Past Is Prologue, Part Two

 Memory--both bane and blessing!  When Shane was first lost to me, the times I was impatient, crabby, or unkind came flooding back. In that First Worst Week I stapled the pages of my journal closed so I would be unable to go back into my past and review the times I had been less than my best self. And by “less than my best self” I might be referring to the time I told him he “was just lucky I was such an F-ing saint.” Except I didn’t say it as “F-ing.” And I might have “said” it at top volume—sounding more like a Shakespearean fishwife than a saint. Which, even at that time, the incongruity made me laugh. Do Saints go around proclaiming their Sainthood at top volume? With swearing? Probably not.

I experienced the common compulsion to Deify my lost love. The annoyances fell away. Shane was the Saint, a unicorn, a man above men. When my husband was stripped from my life, any of the imperfections became unimportant—all that mattered was his essence: his love, his humor, his gentle spirit. The fact that he insisted on folding the towels “wrong” no longer mattered.

 

Except—it kind of does. In keeping the memory of those little “quirks” about Shane, he gets to live on—more fully fleshed out than just a saint. The kids and I keep his “Shane-isms” alive in our conversations. We tell stories, we make jokes. We threaten to delay a loved one’s imminent departure by changing the oil or rotating the tires on their car, “real quick, won’t take but a minute.” 

Summer 1978

Seven years ...and love survives at the cellular level. Even as we shed our past, dissolve and transform, we carry the DNA of love into our future. Love is both energy and matter—it never ends, no matter how many years have passed.

When You Don’t Know What to Say:

 A loving reminder to those who would comfort the grieving

Please don’t say “At least _________.” 

Please don’t look on the bright side of things, or try to find the silver lining for someone’s grief. While your heart is absolutely in the right place and your intentions are good—you are essentially denying their grief, trying to limit it; trying to push it down in to a manageable size. Don’t do that.

Grief is huge. And it’s going to be huge for quite a while, probably for much longer than you’re going to be comfortable with. And you have to let it. You have to sit next to a grieving someone you care about and just let it BE.

I know it’s hard. But you can do this. They need you to be able to do this. So hug them. Listen to them. Let them cry. Let them not cry, whatever. Tell stories, share memories, say the name of their loved one. This grief thing is going to take a while. It just does.

I'll say it again, the best advice I can give you is to go ahead and let them GRIEVE. Let it in. Weep. Mourn. Let them find comfort in Ritual, even if they need to invent one for themselves. Don’t shut off your feelings and don’t try to "make it better" and shut down theirs. 

Grieving takes time. Lots of it. Everyone is different-- don’t tell anyone that they need to “move on.” That’s probably just your blissful ignorance talking---you don’t know the hard truth that they know. They ARE moving through grief; tears and pain and sadness are a part of that process. 

Want something concrete to do? Stay hydrated. Seriously—when all else fails, go drink a glass of water.  Bring them water. Grief is dehydrating. It’s one tiny thing you can DO to make things better. 

And if it’s not “better”? Well, at least it didn’t make things worse. 

Some days, that is victory enough.

1001 Zucchini

 What do you do with 1,001 zucchinis? The following is a partial list of the strategies I, personally, have employed.

1) Zucchini bread

2) Zucchini cookies.

3) You can slice it.

4) You can dice it.

5) You can fry it in a pan

6) You can hide it in your flan.

7) You can use it for filler in almost any recipe.

8) You can bring zucchinis to work and guilt your co-workers into taking them.

9) Play ding-dong-ditch with your neighbors.

10) Hit up your Facebook friends, friends of friends, acquaintances, and anybody that hasn’t already had the good sense to block you and offer them zucchini.

11) Deliver said zucchini to anyone who didn’t outright say they hate zucchini—even if they aren’t home. (See number nine above.) 

12) Poke them thru any car window carelessly left 4-6” open. Honestly, people have only themselves to blame. It’s zucchini season after all! An open car window is the same a leaving a sign on your car, saying “Please deposit zucchini here.”

