Now I Get It!

It was simply beautiful.  Not outrageously overdone.  The flowers were minimal, but lovely.  Contemporary music.  The sanctuary uncluttered by excessive adornment.  Dresses were simple.  Suits had neckties, not bows.  And the bride wore white.  A marvelously elegant strapless with a short trane.  Certainly not a wedding like that of Kate and William.  But just as meaningful to the bride and groom.   And just as expressive of who they are.

To me a wedding is a great ceremony for the bride and groom, but not so much for the unrelated guests.  I wasn’t a family member.  Nor a friend of bride or groom.  I’ve known the bride for a number of years, but only because of her parents and sister really.  Her sister played volleyball with my youngest daughter so we got to know her and her parents.  The bride was a sorority sister of my oldest daughter, but they didn’t know each other well.  I was happy to go, but I had no emotional investment.

So I thought.  It dawned on me why women cry at weddings.  No, I didn’t cry at the wedding.  And no special emotion swept over me as the bride and groom were joined together.  It was at the reception that it hit me.  They were showing a video/slideshow of the life and times of the bride and groom from childhood on.  With sappy music.  And it made me think of my two children.  And how I love them.  And how watching them grow up has been so hard, yet so rewarding.

One day they will get married.  And I will cry my eyes out at the wedding.  Then again, could be that I’ll be so happy for them that I will dance with joy.  Probably both.

That’s part of my story.  What’s yours?  www.personalhistorywriter.com

Sweet and Sour

This happens every time.  It’s an emotional roller coaster.  And it makes me feel guilty.  It’s not Leave it to Beaver or Father Knows Best.  More like the Borgias meet the Waltons.

Family get-togethers, at least for me, are very stressful.  This is especially true when it’s my side of the family.  And the most recent one was no different.  My parents and sister were coming 800 miles to visit.  The big event?  My daughter’s college graduation.

The house would have to thoroughly cleaned.  Toilets, kitchen, living room.  Clothes and papers all put away.  Not necessarily where they belonged, but put away out of sight.  Meals planned.  And the schedule had to be set down to the minute.  Not that we expected to stick to the schedule.

Some members of my family are notoriously slow.  Some, like me, just because we are oblivious to time.  Others because they are just slow moving.  Still others because they are focused on their own activities, and not too concerned about others.  Thus, saying we need to leave the house at seven means we might get out by eleven.  I know, ridiculous.  One of those things you have to be there to understand.

My wife had the highest stress level.  She had to think of all the minutiae that had to be done.  I helped do it.  Not really the brawn to her brain, just the assistant when it comes to these things.  I have my own strengths in other areas.

The weather wasn’t helping either.  The ceremony was to be outdoors.  Rain was in the forecast.  Some wise administrator from the college was going to make the call as to whether the ceremony would be moved indoors in case of rain.  They chose to keep it outdoors.  In the rain.  A unique, and certainly memorable occasion.

Did I mention that the family dynamics were less than stellar? Certain members of the family do not get along well.  Incredible tension there.  Everyone has his or her own likes and dislikes which wrecks havoc with making any sort of unanimous decision.  Even with a little thing like where to eat a meal.  I’m the peacekeeper in the family.  And I felt like I was standing on the DMZ of the Korean Peninsula or Gaza Strip.

The whole time I kept telling myself it would all be over before too long.  And then it was over and I found myself saying goodbye to my parents.  I don’t see them often because they live far away.  They are at an advanced age, but doing very well all things considered.  It always hits me though that this could be the last time I see them.  That makes me very sad.  And I wish, well, I wish we all got along better.   But I know the next get-together will be much the same.  I guess that’s just how families are.

That’s part of my story.  What’s yours?  www.personalhistorywriter.com

 

 

Undampened Spirits

It rained.  And I mean some rain.  Noah, yes, the biblical dude, would be able to relate to this.  College graduation.  Scheduled to be an outdoor ceremony in a beautiful garden on a warm, sunny, early May day in the deep South.  It was more like November in the Northeast!

Four years of anticipation for a thousand graduates and their families.  Visions of the sun and birds chirping.  Dashed!  The weather forecast had been kinda iffy.  For several days they had been predicting a chance of rain, possible showers, isolated thunderstorms.  All the things they predict all the time, most often with the outcome an outbreak of sunshine and warm breezes.  Almost Paradise!

But ya never know, so there was a back-up plan.  In case of rain, we move it all indoors.  Simple.  Cool.  No worries.  Except for one.  Or two.  If it moves indoors, many of the traditions would be lost.  There is an archway in the garden through which the new graduates walk to mark their transition.  The arch can’t be moved indoors.  And, and how this one is so, so imperfect, there woud be an element of human decsion making.  Under less than optimal conditons.

