Goo-o-o-o-od early mornin', Push-Ups readers. Coming at you live from Colorado Springs where I've had a heartbreaking front row seat to the carnage of the wildfires up in them there hills. I'm here for my niece's wedding -- she's the only daughter of my eldest sister -- and six of my mother's eight children will find themselves together for the first time in at least ten years. My sister and her husband are situated on the east side of I-25, miles out and high enough to boast of stunning views of the huge range sprawled out to the west: the awe-inspiring Rocky Mountains. Only the awe inspired in all of us here yesterday, not the first day of this outbreak of creeping conflagrations but most likely the worst, was an awesome dread for the people whose homes succumbed to the wind-spurred flames.
The smoke, in all its varying hues of gray, white and black, accompanied me, my mom and my little sister on our trek into Springs from the metro Denver area earlier in the day. By four'ish, the very air in the streets hung dark and heavy, thick with the cloying scent of smoke. The red sun felt like it belonged in another planet's atmosphere. I was reminded of the time when a volcano in upstate Alaska erupted, spewing enormous amounts of ash into the sky, and those of us in Anchorage were plunged into eerily darkened days which refused to yield to the pleading of the sun beyond. We wore masks to reduce the inhalation of the particulates for several days, if memory serves right. That was the beginning of my sophomore year. Mid 80's. And everything felt like a brooding painting, surreal, depressing, indicative of existence interruptis.
What always strikes me about natural disasters is the sheer beauty of there form and force. There's a bit of a guilty struggle within as I find myself mesmerized by the will and scope of a tornado or forest fire or flood, even as the loss and sadness of those affected strikes with equal measure at the heart. Whether our evidence of humanity, our conquering of the earth's surface and such, existed or not, neatly lined up along a Florida beach, or winding through cul-de-sacs on a steep hillside in Colorado, or spreading from farm to farm in the plains of Kansas, these natural phenomenons would still display their prowess across the land and seas. Perhaps battling one another instead of us puny but determined humans. There'd be no witness to their swirl and whirl, their rush and retreat, their devouring of all in their whimsical paths. And as odd as it sounds, I think that would be a shame. What does this say about me? As deeply empathetic as I am to my very core, my profound appreciation for beauty in all things encourages an admiration for a thing, or things, which are responsible for human destruction on a large and regular scale. (If we did the math, I still believe us humans have killed, maimed or destroyed the lives of our fellow men, women and children than any teammate on mother nature's roster.)
I'm not really going anywhere with this. I don't have a tidy end. A lesson. Just mental meanderings from a satisfied heart, a tired body, a praying spirit. Running concurrently alongside the story of these multiple destructive fires is the equally beautiful and important story of a wedding. A wedding which is also a family reunion of sorts. A wedding which has allowed me the opportunity to offer my services up to my sister in any way she sees fit as she counts down the final days to the marrying-off of her youngest child. Her girl-child now college graduate young woman. And wife . . . after Saturday early evening. So, on this fine seafaring vessel nestled amidst the wandering sprawl which is the suburbs of Colorado Springs, I am the master of the galley. The cook. Head honcho in the kitchen. And Jill-of-minor-back-and-forth chores. And I'm loving it all. Even as tired as I am. My famous Hollandaise sauce, the cornerstone for my Eggs Benedict ala sauteed veggies (tomatoes, spinach, mushrooms and asparagus), wowed the hungry breakfast crowd this morning. Did my heart wondrous good. My niece responded quite favorably to her introduction to homemade lemon curd (to lemon curd, period), smiling sweetly beyond the refreshing tartness of my thick concoction. And I got to hang out with my brother-in-law and sister at every turn. Not to mention the chance to observe and interact with the groom who is a very good egg. Cracked only in the most humorous of ways.
Now I perch on the edge of a cushioned folding chair, in dire need of a shower, awaiting the arrival of my brother, John, and his family. Even with my burning eyes and fading alertness, I'm excited to hug each and every one of them before we all pass out for the remainder of this morning. The kitchen has been cleaned for the umpteenth time. All of the hard-working wine glasses are drying on a towel. The large batch of candied almonds expertly tossed by my hands at the behest of the mother-of-the-bride has cooled and sits in an airtight container awaiting its fate at the wedding reception. I'm wishing the coyotes would set to howling just one more time. I'm hoping for more than the brief rain which fell during my earlier run/walk, whereby I trotted down a long winding sidewalk, fist-pumping the air and thanking the Lord for the moisture, willing it to move on over just a bit further west! I rue the fact that there is no self-cleaning button on me. Blechhh. I have pictures. Probably several decent ones. But the thought of plugging in the camera and loading the images, poring over them, and getting them to the blog is simply too much after the past two days.
