H and I woke this morning, and as usual, he was verbal while I was still shaking off sleep..."Guess what!" he said. I mumbled into the pillow. "Today is the first Wednesday we have been married." Two days ago was the first "married shower."
Many people have called or asked whether I feel different since the wedding, and I don't exactly. There aren't any long sighs, and movie-tone gazing into each others' eyes in rapt attention. There aren't any new discoveries about whether or not he will fill the ice cube tray (he does), or wash the dishes (he does), or work in the garden (he doesn't except on specific requests). But it has been a week of firsts.
We took our first car ride together around town, as a married couple, and stopped to see our friends Shirley and Pete. It was good to see them, but not momentous exactly.
We had them over for champagne and talked as two married couples. We caught up on the town's doings, but it wasn't earth shattering.
H and I went out to dinner together and as we talked about deeply important things, I sat across the table from him and watched his hand with the gold band, and thought, "I am out with a married man." And realized that that's ok, as he is "my" married man.Not an event worthy of note except to the two of us.
So what is it that I am supposed to feel that is different? I suppose a younger couple might note the first dance, the first morning after the "night of bliss," the first party made for friends. But we have had three days of parties, and we are not a young couple and we have made this decision after many years of shaping ourselves by each others' patterns. I know what will make Herb angry and what will make him laugh out loud. He knows what will make me cry and what will make me shout for joy (iced coffee with coffee cubes). And these patterns haven't changed because the state has a piece of paper with our names and addresses and a signature from our friend and officiant, Nelson. We even joked that we could just fail to file the paperwork, and then we would appear to have been married without ever bothering to follow through on the civil piece of this act. We wouldn't be different than we are now in any measurable way. Would we feel different if this had been a public witnessing but not sanctioned by the state? I doubt it.
What is different is carried in the expectations I think. And it is symbolized in the words that people use as a shorthand for something much bigger.
Jokingly, I have been saying, "I will have to check with my h...huh..... huh...Herb." And he has been saying I will check with my "wuh... wuh,...wuh... woman." But really, the words "husband" and "wife" are odd on the tongue as yet. (See footote below) I am sure that we will take these words for granted eventually, but I am struggling with what it means to be seen in terms of our roles with respect to each other. We each still have the same friends and responsibilities. We are not radically different than we were five days ago, except that we had the best party I have been to. We are not radically different except that the two of us stood in front of 130 of our friends and said publicly what we had said privately...in the words of Susan Sarandon: "“We need a witness to our lives. There's a billion people on the planet... I mean, what does any one life really mean? But in a marriage, you're promising to care about everything. The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things... all of it, all of the time, every day. You're saying 'Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go un-witnessed because I will be your witness'.”
This is a first for me...this notion of witnessing, and of witnessing the terrible things, the mundane things. I have found a kind of comfort in the solitude that has shaped my life to this point, and this witnessing thing is still awkward. But that is the promise we have made to each other. That we will open ourselves to each other, trust each other, and stand in witness. And we have asked our friends, those in attendance on Saturday night to witness that commitment. It is a commitment that can not be breached without violating what we have agreed to before those we trust and love.
That is a first. And that feels very different.
Footnote: (Shirley says I should never say "I will check with.." but rather "I will let him know..." Ahhh! Women's wisdom!)
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Scraps and Notes
There are novels written about weekends like this one.
At dinner on Friday night, the first to arrive were two guys in a Kia with Massachusetts plates. I was outside organizing drinks and ice, and saw them drive in, but didn’t recognize them. So I walked to the screen door and hollered “Incoming!”
“Who is it?” Nora replied.
“I don’t know. They must be yours.” But by that time they’d gotten out of the car, and I recognized that it was my brothers Jerry and Bill, whom I hadn’t seen for eight years.
Then other cars arrived, bearing friends from New York, from New Jersey, from Wisconsin, from California. From Boston and Medford and Salem and Beverly and Somerville and Amesbury. From Middletown.
The grilles were adopted, as grilles are, by men who produced burgers and chicken breasts and hot dogs and bratwurst in endless succession. The early uncontrolled grease fire didn’t last too long...
Talking. On the deck, on the lawn, in the garage, in the house. Everywhere talking, and laughing. And hugging, too, lots of hugging. And people who had traveled hundreds or thousands of miles thanking US for asking them to come.
On Saturday afternoon, a dozen women descended on our house to help Nora feel comforted and surrounded before she went off to her big event. Susan and Jonno piled into their car and followed me up the hill, helping to hammer in 24 Burma Shave signs, twelve uphill and twelve more downhill.
I drove back up to Emmett & Kerstin’s home, and saw Melody and Matt and Wheaton setting up chairs. I encouraged chairs to be brought closer to the arbor, then jumped in and tied a few sashes onto chair-backs until it was time to head inside and change. I stood in front of the air conditioner and de-humidified for a few minutes, then showered and put on my suit and slipped a dime into my right shoe. Since there’s no prohibition against the bride seeing the groom’s clothing ahead of time, I went back out to greet Nelson and Betti, and to sequentially introduce them to the other celebration participants. We staked out our places, and talked with incoming guests. I moved the stand with the programs to be right above the plastic golf hole, so that we wouldn’t injure anyone.
Elizabeth began to play, and the hillside was filled with music. I saw a car bypass the parking barrier and climb the rest of the driveway to the house—Nora was hunkered down in the back seat like the Pope attended by his security detail, being spirited away through secret passageways to arrive at her upstairs chambers. The family assembled on the porch, Nelson gathered, Emmett & Kerstin welcomed, I walked downhill with Estelle, arrived at the arbor, and turned.
The congregants rose without bidding and turned toward the door, and Nora was escorted by her brother Ellis. And all the cliches were true. Radiant. Regal. A vision of loveliness.
Throughout the ceremony, people laughing. That doesn’t happen at a wedding unless the ring bearer or flower girl do something cute, but it happened at our wedding a lot. We had asked all of our participants to each take a minute or two, but almost all of them took three or four. No one seemed antsy about it, though. The weather was cool, the valley was beautiful, the words were filled with love, and things took as long as they took.
You all pronounced us wed.
The toast at the porch, supposedly about five minutes after the end of the ceremony, didn’t start for another half hour, as we made slow progress uphill, stopping every few feet to welcome and thank another friend.
Toasts were offered, Swedish public speaking was deemed inferior, thunder rumbled in the western distance, and the sky darkened. At about 6:30, the gathering started to disassemble and wagon-train its way down to the reception grounds.
I left late, stopped by the house. Put on more comfortable shoes, though I retained the dime; picked up the cash for the band and the envelope with the Vermont marriage license; and parked in the gravel lot behind the firehouse.
It rained. People were forced to stay either inside or under the tent, and met one another. Humboldt Fog and Truffle Tremor were consumed, along with tapenades and flatbreads and much libation.
We herded the group together under the tent. The band arrived at 7:30 as promised, and I said, “tell them to go inside and get some dinner, and be ready to start at 8:30. We’ve got some other things to do.”
Nelson welcomed, Mom welcomed, Jonno and Susan sang (I’m sorry if I disturbed you as I sang along to both songs). Don and Agnes limericked, and Howard barrelhoused.
A bagpiper arrived bearing Scots tunes and Amazing Grace and a poem from Rumi, a moment of utterly random wonderfulness. I was blindsided by a book of family photos and a PowerPoint show, my wife and brother and sister conspiring against me as I’m sure they’ll continue to do.
We lost Nora’s dress-pin. We lost our wedding license. We found them both.
Dinner was had, along with continued libation and much more talking. Nora and I made our way from one table to another, sharing sequential love throughout the full evening. Tables disaggregated and re-assembled in different forms, as people found those that they themselves hadn’t seen in ages. Swing Noire swung, dancers danced, three cakes were dismantled and consumed, witnesses signed their statement and left more elaborate well-wishes in the guestbook.
A table in the corner was laden with gifts, an entire Nissan Rogue-ful.
Back at home, things were vaguely sorted and secured, and we made it to bed at about 2 am, arising again at 7 to prepare for visitors. Ice was purchased, leftovers were acquired from the garage, food and drink were set out, and a great many folks stopped by for a few hours before they departed for their distant homes. We played liars’ dice, made substantial but not sufficient inroads into the remaining ham, consumed more prosecco. We talked.
We opened our gift. Although there were over sixty packages of various sizes and colors, there was really only a single gift, which was made of love. We recorded that love by its components and their origins, marveling over each element as it emerged. We need a larger house to adequately hold and display the love that we received.
Leftovers were re-packaged again, the more fragile elements of love set into cat-proof locations, and we made it to bed at about 2:00 am, arising again at 7 to prepare for visitors. My brothers returned, along with Grazyna and Howard. Matt arrived to disassemble the tent, retrieve some chairs and a cooler, and to return Nan’s grille and tables to her. He talked of the house he rebuilt, and then he and I leaned on his truck and talked together about family.
When Jerry, Bill, Howard and Grazyna departed, Ginger and Jane arrived. I recognized that moment as fiber-friendly, and went to sort trash and recycling in the garage as they emerged onto the porch with a spinning wheel and a drop spindle and needles of varied gauges. I met friends at the dump who’d been at one or more of the weekend’s events, picked up another box of love at the post office, and came back to meet more friends on their ways back home. We dished out another tasting platter of varied wedding cakes, and by about 3:00, were left on our own.
E-mails arrived, with well-wishes and with photographs. Emmett arrived, showing us his own photos and video.