Should it be raining, or threatening, a decision would be made at four AM as to which way the ceremony would proceed.  I don’t know who makes the decision.  In this case, it was someone who had no good choices.  Four AM.  I know I’m always wide awake thinking most clearly then.  The ceremony was scheduled for nine AM, so an early, early morning decision was necessary.  Oh great weather predictors, what is your forecast?

Chance of rain.  Beginning after noon.  That’s it.  We go with the outdoor ceremony.  I think the weather predictors were in a different time zone.  It was raining when I got up at six AM, and never stopped.   We were all outside in the rain.  Lots of umbrellas.  Wet shoes. Wet clothes.  Lot’s of grumbling.  

The ceremony was cut short.  Short parade.  No long speeches.  No speeches at all except from the master of ceremonies saying how we were all showing great flexibility and an ability to adapt!  Interesting thing though.  The kids all marched through the arch.  And each name was read aloud.  And there was no dampened enthusiasm.  All else might have been soaked, but in the end, spirits soared.

It was, after all, a great day.  A day marking achievement, hard work, dedication. A day filled with pride and happiness.  And a testament to the human ability to weather all storms.  It’s certainly a day no one will ever forget.  And I wouldn’t have moved it indoors for anything!

That’s part of my story.  What’s yours?  www.personalhistorywriter.com

 

Momentous!

It’s almost here.  Hard to believe.  I’ve been waiting two decades for this, but much more intently over the past four years.  In two days my oldest daughter graduates from college!

Good Lord.  Where has the time gone?  Oh, so many clichés come to mind.  I vividly remember watching her walk off down the street toward her first college event.  Her mother, her sister and I followed her in the car.  All the while she ignored us.  She was ready.  We maybe weren’t.

Over the years she came home often.  Mainly for football games at UGA.  Or other Athens events.  But sometimes even to see her family.  All of that kind of gets blurred.  But the graduation I will remember well.

It’s a long way from my first memory of her.  Popping out into the world, clumsily caught by the delivering physician.  She screamed loudly.  Then rolled around in the inkpad the nurse was using to get a footprint for posterity.

So many memories over the years.  Where did it go?  But wait!  There is even more to come!  Every day creates a new memory.  And I’ll be looking forward to many more.

That’s part of my story.  What’s yours?  www.personalhistorywriter.com

 

The Trip

You would think that there would be an easy part, a stressful part and an easy, even fun part.  But no!  So far this thing has been nothing but the stressful part.  My daughter is graduating from college in two weeks.  Stressful.  Indeed.  But that is not what I’m talking about here.

Three years ago she told us she wanted to go to England for her graduation present.  Wow!  I got a hand carved ballpoint pen for my college graduation.  Inflation I guess.  Why England?  I don’t know.  But that’s what she wants.  So, for the last three years we’ve been trying to save up enough money for this trip, and the vacation time needed to do it.  This isn’t a weekend affair.  Not even if the Concorde were still flying.  Well, maybe, but beside the point.  To do this right we need a week.

You are probably wondering what we are going to do for a week.  Of course, there are so many things to see and do in London alone.  But I haven’t gotten that far yet.  I know, three years.  What have I been doing?  Nothing.

That’s not quite true.  In the past two weeks I’ve had a daily panic attack trying to figure out the most basic parts of this thing.  When, exactly should we go and once we get there where the heck should we stay?  Hey, it’s tough making so many decisions.  OK, two decisions.  But a lot of options!

Based on everyone’s schedules, we narrowed it down to the end of May and the beginning of June.  Good start.  But should we leave on Monday?  Maybe Tuesday.  Sunday?  Seven options in each week!  It costs a little more to fly on the weekend so now we’re down to five options.  Don’t forget, if you leave on a Monday evening here, you arrive Tuesday morning in London.  Ready for a full day.

Monday night it is.  A decision made.  Now, do I reserve a hotel or air flight first?  Do the room is my logic.  You can get a flight any time or day, but hotels have to have room for you when you want to be there.  Amazing.  There are over a thousand hotels in London and so many seem to already be booked up for next month.  How far in advance do people plan?  Wait.  My sister plans her trips five years in advance!

London is a little larger than my hometown, so location matters.  I want to be near the action.  The tourist action that is.  So, where do we go for that?  Looking on tripadvisor I can begin my search by choosing a neighborhood to look in.  There are how many choices???  Seems like fifty or more.  And I don’t know where any of them are.

This looks good.  Oh wait.  It says thirty eight thousand dollars for a week.  What!  I was thinking a little less.  Here.  Right price.  Nice location.  Booked solid.  No elevator.  No breakfast.  Not enough beds.  Too far away.  You name it, we found a flaw.  My wife can be picky.  We are generally not allowed to let our feet touch the floor in a hotel.  Germs you know.

Finally.  Location.  Price.  Breakfast.  Beds.  Price.  Not perfect.  No.  But it’s gonna be great.  Book it Danno!  Now for the flight!  Easier by a long sight.  Fewer airports to choose from.  Fewer airlines.  Fewer times of day to fly.  Done!