13) Post pictures of amazing food that your sweetie has made for you that include zucchini.

 

Yummmmm...See # 19 for ingredients list

14) Rave on and on about how GOOD, and NUTRITIOUS, and LOW CARB, GLUTEN FREE, FREE RANGE and CRUELTY FREE zucchinis are.

15) Daydream about an early frost.

16) Think about the random woman in a hair salon in Portland who claimed she pulled her zucchini plants up already. Imagine being that bold.

17) Decide she was probably a liar.

18) Buy a noodler on Amazon.

Zucchini "Noodles"

19) Did I already mention that we turned our giant zucchini into noodles and served them with butter sautéed garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, green onion, smoked salmon, shrimp, salt & pepper? Add a dollop of sour cream before serving, stir it in and top with halved cherry tomatoes---we might have an over-abundance of tomatoes as well—I promise you won’t even notice the lack of noodley carbs.

20) Write about zucchini and hope somebody reads this and mounts a midnight raid on your zucchini patch... `

Keeper of Memory

 Recently, I spent some quality time with some of my Best Beloveds. We laughed, and talked, and ate delicious food. We listened to favorite songs, and gently tugged at the seams of the world’s ragged edges until we could reknit them to our satisfaction. Perhaps best of all, we “remembered when” together.

It is a blessing to be in the company of people who carry memory with you, who have shared experiences and adventure, who knew you “way back when,” who have loved you through your “becomings,” all the ideations of yourself, to this Self, now.  We spoke of those who formed and impacted us-- parents and teachers, friends and family, poets, and singers. We told our stories, and our jokes and our heartbreaks; life is made up of all of this, of laughter and tears. 

My cousin Jill, daughter of my mom’s sister Sue, brought with her some of our family’s genealogy—or, as we now call it, “The Judgy Genealogy”—and we marveled together at some of the family traits that go back generations, and some that seem to skip a generation. We find the entire thing hilarious and couldn’t stop laughing at the description of some of our forebearers and assorted kin.

Take, for example. Elizabeth W Leathers who was “...always very strong seemingly as she did an enormous amount of yard work.” There’s a gardening gene I can relate to.

Then there is the assertion that Alfred O Leathers was “...not the last Leathers to be a great mathematician.” Clearly, this gene skips like a stone.

Hosea Gradon Leathers, one of the “.... nervous, temperamental type. Also, quite intellectual, as well as unreliable...a lawyer.” Oh, I have so many questions!

Then there is JE Leathers, who was reportedly “spoiled and high tempered. Never quite like other people. Very brilliant in some ways. Reality finally proved too much.” Who among us has not wrestled with reality?

But the entry that made us laugh the most inappropriately was a relative that died in 1854, “...when he climbed a tree and shot himself out of it. It may have been on purpose. The family never knew.” There is something about the wording that—as my people are wont to say— “tickles me.” I wonder how many people have accidentally shot themselves out of a tree. Did he have a catapult up there? Was it a squirrel gun?

Whatever the answers are, they are lost to the mists of time, but the questions remind me of how important it is to have people who can carry memory with us, laughing, and talking. Remembering when...

Thoughts Then, Thoughts Now

 

Compiled from excerpts of past Garden Gate columns, by my friend and co-worker, Haze, during the week I was in no shape to write. Thanks Haze!

Life, like any garden, has seasons.

I often speak of the Circle of Life, of season’s coming and going, of the natural order of things. It seems to me, however, that there are parts of the whole Circle of Life thing that I’d really rather just not think about, except in distant theory.

That is until the theory becomes cruel fact and I must spend time thinking about the reality of Life’s circle. this week, My mom passed away...And I am suddenly a motherless child, in a cold world, weeping on the floor, wondering who will take care of me now?

When the unthinkable happens--- when I am changed in that horrible moment from who I was into who I now must be, when by circumstance I am remade into someone new-- I am full of broken places and sharp edges and I am made suddenly immune to heat or cold, or hunger or sleep. And yet in that awful place of finality, in that place of no second chances, no do-overs, no one more I love you, no last goodbye ---in that dark place there is still a light. 

