Wedding Memories

In just over a week I will attend my son’s wedding. It’s been almost four years since my daughter’s wedding, so just to remind myself of what that day was like, I went back into the archives and found what follows...one Dad’s memory of everything about the day that his only daughter got married. As history, it is limited, since it’s only what I remember. But, I’m glad I have it, because it reminds me of what an incredible day it was. It’s kind of long, so I apologize. 

It has been 48 hours since Katlin’s wedding. Already my memory is starting to waver, so I suppose I better get it all down before I forget anything:

6:30AM - I am awakened by the sound of harps and a gentle breeze on my cheeks from the wings of tiny bluebirds. I look out of my window and see a rare morning rainbow, God’s promise of a day like no other.

6:31AM – I startle myself awake from a horrible Disney nightmare, convinced that I am late for my Physics exam at the University of Richmond. It then dawns on me that this is July 12, 2014 and my little girl is getting married in exactly 11 hours….which is fine since I was going to flunk Physics anyway.

9:00AM – Arrive at Carmax for the third time in two days to pick up my daughter’s car. Carmax mechanics and technicians apparently graduated from the Helen Keller school of automobile repair since none of them could manage to hear the loud whining sound coming from the rear of the car the minute it reached 30 mph on the road. Suggested that next time they may want to consider taking cars for a test drive on the actual highway instead of their parking lot. 

10:00AM – Arrive at Parkside Barbershop for the much celebrated and anticipated straight razor shave with all of the groomsmen. Was served a cold Yeungling draft upon arrival, which I consumed under the reasoning that it was 5 o’clock somewhere. Charm of the place began to wear off nearly 2 hours later when my name was called, the last on the list. Charm of the place totally vanishes when it dawns upon me mid-shave that I am alone at Parkside Barbershop with no ride home, since Jon had taken Kaitlin’s car, and Patrick had headed for home ten minutes ago with my car.

12:16PM – Get text from Pam directing me to drop by Martin’s and pick up “K-cups and a large case of bottled water. When I replied that I didn’t really feel comfortable buying women’s underwear especially bra’s, she informed me that “K-cups” were not in fact a bra size, but rather a brand of coffee used in our Keurig. Made mental note to help with grocery shopping more in the future to eliminate further such embarrassments.

2:09 PM – Caravan of cars leave house headed for Celebrations. Cadillac making frightening click-click-click noise. For a minute a vision of a blown engine on 288 flies into my head. To my eternal relief, all cars arrive on time and in good order. Women of the wedding party all disappear to the upstairs of the Manor House, while the men get comfortable downstairs in air-conditioned comfort, a good thing since it is hotter than homemade hell outside. It occurs to me as I ease back on a very comfortable sofa that I am at least off the hook for all of those things I promised God I would do if he gave us a beautifully cool day.

2:48PM – Fall sound asleep on ridiculously comfortable sofa and am abruptly awakened by a sharp poke on the knee by Toby, our intrepid “event coordinator,” who implores me to get dressed into my tuxedo and meet the photographer outside immediately. While I was asleep a flurry of pressurized activity is going on upstairs, with Kaitlin and Pam trying to get her wedding dress put on correctly amidst the buzz, clicks and blur of not one but TWO photographers capturing it all for posterity. Later, when Pam discovers that I was sleeping while she was going through Dante’s ninth level of hell, she is understandably perturbed.

3:00 thru 4:00PM – Spend most of this hour walking around in circles, barking out confusing orders to anyone who looked like an employee of Celebrations. Also, begin trying desperately to get guitar in tune. 40 year old classical is temperamental in this regards in the best of environments, but in tropical heat and humidity that would induce projectile vomiting in Lucifer himself, it is a hopeless endeavor.

4:30 PM – Am summoned to the upstairs of the Manor house, and told to wait at the door to the dressing room. Inside I hear the rapid fire of camera shutters. This is one of the “money shots” of the day…Dad seeing daughter in wedding dress for first time. No pressure. No pressure at all.

