Tag Archives: New England

Jun 18 2012

Love and Marriage Reunites our Family

I’m  happy you are all here to witness, read, share with me, and comment on my thoughts, feelings and experiences. I didn’t want to disappear for a couple of weeks without an explanation, so todays post is to let you know what’s going on. Why I won’t be posting or reading your posts. I’LL BE BACK though.

On June 30th my youngest son is getting married. I have three sons’, the oldest two are married. This is the first of my children’s weddings I’ve been a part of. I’m so excited, determined to stay present to the entire process. Enjoy the hustle and bustle of  wedding day preparations.  Last night my sons fiancée called to share her undiluted joy.  She’s effervescent as champagne and it’s contagious!

The first time I married I was seventeen years old. My wedding was nice  but I don’t remember it being exciting. For my  parents it was a huge financial burden which they reminded me of regularly. The wedding was something they wanted to get through and be done with. I was married in the Mormon temple so my parents couldn’t get a temple recommend to be there. Secretly I was happy about it. My dad though was bitter which caused my parents to fight more than usual.  When my current husband and I decided to tie the knot we picked up the license a few hours before we got married.  Impulsive and quick as Vegas, we called a Justice of the Peace, I ran down to the local florist, bought a cheap bouquet of flowers, and thirty minutes later we got married in the yard sitting on the tailgate of his truck. You might be a redneck if… Ha!  My youngest son [the groom], was the ring bearer and the flower boy. Thinking back on that now, I’m so happy his wedding’s an event. A celebration of love.

My dress is really something! My daughter-in-law to be went shopping with me.  I’m no frump, have my own style that I wear quite well, but formal attire is not the usual for me.  We ended up choosing a Merlot colored floor length silk gown. Think red carpet stunning. I’ve worn some pretty dresses over the years but nothing like this. I was a bit concerned about standing out too much. Juneeebug, [my nick name for the blushing bride], was very persistent about my getting this one. I’m really glad she was, I feel smashing when I’m wearing it.

Most of the preparations fall upon the brides family, but they’ve delegated a few things to me. In my family I’m known for my creative flair, so one of my contributions was making the card box. For anyone who doesn’t know, it’s a box that sits at the reception so people can drop cards into it when they come in the door. Anywho, I decided to make a card box that looked like a three-tiered wedding cake. I took three different sized square white hat boxes, cut the bottoms out of each one, then glued them one on top of the other. Next I cut a slit in the top box.  The open bottoms created a shoot that let the cards drop way into the bottom of the cardboard cake. Next I sprayed the boxes with a textured paint so it would look like frosting then sprayed the whole thing with a very light pink. I used stick on jewels in different shapes [including hearts] and sizes and in various colors of pink, then glued pretty silk flowers to the corners of each layer. I wrapped the base of each box in silk fuchsia [one of her wedding colors] ribbon. The final touch was tying a bounteous bow on the top of the cake. It turned out absolutely beautiful!

I chose bright and playful invitations to invite friends and family to a rehearsal dinner my husband  and I are hosting the Thursday evening before the wedding. One of the first things on the list of ‘what to do’ during this exciting celebration, which begins on the 26th of June and continues until the 1st of July.

I’m also making up spunky flowery welcome bags for the guests who will be staying at the hotel for the wedding weekend. Original and fun, the tissue paper I’m stuffing them with is fuchsia and orange. In the bag, like Easter basket surprises, I’m sprinkling in Hershey kisses and chewy cherry hearts.

I’m a bit nervous but really looking forward to our Mother and Son dance. There are days when I can hardly believe my baby’s getting married. I wouldn’t call him a mommies boy but we’ve always been close. Luckily Juneeebug and I hit it off. Have developed a real friendship with each other.  At the risk of sounding terribly cliché, I really am getting  a daughter. Since I never had one, it’s really fun. We share clothes and jewelry and secrets. I’ve included the song we’ll be dancing to at the bottom of this page. Yes, I am going to cry.

My oldest son has two children. His two-year old son won’t be coming but his daughter who is five will be.  She’s the flower girl. I’ve only met her once when she was 18 months old and she doesn’t remember that visit.  The story is a long one. You will be reading about it sometime in the future as it’s much later in the memoir than the excerpts you’ve been reading recently.  While she’s here for the wedding I’ve made plans to take her to the Boston Aquarium. Also to bring her and her daddy to see our cabin so they can get a picture in their mind’s eye before they head back to Utah.

When my youngest son decided to stay with me after the divorce, move to New England, it split him and his brothers apart. He and my middle son, just two years apart, were very best friends so the move was incredibly painful for them both. There’s been times when there’s been almost no contact. Times when trying to stay connected was just to painful for all of us.  We’ve spent years trying to rebuild, undo some of what’s been done, and have relationships with each other that feel natural and comfortable. Slowly, it’s coming. In ways, I believe the connections are stronger than they would have been had we stayed together. Nothing is taken for granted.

Both my older sons’ will be standing up with their little brother; once very much an outcast among them. This wedding is creating a platform, an opportunity to re-seed the garden of our family. My son and his to be bride have been together for seven years and are very much in love. Their goal, other than the obvious, has been to create an atmosphere of love that their guests will be able to feel,which they’re definitely doing.

This will be the first time me and all three of my sons have been together for well over twenty years. Broken promises and hearts kept me from being a part of the weddings of my two oldest sons of which I still have regret.  As we all gather to celebrate the youngest of our clan and his stunning brides wedding day, for me, it is also a humbling, holy, family reunion.

