unscripted

Father of the Bride . . . and the Groom

YOU WON’T FIND A MEMBER of the Johnson family who was sorry to see 2011 end. To say that was a tough year is sort of like saying Oprah likes a slice of bread occasionally.

You also won’t find a member of the Johnson family who will forget 2012, specifically the summer of that year, when the two oldest Johnson kids got married. Not to each other. We actually had three wedding ceremonies in a span of sixty-four days. I know the math doesn’t work—two kids, three ceremonies—but hey, we’ve always taken a rather unique route, and this was no different.

All right, you dads with unmarried girls out there, buckle up. We’re talking about that season of life when you watch your firstborn daughter discover the man of her dreams.

And it’s not you.

In the case of my daughter Maggie, it was Dustin Pruitt. They had gone to the same high school but weren’t high school sweethearts by any means—it’s not one of those stories. They had stayed in touch during their college years and then in time reconnected, and now their relationship had gotten to the serious point. Cheryl had told me she had the feeling that one of these days Dustin would come to me with his desire to marry my daughter, and take care of her, and be the best husband of all time. I was really looking forward to that. I wanted her to marry him.

Dustin’s a good guy—bright kid, civil engineer, has definite plans on where he sees his life going. I rarely called him Dustin to be honest. I shortened it to D. “Hey, give me a hand with this ladder, will ya, D?” “Whoa! Nice putt, D.” And then I lengthened that to D-Train for no good reason, and that’s what I called him. “Hey, when are you gonna ask if you can marry my daughter, D-Train?” In short, he is just the kind of guy you want asking for your daughter’s hand in marriage.

So now I was just waiting to see how he would go about this. When he and Maggie would be over at the house, I would be halfway expecting him to ask if we could step outside for a second to talk. Or I’d wander out to the back patio where he was building a fire in our outdoor fireplace, and it would be just the two of us, and the time would be perfect for the conversation.

“Ern, I got a question.”

“Yeah, D-Train, whatcha got?”

“Where’d you get this firewood? It catches really fast.”

Turns out the best time to ask me about marrying my daughter was a cool Sunday evening that winter as I was rolling our trash cans to the street for the Monday pickup. Really. I had taken one down to the curb and turned around to go get the other, and Dustin . . . uh . . . D-Train was standing in the middle of the driveway. This didn’t take long, and it had nothing to do with firewood.

“What’s up, D-Train?”

“Well, I think you have a pretty good idea how I feel about Maggie. I love her and want her to be my wife, and I need you to know that. Not exactly sure how I’m going to propose or when it will happen, but it’ll be soon.”

“Well, you know how much Cheryl and I love you, Dustin. We couldn’t ask for a better son-in-law.”

We sealed the deal with the combination handshake and man hug. It works for everything. A few weeks later Dustin proposed, and Maggie said yes.

And now, dads, here comes the tough part. Preparing yourself for that day, which at this point is still months away, when you will walk your daughter down the aisle and hope you do not ruin the moment by being a total sniffling, boo-hooing mess. As I’ve already told you, the film Father of the Bride wrecks me. There is one scene in particular when Steve Martin (the dad) and Kimberly Williams-Paisley (his daughter) are playing basketball in the driveway, and he sees her as a child and then as a teenager, and now she’s engaged, and well, it just turns me into the mess I don’t want to be when her wedding day arrives.

And now as we’re preparing for a June wedding, I’m Steve Martin times a thousand. I’m picturing Maggie in her softball uniform as a five-year-old, and I’m seeing her as a middle school cheerleader, and then suddenly she is a beautiful high school senior with an adorable personality. And I’m thinking about those times when I had to deal with the emotions of a teenage girl, replaying those moments of high school crisis when I wasn’t sure if the approach I took would make me a lifetime pal or a temporary—at least I hoped it was a temporary—adversary.

