(Today's post is in honor of a very special anniversary. Only ten days late!!)
Dear Rice,
Do you ever wonder how we’ve managed to stay married for 39 years? I do! I mean, I’m glad about it. But is it luck? Stubbornness? Divine intervention? (Us above, Year 0.)
Thirty-nine years. That’s a lot of anniversary celebrations. There’ve been decadent dinners at John’s in Boulder…the Briarwood in Golden…the Blue Ridge Grill in Atlanta. Romantic getaways, too, such as to Canoe Bay in Wisconsin and the Annapolis Inn in Maryland. (Best B&B evah!)
Of course, not all 39 celebrations have been starry and passionate. Remember our 20th? You had a business trip to New Orleans, and I refused to go with you. (Me in the Big Easy in July? Our marriage wouldn’t have survived my humidity fit.) And let’s not forget this year’s trip to Michigan to witness my sister Lisa marrying her long-time love Mitch…on our anniversary. Nothing says “Happy 39th” quite like sharing a hotel room with a two-month-old granddaughter, her brother, and their mother. For better or worse, the uber road trip and room-sharing allowed us to enjoy Mitch and Lisa’s garden wedding…their reception on the river…and the photos snapped in between at the Y, where their love story started twelve years ago. (Lisa and Mitch below, Year 0.)
Speaking of anniversary memories, do you remember our 33rd? Or should I call it by its other name: The Lake Martin 9-1-1 Incident?
The dog days of summer were upon us. We should’ve been carefree empty nesters. Yet our adult children kept boomeranging back home. My mom needed a lot of care—getting to chemo and doctor’s appointments. Work deadlines were merciless. We were burned out. When a co-worker suggested to you that we use her lake house for a weekend getaway, we were on it. I can still see her place in my mind—beautiful, rustic, chic. And the lake—clear, aqua, expansive—against a lush green landscape. A couple icy adult beverages and some down time on the dock were just the ticket. No cell service? No problem. We were on the lake!
There on the water, I felt alive like I hadn’t felt forever. I eyed the jet skis tied at the dock. I called dibs on the red one. Named her Stella, then bragged to you about how the next day, Stella and I were gonna go out and spin double nickels on the lake together! (That’s code for 55, my pending age at the time, and the speed limit I was ready to push. And yes, let’s pretend that’s me and Stella in the pic below.)
“Why wait?” you asked. (You loooooove to egg me on.) And the next thing I knew, I was speeding across the lake, wind and water whipping my hair. Exhilarated, I found the marina “right beyond the point,” as they say in lake-speak. I visited with several of the locals, and then I gassed up and headed back onto the water. I loved this. I totally loved Lake Martin.
Here’s the thing, though. After leaving the marina, I realized that I didn’t know Lake Martin. (For instance, I didn’t then know that its surface covers over 68 square miles in three different counties.) Yup, I was out on a big ol’ lake…without a cell phone…and without recollection of the name of Linda’s subdivision or her street address. Shoot, I didn’t even know Linda’s last name.
Only after leaving the marina did I actually start to pay attention to my surroundings. I passed by colorful clusters of Adirondack chairs on the shore…cozy cottages…flapping flags. Then I passed them again. And again. Meanwhile, black clouds loomed. Lightning flirted, about to flicker. I couldn’t find Linda’s lake house. Nor could I retrace my way to the marina. Then yowza! I spotted a father and son still fishing on their dock. I edged Stella near them.
“If you don’t help me,” I screeched, “I’m going to beach myself right here and die in your cove in the rain and the lightning!” Okay, so maybe my memory of this is a tad dramatic. But the next thing I knew, the father and son started up their boat and had me follow them through the now dark waters back to the marina. I waved a “thank you” as some young people near the dock helped me secure Stella.
People seemed glad to see me…almost as if they knew me. Then I realized they practically did. They explained that an “elderly gentleman” had driven there “hours” earlier, worried about his wife on the water. I’m sorry that made me snicker because, truly, I felt bad about the worry I had caused you. I asked if someone could drive me to the local police station, figuring that was my best bet for connecting with you at that point.
