Somebody upstairs must really like Kate Burns and Joe Coleman.

When I arrived at Kate's house on the morning of her marriage to Joe, raindrops were falling on my car and the sky was looking ominous. Later in the day, when guests were safely inside for dinner, a monsoon let loose. And when I drove home late in the evening, the heavens were getting ready to start again. But here's the rub: everywhere in between, when it needed to be absolutely, faboulously gorgeous, it was.

That's a pretty neat trick, if you ask me. Rain at the start, rain in the the middle and rain at the the end but not a single drop when it actually mattered.

I should have seen it coming. A month or two ago, I shot Joe and Kate at the Capitol for their engagement photos, and we literally took our last frame before the skies opened up. I'm not talking 15 minutes, I'm not talking five minutes. I'm talking six seconds after we had finished. We barely had time to get to the nearest tree for shelter. I'm not sure this constitutes a trend but it's the kind of luck I'd like to have going in my own life.

Kate deserves this kind of sunny luck because she's always smiling. She starts with a knowing smirk and a few seconds later erupts into a full blown howl. Those of you who have been reading these words for the last couple of years know, I have a thing for brides who like to laugh. Not fake laughs or nervous laughs, mind you. I'm talking the real McCoy. Kate giggled as she was getting her hair done, she laughed with her mom Nancy as she was about to don her dress, she laughed with her sister Jaime, and she laughed with her father as they sat side by side during the limo drive down to Washington.

In fact, about twenty minutes ago, I got an email from Kate asking if this blog post would be up soon. I told her "soon," and she replied: "Like today. :)" It's not easy to tell one smiley face from another. They're just characters, right? But with Kate, I can actually envision the smirk that went along with that smiley face.

Kate and Joe were married at St. Patrick's Catholic Church in downtown Washington. According to its website, St. Patrick's parish was created in 1794 "primarily to meet the needs of Irish immigrants at work on the White House and the Capitol building." That's pretty cool. About 90 years later, the current church was built and it's been there ever since. In a city like Washington, one that has regrettably torn down a lot of its own history with the the march of time, it's so great to be able to hold onto and experience a beautiful church like this one.

As Joe and Kate found faces in the pews of friends and family, making eye contact and smiling, I smiled to myself. There are so many emotions running through your brain  these moments--excitement, reverence, and just plain silliness. You could see all of them plainly.

After the ceremony, we made our way to Congressional Country Club for the reception. It was cute: Kate felt embarrassed asking me if it was alright if she and Joe took a limo without anyone else--namely me--in it. Silly Kate. Of course I didn't mind.

Outside at Congressional there were some big, lingering clouds from the rain earlier in the morning. But as soon as I picked up a camera to shoot Kate and Joe together, the sun popped out and we had gorgeous backlight, my favorite kind. We made use of all of the Adirondack chairs out in front on the club and took some fun group pictures. And is usually the case, the best one of those pictures came in between, when Kate rested her head on her husband. (What was even funnier was seeing all the empty beer cans behind the Adirodack chairs after eveyone left!)

What more is there to say? Gorgeous cake, fun dancing, particularly Kate and her dad, who didn't opt for the safety of the  typical father/daughter slow dance, and a great band that had everyone on the floor for hours.

Since I know for a fact that Kate is chomping at the bit for pictures, I won't stand in the way. To see a mini gallery of fun pics from the wedding of Kate and Joe, click here.

 As always, take care.

Matt

I couldn't resist.

Ever since a young woman named Ashley came to work for us here at Matt Mendelsohn World Headquarters, we've teased her mercilessly about her deep and abiding love for her hometown of Defiance, Ohio. Yes, Ashley says "pop" instead of soda. Yes, she once got me all excited about watching a blurry, streaming internet feed of the Tinora High School basketball team playing in the state championship, even though I still can't tell you where Tinora is. No, she never complains about walking to the Metro in the cold, despite repeated attempts to give her a ride. Yes, Ashley can rattle off facts and figures about the role that Fort Defiance played during the years after the French and Indian Wars and leading up to the War of 1812. And yes, it is true that pretty much the only thing you'll see on the couple of hour drive from Cleveland to Defiance is corn, more corn and soybeans.

