A Song in our Hearts . . .

I was working the public desk last week when one of my co-workers came out from the back:


“Yes, ma’am?”

“Why do you have a stack of wedding books on your desk?”


” . . .  For a new book?”*


“Oh.  Good.  Have you seen the street name folder?”

“I just gave it to [patron] about ten minutes ago.  Wait—were you worried I divorced and got engaged without telling anyone, was planning to commit bigamy, was marrying off my children waaay too early, or that a Real Person was actually letting me plan their wedding?”

” . . . Mostly that last one.  Is the book about a wedding, or something else?”

“Hrmph.  I’m not going to tell you.”

But I did end up sending her a brief description and invited her to worry all she wanted about the characters for whom—or against whom—I was planning this shingdig.

A little later, she sent me an e-mail headed, “Don’t forget the music!” and a link:

Librarians. They’re awesome.

But you already knew that.

As a postscript, I was thinking about this post this morning as I drove the kids to school, and asked them what song they thought would be the worst to play at a wedding.

Something BrokenJanie didn’t even pause:

“Great green gobs of greasy, grimy gopher guts!
Mutilated monkey meat, little dirty, birdie feet!”

I’m so saving that one for her engagement party . . . Or the rehearsal . . .

What’s YOUR Nominee for Worst Wedding Song?


*Not all my co-workers know I write fiction, but this one does, because she caught me trying to tape my ankles to my office chair a few years and a book ago, listened to my explanation, and then helped me.