Yet the next thing I knew, I was in the back seat of a jeep, riding around the wooded back roads of Lake Martin. The two young fellows in the front seat insisted they could find Linda’s lake house. They begged me to remember landmarks. “A little chapel, maybe?” I recalled. What about road names? they asked. “Any road names?”
“Peckerwood!” I shouted, ecstatic and then mortified to remember that particular name. Seconds later, I recognized the street sign. And then Linda’s subdivision sign. Hallelujah!
We pulled into Linda’s drive. The jeep engine was still running when the front door of the lake house flung open. You ran out, two law officers on your tail. You looked ashen from worry and about eighty years old. For a minute I thought you might chew me out. But you didn’t. Your smile lit the night, and you hugged me tight. Realizing I was safe, the officers left PDQ. So did my young heroes—before we could even offer a reward.
Later down on the dock, you shared your version of the story. You called the police after leaving the marina. (Certainly I was okay, but what if….?) The officers came to Linda’s and paced the dock with you. They shined their flashlights into the water. They eyed you with suspicion. Made you feel like you were in a Law and Order episode. Asked you a zillion questions.
As for me, I asked you only one: “How could you not remember after 30-plus years with me that I get lost everywhere, even in my own driveway?” To your credit, you didn’t attempt a comeback. And maybe there lies the key to a lasting marriage: Sometimes you just have to shrug, grin, and give in to the crazy.
So thanks for 39 years of crazy. Here’s to more fun years ahead. Love you loads! Me
- Jun 6, 2018
(Today's post is in celebration of National Gardening Exercise Day. Cheers! J)
I grew up in a small Michigan town surrounded by farm country. Big crops were wheat, beans, corn, and sugar beets. We didn’t have a garden. I think my mother, who grew up on a farm, was over it.
In middle school, we moved to a larger town. My new step-dad was an outdoorsman, and in his free time he loved to garden. We had a large plot in our yard with radishes and corn, tomatoes and herbs. My mother got back into the act then—in the kitchen. I remember her seasoning everything with our home-grown dill. Everything.
Later, when I became a newlywed and moved to Colorado, my husband decided that we should grow tomatoes. You know what we grew instead? Tomato horn worms, as thick as my thumb, and two to three times as long. I promise you, those suckers really do have horns. I was traumatized for years. (I’ll spare you a picture of the Colorado critters and instead share one of our Georgia garden, below, the first year we tried a mini patch of tomatoes out back.)
It actually wasn’t until moving to Georgia that I settled into a truce with gardening. My sister Lynne brought us two dogwood trees for a housewarming. When I didn’t kill those, she started bringing us transplants from her yard…perennials that grew back year after year. Some were not a hit—like dead man’s nettle, which spread like wildfire and smelled like the most heinous body odor ever. Most were beautiful, like the opulent green hostas that continue to grow richer and thicker each year (see below).
Lynne also brought me iris and day lily bulbs, and she taught me to reproduce azaleas, rhododendrons, and hydrangeas by stretching a branch over the ground and placing soil and rock over it. Over time, when the branch has rooted, it can be separated and planted as a new bush (like the hydrangea below, which was planted in such a fashion and has grown more purple with each year).
In my early stages of gardening, I fell in love with two things: (1) gardening can be cheap (and I confess, I do love cheap), (2) and gardening can be forgiving. (Irises not doing well here? Move them there.) Later, in the early 2000s, I fell in love with something else about gardening: It can be restorative; it can heal the heart.
I learned this when our oldest child, Alex, was sixteen. She was struggling with some typical adolescent angst along with some extra challenges of her own. She was rebelling, and the major target of that rebellion was me. She and I could barely be in the same room together—unless we brought in a mediator. Or we vowed not to talk to each other. Our relationship started to shift, though, when she got a job at Pike Nursery. She’d come home from work with half-dead plants, fuming about Pike’s “no-questions-asked refund-for-a-year policy”. And then her anger would subside, and she’d talk to me: “What should we do to bring this one back?” It was slow going and not without its glitches. But gardening—even this accidental gardening—helped us heal and move on.
These days I still love to garden. I like the surprises it holds. For instance, last year I tried planting from seed for the first time. My zinnias and radishes tanked, but I was able to produce some lovely green beans, coleus, marigolds, and basil. (Check out my seed-grown coleus, below.)