I know that grief is not simple—that it is not only ONE BIG THING that overwhelms, I know that it will be a million little things that will crack us wide open all over again, time after time. I know that we have a long journey ahead and there is probably a lot left to learn about this process. But in the dark, there is light, and I can see it.

We push back against the darkness with light—Christmas lights, candle lights-- the light shared with those we love; the light commemorating those we have lost.

“...Reach so far in your sharing that you hold the sun in one hand, the stars in the other, and no one between is hungry...” (“In Dark December,” by Ralph Murre)

The simple beauty of those words, the truth and hope in them, are a candle all their own, a reminder to “Be kinder than necessary, because everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle”-JM Barry.

If I am sad at times, then I will be happy in between those times. Even on this journey of grief, of missing someone so dear to me, I will count my blessings and I will call them happiness. I will stitch together happiness out of little pieces of delightful memories until it becomes a whole cloth and I will wear it.

I am starting my happiness collection today. I will number my blessings as the stars are numbered. There are so many signs of kindness from so many people, so much concern and care. The spirit, the traditions, and the memories will live, even though the physical being no longer does.  There is love, all around me….It goes on.

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

 

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!

Soothing The Savage Beast

When last we saw our heroine, she had lost her pluck, her happy thoughts, and a great deal of her shine. Everything sucked. She was bored. She hated rain. She hated work now that work was only comprised of All the Worst Things and none of The Good Things.

Now work was taking turns in the office, instead of hanging out together. Work was stupid. If our heroine had to put on pants and leave the house, she dang sure wanted to have her co-workers and lunch hour waiting for her. AS A REWARD. BECAUSE PANTS. Stupid Pandemic. Stupid Dam Panic*. Stupid Rain. Stupid Pants. Stupid Everything.

So, there was stomping, some muttering. Perhaps some threats were made—a few crayons lost their structural integrity. Perhaps an ill-tempered beast stomped around; a fit was pitched--perhaps it was more of an impassioned plea to the Universe—I can’t really say. But at the end of it, our heroine felt a little bit better. She took a bubble-bath and got a good night’s sleep and in the morning, when the stupid work from home computer locked her out did she get mad and cry? No, she did not. Cry, anyway. She put on her plucky, and her pants. She packed up the computer and headed in to work before the start of office hours. She could work from work before anyone else was slated to show, fix her problem and be gone—because plucky! While wearing pants! Superman, probably. Except. Now that I think about it—he didn’t wear pants...

Superman? Or Brave Little Toaster?
You be the judge.

Anyway, the point is--  she was taking action. She was pro-active! Sure, in her heart of hearts she was still anti-pants—but if that’s what society required of her, the robe could stay home. She is a brave little toaster, in pants. With too many curls and a mask. It’s an interesting look, I’ll admit that.

Grands are GRAND:
Aiden Allen & John Shane

Now, I’m not saying that our heroine reacquiring her pluck is what turned the tide. I’m not saying that the epic fit she pitched swayed the Universe to her side, all I’m saying is, that when our heroine recovered her pluck and went to work on solving her problem—magic happened. Suddenly, and without any forewarning, her county was granted Phase Two status, effectively immediately. People could get haircuts again! Or sit at outdoor cafés, in small groups, social distancing from other small groups—at up to 50% occupancy! It was exactly like that scene in a Fairytale when the Princess wakes up and the world suddenly goes back to technicolor!

What I am saying is---you’re welcome.

*Also—I stole the “Dam Panic” spoonerism from artist Susan Branch. The internet is fun!