Nora and I went for a drive through town, stopping at Shirley’s. She brought us in onto the couch, and I missed an entire hour of conversation, sleeping in thirty-second bites on Nora’s arm. They’ll be visiting us this evening, though, and I’ll be better prepared and more gracious.
We returned home and I took my first shower as a married man (yes, it had been nearly 50 hours between showers... I’ve been busy), and proposed to my w... wi... woman in the next room that we dress up and go out on a date. So we drove in to Table 24 and had a lovely dinner and even better conversation, arriving home at about 10:30 and crashing into bed like toppled trees.
Now it is Tuesday, a day we missed the first nine hours of as we slept in for the first time in over a week. Lois and Paul have been by to retrieve coolers and chairs and to drop off a bag of their garden lettuce. Nora is puttering and sorting as she does in the morning, while I write, which is what I do in the morning. Later, those roles will reverse. Nelson stopped by at lunch, having dropped off our fully signed wedding license at the town clerk.
I’ve just spent pages describing to you some fraction of what happened this weekend, but really, I can’t begin to describe to you what it meant to have all of you there. We were congratulated several times on having put together a wonderful wedding unlike any other. But really, what we did was gather wonderful people together and allow magic to happen. This was your weekend every bit as much as it was ours, and it was amazing precisely because of the recipe of wonderfulness to which you all added your own spices.
Thanks for a truly remarkable time, and keep track of the blog. This wedding has not ended.
At dinner on Friday night, the first to arrive were two guys in a Kia with Massachusetts plates. I was outside organizing drinks and ice, and saw them drive in, but didn’t recognize them. So I walked to the screen door and hollered “Incoming!”
“Who is it?” Nora replied.
“I don’t know. They must be yours.” But by that time they’d gotten out of the car, and I recognized that it was my brothers Jerry and Bill, whom I hadn’t seen for eight years.
Then other cars arrived, bearing friends from New York, from New Jersey, from Wisconsin, from California. From Boston and Medford and Salem and Beverly and Somerville and Amesbury. From Middletown.
The grilles were adopted, as grilles are, by men who produced burgers and chicken breasts and hot dogs and bratwurst in endless succession. The early uncontrolled grease fire didn’t last too long...
Talking. On the deck, on the lawn, in the garage, in the house. Everywhere talking, and laughing. And hugging, too, lots of hugging. And people who had traveled hundreds or thousands of miles thanking US for asking them to come.
On Saturday afternoon, a dozen women descended on our house to help Nora feel comforted and surrounded before she went off to her big event. Susan and Jonno piled into their car and followed me up the hill, helping to hammer in 24 Burma Shave signs, twelve uphill and twelve more downhill.
I drove back up to Emmett & Kerstin’s home, and saw Melody and Matt and Wheaton setting up chairs. I encouraged chairs to be brought closer to the arbor, then jumped in and tied a few sashes onto chair-backs until it was time to head inside and change. I stood in front of the air conditioner and de-humidified for a few minutes, then showered and put on my suit and slipped a dime into my right shoe. Since there’s no prohibition against the bride seeing the groom’s clothing ahead of time, I went back out to greet Nelson and Betti, and to sequentially introduce them to the other celebration participants. We staked out our places, and talked with incoming guests. I moved the stand with the programs to be right above the plastic golf hole, so that we wouldn’t injure anyone.
Elizabeth began to play, and the hillside was filled with music. I saw a car bypass the parking barrier and climb the rest of the driveway to the house—Nora was hunkered down in the back seat like the Pope attended by his security detail, being spirited away through secret passageways to arrive at her upstairs chambers. The family assembled on the porch, Nelson gathered, Emmett & Kerstin welcomed, I walked downhill with Estelle, arrived at the arbor, and turned.
The congregants rose without bidding and turned toward the door, and Nora was escorted by her brother Ellis. And all the cliches were true. Radiant. Regal. A vision of loveliness.
Throughout the ceremony, people laughing. That doesn’t happen at a wedding unless the ring bearer or flower girl do something cute, but it happened at our wedding a lot. We had asked all of our participants to each take a minute or two, but almost all of them took three or four. No one seemed antsy about it, though. The weather was cool, the valley was beautiful, the words were filled with love, and things took as long as they took.
You all pronounced us wed.
The toast at the porch, supposedly about five minutes after the end of the ceremony, didn’t start for another half hour, as we made slow progress uphill, stopping every few feet to welcome and thank another friend.
Toasts were offered, Swedish public speaking was deemed inferior, thunder rumbled in the western distance, and the sky darkened. At about 6:30, the gathering started to disassemble and wagon-train its way down to the reception grounds.
I left late, stopped by the house. Put on more comfortable shoes, though I retained the dime; picked up the cash for the band and the envelope with the Vermont marriage license; and parked in the gravel lot behind the firehouse.
It rained. People were forced to stay either inside or under the tent, and met one another. Humboldt Fog and Truffle Tremor were consumed, along with tapenades and flatbreads and much libation.
We herded the group together under the tent. The band arrived at 7:30 as promised, and I said, “tell them to go inside and get some dinner, and be ready to start at 8:30. We’ve got some other things to do.”
Nelson welcomed, Mom welcomed, Jonno and Susan sang (I’m sorry if I disturbed you as I sang along to both songs). Don and Agnes limericked, and Howard barrelhoused.
A bagpiper arrived bearing Scots tunes and Amazing Grace and a poem from Rumi, a moment of utterly random wonderfulness. I was blindsided by a book of family photos and a PowerPoint show, my wife and brother and sister conspiring against me as I’m sure they’ll continue to do.
We lost Nora’s dress-pin. We lost our wedding license. We found them both.
Dinner was had, along with continued libation and much more talking. Nora and I made our way from one table to another, sharing sequential love throughout the full evening. Tables disaggregated and re-assembled in different forms, as people found those that they themselves hadn’t seen in ages. Swing Noire swung, dancers danced, three cakes were dismantled and consumed, witnesses signed their statement and left more elaborate well-wishes in the guestbook.
A table in the corner was laden with gifts, an entire Nissan Rogue-ful.
Back at home, things were vaguely sorted and secured, and we made it to bed at about 2 am, arising again at 7 to prepare for visitors. Ice was purchased, leftovers were acquired from the garage, food and drink were set out, and a great many folks stopped by for a few hours before they departed for their distant homes. We played liars’ dice, made substantial but not sufficient inroads into the remaining ham, consumed more prosecco. We talked.
We opened our gift. Although there were over sixty packages of various sizes and colors, there was really only a single gift, which was made of love. We recorded that love by its components and their origins, marveling over each element as it emerged. We need a larger house to adequately hold and display the love that we received.
Leftovers were re-packaged again, the more fragile elements of love set into cat-proof locations, and we made it to bed at about 2:00 am, arising again at 7 to prepare for visitors. My brothers returned, along with Grazyna and Howard. Matt arrived to disassemble the tent, retrieve some chairs and a cooler, and to return Nan’s grille and tables to her. He talked of the house he rebuilt, and then he and I leaned on his truck and talked together about family.
When Jerry, Bill, Howard and Grazyna departed, Ginger and Jane arrived. I recognized that moment as fiber-friendly, and went to sort trash and recycling in the garage as they emerged onto the porch with a spinning wheel and a drop spindle and needles of varied gauges. I met friends at the dump who’d been at one or more of the weekend’s events, picked up another box of love at the post office, and came back to meet more friends on their ways back home. We dished out another tasting platter of varied wedding cakes, and by about 3:00, were left on our own.
E-mails arrived, with well-wishes and with photographs. Emmett arrived, showing us his own photos and video.
Nora and I went for a drive through town, stopping at Shirley’s. She brought us in onto the couch, and I missed an entire hour of conversation, sleeping in thirty-second bites on Nora’s arm. They’ll be visiting us this evening, though, and I’ll be better prepared and more gracious.
We returned home and I took my first shower as a married man (yes, it had been nearly 50 hours between showers... I’ve been busy), and proposed to my w... wi... woman in the next room that we dress up and go out on a date. So we drove in to Table 24 and had a lovely dinner and even better conversation, arriving home at about 10:30 and crashing into bed like toppled trees.
Now it is Tuesday, a day we missed the first nine hours of as we slept in for the first time in over a week. Lois and Paul have been by to retrieve coolers and chairs and to drop off a bag of their garden lettuce. Nora is puttering and sorting as she does in the morning, while I write, which is what I do in the morning. Later, those roles will reverse. Nelson stopped by at lunch, having dropped off our fully signed wedding license at the town clerk.
I’ve just spent pages describing to you some fraction of what happened this weekend, but really, I can’t begin to describe to you what it meant to have all of you there. We were congratulated several times on having put together a wonderful wedding unlike any other. But really, what we did was gather wonderful people together and allow magic to happen. This was your weekend every bit as much as it was ours, and it was amazing precisely because of the recipe of wonderfulness to which you all added your own spices.
Thanks for a truly remarkable time, and keep track of the blog. This wedding has not ended.
Monday, June 27, 2011
A Brief Intermission
Well, it's now Monday evening at 6:30. We had the Friday picnic, the Saturday afternoon wedding, the Saturday evening reception, the Sunday drop-ins, and the Monday drop-ins. We'll be back to posting again soon, but we ARE married now, and have some other things we'd like to attend to first.
Watch This Space.
