The Letter

I received a letter in the mail about a week or so ago. A real, old fashioned letter, hand addressed in cursive, with a stamp in the top right hand corner instead of the metered postage stripe common to mass mail. The trip to the mail box has lost all of the romance it had when I was a kid. I would send away for stuff all the time, from cereal box offers of spy decoder rings to requests for autographed pictures of my favorite athletes. You never knew if this would be the day when that 8x10 of Joe Namath would come! Now, everyday it’s the same...random bills, coupons for discount pizza, slick little catalogues from bizarre stores I’ve never heard of like JJill, along with the ubiquitous Kohl’s circular and a ton of Bed, Bath and Beyond 25% off coupons. During an election cycle, my mail becomes a month long primal scream of propagandized bulls**t. Getting the mail has become a depressing exercise, a symbol of yet another charming grace that has been taken from us by technology. So, this letter, this hand written address, this plain white envelope got my attention.

I opened it and found two single spaced typed pages...a serious letter. I had received it the very day that Pam and I had gotten home from Nashville and the wedding. It was in the stack of mail that had come while we were away. I had slumped down in my recliner, completely exhausted. After the first paragraph, I hastily glanced at the second page to see who it was from. Instantly, a knot arrived in my throat.

It’s going to be difficult to describe the contents of this letter without it sounding like self promotion. But, I will give it a try.

It was written by a young woman who was in the large youth group that I served over a decade ago as a teacher and adult leader. I have largely lost track of her, since she and her husband and child have moved to another city. She was writing to thank me for what she described as the pivotal roll I had played in her development, and to list for me the many lessons I had taught her in those days. She spoke of conversations we had had which shaped her and still today are with her as she leads a department of 100 employees in her job. I was overwhelmed by her words, astounded that she would, after all these years, take the time to write such a thing. I sat in my chair, trying to recall the specific details. Some of them came easily, others, not so much. But, I remember this girl. She was the one everyone loved, but who had a hard time loving herself.

To hear her tell it, I was this towering pillar of wisdom and righteousness. Nothing could have been further from the truth. I was an uneven leader at best. I was often rough on the kids, short tempered, and improperly blunt. Half the time I was the ring leader of ill-considered pranks that wound up getting kids in trouble. I could be dismissive and insensitive at times. In other words, I was the ultimate imperfect vessel. The fact that I was able to be used by God to have an impact on a group of kids despite those shortcomings remains in my mind, a miracle. My Dad always used to tell me that people who say they can’t become active in ministry because they aren’t spiritual enough, don’t understand ministry or spirituality. I believe his exact words were...God can hit a straight lick with a crooked stick.

I was the mother of all crooked sticks.

But, apparently, along the way some straight licks were hit. That this beautiful, accomplished professional woman, mother and wife would take the time to write me a letter of thanks all these years later is something I will never forget. 

The Power of Fading Photographs

Yesterday, my son and his wife, the newlyweds, excitedly sent all of us a picture of their first furniture purchase. It was some sort of love seat thing that was perfect for their tiny living room. In response Pam dug up an old photograph of the very first piece of furniture we had purchased as a married couple...a hideous floral patterned sleep sofa which practically screamed 1980’s. While searching for this relic among the thousands of pictures floating around in the mysterious cloud, Pam found several others from our first year of marriage. Since Patrick and Sarah are leaving this week to go on their honeymoon, my wife thought it appropriate to send them a picture taken of us when we were on our honeymoon...

This was taken with an automatic timer on her non digital camera propped up on a table across the room of our suite at the Ocean Creek Resort in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina in May of 1984. It was a lifetime ago...and strangely, feels like last week. We had no earthly idea what we were doing, no clue what wonders lurked in our future. We were broke, or would be by the time we returned from this trip and spent our way through the wedding cash. She was a first grade teacher, and I was a struggling insurance salesman. My car was a used VW Scirocco with red fake leather seats. We would return to Richmond and spend our first year of married life in a two bedroom apartment off of Hungary Springs Road.

There were no cell phones. It was three Golden Retrievers ago. We had no children. There was no Facebook, and only three channels on our 19 inch color television, four if you counted the fuzzy and inconsistent reception of the Public Television station...channel 23 WCVE. Ronald Reagan was in the White House, and the Dallas Cowboys were actually good. Apple Computer was a niche company who nobody had ever heard of, and Amazon was a river in Brazil. If either of us had randomly started giving voice commands to someone named Alexa, we would have been declared insane.