So, wait as patiently as you can for the pictures. You'll HAVE to read the words today. Take care. I'm safe. We're safe. And pray for Colorado . . . pray for the many who exist in a state of crisis outside of our awareness, living with us in time even as those among us, and sometimes us, ourselves, celebrate life with births and weddings and parties. Because whether we know them personally or not, whether we can look outside of our picture windows and see the loss with our own eyes, somewhere there is a someone, a good many someones, suffering a loss, sudden or otherwise, on the opposite side of celebration.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Poopy Tongue: An Ode To Hank
"Don't lick me with your poopy tongue!" I say.
You look at me.
All sloppy grin.
And you lick my shin. Again.
I sigh and we walk along.
Sidewalk jockeys
On a Tennessee late morning.
A girl and her dog.
When I imagined your life
There was just a plain tongue.
The sloppy grin.
And unadulterated licks.
On my chin and hand.
Not drool down my shin.
After a midday munch.
Snack ala another dog's haunch.
Bear hugs and paw shakes.
Most welcome.
Those puppy eyes of amber.
Tracking me.
Alert to my mood.
To my motion.
Wanting to please
My every whim with devotion.
I love you, goofy pup.
Past the hole in the wall.
Gnawed table and chairs.
Sarah's shoes.
Ferns.
Neighbor toys and flower pots.
My iPhone's demise.
Your random toothy carnage.
I did not foresee
Your nose.
Questing.
An unrelenting source
Of unexpected debauchery.
Up the skirts of ladies.
Sniffing at the forks
Of jeans and shorts and slacks.
But your golden ears.
Silk purses.
Friends to the fingers.
Thrown back
Like hair in the wind.
They gather my words.
You twist your puzzled head
Left, then right.
Your pros.
Heavier than your cons.
Like the weight
Of those logs you
Lug about the yard.
Jumping.
Sky bound.
Monkey-in-the-middle joy.
I am yours.
As James Herriot
The country vet.
To brush those canines.
To swab
Those bacteria-prone head flaps.
Trim your nails.
And brush that beating tail.
(I'M ACTUALLY CLEANING HIS EARS.)
Your room and board.
Check.
Healthcare -- HUGE check.
Unending friendship.
On cue belly rubs.
Car rides to Starbucks.
Walks to nowhere.
All yours.
But if ever you wonder.
"What could I do for you,
Dear Mistress?”
You do it.
On a continuous loop.
However, my one request.
If you decide to press?
"PLEASE DON'T EAT POOP!”
I PREFER TO CALL HIM "WELL LOVED!"
Saturday, June 2, 2012
As Promised: Wedding in A Week 101
Last night, in the comfort of my living room with my husband, son and mother-in-law (the girls were out and about), I watched a DVD starring a pretty girl and a handsome guy. They were performing a complex ceremonial routine which bound them together for life in a room filled with joyous and tearful onlookers. A lavish spread of meats, breads, fruits, vegetables and steaming dishes followed, with further ceremonial dancing and oratory pronouncements. In the end, they rode off into the night accompanied by the sounds of yelling, laughter and the clanging of soda cans on the pavement. In the supporting cast was a woman who could have been my doppelganger, save for one salient point: she WAS me. And the movie featured the marriage of my middle child, one Sarah Olivia Valdez, to her husband of over two months now, one Derek Ekmanis.
Here's how it went down, challenging me to fully utilize almost every emotion in my impressive range.
For a wedding to come together in a week -- technically ten days -- there first must exist a reason for such a life-changing life event to happen within that time span. I've already established that reason in an entry dated the end of March. Please refer there for any background info: http://pushups-gsv.blogspot.com/2012/03/wedding-cake-and-potato-salad.html
Next, a mother must gently pose the question to her eager-to-be-married-by-the-JOP-and-be-done-with-it daughter that there are probably a few kinfolk and friends who'd like to share in the special moment, what with the timing, and the big move overseas, and parents in need of a transition as opposed to an abrupt shift. That daughter must then acquiesce, "Fine. We'll have a small wedding as long as I don't have to plan it and get any more stressed than I am."