Like the time she tried out for the middle school cheerleading squad and made it to the final cut. She was a wreck during the final week of tryouts, and I tried to calm her nerves by telling her what my dad had taught me about effort: “Once you’ve done your best, to heck with it.” I gave her a small card I’d bought one day that simply read, “Relax. God’s in charge.” That week, as her anxiety grew, I gave her a hug and said, “Hey, read the card.” When the cheerleading squad was selected, the names were posted on the wall of the gymnasium. Maggie and her friends crowded around the list, and there were shrieks of delight and lots of hugging and jumping around . . . for those who had made it. Maggie’s name wasn’t on the list. Not much a dad can do at that point but offer a shoulder to cry on and hopefully an encouraging word or two that will somehow ease the pain. And remind her to “read the card.” Years later I was still using that, to the point that she would finish the sentence I started when she was going through a tough time.

“Oh, and one more thing, Mags . . .”

“I know, Dad. Read the card.”

Neither Cheryl nor I wanted our kids to view us as helicopter parents. You know, parents who fly in and swoop down to rescue their kids from trouble. That’s not the way we were brought up. My dad and mom always stressed taking personal responsibility. Maggie was a good student, but one year she was struggling with a high school honors math class. That comes from my side of the gene pool, because her mom’s a wiz. Maggie was relieved to escape with a C one semester, but she wasn’t so lucky the next. She was on the verge of failing the course, which would mean summer school. When I picked her up from school on the last day, she was frantic.

“Dad, you’ve gotta come inside and talk to my math teacher. She’s gonna fail me. Can you do something?”

I did something. I walked into the classroom where the teacher was gathering her things and ready to call it a school year. She showed me her grade book and Maggie’s scores on various tests and projects. The numbers didn’t lie. Her average was sixty-eight. I thanked the teacher and walked into the hallway where Maggie was waiting.

“Well, Dad?”

“You’ve got a sixty-eight. Enjoy summer school.” (I didn’t tell her to “read the card” that time.)

Maggie ended up taking that summer school course online. To add to the learning experience, Cheryl, much to her credit, suggested that Maggie use the money she was earning babysitting for a neighbor to pay for the course. The final exam had to be taken in person, and here’s where a painful teenage episode for our oldest daughter took a rather serendipitous turn.

On the day of the final, we walked into the lobby of the high school not knowing in which room the test would take place. A few other students were milling around, and Maggie asked one if he knew which room she needed to be in. He wasn’t there for the test but had just dropped off a buddy who was, and he pointed down the hall. That helpful young man was a straight-A student named Dustin Pruitt, and that was the first time he and Maggie met. Now, years later, they were about to become husband and wife. True story.

So now here she is, a teacher in the making, about to embark on this whole new chapter with Dustin, the man of her dreams. Call me a lunatic, but the night before the wedding I ordered Father of the Bride on pay-per-view. Here was my rationale. If I could get through the movie this time without turning to mush, then maybe I’d turned the corner. Maybe I could handle what the next afternoon was going to be like. It didn’t work. The same scenes that always got to me got to me again, but I was truly feeling like one blessed man. Maggie was all grown up now. In less than twenty-four hours, she’d be a wife, and I was thrilled for her. But there was also this melancholy side of me.

Dads who have been there and done that know what I’m talking about, and part of that feeling came from the knowledge that I couldn’t ask my dad how he had gotten through it with my sisters, Dawn and Chris. He was gone, but to Maggie’s credit, he wouldn’t be forgotten when it came time for her special day. When my father had died the summer before, the Atlanta Braves had honored his memory by wearing patches on their uniforms for the remainder of the season. They were white with blue trim with “Ernie” stitched at the top, and below that was a baseball glove with a microphone in the pocket. Bill Acree, who was a fixture with the organization for the better part of fifty years and made all the team’s travel arrangements as well as ran the clubhouse, had made sure that our family had all the patches we might need. On Maggie’s wedding day, all the bouquets were bound at the bottom with those “Ernie” patches. Such a nice touch.