It was a much less convenient time. Information was exceedingly more difficult to come by, and if you were serious about being informed, you took the paper...both of them, The Times Dispatch in the morning, and The News Leader at night. But, oddly, I felt I understood the world better. Now, everything there is to know is at my fingertips, yet I’m more confused than ever.

But, you know what? Not everything has changed. That girl sitting next to me is still as hot and beguiling as ever. I didn’t fully understand just what I had back then. Now I do and can hardly believe it. The picture is grainy and a bit faded. I like that. It’s as if it’s holding something back from us...No, I’m not clear and precise. Allow room for mystery...

Chapter One

Jack Rigsby turned his pick up truck off the paved state road onto a dirt fire lane that meandered for over a mile through the Maine woods to his lake house. The road was no more than a path, peppered with cavernous holes and trenches that could only be safely negotiated at idling speed. Each year he vowed to put new gravel down, but each year something would happen to distract him, so it remained a slow mile. It was his first time up since last fall when he had closed the house up for the season. The winter had been unusually cold and snowy, even for Maine, and his caretaker, a local busybody whose only qualification for the job had been possession of a working snowmobile and lots of time on his hands, had called Jack several times over the winter to inform him all about the vicissitudes of New England winters.

“Yes Bobby, I’m aware that it’s cold up there and there’s lots of snow,” Jack would answer. “That’s why I hired you. You really don’t have to call me every time there’s a storm. We’ve gone over this a hundred times.”

“This last storm brought some trees down on the path, I imagine,” continued Bobby undeterred. “Suppose I’ll go up in the morning.”

“You do that.” 

Jack had learned over the years that the only way to end any conversation with his caretaker was simply to hang up. Despite years of trying, it appeared to be impossible to hurt the man’s feelings. But now, as he made the year’s maiden drive to the lake, he found no evidence of any downed trees, no fresh piles of chopped wood, no evidence that he even had a caretaker. But each year, despite little proof that he ever actually showed up, Jack would retain Bobby Landry’s services. It was mostly out of guilt. Part of the price of owning a lake house in Maine was participation in the great caretaker scam, whereby wealthy people from away, employed the unemployable local jackleg who needed to supplement his fraudulent disability claim check from Social Security, with a reliable side hustle. Who better to hustle than some rich guy from Virginia who was only in town for a couple of months every summer? However unreliable and unskilled Bobby might have been as a caretaker, he made up for it by being in the know about every detail of every property owner on the lake. If anyone on Quantabacook had suffered a financial setback, gone through a divorce, or had a kid in rehab, Bobby could be relied upon to keep Jack fully informed. It was part of the reason that he hadn’t told Bobby of his plans to open the house up in April this year. Jack Rigsby wasn’t in the mood for salacious gossip. Not this year. He preferred to slip in  unnoticed while it was still cold and the smell of snow hung in the air.

As the truck trudged up the last hill before the long sweeping curve down to the house, Jack felt his heart beating quicker, the odd tingle of expectation rising in his chest. Every year it was the same. He turned to Evelyn and gave her a smile. “Gets us every time, Evie.”

It had been Evelyn Rigsby who had begged him to buy the place. Jack enjoyed the lake, was fond of Maine. Evelyn was enchanted. There was no place on earth where she was more beautiful, thought Jack as he watched the tears well in her eyes with a hand held to her lips as the truck came to a stop by the front gate, right along side Bobby Landry’s F-150.

“Isn’t that Bobby’s truck?” Evelyn’s question was asked with an I told you so smile. “You can’t keep a secret from that man.” Jack got out of the truck slowly, feeling the tightness in his back and the pains in both hamstrings from two days of driving. He stretched to his full six feet, feeling all of his 60 years. He noticed some lumber in the back of Bobby’s truck and then heard the sound of hammering coming from the deck side of the 70 year old A-frame cottage he had bought during a whirlwind weekend ten summers earlier. Thanks to a tip from a neighbor’s omniscient caretaker, he and Evelyn had learned that Beatrice Deveraux was grieving her husband’s death over the winter and was entertaining the idea of selling the lake house that had been in her family since it’s construction in the late 1940’s.

“My kids have all moved away and can’t afford to pay the taxes on the place,” she had explained. “And even if they could, they couldn’t be bothered to drive up all the way from Tennessee.”