The Man Behind Curtain Number Three

I’ve been asked for my opinion on the differences between on-line dating sites; specifically, Match.com and eHarmony. Both sites cost about the same for a six-month membership, both have safety suggestions and tips about how to set up a profile. I learned the hard way that Match.com will—for a price—write a profile for you. After reading hundreds of profiles of “men in your area!” there appeared to be a pattern to some of the exceptional ones. A second reading of those confirmed that who I’d really like to date is the person who ghost writes dating profiles for a living. Sadly, they were not available.

Cat food, lemon curd, tea, duct tape, and bleach. Stop judging me.

eHarmony has the best questions in their repertoire. They ask the best questions to help you fill out your profile and have an impressive list of conversation starters to help you break the ice— “List five items in your shopping cart” or --- well, I don’t really remember any other questions, but they were good ones. So good, in fact, that I would use them over at Match.com, where the questions weren’t as good, but there were more men in my 100-mile range. For the record I said the five items in my cart were “Cat food, lemon curd, tea, duct tape, and bleach. Stop judging me.”

At eHarmony, every time I tried to adjust my range area down to 100 miles, they would give me a yellow warning sign and tell me of all the great matches that I was missing out on in Calgary. As in Canada. I’m convinced eHarmony owns stock in an airline that flies solely to Calgary. I apologize, undiscovered Canadian Soulmate, I’m not in the mood for a relationship that depends on the cooperation of the TSA. Alas!

I’m not going to lie—on-line dating is a lot of work. Done properly, it’s like having a second job. You have to constantly keep reading profiles, starting or responding to conversations, keeping track of which “Bob” is which. For some reason, every third man in my age demographic was called “Bob.” As aliases go, “Bob” is perfectly acceptable, but you’d think the “Bobs” show a little creativity and branch out. Although I suppose going by “Rich” has its drawbacks, now that I think about it.

I dated only in my age demographic—I found it far too depressing to even think about having a romantic relationship with someone who didn’t understand the concept of “phone booths” and “rabbit ears.” I don’t have time to explain all my cultural references. You had to be there, seriously. Good times, good times...

I tried to do all the right things, take sensible precautions, not be too urgent—after all, I signed up for six-months! Plenty of time, for plenty of fish in the sea.

Turns out though—it was the second guy I talked to that ended up being The Guy. After three months on-line, two different dating sites, a plethora of emails and a handful of assorted dates, I found myself repeatedly drawn back to Jon. Jon is funny, and wise—meaning he thinks I’m funny—and is very Zen. He loves to read, makes his own salsa, and is kind. In the bonus category, he smells delicious, is taller than I am, and wrote his own profile. Since we met on Match.com, I must say—it’s the best $146 I ever invested.

Wait—There’s a Man Behind the Curtain?

Ok. So, I panicked and decided to spill the beans—yes, Gentle Reader, there IS a man behind the curtain. Kind of, I guess. Anyway.

Last April, I had had enough of my broken heart. I had had enough of being alone. I had Love once—and I wanted it again.

Shane and I had been together for over 30 years—we had known each other since we were 15, raised three sons together, traversed all the curves that life can throw at you, drove each other just the right amount of crazy, and loved each other deeply. Then he was gone and I was left to carry on. Alone.

I believe we are built for relationship—with our Creator and with each other. I am a full, entire person in my own right—but I am even better as a partner. After four years --five now, in 2020-- of moving through all the cycles and circles of grief, I felt ready to move on.

It seemed like a good idea at the time...

I started thinking that for my birthday in June I’d throw myself a “Girl’s Night In” Birthday Party. I’d invite my incredible women friends; we’d drink margaritas and write up an on-line dating profile that would be irresistible. I was really looking forward to it. I bought super cute party invitations, I planned the hors d’oeuvres—because Cheetos are, too, hors d’oeuvres, stop judging me.

But June is a long time away from January. February was hard. March was 31 lonely days long. April arrived and something inside just snapped. Suddenly, April Fools seemed like an auspicious day to dive into on-line dating, right? So, I did. Just me and my good friend ‘Rita. We sat down with a credit card—mine, not hers-- and started signing up at multiple sites. And by multiple I mean two—Match.com and eHarmony. Even ‘Rita isn’t that crazy. In a burst of brazen honesty—and the realization that no matter how vast the Internet seems the world is small—I told my kids. I figured it was better they heard it from me first. Pretty sure my kids hoped I was pranking them. Sorry kids, ‘Rita knows best!