Technically, I wouldn’t be walking Maggie down the aisle on June 30, 2012. I would be walking her from the front door of our house onto a stone path that led to a shaded patio area in the woods near our front yard. Cheryl had designed the area several years earlier as one of those places we could sit and watch the sun set through the trees while birds swooped in for dinner at the feeder, and often we would just sit there and unpack the day. We have areas in both the front and the back of our house for that very purpose and have found that in the busyness of our lives, those spots provide at least a temporary refuge where we can rest, or read, or pray, or listen to the wind, or watch a mama bird feed her screeching babies, or have heart-to-heart conversations, or talk about nothing in particular. They may not sound like much, but for us, these areas have been date night destinations where much of the decision-making in our lives has taken place.

Guys, here’s a word of unsolicited advice: Date nights don’t have to involve dinner reservations or movie tickets. They just need to be times when you’re intentional about spending time with your wife. They can be a night on the town or an hour in the backyard. The key is that your attention is focused on one thing: your bride. Cheryl and I discovered this out of necessity really, because with Michael needing constant monitoring, we couldn’t always leave the house. One of the kids could keep an eye on him, or we’d take one of those tiny video and audio monitors to the patio with us so we could hear if an alarm went off and could walk inside and respond. But this was time just for us, and after thirty-four years of marriage, I can say without hesitation you have to make time for that.

Years before she got engaged, Maggie had told us that one day she would be married in that front yard patio underneath the towering trees that gave relief from the Georgia sun. And now it was going to happen. And it was going to happen on the hottest day of 2012 in Atlanta. I’m not exaggerating. You can look it up: 104 degrees in Atlanta; 107 at our house in Braselton. But on the patio in the shade, I swear it didn’t feel like more than 105. As if I needed another reason to sweat.

So how did it go? It was perfect. For one thing, nobody succumbed to heat exhaustion, and for another, I was actually able to feel my legs as I walked Maggie to the patio. And the smile I couldn’t keep from my face wasn’t forced—I just couldn’t help it. I wasn’t trying to act like I had it all together at this long-awaited moment. I actually did. I’ll admit to a tear or two as I kissed Maggie’s cheek and walked to my seat next to Cheryl, but I avoided the YouTube-worthy meltdown I had feared. Maggie and Dustin exchanged vows, everybody cheered, we took sixteen thousand pictures, and then we drove to the reception, where I would have one more blackberry moment with my baby girl. (Yes, she’ll always be that.) We danced to one of Maggie’s favorite songs, “Little Miss Magic” by Jimmy Buffett.

Constantly amazed by the blades of the fan on the ceiling.

The clever little glances she gives me can’t help but be appealing.

She loves to ride into town with the top down,

Feel that warm breeze on her gentle skin.

She is my next of kin.

I see a little more of me every day.

I catch a little more moustache turning gray.

Your mother is the only other woman for me.

Little Miss Magic, whatcha gonna be?

Sometimes I catch her dreamin’ and wonder where that little mind meanders.

Is she strollin’ along the shore or cruisin’ o’er the broad savannah.

I know someday she’ll learn to make up her own rhymes,

Someday she’s gonna learn how to fly.

Oh, that I won’t deny. . . .

I see a little more of me every day.

I feel a little more moustache turning gray.

Your mother’s still the only other woman for me.

Little Miss Magic, whatcha gonna be?

Little Miss Magic, just can’t wait to see.3

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The weddings we had that summer came after proposals delivered one night apart in February, something neither groom-to-be had planned. It was a Wednesday night when Dustin proposed to Maggie. Late that night the phone rang, and it was our twenty-seven-year-old son, Eric. He had just gotten off work at 11:30 after doing the graphics on NBA-TV.

“Hey, Dad, isn’t it great about Mags and D-Train?”

“Yeah, we’re all thrilled.”

“Well, I’ve got a problem. I was planning to propose to Quynh [pronounced Quinn] tomorrow night. How can I do that now that Dustin just did? I mean, isn’t this going to be awkward—two proposals in two nights? Isn’t it going to seem strange or that I’m just doing this now because Maggie and Dustin did? What am I going to do?”

