We are not the freshest loaf of bread anymore

by Kirsten K. Shockey

Dear Pomona,

The room I sit in is quiet, darkened by storm, the stone cold hearth warming for the first time in months, sticks of wood from the forest combusting for my comfort.  Last week’s zinnias are compactly arranged in fishbowl vases (sixteen of them) decking any available horizontal surface. Summer heat and sun is caught in these bright blooms punctuated with scented leaves of mint, sage, and basil. This decadence of flowers is a tangible, yet temporary reminder of our son’s wedding on the eve of Autumn.

It is hard to let go.

This year fall did arrive on the equinox, which is unusual in the Siskiyou Mountains. The breath of fall might inhale in August for a day or two, just to let us know soon. Then summer exhales still fiery. In September and October, the two seasons push and pull until summer tucks tail and leaves. Not this year. One day it was summer—thirsty and grueling—then it wasn’t. It’s like that with a wedding, all effort and preparation and details, and then it’s over, just another twenty-four hours on our whirling planet, the day no longer than any other for all the time spent on the particulars imagined and executed.

That evening at the wedding, those two young people stood simply (not traditionally; she in handmade appliqued peacock blue, and he in sinew stitched elk-skin slacks.) Witnessed by family and community, they declared their love and commitment and humility.  

Donning a wide brimmed hat and a long coat, with the air of a 1900 century circuit rider, the bride’s grandfather, who officiated (and only got a wee choked up once), told all who were gathered his geological theory of love: “I am going to tell you a story. This story might be true, and it might not. I’m not concerned with facts,” he began. “Love is like the Grand Canyon. The top of the canyon has the youngest rock, sandstone, it is soft and not unlike the new love of this young couple.” He continued to explain how just like the layers of rock, love changes and gets stronger as time, pressure, wind, rain, all take their toll.

As he spoke in front of us, this shimmering couple radiated love and hope, many couples were reminded of their own stories, their own love—perfect, or imperfect and for some, love that has broken and mended, hearts bruised, hearts full— all of us clinging to the strata on the canyon wall. For that moment all this fell away as hands were held. Eyes glistened.

“Mr. and Mrs. Shockey?” somebody asked a little later when the party milled about.

My husband turned to answer our moniker but they were not talking to us.

His right lip curled in smile, oh that crooked grin, the one that means trouble. He said, “You know we are not the freshest loaf of bread anymore.”

I looked up at the sequoia-tall dark haired man I married twenty-four years ago. I smiled slowly as images raced through me like a silent movie. That day on a mountaintop when that boy with a scraggly collection of wild flowers tried to find the words, but could not say the word marry. Later, at our wedding, he, so striking in the tux with tails, the aunt who had a heart attack, and the ceiling that caved in at the reception venue. We were the freshly minted. Babies, more babies. Then, Pomona, they were kids hanging like monkeys in your trees, with bags slung from their shoulders rich with your apples. Does time spin faster in a home pulsing with the dervish energy—boundless motion, infinite noise?

I gazed past this man of my soul and saw my parents, the grandparents at this ceremony. Then I watched the boy, our first baby—long like his dad, curly like me—standing with his pretty new bride chatting to a guest. I stared at them, nodded absently, knowing, I said to them in my head, You have no idea.

“You’re right,” I said amused by the marching of time. “We aren’t, but we aren’t the soft rocks on top of the canyon either. We are in deep with the igneous rocks.”

I see a wedge of blue in the sky. I think I will go pick apples. Until next time my friend.

Kirsten

Man of the Cloth

Dearest Pomona,

I caught my husband retching this morning—it must have been pre-wedding nerves. It’s an old joke, but now I can tell it with a fun, new twist: my husband is marrying two men this Saturday.  No, he is not entering into a three-way, committed gay relationship— he is marrying them, as in officiating at their wedding.  Last summer, a different set of friends asked if he would be willing to get an on-line minister’s license and perform their wedding ceremony. When he told me about their request, I responded, “Well, you can’t say no. It will jinx their marriage,” even though he desperately wanted to decline.

My husband is a man of few words who prefers to lurk in the dark shadows of social events on the rare occasions he goes out. He barely showed up at our own wedding, and not because he didn’t love me, I swear. I am not allowed to mention him on my Facebook page or post images of his likeness. He does not know about this blog post, and with your complicity never will.  In short, he is a die-hard introvert with all privacy settings firmly in place.

Perhaps out of a sense of duty, my prodding, or some inherent sado-masochistic tendency, he said yes to the first couple.  Neighbors and friends complimented his public presence and the sweet blend of humor, tenderness and passion he brought to the ceremony.  So began his tenure as our rural neighborhood’s reluctant minister for anarchists and organic farmers.

He can always say no. I tell him not to because of my own desire to be the center of attention, even if I am one step removed. I grew up in a family that values performance and power, charm in the face of a crowd, the limelight at almost any cost. Though not quite as talented or extroverted as some of my siblings, I do love the thrill of getting up in front of people for a show.

Therefore, I must admit that I feel a little jealous of my husband. After all, I am the one who studied comparative religion as an undergraduate and almost attended seminary to become a Unitarian minister. I am the open and demonstrative member of the couple who shares about the trials and tribulations of our fifteen-year marriage with transparency and erudition. Why should my husband be chosen as the sacred vessel of authority in a wedding ceremony?

I am simultaneously proud. He is, after all, my husband, which means that we play for the same team. More than that, I feel a sense of being, well, almost vindicated. My husband makes very little effort to impress people. It takes him years and years to develop close friendships because he only shares a little of himself at a time. But his friendships are deep and rugged and resilient. He is a profoundly loyal and loving man once you have put in your time. I had sex on my side, so the loyalty and love came a bit quicker. When he meets my friends or family members or colleagues, I try to make him show himself, because I want them to understand and love him the way I do. But he won’t perform.

The fact that one couple and now another have asked him to marry them shows that our community has come to see him as I do—solid, trustworthy, kind, funny, reliable, inspirational. The inspiration he engenders arises from his actions and not his words. Day in and day out, he cares for our land, tends the animals, builds the soil, nurtures the crops, asks for little and gives whatever he can. These are the qualities you need to sustain a marriage over the long haul. They are qualities that seem hard to come by.

I have insinuated myself into these weddings by procuring and renewing the $15 minister’s license and writing the ceremonies. I do whatever I can to make myself an invaluable part of the process. My husband appreciates me, while I grapple with a shameless ego.  This Saturday, I will sit back in the crowd as he stands before our community and the families of the two grooms. He will read my words, and I will bask in his reassuring presence. Our marriage will be renewed during the ceremony and I will stand proudly in his shadow.

With love,

Rose