The next day, I called a couple of friends to confess what I had done and to get some input on improving my “profile.” They provided some polish, a few safety tips, told me to just relax and have fun. And you know—they were right.

I had fun. I chatted with some nice people - and a few dodgy ones. I poked a couple of holes in some scammers—seriously, has anybody else met a person with a PhD who wasn’t thrilled if you asked them what they wrote their thesis on? It seemed highly unlikely he had a doctorate—what with his inability to use the proper “there, they’re, their.” Anyway, I have some great stories to tell.

For example, the guy that had a riddle as part of his profile and invited women to answer it. The riddle went something like this: “In my deserted mountain cabin are 150 dead souls—how did it happen?” Or maybe it was how did they get there? Anyway, it was something like that and I typed back a long and funny –because I’m very funny—reply about the dangers of skiing while playing a game of “stack the phonebooth.”

 “No,” he said. “Try again.”

 Just those three words, not even a “lol.” And I’m very funny!

So, I write a second, long response about how the first was my story and I was sticking to it, that they’d never be able to prove anything, that I had at least three alibis, etc., etc.

“No. Guess again.” No smiley face, nothing.

Hmm. This time I just typed back “Are the dead bodies flies?”

“No,” came the reply. “Again.”

No. Nope. No thank you. I gave you PARAGRAPHS of effort and all you give me as a reward is three or four SYLLABLES? And those were syllables telling me WHAT TO DO? Dude, you didn’t even “LOL.” Not a relationship I’m interested in having, thank you very much, Mr. Loquacious. That was actually his profile name, “Loquacious.” I hope he meant it ironically. Also, it only now occurs to me that perhaps the 150 dead bodies thing wasn’t a riddle as much as a confession. Either way, dodged a bullet there.

I really would like to know the answer to that one though...do you suppose it was 75 pairs of worn out shoes?

Pay No Attention to the Man Behind the Curtain

It’s Tuesday morning—if you can call 2:30 am “morning” --- and I can’t sleep. After two hours of tossing and turning and annoying the cats, I finally give in and get up. Rising at 4:30 am makes me feel virtuous—as though I were getting a jump on the day --- get the cows milked and the chickens fed, all before sunup.

After my first cup of high-octane tea I remembered I have neither heifer nor hen. Mostly because getting up early is not my cup of tea. By my second cup of tea—which is, literally, my cup of tea-- I remembered I have a Garden Gate due yesterday. Oops!

What to write? My SBG is still at the water/fertilize/nap stage so there’s not much to write about there. Do I write about the Stay at Home/Stay Healthy Don’t Kill My Friends Order? Because while I know it’s hard to do—I miss my kids and grand kids in a visceral way-- I also understand the science behind it and the need for it. But even I am not in the mood for that soapbox today.

Should I write about how weird it is when I went to Costco for supplies and they had zero fresh chicken? As in NONE. They did have plenty of ground turkey—and by plenty I mean they had the entire refrigerator case that used to hold chicken tenderloins, breasts and thighs stacked three deep … now holds ground turkey—spread one package deep over the entire case. It’s very good psychologically—It keeps people from getting that “plague of locusts” I-must-consume-this-before-you-do feeling. Which is good, because I’m not a fan of ground turkey.

I am a fan of bathroom tissue. Out of curiosity I check to see if they have any. Nope. But I was told they had some earlier.

As Americans, we are so used to plenty, so used to buying in bulk at Costco—because it’s COSTCO for heaven’s sake! It’s what they’re FOR, and having limits on items is rather disconcerting. Once again, I’m glad they have them, I just wish we were back in a time when limits weren’t necessary.

