Corsets, brisket, bobbers and bliss
As the managing editor of the Lincoln County Record Times, I usually spend my days wrangling headlines, triple-checking AP style, and chasing down quotes. But this week? This week I traded my laptop for a Canon and kicked off my side hustle with the most relaxed and blissful country weekend imaginable.
I took part of Friday off (because, yes, even editors need a break) and headed to Quincy to photograph my first-ever wedding. That’s right—me, who usually sticks to snapping high school sports, men or women in shackles in the courtroom, and city council meetings, stepped into the wild world of wedding photography. I met up with the bride and a close family friend for the rehearsal and spent the evening figuring out lighting, angles, and whether or not my memory cards could handle this much love in one place.
The sun was shining with the kind of intensity that turns pale editors into lobsters, but thanks to my trusty fake tanning mousse—because I have officially sworn off tanning beds after the now-infamous February fiasco I still get teased about—I managed to avoid both sunburn and the walking ghost look.
The next day, I squeezed into a corset dress for the occasion. It laced up the back, and let me tell you, nothing humbles a woman faster than trying to breathe in one of those things. At 23 (yes, I just had a birthday—cue the existential crisis), I’ve noticed some, ahem, shifts in where my body stores its snacks. But that dress had me cinched up like I was heading to a Victorian tea party. I got my waist nearly back to its 19-year-old proportions, but at the cost of lung function. Small victories.
The wedding itself? Picture-perfect. Farm fields, blue skies, and a bride who looked like she stepped out of a bridal magazine. Her lace gown had a small train and a whole lot of elegance. The groom looked smitten. The flower girl was a menace (in the best way). I may have cried. I definitely ate too much. And yes, I absolutely stuffed leftover brisket—or beef something—into my purse for the drive home. Classy is a mindset.
By Monday, I’d swapped my camera for a tackle box and hit the backroads and country terrain on ATVs with an old friend. We bounced our way to a secret lake in Lincoln County—you know I can’t tell you where, some of you know too much already—and arrived just in time for the kind of sunset that makes you forget your rod’s been untouched for two hours.
I bobbered up two poles, munched on chips and chocolate, and caught… absolutely nothing. Not one fish. But I didn’t care. Because sometimes, fishing isn’t about catching. It’s about stillness, good company, and getting far enough off the grid that even your cell signal gives up.
Looking back, it’s kind of poetic. The bride and groom caught each other. My cousins caught baby fever (three pregnancy announcements over Mother’s Day weekend, three). Two friends caught engagement rings. And me? I didn’t catch a bass, but I caught a feeling. Six months into living here, and I’m still falling in love with the people, the quiet, the chaos, and yes—even the bumpy backroads and brisket-filled adventures. I may not have caught any fish, but I’ve caught something better: a place that already feels like home.
