Bumping along the grass in a golf cart unfit to off-road, “Aunt Hazel” called out, “Mama, you holdin’ on back there?” Onna, the expectant mother next to me, chuckled in a polite, yet amused, way only audible to me. She affirmed to the whole cart load, yes she was indeed holding on.

Connie, the Mother of the Bride and present driver, halted the golf cart and the five of us piled out. Ta-ta, Onna and I unloaded the billowing white tulle bows with a circumference of a massive pizza and as full as a new mom’s bosom. Connie and Aunt Hazel (who happens to literally be Connie’s mother) fussed around to the airport gates for the Fastening of the Bows. Onna and I stood back, amused, as the Three Musketeers, fretted about whether to attach the bow three or four links down the fence, whether they were as puffed out and prominent as their potential, and gosh darned it, where the missing tails could have gone to. Heaven forbid, Ta-ta, a longtime friend-like-family to Connie and Aunt Hazel, had used the tail, not the pipe cleaner, to attach the bow to the chainlink. Connie guffawed at Ta-ta’s disregard for the bow’s tail. The Three fiddled and fiddled until the recluse bow was tamed.

Meanwhile, Onna and I, with the exception of the occasional quick glance to one another, quietly observed the Three and take in the Southernness of it all. The Three Musketeers were local — as much a part of Eden, North Carolina as the Biscuitville down the road. Onna hailed from Minneapolis, and I from Silicon Valley. Both Onna’s husband and my own were hiking with the groom, Henry, and the other groomsmen as we helped prep for the wedding.

And so the preparation continued for hours: Onna and I looked to be helpful by flurrying around (but never in) the frenzied orbit of Ta-ta, Connie and Aunt Hazel. In the course of the day, we moved each row of ceremony chairs back four inches on the runway; we refolded all the 200-or-so napkins in a triangle instead of their original three-fold after the Three decided doing so was instrumental in transforming the hangar into a proper party place. In the midst of all of this Connie looked first me, then Onna, in the eye, and asked/declared “I’m a b**, aren’t I?” Shocked, we snickered and denied it. At one point or another, emotions overwhelm us all and make us act uncharacteristic. This was, understandably, one of those days for Connie.

With no warning, the Three Musketeers decided they were much behind schedule and must immediately flock back to the house to get themselves primped. Ta-ta seemed on edge about whether her dress would be subpar — the one she had originally planned on wearing also happened to be the dress of choice of her co-worker. In a flurry, the Three scrambled from the airport to Connie’s home.

Alas, it came time for Tori to walk down the airstrip-turned-aisle. Raw, concentrated joy illuminated her face as she gazed at her husband-to-be. As I sat in one of the perfectly-aligned chairs beneath a layer of straw and witnessed the brief ceremony, I reflected on how Tori and Henry’s wedding looked very different from that of Jake and I. Yet I could not help but feel an arguably very similar emotion to Tori as she stood at the altar. A talented guitarist and singer played a country-fied version of the song, “How Long Will I Love You” by Jon Boden (great song, IMHO), which happens to be what Jake and I walked down the aisle to at the close of our ceremony. Though I was sitting in midway back in the crowd and Jake was beside Henry, we caught eyes and were transported from the North Carolina airstrip to our San Diego ceremony on a lagoon.

All of us celebrate-ers transitioned from the airstrip to the hangar to the seat in front of a navy blue triangle napkin. Soon after, the mashed potato buffet opened and the fog machine turned on full-force, presumably to entice those who may not choose to dance to get on their feet more anonymously. Despite the comfort of the fog, not many chose to groove. That, of course, did not stop Jake and I from getting out there. After all, we dream of being professional “Party Starters” (if you need someone to get the dancing going at your next event, let me know!).

Soon enough and a belly-full of cake later, Tori and Henry flew off in a private plane. Literally, they flew from Eden to Charlotte. Figuratively, they flew into a life of mysterious oneness.

I could try to make some grandiose and sweeping point about how this story illustrates that though our rituals vary, culture to culture, emotions and human needs remain largely similar. Truthfully though, I just wanted to share some of what I thought to be a hilariously up-close and stereotypical Southern experience. After all, it may be best to experience Biscuitville vicariously.