Do It Yourself Wedding (With Help)

DSC_0410 (2)34 Years Ago

My wife and I did most of the work getting ready for our wedding.  Judy’s parents lived 12 hours away and couldn’t offer assistance on the spot.  So, Judy and I found a priest happy to marry us, booked a church and reception hall, hired a baker and chose a design for the cake.  Judy went solo and bought a dress she spied in a shop at the Dayton Mall.  We scavenged east side thrift stores for bud vases, located a restaurant supply store as our source for napkins, paper plates and table cloths.  Judy made her bridal veil and arranged bouquets using flowers from our garden.  She also picked Black-Eyed Susans for table decorations.  I designed the wedding program and folded forty origami swans.  (We placed the swans on the tables beside the flowers.)  We didn’t write vows, but picked out Bible passages, a poem and music for the service.

It felt like we did most of the heavy lifting, but we got a lot of help.  Jack, my groomsman, helped us get supplies and set up the hall the day before.  My Dad stepped in and paid the caterers at the reception.  Jack’s wife, Patty, shot the official wedding pictures as a present, and my brother-in-law, Dan, acted as a DJ at the reception.  My grandfather, Joseph Reger, sang a hymn at the wedding ceremony.

There were a few tense moments as we rushed around getting ready.  But Judy and I didn’t argue much.  We were caught up in the excitement of our first mutual enterprise.  And while we wanted the day to go well and to please our friends and relatives, we looked ahead with anticipation.  We reached forward for the real prize of spending our lives together.

judy-and-dennis

 

 

 

 

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A Narrow Slice of Time: Chapter 8

Aubrey sat on a park bench across from her apartment in the Hickson Towers. Her head was splitting with a headache that she could have called a migraine, but which did not feel exactly like the migraines she had in the past. Her skin itched, and she felt uncomfortable moving her limbs. Her flesh and bones did not feel properly connected at the joints, and her tendons did not pull in exactly the right direction. She felt like a badly strung puppet guided by an inept puppeteer.

Her key had not fit in the lock of her apartment door, and she had been turned away when she rang the buzzer by a bald man wearing a wife beater and a stained pair of boxers. She caught a glimpse of the interior before he slammed the door on her, and it did not resemble her apartment in the least. The furnishings looked like a random collection of discarded furniture scavenged on garbage pick-up days. A football poster was tacked to the wall in the space where she had hung a lovely oil painting of young ballerinas wearing pastel tutus.

She could not remember moving before setting out on her misadventure at GURUTECH, but everything seemed so out of kilter that she could not dismiss that possibility. She searched her purse and found her driver’s license in a wallet hidden in a jumble of cosmetics, candy wrappers and used facial tissues. The photo looked recent, but the name was wrong: Danvers…That damned name just wouldn’t go away.

If memory served, the street address was in Azalea Park, a borderline part of town that she never drove through at night unless she had a male companion. A.P., as the locals called it, was gradually being gentrified by urban pioneers, young couples of limited means who had been tempted into buying dirt cheap property. A couple streets over in Union Park, artists maintained studios and guerilla galleries in an area that had an even higher incidence of drug use and violent crime. The cops would show up if called to the Two Parks, but did not like to venture into Slidertown, a war zone just east beyond Dean Road. Slidertown was a devil’s playground of cinder block hovels and tin-roofed sheds peopled by cracksmack dealers, pimps and whores, stalking perverts and ragmen rummaging through dumpsters. But her license told her that she lived one and a half miles away from Dean Road at 278 Dahlia St., and that her name was Aubrey Danvers.

She thought about calling Bill Plum again, but she was afraid that he would not show up after their altercation two hours ago. She did not have bus tokens in her purse; she did not have enough cash for a taxi; and her credit cards were missing from her wallet. She considered hitching a ride, but dismissed the idea with a shudder. She had watched too many news reports about missing women found naked, mangled and dead in swamps and drainage ditches. Perhaps Bill was the only option.

She pulled out her phone and began scanning her address book. Bill was not listed alphabetically under B or P. How had she called him this morning? Oh, yes. The receptionist at GURUTECH had found him in their database and had punched Bill’s number into Aubrey’s phone. She looked in the phone’s listings under “calls sent” and entered the most recent number that came up on the screen. Bill answered after seven rings. His voice sounded somewhat gravelly as if she had just awakened him.

“Hello…Bill Plum at your ser-service,” he slurred.

“Bill, it’s me—Aubrey. Don’t hang up! Please, just listen to me,” she pleaded.

“What? You again?! What the hell do you want?”

“Bill, I’m sorry about what happened earlier today. I just feel terrible. Can you forgive me?”