4:31 PM – Open door slowly and behold as radiant and stunning a vision as I have ever seen. My only daughter looks like some kind of princess, enchanting and sublime, happier than I have ever seen her. It’s hard to be sad, impossible to cry. Why would I? This is what every father worth his salt wants for his little girl. 

5:30PM – Toby hustles the two of us down the stairs and into our designated spot for the grand entrance. I notice that the oppressive heat and choking humidity have subsided a bit. I hear music drifting through the tops of the grand oak trees, a piano and orchestra arranged by my son. I look at Kaitlin by my side, she is positively glowing. The last thing she says to me before we turn the corner and escape the seclusion of the lush green hedges is, “I love you daddy!”

5:32PM – As we make our way down the sweeping turns of the brick walkway, I look up and recognize the faces of some of my best friends on this planet. I see men and women who all had a hand in raising her, in shaping her character. Some of them have come from far away to be here. I remember warnings from many of my buddies that I would cry at this moment, but all I feel is deep gratitude. Just about the time we got to our stopping spot a soft, cooling breeze swept over the assembly. I managed to get through my four word speech, “Her mother and I,” without incident. I take my seat on the front row beside my wife.

5:37PM – The minister, Gordon Fort began the proceedings by reminding all that this date, July 12, 2014 would have been my parent’s 67^th wedding anniversary, then proceeded to read from some of my Dad’s notes we had found just a couple of weeks ago when cleaning out his house after his death. They were in a small dog-eared three ring binder of wedding services he had done over the years. When I heard Gordon reading his words, I looked up at the top of the trees now swaying in the unexpected breeze. I wondered if he was watching, if he knew how much I miss him.

5:42PM – It was time to play my guitar. Kaitlin wanted Paula to sing and me to play the Steven Curtis Chapman song, I Will Be Here, so although it had been at least a year since I had played and longer than that since Paula had sung at a wedding, there we were beginning the song. That’s when the oddest thing happened. For the first time all day, I became overcome with emotion. I felt my palms sweating, my heart began beating loudly in my ears, my fingers began to tremble. Luckily, I never look at my hands while playing, so I buried my chin in my right shoulder and stared at the ground throughout the entire song. By the time it was over I had recovered my composure.

5:50PM – I hear Gordon introduce the happy couple as “Mr. and Mrs. Jon Manchester.” I look at Jon and he has a smile splashed across his face as big as Texas. Actually he’s had it all day. It’s as if he has a clothes hanger turned upside down stuck in his mouth. The poor guy is hopelessly in love and just can’t help himself. They disappear past me as they make their way up the walkway amidst raucous applause. It’s over. The deed has been done.

6:00PM thru 7:30PM – This is the part of weddings which I hate, everybody standing around eating cheese and crackers and fruit waiting for the photographers to do their work. Between the several summons I received to appear for pictures, I began bargaining with the Almighty over the promises I had made when praying for cool weather. While the weirdly timed cool breezes that blew during the actual ceremony were a nice touch, I’m not sure that it would qualify as “cool.” I mean, I made my request pretty clear and despite the aforementioned cool breezes, it was hot and sticky both before the service and now after the service. Any impartial observer would side with me on this one, but with God, you never know.

7:30PM thru 9:15 Dinner is served after interminable picture taking session, the only bright spot being when Toby showed up with a plate of crudités for all and two iced coffee drinks for the bride and groom. Never have little squares of cheddar cheese with carrot sticks and ranch dressing tasted so good. Actually sat down at my table and ate for at least 12 minutes. Rest of time spent making the rounds talking with the guests like a shameless politician.

9:20PM – Bride and groom begin introduction of each of their bridesmaids and groomsmen. Kaitlin as poised and graceful in front of a crowd as her mother always is, and equally beautiful. After the introductions it was time for the father/daughter dance. Kaitlin chose that great song from “The Jerk,” You Belong To Me. Halfway through dance I was kicking myself that I didn’t arrange to have a trumpet handy to whip out for the solo. Truly wonderful moment. Later there was a dance for all married couples. At various times during the song, the DJ would ask those couples who had been married less than a certain number of years to be seated. The last couple standing were my in-laws. Cool.

