I wrote this mid-week last week, I think it was Tuesday or Wednesday. It gets hazy in my mind:
“It sounded different this time, their cry. I’m used to hearing the geese giving off clarion calls throughout the day and if Richard’s home he’ll rush to see if anything’s amiss. I usually know nothing’s wrong. But this time it was different. I was upstairs in bed for a quick power nap, I’d just gotten off the phone with Richard 5 minutes before. I heard a squawk rustle on the grass below and though it sounded as if it should be the chickens I knew it was the geese. And I knew something was wrong. I bolted up in my bed and looked down out of the window. There were all 5 except Shmuel, standing there, looking back toward the road. They didn’t look especially troubled. Then Shumuel flew in and when he got to them, he stumbled, lost his balance. ‘Something’s wrong! He’s been in a fight with something! He’s hurt!’ I flew out of bed, grabbing some clothes, anything near, and catapulted down the stairs. As I tore through the living room I could make out an animal just across the road peering up over the rise which leads up from the pond. It was stocky, not a fox, too big. It reminded me of a prarie dog who’d been working out. What was it? A coyote? A dog? And if it were a dog, is this the new one the people down the road got to replace the huskie who killed 7 of our chickens the day before it was shot this past April? I quickly fantasized striding down the road to pick a fight with the guy. Richard had kept quiet about it, but I wasn’t above bringing up past history because his new dog just bit our gander! God, fantasies of revenge come quick. I dashed across the kitchen, and screamed out some frustration of powerlessness as I barreled through the screen door onto our front lawn. The animal, whatever it was, took off, then just as quickly circled back. It must be a coyote, I thought. But it doesn’t have a tail. It looked so different from California ones. Who cares! I wasn’t letting go of the neighbor’s dog idea, not yet, but first I needed to take care of Shmuel. I needed to get some more clothes on too.
Clothes on and I was out the back in search of the geese. I saw Shmuel trying to get a drink of water from the grey litter box turned into a drinking receptacle. He leaned forward, wobbled, caught his balance. Couldn’t do it. He looked like a drunk. Poor baby. I grabbed the white water bucket and raced over, my intention to either fill the grey box higher with water or to give him the bucket, something much closer to his head so he wouldn’t have to bend down so far. That’s when I saw the blood. It was splattered across the snow of his white feathery back. I choked back a gasp of tears. Poor baby, poor baby. And this was the animal I had intended on getting rid of. Pissed he was such a pisser, pooping all over the place. Oh Shmuel. Was he still bleeding? It didn’t look like it. There’s some blood on his neck, it must be a neck wound.
I quickly decided to gather them and corral them up by their coop. Shmuel was very obedient, dazed, the others were recalcitrant, chatty. I was pulsing with panic and anger. I couldn’t take seeing him wounded like this. He had defended them against a coyote. And I flashed at how he’d never really been tested. He’d bitten humans, thrown punches with his wings and maybe a punch had loosed the coyote’s/dog’s jaws from around his neck, but that “sticking your neck out” (just got the source of that saying) to intimidate someone else is all theatre. There’s nothing behind it but show. It makes you so vulnerable. Ah sweet Shmuel.
I got the group to the coop gate door and of course one of the young girls over shot the entrance and was separated from the group (On purpose? Who knows. Oh, I doubt it. What, Dan, do you think she was starving for attention?!) She began screaming and I’m going ‘Oh, great, now Shmuel will get all worked up wanting to be the father defender and he can’t now and everyone else will flip out too. Argh!’ I circled her back and by then, of course, everyone else was out again. I circled them around once more, poor ole Shmuel stumbling along with them, and we get back to the coop gate and the same thing happened again! Fuck. And now the turkeys came over for a look see. This was not going well. I kicked the turkeys out of the way (no, not literally) and erected a barrier that would force direct ALL the geese into their pen when I circled them back a third time and this time -- success. Everyone safe and sound.