Watch This Space.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Communities
I am overdue to do the writing I need to do to say what I want to say to Herb. But I will set that seed in fertile soil. We are blessed (there is no other word for it), not only in this Middletown community that we love, but in the many communities of our lives - geographic, intellectual and most clearly emotional.
We invited our friends "from away" to come last night for a low-key gathering, so that we could spend a little time with those we aren't likely to have much time with tonight or in the near future. There were many missing; some will be here today for the wedding, and some will just be sorely missed, but we sat around tables in the chilly evening, grazing under the tent that Patty and Matt put up for us in the few minutes of sun earlier in the day. Herb and I were closely tended by those we love, with offers of food and laughter...and love.
Herb's friend Neoma, and now mine, was told that she should take some time to move to the periphery at her wedding and watch. While I did fairly little at the periphery yesterday, I did watch. And this was a day of bringing together friends not only to celebrate this "us," but those we love.
I saw what I have always believed--that loving people can make a whole still stronger than its many parts. We are stronger as a couple--that much is clear. But I think that friendships were forged last night, and perhaps more.
We are many times, many times, blessed that each of you is in our lives; that we are part of these communities is "home."
We invited our friends "from away" to come last night for a low-key gathering, so that we could spend a little time with those we aren't likely to have much time with tonight or in the near future. There were many missing; some will be here today for the wedding, and some will just be sorely missed, but we sat around tables in the chilly evening, grazing under the tent that Patty and Matt put up for us in the few minutes of sun earlier in the day. Herb and I were closely tended by those we love, with offers of food and laughter...and love.
Herb's friend Neoma, and now mine, was told that she should take some time to move to the periphery at her wedding and watch. While I did fairly little at the periphery yesterday, I did watch. And this was a day of bringing together friends not only to celebrate this "us," but those we love.
I saw what I have always believed--that loving people can make a whole still stronger than its many parts. We are stronger as a couple--that much is clear. But I think that friendships were forged last night, and perhaps more.
We are many times, many times, blessed that each of you is in our lives; that we are part of these communities is "home."
Writing Our Vows Over Breakfast
The writer John McPhee once described his strategy for writing. At about 9:30, he'd take his coffee out to the little writing shed he keeps behind the house. There, he'd probably pick up the book he'd been reading the day before. At some point, he'd look at his watch, and realize, "Oh, it's time for lunch." So he'd walk back into the house, make himself a sandwich, do a chore or two, and then go back out to the shed. He'd pick up the book and make himself comfortable on the daybed, but would soon fall asleep. At about 3:30, he'd wake up, and say "Oh my gosh, we're having dinner at 6:00, and I've only got a couple of hours to write!" And he'd write non-stop until about 5:30.
He called his strategy "the compression of panic."
The wedding is this afternoon. If Wanda were still in our employ, she would have advised that the vows be completed no less than six weeks prior to the ceremony. We'll be lucky if it's done six hours prior.
These are words that matter.
We can sit down in front of the computer and write blog posts every other day, and they do take a little time. (Believe it or not, we actually DO revise before we post!) But these are words we say in front of all of you, to each other and to everyone assembled, to confirm our intentions.
Our intention to be together.
Our intention to encourage each other.
Our intention to strengthen each other.
Our intention to revel in one another's presence.
You don't just knock that off in one sitting. But we'll be ready. See you this afternoon.
He called his strategy "the compression of panic."
The wedding is this afternoon. If Wanda were still in our employ, she would have advised that the vows be completed no less than six weeks prior to the ceremony. We'll be lucky if it's done six hours prior.
These are words that matter.
We can sit down in front of the computer and write blog posts every other day, and they do take a little time. (Believe it or not, we actually DO revise before we post!) But these are words we say in front of all of you, to each other and to everyone assembled, to confirm our intentions.
Our intention to be together.
Our intention to encourage each other.
Our intention to strengthen each other.
Our intention to revel in one another's presence.
You don't just knock that off in one sitting. But we'll be ready. See you this afternoon.
Friday, June 24, 2011
An amazing launch
Well, that was just fabulous! We just finished cleaning up after what may have been the most successful party I've ever attended. My brothers Jerry and Bill were the first to arrive, at about 3:30, and the last departures stayed until after 10. In between was just conversations. People who'd never met one another before were talking to each other like they were picking up from where they'd left off earlier. Everyone met with people they didn't know, no one stuck solely to "their tribe," and I heard laughing from every corner.
Tonight felt to me like the big night. The train has left the station, and the first views have been stunningly beautiful. Tomorrow is just the bonus.
Tonight felt to me like the big night. The train has left the station, and the first views have been stunningly beautiful. Tomorrow is just the bonus.
(out)Pouring
Well, it's coming down hard out there at 12:15 Friday.
We've already had visits so far this morning from...
It may be pouring out, but we're surrounded by an outpouring of love and support and assistance. It's truly a remarkable thing to experience, and a blessing beyond words. Thank you all.
We've already had visits so far this morning from...
- Melody, making final arrangements and picking up loads of printed materials;
- David, changing the water-system filter and helping me re-install the air conditioner;
- Nan, checking to see what we need (and taking all our hamburger away to make patties so we don't have to);
- Patty & Matt, bringing chairs and putting up the lawn canopy here for the picnic.
It may be pouring out, but we're surrounded by an outpouring of love and support and assistance. It's truly a remarkable thing to experience, and a blessing beyond words. Thank you all.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Ejected
Okay, the referee can assess another whining penalty if he wants to, but now I'm being ejected from my own house on my wedding day. Nora's girly friends from New York are coming in on Saturday morning to do make-up and hair and dresses and drink Cosmos and do the whole Sex in the City thing, and I'm banished. After all, all I have to do is put on a shirt and a pair of pants and I'm good to go...
And there's not even a decent pool hall within two hours. I wonder what time the taverns open in Rutland on Saturday morning...
And there's not even a decent pool hall within two hours. I wonder what time the taverns open in Rutland on Saturday morning...
Watch This Space
I enjoy looking at business signs. Not the big permanent ones, but the impromptu banners and posters that pop up in response to discovered needs. Some of them mean exactly what they say. "No Spitting on the Floor" is not a metaphor.
But some signs speak in code. Closed for Renovation means "Never, ever coming back again." Under New Management means "We recognize that our reputation is terrible, but please give us another try." Everything Must Go!! means "We've been pretending to go out of business for seven years, so that you buy this $200 chair that we've marked up to $650 for half price at $325."
Watch This Space is another one of those. Ostensibly it means "An exciting new tenant is arriving soon, and you'll be really happy about it." But usually it's put up by the property management team, and means "We can't rent this damn space for the life of us, but we don't want you to start to think of this site as hopeless. And we're NOT slumlords!"
In our case, however, Watch This Space is literal. The weather forecast for the weekend is sketchy—some periods of rain, some periods of heavy rain, some periods where it'll be beautiful. We're building out the contingency planning today, and will post updates if there are changes. However, even if it's rainy tomorrow, we'll still be hosting the out-of-towners' grill at our house... we'll just cook in the garage, and huddle together, soggy and happy, in the lawn tent. Beer and friends makes all well.
But some signs speak in code. Closed for Renovation means "Never, ever coming back again." Under New Management means "We recognize that our reputation is terrible, but please give us another try." Everything Must Go!! means "We've been pretending to go out of business for seven years, so that you buy this $200 chair that we've marked up to $650 for half price at $325."
Watch This Space is another one of those. Ostensibly it means "An exciting new tenant is arriving soon, and you'll be really happy about it." But usually it's put up by the property management team, and means "We can't rent this damn space for the life of us, but we don't want you to start to think of this site as hopeless. And we're NOT slumlords!"
In our case, however, Watch This Space is literal. The weather forecast for the weekend is sketchy—some periods of rain, some periods of heavy rain, some periods where it'll be beautiful. We're building out the contingency planning today, and will post updates if there are changes. However, even if it's rainy tomorrow, we'll still be hosting the out-of-towners' grill at our house... we'll just cook in the garage, and huddle together, soggy and happy, in the lawn tent. Beer and friends makes all well.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Listmaking
When the going gets tough, the tough make lists.
We've had a running file on the computer for the last three weeks or so that we call "the Random List," because it's there to catch the stuff we remember at random times with no connection to anything else. I've put it into piles—supporting travelers, preparing house, weekend printing, Friday picnic, ceremony, reception, acknowledging gifts, post-wedding life—so that I can find things and get them done. But items get added to the list with no respect to their weight or importance. Arranging to help find last-minute rooms for friends is on the list alongside buying Ball Jars to make iced tea; finishing our vows is next to putting a new ribbon on my hat.
What's interesting about listmaking is that the list always remains the same size. As one event moves to completion, another arises. And as the event draws near, even though major tasks are checked off and removed, what remains becomes more fine-grained. "Shop for Friday," that reassuring single line from two weeks ago, is now "chips...nuts...Chinet plates...plastic forks & knives...condiments...contractor bags..." And when I get to the store later this morning, it's going to be more detailed than that, as "condiments" gets turned into "Heinz ketchup, Plochtman's mustard, pickle relish, mayo, do we need horseradish?..."
While I'm in Poultney shopping, I'm also going to get my hair cut. I don't know the barber's name, but I do know that although he stopped his own schooling after high school, he has a son who's in a doctoral program in physics, a daughter in a doctoral program in biology, and another daughter who's an academic librarian. Ten bucks, no hair products, the coffee table covered with Popular Mechanics and the day's Rutland Herald. It's like getting an oil change—simple, quick, accurate.