And then the fun and fireworks begin! A big heaping helping of stress for TWO, please?
For the simple reason that my daughter can be quite decisive when she knows what she wants and is eager to keep within budgetary guidelines despite emotional leanings, shopping for her gown turned out to be the easiest of the wedding planning ventures. If you've ever watched any of the bride-based reality shows on TV, you know this is a rarity. The mother-of-the-bride (a role I never knew I was born to play with such gusto) was a giddy, photo-snapping, maternal pile of mush. Probably a bit in shock, albeit happy shock, at the time. Still absorbing the good news. In under 3 hours, the dress, the bustier and the petticoat had been selected and paid for: the day AFTER announcing the ceremony was a GO. And who buys a gorgeous wedding dress for $100 these days? Evidently, WE do. The shoes would prove more elusive: found the day BEFORE the nuptials. Somewhere in between, a whirlwind of visits to every discount and department store in town unearthed dresses for the bridesmaids in a lovely navy satin which tastefully complemented the groom's Army dress blues.
My long-lost pal from childhood (blog entry: http://gsvccbg.blogspot.com/2010/08/amy-alaska.html), Amy Alaska, stood in as my wingman for the stressful wardrobe selection I would need to play my vital role to the hilt. She was fearless: expertly whipping shantung silk and sequin confections from way too anatomically correct mannequins for my size 8 needs; following me up and down shoe aisle after shoe aisle, fitting one strappy heel after another on first my left and then my right foot, as I engaged in a 40-minute long animated conversation with my soon-to-be son-in-law's excited mother, unable to stand still longer than 15 seconds at a time. I know beyond any and all reasonable doubt that Amy is the reason I looked so put together when my daughter smiled up at her Big Red and said, "I do."
As far as invitations, there were none. At least not in the traditional sense. Facebook, texting and e-mail via my iPhone (one of Girlfriend's most important contributions to my life before her untimely end by Hank's oversize mouth) combined for the perfect 1-2 punch in both announcing the affair and inviting guests (100+), ordering a cake, rounding up food, requesting a pastor (we dared not dream that our own interim pastor, and good personal friend, had the credentials to serve as the official as he is not an ordained minister, but an Internet scouring of Tennessee rules enlightened him, thus allowing Rodney Edwards the pleasure of performing his first wedding and making OUR first wedding extra special), securing a venue (turned out our home church was free on the big day) and even lucking into a last-minute videographer who volunteered for the job as a favor to a good friend who just so happens to be a friend, and neighbor, to us.
Now, before I go any further, might I suggest an apt comparison? The conducting of this wedding was somewhat akin to an Amish barn-raising in that a close community of supporters came together to make it all happen in quick time with beautiful results with rather minimal cost. Like the menu. Whether people attended or not, they donated food -- and I don't mean store-bought potato salad and deli-sandwiches. One of my very good gal pals who lives several towns away told me, "I've got a few of those chafing dishes. I can make a chicken and mushroom dish. And a couple of others." She and her husband arrived with gourmet-quality home-cooked Italian food in restaurant-style chafing dishes far bigger than bread baskets! They set them up, Sterno ablaze, like true caterers. The array and selection was staggering: chicken-salad croissant sandwiches with grapes and walnuts; Southern-style macaroni-and-cheese; fruit and veggie platters, shrimp cocktail; my mom's famous potato salad; roasted vegetables, seasoned with an expert hand by one of my Earth Divas and a whole host of mouth-watering delectables I can't recall because I was too busy flitting about to nosh until way after the party was over. To this upscale potluck we contributed 100 smoked wings from The Slick Pig local BBQ haunt: a favorite of the young couple. (If ever you visit, we'll treat you to a baker's dozen!)
Besides the uber-moist white chocolate sheet cake with delectable buttercream frosting, combining dainty periwinkle and pearl flowers on top with the new digital army camo pattern on the sides with the confectionery artistry that only Jo of Jo's Custom Cakes could command (did I mention the three old-timey fondant postcards with well-wishes in Latvian, German and English arranged betwixt the flowers?), dessert also manifested as a homemade strawberry cheesecake groom's cake, gaily ornamented cupcakes for the child guests and a sweet brigade of other choices, samples of which I faintly recall tucking into my grumbly tumbly at one point. (*Note here: Derek's family is Latvian on his mother's side; his grandmother spoke the language to all of her grandchildren to ensure it didn't die out with their generation.)
