Rock solid

LITTLE ROCK — We received the news via e-mail. My daughter had been given an engagement ring. I assumed this meant she would be married, sooner than later.

Sure enough, they announced a date a few months hence.

Surprisingly, at least to me, the couple decided on a Las Vegas wedding. This was a decision that didn’t inspire confidence in the painful societal machinations known as nuptials.

Vegas (if I may use the familiar) wasn’t the romantic destination I would have chosen. Obviously the place has a reputation. To me, not a particularly wholesome one.

I had visited Vegas before. Quite a while back,though not during the reign of Bugsy Siegel. But I discovered enough time had passed for every building in the city to have been rebuilt or replaced at least three times.

During that earlier visit, I used the city as a base for forays to several parks, notably a fantastic and otherworldly state park named Valley of Fire.

Way back then, I also spent some time in the city itself, The City That Never Sleeps Lying Down, walking up and down the strip, peering into casinos, collecting - then discarding - a stack of garishly colored pamphlets. These publications, generously provided by men best described as ne’er-do-wellsor rapscallions, extolled the many advantages of strip shows, “girlie” reviews and escort services.

Momentarily of interest, my handouts soon joined a multitude of their kin, scattered underfoot, blowing like soft porn leaves into the streets of Las Vegas.

While refusing pamphlets and skipping around insistent pamphleteers, I did my best to avoid drunken folks who were somehow able to take up the entire width of a sidewalk. I tried not to trip on the people who had traded drunken weaving for drunken sprawling.

And this when Vegas was being touted as a family vacation destination.

I imagined my sweet daughter getting married in this Vegas.

This was the Vegas I recalled when I learned the wedding was to be performed there, a city sometimes known as “The City That Has Slot Machines in Hospital Emergency Rooms.” A little known nickname, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s true, and hopefully I’ll never find out.

Would they be wed in one of those cheesy chapels that sprout like mushrooms in sandy lots around Las Vegas? Ones used by celebrities for minor shock value, or as a goofy backdrop for rock stars who emerge clutching a bride and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s?

I will say this: I certainly hoped not.

I was relieved to learn that my daughter and her fiance would not be elbowing aside heroin-addicted actors and their emaciated supermodel wives for a spot in a kitschy chapel. My self-righteousness could take a rest.

They had better things in mind.

“We’re getting married at a place called Valley of Fire, a state park,” my daughter announced.

For a moment I drew a blank. Then my slow mind filled in the blank.

“Hey, you remembered!” I said.

“Remembered what?” she asked, looking puzzled.

“Valley of Fire,” I said. “Remember?”

She shook her head.

“Nope,” she said politely.

“That’s where I got the rock,” I prompted.

She looked more puzzled.

“Rock ?”

“The red rock, that’s been laying around the house for years,” I said slowly. “The piece of sandstone?”

“Dad, you have lots of rocks lying around,” she replied.

“The red one,” I said helpfully.

“Uh, no,” she said.

“Well, it’s from Valley of Fire,” I said. “And it’s a really cool place.”

Of course, it turned out neither my visit there nor my purloined red rock figured an iota in their decision.

Their plan was a unique wedding in Vegas, one that didn’t involve a chorus girl or a man whose toenails were listed in the Guinness Book of World Records.

An Internet search of packaged Vegas wedding services, some of which included Elvis, and others of a more placid nature, yielded Valley of Fire State Park, which lies about 55 miles northeast of Sin City.

The Valley of Fire wedding package included transportation, someone to perform the ceremony, someone to photograph and record it on video, another someone to drive the limo, all for a competitive price.

In my mind things were looking up.

It was all very exciting … and a limo ride was pure gravy. So the happy couple had made it interesting, convenient and hopefully fun.

I expected the worst.

Getting to Las Vegas meant flying. Not something I look forward to.

While destinations are great, being mashed into an airliner with a bunch of surly people intent on clearing a path with their elbows is not. And this was my family.

We followed the ancient migration route out of Little Rock: the hop-skip-and-slight-airsickness-jump to Dallas, followed by a two hour “Big D” layover.

I love the hurly-burly of an international airport as much as the next guy, but this forever-lost two hours was somehow particularly soul-destroying.