Poultney ought to be more of a town than it is. It has a nice old main street, about four blocks long, with stores along both sides. Green Mountain College is right up at the end of the street. But everything looks half starved, like a dog with too many ribs visible. The stores are open, but exhausted. It feels like the same dollar moves back and forth across town, with none coming in from elsewhere. The balance of trade is negative. The town's local nickname is "Paltry."
Middletown Springs ought to be more of a town than it is, too, just slightly. Although the phone book (a misnomer, really... the phone pamphlet?) shows all kinds of businesses—well drillers, furniture makers, honey growers, small engine repair—there are only two publicly accessible businesses. One is Grant's General Store, which everyone calls Vicki's because that's who owns it and her last name isn't Grant, and the other is Sissy's Kitchen, a terrific little restaurant that only sells takeout. Norm used to have a gas station at the four corners; he quit selling gas about six or seven years back and just ran the garage for a while, then closed the garage altogether, then the whole thing burned to the soil about three years ago. People are used to the void at the corner now, and anything new might face some opposition. But the town feels like it needs a "living room," a place where you can go after work and before dinner, a place to hang out when you're bored, a place where people can run into one another accidentally on purpose. What the sociologist Ray Oldenburg calls "the third place:" not the privacy and protection of home, not the impersonality and task orientation of work, but a third place, one in which someone else does the work of being the host and all of the visitors are on casually equal ground. (The subtitle of Oldenburg's book is "Cafes, Coffee Shops, Bookstores, Bars, Hair Salons, and Other Hangouts at the Heart of a Community.")
I've made that list, too. I know how much it would cost to open a pool room, down to the last box of chalk and the light bill. I know how much I'd have to charge for beer, and for table time, and for lessons. Spreadsheets are the counterweight to optimism, the clarity that's partnered with the dream. But if one improbable thing—getting married—can make it onto our list, maybe some others can as well.
We've had a running file on the computer for the last three weeks or so that we call "the Random List," because it's there to catch the stuff we remember at random times with no connection to anything else. I've put it into piles—supporting travelers, preparing house, weekend printing, Friday picnic, ceremony, reception, acknowledging gifts, post-wedding life—so that I can find things and get them done. But items get added to the list with no respect to their weight or importance. Arranging to help find last-minute rooms for friends is on the list alongside buying Ball Jars to make iced tea; finishing our vows is next to putting a new ribbon on my hat.
What's interesting about listmaking is that the list always remains the same size. As one event moves to completion, another arises. And as the event draws near, even though major tasks are checked off and removed, what remains becomes more fine-grained. "Shop for Friday," that reassuring single line from two weeks ago, is now "chips...nuts...Chinet plates...plastic forks & knives...condiments...contractor bags..." And when I get to the store later this morning, it's going to be more detailed than that, as "condiments" gets turned into "Heinz ketchup, Plochtman's mustard, pickle relish, mayo, do we need horseradish?..."
While I'm in Poultney shopping, I'm also going to get my hair cut. I don't know the barber's name, but I do know that although he stopped his own schooling after high school, he has a son who's in a doctoral program in physics, a daughter in a doctoral program in biology, and another daughter who's an academic librarian. Ten bucks, no hair products, the coffee table covered with Popular Mechanics and the day's Rutland Herald. It's like getting an oil change—simple, quick, accurate.
Poultney ought to be more of a town than it is. It has a nice old main street, about four blocks long, with stores along both sides. Green Mountain College is right up at the end of the street. But everything looks half starved, like a dog with too many ribs visible. The stores are open, but exhausted. It feels like the same dollar moves back and forth across town, with none coming in from elsewhere. The balance of trade is negative. The town's local nickname is "Paltry."
Middletown Springs ought to be more of a town than it is, too, just slightly. Although the phone book (a misnomer, really... the phone pamphlet?) shows all kinds of businesses—well drillers, furniture makers, honey growers, small engine repair—there are only two publicly accessible businesses. One is Grant's General Store, which everyone calls Vicki's because that's who owns it and her last name isn't Grant, and the other is Sissy's Kitchen, a terrific little restaurant that only sells takeout. Norm used to have a gas station at the four corners; he quit selling gas about six or seven years back and just ran the garage for a while, then closed the garage altogether, then the whole thing burned to the soil about three years ago. People are used to the void at the corner now, and anything new might face some opposition. But the town feels like it needs a "living room," a place where you can go after work and before dinner, a place to hang out when you're bored, a place where people can run into one another accidentally on purpose. What the sociologist Ray Oldenburg calls "the third place:" not the privacy and protection of home, not the impersonality and task orientation of work, but a third place, one in which someone else does the work of being the host and all of the visitors are on casually equal ground. (The subtitle of Oldenburg's book is "Cafes, Coffee Shops, Bookstores, Bars, Hair Salons, and Other Hangouts at the Heart of a Community.")
I've made that list, too. I know how much it would cost to open a pool room, down to the last box of chalk and the light bill. I know how much I'd have to charge for beer, and for table time, and for lessons. Spreadsheets are the counterweight to optimism, the clarity that's partnered with the dream. But if one improbable thing—getting married—can make it onto our list, maybe some others can as well.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Dress Code
There's a vast history of etiquette, some of which is based on good behavior and common sense, but much of which is intended to be a marker that a person is "part of the club," knows the arcane rules and is willing to abide by them. Always keep the King to your right, and if walking together, stay one pace behind. Shake hands to reassure all that you are not armed. Take off your hat with your right hand but immediately transfer it to your left.
The custom of "evening wear" is actually just an acknowledgment that after spending all day riding around town on your horse, it might be nice to wash up and put on some other clothes. But the fact that it became a system of clothes that were perfectly clean and perfectly pressed and (often) perfectly white was meant to indicate a degree of wealth, in that:
When attending the wedding—
The Groom will be wearing a pale summer suit, dress shirt, tie, pocket square, a plantation hat, and his least comfortable shoes. At the reception, he will be wearing something similar, but the shoes will actually bend to some degree.
The Bride will be wearing... well, who knows, really? Certainly not me, Mr. Groom... I've been conspired against by at least half a dozen women, all of whom have seen the bride and the clothes (and sometimes the bride IN the clothes) in incandescent light, in fluorescent light, in direct sunlight, in muted and dappled light under a pear tree, and gently illuminated from the left by Liberace's candelabra as he plays Clair de Lune. But me? Nada.
[Referee's note — whining penalty assessed against the groom. Carry on.]
You can be grateful that Wanda is no longer associated with this wedding; she would have requested that you all wear a certain color palette (with Pantone chips included in the invitation), and you would have had to show your polo club membership key fob to the valet to get your car back.
The custom of "evening wear" is actually just an acknowledgment that after spending all day riding around town on your horse, it might be nice to wash up and put on some other clothes. But the fact that it became a system of clothes that were perfectly clean and perfectly pressed and (often) perfectly white was meant to indicate a degree of wealth, in that:
- you could afford extra clothes just for courtly events;
- you could afford to pay household staff to keep them clean and pressed; and
- you could afford a coach, horses, and a horseman to bring you to the party still tidy
When attending the wedding—
- Clothing shall be selected only on the basis of comfort, cleanliness, protection from the elements, and suitability for walking on grass and/or gravel. No other formulas for appropriate garb will pertain.
- The innermost chairs will be held for those with active roles in the ceremony; other guests may sit as they please. There will be no groom's side or bride's side, as we will not be concluding the ceremony with a rugby match between the families.
- The following are not permitted: firearms, knives with blades longer than 4", vuvuzelas, steel cleats, or foreign substances applied to the baseball. Play hard, but play clean.
- The groom shall not be allowed to see the bride in her wedding garb until the moment of her procession across the lawn. This may drive him nuts, and certainly she's been allowed to see his nice new suit and even to choose between the two shirt-and-tie combinations he was considering (a choice upon which they agreed), but does he get any inkling at all about what she's wearing? Noooo... (Also, the groom shall not be allowed to whine any further about this.)
- Participants are assigned to a table for dinner only, and are not bound to this arrangement before or after. Specific seating assignments within the context of the table shall be self-determined.
- Participants may wear the same clothing they wore to the ceremony, or may change into a second ensemble. The same criteria of comfort, cleanliness, protection from the elements, and suitability for walking on grass and/or gravel shall apply as they did to the afternoon.
- Returning for seconds from the buffet is permissible. Perhaps even encouraged. Perhaps more than seconds.
- The piano is available for free and communal use. However, it is considered bad form to begin playing your rendition of "Free Bird" while the wedding band is in mid-set.
A guide to the wedding couple's clothing—
As it is considered uncouth to "upstage" the wedding couple by wearing clothing more formal than theirs, here is a guide to their ceremonial garb.The Groom will be wearing a pale summer suit, dress shirt, tie, pocket square, a plantation hat, and his least comfortable shoes. At the reception, he will be wearing something similar, but the shoes will actually bend to some degree.
The Bride will be wearing... well, who knows, really? Certainly not me, Mr. Groom... I've been conspired against by at least half a dozen women, all of whom have seen the bride and the clothes (and sometimes the bride IN the clothes) in incandescent light, in fluorescent light, in direct sunlight, in muted and dappled light under a pear tree, and gently illuminated from the left by Liberace's candelabra as he plays Clair de Lune. But me? Nada.
[Referee's note — whining penalty assessed against the groom. Carry on.]
