The Bench

My daughter and I married my husband in a barn ten years ago this month. Our wedding was held in a historic 1800s barn that had been moved down the road to its current location in 2006.

From the outside, the barn isn’t particularly appealing. It’s not ugly, but I’ve seen more charming barns, and this one isn’t one of them. (The above photo was taken at a very flattering angle, making it look better than it does in real life—like photographs of myself. I totally get this barn.)

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On the inside, though? Fantastic. That’s what drew us in. You can’t recreate that feeling in a beige reception hall. We knew immediately this was the place for us and booked it.

Our wedding day arrived and was perfect in every cliché way. A small gathering of our favorite family and loved ones, simple candlelight, loud music, lots of laughter. It was magical. So magical that many a slurred “MIKE AND KARI NEEDSSSS TO GET MARRIED EVERY MAY!” echoed in the barn parking lot.

We eventually reasoned that since it happened late at night, no one connected to the “barn police” would have witnessed it. Also, I don’t believe in “barn police,” but I could rationalize that point. We waited for the final bill—no “bench removal fee” appeared. Phew.

In retrospect, I regret not saying anything to the barn. But we had inadvertently left our flower arch there, which Rebecca and I had painstakingly assembled the Saturday before the wedding. I thought it was a fair trade. The bench is hideous. The barn owners were probably relieved it was gone. We were doing them a favor.

The good-natured taunting began the following Christmas when we received a holiday card from the family who were now the proud owners of the bench: our “shifty” friends A and T. To be clear, A and T are two of the nicest, most entertaining people you’ll ever meet. I call them “shifty” in jest, mostly to annoy them, because THEY STOLE A BENCH FROM OUR WEDDING VENUE.

We laughed when they signed their names, the names of their children, and underneath, simply wrote: “and the bench.” And laughed some more. Until we stopped. Hold on a second—that bench should belong to us! That bench should appear on our Christmas card!

A few months later, my brother, his wife, my husband, and I went out to dinner to celebrate my birthday. Over drinks, we devised a plan to avenge BenchGate 2006: we were going to reclaim the bench—that evening.

Under the cover of darkness, we drove to our friends’ house in my brother’s pickup, stole the bench from their porch, and yelled, “WE GOT THE BENCH BACK!” as we drove through their neighborhood, fists in the air. We were all feeling the rush. I finally realized why they stole it in the first place—and wondered if we were doomed to a life of petty crime.

That evening marked the start of a multi-year tradition of “stealing the bench” between us and the original bench thieves. One year, Mike and I reclaimed it during a large outdoor party A and T were hosting. We walked into their backyard, mingled, had drinks made by friends—totally uninvited. The fact that everyone was drunk made stealing the bench ideal. I’ll never forget laughing hysterically while carrying the bulky bench down the street, margaritas in hand. There’s nothing to see here—just reclaiming our bench!

The tradition ended a few years ago when we put the bench in the basement. In hindsight, I’m a little sad we ended it, because waking up each morning and exclaiming, “SHIT! THEY GOT THE BENCH, MIKE. AGAIN,” was pure joy. Everyone, including our children, enjoyed the bench shenanigans. As parents, teaching them about thievery and sneaky tactics felt like a proud moment.

Maybe we’ll put the bench in the backyard tonight just for fun. Maybe we’ll even leave the gate open.