And the Marry-Making Begins

08 Saturday Oct 2011

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I woke to the rough sounds of my youngest son’s retching.

“Too much merry-making last night,” my husband muttered.

My better half has an understated way with words, and these, even laced with sleep, were delivered in his calm, matter-of-fact way, while lying within dark unfamiliar surroundings of a downtown Tulsa hotel.

“Poor Kyle. Will he be all right by tonight?.” I asked this with my mind racing ahead, thinking of that Best Man’s speech which laid crumpled on the window sill by his bed.

“Yeah. He’ll be fine.”

I needed to hear these words from my husband of twenty-five years: Shoring up life with a few comforting words — when things go bump and barf in the night — is what my husband does best.

Of course, thinking of tonight’s wedding festivities, I hope Kyle will be better than fine. I hope he will be at his tip-top ‘best’, living up to his spot in tonight’s wedding party line-up. But then, I hope we are ALL at our tip-top best, full of joy, indulging in more than a little harmless merry-making since this is my oldest son’s wedding day. Have I mentioned — somewhere in a post along the way — that at six o’clock this evening. Bryan and Amy are getting married?

So what will this day bring? Many merry-making guests dressed in their finest finery. That’s a given. Walks down the glamorous lobby aisle, which this morning, was still littered with rose petals from last night’s wedding.

To be sure, a few happy tears — courtesy of moi — to accompany the speaking of age-old vows of “better or worse.” Then lovely music. And probably some that will not seem so to my way of thinking. A first dance in a grand ballroom will follow — and a second dance between our bride and her father will lead to the third between my son and me. And if the DJ has been able to locate it, we’ll dance to these sounds of Carly Simon.

And then the “just marrieds” will cut the cakes baked by the bride’s oldest sister. a pastry chef in Kansas City. And who knows what else? Except that like the rest of life, the best moments will come unexpected and completely un-rehearsed.

I write this line thinking of Don’s mother who longed to be part of this evening’s marry-making, who instead is home in her own bed, weak as a kitten from a three-week ordeal that began in ICU and ended in a hospice center. True to the worst of life, this was not unexpected. Janice’s battle with cancer entered its ‘fourth-stage’ earlier this year — and this, solely out of love for Janice, who prefers to speak of the ‘betters’ than the ‘worst’ of life, has been one of the ‘unmentionables’ flapping around my life of late.

Better and worse. Light and dark.. Life and death.. In health and sickness — even the sort self-imposed from too much merry-making. These opposites help define one another, don’t they? And like in the case of my husband and I, who like Bryan and Amy, are a couple of “opposites-attract”, perhaps they also refine one another. And who knows but that maybe, one day, this soon-to-be married couple will regard the other as their ‘better half.’ As I do my husband.

I do I do I do.

Hovering at Half-Mast

06 Tuesday Sep 2011

Posted by Janell in Far Away Places, Home Restoration, Life at Home, Soul Care

≈ 10 Comments

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Aging, Home Restoration, Soul Care, Travel

On the road to Utah

As morning temperatures hover at half-mast of summer’s high, I’m wondering how we’ll remember this hottest season on record.

Will it be for the sixty-five days of triple digit temperatures endured since June? The crop failures? The cost of hay this fall? The lawns that look like hay? The water rationing and surprise visits of city auditors — to ensure we play by the rules?

Or will it be something of a personal nature, hitting closer to the heart?

I imagine the year’s extreme weather patterns will serve as mere backdrop for me, given the upheaval from changing residences. All the accompanying renovation work, both inside and out, would be a worthy contender for defining this summer — were it not for other half-mast matters closer to life’s quick.

Do I write of them? No, better not. Best to skate across their surface and leave them undisturbed.

Needing a change of scenery, we got away last week, though not to either of our original destinations. About this time last year we booked a Mediterranean cruise. Then there was that vacation I dreamed of last autumn and into winter, which would have whisked us to upstate New York — the place of my father’s birth — and to Vermont, where I had just discovered three eighty-something year old cousins.

Interesting how plans — and even people — can shrink and stretch in importance, as we wear out our days on earth.

Without so much as a backward glance, I tossed Greece aside when we purchased this new house, while the trip to New England lost gas as it drew near for take off. And when it came time to commit, the only vacation I really wanted to take was to Utah, to visit my father’s only sister.