You can be grateful that Wanda is no longer associated with this wedding; she would have requested that you all wear a certain color palette (with Pantone chips included in the invitation), and you would have had to show your polo club membership key fob to the valet to get your car back.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Keeping the Printer Running
UPS is right; it's the logistics that'll make things go, or not. When Moses brought the Israelites from Egypt to the Promised Land, the story goes that they spent forty years in the wilderness. The driving distance between Cairo and Tel Aviv is about 250 miles, an hour or so longer than the trip from Logan Airport to the Four Corners of Middletown Springs. Admittedly, they didn't have a fleet of brown vans or anything, but still, 130 feet per day?
That's about how I'm feeling right now. Doing anything with 140 people turns out to be a pretty massive undertaking. Yesterday and today, I've been doing page layout for signs. (Side note: you'll hear a little bit next Saturday about our lullabies. One of mine is to notice while I'm going down the highway just how many road signs there are: directional signs, mileage markers, construction warnings, speed limits, what gas stations are off the next exit... it's endless.) I had no idea I was going to be in the sign business a week ago, but now there are a gajillion of them.
I think having planned and pulled off your own wedding ought to be included on your resume, as evidence of the organizational skills necessary to run a medium-sized business.
That's about how I'm feeling right now. Doing anything with 140 people turns out to be a pretty massive undertaking. Yesterday and today, I've been doing page layout for signs. (Side note: you'll hear a little bit next Saturday about our lullabies. One of mine is to notice while I'm going down the highway just how many road signs there are: directional signs, mileage markers, construction warnings, speed limits, what gas stations are off the next exit... it's endless.) I had no idea I was going to be in the sign business a week ago, but now there are a gajillion of them.
- There are signs for the foot of the road to go up to the ceremony, and signs at the town green to get you to the reception.
- There are signs for our house so that people can stop by. There are signs AT our house to remind people not to let the cats escape, and to remind people how to treat a septic system gently. (Nora wants a sign leading our gentlemen guests to the bushes next to the cemetery...)
- There are programs for the ceremony.
- There are signs at the reception helping people find their appropriate dinner tables, and signs at those tables so you know you've found the right place.
- There are signs for parking, uphill and downhill.
- There are signs just for fun, going up and down Many Springs Drive.
I think having planned and pulled off your own wedding ought to be included on your resume, as evidence of the organizational skills necessary to run a medium-sized business.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
The order of liturgy
Most wedding ceremonies are scripted out long before the day of the event. Sometimes people know months in advance; sometimes they follow a script that's hundreds of years old, passed down through religious practices that have become formal and unvaried, including Wagner's Wedding Chorus on the way in and Mendelssohn's Wedding March on the way out.
As you might imagine, ours is less finished at the moment. It's close. We know who the participants are (even those beyond the two of us). We know more or less what order things will happen. We still have a small tune-up to do with one transitional moment. But the sequence is pretty much set, to the point where I should be able to lay out and print the programs this weekend.
The difference, though, is that we have no idea exactly what anybody will say. We've asked a number of people to speak briefly, and won't know until we hear them what their words will be. We've asked a friend to play for us as we assemble, as Nora and I enter, and as we depart, but we've asked her to choose her own music, and won't know until we hear her violin what those tunes will be. We're writing each other a letter for the other to read, and it will be delivered and opened on the spot, as letters should be. We're writing vows to one another, and the other won't have heard those until that very moment.
Can you say weepy? Good heavens, I'm not going to be able to go three consecutive minutes without choking up. I may have to have a stand-in groom for the ceremony, while I sit off on the side and get all verklempt.
In the more traditional model, the groom has almost nothing to do at all. He shows up with his buddies and stands in the front of the room while his new wife is delivered to him (this is a precursor to his lifelong expectation that everything will be delivered to him, mostly by his wife as he sits in the La-Z-Boy watching college football). He turns 90 degrees at some point to face her instead of facing the congregants—a tall order, but our boy can do it. And then the vows are read to him, five or six words at a time, and he parrots those back. Bada bing, bada boom. Done. All he has to do is show up and do as he's told, and nobody will remember anything about him ten minutes later.
So this wedding, although scripted in sequence, will have plenty of surprises, for us as well as for you. There won't even be a rehearsal, since our officiant and his wife will be in Maine running a music camp until Saturday morning, so every bit of it will be happening for the first time. We'll ask your forebearance as we occasionally stop to regain our composure.
As you might imagine, ours is less finished at the moment. It's close. We know who the participants are (even those beyond the two of us). We know more or less what order things will happen. We still have a small tune-up to do with one transitional moment. But the sequence is pretty much set, to the point where I should be able to lay out and print the programs this weekend.
The difference, though, is that we have no idea exactly what anybody will say. We've asked a number of people to speak briefly, and won't know until we hear them what their words will be. We've asked a friend to play for us as we assemble, as Nora and I enter, and as we depart, but we've asked her to choose her own music, and won't know until we hear her violin what those tunes will be. We're writing each other a letter for the other to read, and it will be delivered and opened on the spot, as letters should be. We're writing vows to one another, and the other won't have heard those until that very moment.
Can you say weepy? Good heavens, I'm not going to be able to go three consecutive minutes without choking up. I may have to have a stand-in groom for the ceremony, while I sit off on the side and get all verklempt.
In the more traditional model, the groom has almost nothing to do at all. He shows up with his buddies and stands in the front of the room while his new wife is delivered to him (this is a precursor to his lifelong expectation that everything will be delivered to him, mostly by his wife as he sits in the La-Z-Boy watching college football). He turns 90 degrees at some point to face her instead of facing the congregants—a tall order, but our boy can do it. And then the vows are read to him, five or six words at a time, and he parrots those back. Bada bing, bada boom. Done. All he has to do is show up and do as he's told, and nobody will remember anything about him ten minutes later.
So this wedding, although scripted in sequence, will have plenty of surprises, for us as well as for you. There won't even be a rehearsal, since our officiant and his wife will be in Maine running a music camp until Saturday morning, so every bit of it will be happening for the first time. We'll ask your forebearance as we occasionally stop to regain our composure.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Triorities
It's been a week of trying to figure out what comes first. We're keeping what we call "the random list," because every time some little chore or detail comes to mind at random times, we throw it onto the list and put it into some kind of sequence later.
The title of today's header comes from Rich Hall, a former writer for Saturday Night Live. Triorities are three things that all have to be done first. So: hang the planter baskets or do the seating list for the reception or buy a new patio umbrella? Finish the page layout for the program or do a run-through of the ceremony or wash the dishes? Put in the air conditioners or make a bow for my hat or price out health insurance through the local Chamber of Commerce? There's no sensible way in which ANY of these things comes before or after the other, but my being a kind of logical-sequence guy, I'm trying to understand whether there's a critical path. And spending those 20 minutes to try to figure it out means 20 minutes that I'm not cleaning up the magazines in the bathroom.
Hence no posts recently. But we'll be back with something longer tomorrow, promise.
The title of today's header comes from Rich Hall, a former writer for Saturday Night Live. Triorities are three things that all have to be done first. So: hang the planter baskets or do the seating list for the reception or buy a new patio umbrella? Finish the page layout for the program or do a run-through of the ceremony or wash the dishes? Put in the air conditioners or make a bow for my hat or price out health insurance through the local Chamber of Commerce? There's no sensible way in which ANY of these things comes before or after the other, but my being a kind of logical-sequence guy, I'm trying to understand whether there's a critical path. And spending those 20 minutes to try to figure it out means 20 minutes that I'm not cleaning up the magazines in the bathroom.
Hence no posts recently. But we'll be back with something longer tomorrow, promise.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
There's no substitute for repetition
In his recent book Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell puts forth the argument (also made by Richard Sennett and others) that being really good at something, truly expert, takes about 10,000 hours of serious practice. That's five or six years at a full-time job, which is why so many trades apprenticeships are five to seven years long, and why the correctly-named "masters degree" takes about six years of full-time post-high-school learning.
The playwright David Mamet tells a great story about the champion ping-pong player, Marty Reisman. There were a bunch of kind of seedy ping-pong clubs in New York back in the 40s and 50s, lots of gambling going on, but kids were often allowed in there as well. One kid, twelve or thirteen years old, watches a match in which Reisman just completely dismantles another very good player. After the match, the boy races down to the table, and says "Gosh, Mr. Reisman, that was amazing! How can I get to be as good a ping-pong player as you are?" And Reisman smiles down at the boy, and says "Well, kid, first you quit school..."
I'm a really good pool player. Really good. Better than you. But... I started playing seriously in about 2003, and over the past eight years, I've probably averaged 5-10 hours per week of practice (considerably less in the past four months, probably more while Sacco's was still open until spring 2010). So let's say 8 hours a week for 50 weeks a year for 8 years... I'm only at 3,200 hours, WAY less than full professional mastery. Compare that against someone like Efren Reyes, generally considered to be the best pool player who's ever lived. Efren is 57, Filipino, and grew up in his uncle's pool hall in Manila. He worked as a rack boy starting when he was five years old, played while standing on Coke crates, and slept on the table at night. In the past 52 years, he's probably averaged five or six hours of play per day, which means he's at about a hundred thousand hours.
(In almost every interview with a truly outstanding pool player, there'll be a sentence beginning with the words "My dad had a pool room in this little town...")
I'm reminded of all this because Nora and I were out getting some shoes today, and while she was in Manchester Footwear, I went next door to the furniture store and was just poking around, and came across some little trinkets. And I said to myself, "Nora would like that," and $1.62 later, I had it. And she did like it indeed. I get the little airport junk when I travel, I write her e-mails and notes, I bring flowers. And that repetition matters a lot, I think. It reminds us both that we aren't taking each other for granted, it causes us both to put specific time in the day for each other.