Apr 24 2012

Everyday Magic

~

Saturday I took a walk through my neighborhood.  Each house separated by at least an acre of forested land. The streets are dirt. Not gravel, but rather, granite and quartz, sand and soil tamped down until it becomes nearly as hard as asphalt.

More times than not I walk looking down. Something I’ve been told I should try to correct. The implication; the answers are in the sky.

I look for special stones.  My favorites, smooth gun-metal grey granite, with milky quartz stripes. When I’m successful I tuck them in my pocket like a lucky rabbits foot, carry them home where I find a place for them.

Saturday I wasn’t searching for anything special when I noticed the shadowy fans swaying, swishing, up and down, mirror image branches above my head, beneath my feet.

Moving out from under the gnarled ghost like fingers, sun-bright, I notice the road sparkling. A dirt galaxy of mica stars, winking twinkles tease.

Then suddenly a gust of wind gave lift to paper leaves. Twirling in synchronized spirals they spun themselves silly, then scurried toward the forest floor and their next task at hand.

~

Apr 9 2012

My Bed of Flowers

I learned to garden from my mother

who didn’t garden.

She believed nature took care

of that sort of thing.

What didn’t find its way to blossom

or fruit; of its own accord

wasn’t meant to be.

She raised me the same way.

My personality, introverted, wary

a sensitive willowy weeper, to her

was as troublesome as an invasive species.

My garden was born from sand.

The first year I spent spring and summer

digging holes, picking rocks,

pulling roots, mixing soil and finally;

planting sixty-seven native New England

perennials. Salty creative juices

flowing from my pores.

Once all were placed, carefully

inside their muddy thrones

crowning green potential

I panicked!

What if it’s all wrong?

Autumn was the season of second guessing.

I extracted one plant after the other, tearing

tender roots free. Anger fueled my passion

as I dethroned and apologized to the victims

of my innocent ignorance. Promising

never to move them again, I pleaded

with them, not to die.

Some didn’t make it through my torment.

Cruel determination to get this right.

I listen to other women talk

about their gardens.

They make it sound so simple

natural and relaxing. They talk about

pregnancy the same way. Their glow

how much they love being pregnant,

a mother. Gardening.

I wanted my child like I wanted my garden,

until I heard him cry.

Before the nurse could hand him to me,

my innocent prince of broken promises;

before I looked at his angel face,

I told her to take him to the nursery.

Shocked as the roots of the plants

I tore from my new garden,

she took him away.

Our crucial beginning

violent interruption

we never recovered from.

Today my mother is alone. Surrounded

by easy to care for plastic flowers.

Dunk them into dishwater, a couple violent

shakes, and voila! fresh as can be.

The sweet smell behind the veil

of cigarette smoke, that smothers everything,

comes from a battery-powered air freshener

spraying perfume pollen, like pesticide,

into her tiny apartment every twenty minutes.

My son is thirty-three years old

and wants nothing to do with me.

I don’t blame him, he cried for my love.

Begged me not to leave him, but I did

again and again; I tore myself free.

Its late fall and although most gardeners

have already put their gardens to bed, I wait.

I wait until every blossom and bee and

butterfly are gone. I wait until everything

green is brown. I wait until all potential for

life is done, before I carefully cut, trim, feed,

and finally; put my garden to bed.

Feb 29 2012

God Busts a Move

For years I’d barely noticed the guy. Oh sure, I glanced in his direction a time or two, heard rumors that he’d had more work done than Sylvester Stallone, attempting to maintain his chiseled good looks. Also that he had an old lady. But she was barely a shadow when it came to her solid rock husband.

I always wondered what the old bastard’s nationality was. That prominent forehead made him look like a cave dwelling Neanderthal, but then there was that sharp little goatee which made him look like a Grateful Dead groupie. I guess if I had to hang out in the ‘hard tellin not knowin weatha of New Hampsha,’ I’d stay stoned too. Now I tend to think he was a just an old New England Yankee, bein that his face got coined.  Hard ass expression never changed.

Of the renowned Old Man, Daniel Webster once said: “God almighty hung out a sign to show that here He makes men.”

The morning the Old Man fell I stopped for gas in Tilton New Hampshire. The girl behind the counter, arms wrapped around herself tight as a straight jacket, looked away from the breaking news on the tiny TV next to the register and forced a “Hello.” Turning back to the TV, shaking her head side to side, she mumbled, “Terrible, what a tragedy; I can’t believe he’s gone.”

My heart skipped a beat. I’m thinkin terrorists, bombs blasting through buildings, blowing someone up.

“Who,” I ask?

“The Old Man,” she whispers mournfully.

Still not getting it, my mind searches;  Burgess Meredith? Is he still alive?

I must look perplexed because she lets out a long sigh, obviously disgusted by my ignorance. Cinching her arms tighter, she blurts, “The Old Man Of The Mountain fell!”

I feel relieved, and, I’ll admit, amused. I notice that she’s crying so I decide not to say what pops into my mind, which is: Geezum Crow, it’s a rock!  A face frozen stiff by redneck botox. Crude ass mixture of chains, cement, plastic coating, steel rods, turnbuckles and gutters.

Over the next couple weeks the state went into mourning. Locals gathered at bars, homes, and in garages. People came from miles around to visit their Graceland; see if indeed the Old Man was truly gone. The more ambitious lamenters hiking to the base of the faceless cliff to leave flowers.

Small town art galleries lined their walls with thoughtful depictions of their granite idol. The Old Man gets added to the family portrait wall. Mineral memory of his benumbed people.

If Mr. Webster was right and God begat the Old Man to send a message, I have to wonder about this new epistle.  Standing next to the coin operated —now you see him, now you don’t— viewfinder, I can almost hear God whistling in the wind; Adam, here’s your sign.