“Eric, calm down a second. Take a deep breath. Do you love Quynh?”

“Absolutely, Dad.”

“Well . . . it’s easy. Don’t worry about who asked who, and when, and all that stuff. You guys are in love. You’ve made your decision. You’re a wonderful couple. Your mom is going to be so excited. I’m proud of you, Eric. Go get ’em, kid.”

“Thanks, Dad. I love you.”

“Love you too, E. Now hang on. Your mom wants to talk to you.”

Cheryl and Eric had one of those “Mom talking to her firstborn child about his imminent marriage proposal” conversations that left them both wading in their own tears. And the next night Quynh said yes.

Just as I was thrilled with the idea of Dustin as a son-in-law, I was equally enthralled with the idea of Quynh Truong as a daughter-in-law. Her story is fascinating. She was born in Vietnam in 1987. Her father, Dinh, fought with the South alongside United States forces in the Vietnam War. In 1975, after the fall of Saigon signaled the end of that brutal twenty-year war, the North Vietnamese imprisoned over one million supporters of the South in so-called reeducation camps. Dinh spent the next six years of his life in one of those camps, where mistreatment was the norm. Only after the first three years was he occasionally allowed visitors. In time, those camps were closed, and Dinh was released.

In 1991, he and his wife, Mang, brought their family, including eight-year-old son, Tuoc, and four-year-old daughter, Quynh, to California. Mang gave birth to another son, Alan, and eventually, the Truong family relocated to Georgia. Quynh was actually a high school classmate of Maggie’s. That’s how Eric got to know her, but it would be a few years before they started dating. Once they started, Eric had no chance. Quynh is delightful, fun-loving, and brilliant. She got her law degree from the University of South Carolina and is a practicing attorney in Atlanta. They would be married two months after Dustin and Maggie’s wedding, on August 31 and September 1. Remember I said we had three weddings that summer. One for Maggie and two for Eric—the traditional American wedding on Friday night and the traditional Vietnamese ceremony the following morning.

The fact that Eric chose me to be his best man was special beyond words. My father had been mine back in 1982, and now, thirty years later, I would stand with my son as he exchanged vows with Quynh. Back in 1982, I hadn’t known exactly what kind of gift to give my best man. It had to be something of significance that spoke of the love and respect I had for my father, and I wanted it to be something he could use. A watch? A money clip? No. A beer mug? Oh, now we’re talkin’. I loved having a cold one with my dad while watching a ball game on TV, or after a day of yard work, or after a round of golf while we added up astronomical scores. So I found this big, heavy pewter mug in a gift store, and I had it engraved.

My Best Man

My Best Friend

August 21, 1982

Fast-forward thirty years and ten days. We’re at a beautiful wedding venue in Norcross, Georgia, called the Atrium, where everything is set for the outdoor ceremony on a perfect summer evening.

Eric is busying himself helping members of the wedding party with their bow ties, making sure their suits, which had been made by Quynh’s aunt in Vietnam, look just right, and taking pictures with his groomsmen. When I’m not part of the picture taking, I’m just watching from a distance—and remembering. I’m remembering the day he was born a few weeks earlier than he was supposed to be. I’m thinking about his one season of soccer before the family tradition of baseball took hold of him. I’m thinking about all the days I anxiously watched him strike out hitters and the day I watched him drill a pitch into the trees beyond the right field fence at Collins Hill Park. And I see him pushing a stroller that holds his new brother fresh from a Romanian orphanage, and I see him volunteering at the muscular dystrophy camp as a teenager who doesn’t need to be taught that there is value in everybody no matter their physical limitations.

And I’m thinking about more recent times, like when he went with me to the PGA Championship as a freelance runner working twelve-hour days doing whatever duty he was asked. And I remember an established crew member stopping me at the TV compound one morning to relate one of those stories that just makes you feel good as a dad.

