Aromathera-peeeee

Blogging compulsion. (Does anyone actually read these things?)…Stream of consciousness to clear my conscience to abandon blog for the weekend…Topic? Hmmm… (sniff, sniff)…got it! (Anything after the Rocky Mountain high will be a letdown, so let’s be banal—why not?)

Our kitchen smells like fish. I have no idea why. I asked Will whether there had been some sort of fish stick incident. I imagined a 3-minute lapse in adult supervision during which Ben and Pearl decided to turn over a cookie sheet full of fish sticks and smear them onto the linoleum with their bare feet, a la grape stomping. Will says he can recall no such incident. I checked the two Beta fish bowls. The blue fish and the orange fish are still alive. Tomorrow I will try refreshing their water to see if that helps…but I don’t think that’s it.

Our home office smells like pee. I’m pretty sure it’s the chair—not the one I’m sitting in; the other one. I sprayed it down with Febreeze and set it by the front door to air. (Note previous blog entry: Living with little boys—and, according to some friends, big boys also—requires extraordinary urine detection vigilance.)

It’s not just the human pee. The cat pee stinks, too. When Ginger/aka Washington/aka James the Giant Peaches ’n’ Cream Cat was living here—in addition to our usual 2, Beauty and Bobo—I purchased a super-duper odor eliminator litter box. While it has some nice filter features, it does not eliminate the need to change the actual litter, especially in the summertime, when heat and humidity accentuate every aroma in the house. Fortunately, I did pick up two new buckets of scoopable cat litter this morning at the grocery store. Unfortunately, I was rushed (and slightly wimpy) and left the fresh litter in the front seat of our trusty Tercel, which Will whisked away to B-Town for the Friday night news shift.

I’m going to sleep now—my allergen-free pillow is pleasantly unscented.

Weekend Wedding Report, Part 2: The Tourists

“This is a view to which nothing needs to be added. This scenery satisfies my soul.”—Isabella Lucy Bird (1831-1904), A Lady’s Life in the Rocky Mountains

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The Rocky Mountains are, in fact, rocky. I know this sounds silly—probably downright ditzy. But I hadn’t really thought about the fact that the terrain would be comprised of gigantic stone conglomerations every which-where. I was awestruck by the peculiar beauty of the landscape. So was Will.

“Nature finds a way, doesn’t it?” he mused.

“What do you mean?” I asked, rounding the next burnt-orange bend in the Rocky road.

“To make stuff grow—even out of rocks.”

It was true—the cliffsides were strewn with trees, shrubs and flowers. Small sunflowers lined the winding thoroughfares, the way chicory and Queen Anne’s lace border the berms of the Northeast, where we live.

The place was so strikingly pretty. The journey from Denver to Estes Park reminded me of another airport-to-destination drive. Nine years ago, I had flown to Los Angeles, rented a car, and driven up the California coast to Santa Barbara for a work-related conference. I remember laughing out loud, for 2 reasons: 1) I was driving a dinky Daewoo in a land of luxury. I had made my reservations with frugality, rather than glamour, in mind. 2) It was so breathtakingly beautiful, it seemed almost unreal. And I wondered, “Do people who live here come to take this scenery for granted? Probably. But wow!” We drove from Denver to Estes Park in a rented Kia—a smidge more horse power than the Daewoo, and only slightly sexier.

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The Elkhorn Lodge, where we stayed, was true to its name—rustic. We did have electricity and running water in our cabin, and even a working water closet. We’re fairly simple folk when it comes to housing expectations, so the Lodge suited us jist fahn. But The Stanley, it was not.

The Stanley is a rather famous, century-old, purportedly haunted hotel where a ghostly Steven King-inspired movie called The Shining was filmed in the late 1970s. It is large and grand and, according to our friends who stayed there, horrifically overpriced. However, they invited us to join them for lunch on the veranda and a dip in the hotel pool a few hours prior to the wedding we had come to witness (and, in Will’s case, officiate).

What a treat! I ordered a fantastically flavorful mango-crab-guacamole appetizer for lunch. Will enjoyed the asparagus soup. We threw caution to the wind and swam immediately afterward. The pool was very large and very warm and, surrounded by the magnificent mountains, a very lovely experience. That we were guests of the groom’s mother and stepfather, who happen to be noteworthy children’s author Sarah Stewart and acclaimed author-illustrator David Small, added to the loveliness. They are gracious hosts and fun company. (I have linked their names to Wiki articles, but http://davidsmallbooks.com/ is probably the better site for learning about them, including David Small’s upcoming graphic novel, Stitches.) Incidentally, David Small reminded me quite a lot, in appearance and mannerisms (aside from the 30-40-year age difference), of a college acquaintance of mine, David Stith. Known professionally as D.M. Stith, he is a musician who recently released his first album, entitled—eerily connecting these components of my tale—Heavy Ghost.