And after a while, we'll be experts.
The playwright David Mamet tells a great story about the champion ping-pong player, Marty Reisman. There were a bunch of kind of seedy ping-pong clubs in New York back in the 40s and 50s, lots of gambling going on, but kids were often allowed in there as well. One kid, twelve or thirteen years old, watches a match in which Reisman just completely dismantles another very good player. After the match, the boy races down to the table, and says "Gosh, Mr. Reisman, that was amazing! How can I get to be as good a ping-pong player as you are?" And Reisman smiles down at the boy, and says "Well, kid, first you quit school..."
I'm a really good pool player. Really good. Better than you. But... I started playing seriously in about 2003, and over the past eight years, I've probably averaged 5-10 hours per week of practice (considerably less in the past four months, probably more while Sacco's was still open until spring 2010). So let's say 8 hours a week for 50 weeks a year for 8 years... I'm only at 3,200 hours, WAY less than full professional mastery. Compare that against someone like Efren Reyes, generally considered to be the best pool player who's ever lived. Efren is 57, Filipino, and grew up in his uncle's pool hall in Manila. He worked as a rack boy starting when he was five years old, played while standing on Coke crates, and slept on the table at night. In the past 52 years, he's probably averaged five or six hours of play per day, which means he's at about a hundred thousand hours.
(In almost every interview with a truly outstanding pool player, there'll be a sentence beginning with the words "My dad had a pool room in this little town...")
I'm reminded of all this because Nora and I were out getting some shoes today, and while she was in Manchester Footwear, I went next door to the furniture store and was just poking around, and came across some little trinkets. And I said to myself, "Nora would like that," and $1.62 later, I had it. And she did like it indeed. I get the little airport junk when I travel, I write her e-mails and notes, I bring flowers. And that repetition matters a lot, I think. It reminds us both that we aren't taking each other for granted, it causes us both to put specific time in the day for each other.
And after a while, we'll be experts.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Sore hands....Please be sure to notice the garden when you come
Well, Middletown gardening is good for the soul but tough on the hands - especially when you can't use gloves - I know, I should, but I can't feel the plants.
Judy gave me pots full of transplants this morning: echinacea, sundrops, wild daisies, flags, rudbeckia, a red petunia ... Digging them was a job and a half in the rocky soil, but we made it and then of course there was the issue of putting them into the soil here - also rocky. I finished getting the plants in about 12:30 only to turn around and find that our friend Lois had dropped off two flats of other plants: lamb's ear, another small flowered rudbeckia; basil; and two or three other kinds of plants whose names escape me now. Everyone is jumping in to help with the wedding - we wanted to prettify the backyard before people arrived, and as one thing leads to another, I now own a new wheelbarrow and a new weed whacker and some whiskey barrels... oh yes, I almost forgot... Alida offered her husband Rodney's services to drill holes in the whisky barrels that will hold more plants AND he will pre-fill them with gravel and dirt so that there won't be mounds of dirt and manure when you come over. I can't imagine how he will get the filled barrels from the back of his truck to where they need to go by HAND!!! And I've asked Glen to mow the upper area of weeds so that Rodney can till before you come....
There was a new wrinkle with my wedding outfit (pun intended) and Jenny stopped by to talk me off the cliff. Wine and a good friend make a real difference. And Patty has put in the order for drinks and Melody seems to "have our back" on the plates and glasses, linens and the solar cart (if you want a lift from the parking area to the wedding site).
Of course our event isn't the only one of importance happening around here. The 3000 flyers for Solar Fest arrived for labels, and they were folded wrong, so now Patty has to refold 3000 mailers and label them. Jaya and her daughter Oriah are helping and I will go there tomorrow to help. And Jenny is going to the Town Clerk's office to copy 500 mailing pieces for the Library...
It's a quiet day in Middletown Springs; the sun is out; and a lot of people are taking care of a lot of things and there isn't a whole lot of tension--except here at 8 South St. where the wedding outfit is still somewhere in Seattle and New York and the emails continue to fly...
Off to take a shower and soak my hands.... and maybe do a little writing on what it is like to say farewell to my single status....It's been part of me for a long time...More on that some time soon....
Judy gave me pots full of transplants this morning: echinacea, sundrops, wild daisies, flags, rudbeckia, a red petunia ... Digging them was a job and a half in the rocky soil, but we made it and then of course there was the issue of putting them into the soil here - also rocky. I finished getting the plants in about 12:30 only to turn around and find that our friend Lois had dropped off two flats of other plants: lamb's ear, another small flowered rudbeckia; basil; and two or three other kinds of plants whose names escape me now. Everyone is jumping in to help with the wedding - we wanted to prettify the backyard before people arrived, and as one thing leads to another, I now own a new wheelbarrow and a new weed whacker and some whiskey barrels... oh yes, I almost forgot... Alida offered her husband Rodney's services to drill holes in the whisky barrels that will hold more plants AND he will pre-fill them with gravel and dirt so that there won't be mounds of dirt and manure when you come over. I can't imagine how he will get the filled barrels from the back of his truck to where they need to go by HAND!!! And I've asked Glen to mow the upper area of weeds so that Rodney can till before you come....
There was a new wrinkle with my wedding outfit (pun intended) and Jenny stopped by to talk me off the cliff. Wine and a good friend make a real difference. And Patty has put in the order for drinks and Melody seems to "have our back" on the plates and glasses, linens and the solar cart (if you want a lift from the parking area to the wedding site).
Of course our event isn't the only one of importance happening around here. The 3000 flyers for Solar Fest arrived for labels, and they were folded wrong, so now Patty has to refold 3000 mailers and label them. Jaya and her daughter Oriah are helping and I will go there tomorrow to help. And Jenny is going to the Town Clerk's office to copy 500 mailing pieces for the Library...
It's a quiet day in Middletown Springs; the sun is out; and a lot of people are taking care of a lot of things and there isn't a whole lot of tension--except here at 8 South St. where the wedding outfit is still somewhere in Seattle and New York and the emails continue to fly...
Off to take a shower and soak my hands.... and maybe do a little writing on what it is like to say farewell to my single status....It's been part of me for a long time...More on that some time soon....
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Resignation
To Whom It May Concern;
For the past three months, I have acted as the wedding-plan auditor for Nora Rubinstein and Herb Childress on behalf of the planning firm Sinder Ellis Bahl LLP. Each month on the 7th, I have faithfully submitted a status update, noting areas of success and offering reminders of tasks yet to be completed. But as the deadline draws near, I find my position to be increasingly untenable. I offer my advice, only to hear the couple say things like "Whatever goes wrong will be the things we'll laugh about in two months." They regularly change their plans as they continue to have so-called "good ideas." They send communications to their guests without clearing the contents through our PR office. My advising has gone unheeded more often than not.
Prior to coming to Sinder Ellis Bahl LLP, I spent 37 years as personal and engagement secretary to Mrs. Livingston Talbott Forsythe IV of Newton MA, Southhampton NY and Hilton Head SC. In that capacity, I have managed events of remarkable complexity, ranging from the Southampton Junior League "Traditions of Equine Excellence" gala to the wedding of the Forsythes' daughter Adelynn Noelle (Bryn Mawr '06) to Mr. Jackson Chandler Slowden (Princeton '04). In all cases, my events were noted for their precision and attention to detail.
Now I find myself called to places where weddings occur in direct sun, where some aspects of the reception entertainment are left to the guests themselves, and where "potlucks" take the place of paté. Even now, with only two weeks before the wedding, guests do not know whether the reception dinner will be black tie or white tie. (The bride herself may wind up wearing dungarees, for all I know.) This is all so imprecise and uncontrolled that I find myself unable to stand behind my planning.
As a result, I hereby announce that I will be leaving Sinder Ellis Bahl LLP, effective immediately. After a month of recuperation at the Mirror Lake Inn, I will be taking a position as Senior Event Planner with The Woodlands Racquet, Polo and Hunt Club of Kennebunk ME, where I believe that my talents will be well employed. You may forward my severance package to The Woodlands.
I do wish Ms. Rubinstein and Mr. Childress every bit of good fortune as they approach their blessed day; I only wish that I could have been allowed to serve them more fully. Please advise them on my behalf to purchase more electrical cords, and to consider once again my suggestion of the Sunday post-wedding croquet and chamber music afternoon gathering.
With Regrets,
Wanda F. Thelmecket
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Afterwards
Wedding planning is a funny thing. You focus all of your energy on preparing for this wonderful weekend of events—the Friday picnic for out-of-town friends, the wedding and reception on Saturday, the Sunday chance to talk with friends at Strawberry Festival. I bet that on Monday, we're going to feel as though we've been shot out of a cannon. Where will we land?
The organization that Nora worked for, and that I still do, is going through extensive turmoil right now. We've either hired or are about to hire a new head for all three of our professional schools; we're developing a fully revised set of all of our curricula for Fall 2012; we're going through two critical accreditation processes at once; we're coming to terms with being a professional school in a profession that has lost 25% of its employment nationwide in the past three years. I love my colleagues and my students, but as an organization, it's a deeply stressful place to be (and has been for several years).
I talk with my students about stress, and use the term simultaneously in the emotional and the structural sense. Applied forces create stress in the building components that resist them; the formula for stress in a linear member (a floor joist, a wall stud, etc.) is [force * beam length] / [beam width * beam depth squared].
