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

On Cleaning Out Closets

Guy and I have spent the last year re-inventing; putting a concerted effort into our marriage.  We have always gotten along well, but you know, everyone can try harder to be better, especially me. 

Also, we have maybe possibly developed some not great habits. We have silent conflicts... the kind where you can hear crickets chirping. Which isn't the same as not arguing, because we have the argument alone in our own heads, which, due to our unfortunate inability to read minds, gets us a whole lot'a nowhere. 

You know how when you decide to organize a closet, it can get pretty messy as you unpack years of "stuff"? Yah, same thing with marriage.  It doesn't mean everything is falling apart, but true self examination can be like cleaning your mirror and realizing you really need to pluck your mustache. Add to that some major "out-of-our-hands, and not-to-be-blogged-about" crises, and it piles up to a more challenging year than most. 

My closet cleaning has led me to learn a bunch about codependency.  I always thought codependancy was extreme, like when you are the 700 pound person stuck in your house and your spouse is the one bringing you 8 pounds of chow-mien and four pizzas a day.  Well, I don't do any of that, so I'm good, right?  

Uh, yeah, not so much.  It's a whole attitude thing.  While one action done in a certain frame of mind might not at all be codependant-y, the exact same action done with a different intention may absolutly be (you might not understand the technicalistic-ish lingo I am using here. I would never make up words to try to sound smarter. I'm pretty sure codependant-y is in the dictionary). If I bring you a brownie to be nice, thats, well, nice (unless you're on a diet, then that's just mean. Mean brownie-ing). If I do it to secretly obligate you to do something for me, say, pumice the barnacles off my scaly heals, that's a no-no.  Which seems cut and dry, but can be way harder to figure out when it's tiny little behaviors spread over two decades, let me tell ya. 

So to honor our year of marital closet cleaning, Guy and I threw together a last -minute anniversary get-away.  I hurried out that morning looking for an anniversary card that would magically fit the occasion, and I found SQUAT in an envelope for $4.99. Sometimes I would pick up a card and loudly moan at the 14 stanza syrupy soliloquy inside, before returning it to the slot it came from (only it wasn't the right slot, because the slot had mysteriously vanished, and I am mad at the card company now for wasting my time, so I don't care if I put it back in the right darn slot anymore).

Suddenly, I'm feeling snarky at everything.  Each card seems to be a lie. I can't buy a card that says, "Here's to another year of wedded bliss!"  It's wedded hard work!  And two rabbits in clothes making a toast isn't gonna cut it.

The anniversary cards are all in one little corner where the air conditioner is mysteriously making some eardrum bursting sound that apparently only I can hear, and now I am sympathizing with all the dogs I have tormented over the years with those silent dog whistles. The lady in the little store vest is doing the fakey-fake cheerful voice to everyone who walks in, and when she asks me if I'm finding everything I think I might have to punch her, because I don't need a card that says, "Pookie pie, our marriage is like a day at Disneyland and we both poop rainbows and I am now a wonderful person all because of YOU!"

(Wow, now I'm really crabby. Closet cleaning makes card buying hard.)

I need a card that says,

"Holy crap, dude.  That was a rough one.  Thanks for hanging in there with me."

I settle on a card that says, "Damn, I'm lucky."

Tessa scolds me for buying a card with a curse word on it.  Great, now I'm a crabby wife AND potty-mouth mom.

In the end, we had a nice little overnight escape.  We talked about our growth over the year, and consoled each other over the rough bits. We ate grown up food and a lot of chocolate, and wandered around in stores we would have been thrown out of if we'd had the miscreants with us.  And not once did I have to tell Guy to stop climbing on anything, so, yah, pretty good.

I think when you pile on a few years, you start getting better at certain things, and so God says, "Ok, they're ready for the next challenge", and something hits that would have turned you into a puddle a few years before.  I'm glad they don't all come at once. And I'm glad I have this good man at my side to ride the waves with, storms and all. Even if he still can't read my mind. 

Yup, I'm pretty *cus'word* lucky. 

My Friend, Marion

Dan and Marion in the last photo taken of them.
  It is the most tender, perfect family portrait I have ever seen.
 Used with permission of the family.