     

10:00PM – After several wonderful and moving toasts from various members of the wedding party, it was my turn to give the final toast before the cake cutting. Again, my palms began to sweat, again with the loud beating heart, I began. Except for a final perfunctory paragraph acknowledging that there was, in fact, a groom on the premises, my words were mostly about Kaitlin and what a gift she has been to my life.

10:20PM – Kaitlin throws her bouquet and Jon throws the garter. Jon’s throw was particularly impressive, since he wrapped it around a 2002 Ohio State National Championship commemorative football before sending a spiral into the amassed gaggle of single men. In true Ohio State form, Jon’s brother, the intended target, dropped the ball. Yet another incomplete pass by the Buckeyes.

10:35PM – Couple finally pass through the gauntlet of sparklers on the way to their getaway car. Taillights disappear and they’re gone.

11:55PM – Arrive home after lengthy clean up made infinitely easier by my helpful family who stayed until the bitter end helping us pack everything up. Potential mother of the bride meltdown avoided when all the leftover food from the reception was trying to be loaded into Pam’s car. There just wasn’t any room yet Pam was determined to squeeze it all in. When I noticed the wild expression of exhaustion and panic in her eyes I knew that she was unable to make one more decision, so I did. I carried an entire large pan of mashed potatoes and several other gargantuan containers of meat and vegetables back into the manor house with the simple declaration, “There is no way in the world anyone will eat any of this food!!”

12:30AM – After unloading the cars, we all collapsed on the sofas in the den, too exhausted to even speak. It was all over. After 18 months of planning, 6 months of deciding, 3 months of organizing, and three weeks of 20 hour days, it was all over. 

Someone on Facebook made a comment about this picture, “The Perfect Family.” Nothing could be further from the truth. We are like every other family on Earth, full of flaws and flawed people. But this I know, the people in this photograph love each other, without qualification or reservation. Each of them have been a blessing to us and instrumental in helping Pam and I shape and form Kaitlin’s character. Without these people, and without Emmett and Betty Dunnevant, none of this day would have been possible.

The Naming of Things

Yesterday’s blog about the name change controversy has gotten me to thinking...no small feat...about the fact that we Americans have always been fond of naming stuff after famous people. Just yesterday I took the John Rolfe parkway over to the Willey bridge on my way to John Tyler Community College. Everywhere you look in this city, there’s some school, building or street named after some dead guy. It just stands to reason that at some point, after several generations have come and gone, somebody is going to ask the question...Hey, who the heck was Ed Willey?? Then maybe some group of civic-minded people will suggest changing the name to honor a more recent hero or heroine. This, I believe, is right and proper.

As far as the naming of schools is concerned, I got curious and decided to do some research. I wondered which American President had the most schools named after him. I guessed correctly:

94 John Kennedy 

73 Thomas Jefferson

53 George Washington

52 Woodrow Wilson

45 Abraham Lincoln

24 Theodore Roosevelt

20 John Adams 

Of the more recent Presidents...

15 Ronald Reagan

10 Barack Obama

3  Bill Clinton

2 George W. Bush

1 George H.W. Bush 

Modern sensitivities are such that each one of these men carries with him politically incorrect baggage. Depending on how easily offended you are, it might scandalize you to discover that there are 52 schools in this country named after Woodrow Wilson, that well-documented and virulent racist. Thomas Jefferson and George Washington were both slave holders, Washington reluctantly so, Jefferson with great passion (figuratively and literally). Abe Lincoln is an all timer, and John Adams was one of the few Founders who never owned a slave and thought the institution a blight on the country.

But...what about John Kennedy? 