You needed to know that, right?
So I analogize that for our emotional health as [stressors * their expected duration] / [width of social network * your sense of purpose squared]. Don't try to calculate your personal stress; it's an analogy, okay? And right now, my numerator is really high—lots of stressors with no end in sight—and my denominator is low, because I question my effectiveness and because so many of my best friends (and my sense of home) are in Vermont.
Vermont, though, is hardly a stress-free proposition either. Our friends Nelson and Betti gave us the best description of Vermont economics I've heard thus far. "We're just piecing things together, doing a little of this and a little of that. That's what everybody does up here." I think back on my Uncle Bob and Aunt Helen, who raised four sons and ran an extensive and successful orchard (peaches, plums, apples and cherries) while Bob also had his mail delivery route and Helen worked as an administrative assistant at Caterpillar heavy machine manufacturing. Lots of people piecing things together. It's not an unusual way of life, but those of us who only have one job at a time rarely think about it.
Academia is full of people piecing things together. "Road Scholars," they're often called, picking up a course here and a course there, working for colleges that have no obligations to them other than a stipend that averages out (if you really do your teaching work) to about the same hourly rate as the kid who takes your order in the Dunkin Donuts drive-through. About half of all faculty in American colleges are adjunct, and they teach about a quarter of all courses.
Consulting is another form of piecing things together, as is writing. Forever on the hunt for the next gig, one eye on the craft and the other on the marketing and networking.
I've always been an employee. I like the stability that comes with a job; steady pay, benefits, relative lack of risk. Nora's family is far more entrepreneurial; her parents started and ran a successful professional business for decades.
Independence and stability. High and low risk. Coming and going.
Nora and I are going to be charting a new course with our marriage, taking care of each other and learning new things and relying on one another's strengths. And that course may have economic implications as well. That cannonball has to land somewhere.
This song's been on my mind a lot lately. Even before I saw the video with the wedding dress...
The organization that Nora worked for, and that I still do, is going through extensive turmoil right now. We've either hired or are about to hire a new head for all three of our professional schools; we're developing a fully revised set of all of our curricula for Fall 2012; we're going through two critical accreditation processes at once; we're coming to terms with being a professional school in a profession that has lost 25% of its employment nationwide in the past three years. I love my colleagues and my students, but as an organization, it's a deeply stressful place to be (and has been for several years).
I talk with my students about stress, and use the term simultaneously in the emotional and the structural sense. Applied forces create stress in the building components that resist them; the formula for stress in a linear member (a floor joist, a wall stud, etc.) is [force * beam length] / [beam width * beam depth squared].
You needed to know that, right?
So I analogize that for our emotional health as [stressors * their expected duration] / [width of social network * your sense of purpose squared]. Don't try to calculate your personal stress; it's an analogy, okay? And right now, my numerator is really high—lots of stressors with no end in sight—and my denominator is low, because I question my effectiveness and because so many of my best friends (and my sense of home) are in Vermont.
Vermont, though, is hardly a stress-free proposition either. Our friends Nelson and Betti gave us the best description of Vermont economics I've heard thus far. "We're just piecing things together, doing a little of this and a little of that. That's what everybody does up here." I think back on my Uncle Bob and Aunt Helen, who raised four sons and ran an extensive and successful orchard (peaches, plums, apples and cherries) while Bob also had his mail delivery route and Helen worked as an administrative assistant at Caterpillar heavy machine manufacturing. Lots of people piecing things together. It's not an unusual way of life, but those of us who only have one job at a time rarely think about it.
Academia is full of people piecing things together. "Road Scholars," they're often called, picking up a course here and a course there, working for colleges that have no obligations to them other than a stipend that averages out (if you really do your teaching work) to about the same hourly rate as the kid who takes your order in the Dunkin Donuts drive-through. About half of all faculty in American colleges are adjunct, and they teach about a quarter of all courses.
Consulting is another form of piecing things together, as is writing. Forever on the hunt for the next gig, one eye on the craft and the other on the marketing and networking.
I've always been an employee. I like the stability that comes with a job; steady pay, benefits, relative lack of risk. Nora's family is far more entrepreneurial; her parents started and ran a successful professional business for decades.
Independence and stability. High and low risk. Coming and going.
Nora and I are going to be charting a new course with our marriage, taking care of each other and learning new things and relying on one another's strengths. And that course may have economic implications as well. That cannonball has to land somewhere.
This song's been on my mind a lot lately. Even before I saw the video with the wedding dress...
Monday, June 6, 2011
ODD BITS: the sequel
One should never title a post before one writes it.... This was supposed to be about something else and it was hijacked by flowers.... Have I noted yet that our wedding planner Melody who loves flowers nearly as much as horses, is donating all the flowers from her garden and presumably those in Tinmouth? It is a Tinmouth tradition - to provide the flowers to anyone who gets married in their town of 500... and now I am part of that generous tradition... (H note... I'm glad Melody is donating flowers rather than horses.)
So now for the odd bits culled from other emails...:
Camping information is available in the following places:
http://www.fs.fed.us/r9/forests/greenmountain/htm/greenmountain/g_camping.htm and http://www.forestcamping.com/dow/eastern/gmcmp.htm#grout_pond which is near Manchester which is about 45 minutes away from Middletown…And http://www.vtstateparks.com/
I don’t have any independent knowledge of camp sites but friends who have stayed in Jamaica State Park which is in a really lovely area of the state about 1.5 hours from here (which might be a bit much after leaving the reception). The closest are Lake Bomoseen State Park, Lake St. Catherine State Park, Half Moon State Park and Emerald Lake State Park.
Food in Rutland (more soon in other places!): If you are looking for food in Rutland, there's a decent restaurant: Table 24 on Wales St. A new organic sustainable place opened up on the next block and across the street but we haven't been there yet: Roots.
Things to do: (details to follow):
- 1) Weston is a classic Vermont town with the Vermont Country Store which is forced but quite accurate Vermontiana – the perfect tourist spot and great with kids
- 2) Middlebury is a pretty college town with classic Vermont and a beautiful river running through it.
- 3) Burlington (2 hours north) is our “city” with a vibrant street scene and college life
- 4) Montpelier is the state capitol and a sleepy government town with some lovely architecture.
- 5) Rt. 100 through Wilmington and up to Waitsfield is one of the prettiest roads in the State and that’s saying a lot!
- 6) Brandon is the town that spawned the “Creative Economy” which is Vermont-lingo for a concentration on using the arts to generate tourism with our state-wide tourist-industry-generating folk artist Warren Kimball
- 7) Quechee – beautiful location with river and waterfall that drives the power for the Simon Pearce glass blowing operation - he gorge is gorgeous and the glass blowing fascinating - and the restaurant not bad either.
- 8) Woodstock – as Vermont pristine as it is possible to be…with shopping and big money architecture and a great "Farmer's Market" and gourmet store which is really more the latter than the former.
Clothing options: (you thought I was going to write something else didn't you!) For the "sartorial" inclined:
…. I’d “sart” with whatever is comfortable and cool. There are NO dress codes in Vermont, and as for changing, you can probably do so in the Historical Society if you’d like, but that’s up to you…. It is likely to be HOT – the mean is 80 degrees for that day and there is little chance or history of rain, but Vermont is notorious for its unpredictable weather – which I sort of am hoping for… because it is so wonderful when 18 different kinds of weather pass through in a single day… though I WILL regret having said that if it pours! The evenings can be cool, so you may want a wrap for the nighttime.
So wear a tuxedo, a gown, a sundress or shorts or jeans with a perfect strand of pearls (men or women), but be prepared to dance to Swing Noire (Herb and I will be watching while others are our designated dancers)…and sing with Jonno Deily Swearingen or Howard Robinson or Jerry Childress or Lyle Davidson or Bud Yost at the piano .... and tap dance to whoever shows up from the local musical crowd (While Dan's away, Paul and Nelson and others will play!)…. Oh yes and Elizabeth Davidson will be playing violin at the ceremony (and afterward) … so come prepared to hang out and listen, sing, dance and laugh!
Off to look for sun drops!
ODD BITS
So it's a lovely morning in VT and instead of taking a walk, I am at the computer. .. some habits are hard to break... but I am going up to our friend Judy's to discuss sundrops for the garden -- to prettify the house for some guests who are coming up soon (Yikes!) I thought I would resurrect the garden which was moribund last year --a result of work and the mourning for the loss of the potato and tomato crop to blight the year before...a luxury to be sure, to let the planting go, out of sorrow, when so many have so little choice about where their food comes from... But this year I got a late start and put in only tomatoes and basil and patty pan squash, a few snap peas, marigolds, lilies, flat leaf parsley, primroses and some other flowers in pots.
I have been struck by something I suppose I always knew and that is the generosity of gardening. And I am already in the heart of a generous place. When I started talking about reviving the garden at Nan's annual town wide Memorial Day pot luck, Judy and Lois offered gardening advice tailored to the shade and sun and moisture on the land that they knew as well as I. Judy offered the sundrops and echinacea. Lois is going to come over to consult. And Nan, has brought hanging baskets and flats of johnny jump-ups, an errant sunflower, poppies, cilantro, forget me not (appropriate, no?), and more. Winsome who is a gifted gardener and flower maven has offered ANY help I need. David came by to put up the brackets and hooks for the hanging plants. Kerstin stopped by with a shopping bag of dahlia bulbs. Our own professional organic gardeners Paul and Meredith will be at the wedding as will our friends Amanda and Rachel who are both starting out in professional farming businesses. And at a time when so many things seem distant from our ability to effect change, they are making change every day. They are feeding and nourishing the spirit and the body, and the heart. We live in a town where people step up to help, sometimes before you know you need their help. We live in a town where gardening is a civic act. It is a place filled with people whose first instinct is to help.