 

I had called Dan on his cell phone as we drove past their house.  I'd found it was the best way to catch he and Marion these days since she had been so sick.  Marion was often sick, but you never really knew how sick she truly was because Marion had the tenacity to go straight from the hospital right to the church building to help with an activity or to play the organ.  Nothing could slow her down and I knew that this little bump in the road could be no exception.

 

"Hyeee-llo", Dan said in his pleasant sing-song as he picked up the phone, like always.  After a few pleasantries, I asked, "So how's our Marion today?"

 

"Not s'good.  The nurse came a little while ago.  They don't expect she'll last more than a few days."

 

I was shocked and could only utter a feeble apology.  Dan is one of those folks who seems to see right through you, and I have always felt a little nervous talking to him.  Now I had no words at all.  Through a mist of tears I told Guy what Dan had said.  How could it be that this amazing lady, my friend Marion, was going to leave?

 

I don't remember the first time I talked to Marion, but the first time I was invited to her home is burned into my memory in silver and blue.  It was Christmas (at this moment, any of you who knew her are smiling).  Marion had come to a church activity for the sisters at my house.  I had our place all decked out for Christmas.  We tend to put quite a lot of time end energy into our decorating, but Marion only seemed to view my festive efforts as quaint.  Later that week as my family stood in her entry way I learned why.

 

Marion's house was more elaborately decorated than the North Pole itself.  She had an angel room, and one of all Santas.  She decorated each bedroom and bathroom, her kitchen, and even her laundry room.  She placed an immense, glistening village, composed of dozens of gleaming buildings and houses along the cabinets that skirted her own bedroom.  The warm light reflected off of the mirrors and flooded the room with an ethereal glow. It took she and Dan nearly 15 minutes to switch on all the lights and music boxes, and then at least half an hour to give us the tour. 

 

It was, as was Marion, amazing.

 

She was a storyteller, she was a musician, she served her family and friends and she served the Lord.  One of the most beautiful gifts that Marion gave my family was that of her music, or more specifically, her time.  She provided music lessons to our family, free of any compensation, for over two years.  She didn't mind when the girls decided to take a break after the first six months, and told me not to worry, they could come back any time.  Sadly, that is no longer the case.  Adam stuck with it, though sometimes with less devotion than was deserved.  On those times when I begged her forgiveness when Addy came week after week not having practiced (not for my lack of nagging), she would sweetly say, "Oh, now, don't worry.  Boys do this.  What is important is that he's here and he keeps trying.  He's a good boy."  She had a way of making my feelings of shame melt into comfortable normalcy. 

 

Marion could make you feel so good about yourself.  She always had a compliment to pay, a kind word of encouragement, or a little story that bridged decades to help me through a mothering challenge.  She knew how to turn a bad moment around.  Though I knew she'd had many trials in her life, she didn't wallow in them.  She seemed perpetually happy.  When asked the tired question, "How are you?", she almost always replied, "Great!"

 

The thing I loved most about Marion was that she was the lovely half of a mighty whole.  She and her sweetie, Dan, were such a tender pair.  When I imagine what I would want my marriage to be like, now and forty years from now, it is after the template made by Dan and Marion.

 

In fact, there isn't much about Marion that I don't aspire to be.  Marion used her talents to bless the lives of others right to the end of her life.  She was one busy lady, never resting on her laurels or taking a "sick day".  In fact, when I had my last blood clot removed I thought of how often Marion had come straight away from the hospital to some church event, and so I told Guy I wanted to go to our church activity that night.  If Marion could power through the way she did in her late 80's, well, certainly I could try as well.

 

That day, the day I called Dan and learned Marion's lovely light was fading, Guy and I decided we would go see her the next day to say goodbye.  But we didn't get a chance.  Marion passed away that night.

 

And Marion left this life the way I would like to leave; in her sweetie's arms, surrounded in spirit by dozens of her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.  Her mind was clear and, right to the end, we were told, she bore testimony to her loved ones of her faith in a Divine Creator, a loving Heavenly Father who had provided a plan for her and her life.  Marion shared her faith with everyone in the beautiful way she lived her life, and though we heard it from her lips often, we would have known it had she never spoken a word. 

 

I sang this morning at Marion's memorial service.  I was so glad when I glanced at the program before the meeting started and saw that I was to sing in the first few minutes of the service.  I can't cry before I sing because it turns on my waterworks, and I don't get through the song.  And I wanted to weep -no, bawl! - but weeping would have to do.  And weep I did at song's end before I even left the front of the chapel after Guy played the last notes on the piano. 