I calmed myself. They were looking at me. I was looking at them. I needed to see where Shmuel was injured. I was able to separate him from the others and I embraced and soothed him (I hope) He nibbled on me softly and I knew that if he had his full strength back those nibbles would be leaving bruises, but for now they felt like soft kisses. Despite the circumstance, I loved being able to pet his soft white neck. I’d wished many times to be able to do this; I hadn’t wanted it to happen like this though. I combed through his feathers and thought I saw bite marks, but wasn’t sure. Shmuel was struggling a bit and I let him go. What to do? What to do? I decided to go in and get some Aloe Vera healing gel we’d had for years for a cat injury long ago back in LA. I got inside and went to where I knew it should be and couldn’t find it. Anywhere. And I searched lots of places. Especially the places where I knew it MUST be. Because I’d PLACED it there. I flew into a rage and yelled out to the empty rooms as I strode through them: “Why can’t people (namely Richard) put things back where they’re supposed to go?!!” I could picture it in my mind’s eye, but no matter how many times I went back to the places I KNEW it should be it never showed up. I was beyond livid. And at the same time, a side of me could see the assinie ridiculousness of my behavior and that side of me knew it was going to turn around and bite me in the ass. And sure enough, I became the culprit, hoisted on my own petard. There the Aloe Vera gel was on the bottom shelf of my bedside table where I must’ve MISplaced it. I thanked God/Universe/whatever that Richard hadn’t been present for my embarrassing “blowing off steam” tirade and swore to him/it/whatever that I would learn some great lesson of humility from this.
I returned to Shmuel a chastened man with the Aloe Vera gel and a rag to wash away the blood from his back. The rag worked somewhat. I slowly unfolded his wings to check to see if they’d been injured at all. No sign of damage. Then I carefully parted his neck feathers. High up the neck, there they were, 2 hefty puncture holes. A little bit of meat stuck out of one of them. Cradling Shmuel, I slowly removed the cap from the Aloe Vera, dipped my finger inside, and lightly applied the gel to the wounds. ‘You get better big guy’ I whispered. I longed to hear him bray out or bite me, but all I got now were slight wheezes and wobbles. He had t be in shock. He must be whipped. And I left him again. I would return a couple more times to observe him.“
The next day I contacted a vet who urged me to wash the wound with hydrogen peroxide and gave me a prescription for tetracycline to be dissolved in the water he drinks. “The most important thing is to get him to eat,” the vet said and so over the past few days I’ve very imperfectly turkey baster fed Shmuel with baby food while also syringe forcing the tetracycline mixture down his throat. He has drunk it from his bucket too, but it’s so hard keeping him separated to do that and not letting the others drink it as well. I’ve gone back and forth keeping him from the rest of the flock – the act breaks my heart - and bringing them together, continually judging whether I’m doing the right thing, wondering whether or not I’ve been giving the right amounts of medicine, giving him enough rest, on and on. It’s hard to know. He has shown signs of improvement everyday and I’m reminded by Richard that he is a wild animal and we’ve seen animals make miraculous recoveries here on their own. “He may never be the same,” Richard opined last night before bed after seeing Shmuel that day, “and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Gone may be the days of his constant territorial-ness with his neck out stretched in defiance, blue eyes piercing through me, bill ready to bite and bruise, warning the others that we’re no good, that they should run for cover. Who knows. Time will tell. I feel as if he’s a war veteran back from the front, never to be the same, not quite.
The last few mornings I have let them all out on the pond for a couple hours. I’ve spoken of the silly way of “flying” they have, very serious, barely getting off the ground, sort of like kids playing airplane, flapping their wings while running. Shmuel’s flying is a bit off right now, his neck isn’t completely healed and I think it sends his balance off, as if he’s not going where he intends to be going, slightly out of control. Further strengthening may alleviate that maladay. Again, time will tell. I watched very parentally as they swam around and thought Shmuel needed to put just a little bit more effort into his swimming, his body moving more then the others, not the easy, confident, effortless glide it used to have. ‘He’s trying to stay the lead of the pack,’ I thought. Who knows. That said, though, he was the picture of happy playfulness later on. Maybe that’s what was going on, maybe not, but I just sat on the bank at a bit of a remove and smiled and smiled. It made my heart light. Shmuel was near the shore with the 2 older geese, Mary Ann and Ginger, and began doing roll overs in the water with them; they each took turns. Shmuel would dive, butt and feet whirling up in the air, then he’d right himself in a flippy sort of way and flap his wings powerfully. A bit off balance, granted, but it looked grand. Maybe he’ll turn into a big sweetheart. I just hope this whole thing hasn’t broken his spirit. I hope I haven’t had any part in breaking his spirit by turkey baster feeding him, holding him down, separating him from his brood. “You probably have a bit,” Richard said when I spoke of this this morning. I was seeking support – an “oh, don’t be silly honey” not necessarily bald honesty. “But you did the right thing,” Richard added. I hope. Ah well.