Though my history of party organizing stands up to close scrutiny, this shindig needed a director to keep all the elements moving forward. This was readily apparent after a couple of days. At about this time, Melissa Clark of aforementioned Earth Diva acclaim, stepped into the gap with her simple offer to be my wedding planner. After a 4-hour (or was it 6-hour) planning session on a Wednesday, we were off and running with a timeline for everything from tablecloths and cutlery to vases and flowers. Her firm taskmaster ways were a balm to my amped-up soul. Again, many of the necessary items were contributed, either on loan or permanently, from members of my church, friends, neighbors, ladies in the Bunco group! Because of an early outbreak of extra-warm spring weather, a host of blooming trees in my yard and along local roads had breakout roles in the decor department. In the high-octane hours before the wedding, whilst my husband ironed extra-large tablecloths and my son and the groomsmen mopped and set-up chairs, Melissa sat in a zen-like state on the sanctuary floor at Church at Cross Point, surrounded by colorful flowers and bright greenery, arranging magazine-quality bouquets. When I asked from whence such talent came, her reply was both amusing and oh, so modern, "I watched a YouTube video on how to make wedding floral arrangements." Trust me when I say she definitely has a wealth of hidden talents because I've watched online how-to videos and still had issues just tying a respectable Windsor knot for my husband.
Click here to brush up on Earth Divas: http://gsvccbg.blogspot.com/2009/09/i-havent-been-called-one-in-person-but.html
With a bonafide make-up artist taking care of Sarah, and three talented photographers capturing the beginning, middle and end, volunteer staff for the drink counter and kitchen, one of our church men on top of playing the music at just the right interludes, not an element remained unaccounted for. (Ah, the music! Music for which I spent countless post-midnight hours requesting, uploading, downloading, purchasing from iTunes, and setting in order on three CD's to match the three stages of the evening; two nights before the wedding, one song in particular reduced me to tears so unrelenting that all I could do was cling to my husband as wave after crashing wave of memories and realization and extreme fatigue washed over me for what seemed a bittersweet eternity.)
Big Sister Ashley took charge of the bridal shower party with a particular enthusiasm for a theme based quite strongly on the, shall I say, er, 'male fertility body part.' Two crudely shaped cakes, flexible wine glass markers and metallic confetti, hundreds upon hundreds of green, blue, pink and silver teeny weenies, all mirroring this time-honored traditional thematic element. Suffice it to say that there were a few hilarious moments of party remnant discovery: on the Wonder Pup, in mixed company, on the back porch, ad nauseum, for well over a month. Who knows? One will probably turn up in Sarah's luggage when she's unpacking in Germany.
We made it through wedding rehearsal night, another Melissa-orchestrated mark on the ol' checklist, and plowed through an almost-relaxing rehearsal dinner at a local steakhouse. (I was not capable of fully-relaxing at that point!) The couple noshed on a pile of hearty fare that only fit 19 year-olds with excellent metabolisms would dare eat the night before their vows. In fact, hours before their ceremony, they chowed down on their steak-and-macaroni leftovers!
On the big day, with the bride and groom entering the premises to retire to their dressing rooms, the men in one of the smaller classrooms on the south side of the building, the bride and her entourage taking up the enormous back room on the north side, my husband and I scurried home after hours of creating the perfect set, the backdrop for the start of the rest of their lives. We had two hours to get back to our house, shower and change wardrobe, and return to the church. My only regret of the entire process happened in those two hours: I missed the outdoor photo session that had to occur before the wedding to take advantage of the light. I missed Derek's face when he first saw Sarah emerge from the church, out into the late afternoon sun, aglow in her white gown and periwinkle gown, her Army bracelet yet on her wrist -- EKMANIS, his uniform name patch -- the sheer excitement apparent to any looking on. Young love. True love. All that sweet sappy stuff of which romantic dreams are made! His mother arrived in time to enjoy the moment. I'm glad for that, though I envy her just a tad bit; I'm human, NOT superhuman. Because she worked full-time and lived in Nashville, she was unable to be involved in the preparations, and being a witness to the picture-taking was her entrance into the hubbub.