But underneath all the teasing, I know it's very important to love the place where you grew up. I make a lot of jokes about the Long Island of my youth (how can you not laugh at a place that names a shopping mall after Walt Whitman? But of course!) but I still have fond and deep-rooted memories of my childhood. Perhaps it's a nostalgia for everything that Old Bethpage was before I was born: endless potato farms, a one-room schoolhouse, roads named after swamps. So we jumped at the chance to take a long drive to the Buckeye state for Ashley's marriage to Cory Hornish. There comes a time when you have to stop teasing and admit that maybe you're just a little jealous.

And so we hooked up the covered wag--er, car--and drove ten hours across Pennsylvania and Ohio. Like the early settlers, the Jetta was loaded down with bags of Sun Chips, coolers filled with Diet Dr. Pepper, and a GPS we refer to as Nuvi. (I'll say one thing for those pioneers: at least they never had to listen to a computer with a British accent constantly and annoyingly repeat the word "recalculating" every time they stopped for a bathroom break.) After some advice from a friend, we opted for a slightly longer drive on I-68, through Maryland and West Virginia, thereby bypassing the endless construction zones on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Enough with these stimulus funds already! The road was always interesting and curvy, not like driving I-95 down South, and there were hardly any trucks. It was much easier than I thought.

By the time we got back into Pennsylvania and onto I-79, we decided to stop for lunch in the little city of Washington. It reminded me a lot of the sweet-though-faded towns in upstate New York, where I went to school. Our iPhone told us that the most popular place to eat in Washington was a place called Shorty's Lunch, serving hot dogs the same way for over 75 years. Between you and me, after all those years I'd have thought they would have figured out a way to make those hot dogs taste a lot better than they do. But maybe I'm quibbling. Chili from a can is fine, I suppose, as long as the luncheonette it is served in has that requisite ancient feel. And Shorty's has that in spades.

From there it was on to Cleveland. We told Alexandra that there was a rule that anyone who enters Cleveland must get silly and say Helllllooooooo, Cleveland but she wasn't buying it. Truth be told, I think Alexandra, at six, is at the age where she doesn't do anything that her father tells her to anymore. But I did it and it felt good to walk in the footsteps of Spinal Tap.

Cleveland is a beautiful city. I sheepishly admit to never really spending any time there and that's a shame. The Civil War Soldiers and Sailors Monument has the beauty and gravitas that any public memorial should. You can't help but stare at it from blocks away, with it oozing that Paris-by-way-of-Heartland look. As we continued exploring, there were so many other examples of classic turn-of-the-century big city architecture that I thought I was in Chicago. Except for one thing: people.

Shaker Square aside, there were parts of Cleveland that resembled a scene from a sci-fi movie, one of those about a city after some virus had swept through. Now, to be fair, the Indians were playing, nor were the Cavaliers, all days and nights when downtown must be rocking. But not this day. As we wondered around the city, we noticed that there didn't seem to be a lot of downtown dwelling spaces--apartment buildings, homes, placed where people, well, live. As is typical with a lot of cities, those people wandered away decades and decades ago and only now are municipalities trying desperately to lure them back.

It didn't matter really. The Berkshire bacon married with nectarines at Lola, home to Iron Chef Michael Symon, was one of the best dishes I've ever tasted in my life. Period. And the Springsteen exhibition at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame was a très guilty pleasure for a fan like me. (There's a spiral staircase leading from one floor of the exhibit to the next, and all the way up the words to Thunder Road are scrawled on the wall. You just sing to yourself as you climb the stairs. Way cool.)

Once you're out of Cleveland, the corn sets in pretty quick. And by the time we got to State Route 281 we were totally immersed. Flat, flat, flat. Straight, straight, straight. I was tempted to start speeding a bit, being so far away from any population center, but then I figured that the Ohio State Police probably love city slickers like me. And so I just took in the corn.