In the wake of his shocking assassination, the entire country mourned that such a young, virile man could be struck down. As a result of this grief, Americans went on a street, building and school-naming frenzy to honor the man. To this day, our 35th President remains an icon of the Democratic Party. This is a very curious and unexplainable phenomenon. In today’s Democratic Party John Kennedy would be to the right of...well, practically everyone. In fact, he might be kicked out of the party altogether. Dude was a staunch anti-communist, a tax cutter, quite reluctant on civil rights and suspicious of Martin Luther King. In the modern Democratic Party, the #MeToo crowd would crucify the guy. Still, there he sits, at or near the top of the food chain of the party’s heros. Go figure.

Anyway, my point is, with regards to the naming of things, I believe that each generation should have a say. New heros always come along, and at some point the Estes Kefauver Bridge will no longer make any sense. But, something tells me that until we can all get passed this phase of hyper-polarization in which we find ourselves, I suggest that we stick to naming things after flowers and trees, and inanimate objects.

Changing Names

What’s wrong with this picture? Where to begin?

This is the photograph which accompanied the story yesterday about the name change of this school from J.E.B. Stuart to Barack Obama Elementary school. While the comments section was blowing up with outrage about the name change, I couldn’t stop looking at the broken glass, the stuck window and the grass that hadn’t been mowed in weeks. Then I researched the school and learned about the abysmal test scores, the plague of underachievement by whatever metric you chose to measure the actual educating going on inside his building...and I thought, Changing the name of this school from J.E.B. Stuart to Barack Obama is the educational equivalent of rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. But, by all means, let’s spend six months studying and $26,000 changing the name of this school.

Ok, I suppose I should make something clear...I don’t object to schools changing their names. I completely understand and have great sympathy for the idea that maybe a school which is 90% African-American might not want to any longer be named for a Civil War General, who although perhaps the finest cavalry officer of the entire war (despite his lapse at Gettysburg), fought for the losing side, a side which was fighting, among other things, to preserve the legality of human bondage. So, if a school in 2018 wants to fly under a new banner, one that might inspire more pride in the community they serve, I have no problem with it.

But, that picture...

Richmond City schools have a boatload of big problems. Their buildings are crumbling. Their students consistently underperform in English, science and math scores. Half the time they can’t even get the furnaces to work in the winter and the air conditioning to work in the summer. But they can commission a study on changing the name of one their schools, come up with a list of ten candidates, even let the kids and teachers vote on the thing, then pick the guy who came in tenth in the voting as the winner. What could possibly go wrong?

But, at least it’s done now. The kids no longer will have to be called Stuart’s Stars. 

That should fix everything.

Meticulous Planning

For the last six months my wife has been immersed in every imaginable detail of planning a wedding. This feverish planning has produced more spreadsheets and Google Docs than the Mueller Investigation. Meanwhile, I have largely been on the sidelines, a helpless observer, only roused to action when there’s a bill to be paid. As a result, I have felt somewhat useless, like I’m not carrying my weight. So, I have decided do a little planning myself. There won’t be any Google Docs involved, but that’s not to say that I haven’t given this a lot of thought.

In less than five weeks, our first three-week Maine vacation will begin. 24 hours after we arrive at The Chill House on Pemiquid Lake on the 21st of July, Jon, Kaitlin, Patrick and Sarah will fly into Portland, which will give Pam and me one day to buy groceries. Accordingly, I have decided to take it upon myself to plan the menu for the entire three weeks. Here’s what I have so far...

Breakfast:

- blueberry pancakes

- scrambled eggs

- bacon/sausage

- fried bread

Lunch:

- lobster rolls 

- fluffernutters

Dinner:

- steak

- chicken

- shrimp

- lobster

- ice cream

Repeat......

How’d I do??

The handy part of this menu is how easily it can be replicated on our second three-week Maine vacation coming up in September/October!!

What’s so difficult about planning? I mean, seriously??