None of these topics are entertaining me this morning; they are all a little too close to the bone. So, after my third cup of tea I thought, “What if I tell you about my many adventures in on-line dating?”

GULP.

I think I’m going to need more tea.

Yes, to the Dress: MOG Edition

    Shopping for wedding dresses is a lot of fun. At least it is as the Mother of the Groom. My job is to sip champagne and admire the beauty of my son’s Beloved.

     This is not a hard job, because champagne is delightful and all my sons’ beloveds are as well. I would just like to point out here that if I had mis-punctuated the following plural possessive---instead of being inclusive of all of my daughters-in-law, I would have been leading you to believe that you were about to get a heads-up on the next season of The Bachelor Meets The Real Housewives of the ELC, Super Hair-Pulling Edition. Thankfully, this is not the case. Punctuation is important. Please use it responsibly.

    Mother-of-the-Groom (MOG) is a mostly ceremonial position. MOG advice on the internet usually boils down to “wear beige and keep your mouth shut.” That is excellent advice, probably, but I usually wear blue and make jokes. So far, it’s worked out for me. Perhaps because my sons have done such a lovely job of picking women of grace and tolerance, perhaps because my jokes are really funny. It’s likely both.

    Shopping for my MOG dress is fun but includes less bubbly. I’m not sure why this is so. I will ask the MOBs if this has also been their experience. Perhaps we will start a petition to get this to change.

   As MOG, my negotiated contribution to the wedding of the happy couple is to provide both the florals and the very talented—and highly susceptible to blackmail—floral designer. All I’m going to say about that is there was a very good reason why I keep all those notes back in high school. So far, they’ve saved me about $6k. Minus the fireproof safety deposit box fee, of course.

     I also provide the libations on the Happy Occasion, so I feel that I have contributed to the happiness of all. That fact that I can also add to the contents of my safety deposit box is purely serendipitous, I assure you.

Please enjoy these gratuitous wedding pictures
Circa 1986 Sue & Shane

Mother of Dragons

I am the mother of boys.

I have very little experience with girls—other than my own distant memory as a girl of being told to pull up my knee socks and to comb my hair. SPOILER ALERT—as an adult I solved those two problems by no longer wearing knee socks and... come to think of it, I still need to comb my hair, but that is not my point.

My point is that put in my time in the Boy Trenches of parenthood—where prom dresses and princess hair weren’t really a thing we did. We did lots of mud and motorbikes and rolling around on the ground. Eventually, my boys have all grown up to be men, realized that girls don’t actually have cooties and have fallen in love.

 I really enjoying having these girls—women-- in my life. And while we don’t go prom dress shopping together—apparently there aren’t a lot of Adult Proms—they have each graciously invited me to go bridal gown shopping.

Bridal gown shopping is THE BEST SHOPPING. And I’m not just saying that because of the mimosas. Although mimosas are delightful, I’m not gonna lie. Bridal gown shopping always entails brunch and the entire reason for brunch is not to have a mix of breakfast and lunch foods as I once believed, but to have a boozy breakfast/lunch with out the “is it five o’clock somewhere” guilts. Add a wee splash of juice to champagne, call the meal “brunch,” and celebrate at will. Being a girl is awesome! Who knew?

After brunch we head to the first of two bridal shops—always conveniently located within walking distance. So consistently convenient that I wonder-- which came first, the bridal shop or the brunch spot? “Gee, I’d really like to open a Bridal Boutique on this block but there are no brunch places nearby. Sad.”

Without fail, we never find The Dress at the first shop. It is entirely possible that we are only at this first shop to kill time while we sober up before driving to the next shop where we will find The Dress of her Dreams.

Christmas Tree Decorating 2019 Edition

How big the tree seems "in the wild."

My Christmas tree was delivered on Friday and, as I’ve said before, the Sume’s are big on tradition. As with almost all traditions, the Tree Getting Tradition has evolved over time. For the last several years the tree-getting tradition has morphed into my tree being delivered to me, securely affixed in its stand, and the lights applied utilizing teamwork. It’s a sweet tradition in my opinion, one that warms my heart.

