We flipped among the Weather Channel and the local TV stations, comforted by one, hopes dashed by the next. Yes, the dreary rain would slack off and be gone by late Friday.

No, the nor'easter would circle around and spend the weekend drenching us again. Not so; it would be done its second pass by Saturday morning, and the wedding afternoon would be clear.

Once before, we two had sweated out the weather before an outdoor reception. Our very small wedding itself took place under a bright September sky in our back sheep field. But the following June we staged a wonderful celebration with a crowd of friends in our west field-big tent, Brooks' barbecue, blue-grass band, the works.

We'd worried about weather that time but lucked out, in fact, by one week. Seven days later that rare tornado touched down in Milford. On its way there, it dipped, grabbed the top of our largest backyard basswood, wrung it off, and dropped it, mercifully, just short of the house. If our wedding reception tent had still been on site, it might have finished its day in Unadilla.

No tornado threats for this wedding reception, thank goodness. But there was every chance for a lot of sogginess. Of course the Fly Creek church would be snug, and the tent would be waterproof. But what about the newlyweds' mile-long carriage ride from the church to our place? And what about people under umbrellas slogging through wet grass to the porta-pots? A hundred and thirty of them were coming, after all...

Well, when the day dawned, the problem was not rain (it had reduced to a misty drizzle), but wind gusting to thirty-five. That morning the tent's sides were flapping wildly, threatening to clear the tables inside even as Portabello's staff worked to set them. But the tent company sent men from Whitesboro. They battened the panels and secured the whole works with more metal stakes. Crisis averted.

Up at the church, the four o'clock wedding was fine-just the right mix of solemnity and family warmth. With a part in the service, I had the best view of Kristin coming up the aisle to a processional she had composed herself. She looked stunning on the arm of her beaming dad. Dad hardly seemed the same guy who'd been out by our garage that morning, nailing together timbers and plywood sheets for a boardwalk over flooded spots.

Besides the homily, one of my jobs was to ask the couple to declare their intention to marry, then seek the parents' approval, then ask for the support of family and friends. After that came an unpredictable moment: I was to ask approval from Braden, Tom's little son. Braden is five, an age of mischief, and none of us was really sure of what he'd say. I'd thought of talking it out with him earlier. But he and I are buddies, and decided I would risk just asking. And so the moment came.

"Hey, Braden, will you help Daddy and Kristin in their marriage?" Braden, in suit and tie, was sitting with Tom's mother in the front row. His eyes widened and I held my breath. But then came the perfect response. "Let the record show," I intoned, "that Braden grinned and nodded." And the rest of the service went just as smoothly.

As did the carriage ride, despite a light drizzle. In front of the church stood a magnificent covered carriage, all tans and browns and brass accents. In harness before it was a matched pair of glossy black Friesians; their home is at Fly Creek Friesians, just up the valley. The Dutch breed seems about as big as Clydesdales, but far more graceful in line and movement. This team, snorting and tossing their manes, looked right out of the Arabian Nights. And on the carriage's box sat Troy Brisard, just as impressive in riding boots, jodhpurs, frock coat, and top hat.

Tom and Kristin settled into the carriage with Braden between them, and the rig clip-clopped though Fly Creek's Four Corners and down Cemetery Road. People waved and cheered from their front porches.

They stepped out of the carriage into the chilly drizzle and walked down the Grande Promenade between our garage and Anne's new eight-foot garden fence (hung with bouquets for the occasion), processing along that hours-old plywood boardwalk. Then they entered a brightly lighted (and stable) tent warmed by big propane heaters.

Portabello's of Fly Creek had laid out a splendid banquet, using our scrupulously cleaned garage as their staging area. They'd had two hog roasters Q on site, perfuming south Fly Creek since eight that morning. At five-thirty they were serving fork-tender pulled pork, fresh asparagus, mashed potatoes redolent with garlic. There were toasts and brief speeches before the meal, lots of great music and a packed dance floor after it. My own bride, known back in Annapolis as "Dancin' Annie," was in her glory.

It's all over now; and, as I write, men are taking down the big top and hauling away the porta-pots. My best memories? Beautiful Kristin coming down that aisle. Braden's impish grin.

Those glorious horses tossing their manes. All that great food. That warm-hearted, happy crowd. But best of all, and from my best seat in the church: Tom and Kristin, hand in hand, radiating love, pronouncing their vows.

We all did it right for them. Those two, as the Brits would say, are well and truly wed. May they celebrate the rest of their lives!

Jim Atwell lives in and views life from Fly Creek. He can be found on the web at JimAtwell.com.