A Toast to Love

The wedding was—as most weddings are—magical. Big or small, in pandemic or in prosperity, it is the love that matters; not the location, or the guest list or—sorry Philip—even the beauty of the flowers. It is the love that shines thru and illuminates the day, that is both the beginning, and the end, of everything. Love is both magic and miracle.

And so it was that the tasks were accomplished, the flowers were arranged, the guests arrived. Pictures were taken, vows were exchanged, happy tears shed. We feasted, we toasted, we danced.

Florals by Philip

This wedding completes the Sume Family Trifecta. All three boys are now married to their Beloveds. All three have chosen amazing young women, all three have joined families that are warm and welcoming. I often say that it was not my place to choose their brides—but if it was? I couldn’t have done any better. As the mother of only sons, I have long waited for this last shot to have daughters. I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself for having such great women in my life; all without having had the expense of prom dresses and the trauma of my inability to create “princess hair.” Genius move, on my part.

I have a small suspicion that my boys might have made a friendly wager to see who could get me to shed the most tears during the festivities. Was the winner Cameron, when during each rehearsal walk down a long hillside to the wedding arbor, told me of all the things he adores about his Bride? He told me how long he had waited for this day, how happy he was that it had finally come, and how he looked forward to their future together.

Or was it Jordan, who recited a private toast in my ear? Recalling family moments and jokes, perfectly balancing laughter and tears, toasting my past and future role as “Mom.”

Maybe it was Devin, who undertook his best man duties with such serious joy, making sure that all went well for his twin. Devin who supported his wife Staci’s role of both bridesmaid, wedding coordinator, and mom of Baby Aiden. My heart rejoices to see such partnerships, and some of that can’t help but leak out my eyes.

As for myself—I did not make a toast at the wedding, but I offer one now. It is my favorite, all-purpose Sume Toast and I share it with you. “Here’s to the Love that began us, here’s to the Love between us, and here’s to the Love that multiplies us. Here’s to Love!”

Here's to Love!

Beth and Cameron

 

PRE Post-Apocalypse

I’ve always been a reader; books have long been my drug of choice. I enjoy a good dystopian, post-apocalyptic tale-- probably more than most. Lately, though—I’ve come to reconsider my preferences.

 We seeming to be living in that awkward period right before the apocalypse kicks in; a period I hadn’t ever considered before. The entire west coast seems to be on fire and what isn’t, seems to be poised on the brink of immolation. Add to that mix the crazy winds that gust, and swirl, and switch direction. It’s so bad I’ve begun to even question my apparel choice: This outfit isn’t too reflective, or frictional is it? I would hate to cause the spark that sets my neighborhood ablaze. 

 I was away from home most of last week, and in my absence I decided the only responsible thing to do was to disconnect my fence. I was worried that the wind might drop a branch across my electric wires and spark a conflagration worthy of Mrs. O’Leary’s cow. A little fame is nice, but I don’t want to be cow famous. Besides, elk have really left my fence alone. They’ve probably forgotten all about my flowers. I’m sure it will be fine. Probably fine? Hopefully fine? Responsibly fine, anyway. 

  Narrator: you can stop reading if you’ve already guessed how this tale ends, but here we go: It was not fine.

     Sometime on Saturday, a couple of greedy little juvenile delinquents climbed through the no-longer-hot-safety-first wire and did what elk do. When I left my garden last week I had way more tomatoes than any sane person needs, pumpkin vines so vigorous I was afraid to stand near them, green beans, a modest amount of corn, and “some” zucchinis. By Sunday afternoon I had—had I planted tomatoes?? My corn was trampled, tossed and torn. The beans were cropped and chopped. The broccoli was bitten, the pumpkins smitten—well, there were a few pumpkins that didn’t have teeth marks in them, but many had been nibbled and/or stomped...they had even eaten every leaf off my two baby cherry trees.

Huh. Whatever could have done this?

Wanna know what DOES survive the apocalypse--besides cockroaches? And Zombies?

Zucchini.

The Third Wedding Draws Ever Nigh, Third Son, Dahlia Edition

 Love in a time of Pandemic is even more precious. We are reminded of the terrible beauty of Life—that is oh-too-short, and that we should cherish the moments we are allotted. Trying to implement a wedding that has been in the works for over a year-- but now the details and the concerns change from week-to-week—has certainly been a lesson in priorities. Guest lists get slashed to the bone, plans for refreshments have new guidelines, and scented hand-sanitizer is the new fragrance du jour.