And then, Defiance. What's in a name? Well, in the case of Defiance, obviously a lot. Some towns have wimpy names like Hicksville and Plainview--both within three miles of where I grew up. Hicksville? Plainview? You might as well admit you're a total zero. But Defiance? Now that's a name with some teeth. Images of Davy Crockett (yeah, wrong state, I know) and the Alamo (yeah, wrong state, I know) instantly pop into your head.

As you enter Defiance, at least from the route we took, you can't help but notice the huge General Motors Powertrain assembly plant, recently spared in the spate of closings. It's massive and it's also painfully obvious that any closure or reduction there would devastate the city. We all hope for the best.

We stayed at the Frank Baker Inn, a bed and breakfast in a 1910 Defiance home. The inn is just a couple of feet from Defiance High School, where our Ashley was recently inducted into the Athletic Hall of Fame. (The Los Angeles Dodgers' Chad Billingsley was among the other inductees.) Ashley played basketball and ran track, though everyone, including the reverend who married her, mostly spoke about her volleyball prowess. Our Ashley was District Player of the Year, so I guess I'm not going to challenge her to any pickup games anytime soon.

We had a wonderful time driving past the places that have a lot of meaning to Ashley--the site where Fort Defiance once stood ("the canons there now are only reproductions," Ashley lamented), the Crescent-News where she once worked, and the Tim Hortons doughnut shop, where, based upon Ashley's thin frame, she never once ate. And on her suggestion, we spent a morning at Sauder Village, a pioneer reenactment town not all that different from the Old Bethpage Village Restoration I used to sneak into as a kid. Alexandra helped churn the butter at Sauder and my own memories of doing the same thing--decades and miles apart--came flooding back.

The best part of the trip was meeting Aashley's family, particularly her parents and grandparents, of whom we've heard so much. Everyone was so welcoming, just as we expected. In fact, perhaps the highlight of the trip came moments after we arrived at Ashley's house. I had teased her about a welcome parade, complete with bunting, but Ashley secured the next best thing: an official proclamation from the mayor of Defiance, raised seal and all, welcoming us to his fair city. ("Whereas Defiance is home to six-time national horseshoes champion Alan Francis...")

The whole weekend was an absolute treat. After all, most people in America don't get married at the Museum of Women in the Arts in Washington, D.C. As much as I love that venue, there's so much to be said for a small Ohio wedding. Eating breakfast at Kissner's, where we were the only people who didn't know everyone else in the joint; watching my daughter Alexandra dance the night away with a charming young boy named Michael; and, most of all, watching Ashely, International Ambassador of Defiance, Ohio prove my favorite author wrong.

You can, and should, go home again.

Take care,

Matt

The National Symphony Orchestra is trying an experiment. It's tweeting Beethoven's "Pastoral" Symphony, Thursday night at Wolf Trap ... Dumbing down, here we come. -- The Washington Post, 7/30/09

Thanks for joining us at the Twitter Arts Channel (TACi). It's a beautiful night here at Wolf Trap, not a cloud in the sky. What more could you ask for than a nice blanket, a glass of wine with a loved one, and an endless sea of LED lights emanating from your neighbor's cellphone. If you're lucky, some of those same neighbors will make a few calls during the show and probably grab a couple of snapshots. Should be a great and relaxing time!

Tonight, we'll be hearing Beethoven's Sixth Symphony, the "Pastoral." We couldn't think of a piece of music that lends itself more to constant typing away at a Blackberry than this one. It just screams out "technology!" The musicians are warming up now and while they do, we thought it would be a good time to reprise some of our recent Twittercasts here on TACi. Enjoy the show!

Turandot, by Giacomo Puccini, Metropolitan Opera, 7/12/09.

No long stories today, no silly musings. Just wanted to throw up some fun pictures I shot for my friends Lauren, Paul, Molly and Ivan. I think I have to shoot more pool stuff this summer.

Last I checked, Sarah Bennett and Sam Butcher were sitting on top of a piece of volcanic rock in the middle of the Aegean, staring out at what has to be one of the most amazing views in all the world. I should know. I was engaged on the very same Greek island of Santorini some thirteen years ago, and I know that there is nothing quite like sitting on the top of those steps in Oia and looking down at the caldera.