Evelyn had always loved the Deveraux place because it sat so close to the water’s edge. She would kayak past it in the morning and see Mrs. Deveraux reading her newspaper under the umbrella on the deck. The only words that had ever passed between them for ten years had been Evelyn’s, “Beautiful morning, Mrs. Deveraux” and her curt reply, “maunnin.” But now, on this afternoon, seated around her kitchen table, Beatrice Deveraux was heaping full-throated scorn on her worthless children. Instead of negotiating a sales price for the cottage, she seemed much more interested in describing the depths of ingratitude into which her three adult children had descended. While she went on and on about the sinful distractions which had ensnared her children since they landed in the Volunteer State, Jack had glanced across the table and noticed the glow of delight shining from the glistening eyes of his wife, who had fallen head over heels for the place. While Jack saw nothing but week after week of work and expense, Evelyn was imagining how beautiful it would be after just a few creative graces. The large family room looked out at the lake through a wall of windows. The two upstairs bedrooms were only semi-private and oddly shaped by the steep pitch of the roof. But there was plenty of room for a bathroom to be added somehow, she was convinced of it! And the master bedroom just off the kitchen on the main level of the house was begging for a French door and a little imagination. Jack, only half listening to Mrs. Deveraux’s travails, decided at that moment that his days as a renter were over. He could never say no to her, to those glistening eyes. When Mrs. Deveraux finally threw out a number, Jack had added $10,000 to it to clinch the deal. A handshake served as the contract, and in less than a month, he had delivered the purchase price to Mrs. Deveraux, in cash, in a green leather briefcase.

Now, he walked down the stone side walk around the side of the house and spotted Bobby Landry actually doing some caretaker work, replacing a couple of rotting deck boards. Bobby didn’t look up from his work, but greeted him with, “Hope you packed some wharm clothes. Callin’ for snow latah…”

“What are you doing here Bobby?” Jack was genuinely curious why on this chilly day in April, he should find his caretaker caretaking, when all the evidence of the past ten years would argue against such a coincidence. “You chose this day, of all days, to replace a couple of boards on the deck…the very day that I come all the way from Virginia to open my house in April for the first time ever? I give up. How did you know I would arrive today?”

Bobby looked up from his work for the first time to inform Jack that he just happened to notice on his “regular rounds” that there were a few rotted boards that needed replacing so he figured he would swing by and get it done before the spring snow storm hit. 

Jack interrupted with, “Let me guess, you called my office to tell me about the spring snow storm, heard my away message about being away for a month, then put two and two together and decided to make sure I caught you in the act of actually doing some work…”

“ Mr. Rigsby, you’re about the smahhtest home owner on this entire lake. That’s what I tell everyone who asks me who my smahhtest home owner is…Jack Rigsby, hands down!”

“If I’m so smart, how come I have you as my caretaker?”

“And funny too…I tell them that you’re the funniest too!”

Bobby soon lost interest in deck repairs and launched in to his annual fishing expedition, asking a series of probing questions about what kind of year the Rigsby’s had enjoyed, all the better to keep his other lake clients abreast of news from Virginia. Jack always played along, viewing it as part of Bobby’s odd charm, but this year he had a feeling that his patience would be tested.

“So, why exactly did you decide to open up Loon Magic in April?”

Evelyn’s first order of business after the briefcase of cash had been delivered had been to pick a name for her new summer home. Jack had zero input into the decision, reasoning that the person in charge of naming the place should be whichever of them had been moved to tears at the closing. Even though it had taken her over a month to decide on Loon Magic, Jack always had known that Loon would have wound up as part of the winning name, for it was that majestic bird with the mournful call which had always filled Evelyn’s heart to overflowing. Every summer she would take her kayak out first thing when the morning fog was just beginning to lift off the water, until a Loon would elegantly break through the water twenty feet from her. There they would both sit, staring at each other, not a single ripple stirring the glassy void between them. Evelyn would speak softly, Good morning, friend. The bird would throw its head back and let out a plaintive song. After a few minutes of this back and forth, the Loon would slip back under the water in that silky way they have and be gone. It was, in fact, magical. The name was perfect.

Jack was already irritated. “I suppose I needed to get away a little earlier this year than usual. Should I have asked your permission first?” 

“Are you kidding? Bobby laughed, “I’m as happy as can be to see you Mr. Rigsby. It’s just that you usually wait until June, after Ms. Evelyn is done with school.”

