A Weekend Away - Act II

During Day Two of our splendid “Pretend-we-are-empty-nesters-even-though-we-have-a-seven-year-old” weekend away, we tootled around (which my spellcheck does not recognize as: "verb; the act of cheerful and mindless wandering, sampling of ice cream from 150 year old mercantiles, and reading of ALL novelty mugs, with complete disregard to schedules, time constraints or dinner times".  Whatever, Spellcheck).  We had the novel experience of finding a dish in an antique shop that was 1. Not "one my grandma had", 2. Not "one my mom had', but, 3. "One we got for our wedding"... and still use.  Big ol' bite of reality sandwich with that one.  Our dishes are getting old.

We talked and teased and held hands, bought ridiculously over-priced toffee, and remembered why we thought it might be swell to spend our lives together. Kids have a way of beating all of that out of ya', what with their constant need of love and guidance, clothing and shelter, and something to eat besides Fruit Loops. I don't care how often I delude myself into thinking that we haven't been wedged apart a little by life, all it takes is one night away for me to see that we have. It's good to floss your marriage once in a while. We did what any married couple of 25 years would do when they are at last alone at an Inn... nap. Before dinner. There is the possibility that other shenanigans were had, but I can neither confirm, nor deny the rumors. The rumors that I just started. Shhhh.

On our last morning, Guy and I planned for breakfast in a quirky cafe off of the touristy main street in old town, that was covid-style-packed with locals, cow print, and a funny old hostess who called herself Cha Cha (who talked to me in Spanish using curse words I didn't understand... 'cuz missionaries don't tend to learn curse words).  While we waited for a table, we chatted with a couple across the foyer, whose company we enjoyed so well that when our table was ready, and because the wait was so long, we invited to join us (it’s okay.  It’s been 14 days and we didn’t die).  We talked all through ordering, waiting and eating, shared stories of hard times, pictures of our kids at arm's length, and the best food I never should have eaten (you know, Hashimoto's.  Bleh.  It gave me hives).  We parted with warm and simple goodbyes.

I often wonder how many lovely friends I am missing out on because life is short and I don't live in Scarsdale or Toledo or Tanzania, and also, may or may not speak Swahili. But mostly not.

In the last few hours before we headed home, we wandered the old roads looking for "something special", and found it at the edge of a well loved neighborhood, marked by a simple hand painted sign that read Bonsai Nursery.  The "Wife of the Gardener" as she called herself, Anne, was such a gentle soul.  We strolled her back yard-turned-gallery (for truly, bonsai is an art), and admired the 70 or so magical little (and some, surprisingly, big) trees, each as carefully tended and shaped as the one beside it.  She spoke with such kindness, and we visited about faith and integrity and parenting and hard work.  She openly shared tree-wisdom, something I have found that confident artists do freely, revealing the secret for growing moss, bonsai and succulents happily all in the same pot without a grain of soil.  To my comment on their dedication to their craft, she replied that most of their trees were young-ish, "only ten years old or so", and pointed out the 75 year old tree that stood regally among it's mates. Her husband was it's steward, not it's owner, she explained. It had come to him, and if he did his job well, someday it would move on to another. Hmmm. Has a nice ring to it.

We brought home two gorgeous potted plants for just $5 each (I am not ready for bonsai trees in my life again yet, as they are sweetly needy), and left her waving gracious thank yous at the gate.  It had indeed been "something special".

I always leave the presence of Life Masters feeling a bit changed. A little lost for a moment, at having to walk away from all of that wisdom and life experience, a pilgrim on the return descent from the holy mountain, cup not quite full enough. But then I feel invigorated knowing that amidst the uncertainty and chaos of this life, there are wise ones and sages hidden on quiet lanes, disguised as the Wives of Gardeners.

Continued in Act III