Barefoot, Wild, and Egg in his Beard

A Southern love story with breakfast for dinner and no shoes in sight.

A week. That's all it took. One week after meeting James, I found myself saying yes to the most untraditional, most heartfelt proposal a girl could ask for. It was a long day, l'd been barefoot and sweaty, bringing in my sun drenched plants while the supper I'd made for us, something silly and delicious called "Hahira Bowls," was still warm on the stove. And then, just like that, James popped out the front door.

No shirt, no shoes, just a pair of cutoff shorts and a little egg stuck in his beard. And he said, like it was the most casual thing in the world, "Hey, will you marry me?"

I laughed. I mean, how could I not? He looked like a barefoot lumberjack who wandered out of a Waffle House kitchen. But there was something in his eyes, something steady and soft and sure. "Yes," I said.

I asked, "When?" He grinned and shrugged, "Tomorrow." I laughed again, but that's when the planning began.

Truth is, I never wanted a big wedding. I've never been the kind to dream about ballrooms or ballgowns. I wanted something small, something wild and alive. I wanted to hike barefoot through the Blue Ridge Mountains with the man I loved, eat something good, lay in the ferns with the trees as our witness. No audience. No fuss. Just us.

The only thing I couldn't quite figure out was what to wear. Every dress I saw felt wrong. Too stiff, too fancy, too much. Then one Saturday morning, while digging through a thrift store, I found it, an old quilted blanket that felt like home. "That's it," I whispered to no one but myself. I took it home, cut and sewed it up into a dress with my own two hands.

It wasn't perfect, but neither am I. And it was mine.

James made our wedding rings out of deer antlers, and we stood on a deer hide from the past hunting season. I still have that hide under my desk at home. Every time I sit down to write, I feel it beneath my feet and remember that day, how sacred it was. How simple.

How wildly, beautifully us.

A month after his egg bearded proposal, we packed up the car and headed to North Carolina. It was late winter, right on the edge of spring, and we'd rented the tiniest little cabin just off the parkway. That night, the snow started falling soft and slow outside the window, and we curled up beside a fire, listening to the hush of it all.

We woke up to a world blanketed in white. It was magic. We drove up the mountain with our rings in the glovebox, my blanket turned dress in a paper sack, and our hearts beating out of rhythm with nerves and joy. We got dressed behind the trees, helping each other, then stepped out into the overlook. It was just us, the mountains, and the sky.

We said our vows and cried like babies.

Then we did what any Southern couple in love would do. We drove back down the mountain, stopped at the first barbecue joint we found, and ordered enough food to feed a family. We took it back to our tiny cabin, sat cross legged on the floor, and ate until we were full. Of ribs, of joy, of each other.