This year, the tradition included the addition of one small helper. “Baby” John Shane was on hand to oversee the critical task of trimming off the lower section of tree trunk. A fresh cut ensures that the tree will both be able to take up water and clear the ceiling. The fact that his daddy Jordan used a chainsaw to accomplish the task made it all the more enjoyable for lil’ John. I happen to have it on good authority—Mama Elise told me-- that someone will be finding a wee chainsaw under the tree Christmas morning, but I digress.

It’s quite a blessing to be able to experience Christmas through the eyes of a child. At 16 months old, everything is magical to John. He toddles about, carrying the freshly cut segment of tree and offering it each of us to smell. He piles Duplo blocks on the tree branches as ornamentation and reminds me that there is Another Good Reason to tie my tree to the wall with fishing line, and to crimp the ornament hangers tightly to the tree branches.

How big the tree is when you get it home.

Love continues to multiply. Early next year the Sume Family will welcome another baby boy. Devin and Staci will begin the odyssey of worry and wonder that is parenting. In the fall, the Sume Family will welcome another member as Cameron marries his Beloved, Beth. My Christmas tree is up, bright enough to be visible from space, and my friend Jon is coming over to help me decorate the rest of it. Life is good. My heart is full.

Bring on the Season!

Mood: Reflective

November is drawing to a close. Thanksgiving is behind us, the Christmas season before us. It’s a good time to sit next to the fire, a fuzzy bundle of blanket—or cat—in your lap. Cup your palms around the warm of your favorite mug; sip, savor, reflect, plan.

We are headed into the shortening of the light, day slipping into night at a faster rate. We push back against the darkness with light—Christmas lights, candlelights-- the light shared with those we love; the light commemorating those we have lost.

I have a favorite poem I Like to read this time of year, “In Dark December,” by Ralph Murre. Worth the Google, I promise. You can also find his work here: http://littleeaglereverse.blogspot.com. The poem begins simply “Whatever you believe, whatever you do not, there are sacred rite you must perform in dark December...” and goes on to encourage the coming together, the feasting and friendship between “...family and friends, cool cats and stray dogs alike...” and invites us to “...Reach so far in your sharing that you hold the sun in one hand, the stars in the other, and no one between is hungry...”

The simple beauty of those words, the truth and hope in them, are a candle all their own, a reminder to “Be kinder than necessary, because everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle”-JM Barry.

Of course, this advice is better offered after one has braved the battle of Black Friday shopping, because those bargains aren’t going to find themselves. Cyber Monday has now been upgraded to Cyber Monday Week, because if we all battle on the interwebz at the same time, the whole thing can come crashing down. There is probably some sort of allegory there, but I have yet to divine it.

Back on the home front, I have some Christmas lights up and I am looking forward to getting my tree. This Christmas is not my First Worst, but it will be for some. I remind myself to be kinder; to hold the sun and stars and to light the in-between places; to build—not walls—but a bigger table, room for cool cats and stray dogs, alike.

Circle of Life: John Shane Edition

On the second day of August, in the year of our Lord 2018, the Sume family experienced the upside of the Circle of Life.

John Shane Sume, six pounds, two whole ounces, made his way from his namesake’s arms to ours.

I have, on my phone, approximately 487 baby pictures, and if I happen to run into anybody I even think looks vaguely familiar, I’m happy to prove it. 

Little John-John—as I like to call him—is a pretty typical newborn. Meaning he’s very beautiful--with all those tiny fingers and toes—and clearly a genius. Seriously, the boy has benevolent-Rocket-Scientist-with-a-great-sense-of-humor-and-a-poet’s-soul written all over him. True, I had to write kind of small, because at 18.5” there wasn’t a lot of surface area to work with. But, I managed to squeeze it all in.

Anyway—that’s what’s new in the Sume Garden of Life, a brand-new, bouncing baby boy. We are counting our blessings.