But the déjà vu I experienced last week at Sarah and Sam's wedding has less to do with my pathetic ability to order chicken, potatoes and water in Greek at some quaint seaside taverna (my wife, Maya, who is Greek, teaches me only one word a year) than it does with the fact that I had the pleasure of shooting another Bennett wedding recently and I've come to truly love this family.

Sarah and Sam were married at the National Museum of Women in the Arts last Saturday in a fun and relaxed ceremony. That part didn't surprise me at all. As I approached the Bennett home earlier in the day, I passed Bob Bennett, Sarah's father, smiling as he pushed his granddaughter Grace down the street in a stroller. I rolled down the car window and laughed. "So this is what you've been reduced to? Babysitter?" I joked. "I love it," came the response.

Now, when you think of Robert Bennett, the first thought doesn't usually involve him pushing a stroller or watching Sesame Street with two toddlers, which is what he proceeded to do once we reached the house. He's usually in front of a cluster of microphones. To say he's fairly well known in the legal world would be a bit of an understatement--you can buy his autobiography here. That's probably why it was a treat to see Mr. Bennett so completely in love with his new role as grandfather. He just didn't watch Elmo once. Clicker in hand, he would back up again and again, so little Grace and Ava could see the best parts over.

Many years ago, I shot the wedding of the daughter of a four-star general. Every few minutes, a booming voice--the Great Santini??--would come through the house intercom announcing (playfully, I think), "Everyone down and dressed at eleven hundred!" That was far from the case at the Bennett home. No wedding coordinator. No time check reminders. No stress. Just lots of Elmo. (I'll have to check with my assistant, Cliff, but I'm sure that Sam and the guys were doing the same thing over at their hotel.) Seriously, it was a treat to see how not serious everyone was. Maybe some of that has to do with this quote I found this morning while having fun with Google, from a 1995 interview with Bar Report. When asked about marriage, Mr. Bennett responded:

"I think that if you lead a full and happy life and experience all life’s colors it will make you a much better lawyer. In the last analysis the most important thing you can give to a client is wisdom. Good judgment, common sense, and wisdom are all derived from living a full life. My wife Ellen and I have been married for 26 years now, and we have three wonderful daughters—Catie, Peggy, and Sarah. I feel blessed by the wisdom they have given me. They are my life. The law is second."

Change the marriage figure to 38 now, add two beautiful granddaughters to the mix, and, finally, add the last of your three daughters' weddings and you see that not much has changed since that interview.

It was especially wonderful seeing Sarah's sister Catherine and her little Grace. I have to admit that it's often more fun seeing my brides long after their wedding, when they have a beautiful child to throw up in the air. Catherine has become a friend since her wedding, always quick to email me with a nice comment about my writing.

(I'd be remiss if I didn't point out that Ellen Bennett, mom, is a very talented photographer. The house is filled with black and white photographs she shot while the girls were growing up. Not to mention more photography books in one place than I think I've ever seen.)

So it was from this background that we all left the family home to see Sarah the psychologist marry Sam the rocket scientist.

The museum was beautiful, as it always is, decked out by Susan Gage Caterers. The bride looked fabulous. The processional was grand, as Sarah and her father descended the marble staircase down to assembled guests. The ceremony was peppered with laughter. (How often do you get to shoot a judge with his tongue out. Sorry, Judge!!) The cocktail hour was impressive, as guests mingled under the watchful eye of legendary Frieda Kahlo self-portraits. And the dancing was hysterical, Bob Bennett yelling to me to take pictures of "me and all my women!"

Sam and Sarah, as you sit on that Greek island sipping a glass of wine: I was going to end this with the Greek equivalent of Mazel tov, something you say to a couple on the occasion of their marriage. But when I called my mother-in-law just now to find out what that phrase is, she said she could only recall the one for "congratulations on your new car." Luckily, she just called back with this: Συγχαρητήρια για τον γάμο σας.

As always, it's all Greek to me.

To see a mini gallery of pictures from Sarah and Sam's wedding, click here.

Matt