 

Through it all, there is—as it should be—love. And flowers. Because –at least in my opinion—once you have the happy couple and the dress, the other key ingredient is flowers.

 

We have the usual wedding flowers: roses, calla lilies, alstroemeria, in lovely sunset shades—but what we really need are Dahlias. Dahlias are prolific bloomers and come in every color imaginable. Because they peak in late summer, dahlias are perfect for a September wedding.

Sunset colors, perfect!

 

Unfortunately, I am not Dahlia friendly. I forget to dig them up in the fall and have killed more little beauties that way than I care to account for. I didn’t think to plant them this spring because we were at the then height of the pandemic and I was Oh, She of Little Faith.

Ooohhhh, pretty!

 

While not Dahlia Friendly, I am Dahlia Adjacent. When I went to Facebook, seeking dahlia growers, my FB friends reminded me that not only do we have two local companies growing flowers—shout out to Big Bottom Bouquets and Courageous Crow for their beautiful blooms—but my neighbor Joyce (hi Joyce!) who LIVES RIGHT DOWN THE ROAD FROM ME has a plethora of petals.

Perfection!

 

What can I say? I’m often very “pretty.” But, thanks to my FB friends’ reminders, I contacted Joyce. She very graciously offered to give me a garden tour. She is growing lots of varieties that will be perfect for the latest Sume Wedding, but my favorite—not at all in the color pallet-- was a dahlia Joyce introduced me to.

 

Meet “Elk Lips on Fire":

Elk Lips on Fires. Seriously. That is the name.

 

 Joyce said she bought it for the name, because the name is irresistible and she just had to see it in person. Which, as a fellow flower addict, I recognize a good justification when I hear one. We both had a laugh at the name, and I wondered at the backstory behind the moniker. For once, Google failed to illuminate me, but my imagination believes there was some sort of retaliation story in the naming. Probably involving pepper spray.

 

That’s my belief, I’m sticking to it. Bring on the dahlias!

The Summer that Wasn’t

Welcome to September! I don’t care what the calendar says about the official start of the season but Fall is in the air-- can you feel it? The nights are cooler, the sunshine seems to have more shadows in it and the sun doesn’t have the same bite.

It doesn’t really feel like we had Real Summer though, as so many of my summer traditions were put on hold in the interest of public safety.

In Packwood, we are used to celebrating both ends of the summer with a huge, outdoor Flea Market. The biannual event brings tourist-- vendors and visitors fill the town, parking is at a price and come Monday, there won’t be a loaf of bread left on the grocery store shelf. Well, maybe the low carb, high fiber kind made from sawdust and broken promises, that nobody likes---but all the Good Bread will be history. Good for local business, bad for sudden cravings of grilled cheese.

In addition to the Summer bookend events, I’m used to watching the Loggers Jubilee Parade, while simultaneously exploiting my cute grandkids as candy magnets. Since I still have half a bag of purloined candy left over from last year’s event, I considered driving thru Morton in the middle of the night and sprinkling candy over the sidewalks and along the gutters—as though some sort of Ghost of Parades Past had visited the town.

Then I got into an argument with myself about litter and creating a public nuisance and spawning at least three dozen different conspiracy theories as to the origin and purpose of the candy and never got around to implementing my plan.

 I like helping serve at the Fireman’s beef BBQ—my job is either Jello scooping, condiment dispensing—do you want sour cream with that? Or—at my last promotion-- assistant back up to corn-on-the-cob conveying. "We need more butter over here!" All key roles, to be sure.

Then there’s the Rod Run, noting all the cool cars that their owners so lovingly display and wondering how cool would it be to go for a Road Trip, convertible top down, hair blowing in the breeze, the smell of fresh cut hay scenting the air...

No Fair this year, with its cotton candy and 4H animals, no midway with the lights and motion and screams, no crowing at the chickens in the chicken barn, and eating scones—scones are THE BEST FAIR FOOD EVER, amirite?

Summer of 2020 is now officially in the books, before it ever got out of the blocks. We will keep wearing our masks, and social distancing, and looking forward to a Real Summer in 2021-- with all its events and assorted glories.

In the meantime, might I suggest you go make yourself a s’more? Because that is one summer tradition I’m still hanging on to.