BECKY - from slave to bride

The day commenced, as one of those twenty-four hour periods that hears your nose, ears, and cheeks beg for a tiny bit of relief. The sun provided the slightest boost of fervor to the chill of the early spring morning. The amber globe rising in the sky did not disappoint as both men and women untied scarves, removed hats, and undid top buttons. The smallest of breezes whispered through the newly leaved oaks, blue-green spruces, long needled pines, and fragrant cedars. While the first few guests arrived, sat, and listened the voices they heard spoke of history, honor, and tradition. In the near distance a woodpecker tapped out, what seemed to be a congratulatory code; most appropriate for this time of year. The day could not have been more picture-perfect for those whose diligence, determination, and stamina allowed them to sit in the first few rows of the assemblage. The pageantry and color dazzled the eyes. The music seemed to escort each entering guest as he or she sat up on the floral carpet seat of the folding oak x -legged chairs. The aroma of newly ground brewed coffee and freshly baked sweet treats wafted from the mess hall. Each whiff of sugary cinnamon invaded the olfactories while tantalizing the taste buds like a polished red index finger sensually beckoning its prey.