I’m going to go check in on him. Think good thoughts for a swell gander.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Let me tell you about our wedding day.
It happened just before 5 pm on September 12th 2010 in the Newbury Town Meeting House, built in 1839. In attendance were the presiding Justice of the Peace, Wayne Richardson, and a gathering of 9 of our “most local” friends. Richard and I had contemplated extending the invitations out not only to a wider circle of Vermont friends but to those friends in other parts of New England and New York, if only as a gesture. However it got to be a complicated endeavor and we were very clear that simplicity was to be the hallmark of this event. So we chose to surround ourselves with those within about a 10 mile radius, friends who’d been instrumental in welcoming us here, in helping us restructure our home, working alongside us, being so generous in their giving. 2 of our guests had grown up in our house. Well, here’s the list of the people who were there: Susan Underwood, our town clerk; Shirley and Richard Burroughs (Shirley nee Thompson is one of those who grew up in our house); Gail and Dale Bromley (Dale was representing our house when we bought it and he and Gail, both realtors, have been so kind and fortifying through all times); Chris Mazzarella (an expert finish carpenter who’s designed and built cabinetry and framing throughout our home. He and his girlfriend, Emily, have been good friends for 3 years now. Sadly, Emily couldn’t make the wedding due to a job conflict. Not her fault, we sprung this ceremony on people very last minute.); our neighbors, Royce Thompson and Andy – ugh, I’ve forgotten Andy’s last name! (Royce also grew up in our home and is, as you’ve heard in these blogs, a factotum of not only everything about our house, but the surrounding area’s flora and fauna. A very kind and helpful friend.) And finally, there was a surprise non-local friend at the cermoney as well. Patty Anton happened to be traveling back east from LA for business in the Hartford/Boston area and phoned up to find out what we were up to and found that she’d be able to attend not only our wedding ceremony, but Richard’s 50th birthday party the day before. It was a good group.
The day was cool and grey. I got to the hall a bit early to turn on the little gas stove in the corner. Susan Underwood and Wayne Richardson and I had come to the hall earlier in the week to clear away the old voting canvas booths still up from the August primary to a back room. The room is long and wide with a fine wood enhanced echoe throughout. A raked section of benches, arranged very church-like, sits silent and upright on either side of you as you enter the hall. You can sense the people who’ve sat there over time, all of them watching on now. In front of the benches is a large open space (when cleared of voting paraphernalia) which could easily host a Virginia Reel. There’s a side docket up front to the right, looking somewhat like a small choir section. Two tall doors lead to the back rooms where junk and antiques have been crammed and stacked. On the side walls stretch tall rectangular windows, half lidded by roll down green window shades. The windows offer glimpses into the graveyards that surround the hall, the western most one hosting graves that date back to the early 19th century with the veteran’s gravesites sporting tiny American flags whipping in the wind. The graves suit the hall well. There’s no sense of unease or sadness about the place, more of heritage and time, history, life going on. Very Spoon River or Our Town. It’s all a part of the whole.