“Lady, I’ll forgive you if you leave me the fuck alone. Ya hear that?”

“Oh please, Bill. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be nice, real nice. I promise.”

“Make it up to me? What are we talking about? Make it up to me…fat chance!”

“You know Bill—make it up to you. Do I have to spell it out?”

“Oh—yer talking about…just what are we talking about? That’s a surprise. Oh. Lemme think.”

There was a long pause. She thought that the line had gone dead but heard a cough as he got ready to speak.

“All right. Where are you? Wait a minute. You have to promise,” Bill said.

“Promise what?” she asked sharply.

“Two things: don’t tell anyone at work; and two…don’t tell anyone…at work…ever and ever,” he said slowly and thickly.

“Just how drunk are you?” she demanded.

“Just drunk enough to drive crazy-crazy home and fu—“

“All right,” she cut in. “Don’t be crude. Drink a cup of coffee and pick me up in front of the Hickson Towers. I’m sitting on a bench in Julia Park.

Bill showed up in his battered junker forty-five minutes later. The car weaved a bit as he approached her, but he seemed relatively alert and steady as they pulled away from the curb. He leaned over suddenly and leered at her when they stopped at a light two blocks down the road, and Aubrey could smell liquor and coffee on his breath. Her ex-husband had beaten her with his fists when he was drunk. She remembered the evil grin that twisted Jeffrey’s features just before he hit her the first time. Somehow it seemed like it had happened again just yesterday. Aubrey shuddered, twisted away from Bill and leaned hard against her car door.

“Say now, lady, Audrey, don’t be like that…you told me that you were going to be nice. And anyway, I just was going ter ask you where you live. I swear. I can be a gentleman,” he said.

“Sorry, Bill. I know that you’re a gentleman. I’m sorry. I just don’t feel well today. The address is 278 Dahlia St. in Azalea Park,” she said.

“Oh, I’ll have to turn around,” Bill said.

Thirty minutes later he pulled up to the curb of a pebble-roofed, cinder block ranch house with a Florida porch and a carport. It was painted a dull shade of gray. Azalea bushes were planted across the front wall of the house and down one side. Crepe myrtle shrubs dotted the front lawn, and orange trees blossomed in the back yard. The residence at the address written on her license had a run down, lived in elegance that she found charming, but she did not remember having seen the place before.

Bill patted her rump as they walked up the drive way to the front door. She was tempted to swat his hand away but remembered her promise to be nice to him. She had made love to him last Sunday. Why did she feel more and more uncomfortable in his presence as she got closer to the front door?

Her key fit the lock, and she walked into the living room. The shades were pulled so she could not see much of the interior, but she could make out a bookshelf, some potted plants and a comfortable looking white sofa. Bill pressed up close behind her, ran his hand over her blouse and massaged her breasts. She resisted the urge to elbow him. His hands began to work their way down her torso and she caught them as they reached her the top edge of her pants. She gave them a friendly squeeze, pulled them away from her body, and turned around to face Bill. She decided that she might as well get on with it, though the thought of having sex with him filled her with dread and a deepening sense of revulsion. She was confused. Bill had never been a very good lover, but she had always found him moderately attractive.

Bill pulled her into a tight embrace and kissed her full on the mouth. The taste almost made Aubrey gag. Her heart hammered, and her legs felt weak. She felt a desperate urge to escape from the entrapment of his arms, to push him away and flee. He did not notice her distress and was busy sliding his hands down her pants to caress her buttocks. She tried to squirm away from him, but that only excited him more. Aubrey’s head began to swim, and she saw pinpricks of light dotting her vision. Bile began to rise in the back of her throat, and she gagged once, then twice.

“What the hell?!” a stranger’s voice boomed from behind her. The voice sounded familiar, but she could not place who it was.

Bill suddenly released her, and she began to slowly sink to the floor. The room seemed to be getting darker and darker, and she realized that she was about to faint. She lay on the floor on her side in a fetal position with her calves folded tightly against her thighs. Small nubs of carpet tickled her cheek. She heard scuffling noises and the dull sound of fists making contact with flesh. She heard Bill cry out in pain, and dimly saw him flee out the front door.

A pair of feet walked over to her slowly. She looked up and saw a tall man towering above her. She felt oddly comforted by his presence, and she wished that he would crouch down beside her and hold her in his arms.

“What the hell, Aubrey? What the hell was that? Where have you been?” the stranger said angrily.

“Please. Don’t yell…help me. I feel sick,” she said.