I told my brother in July I had a hankering to see her one more time. But it was more than that. Way more — since some mysterious something was urging me toward Utah. One minute I had no desire to go. And in the next, I was calling Sis and asking her to come with me. Then asking my husband if he’d like to go too. And when they both said yes, I called Aunt Carol. And then before another dream vacation could die stillborn, I shored it up with seven nights of non-refundable accommodations.

This hurried response was born out of ignoring two similar calls before. The first, four years ago, came the weekend before Mom’s unrecoverable stroke. Out of the blue, I began to feel uneasy, began sensing a mysterious urge to drop everything to go see her. But rather than give into the unexplainable, I pushed back with rationalization. Then, three years later it happened again. I felt a pull to visit Aunt Jo, a few weeks before her death. As I drove by her house without stopping. I had no desire to ignore this thing a third time. And though it had been years since I’d seen Aunt Carol — until last week, almost a biblical forty — I had to go and see her, even at the risk of a little awkwardness.

Yet, how comforting and safe it feels when we’re around those who’ve loved us from birth. For in spite of its eternal nature, there’s a tenderness about their love; no matter how many times we fail at life, no matter how long the separation, their love of us endures without judgment.

On the night of our arrival, she welcomed us with a home cooked meal. When it came time to leave, she asked us to stay ‘one more day.’ As for the not-so-gooey middle, we filled our visit with stories and photos. Old ones. New ones. Hers. Ours. Funny ones, sad ones. The three days together made the years apart unimportant — and the visit unforgettable.

Of course, Aunt Carol was far from hovering at half-mast as I feared. So who knows where that urge to go see her came from or what it was about? Because she looked good. She looked happy even, in spite of many, many reasons not to be.

And what’s more, since coming home, I’m begun to feel a little more like myself — in spite of those few unmentionables flapping in the wind.

Wishing Wells in the Garden

31 Sunday Jul 2011

Posted by Janell in In the Garden, Life at Home, The Great Outdoors, Writing

≈ 11 Comments

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Everyday Life, Oklahoma Gardening, Soul Care, Writing

It was just Fourth of July, wasn’t it? That’s what I tell myself — even though tomorrow is obviously August and my new kitchen is almost done and my new gigantic garden plots are well on their way to being ready for fall planting. What’s obvious is that everyday life has been everywhere but here.

Yet — before July 2011 is all used up — I’ll mark these few words in the sand. Because I wish to remember how lovely this fifty-fifth summer of life has been. I want to remember the way I wake up each morning with boundless energy and excitement, the way I jump into work clothes then rush toward the utility room with a parade of hungry canines in my wake. And with dogs fed, how I down a quick cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal while checking the latest scorching weather forecast before hurrying outside to find shovel and wagon before the day grows hotter than any Oklahoma summer has a right to be.

It has felt good to be outside, especially in the soft morning light. As I’ve worked, neighbors have called out greetings as they pass by jogging or walking — with or without a dog. Some offer encouraging words. Surely a few think I’m crazy to be putting in new garden beds — measuring one-fourth the size of our front lawn — in the midst of severe drought conditions. And if so, who could argue with their logic?

I confess to feeling foolish at times, as sweat drips down my face to mix with dirt, wondering if this is how Noah felt when building his Ark with no rain clouds in sight. But, foolish or not, I dig until I can dig no more. Three hours. Sometimes five, if the day is overcast — or if I’m lucky to land in a shadier part of the garden.

Gardening is an act of faith, as much as going to church, I suppose. Though sometimes it’s less. Sometimes it’s nothing more than a wishing well when — down on dirty knees in the hard-baked soil — my mind wanders to my writing and this blog — and to thoughts of how I’m allowing both to wither on the vine without attention — only to console myself in my next thought that I’ll write later — in the comfort of an air-conditioned afternoon. But then I don’t. Or how — usually on Mondays, when I hear church bells ringing nearby, I tell myself I’ll find a good church soon — one interested in teaching a life in holiness — and that I’ll go next Sunday. Yes I will. But then I don’t.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if we actually did all those things we tell ourselves we’ll do? Other times I wonder what would become of us if we didn’t tell these things to ourselves? Perhaps we couldn’t live in peace without our daily ration of feel-good, well-wishes. Can you imagine living a life without hope — of a better day or a better you?

All I know is that July will soon be over and it feels good to have ended it with a few written words — to know I’ve made good on at least one of my well-wishes in the garden. Still. I can’t walk away from July without closing my eyes and throwing in two more cents: If wishes were negotiable, I’d be willing to trade my little writing feel-good away for a good amount of rain. Yes I would.

Something less than Noah’s would be great.