 

Marion's family was so calm and peaceful.  I felt almost ashamed in front of them over my bursts of tears during the luncheon.  After all, I am not even related.  But then it dawned on me; her family has had her all their lives; lifetimes of her wonderful sense of humor and radiant smile.  Sadly, I have only had Marion as my friend for ten years.  I certainly don't feel done.  Not that any of them do either, of course, but I can still feel jealous.  How would it have been to have a whole lifetime with Marion?

 

***

 

"...weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning."

Psalms 30:5

 

 Post Script: Marion asked me years ago to sing for her funeral,

and she knew just what song she wanted. 

 

"Oh, that I were an angel,

oh, that I were an angel

and could have the wish of my heart!"

 

Marion, you got your wish.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The "Happily" in the "Ever After"

The other night I read an article about things that make a marriage work.  It was interesting, and while I did see some of what keeps our own marriage running like a well oiled Studebaker, I thought, "Wait, there's more!".  Now, I realize here, that 18 years of marriage is just pre-school compared to some 50 and 60 year stints, but I'd like to believe I have learned a couple of things in between wiping butts, noses and dishes over nearly two (choke) decades.

So here are some grains of wisdom I have swept up off the kitchen floor with the Legos and bulk-bin, generic Lucky Charms.  Take 'em... or leave 'em on my kitchen floor (I'll get to them later).

***

Get the heck out of the house WITHOUT your children before they suck your brains out, fill your heads with jello and call the mother ship to have you abducted for alien probing.  Children need time away from you to plot their next uprising, and you and your spouse need to reload your bazookas and fill your canteens.  I won't tell you not to spend your precious time away from the beasties talking about them.  We all know you have nothing left to talk about than who wiped boogers on the wall by the toilet, but at least pick the fruit snack out of your hair and put on a vomit-free shirt before you go out.

When you are upset at your "other", think about what that other person needs.  Shift your focus.  I think most upsets happen when someone needs something and isn't getting it.  This really works, primarily because with all the kid noise in the house, it is hard to focus on staying mad and on the needs of the other person at the same time without some Ritalin.

Shave your legs. I don't know if it really helps my marriage, but I like to believe that in the dark of the night he won't think the dog crawled in beside him. Besides, a good make-up job lasts, at best, 4 hours. A good leg shave lasts a day and a half (if there are any men out there who actually read this, you can skip this last one, but I ask you, men, am I wrong?).

Give tokens.  "I got ya somethin'..." Guy will say in a sing-song.  Some fresh mint leaves, my favorite cheese, moss.  Yes, moss.  I used to have a rock garden, and one day Guy brought home some really cool moss for me to add to my garden.  I love that he did that, and though I no longer have the garden, I'll always have the memory. 

Flirt (With each other, I mean.  Kinda counter-productive otherwise).  You are married, so goosing is totally legal. 

Don't "fill the empty space" when he gives you a short answer to a question about his day.  The "space" is the wind up to the swing.  Give him a minute, he might ...actually... say ... something ..................................................eventually.

Don't ask him what he's thinking.  You won't believe him when he says "Nothing", and after you badger him to tell you, what he will now be thinking is something that you. should. not. hear.

Sleep in on Saturday (wink, wink).  Invest in a door lock that cannot be opened with a penny from the outside.  Have a pre-fabricated list of... well, fabrications, for what you are doing in there.  "We are sorting socks" and "We are discussing the Cuban Missile Crisis" are good stand-bys.

As an addendum to the above tidbit, put the cereal bowls where little ones can reach them, and make sure the milk jug isn't too full to be lifted by a 5 year old.  Nothing spoils the mood like the resonating thud- glub-glub of a new gallon of milk hitting the floor.  Train the big kids to help with this one, and reward them later with at least an hour of mind-numbing Japanese cartoons for "letting you sleep".

Thank him.  A lot.  Be specific.  He deserves it. 

No tears after 9PM.  This one took me a while to figure out (I cry.  It's part of my process sometimes.  It's the lubricant that lets my words slide out more easily).  But after 9PM he is winding down, and it takes a lot of energy to deal with a wet conversation.  Wait til daylight (preferably with some sleep in between).  "It" will usually keep, and by then the tears may have dried up all on their own.