S.C.C.S...Killer of Good Days

There’s probably nothing in this world more vital, more intrinsically satisfying and reassuring than that morning cup of coffee. For me, it comes around 6 o’clock. It brews while I absentmindedly empty the dishwasher, thinking of nothing. Then I pour it into one of my oversized mugs.  I add a tablespoon of carcinogenic powdered creamer, or Coffeemate, then an eighth of a teaspoon of Truvia, another soon to be discovered carcinogen.        

Then, I sit down on the sofa, open my iPad and take that first delicious sip. Temporarily, all is right with the world.

But every so often something bad happens. I get distracted. Maybe it’s some moronic item in the news, or maybe I get an inspiration for a blogpost. Suddenly, I am in another place, far away from my living room. By the time I snap out of it, a significant amount of time has passed. It’s then that I instinctively reach for my forgotten cup of coffee to finish off what’s left in the mug only to discover that something positively dreadful has happened. It’s ICE COLD. It’s also too late. My mouth is now full of cold coffee and I must make a lightening-quick decision...do I swallow, or expel it back into the mug? Ok, this isn’t exactly the type of lightening-quick decision on which civilization hangs, but it’s no small thing either! The worst part about the surprising cold coffee swig, (or S.C.C.S for short), is that you feel like the victim of a cruel trick, like you’ve been betrayed by your best friend or something. My coffee is cold?? What, in the name of all that is holy, is going on here??!! After this inauspicious beginning, there’s no telling what horrors await you on this day. I mean, if you can be betrayed by your own coffee, anything is possible. So, for the rest of the day, you’re giving everyone the side eye, every interaction shrouded in paranoia. Trust no one. Double check everything. Today, there is treachery in the air. Enough of this sort of thing happens and you wake up one morning to discover that Donald Trump is President!

And... it’s all because of the dreaded S.C.C.S.

The Limit

 

I love Netflix on many different levels, not the least of which being the 381% profit I have made off of it’s stock. But, what I really love about Netflix is the concept, a company which serves as a portal through which a universe of entertainment is brought into my home cheaply and efficiently. Their original programming is superb. So, yeah...I love Netflix.

But, not everything that comes streaming into my living room via Netflix belongs there. Last night provided a perfect illustration of this truth.

Recently, Pam and I were in a show hole, that miserable state of television purgatory where you finish binge watching a really great show and suddenly find yourself with nothing interesting to watch. We stumbled on a new British detective show called Marcella, the premise of which was quintessentially British...a brilliant but deeply troubled detective battles her own inner demons while tracking down a vicious killer. It’s not the best show we’ve ever seen by any stretch, but it was well written and well acted and we made it through the first season pleased enough to give season number two a shot. Last night was the first episode of season two. 

Almost from the first five minutes I felt uneasy. Something felt wrong. But if I’ve learned anything from watching British television it’s the fact that you have to be patient. Sometimes it takes a while for a show to get interesting. But, if you hang in there you’re almost always rewarded. Thirty minutes in, it became apparent that season number two of Marcella would feature our hero tracking down and catching a sadistic pedophile serial killer. Ten minutes from the end of this first episode I thought to myself...Why am I watching this? When it was over, I turned to Pam and said...No. We won’t be watching this show anymore.

Censorship is a horrible thing when it is practiced by governments, but for individual human beings it is an essential function of mental health. Years ago I heard a non-religious speaker say something that I have never forgotten about this subject...Stand guard at the door of your mind. His point was that each of us has to serve as the guardian of what we allow inside our brains. If you want to lose weight, you probably shouldn’t flip through a donut magazine. If you have a gambling addiction, you probably shouldn’t move next door to a casino. And if you want to maintain your sanity in the midst of an increasingly dysfunctional and evil world, maybe you shouldn’t invite a story about men sexually abusing young boys into your home.

Despair is an addictive drug. It’s easy to fall into and difficult to climb out of. The news that gets filtered down to us through the news media is often overwhelmingly depressing. Watch enough anguish and injustice every night and it’s easy to lose hope. The solution isn’t to retreat into a pollyannish world of Leave It To Beaver and Andy Griffith every night. Sometimes, we need to be confronted by the world as it is, in all of it’s evil glory. But, I believe there is a limit. That limit is probably different for each person. But, it is essential that each of us knows what that limit is and that we have the wisdom and courage to say...No.  Not that.  Not here.