Here's how it went down, challenging me to fully utilize almost every emotion in my impressive range.
*** *** ***
For a wedding to come together in a week -- technically ten days -- there first must exist a reason for such a life-changing life event to happen within that time span. I've already established that reason in an entry dated the end of March. Please refer there for any background info: http://pushups-gsv.blogspot.com/2012/03/wedding-cake-and-potato-salad.html
The last time I was involved in a wedding before Sarah's.
Don't ask.
Read the blog entry: http://gsvccbg.blogspot.com/2010/08/renewing-my-commitment-to-no_03.html
Next, a mother must gently pose the question to her eager-to-be-married-by-the-JOP-and-be-done-with-it daughter that there are probably a few kinfolk and friends who'd like to share in the special moment, what with the timing, and the big move overseas, and parents in need of a transition as opposed to an abrupt shift. That daughter must then acquiesce, "Fine. We'll have a small wedding as long as I don't have to plan it and get any more stressed than I am."
Kinfolk . . .
And then the fun and fireworks begin! A big heaping helping of stress for TWO, please?
Cheers! Mom will take two of these, please?!
Searching the clearance rack.
The first of the three choices.
Or course, we all like it!
Enjoying the fun of this outing!
What do we think of THIS, ladies?
Getting closer, to Sarah's way of thinking.
I'm not so certain.
Still thinking of the first one's elegance.
Let's change up the hair.
And add a veil . . .
Two dresses in one . . .
Not bad. Not bad at all.
But what have we here?!
Could this be THE one?!
Reminds me of a certain senior prom dress . . .
Oh, yeah-h-h . . .
There's a certain twinkle in her eye . . .
Add the petticoat . . .
And the veil-l-l . . .
And RING-G-G that bell: they've made a sale!
That there is how truly happy brides look.
My long-lost pal from childhood (blog entry: http://gsvccbg.blogspot.com/2010/08/amy-alaska.html), Amy Alaska, stood in as my wingman for the stressful wardrobe selection I would need to play my vital role to the hilt. She was fearless: expertly whipping shantung silk and sequin confections from way too anatomically correct mannequins for my size 8 needs; following me up and down shoe aisle after shoe aisle, fitting one strappy heel after another on first my left and then my right foot, as I engaged in a 40-minute long animated conversation with my soon-to-be son-in-law's excited mother, unable to stand still longer than 15 seconds at a time. I know beyond any and all reasonable doubt that Amy is the reason I looked so put together when my daughter smiled up at her Big Red and said, "I do."
Too severe.
Too lumpy.
Very pretty.
Understated. Tasteful. Elegant.
THIS is gonna work out fine.
(See the navy bridesmaid gown on the wall?)
Our fearless dress snatcher!
The very toned mannequinette.
In the end, strappy sandals didn't make the cut.
Two good men awaiting the big moment.
Rodney -- the cherry atop the already fabulous Sundae!
Now, before I go any further, might I suggest an apt comparison? The conducting of this wedding was somewhat akin to an Amish barn-raising in that a close community of supporters came together to make it all happen in quick time with beautiful results with rather minimal cost. Like the menu. Whether people attended or not, they donated food -- and I don't mean store-bought potato salad and deli-sandwiches. One of my very good gal pals who lives several towns away told me, "I've got a few of those chafing dishes. I can make a chicken and mushroom dish. And a couple of others." She and her husband arrived with gourmet-quality home-cooked Italian food in restaurant-style chafing dishes far bigger than bread baskets! They set them up, Sterno ablaze, like true caterers. The array and selection was staggering: chicken-salad croissant sandwiches with grapes and walnuts; Southern-style macaroni-and-cheese; fruit and veggie platters, shrimp cocktail; my mom's famous potato salad; roasted vegetables, seasoned with an expert hand by one of my Earth Divas and a whole host of mouth-watering delectables I can't recall because I was too busy flitting about to nosh until way after the party was over. To this upscale potluck we contributed 100 smoked wings from The Slick Pig local BBQ haunt: a favorite of the young couple. (If ever you visit, we'll treat you to a baker's dozen!)