When you are mad at each other, stick out your tongue and say "Nyah!"  I don't know why, but for some reason this little exchange lightens the mood.  Don't let the kids see. Major backfire there.

Hold her hand.  For gosh sakes, man, it's right there.  Just pick the thing up, and do that little thumb-on-the-back-of-the-hand rubby maneuver.  When you were dating she wanted a ring on her hand... this is way cheaper and still very desirable.

Don't let the kids sit between you.  Your place is by each other's side, at church, on the couch, at the movies, at dinner.  Once those cretins weasel their way in, you'll never get your spot back.

Find out their love languages, and learn to "speak" them.  (take the Love Languages test here http://www.5lovelanguages.com/profile/).  (Mine are "Affection" and "Words of Affirmation" - just in case any of my husbands are reading.  Guy's is "Time Together", for sure.)

Fuss over special days. Not "fuss" as in complain and make each other miserable. Make a fuss. Go to some trouble. Do it up right. Sparkling cider is available year round for a buck ninety-nine, and a candle will make any crappy day into a cozy evening. Guy and I do a $5 valentines. It is more work, actually, than getting a gift that would cost more, because it still has to be meaningful. But I love that he can find some cool old thing at a thrift store that he knows I will love.  There are 4 days that you MUST acknowledge: Birthday, Valentines, Christmas and Anniversary.  You can be lazy the other 361.

Work together.  It takes one person 2 minutes to make a bed, and two people about 20 seconds. Really, I have never had so much appreciation for my husband as I do when he works at my side, no matter what we are doing.  Especially diapers.  With a two year old poopy-runner, that's a two person job fo' sho'.

Lastly...

Get over yourself.  Everything that comes into your head does not automatically need to come out of your mouth. In fact, I'm gonna shut up right now.

Spicing Up a Marriage

You know how in the movies
a guy pulls over to the side of the road to change a tire and while doing so, he places the lug-nuts into the hubcap for safe keeping?  It is always about this time that a well meaning child with giant clown feet clomps over and flips the hubcap into the air, distributing the lug-nuts into the 4 foot high grass on the side of the freeway.

Now, take this scene, make the lug-nuts into hundreds of tiny beads and the roadside my studio, and make the clown-footed child be Jonah.  Do you have the picture?  OK, now do this SIX TIMES.

Usually, when I am making jewelry, I am doing it as a gift and there is a time-crunch. I mean, I suppose I could plan ahead, be relaxed and take my time, but where's the adventure in that?  So on those gift-making days, when clown-footed children topple thousands of beads across the floor, I scoop them up by the handful and dump them all akimbo into a bowl so that I can keep working.

Everybody say it with me now: "I will sort it out later." (this phrase may also be used with junk mail, laundry, and closets).

I am trying to get ready for my Open Studio Sale.  Mixed beads are not conducive to my creative chi.  While I am getting pottery ready (because sorry, you can't crank out pottery the night before.  People apparently won't like squishy, wet pots), I have asked Guy to awaken the OCD within him and help me get the beads under control.

***THIS IS WHY I LOVE MY HUSBAND***

While I throw pottery (ha ha, you're so funny.  Yes, they would break if I actually threw them, but we don't. It's just the term we use) Guy has spent the past several evenings not just sorting out the bowls of beads that had been mixed like a Three Bean Salad, he is making me a "Beading Station", complete with beads grouped by size, color and type.  He is organizing everything so that I can get to it easily and it will be out of the way of clown feet and sticky fingers.

But wait, there is more...

I came home the other day from Ballet with the girls to see my counters covered with tiny glass bottles.  Guy had hunted out old spice racks from the thrift store in which to organize my beads.

 There is nothing so wonderful as being thought of, but I mean really thought of; remembered, understood, appreciated.  I felt so important to him.  He has plenty to do with his time to not be scrounging around dirty ol' thrift stores or sorting out my messes.  I smiled so hard and said to the rows of little bottles, "Oh, that cute man!"

In the movies, besides rescuing toppled hubcaps, men bring flowers.  But show me a man changing a poop-soup diaper and I'll show you a real hottie.  You can keep your movie man.  In real life - my life, my sweetie brings me old spice jars.

*****

Congrats to my Hubby for the honor he will receive tomorrow night as 

Teacher of the Month 

for all of Sacramento County and Court Classes.

I am so proud of him.