“Aubrey—are you all right?” The man asked in a gentler tone. He knelt beside her, grasped her shoulders and turned her so that she faced him directly. She felt comfort and rightness flowing through his hands into her body, and the headache, itching and nausea melted away as she stared up at him. He looked familiar to her, and she felt as if she had just seen him recently. The face before her was older and fuller, and the blond mustache was new. But it was familiar. Where had she seen it last?

“Who are you?” she asked timidly.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Are you hurt? Did that man hit you on the head? How did he get into the house?” he demanded.

“Shush, shush. No more questions, please! Who are you?” Aubrey desperately asked.

“I’m your husband, dammit. What were you doing with that asshole?”

“Husband? I’m not married…who are you? Tell me your name,” she pleaded.

“Danvers. Jeffrey P. Danvers. I am your goddamn husband of twenty years come September!”

“Jeffrey…Jeff? It can’t be…You’re dead…” she moaned.

Two Weddings and Three Funerals (This Has Nothing to Do with Hugh Grant)

My family drove to a country church in a small town southeast of Dayton. Sonny, my father’s boyhood friend, had a daughter who had chosen to marry young. The arrangements for the wedding had been rushed, and she may have been pregnant. At any rate, we were all aware that Sonny was not pleased, and the bride walked down the aisle with her eyes fixed on the planks of the wooden floor. The priest took his place before the couple and began the wedding Mass. He opened his sermon with these words: “The divorce rate in the United States is fifty percent. Half of the young people who stand before me to take their vows have chosen a doomed path.” The priest smiled, pleased by the shocked reaction of the crowd, then explored the pitfalls of wedded life in detail. After the service, I asked a regular congregant whether the priest always spoke so rudely. He told me that the man was known and loved for his direct manner.

A young priest married my nephew Dan and his bride Rachel. I had trouble paying attention to the ceremony as my eye kept drifting up to the mural painted on the wall behind the altar. Jesus crucified gazed up to heaven with one eye, and down toward Mary and a disciple with the other. These two suffered from a similar ophthalmological disability. Although they faced away from the cross, each attempted to look up and over their shoulders at Jesus while also gazing forward at the clouds above them. Lazy eye, according to the artist, was a common affliction in Jesus’ time. The priest stumbled along during the sermon, and pointed up at the mural and said, “Marriage is just like this painting.” He might have meant that a good relationship involves sacrifice and putting your spouse’s needs before your own, but I assumed he meant that marriage and crucifixion (a slow death so painful that one’s eyes no longer maintained unified focus) were equivalent. I shuddered as I repressed a laugh, and my wife gave me a warning glare that promised suffering long and hard if I failed to maintain proper church decorum. “By God,” I thought. “That idiot’s right.”

My grandmother died when I was nine, and the unfamiliar funeral rituals shocked me. I remember sitting in a pew in a dark Catholic church reeking of incense and flowers. Grandma rested in the wooden box before the altar. I studied the service bulletin as I listened to the priest intone, “May perpetual light shine upon her.” A narrow beam of light shone from the middle of the printed cross and split the blackness of the bulletin’s cover. I suddenly saw my grandmother’s soul trapped in a dark place. Only a thin glimmer of light offered her meager comfort. And then a wave of fear washed over me as I wondered if there was any light at all, or if my grandmother existed in any form anywhere.

My great uncle Norby died when I was about twenty. I had become accustomed to memorial services and could follow the proceedings with more detachment. The monsignor celebrating the funeral mass had a pale, waxy complexion, and when he spoke he sounded as if he’d never had a moment of passion in his life. His monotone delivery gave away his underlying boredom, and he said nothing specific about the man who had died. Instead, he told us that Norby looked down from heaven and prayed for our sinful souls. If he had bothered to learn anything about my great uncle, the monsignor would have known about Norby’s wicked sense of humor, his occasional sarcasm and irreverence. If Norby witnessed this funeral, he would have laughed at us as we sat in the hard pews and endured the cold observances.

Another priest displayed a similar lack of knowledge about the character of the deceased, though the cleric spoke with greater warmth and care for the mourners. He recalled his encounters with my sister during the time when she still came to Sunday services. He’d asked her how things were going, and she’d reply, “Peachy.” Apparently, he remained oblivious to my sister’s dry sense of irony, and that “peachy” could mean just the opposite if one paid attention to her tone of voice. Or perhaps he didn’t see her reserve, her unwillingness to complain about her affliction. Or her habit of offering minimal feedback to folks who had no idea what her condition was like. The priest went on for a bit, and one would have thought that Carla was the Mary Poppins of ALS. He paused for breath, and Clare, Carla’s four-month-old granddaughter, let loose a loud splutter. She gave the priest the raspberries. Dan, Clare’s father, started laughing, and the folks seated around him joined in. At the reception after the burial, Dan told me that he was sure that Clare had delivered Carla’s rebuttal.

