The Real Return to Wedding and Event Season

Louie among the wild daisies at 1884 On The Bluff, a scenic outdoor wedding venue in southeast Iowa.

Before the lists, before the ladders and mops and mowing, we walk.

Well, actually, Doug starts each day preparing breakfast for my 87-year-old dad, as he has since we lost mom in 2021. Some days that’s all dad will eat—along with a bag Pepperidge Farm cookies, taken out one sleeve at a time, cupped in his hand, and set to scoot across the room on his walker, like treasure, next to his Diet Coke. I sometimes bake brownies or a pound cake, which he prefers. But those are treats for another day.

I begin every morning taking the dogs across the Bluff with a bag of peanuts in tow. Doug joins me when time allows. The peanuts go to the edge of the venue to what we call the crow box, but the blue jays, woodpeckers, and even the cardinals have gotten wind of it. It’s no longer a secret offering—it’s a breakfast buffet for the birds. We scoop from the peanuts and place into a bag from a stash tucked into a drawer at the back of my pickup, a drawer Doug added to hold tools or groceries. It wasn’t built for peanuts, but here we are. I keep a real scoop in there and everything. We laugh about it often. That’s how you know it’s love.

On the walk this morning, the dew soaked through my shoes and into my socks. The green has returned with such abundance, it’s hard to remember that winter was even here. The birds swooped down to the crow box just after we left, as they always do—waiting, trusting, wild and wise. The air is fragrant with the honeysuckle in bloom. On the way back, I see the burn pile—our quiet corner of twigs and branches—is being overtaken by new life. It’s less of a cleanup zone now and more of a habitat. We’ll wait until fall or winter to touch it again.

This is how we begin. Every day. With the small rituals that remind us we are here on purpose. The labor always comes. But so does the beauty.

Yesterday, I deep-cleaned the first floor of the stone house, floor to ceiling, while Doug power washed the barn and started on the mowing. He scrubbed coolers, moved massive farm tables, and coaxed water back into guest bathrooms that only function above freezing temps. It wasn’t our first day of wedding-week prep. It’s been weeks in the making.

Our hands are stiff. Our feet are sore. There’s poison ivy on our skin and joy in our hearts. How strange and beautiful is that?

This isn’t a complaint. It’s a truth. People often ask why a wedding or event costs what it does, and the answer, for us, has little to do with profit. We’re not raking it in. But we’re slowly beginning to pay for things, finally—and that feels like a kind of arrival. A kind of breath.

We’ve bought this place piece by piece, sometimes just a small plot at a time. The walk from our house to the venue is 500 yards, but it’s also a pilgrimage—past the trees we’ve planted, the cedar fence Doug built, the dreams we’ve dared to try, the wildflowers that are showing up now whether we plan them or not.

Today is Tuesday. The list is long again, though different than yesterday’s. There are light fixtures to wipe down, some plumbing to re-work, weeds to tend, and a trailer load of mulch to purchase, haul, hoist, and place.

Of course there are emails to check. And, maybe a few knots to work out from sleeping funny after so much scrubbing. We’re not quite young anymore, but we’re not done, either. There’s still a glint in the ache. A pride in the effort.

What does it cost to run a place like this?

It costs your hands. Your knees. Your weekends. It costs your attention, your peace of mind, your willingness to clean out the things no one will see and trim the vines no one would mind. It costs your commitment to beauty—real, imperfect, temporary, soulful beauty.

But here’s what we get to keep: the sound of music echoing from this hilltop. The laughter under lights. The feeling of a full heart and a tired body, knowing you gave something good. The time to work hard for what you believe in. The freedom to call it yours. The joy of walking hand-in-hand back across the bluff with your person, dusty and happy, achy and proud.

We’re not sure how many more seasons we’ll get. But this one, for each one? We’re all in. We begin each morning with the dogs, birds, peanuts, coffee and caregiving, effort and ease. We end with sore feet, achy hands, wrenched backs, and full hearts. We bear witness to the becoming of everything: blooms, bees, people, partnerships, and the quiet momentum of something meaningful unfolding along the bluff's edge.

From the wildflowers to the freshly mulched spots, everything we do is in service of the couples and guests who will soon gather here - on this historic land, just above the Mississippi River. Hosting weddings in southeast Iowa, especially an outdoor venue like 1884 On The Bluff, means partnering with nature's timing. It's never perfect. But, it's always real.

We like how we feel when we end each day. That's the rhythm here. That's the return.