Now for the hard part!  What are we gonna do when we get there!  My other daughter will graduate in three years.  I don’t know where she’ll want to go but maybe I should start planning now.  Nah!

That’s part of my story.  What’s yours?  www.personalhistorywriter.com

The Last Hurrah

Punxatawney Phil is playing with us.  You know, the groundhog.  The weather prognosticator.  He pops his head out of his hole in the depths of Winter every year and tells us if Spring is near or Winter will hang on for another six weeks.  That’s the legend anyway.  I don’t know what his track record is but people keep asking him every year on February 2 so it must be OK.

Funny  thing about that.  Groundhog Day, the day he makes this prediction, is pretty much exactly six weeks before the celestial based onset of Spring.  So whatever he guesses is bound to be not too far off.  Just sayin’.

This year’s ruling was… I don’t remember.  But here in the first week of March it’s chilly, raining and just plain dreary.  No birds singing.  No sun shining.  No green grass.  Still Winter.  Maybe the forecast is more accurate in Pennsylvania where Phil lives.

The local wisdom, here in the South, is that you shouldn’t plant your garden until after Easter.  After the last chance of frost has passed.  Easter was last week but it’s only 40 degrees out there.  Not frosty, but still kinda cool.  Does that have anything to do with wearing white shoes?

Like every year, we’ve been teased by several nice days.  Warm and sunny.  And I’ll bet a lot of folks got their gardens started a little early.  I hope tomato plants are pretty tough.

Just goes to show you.  Phil just predicts the weather, he doesn’t control it.  Winter is here for one last hurrah.  And we’ll appreciate the eventual arrival, the real arrival, of Spring even more.

That’s part of my story.  What’s yours?  www.personalhistorywriter.com

Outta The Way!

Look out!  Coming through.  Just get outta the way!  These people move too fast and I am gonna get killed.  As someone who has been described as moving about as fast as a turtle in molasses, adjusting to the big city is a little difficult.  That’s why I don’t live here.  Even in my prime as a dedicated runner my pace was less than awesome.  One foot in front of the other.  Slow and steady doesn’t win the race, but still gets me from point A to point B.  And often allows me to enjoy the journey more than the hares of the world.

I was taking a trip to another state and the easiest and most sensible way to travel was by air.  My little town had an airport, but you can hardly get anywhere from there so I had to go to the big city.  And the big airport.

Must be getting close I thought when the traffic on the road started whizzing by me at supersonic speeds.  Concrete barriers at the median display skid marks from the tires of those vehicles launching themselves into space.  Fast and furious.  Bumper to bumper.

Arriving at the parking area I thought I was safe.  A quick shuttle ride to the terminal and I was home free.  Quick was an understatement.  They don’t put seatbelts in those shuttle buses and as I watched the bodies and bags flying around inside of the one I was riding I thought, ”What is the rush?”  I guess for the driver the rush was feeling like an Indy car driver.  For me, there was no rush.  Another shuttle would be along in several minutes.

Inside the terminal I got a break until I headed for the security screen.  There was a long line and it looked like it might be slow.  Everyone was emptying pockets and stripping down waiting for their turn.  I think some people must really enjoy this procedure as they were pushing and shoving to get closer to the front of the line.  Score!  I jumped ten places in line! 

A couple pounds of titanium inhabit my spine these days so I was a little nervous about setting off the alarm.  Sure enough, when I went through something happened and they pulled me aside.  Let me pat down your knee the TSA guy says.  My knee?  What was that about?  Through security I was headed to the proper terminal.  I was thinking of riding the train.

Too damn crowded.  All these people pushing their way down the escalator toward the train.  People packed in there like sardines.  And this was the first stop so it was just going to get more crowded.  I’ll take the people mover.  I’ll just stay to the right, in the slow lane.

What a fortuitous decision!  Along the way, I wasn’t just walking through a dark tunnel.  Or even through just a lighted tunnel.  It was a museum gallery!  Along one stretch there were a series of large sculptures from Africa.  Another section had pictures and displays of the history of Georgia.  Fascinating stuff and I would have spent several hours down there but I hadn’t allowed that much time for myself.

The gate was already crowded when I got there.  People hurriedly waiting for their plane.  Even the dude wearing the Hell’s Angels colors was in a rush as he was flying back to Arizona rather than riding!  Me, I strolled up to the waiting area and took a seat.  Now I could people watch.  And wonder who they all were and where they were going in such a hurry.  Sure, I was travelling for pleasure and many of them were on the move for business.  I get that.  But more importantly, I knew that I would get to my destination at the same speed as all of my fellow passengers having enjoyed the sights considerably more.

That’s part of my story.  What’s yours?  www.personalhistorywriter.cpom