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The morning after the wedding (which I blogged about yesterday but failed to mention the fabulous reception band—gotta find out their name for a link shout-out here): I decided to attend St. Bartholomew’s Episcopal Church. I belong to an evangelical Protestant congregation—that is my background and my spiritual home for the foreseeable future. But I love the liturgy of the Anglican tradition in a deep and abiding way. I worship with the Book of Common Prayer at every opportunity. St. Bart’s did not disappoint my hopes for sublimity—music and words raised in worship of the Creator of the whole realm of nature! And! I saw a black-billed magpie on my 1-mile walk to church—an everyday occurrence for many Westerners, but for a bird girl from A-Town, another delightful moment in a soul-satisfying trip.

"To Mountainous Marriages..."

For the second time so far this year, I witnessed a wedding in the mountains.

In March, I celebrated the joining of a handsome Namibian to my down-home college friend from Albany. Their Adirondack chapel service was among the most unique and lovely I have ever attended.

The Rocky Mountain-side ceremony I saw 3 days ago was also one of a kind. Not only did the majority of the guests arrive in a converted WWII Army transport vehicle provided by the host site, the Elkhorn Lodge, but this was my first and probably sole experience as “pastor’s wife.” In the state of Colorado, where couples can—if they so choose—marry themselves by signing a few simple forms, Will the non-licensed newsman guided the vows of his lifelong friend Dave to Christina, a lovely woman of Irish descent from—believe it or not—Watertown, snow capital of New York.

About 80 people attended the late afternoon nuptials mere miles from Rocky Mountain National Park. There were blessedly few frills—no bridesmaids, no groomsmen, no birdseed, no pastel mints. Just the blonde bride holding a bouquet, the bald groom holding her free hand, and the “Rev. Will Waters,” holding it together. The patchwork families and faithful friends of the couple encircled the spot. It was, at moments, quirky, comical, heart-rending…unforgettable.

Will was very nervous. I knew he would be. If he’s not talking agriculture (his main beat for the paper), public speaking makes him sweat. So the request by his buddy to fulfill this solemn service was, like the peaks surrounding us, daunting. To counteract his jitters, Will welcomed the guests a tad too enthusiastically and proceeded to project both his voice and his emotions throughout the 20-minute rite. I fell in love with him all over again as I watched him dutifully, honorably—albeit loudly—carry out the charge he had accepted out of devotion to his friend.

Dave and Christina had carefully compiled a series of readings that were meaningful to them: a prayer from Robert Louis Stevenson, a passage from Kahlil Gibran, and “Loving Cups,” an Irish tradition in which the couple toasts each other drinking honey wine (otherwise known as mead, a key beverage in the recent Harry Potter film). As often happens this time of year in that part of the Rockies, the afternoon skies sprinkled their own blessings on the wedding couple and witnesses, thus postponing the mead rite until the reception. In a gesture at once amusing and touching, Dave’s gallant brother Mark swooped to center stage, knelt down and held high a sunny yellow umbrella to shield the groom and his beloved. Only the homily and the vows were off script, and all 3 purveyors of those messages spoke earnestly, even eloquently—even Will.

He told the guests that, over the years, Dave has demonstrated remarkable allegiance to the people present, and likely more. In a society where many men seem to neglect their relationships (marriages and friendships alike), Dave has behaved counter-culturally. Every spring for the past several years, he has flown across the country, reunited with his college pals, and then driven 2 hours further to visit us and our kids. We eagerly anticipate our annual 24 hours with Dave-O (or Dah-Veed—whichever silly nickname happens to tumble out), during which the kids overwhelm him with well-intentioned offerings of used toys, hastily crayoned sketches, and other gestures of genuine affection. Meanwhile, we adults attempt to converse meaningfully in between gift presentations, screeches, shrieks, and other sound effects of lively kids. We typically talk late into the night, solving the world’s problems, as well our own. Dave is an earnest listener and a thoughtful person.

Rev. Will told the “Dearly beloved” that it was only 3 or 4 weeks into the relationship with “Little C” that Dave visited us last spring. After spilling a year’s worth of guts to Dave’s patient ears, Will finally asked: “So, how are you? Any special LLLLLadies in your life???” (A-Town readers who know Will in person can imagine the peculiar inflection and mildly teasing tone that accompanied the question.) Dave quickly, frankly replied: “Actually, I think I’ve met ‘the one.’”