Richard and I had the ceremony filmed. Matt Bucy, an excellent filmmaker/editor/ jack-of-all-creative-trades friend, came up from White River Junction with his camera in tow. There was a dual purpose to the filming which was: to get an archive of the event for ourselves and also to include it in a documentary being made about Vermont in which Richard and my story of coming to Vermont as a gay couple will be a part. All our guests were very game with going along with the filming and Matt remained as unobtrusive as possible. As we milled about beforehand, nudging our guests not to forget to sign the release forms for the film, we learned a few new things. One was that Richard and Shirley had held the reception to their wedding in this space. “Hasn’t changed that much,” Richard commented. We also found out that the hall is unofficially overseen by Doris, a rather dour woman whose house can be seen out the western windows beyond the graveyard. Her “overseer” capacity is fully self-appointed. She was not asked or voted in. Still she makes her opinion known if any changes are inflicted upon the space not to her liking, such as a new lighting system, replastering the ceiling, moving the old cast iron/porcelain stove from the center of the room, general upkeep and sprucing. “No change!” is her battle cry. She’s lost most of those skirmishes, but she still keeps a close siege over the proceedings here. She wasn’t around on Sunday, but I’m sure she knew what was going on.
We began. Wayne stood in the center of the room with Richard and I on either side of him, the three of us facing a wide half circle of our smiling friends. People were so happy to be there, to have been asked. They kept saying how privileged they felt. It was so dear of them. Wayne had told us that the ceremony would last 4 minutes minus the comments both Richard and I would say to one another, which sounded very New England, very no nonsense, right to the point. No frills and furbelows. It suited us, it seemed to suit the hall.
Wayne had a written a little piece himself. Here’s a bit of what he said:
“Dan and Richard as the two of you come into this marriage, and as you this day affirm your faith and love for one another, I would ask that you always remember to cherish each other as special and unique individuals, that you respect the thoughts, ideas, and suggestions of one another. Be able to forgive, do not hold grudges, and live each day that you may share it together – as from this day forward you shall be each other’s home, comfort, and refuge, your marriage strengthened by your love and respect for each other.”
Not too shabby.
And since I was public that day about my comments to Richard, I would like to include them here. Earlier that day we had gone to separate parts of the house to find our muse, Richard downstairs in the kitchen, I upstairs in our new office space. I combed through quotation and poetry books to find some apt passage and the beginning sentence is an anonymous quote that helped kick off the rest of the piece for me. Here it is:
‘”If there is anything better than to be loved, it is loving.” And the great pleasure and privilege of my life is loving you, and being loved by you, Richard Waterhouse. There’s nothing that compares with hearing you say “hon” over the telephone, looking into your gorgeous blue eyes, seeing or hearing or making you laugh, making up, feeling your embrace in the morning, anytime, marveling that there are some things about you that may always be a mystery to me, the way you think, the way you experience something so uniquely in your fashion, so differently from me, and then those moments too when we share something and we seem to be thinking and feeling exactly the same. I love witnessing the great pleasure you get from living here, from our home, from your chickens and turkeys. I love witnessing you, it fills me with such warmth. You’ve won my heart so many times, Richard, and you continue to do so. You turn me on. Everyday, you teach me how to love more deeply. You help me be a better man. Thank you for the rich years we’ve spent together and God or Universe or Great Creator willing, we’ll have many, many more. I love you.’
(Richard’s comments were wonderful, but I’ll let him decide whether or not he wants to share them with a wider audience.)
True to Wayne’s prediction, after our comments, the ceremony whipped right through – the vows, the rings, the proclamation that we were married - the entire event clocked in at 10 minutes. After embraces and congratulations, we invited everyone over to our place for Perrier Jouet (provided by us) and assorted hors d’oeuvres (pot lucked in by our guests, again very New England) and there was much warmth and laughter and hearty conversation. One hilariously humbling story from years ago in LA was told by our friend Patty about her first bringing cats into our lives, an event I staunchly opposed. “The wall of No would come down,” Patty recounted and I buried my head in my hands, laughing, yes, and remembering how I had refused even entertaining the possibility of cats in our lives. “No change!” I feel for ya Doris. I was you. And what a doting felineophile I am now. Four beautiful felines who engage in all the activities that horrified me imagining back then – ripping up furniture, getting sick, pooping, bringing mice and moles and chipmunks, some dead, some not, into our home – they all happen and for now, pretty much all the time, I take it pretty much in stride.
