Splendor in the Cow Pasture
By Marylyn Cork
In the summer of my distress over weeks of near triple-digit heat and forest fires last year, I racked up a notable first—attendance at a wedding held in a Sagle cow pasture.
As was almost predictable, the ceremony took place during the first cold, showery spell of incipient fall. (One has to be an optimistic soul to schedule an outdoor wedding in any season of the year in northern Idaho.)
The 6 p.m. affair was chilly, sure enough, but at least the rain held off. Forty or so invited guests breathed a sigh of relief, hugged their wraps around their shoulders (or wished they’d brought one), and sat through it all with good grace. The object, after all, was to see the couple married, and that we were able to accomplish.
Unusual, too, in that it had been planned and executed by the groom’s mother, it was a pretty little wedding. The cow pasture was a piece of near-level property that had belonged to her deceased parents and was, apparently, of some sentimental significance to the family. It sat at the top of a low eminence overlooking a fine view of a hayfield below, a country road, and trees and mountains rising beyond. I hasten to add that since the last cows to be pastured in it had been moved out some time before, the wedding guests had the luxury of not having to watch where they placed their feet.
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