And so he had. And what a gift, as Rev. Will put it. “When you meet ‘the one,’ not being with that person is simply not an option.” Okay, okay, I know—double negative. He’s not an orator, but his sentiments were well said just the same. Dave and Christina should be so blessed as to enjoy at least 12 years and 338 days of wedded…well, maybe not bliss, but goodness, as we have. May our marriages prove as immovable as the mountains. Amen.

(The touristy stuff will have to wait for a future A-Town installment. I wonder what is more difficult: To write, to paint, or to compose music while in the presence of boisterous children. This entry has come together, in stops and starts, over several hours. I do hope it lacks any ghastly gaffes.)

Writer’s Envy…and Delight

I wriggled an invite to the A-Town Rotary Club meeting this afternoon, mainly to hear USA Today columnist Craig Wilson speak. Wilson has roots in these parts, and he stays in touch with various friends, family members and classmates. One of these people convinced him to combine a Rotary speech with a hometown visit, and this is the week it worked out. As it happens, he’s here for his mother’s 90th birthday, which he wrote about in yesterday's paper.

I don’t normally pick up USA Today, but I had read Wilson’s work a few years ago in a collection of his columns called It’s the Little Things. I found his writing engaging and honest and funny…and challenging, in a “How does he do that?” kind of way. The way a Little Leaguer admires a New York Yankee or the way a beginning instrumentalist stands in awe of an orchestral musician. No, that’s not quite the right analogy. It’s the way someone somewhat practiced in a skill admires a master of it. I think you have to have actually tried something for a little while—beyond the beginner stage—before you can fully appreciate how difficult it is to get to a professional level of performance. And after you’ve been at it several years, and you’ve really, really tried to get good, you begin to truly respect the talent component. Effort will take you far, but talent, at the highest levels of accomplishment, is indispensible.

I like to write. I’ve always liked to write, as long as I can remember. (I got a perfect score on a state writing test in the fifth grade. Doesn’t that count for something? Please???) I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve had to write professionally. I was a writer/editor for my alma mater for almost a dozen years. And even now, even though my “day job” is now largely administrative, I do have duties that allow me to express myself in writing for the good of my organization and—oh, heck—the world! (I think my workplace is pretty important—life-changing, even.)

BUT! I don’t get to write my life story for a living…at least, not yet. Hearing Craig Wilson read from his book, a hilarious, heartfelt tale of trick-or-treating with his next-door neighbor Patty Miller, I found myself fighting back tears. At first, I was crying from the effort of restraining my laughter. I didn’t feel I should guffaw as a guest among the Rotarians. Then, as I made my way to my car after the speech, I got choked up by the beauty of what I had just witnessed: an ordinary person, with an ordinary background, weaving extraordinarily rich stories of the beauty and hilarity of life. I felt a pang of jealousy, but mostly a surge of gratitude for the Simple Gifts…the Little Things.

Random, unrelated YouTube referral, courtesy of Auntie Jean—a funky remix of Lionel Ritchie’s “Hello” for us ’80s kids: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CBe6Os55ceM

Tuesday Tidbits: Tight Muscles and Happy Endings

I rejoined the local ladies’ gym this morning. First elliptical workout in 4 months. I’d rather be running, but my pelvic injury seems to need more time to heal before I go pounding it to oblivion. Back to low-impact for me. I don’t think I’ve blogged about this, but I slipped on the ice on February 19th. I caught myself, but the sudden jerking motion in my hip caused a severe strain on my psoas muscle. Being a runner, I continued running anyhow…well, as soon as the weather turned spring-like, I ran. For a few months I got by with stretching and regular chiropractic adjustments. But after the A-Town 5k in June, I decided to really address the problem. I sought out some massage therapy, and I’ve been do my stretches and such with greater diligence. I rested a bit, then tried running again. The problem persisted. I rested again, tried running again—still not ready. So, for now, I’m taking it in stride, inside—elliptical stride, that is.
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In other news—on a previously blogged topic: Ginger the homeless cat has a new home! I’ve been waiting to post the glad tidings until I was reasonably sure it would work out. It’s been 3 weeks since the B Family took him in, and—so far—no complaints. Assuming this adoption sticks, Ginger will have gone from roaming the streets to living with A-Town royalty—really! Liz B. was the A-Town prom queen this year. And now Ginger is “lapping up” the affections of this lovely young lady. Happy ending.
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Lastly, it’s camp week for Vi and thus rather quiet in the Waters household. We miss her, but we’re sure she’s having a fabulous time. Last year when we picked her up from camp she requested to re-up for the next week…and the next! Actually, she wanted to live at camp for the rest of the summer because, apparently, our house is boring. (Could’ve fooled me!)