I’m also a Vermonter now, with good Vermont friends.
And I’m a married man. Wow.
Okay, being married has to go onto the list of the reasons I’m here. I didn’t even know it would be important to me. And it is. It found me without me even looking for it. Sort of like Vermont did.
Have a splendid day!
The day was cool and grey. I got to the hall a bit early to turn on the little gas stove in the corner. Susan Underwood and Wayne Richardson and I had come to the hall earlier in the week to clear away the old voting canvas booths still up from the August primary to a back room. The room is long and wide with a fine wood enhanced echoe throughout. A raked section of benches, arranged very church-like, sits silent and upright on either side of you as you enter the hall. You can sense the people who’ve sat there over time, all of them watching on now. In front of the benches is a large open space (when cleared of voting paraphernalia) which could easily host a Virginia Reel. There’s a side docket up front to the right, looking somewhat like a small choir section. Two tall doors lead to the back rooms where junk and antiques have been crammed and stacked. On the side walls stretch tall rectangular windows, half lidded by roll down green window shades. The windows offer glimpses into the graveyards that surround the hall, the western most one hosting graves that date back to the early 19th century with the veteran’s gravesites sporting tiny American flags whipping in the wind. The graves suit the hall well. There’s no sense of unease or sadness about the place, more of heritage and time, history, life going on. Very Spoon River or Our Town. It’s all a part of the whole.
Richard and I had the ceremony filmed. Matt Bucy, an excellent filmmaker/editor/ jack-of-all-creative-trades friend, came up from White River Junction with his camera in tow. There was a dual purpose to the filming which was: to get an archive of the event for ourselves and also to include it in a documentary being made about Vermont in which Richard and my story of coming to Vermont as a gay couple will be a part. All our guests were very game with going along with the filming and Matt remained as unobtrusive as possible. As we milled about beforehand, nudging our guests not to forget to sign the release forms for the film, we learned a few new things. One was that Richard and Shirley had held the reception to their wedding in this space. “Hasn’t changed that much,” Richard commented. We also found out that the hall is unofficially overseen by Doris, a rather dour woman whose house can be seen out the western windows beyond the graveyard. Her “overseer” capacity is fully self-appointed. She was not asked or voted in. Still she makes her opinion known if any changes are inflicted upon the space not to her liking, such as a new lighting system, replastering the ceiling, moving the old cast iron/porcelain stove from the center of the room, general upkeep and sprucing. “No change!” is her battle cry. She’s lost most of those skirmishes, but she still keeps a close siege over the proceedings here. She wasn’t around on Sunday, but I’m sure she knew what was going on.
We began. Wayne stood in the center of the room with Richard and I on either side of him, the three of us facing a wide half circle of our smiling friends. People were so happy to be there, to have been asked. They kept saying how privileged they felt. It was so dear of them. Wayne had told us that the ceremony would last 4 minutes minus the comments both Richard and I would say to one another, which sounded very New England, very no nonsense, right to the point. No frills and furbelows. It suited us, it seemed to suit the hall.
Wayne had a written a little piece himself. Here’s a bit of what he said:
“Dan and Richard as the two of you come into this marriage, and as you this day affirm your faith and love for one another, I would ask that you always remember to cherish each other as special and unique individuals, that you respect the thoughts, ideas, and suggestions of one another. Be able to forgive, do not hold grudges, and live each day that you may share it together – as from this day forward you shall be each other’s home, comfort, and refuge, your marriage strengthened by your love and respect for each other.”
Not too shabby.