The nervous mosh pit of frazzled passengers, lathered in a broiling layer of flop sweat, seemed especially intense this time.

But I chose to let the gathering stress slide off my back, like acid rain from a well waxed statue.

For example: Some hairy dude with a cowboy hat goosing me with what looked like a saddlebag? I let it pass.

Otherwise, madness beckoned. Besides, I’m sure my daughter was nervous enough already. She didn’t need me freaking out over something so minor as a woman’s heel driven an inch into my foot.

So we moved on, but I didn’t realize that we had one more stop before reaching Vegas.

The taxiway into the Lubbock airport terminal sports a pair of large metal armadillo sculptures which I momentarily thought were real and I briefly feared for both the safety of the aircraft and the armored beasts. Luckily they were there only to give us a quick taste of Lubbock.

This stop wasn’t a layover; we weren’t supposed to leave the plane. Arriving Lubbockians “deplaned” as the rest of us sat, stewing in our tepid juices, while the outbound Lubbockites who “planed” slowly crept aboard.

We took off without incident. No armadillos were harmed during our layover.

Other than a brief emotional blip over a late bag at the luggage carousel, our arrival was uneventful. We quickly found the soot-blackened bus, otherwise known as our shuttle, made it to the rental car place, briefly wrestled with the attendant bureaucracy and were quickly on our way.

Enlivened by unfamiliarity with the streets and the controls of our car, the short drive went suspiciously well.

Check-in, also, went without a hitch.

Too- good-to-be-true things kept happening. The hotel room I shared with my son was … nice. A suite really. The living room had a big couch, a large plasma TV and a not-so-mini bar.

The bedroom came as ordered: two king-size beds. The piece de resistance? Fullsize closets with real wooden clothes hangers. Not the theft-proof motel kind.

As I dropped my shoes onto the closet’s conveniently angled platform, I waited for the other shoe to drop.

Things couldn’t keep going this smoothly.

Maybe a possum-size Norway rat would be released into our room. Or worse, the Internet wouldn’t work. Neither happened.

And so it went. Trips to restaurants, walks along the strip, miscellaneous outings; all were, other than enjoyable, uneventful.

Irrationally, I wondered if all the bad luck had been stored up and would avalanche like a pile of boulders on the big day.

That day did come, both too soon and too late.

We met in the lobby and there stood my daughter in her wedding dress. I’d seen photos, but of course they didn’t do her or the dress justice. She was a beautiful bride. The fiance looked OK I guess, I think he was standing around somewhere, but my daughter was gorgeous.

The limo driver looked like a tough - a rough and tumble Vegas guy. He was a man of few words.

It was a great ride. The farther we got from the “Entertainment Capital of the World,” the better the scenery. We headed up into the hills, weaving up, down and around the scrubby desert terrain.

We threw back a little champagne, chatted, looked at the scenery. We were all happy, but underneath I was still a little tense. I expected an attack by motorcycle-driving nuclear mutants at any time. But we kept cruising placidly along.

At one more up-and-down curve I heard a gasp. I looked up and there was Valley of Fire. More gasps followed.

It was more beautiful than I remembered. It did look like fire - the towering stones a fluorescent, vibrant red-orange.

The park was an oasis of color, under a low-hanging overcast sky, surrounded by dull, dun-colored hills that set off the reds perfectly.

What a great place to get married.

The wedding itself went quickly. Maneuvering around crumbly sandstone in heels and dress shoes was a little tricky. Our handlers positioned the happy couple atop a small rocky mound.

I gave away the bride, which meant standing with her on the hillock. It also meant standing on the hem of her dress with my size-13 clodhoppers.

With what I hoped was a knowing smile plastered on my face, I mumbled something (I’d have to go to the video to discover what), then I was waved away to join the rest of the family below.

The worst thing that happened was this: For comic relief, a small desert rodent scampered through during the ceremony. We all laughed.

The vows weren’t schmaltzy New Age declarations, just straightforward words of love and commitment. I cried. Someone handed me a tissue.

And it was over.

There were no major mishaps other than our furry friend; a brisk wind that blew the bride’s veil straight into the air, like a stovepipe hat; and a few spattered drops of rain.

But nothing is perfect.

Other than my daughter.