Last night I discovered that limit. I will not organize a boycott. I will not call for Marcella to be taken off the air. I will simply exercise by rights of free agency by not watching. While standing guard at the door of my own mind, I have discovered something that I would rather not expose it to. I wasn’t placed in this world to limit what my neighbor wants to watch on television. But I better be careful what I watch. 

Dad’s Greatest Hits

This week of Father’s Day has me thinking of my own Dad. He’s been gone four years now. Life plows forward at its breakneck pace. Most of the time I’m too busy to think about him. But then an anniversary will come along...his birthday, the day he died, or Father’s Day, and it will all come roaring back. Luckily for me the majority of these memories are good ones. My Dad, unlike many, didn’t leave a legacy of bitterness and regret in his wake. None of his children turned out psychologically damaged by his indifference, or scarred by abuse. All he left us was a thousand stories to tell, stories of his peculiar habits, Herculean strengths, and impeccable character. This week, I’ve picked out a few of my favorites, a Dad’s Greatest Hits, if you will. Like this one....

My Dad has been in the hospital for five days now. He has heart palpitations that haven’t responded well to several medications. My brother, two sisters and I have taken turns sitting with him. I have been with him last each night, so I see him after a long day of hospital drudgery. Some nights have been better than others, for him and me. 

I arrive around 7:30. He never fails to smile at me as I walk in. He looks tired. I tidy up his covers, get him something to drink and ask him about his day. He tells me that he had a good day. Every day is a good day. He hesitates to provide anything that sounds like a complaint. He speaks glowingly of his nurses. He tells me that he got a visit from Chuck Ward or Mark Becton, and what a blessing they were to him. He tells me about the food and that it isn’t very good, but it’s OK because Linda brought him some homemade soup and Paula snuck in some wonderful cookies. 

When he tries to tell me a story he forgets his words, then apologizes for being so forgetful. My heart breaks a little that he feels the need to apologize. We watch Huckabee. He loves that show. Tonight Huckabee isn’t there and there is a pretty blond in his place. Dad informs me that she is Dana Perino, who used to be President George Bush’s press secretary. Dad likes her because she is very smart, and pretty too. He listens intently to a story about very bad parents. He can’t imagine how any father would provide kegs of beer for his sixteen year old son’s birthday party. “What’s this world coming too?” he asks me. 

I watch the night nurse come in to give him his medicine. She is perky and smiles a lot. She gently places each pill in his mouth and then gives him ginger ale. There are so many pills. She is very patient, and jokes that she should probably have given him the sleeping pill last since he might fall asleep before he makes it through all his pills. Dad smiles. 

After Huckabee is over Dad struggles with the remote and finally asks me just to turn the television off. We sit in silence for a few minutes. Finally he tells me what a good job his kids have done taking care of him since Mom passed away. 

We go through our nightly ritual when it’s time for him to go to sleep. I turn out the light and tell him I love him. I pull the curtain and then shut the door to his room. He’s right across from the nurses station and he tells me that they talk too loud. Sometimes he feels like yelling out to ask them to be quiet, but that would be rude. I walk down the long hallway towards the elevator past rooms with open doors. Terribly sick men and women, all of them alone. There’s a portrait of former Governor John Dalton right next to the elevator. Every time I pass it, I become irritated for some reason. Is there no place on earth where we can escape politics?

I arrive at my car in the mostly empty parking lot and sit there in silence for a few minutes. I think about my Dad and marvel at what kind of life he has lived. After losing his wife of 65 years and after five days in a hospital bed, he still finds things to laugh about and still finds people to be thankful for. 

“What kind of day did you have Dad?” I ask him. 

“A good day, I had a good day,” he answers.