Well, not everyone. When Aunt Abigail grudgingly rose from her front-row seat, her feet flew out from under her. Reaching for someone to grab hold of, she dragged Aunt Martha to the ground with her. “The croquet ball,” the Congo minister whispered in my ear, while the zither recessional played on. Arm in arm, the snowshoer and Little Ray were proceeding up the aisle between the assembled chairs. I saw the moment when the puerile principal emeritus lost sight of the married couple. At that instant, Granddaddy Lew seemed stricken with a frightened father’s crazed anguish. I couldn’t read the unspoken words the diaper man mouthed, but I saw in his lunatic expression everything my infantile grandfather feared: his youngest daughter had just married one of her misbegotten children, and Principal Brewster had been powerless to prevent it!

That was when the diaper man reverted to his inner dog. While Uncle Martin howled with laughter and Uncle Johan actually barked, Granddaddy Lew dropped to all fours and began biting. On his hands and knees, the possessed infant scurried up the aisle, snapping at ankles and Achilles tendons. Dottie pursued him, holding fast to her Seeing Eye dog equipment. “Poor Lew,” my grandmother said wearily, squeezing my hand. “The bats in his belfry have taken over, Adam—it’s a good thing we’ve dispensed with the receiving line.”

We could see the wedding guests dropping and hear their cries—it was hard to tell who’d been bitten by the angry infant and who had merely stumbled and fallen into one of the flower beds. My grandmother’s garden was an obstacle course in transition; the caterers were unfolding the tables for the reception dinner, and they were rearranging the chairs around the tables. Platters of the sliced ham were carried to the tables, together with bowls of the German potato salad. There were still too many people standing under the tent for Nana and me to see what was happening out on the croquet court, but the smell of cooking was in the air. I would have bet that the barbecue chef began grilling before the ceremony started. Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus” had mercifully ended—the zither-meister was taking a break. I could see that Nora and Em were talking to the old Austrian—well, Nora was doing all the talking, and Em was nodding her head off.

“I think that went pretty well, all things considered,” the Congo minister was saying, albeit tentatively, to my aunts.

“That kiss was completely inappropriate—it lingered much too long!” Aunt Abigail retorted. She’d turned her ankle on the croquet ball; she was limping, and leaning on Aunt Martha for support.

“That dress was much too low—not to mention, too white!” Martha chimed in.

“Girls, girls,” my grandmother muttered, more to herself than to my condemning aunts. My uncles were woofing like dogs and pretending to bite each other.