“Yes. Well, my wife is not teaching school any longer. Thirty years was enough. I hope that her decision to retire meets with your approval, Bobby. Now, if you don’t mind, we have a lot of unpacking to do.”

“But I only have a few more things here and I’ll be out of your way.”

“No, Bobby. Leave that as it is. There’s just a couple of boards left and I am perfectly capable of doing that myself. Now, thanks for everything, but we will check in with you later.”

“Sure Mr. Rigsby. You tell Ms. Evelyn that I said hello, ok? And, we will have our ‘state of the cottage’ meeting later then?”

“I certainly will, Bobby…and yes, I wouldn’t miss a ‘state of the cottage’ meeting if my very life depended on it. I’ll call you…”

As soon as the sound of Bobby’s truck disappeared into the thickness of the woods, Jack opened the French doors from the deck and walked through the bedroom, into the kitchen where he found Evelyn in the living room, removing a dusty sheet from his favorite recliner.

“You better try it out…make sure Bobby hasn’t been sitting in it all winter watching football…” Evelyn smiled.

It was the same question she asked every year, an old, well worn joke between the two of them which never failed to make him smile. Jack stood in the kitchen and watched her glide gracefully through the room among the sheets and whirling dust. This was why he would open Loon Magic in April, to be alone with her, free from distraction and the increasing judgement of his two adult children, who could never in a million years begin to understand what carrying around such a crushing weight felt like. He would always love them, but he needed some separation. They would just have to get used to it, this new normal. It was a diminished life…but it was the only life he had left.

Heaven

While I have been distracted with weddings, family and friends, I’ve noticed that the world has continued on its merry way, enjoying its window seat on the Straight To Hell express train. Trump is still Trump, determined to make tariffs great again, elevating lying to dizzying new heights of acceptability, and still Tweeting like a middle schooler. Meanwhile, the face of the Democratic Party has become an increasingly deranged Maxine Waters. But Maxine’s days could be numbered since the arrival on the scene of a beautiful Marxist barmaid from the Bronx who, on the power of 16,000 votes has become the latest heart throb of practically every journalist in America. If I didn’t know better I would suspect that the Democratic Party was on a mission to insure Trump’s second term...but what do I know?

Meanwhile, in other world news...the World Cup plods on. The best soccer players in the universe continue to throw themselves violently to the ground at the slightest suggestion of physical contact with another player in spasms of what appears to be excruciating pain in hopes of securing a free penalty kick...or something. Once secured, the seemingly mortally wounded player bounces up fresh as a daisy, penalty kicks apparently possessing miracle curative powers. These past couple of sentences contain the sum total of what I know about soccer, so maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe when another player comes within two inches of colliding with another player it really does cause excruciating pain because of some sort of soccer force field or something. As far as the actual games go, I’m told that there have been a bunch of upsets, teams that don’t normally advance this far have surprised everyone, chief amount them...the team from the host country...Russia. This isn’t suspicious...at all.

Two weeks from today, Pam and I will set out for the 13 hour drive to our happy place. This time it will be at a place called, I’m not even kidding,...The Chill House, on Pemaquid Lake near Damariscotta, Maine.

Kaitlin and Jon will spend two weeks with us, and Patrick and Sarah will spend the second week of their honeymoon here. Once they are gone, Pam and I will have one week to ourselves. Trump isn’t invited. Neither is Maxine Waters. None of us will be throwing ourselves onto the ground feigning injury...unless it’s possible to suddenly become violently ill from too many fluffernutters or too much lobster or ice cream, or too much time spent on floats out on the lake. The rest of you will have to contend with the madness of 2018. We’ll be in heaven.

The Wedding....Part Two

CHAPTER FIVE...The Ceremony

I sat on the front row, on the aisle. Pam and I had both just escorted our son to the front while a jazz ensemble played Zelda’s Lullaby or some other piece of video game music. When Sarah came down the aisle and everyone stood, my heart was full. Although the planning of this day had taken a toll on us, this moment was the payoff. This girl was the right girl. She was the one we had both been praying for for the better part of two decades. That realization is a feeling like no other for a parent. Our boy had found the right girl.