The Ties That Bind

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Inseparable.  Acrylic on canvas and board.  2018

Some couples stay together out of true love, love that deepens and grows richer with each passing year.  Even if passion fades, the bonds of friendship and shared history strengthen.

Some couples remain conjoined when inertia prevents both from making a break for freedom.  The ennui becomes familiar, and the slow deadening of hope becomes the normal and comfortable state of being.

Some cling to each other in a symbiosis based on mutual contempt.  The hatred shared becomes the tie that binds.  Anger drives their anti-relationship forward, and resentment transforms itself into a negative romantic fervor.  If faced with the possibility of starting a new life based on affection and attraction, they wouldn’t know what to do.

Some relationships cycle through phases of love, inertia, and contempt, and still manage to go on.  They are like trees that weather storm after storm while others around them fall.  Perhaps endurance is a matter of blind willfulness and occasionally grace.

 

A Sense of Humor Helps

There are many ways to judge whether a relationship might work. Sharing or at least tolerating each other’s sense of humor is one. When my wife and I dated I sometimes cooked a meal for us, and one night Judy held up her plate with a pathetic orphan look on her face and said, “Please, sir, may I have more?” My eyes popped wide as I recognized a speech from Oliver Twist. My previous girlfriend had thought that Steven King novels were the height of literature, and Judy quoted Dickens. My heart leapt with joy.

I had first studied biology in college, and Judy was in the process of earning her Ph.D. in plant physiology when we met and married. On our honeymoon in Maine we climbed to the top of a mountain in Acadia National Forest. A cold breeze blew as we stood on a rocky plateau at the top, and a thick fog surrounded us on all sides. She pulled a sweatshirt out of her backpack, and her head got stuck inside as she attempted to push her arms through the sleeves. She stood with her arms waving over what appeared to be a headless torso and I said, “My wife, the hydra.” She started laughing, and it took her a bit longer to emerge.

When Judy got pregnant with our first child we went to an OB/GYN group in State College. We saw four doctors on a round robin basis, and some could be gruff and rude. Judy appreciated it when I nicknamed a sixty year old man, a former army doctor, who kept advising Judy to watch her weight. His name was Wengrovitz, but we privately referred to him as Vinegar Tits. Dr. Mebbane gave us stern lectures at odd moments, and we hoped that he wouldn’t be on call when it came time for the delivery. We held up our arms in crosses as if warding off a vampire when we discussed him and called out, “Med Bane” in hopes of repelling him.

I rewrite lyrics to pop songs, and sometimes sing my version of Joe Cocker’s, “You Are So Beautiful, To Me” in the morning while making breakfast.  Original version:  “You are so beautiful, to me.  You’re everything I’ve ever hoped for.  You’re everything I need.  You are so beautiful, to me.”  My version: “You look available, to me. You are everything I’d ever settle for. You’re the only woman I see. You look available…to me.” Judy doesn’t take offense but comments on how romantic I’ve become over our years together.

We got new flip phones a few months ago. Sometimes my phone emits rapid bursts of beeps when I walk with it in a pants pocket, and it woke me up one night with a beep and flash of light as it rested on my bureau. Judy took it from me when it sounded off during a meal and searched through the menu. I asked her to look for a “random bullshit” button that she could turn off. She went through a bunch of applications, but didn’t find anything that might help. She handed it back and drily said, “Sorry, they don’t list ‘random bullshit’ anywhere.”

 

My Wife Doesn’t Support the Arts

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It all started with her African violets.  Judy asked me to watch over them while she went away for a few days to a plant physiology conference.  I put them in my bedroom, admired the round forms of their leaves, and decided to do a series of charcoal drawings.  The series went well as I recorded the gradual descent of the stems, the drooping and dropping of the leaves.  When she returned I showed her the drawings before I returned her plants, and I waited for her to praise how closely I watched over them, how I put all my powers of observation into making a faithful record.  Instead she cried, “You didn’t water them!  They’re half dead!”  Her outburst shocked me.  How could she not understand that true art is about the cycle of life and death, the drama of mortality?  Her plants may have given up their lives, but they had made a worthy sacrifice for Art.

I decided to ignore her odd sense of priorities and married her, but the early days of cohabitation were fraught with tension.  Judy objected one day when she found me in the kitchen mixing painting solutions (varnish, stand oil, paint thinner) at the dining table.  She exclaimed, “We eat there!”  “Of course we do,” I replied.  “Are you saying that a table has only one function?”  She couldn’t find an adequate response to my query, but I agreed to mix my painting media on the back steps.  I thought, “This is how it starts.”