“Ernie, is that your son Eric I had a chance to work with the other day?”

“Yeah, it probably was. He’s had a great time. Long hours but great experience. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I’ve been doing this a long time and have had a lot of sons of announcers assigned to help me, but yours is different. The first thing most of these kids tell me is, ‘My dad is so-and-so,’ as if to put me on notice that I better take it easy on them or they’ll tell their dad. I didn’t know Eric was your son for four days until I asked somebody who this guy was. What a worker. You should be really proud. He gets it.”

“Well, you just made my day.”

These moments of reflection are interrupted by the sound of Eric’s voice. We’re thirty minutes from the start of the ceremony when he asks me to go inside to the groom’s room. This kid—who had the “Ernie” patch sewn into the lining of our suit jackets—and I sit there and lock eyes, and his eyes are already getting misty as he simply thanks me for a lifetime of doing what dads do. Teaching, disciplining, modeling, molding, encouraging, hoping, praying. And I tell Eric that anything I learned about all that came from my dad, his grandfather, the right-hander, Poppy, Big Guy. Eric reaches behind the table where we are sitting and pulls out a box, which he hands to me. My hands are shaking as I open it, remove a few sheets of tissue paper, and find an engraved pewter beer mug. And in that moment, I am as speechless as my own father had been thirty years earlier.

My Best Man

My Best Friend

August 31, 2012

Whatever you think that scene looked like as I read that engraving and looked at my son, well, go with it. No way I can describe it. Won’t even try. That evening I stood shoulder to shoulder with my firstborn son, now a grown man, making Quynh Truong his bride, and wondered if anything could make a dad feel prouder. The next day came close.

The Johnson family was now venturing into uncharted waters of Vietnamese tradition, ceremony, and wardrobe. I’m just guessing here, but if I asked for a show of hands from all those men who have worn an áo dài (pronounced OW-yigh), I’m fairly certain we’re talking low single digits. An áo dài is a head-to-toe silk robe. Mine was gold with a brown floral pattern. To complete the ensemble was a circular hat, hollowed out in the middle. I’ll be the first to say it. I looked awesome—I mean, awkward. Cheryl did look stunning in hers—white silk pants with a flowing blue top. I do believe that Eric and I were wearing the biggest áo dàis ever made. No one on Quynh’s side of the family is taller than five foot eight. My son and I are in the six-foot-two range. We were easy to spot that day, standing above the crowd, as Dinh and Mang hosted the ceremony at their house.

I understood very little (translated nothing) of what was being spoken in Vietnamese, though when a gesture was made in my direction and the name Ernie was spoken, I gave a little wave and a smile and then shot a quick glance at Eric to make sure I hadn’t ruined the day. The ceremony was solemn and highlighted by some of the most heart-melting looks exchanged between Quynh and her parents. I’ll never forget those. I guess they grow blackberries in Vietnam too.

When the ceremony was over, a day-long party ensued. The first few hours consisted of an early afternoon feast, which featured as the main course a whole roasted pig, and there was a variety of side dishes I could not pronounce but was game to try. Only one word could describe it—delicious—and we were just warming up. The evening brought another full-blown celebration at a nearby Vietnamese restaurant. The image of that night that I will never forget is of Eric and Quynh making the rounds at each and every table, where their union was toasted. In particular, I remember the stop made at Dinh’s table, where he and his army buddies were gathered. They had been through hell together and were now savoring just a slice of heaven.

Once again I can’t come up with words to describe the pride I felt for my son. You see, in Vietnamese culture, it’s pretty much expected that your daughter will marry a man who has those same bloodlines. Eric obviously didn’t fit that bill, but he had won them over by simply “being himself”—my father’s lifelong advice again coming to the forefront. The Truong family had seen a man of integrity, a man of loyalty, a man intent on being the best husband they could imagine for their one and only daughter, and they had accepted him. It was a snapshot that proved once again that of all the forces of nature, love is by far the most powerful.