I'm lathering my crucifixion in the shower on the 33rd floor of the Minneapolis Hilton when I hear my beloved Molly enter the bathroom to prep at the sink.

"I'm kinda surprised they don't have a toothbrush holder here," says Molly.

"The world is your toothbrush holder, love," I say through the shower curtain.

We are here in this broad, beautiful twin city on the west bank of the Mississippi for the latest in a series of ceremonies designed to send Molly's college maidens into the world betrothed. We were the first, nearly five years ago. Since then, I've watched, teary-eyed and avuncular, as each walked past. I've known and loved them all since their teens. Now they've all hit thirty. It is a continual joy and privilege to watch their lives unfold like this, like...magnolias.

Molly rips open the plastic curtain with slasher speed, wielding her toothbrush. "Are you mocking me?"

"No, love, no!" I say, startled out of my nostalgia, suddenly afraid she might brush me with tiny, circular, scrubby motions. "I remember our vows clearly: to love and to honor, to have toothbrushes and to hold toothbrushes, in hangover and in health, all the days of our lives, until death do us part and then all bets are off, love."