The minister, Jason Shelton, was a gem. He is a good friend of my son, a minister of music in the Universalist Unitarian Church, and a fellow composer, the director of a choral company that Patrick and Sarah are a part of, and a committed liberal/socialist who is fond of carrying signs and protesting stuff...which meant he felt right at home at this wedding since throughout the proceedings, a crowd of such protesters was gathering in an adjacent park! It was so nice of a thousand strangers to show up to celebrate with us. Nashvillians are super friendly! It didn’t take long for Jason to earn his meager pay. As soon as he began with the Dearly Beloved...it became evident that his microphone was one of those that only works sparingly, as in...every fifth word sparingly. If it bothered him, you would never know, since he soldiered on like a pro. Then, it was time for some very special music. Back during their courtship, Sarah had written a poem about the first time Patrick had said I Love You. Patrick had decided to set the poem to music, complete with orchestration. When he proposed, he sang her poem to her accompanied by the recording of the orchestration in the background. I know, I know...romantic kid. Anyway, a special recording of that song was to play through the high dollar sound system while Patrick and Sarah poured sand into a jar to symbolize the two becoming one thing. Only...when they pressed play...nothing but silence.

Although silence is a very lovely thing at times, this was not one of those times. As the silence ground on, the awkwardness began to build. Then Jason turns to Patrick and Sarah and says...So, you guys got any fun plans for tonight? Perfect.

They never got the sound fixed. A faulty plug was blamed. Although it was extremely disappointing and infuriating to this father of the groom and bankroller of this event, this, like everything else about this wedding, worked out perfectly in the end. The sand pouring thing was done during the reception as the song played, only this time, the picture slideshow blazed out on the walls. As my son’s voice sang Sarah’s poem I watched a picture of my Mom and Dad holding him as an infant. It was a powerful moment...

After they were pronounced husband and wife, they were supposed to march out accompanied by the theme to Star Wars. But, with no sound track, they had to settle for the thunderous applause of one hundred of their closest friends and family. The cheering kept up its intensity all the way through the last groomsman and bridesmaid. And, just like that, it was over.

CHAPTER SIX...Reflections 

Here are a few snippets of memories I have of the time after the ceremony. They are starting to become hazy and I list them here in no particular order.

Chicken and waffles were delicious and very popular.

Patrick and Sarah are huge board game players. It’s been a big part of their dating life so they wanted games to be played at their reception. Pam and I weren’t sure how this would go over since we had never seen it done at a wedding before. But, I counted ten separate games going on simultaneously during the reception. People were having a blast, including  a contingent of the White family...

Groomsman Elias Salazar, Venezuelan born trumpet player, educator, orchestra conductor, and unrepentant soccer fan had sworn us all to absolute radio silence about the progress of the two World Cup games going on during the wedding. He was afraid someone was going to leak the results, robbing him of his plans to watch the recorded games later while drinking beer in his pajamas, apparently his World Cup tradition. Every time I walked up to him during the reception he practically covered his ears as a precaution!

Another hero of the weekend was bridesmaid Katie Kelly. When she arrived at the bridesmaid luncheon straight from the airport, Pam noticed immediately that Sarah instantly relaxed. Here was a ball of positive energy and enthusiasm who changed whatever room she entered for the better. During the reception and afterwards during the cleanup, Pam and I both noticed her take charge style. At one point Pam heard her giving out some rather pointed orders to some of the staff at Ruby. When Katie noticed that Pam was watching, she deadpanned, I’m being extra so Sarah doesn’t have to be! 

Andy Upchurch, father of the bride took this picture...

My new daughter...

Us, back at the hotel after it was all over.

After we gathered everything up that needed saving, we loaded it all up and delivered it to Patrick and Sarah’s already cramped apartment. Sarah said...We can finally hang this!!

There’s no turning back now...there’s a D on their door!

So, that’s about it. There’s more I could say, more stories I could tell. But, hopefully you have an idea of how how the weekend went. In short, it was a wonderful celebration of everything all of us hold dear in this world...love, family, and lifelong friends.

The Wedding.....Part One

Five days have passed. I am no longer exhausted. Enough time has passed to gain perspective but not too much time that I’ve forgotten anything, so I guess it’s time for a wedding blog.

The wedding of Patrick Dunnevant and Sarah Upchurch was a combination of loveliness and catastrophe...heartwarming beauty and three ring circus. There were times where I wondered what could possibly go wrong next, but other times when I was so proud of them both I could hardly stand it. To tell the story of this crazy yet glorious weekend, I will have to break it down into chapters, which means that this blog might be rather long. But bear with me...I need to get all of it down. One day I will read this to their children who will not believe a word of it.