I have not got gardening genes though my mother has always been gifted with house plants. I had a brown thumb for most of my life. But increasingly, gardening is a thing of beauty -- not so much for the plants but for the people. In Middletown Springs, we know each others' land--the sun and the soil as we know each others' need. Herb and I have settled (or are settling) in a place where it is pleasure to work the dirt and see that the very hard labor of digging enormous rocks from the soil results in rock walls, gardens, and gathering.
And there will be a big gathering coming soon... rhubarb from two gardens is already on the menu, and a salad and....
I have been struck by something I suppose I always knew and that is the generosity of gardening. And I am already in the heart of a generous place. When I started talking about reviving the garden at Nan's annual town wide Memorial Day pot luck, Judy and Lois offered gardening advice tailored to the shade and sun and moisture on the land that they knew as well as I. Judy offered the sundrops and echinacea. Lois is going to come over to consult. And Nan, has brought hanging baskets and flats of johnny jump-ups, an errant sunflower, poppies, cilantro, forget me not (appropriate, no?), and more. Winsome who is a gifted gardener and flower maven has offered ANY help I need. David came by to put up the brackets and hooks for the hanging plants. Kerstin stopped by with a shopping bag of dahlia bulbs. Our own professional organic gardeners Paul and Meredith will be at the wedding as will our friends Amanda and Rachel who are both starting out in professional farming businesses. And at a time when so many things seem distant from our ability to effect change, they are making change every day. They are feeding and nourishing the spirit and the body, and the heart. We live in a town where people step up to help, sometimes before you know you need their help. We live in a town where gardening is a civic act. It is a place filled with people whose first instinct is to help.
I have not got gardening genes though my mother has always been gifted with house plants. I had a brown thumb for most of my life. But increasingly, gardening is a thing of beauty -- not so much for the plants but for the people. In Middletown Springs, we know each others' land--the sun and the soil as we know each others' need. Herb and I have settled (or are settling) in a place where it is pleasure to work the dirt and see that the very hard labor of digging enormous rocks from the soil results in rock walls, gardens, and gathering.
And there will be a big gathering coming soon... rhubarb from two gardens is already on the menu, and a salad and....
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Making It Legal
We had a nice Middletown Springs day today. Got up, walked the cats out in the yard, did a little e-mail, walked over to the post office, had lunch at Sissy's (she's catering the reception, and gave me a little container of a kind of Mediterranean cauliflower-couscous cold salad that she might make for us—darn good, as was lunch). We then wandered over to the Library's book sale, back home to dig up the garden plot and get in some flowers, put together some dinner.
In the middle of that, we stopped in at the Middletown Springs Town Clerk's Office, and talked with the Town Clerk herself, Laura Castle. We got some hints about houses and properties on the market, got to look at some 1807 property records (the handwriting is gorgeous, but you can't really read it... that really WAS a long time ago, and letters are just shaped a little different now than they used to be), and filled out an application for a marriage license.
There area couple of ways in which the new license application forms reflect modern changes. First off, each of the participants can check off Bride, Groom, or Spouse. Yay for Vermont! (and Massachusetts as well.) Second, where they ask for your address and phone number, they also ask for your e-mail address. But aside from those nods to contemporary life, it's a pretty old school document. Place of birth. Father's name and place of birth. Mother's maiden name and place of birth.
No blood test any more. I never really did understand that. Turns out that it wasn't a requirement until the 1930s (starting with Connecticut in 1935), to make sure that you weren't likely to pass on congenital gonorrhea or syphilis to any possible newborns. A few states also used to test for Rh factor, again to protect potential babies. Only three states still require it: Montana, Mississippi, and New York, along with Washington D.C. And if you get married when you're our age, ain't no babies involved anyway.
We also didn't have to show an original long-form birth certificate with the health department seal, or even a driver's license. That's one of the nice things about going to a small town government office—everyone knows you, and you can leave a lot of paperwork at home. Laura also knows Nelson, our officiant, so we didn't need his home address either.
Nora was talking about being a little stressed, and Laura said, "It'll be fine. It'll be over in five minutes, and you'll wonder what all the fuss was about." Probably many generations of women have gotten the same advice before getting married, usually pertaining to the wedding night.
Laura will type up our application and get a marriage license in about a week. It expires in 60 days if you don't use it, so we're planning to get married in late June to make sure our certificate is still good (kind of like those coupons you get every month or so from Bed Bath and Beyond). Come on up if you're not doing anything that weekend, and have some cauliflower salad.
In the middle of that, we stopped in at the Middletown Springs Town Clerk's Office, and talked with the Town Clerk herself, Laura Castle. We got some hints about houses and properties on the market, got to look at some 1807 property records (the handwriting is gorgeous, but you can't really read it... that really WAS a long time ago, and letters are just shaped a little different now than they used to be), and filled out an application for a marriage license.
There area couple of ways in which the new license application forms reflect modern changes. First off, each of the participants can check off Bride, Groom, or Spouse. Yay for Vermont! (and Massachusetts as well.) Second, where they ask for your address and phone number, they also ask for your e-mail address. But aside from those nods to contemporary life, it's a pretty old school document. Place of birth. Father's name and place of birth. Mother's maiden name and place of birth.
No blood test any more. I never really did understand that. Turns out that it wasn't a requirement until the 1930s (starting with Connecticut in 1935), to make sure that you weren't likely to pass on congenital gonorrhea or syphilis to any possible newborns. A few states also used to test for Rh factor, again to protect potential babies. Only three states still require it: Montana, Mississippi, and New York, along with Washington D.C. And if you get married when you're our age, ain't no babies involved anyway.
We also didn't have to show an original long-form birth certificate with the health department seal, or even a driver's license. That's one of the nice things about going to a small town government office—everyone knows you, and you can leave a lot of paperwork at home. Laura also knows Nelson, our officiant, so we didn't need his home address either.
Nora was talking about being a little stressed, and Laura said, "It'll be fine. It'll be over in five minutes, and you'll wonder what all the fuss was about." Probably many generations of women have gotten the same advice before getting married, usually pertaining to the wedding night.
Laura will type up our application and get a marriage license in about a week. It expires in 60 days if you don't use it, so we're planning to get married in late June to make sure our certificate is still good (kind of like those coupons you get every month or so from Bed Bath and Beyond). Come on up if you're not doing anything that weekend, and have some cauliflower salad.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Weekend
Hi there. How ya doin'? Been a few days, haven't stopped by.
No, nothin's wrong, just busy. Had two more candidates for a job search this week, which ate up about ten hours of work time right there. We've had four so far, and another coming up on Monday.
I have 20 days of vacation time and floating holidays and personal days on my human-resources account, and economically it helps our institution if I use as much as possible during this fiscal year (that is, by June 30), so I'm going to be on vacation from Saturday June 11th through Sunday July 10th. Two weeks before the wedding, two weeks after. It'll be good to be here full-time for a couple of weeks in preparation for the big weekend; it's been a long time since I've been here even a week at a time, and I miss it.
But even with that extended time pending, I decided that it was worth making the trip up this weekend. A long drive, about 4.5 hours with the summer Friday traffic. But I got to bring a TON of stuff with me that we'll need up here, including the wedding rings, since I thought they ought to be where the wedding is. I was just imagining discovering on Tuesday of the wedding week that the rings were back in Medford, and having to make a quick drive down and back... so they're here now. Next week I'll bring my new suit, which should also be in the same state as the wedding; but I have to go buy a shirt and tie for it this week, and that'll be easier to do in Boston.
Anyway, I'll have something more cogent to say tomorrow, especially if I'm able to go buy 50 pounds of river pebbles. (Nora HATES it when I'm cryptic, which is why it's so much fun to do...) But I figured you'd be worrying, so I wanted to check in.
No, nothin's wrong, just busy. Had two more candidates for a job search this week, which ate up about ten hours of work time right there. We've had four so far, and another coming up on Monday.
I have 20 days of vacation time and floating holidays and personal days on my human-resources account, and economically it helps our institution if I use as much as possible during this fiscal year (that is, by June 30), so I'm going to be on vacation from Saturday June 11th through Sunday July 10th. Two weeks before the wedding, two weeks after. It'll be good to be here full-time for a couple of weeks in preparation for the big weekend; it's been a long time since I've been here even a week at a time, and I miss it.
But even with that extended time pending, I decided that it was worth making the trip up this weekend. A long drive, about 4.5 hours with the summer Friday traffic. But I got to bring a TON of stuff with me that we'll need up here, including the wedding rings, since I thought they ought to be where the wedding is. I was just imagining discovering on Tuesday of the wedding week that the rings were back in Medford, and having to make a quick drive down and back... so they're here now. Next week I'll bring my new suit, which should also be in the same state as the wedding; but I have to go buy a shirt and tie for it this week, and that'll be easier to do in Boston.
Anyway, I'll have something more cogent to say tomorrow, especially if I'm able to go buy 50 pounds of river pebbles. (Nora HATES it when I'm cryptic, which is why it's so much fun to do...) But I figured you'd be worrying, so I wanted to check in.
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