A few months later she asked me where the hammer was.  She’d rummaged through the tool chest and the drawers in the kitchen and couldn’t find it.  I said, “I’m using it in a still life.  Don’t touch it.  I’ll be done with it in a month or two.”  She shook her head in disbelief and failed to comment on my innovative use of nontraditional subject matter in a genre filled to overflowing with fruit ‘n flower paintings.  I began to wonder if I’d married badly.

DSC_0260 (2)Cat and Hammer, Oil/Canvas, 1985

Three years later she forced me to shut down my studio in a spare bedroom in our duplex apartment in State College.  I had to relocate to a cold and drafty basement and work wearing a coat during the winter months.  At the time of my banishment Judy was seven months pregnant and refused to listen to my objections.  She said, “We have to get the baby’s room ready now.”  I began to suspect that she placed more importance on family than on Culture. So bourgeois.

And then one day about six months later, she came down to the basement with a load of laundry on one arm and our daughter on the other.  I thoughtfully interrupted an intense painting session to warn her to not step on a tube of oil paint that I had left, for a no longer recalled strategic purpose, on the floor drain in front of the washer.  I gathered from the pained look she gave me that she thought that I should quit working and move the tube.  I gallantly ignored her unreasonable expectations and began to rework a difficult passage that I’d been struggling with for days.  (The demands my paintings made on me often left me exhausted and mentally battered, but I had become used to making sacrifices.)  I barely noticed when she slammed the lid to the washer and retreated with baby back up the basement stairs–stomp, stomp, stomp.  “Some people,” I thought, “have it so easy.”

This morning I set up my French folding easel in my bathroom and began a palette knife self-portrait.  I spent an hour or two.  Judy wondered what kept me out of sight for so long, and I asked her if she’d like to see how I had managed to turn yet another room into a studio.  She stared at my work arrangement and the newly begun painting, but instead of expressing wonder at my ingenuity she said, “I guess this means that you’ll be using my bathroom a lot.”

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My wife.  The muse.

I Showed Her

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My wife told me that she wanted to rearrange the kitchen, to move the fridge to the north wall and put a small table in its place next to the kitchen sink.  I said, “No.  I do most of the cooking, and I’m used to having the fridge close to the work counter.”  The argument ended, but when I came back from a short trip to Gainesville the deed had been done.  Judy got our two kids to help her push the fridge to the north wall while I was away.

When I returned I walked in the door, hugged the kids, kissed Judy, and suspected nothing.  But when I went into the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge by the sink,  I found it elsewhere.  I spun around and saw her smiling at me.  I protested, but she said nothing.  Instead she gave me a challenging look as if daring me to come up with a reason to move it back.  I said, “You know I’ve been planning to paint a mural right where you put that fridge.”

“Mural?  What mural?” she asked.

“A landscape…of a place you like…It’ll be a reminder.”

“The Smokies?” she asked.  “You’ll paint a mural of the Smokies!?”

“Sure.  You pick a picture from our last trip there.”

We pulled out a photo album, and she chose a scene with trees hanging over a path cutting through a wood: dappled light, intricate interlacing of branches and foliage, contrasting textures of boulders, tree bark, leaves, sky and dirt.  I looked at it and gulped.  I knew that a subject that complicated would take months.

“Are you sure you want that one?” I asked.  “What about this distant view of the mountains in fog?”

“No.  This is the best.  Can you do it?”

“Of course I can.” I answered feeling a bit nettled.  Did she think that I was an amateur?  “Now can I move the fridge back?”

“I’ll help you,” she said sweetly.

I began to paint the next weekend.  I marked off the boundaries with masking tape and laid out my composition with a few lines.  I blocked in big color shapes.  Two hours passed, and I realized that I had barely made a dent.  But anything for a just cause.  The fridge must stay in its rightful place.

The mural took three months to complete, and I was weary of the project by the time I laid down the last brushstrokes.  I knew that I could drag it out a lot longer if I felt like punishing myself with a lot of tedious detail, but decided that enough was enough.

I called Judy into the kitchen and said, “It’s done.”  She stared at it for a long time, and then she hugged me and said, “Thank you.”  I knew that it reminded her of a family trip to her favorite place on earth.  I tried hard not to feel  happy for her, but failed.

I put away my paints, and while I cleaned my brushes I tried to reclaim some vengeful satisfaction.  I had thwarted her plans to change the kitchen.  I hadn’t let her get away with a sneaky maneuver.  I had outwitted her even if it had taken a long time to pull it off.

I was the man…in charge.

I showed her.  Yeah, I really showed her.