Old Becomes New, Every July

I’ve had a couple of requests to blog about the Old Tyme Days near A-Town. Where do I begin?

Sometime when I was in high school (1989—I looked it up) some family friends bought a little country church that had been abandoned decades before. It was old, musty, rundown—practically in ruins. But, believing God could work miracles in and through this place, they purchased it, prayed in it, and poured their blood, sweat and tears into renovating it—a grueling labor of love. About nine months later (really), they reopened the church to the Glory of God.

Somehow, 20 years elapsed, and yesterday I took my 2 littles (Ben and Pearl) to the Old Tyme Day hosted by the church every July. The ministry that had begun with a handful of earnest saints, holding hands and singing the Doxology in a mildewed sanctuary, attracted thousands of people—church folks and seculars alike—to this rural road in the middle of…well, not nowhere, but close.

Festivities began with worship at 10. By the time I arrived, around 3, attendance had blossomed to brimming. We had to park a good quarter-mile down the hill from the pretty white steepled structure where it had all started. Providentially, the church foresaw the crowd and outfitted several amiable older gentlemen with golf carts to transport women and children like us from our cars to the party.

And what a party it is! (I say ‘is’ rather than ‘was’ because it’s a semi-annual event that A-Town readers could attend in the future—third Sunday of July and again at Christmastime—next evet: Dec. 13 ’09.) The enterprising church revivers not only fixed up the 1854 Methodist edifice, but they also have constructed a charming collection of ‘Little Houses,’ barns, stalls and shops—a Victorian village replete with a moving mill and a wooden water tower. Then, to show the world that this little country congregation is indeed alive and thriving, the church members animate the place in an impressively large and variable cast of costumed characters: the blacksmith, the penny candy vendor, carriage drivers and horse ride givers, millers, weavers and woodworkers. The town holds a live trial and throws its convict in a makeshift jail. A booming brass band performs, the church choir belts out Bible tunes… Did I mention this is all happening on a sleepy country lane nestled among corn fields? It’s amazing, really.

Maybe even more astonishing and refreshing is the old-fashioned cost of admission—free!—and the price of all the goodies available throughout the day: hot dogs, pies, homemade ice cream, candy, lemonade, iced tea, and a truly traditional favorite, red Kool Aid—all for a penny apiece!

Reports of “numbers” at the event: Well over 3,000 hot dogs served, plus more than 4,000 pieces of pie. Church member and A-Town reader “The Shepherdess” reflects: “One of the things I love and admire about this project is the amount of work that people do—not for a fundraiser or personal gain but just to ‘give it away.’”

That’s what I call a tribute to the last Cent-ury!

Photo by Jim Dolan—full collection at NewYorkStatePhoto.com

Black Jack Gum, Gold Toe Socks, Plus Other Bargains & Blessings

In honor of A-Town reader Professor PBS (who I’m not actually sure frequents LiAT, but I hope he checks in occasionally), today’s garage sale finds:

Four pairs of brand-new Gold Toe ladies’ socks: $1.50

An unopened package of Black Jack gum: 5 cents

One pair of bright orange flip-flops (worn twice): 10 cents

A pristine set of Avon overnight hair curlers: $3

Ziploc bag containing a veritable rainbow of assorted nail polish: $1

Bona fide guest bed (the fold-up kind you find in hotels—including the mattress, minus the bed bugs): $35

One very classy taupe linen short-sleeved skirt suit, worn only once by my friend on the happy occasion of her dream-job interview (successfully secured): $20

An assortment of unopened, not-yet-used Mary Kay lotions and beauty aids, all bargain-priced for quick sale: $5

Farmhouse wood kitchen table, with 2 leaves and 4 chairs, plus felt-backed, custom-fitted, protective padded covers for the tabletop: Free! A pay-it-forward blessing from my friend Laura, host of the sale

Two nonfiction paperback books: 50 cents (and a freebie hardcover John Irving book—score!)

Also free (and priceless): A lovely wooden bird to hang from my ceiling. Laura saw me admiring it and insisted I take the “friendship bird” she received by mail several years ago from her Russian pen pals. It was one of the things she regretted parting with as she moved, so she gladly gave it to me.

And…last but not least on my list of things I’m happy to have obtained: A new toaster! Also free! Gotta love that. Some people go to all the trouble of setting up a checking account to secure that homiest of small kitchen appliances. I simply showed up at my friend’s garage sale.

(There it is again—that recurring adage, that nugget of truth: “Eighty percent of life is showing up.”)