Besides the uber-moist white chocolate sheet cake with delectable buttercream frosting, combining dainty periwinkle and pearl flowers on top with the new digital army camo pattern on the sides with the confectionery artistry that only Jo of Jo's Custom Cakes could command (did I mention the three old-timey fondant postcards with well-wishes in Latvian, German and English arranged betwixt the flowers?), dessert also manifested as a homemade strawberry cheesecake groom's cake, gaily ornamented cupcakes for the child guests and a sweet brigade of other choices, samples of which I faintly recall tucking into my grumbly tumbly at one point. (*Note here: Derek's family is Latvian on his mother's side; his grandmother spoke the language to all of her grandchildren to ensure it didn't die out with their generation.)
I think the Latvian postcard was eaten by a kid?
The beauty of simple detail.
Go, Army!!!
Though my history of party organizing stands up to close scrutiny, this shindig needed a director to keep all the elements moving forward. This was readily apparent after a couple of days. At about this time, Melissa Clark of aforementioned Earth Diva acclaim, stepped into the gap with her simple offer to be my wedding planner. After a 4-hour (or was it 6-hour) planning session on a Wednesday, we were off and running with a timeline for everything from tablecloths and cutlery to vases and flowers. Her firm taskmaster ways were a balm to my amped-up soul. Again, many of the necessary items were contributed, either on loan or permanently, from members of my church, friends, neighbors, ladies in the Bunco group! Because of an early outbreak of extra-warm spring weather, a host of blooming trees in my yard and along local roads had breakout roles in the decor department. In the high-octane hours before the wedding, whilst my husband ironed extra-large tablecloths and my son and the groomsmen mopped and set-up chairs, Melissa sat in a zen-like state on the sanctuary floor at Church at Cross Point, surrounded by colorful flowers and bright greenery, arranging magazine-quality bouquets. When I asked from whence such talent came, her reply was both amusing and oh, so modern, "I watched a YouTube video on how to make wedding floral arrangements." Trust me when I say she definitely has a wealth of hidden talents because I've watched online how-to videos and still had issues just tying a respectable Windsor knot for my husband.
Click here to brush up on Earth Divas: http://gsvccbg.blogspot.com/2009/09/i-havent-been-called-one-in-person-but.html
Melissa demonstrating how a long bouquet would sit . . .
Versus a short full bouquet.
We're going with the red onion!
That friendly determined look . . . and The Notebook of Lists.
Melissa on fire!
My cleaning crew: the best man, the brother, my son.
Tree blossom art.
See the bridal bouquet behind the table arrangements?
The official photos have better shots.
I don't have those available.
MY Ironman!
Last-minute reinforcements!
Pretty-as-posey toes.
With a bonafide make-up artist taking care of Sarah, and three talented photographers capturing the beginning, middle and end, volunteer staff for the drink counter and kitchen, one of our church men on top of playing the music at just the right interludes, not an element remained unaccounted for. (Ah, the music! Music for which I spent countless post-midnight hours requesting, uploading, downloading, purchasing from iTunes, and setting in order on three CD's to match the three stages of the evening; two nights before the wedding, one song in particular reduced me to tears so unrelenting that all I could do was cling to my husband as wave after crashing wave of memories and realization and extreme fatigue washed over me for what seemed a bittersweet eternity.)
Ashley posing with Sarah's personal beauty advisor, Jacqueline.
Claire stopped in briefly.
She was headed for the Navy before the wedding.
The men stopped in briefly, too.
They were headed as far from this party as they could get!
The bride and her maid of honor.
One of the nice triangular cakes.
Our merry lady revelers.
I thought I'd found a nice green nose ring.
Alas, it wasn't quite what I was looking for.
I failed to mention our mani-pedi date!
Dragon lady.
A bit of practice.
Sweet . . .
A hungry wedding party.
Melissa conducting.
LOVE IT!
Ready to be served their red meat!
On the big day, with the bride and groom entering the premises to retire to their dressing rooms, the men in one of the smaller classrooms on the south side of the building, the bride and her entourage taking up the enormous back room on the north side, my husband and I scurried home after hours of creating the perfect set, the backdrop for the start of the rest of their lives. We had two hours to get back to our house, shower and change wardrobe, and return to the church. My only regret of the entire process happened in those two hours: I missed the outdoor photo session that had to occur before the wedding to take advantage of the light. I missed Derek's face when he first saw Sarah emerge from the church, out into the late afternoon sun, aglow in her white gown and periwinkle gown, her Army bracelet yet on her wrist -- EKMANIS, his uniform name patch -- the sheer excitement apparent to any looking on. Young love. True love. All that sweet sappy stuff of which romantic dreams are made! His mother arrived in time to enjoy the moment. I'm glad for that, though I envy her just a tad bit; I'm human, NOT superhuman. Because she worked full-time and lived in Nashville, she was unable to be involved in the preparations, and being a witness to the picture-taking was her entrance into the hubbub.
