—by Calista Anne Koch, Macon, Georgia

When I was young, I was still learning how to handle sticky situations when it came to contracts. At the time, my contract was clear that I wouldn’t perform outside if it was raining, but I didn’t have a temperature clause. My contract also stated that if the wedding started at a certain hour, my music would begin 30 minutes prior and would end 10 minutes after the conclusion of the recessional. When a bride called asking for harp music for her late February wedding, I didn’t think anything of it; I’d eaten at the restaurant where she was getting married, and I knew they had a private event room, so having a wedding in there, overlooking the grassy knoll and river seemed like a lovely ceremony location. I didn’t ask very many questions, nor did I make any suggestions; I just sent her the contract. In Georgia, weather can be fickle.  February had just as good of a chance at being 65 degrees as it did being 32 degrees. You can have sun one week and snow flurries the next. When the week arrived for her wedding, it looked like the wedding date would be cold. I debated about the attire I should wear; I settled on a light, long sleeve dress and wore my heavy coat and gloves to keep warm while I was loading and unloading outside.

That was a mistake—a big one. When I drove up, I saw white chairs set up outside by the river. I was confused about what I was seeing. Nobody would have an outdoor wedding in this temperature!  Surely the bride would have mentioned the crazy idea of having her wedding outdoors in February, right?  Maybe the rental company just set up the chairs in the wrong place. As if the prospect of an outdoor ceremony wasn’t bad enough, I saw no way to get the harp down to the river without taking the long, steep flight of stairs. Yet another thing my young, inexperienced self should have asked before booking the wedding.

I quickly ran through my options. I didn’t have time to go home and get warmer clothes, but more importantly, my harp wouldn’t appreciate the near-frigid temperature.  Could I explain to the bride that the weather was too cold for my harp (and my fingers) and convince her to move the ceremony indoors? Could I explain to her how hard it would be to get the harp down to (and back up from) the ceremony site?

I walked inside, leaving my harp in the car, hoping to find everyone making plans to move the wedding inside. Not a chance. I don’t think the bridesmaids were overjoyed to be in strapless, light-weight dresses, with cute little pashmina scarves covering their shoulders providing their only line of defense, but they seemed ready to bear the elements for their friend. I found the coordinator and asked what the plan was.  She said that despite the cold, the bride was insistent on having the wedding exactly as she had planned. The coordinator offered the assistance of a few young men to help me get the harp down the hill, which I gladly accepted. I asked how long I could keep the harp warm inside and she specifically mentioned that the bride wanted me playing for the 30 minutes prior and would expect me down there soon, as I was to help lure the guests down the hill and prevent them from congregating inside. I couldn’t imagine anyone actually caring enough to hear music to brave the temperatures, but I knew I was obligated.

I took all of my stuff, minus the harp, down to the site, then managed to get the harp down there in one piece. I kept the cover on until the last second. Even with the amplifier turned up, nobody at the restaurant could have possibly heard me, but I played. Most of my songs ended up being some form of a chord progression with glisses, as I couldn’t move my fingers. My coat, though not formal, was the only thing keeping me from hypothermia.

So I played. And I played. And I played. Thirty minutes, which seemed like an eternity, came and went without a single warm-blooded creature gracing me with its presence. Finally, exactly on the hour, a swarm of people barrelled out of the restaurant, down the hill, and huddled together as the bridesmaids, groomsmen, and parents somewhere in the mix, all ran towards their places. I know I skipped the song for the seating of the grandmothers and mothers that the bride had picked out but probably had time to play about four measures of Canon in D before the bride made her appearance. She, of course, was decked out in a lovely white mink stole and beaded white gloves. Her dress, though delicate, looked sturdy enough to block some of the wind.

Fortunately, the minister wasn’t dressed so warmly. He welcomed everyone and three minutes later, I was playing the recessional. As quickly as the guests arrived, they were gone. I figured that if the bride wanted to go after me for breach of contract because I did not play the full 10 minutes of postlude, I would just risk it. Of course, nobody seemed as willing to help me move the harp up the flight of stairs as they were to move it down, but I managed on my own. Once loaded in the car, heat running, there were thoughts of abandoning my bench, stand, music, and amplifier, but I summoned the energy to go back and claim them.

I then went home, took a hot bath, and reworded my contract. •