you spot him? (Hint: he’s wearing an ill-fitting blue suit borrowed from the groom’s father, with the trousers pinned up.)
Just remember: it was the early seventies.
Later that summer, I was a member of a wedding party for another college friend, this time in Fort Worth, Texas. They didn’t take kindly to longhairs there, and it was a very fancy wedding: the creme de la creme of Fort Worth society, including many oil magnates.
As it was hot, our job as males of the wedding party was to escort the ladies from their cars to the church, shielding them from the sun with umbrellas. We lined up for our job, and when it came my turn, one monied old lady looked at me in horror and said, “Are you telling me that I have to be escorted to the church by Rasputin?”