The dress blues have arrived!
Pressing their clothes now, instead of table cloths.
Paparazzi . . .
One of my favorite moments.
The big reveal at the photo shoot.
Oh, yeah. I thought my dog was going to die. I had to choose my daughter's wedding over a trip to an emergency vet clinic. It seems a no-brainer but it was heart-wrenching all the same. Just as we were about to rush out the door, with only minutes to spare, my make-up bag in hand, Hank dropped to the kitchen floor, writhing in apparent agony, moaning and whining, his belly as bloated as a 2-day beached whale. On his thin frame, it really stood out. I'd made a hasty decision earlier in the day to allow my son to buy Hank a large rawhide bone to keep him occupied as he'd been denied his regular attention and it was showing in all the hyperactive Lab ways. Only, my dog doesn't eat rawhide on the advice of our strong-willed vet. Derek mentioned in passing a how he'd witnessed the carnage wreaked on that bone. I called 3 vet offices; 3 vet offices had just closed. Not a one had ears for my thorny situation. There was no one around to help: they were all AT THE WEDDING! With me in tears and close to desperation, torn by the crappy choices at my well-clad feet, Jimmy put Hankie Mutt in the backyard with a full pan of water and we headed across town.
We all know that Hank the Wonder Pup survived his ordeal. And the rest of the evening went off with nary a hitch. My handsome son, the usher for grandmothers and moms, took honors as the first family member to outright bawl during the ceremony. Before his dad even handed Sarah off to Derek, my boy was accepting a tissue from his Grandma Sharon for the wet trails running down his face. THAT got me going! The rest catapulted along with breakneck speed. A blur of sights and sounds. Glimpses of Derek's red hair and ruddy complexion against the crisp collar of his uniform as his buddies crowded him for man talk. Sarah's cascade of dark curls and wide dark-chocolate eyes turning from one smiling face to another. And then it seemed they were gone so quickly. Honking and grinning as they sped away in the Xterra for the only two nights they would have alone as husband and wife before he left for Germany within the week.
The boy about to gain a brother.
Escorting Derek's mother to her seat.
The hitching post . . .
Enjoying a bit o' wedding cake.
It took a village to marry my daughter. I'm not kidding. Aside from the momentous occasion itself, the impact of so many caring people coming together so quickly and earnestly for our family, for our daughter, for Derek, touched me very deeply. I believe it also provided a wonderful example to our newlyweds of what people should be to one another in life. We raised a spectacular barn! And two weeks from now, give or take a day, Sarah will finally join her husband. That's a full 3 months after their wedding folks. She needs to go before someone here dies . . . or seriously injured enough to cause us to meet our health insurance for a second year. Me. Her brother. Her. HANK! Young lovers kept apart for that long, at such distance, so early on: a bit taxing on the nerves, to say the very least. I'm ecstatic for them. Eager to witness the ways in which they will learn to wheel and deal with the challenges about to come at them.
New brothers saying goodbye.
Sarah, I don't think Derek would ever think of ending Hank's life!
Our newlyweds the day after.
Snuggling.
And most likely, Jimmy will again have to comfort me when the next tsunami of tears tumbles across the shores of this mother's heart. Sarah jokingly informed me the other night that I'd better not cry and carry on at the airport when we said our goodbyes. "Ohh, whatever!" I snorted in jest, "I'm not gonna cry one bit." Rolling her eyes, my daughter challenged me, "Let's bet." She put out her hand, which still looks for all the world like the hand of a little girl. I accepted it, grinning just a bit. "So-o, if you cry, mom, what happens? What's our bet?" I only thought for the briefest of heartbeats before replying, "IF I cry, then-n-n . . . YOU have to stay here!"
Pretty clever, eh?
But not realistic.
If you raise 'em up right, they're gonna fly. I just didn't know it would be all the way to the motherland. (My maiden name: Sweigard.) Watch out, Pig Keepers, 'cause here I come!
My son-in-law's view of France as his plane flew overhead.
One day soon, I hope to enjoy this view, too.
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