Chris Erskine

“All the promise in the world right there in those newlywed smiles,” noted my pal Mike of my daughter’s wedding photos.

“Sweet, poignant and loads of fun…everything a wedding should be!” noted another reader, Kathryn.

“Love the bride and the little barefoot girl,” said Elissa.

Yeah.

Look, I’m done bleeding out. My own little barefoot girl is gone, freckles and all – the second to go.

For a father, a kid’s wedding is a colossal storm, the end of something, the launch point to something else. Roll credits. Pray for grandchildren. Remember your meds.

Goes too fast, doesn’t it?

Old friends and the promise of more good things yet to come are almost as good as a nice suit. (photo courtesy of Chris Erskine)

As I stood at my own altar 41 years ago — in a bad tux in a too-hot Florida church — could I have known all that lay before us? Maybe that’s the most-beautiful thing about a wedding.

“All the promise in the world…”

As Vonnegut said once: “If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”

Agreed.

Look, life is pretty simple, as long as you don’t self-sabotage or wallow in your rotten luck, of which there is bound to be plenty.

For the most part, you wake up early most days, grind out a career, take care of others, don’t demand too much.

That’s not Zen philosophy. That’s just how it all works. It’s how it’s always worked.

Your reward? Kids maybe. Or a circle of friends that sustain you, entertain you, show you tough love, call once in a while just because.

“To friends who are family,” goes my favorite Irish blessing. “And to family who are friends.”

There is the good fortune we are born to, and the good fortune we create on our own.

A marriage is that second thing. You take someone’s hand. You march into the future together. You create your own good fortune — through deeds, through hard work, hoping you can hold it together through the ups and down.

Your reward? More kids. More friends. A long, solid, glistening life. Well, for the most part anyway.

Sadly, we don’t dance enough. It takes a prom or a wedding. Then we let it rip.

At Rapunzel’s wedding last week, one niece did the splits. Boom! A dude split his pants. Ouch! At one point, the guests lifted the bride off the dance floor like a platter of deli food, then lifted the fullback-sized groom too, to body surf the crowd.

Look, maybe I’ve seen too many Richard Curtis movies.

But I love weddings the way Ernie Banks loved double-headers, the way snow loves Christmas Eve.

The father and the bride, sublime. (photo courtesy of Chris Erskine)

I love Vivaldi on the violin.

I love the rustle of the room when the crowd stands for the bride.

I love the way the officiant clears her throat before starting.

I love the clink of the first ice cubes in a good thick glass a half hour later.

In the reception hall, I love the way the men jerk their necks while loosening their ties – like Dangerfield – and the way the women kick off their glass slippers – like Hepburn.

Honestly, my father-of-the-bride toast sounded like a Mike Ditka halftime speech. That was on purpose. My role? To lead and inspire. To win the division. To pound the ball.

“To laughter,” I said raising my glass. “And to love.”

See? Pure Ditka.

I danced the traditional dad-daughter dance like a guy pumping water from a Wisconsin well on a torrid summer afternoon. In the videos, our arms saw up and down – too fast by half – as if dancing a polka.

Some day, when I’m awfully low,

When the world is cold,

I will feel a glow

just thinking of you,

And the way you look tonight …

The bride giggled through most of it. I cried till the end.

Oh Daaaaad …

Lord, these photos. World War II didn’t generate this many photos. An Oscars red carpet doesn’t  generate so much video.

There are more shots of Uncle Eugene – a hurricane on the dance floor, a man on a mission — than of Marilyn Monroe in a beach towel.

There are more photos of the flower girl (Cakes) than of Mount Rushmore.

It’s not the photos though really. The real keepsakes are the aura …the mood … the emotional undertow of this milestone summer evening.

It’s seeing nearly everyone I care about in the world in this one enormous, candle-lit room.

It’s hearing my daughter, at the altar, pledging the rest of her life to a dude we’ve all come to love.

It’s all the promise in the world.

For past columns and books, please go to ChrisErskineLA.com.