Some weddings don’t need grand halls or sweeping views. For Erin and Max, all it took was a backyard, a long wooden table, and the tangy scent of brine in the air.

The wedding took place at Max’s family home—an old farmhouse on the edge of town, surrounded by fields and hedgerows. Guests arrived early to help hang lights, press linen napkins, and arrange wildflowers in jam jars. Erin spent the morning barefoot in the kitchen, finishing a batch of her grandmother’s garlic-dill pickles—something she insisted had to be on every table.

Everything about the day had that kind of quiet intention. Even the rain that passed through in the afternoon seemed to belong. Friends wiped chairs dry without fuss, someone brought towels, and the mood never dipped. There’s something about a space you know well that makes things feel easier—like cleaning up between courses, or dancing under a tree strung with old bulbs.

By nightfall, the tables were cluttered with empty jars, wine-stained cloth, and stories. No hired planners, no rigid schedules. Just the kind of day you talk about years later, not because it was perfect, but because it was theirs.