CHAPTER ONE.....SAM

The guy on the left is Sam Isaacs. He has been Patrick’s friend since they were five. We love Sam primarily because he’s always been a mess and good for a hilarious story or two. On this weekend, of course, he didn’t disappoint. His Thursday flight from Richmond on Allegiant Airlines was unceremoniously cancelled. No other flights could be had so Sam decides to just rent a car and drive through the night. There was a credit card foul up that made that a fiasco and delayed their departure until 10 pm. Then, ten minutes after leaving the airport in their rental car, the check engine light comes on!! Of course it did! Sam missed the bachelor party, but rolled in just in time for the rehearsal dinner. In route, his delightful fiancée had to plead with their hotel to re-book their reservation which they had mistakenly cancelled. All in a day’s work.

CHAPTER TWO...Replacement Bridesmaid

One of the life lessons I have learned from this weekend is the importance of family and friends. In particular, those special people who can be depended on in the clutch. At every turn, when something had gone terribly wrong, some incredible friend would step up and save the day. These people were super heros to us...all weekend. One of them was this beautiful girl standing next to the stunning bride...

So, one of Sarah’s bridesmaids informed her...18 hours before the wedding...that she was ill and would be unable to make it to the wedding. (No, I am not making this up.) This news was received right before the big visit to the nail salon for the prenuptial manicures. A debate began. Should she ask another friend? Should she just go with one less bridesmaid? Would the pictures look unbalanced? Would whichever friend she asked feel slighted that she was only being asked to be a backup? In other words, this was the type of situation that no bride should be dealing with 18 hours before her wedding. Then, the best man, Matt Adrian’s girlfriend, Yoanna, who Patrick had introduced to Matt a couple years 
ago, stepped up. I’ll be your bridesmaid! Let’s get her dress from her and take it up a little. It will work perfectly! And just like that, Sarah now had a replacement bridesmaid, one who truly loved her in word and deed. I will never forget the heartfelt speech she gave at the rehearsal dinner. Matt...don’t let this one get away!


CHAPTER THREE...The Leaning Arbor of Ruby

Sarah’s father, Andy, had designed and constructed an arbor for the occasion, which had to be assembled on site at 7 AM, day of, after which the florist would decorate it with flowers and greenery. However, when we arrived at 9:00 am, the arbor was being propped up at its base with a ten pound bag of cat litter. Now, I’m not known as someone who is necessarily in tune with wedding stylistics, but even I knew that a bag of cat litter didn’t match the color scheme of this event! The trouble was that without the offending bag of litter, the arbor would list badly starboard. Upon seeing this, the first rumblings of panic arrived in my stomach. Pam calmly got on her phone and did the only thing any of us know to do when something like this happens...call Ron Roop. My brother in law is one of those guys who always seems to know how to fix stuff. He always just happens to be carrying a slide rule and adjustable wrench around in his pocket when you need one. Although he was about to step into the shower when he got Pam’s call, five minutes later, there he was, bungee chords and fishing line in hand, working his miracles...

CHAPTER FOUR... “I’ll do anything for you”

Lots of people say these words. Only a special few actually mean them. Becky Baldwin is one of those people. Becky and Pam have been close friends for thirty years or more. Back in the day at Grove, people would get them mixed up, they looked and acted so much alike. Of course, Becky and her daughter Kelly, a life long friend of Patrick, made the trip from Richmond. The two of them wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Anyway, during the chaos of the wedding day, it was discovered after the service that Patrick had left something very valuable at his apartment that morning...the flash drive that contained the slideshow of pictures that was to play during the reception! When this news was relayed to my wife, Becky was standing there with her and immediately said, “Patrick, give me the keys to your place. Kelly and I will go get it!” Pam protested...”Becky, it’s all the way across town! You don’t know your way around this crazy city, and you will miss the reception!” Becky smiled and said...”Pam, I would do anything for you. Now, you leave this to us!” With that, the two of them screeched out of the parking lot and disappeared....

Yeah...that’s them, recording their heroics with a selfie at the scene. They made it back with the flash drive in record time, saving the day. 

TO BE CONTINUED........

Pictures From Nashville

Thought maybe my readers would like to see some photographs of some of the key places and players involved in this weekend’s festivities...

Here’s a picture of the Venue...

Had a chance to tour our caterer’s facility yesterday. Was particularly impressed with their kitchen...

The staff certainly seemed like a cheerful bunch...

Oh...and here’s a shot of the nice Air B&B where we’re staying...