And now on this National Gardening Exercise Day, I can relish that gardening is good my body as well as my spirit!
What I love most about gardening, though, is the memories it invokes. When my hydrangea blooms—or the wind chimes twinkle, I’m reconnected in my heart with those who shared those gifts with me. When the cascading Japanese maple still changes its form with the seasons, I’m reminded of how planting that tree so many years ago also changed the relationship between a mom and her once-trouble teen daughter.
(Check out Alex’s garden design above, complete with a Japanese maple she brought home from Pike, a dogwood my sister Lynne bought us, and Christmas roses transplanted from my friend Yumi’s yard.)
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go tend to my garden. Seems I’ve been remiss, and the bird bath needs water. Cheers! J
Updated: Nov 24, 2022
(Musings on Mother’s Day - 2018)
“Children are the rainbow of life; grandchildren are the pot of gold.” – An Irish Blessing
Oh, yeah. Grandchildren are golden. Being a grandparent is sublimely fun. One of the enjoyable aspects of today’s grandparenthood is picking your “grand” name. Mine is JJ. Rice’s is Big Daddy, or BD for short. A couple of our friends are Pippa and Pops. One of my long-time friends with fourteen grandkids to date has been Grandma from the start. Her husband has been Grandpa. They don’t get the fuss over finding an alternate name.
Power to ‘em, but the alternate name game abounds. Grand moms can now be Bella or Lolly or Queenie. GiGi or Mia. To add to the fun, here are some celebrity grandparent names I came across while surfing the net. Susan Sarandon is Honey. Goldie Hawn, Glamma or GoGo, depending on which set of grandkids you ask. Kris Jenner is Lovey; Kaitlyn Jenner is Kaitlyn. Debbie Reynolds was Aba Daba, and Joan Rivers was Nana New Face. (Oy!) Martin Sheen is Peach. Sharon Osbourne is Shazza. Have no fear; traditionalism still exists among some of the famous. Jane Fonda is Grandma, Sally Field is Granny, and Nancy Pelosi is Grandma Mimi. Then there’s Martha Stewart, who is Martha. And Donald Trump? He’s Mr. Trump, so they say.
Yes, we grands today like to do things our own way. We grandmamas in particular like to act young and chic and fun. We prefer that to showing our fears. Fear that a pregnancy might get complicated. It might not go to term as expected. Even if it does, mom or baby might have health issues. Immediately. Or down the road. Modern medicine is a marvel. Most times health and wellness prevail. Not always, though. The grand life holds no guarantees. Except perhaps connection.
"Grandchildren are the dots that connect the lines from generation to generation." ― Lois Wyse
My own mother has been gone since 2012. She wasn’t one to say “I love you” to her children as she believed that actions speak louder than words. (She did say it to her grandkids, pictured with her above.) I remember as a teen, running in to Mooney’s Ice Cream to get us a treat while Mom waited in the car. She’d asked for “something with chocolate,” and I brought her a tin roof sundae ice cream cone, one of my favorites, vanilla laced with chocolate swirls and peanuts. I could tell from the look on her face the minute I delivered it that she wasn’t pleased. “I said chocolate,” she told me as she tossed the whole thing out the car window onto the street. Did I mention she could be fierce?
Mom could be flaky, too. She one time put the coffee maker—cord and all—through the express cycle of the dishwasher. She plugged it in to use again, and she lived to tell us all about it. She could be ditzy with names, too, even those of her own grandchildren. When asked if she remembered the name of her first grandson shortly after his birth, she replied, “I want to say Melvin.” Whatever possessed her to say that, we’ll never know. She died three weeks later.
I can only wish she was still here to meet our newest little love, granddaughter Charli Rose (pictured with brother Britton, below). Certainly the name would’ve given Mom pause! I strongly suspect she would’ve tried to rename this little one, too. What can I say?
Despite my mother’s imperfections, she loved us all fiercely. How do I have faith that this is so? By connecting the lines from generation to generation. Whether our kiddos are breaking our flawed hearts…or filling them to the popping point, a mother’s love is fierce. A grandmother’s is as well. So cheers to us!
