Where the Blackberries Grow

Remembering Anna and Jake's wedding on the land at The River Runs Through 

This summer, Anna, Jake, and their eight-month-old son, Elias, came to visit. At some point, Anna remembered sitting on the bench beneath the arbor, now fully enclosed by the blackberry bushes her twin brother, Niles, had planted just days before her wedding. She mused, almost to herself, we’re going to get another picture there, referring to her, Jake & Elias.

I looked at the arbor bench and thought about how much had changed in those four years.

Anna and Jake had moved to Hawaii and back. Connor, Anna’s younger brother, who had missed the wedding because of a Navy deployment, was now out of the Navy and starting his junior year at the University of Maine. And Niles, Anna’s twin brother, had married, and he and his wife had settled in Maine this past winter.

Anna and Jake had a long engagement. Anna had been imagining her wedding long before we moved to Maine. She had been collecting pictures of rustic old barns, dreaming of what her wedding day might look like. After we bought the farm, it occurred to me that we had just the thing—a big, old, rustic barn. There was only one problem. Our renovations began with the house, and the barn would have to wait. It needed a great deal of work before it could safely hold the 80 people Anna and Jake planned to invite.

But as it turned out, the wedding didn't need to wait for the barn. The land offered its own possibilities, and soon, a different vision for the day took shape. The north-facing thicket of pines became their ceremonial space, the fields opened up for archery and ax-throwing games, mint found its way into Anna's bouquet, wildflowers and birch trees provided the backdrop for their celebration. What had begun as a dream of a rustic barn wedding became something uniquely their own—a day woven into the landscape, with the land itself holding space for the promises they made to one another.

Before we could get to the wedding plans, we had a kitchen to finish. The cabinets needed four coats of paint and hardware. The countertops needed sanding and polyurethane. The floors needed sanding, staining, and polyurethane—with a bonus round of oil to remove the air bubbles beneath the finish. My father had already been here to wire the kitchen, as he had been to wire just about every room in the house. His contribution to Anna's wedding was the installation of outside outlets so we could run miles of extension cords.

With Connor away that summer, planting and tending the garden would be Anna's job.

I somehow convinced myself that I could cater the entire event. I'd never catered for 80 people before, and I was about to discover just how much there was to manage. Anna planned to make her own wedding cake. Gluten-free and vegan, of course.

We bought the flowers. We had the china and tablecloths. A remarkable number of people were willing to help. And each had their own vision of how things should be done. Somehow, the cabinets got painted, the floors finished, and the garden planted and tended. There were days before the wedding in which the kitchen and the land was a hive of activity, cooking and building.

And then wedding day arrived. Everyone spent the morning attending to some part of the preparations. Eventually, the wedding party and guests began making their way to the ceremony space, and the house became quiet.

For Anna & I, with our hair and makeup already done, all that remained was putting on our dresses & some special touches. I quickly pulled on my own dress before helping Anna with hers. She was in my closet, carefully taking her dress off its hanger. I helped her into her gown, taking care with the fabric and the small details. Then came the jewelry. My mother had given me a pearl necklace, which I was now passing to Anna. The large opal surrounded by diamonds that I slipped onto her finger had been given to me by my great-grandmother. And when Anna was born, she'd been given my grandmother's name.

I paused for a moment with my daughter standing in front of me, dressed for her wedding. Five generations of women, each leaving a little something of herself for the next. My great-grandmother, my grandmother, my mother, me—and now Anna, carrying our history with her into this next part of her life. There was something about that moment where time felt both long and short.

I led Anna downstairs, keeping an eye out for the groom and hoping he was waiting for his bride down in the north-facing thicket. I handed her the bouquet, then asked Cris, Anna's younger half-brother, to keep an eye out for Anna and their dad so the music for her entrance could be started. I made my way to my seat. The chairs were angled along the aisle Anna would walk down, partly facing one another and partly toward the white birch arbor Anna and Jake had built, looking onto the pond. I was impressed by what they'd created. A birch arbor, some white tulle, and white chairs had transformed the thicket into something almost fairytale-like. I knew this land well, but I had never seen it look quite like this before. It was absolutely the most perfect day. Warm, but not hot. Clear, with puffy clouds drifting overhead.

The wedding itself was largely a blur.

There was a receiving line after the ceremony and a few photographs that included me. I bustled Anna's dress, then lost track of her. I was busy making sure everyone had what they needed, that plates were cleared, and the many small things for a gathering continued to happen.

Eventually, the day turned to night.

The guests left.

We had a wedding.

Now, four years later, I look at the blackberry bushes and reflect on how much they've grown. What were once small plants beside the arbor bench now form a lush enclosure around it, producing thousands of blackberries. I remember Anna and Jake sitting together on that bench as the sun was setting. I can picture them there, beneath the arbor, in the middle of the tomato & zucchini plants in the garden. And when I see how far those blackberry bushes have spread, I think about how much can happen in four years. The bushes have grown, the family has changed, and the land has continued to do what it does—growing, shifting, and holding the traces of the people who have spent time here.

The garden hasn't looked quite so cultivated since Anna left. There's a difference between tending a garden every day and remembering to get out there when life allows. But the blackberry bushes keep growing, producing their fruit year after year, and every time I see them, I'm reminded of that summer Anna came. Of Niles planting those bushes. Of a family, each contributing what they could to a place and a day that mattered. The summer Anna became part of the story of the house. Part of the story of the land.

And now, when I imagine Anna, Jake, and Elias returning to sit beneath the arbor for a family photograph, I think about all the ways a place gathers stories. The people change. Children grow. Gardens become a little wilder. The trees continue their seasons, and the water continues to move. Sometimes the traces of a moment are grand and visible. Sometimes they're blackberry bushes planted beside a bench by a brother, a white birch arbor, or the memory of two people sitting together as the sun went down.

I've begun to imagine other couples choosing this land for their weddings. Not because they're looking for a venue or a backdrop for photographs, but because something about the place speaks to them. A place to gather. To celebrate. To begin. Just as Anna and Jake did, four years ago.

Find out more about having a ceremony at The River Runs Through: https://www.theriverrunsthrough.com/ceremonies