We are in North Dakota for a family wedding. The wedding takes place at Strawberry Lake. It is one of those places that you either have to be from around here, or have a special reason to visit, or you just don’t know where it is. Let’s see. . . if I were to give you directions . . . Take Highway 83 north to Max. Go 17 miles east of Max, past Benedict and turn south on the first paved road you meet. It is another six miles from there, plus another mile east. There is a sign where you turn east. . . They call this region the “Prairie Pothole” region. Locals sometimes call it the “Duck Factory.” The land is dotted with hundred and hundreds of small ponds, slews, and wet spots. It is nesting area for millions of ducks, geese, pelicans, cranes, herons and other water birds. Strawberry Lake is a spring-fed lake where people started building summer cabins back in the ‘60’s. It is ringed with cabins and homes now and in the summer the lake fills with pontoons, jet skis, and ski boats. I guess that there are some reasonable fish in the lake as well.

Last night the family gathered for a picnic in Minot. It is the kind of country where people don’t think much about driving 30 or 40 miles to get together. The picnic gathered folks from a wider circle, of course, because many of us have traveled from distant places to attend the wedding. I married into this side of the family, so these are all relatives that I acquired in my adult years, but I’ve been around long enough that I am definitely one of the old timers. Susan has an aunt who is still living, but she is in frail health and although she’ll be at the wedding today, she decided not to make the trip to the picnic. There were a set of grandparents of the bride who are older than we, but we definitely fit into the group as elders.

I watched the groom circulate through the crowd, sometimes being “towed” by his bride as she introduced him to the people. He was a bit nervous, and there was a bit of uncomfortable laughter and chatter as he went from person to person. You could tell that he wasn’t going to remember all of the names, and how the various people are related.

It reminded me of a time four decades ago when I came to this part of North Dakota for the first time to meet the relatives. Things were different in those days. Part of our courting involved meeting relatives. When we began to get serious about our relationship, one of the steps we took was to take each other to meet relatives. By the time of the wedding itself, I had already met many of the relatives. These days, the couple has lived together for a while, but many of the relatives are being met for the first time on the eve of the wedding. Compared to all of the other things that have changed in the last 40 years, it isn’t much different.

What has remained is the fact that this is a complex family with a penchant for playing jokes and teasing. I watched as people told a few tall tales about the past. I played along as the bride’s mother’s brother teased her about having taken the wrong dress from her home. She is as gullible and susceptible to his teasing as she was when she was a teenager. I was sort of watching to see if someone would play a practical joke on the groom, but I don’t think anyone did. The family was on its best behavior for this first meting.

In that regard it was different for me. My first meeting of this clan involved a formal family dinner at the home of Susan’s grandparents. I was on my best behavior and paying attention to my table manners as we passed the meat and potatoes and talked about the farm and the weather. I was trying to show the elders that I had some knowledge and common sense and that I was capable of caring for Susan and worthy of joining the family. So I didn’t notice the way her grandfather was holding the butter plate as he passed it to me and then deftly gave it a shove so that my thumb landed in the butter.

It was a moment that most of the family had been waiting for. As I tried not to call attention to myself, all eyes were on me and the laughter erupted from the family. Getting my thumb in the butter was a sort of rite of passage and a sign that they were welcoming me into their circle. The stories at the table turned to generations of practical jokes. Grandma Mary, who had passed away more than twenty years before I came into the family, was a great practical joker, loving her rubber donut that got coated in powdered sugar and served alongside freshly-fried homemade donuts. She also would make bonbons dipped in chocolate and include a few chocolate-dipped cotton balls. The time she served the cotton ball bonbons to the church ladies aid society has become a family legend.

Of course, I learned the butter dish trick and enjoyed being a member of the family as new sons-in-law and grandsons-in-law went through the ritual of the family dinner. I watched with delight as my father-in-law “initiated” my brothers-in-law when they joined the family.

I didn’t notice anyone with a butter dish at the picnic last night. I’m guessing that the entire wedding will pass without the use of a butter dish. I doubt that the bride and groom own a butter dish or that they will receive one as a wedding gift. They are probably happy with whipped butter in plastic tubs.

The times have changed. The youngster who was new to the family has been around for decades now and has become an old man. New babies have been born and grown up and are getting married.

I’m guessing that generations from now, when I am nothing more than an interesting note in a family story about the years long ago, people will be playing jokes on one another. It is the way of this family. When we laugh together we draw closer. And we’ll have stories to tell of the picnic when Daniel was introduced to the family for years to come.

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