And since I was public that day about my comments to Richard, I would like to include them here. Earlier that day we had gone to separate parts of the house to find our muse, Richard downstairs in the kitchen, I upstairs in our new office space. I combed through quotation and poetry books to find some apt passage and the beginning sentence is an anonymous quote that helped kick off the rest of the piece for me. Here it is:
‘”If there is anything better than to be loved, it is loving.” And the great pleasure and privilege of my life is loving you, and being loved by you, Richard Waterhouse. There’s nothing that compares with hearing you say “hon” over the telephone, looking into your gorgeous blue eyes, seeing or hearing or making you laugh, making up, feeling your embrace in the morning, anytime, marveling that there are some things about you that may always be a mystery to me, the way you think, the way you experience something so uniquely in your fashion, so differently from me, and then those moments too when we share something and we seem to be thinking and feeling exactly the same. I love witnessing the great pleasure you get from living here, from our home, from your chickens and turkeys. I love witnessing you, it fills me with such warmth. You’ve won my heart so many times, Richard, and you continue to do so. You turn me on. Everyday, you teach me how to love more deeply. You help me be a better man. Thank you for the rich years we’ve spent together and God or Universe or Great Creator willing, we’ll have many, many more. I love you.’
(Richard’s comments were wonderful, but I’ll let him decide whether or not he wants to share them with a wider audience.)
True to Wayne’s prediction, after our comments, the ceremony whipped right through – the vows, the rings, the proclamation that we were married - the entire event clocked in at 10 minutes. After embraces and congratulations, we invited everyone over to our place for Perrier Jouet (provided by us) and assorted hors d’oeuvres (pot lucked in by our guests, again very New England) and there was much warmth and laughter and hearty conversation. One hilariously humbling story from years ago in LA was told by our friend Patty about her first bringing cats into our lives, an event I staunchly opposed. “The wall of No would come down,” Patty recounted and I buried my head in my hands, laughing, yes, and remembering how I had refused even entertaining the possibility of cats in our lives. “No change!” I feel for ya Doris. I was you. And what a doting felineophile I am now. Four beautiful felines who engage in all the activities that horrified me imagining back then – ripping up furniture, getting sick, pooping, bringing mice and moles and chipmunks, some dead, some not, into our home – they all happen and for now, pretty much all the time, I take it pretty much in stride.
I’m also a Vermonter now, with good Vermont friends.
And I’m a married man. Wow.
Okay, being married has to go onto the list of the reasons I’m here. I didn’t even know it would be important to me. And it is. It found me without me even looking for it. Sort of like Vermont did.
Have a splendid day!
Sunday, September 12, 2010
It'll be easy
“It’ll be easy,” Richard said when I told him that he’d set a task for the 2 of us today, meaning his suggestion for us to write something pithy and heartfelt about the other and recite it during our wedding ceremony today at 5. Yes, let it be easy, usually a good maxim for me and my penchant for rigid perfectionism, but hearing Richard saying it this morning gave me the urge to reply “Oh, yeah? Sez you!”
Yes, we’re getting married, we’re making it official, taking advantage of Vermont’s right to same-sex marriage. A lot of people feel that the right to get married was the compelling pull that drew us here in the first place, but no, not true. The pull that brought us and keeps us here is still a bit of a mystery. And marriage has never been a thing I’ve been that excited about, whether it’s heterosexual or homosexual. I do admire those who are passionate about it. I do love being in these heady times where that right may very well be argued in front of the Supreme Court of the United States later this year. I often feel as if it should mean more to me. And who knows, maybe it does. Maybe there’s a disconnect between what I say and what I feel, the head and the heart.
The other day when the Justice of the Peace stopped by to go over the script for the ceremony and I read it out loud, I was amazed by how I potent these simple words were. I thought ‘Oh, this is something important, this thing we’re about to do.’ It was a bit of a déjà vu. I looked over to Richard and smiled, wondering if he was thinking the same thing I was thinking, namely, our commitment ceremony in Los Angeles in March of 1999. It had taken us/me a while to get to that day. We’d been together for 5 years. We’d taken baby steps of commitment - moving in together, buying rings for one another; however, I had balked at the idea of a ceremony to cement the relationship. Cold feet? Perhaps. But coupled with that was my indignation that the act had to be politicized, that I couldn’t simply do it because I loved Richard. A future guest at the ceremony would later say, “This had to be about love because you certainly weren’t getting anything from the government by doing it.” But despite all my inner wranglings over whether to do it or not, one morning I surprised Richard by asking him to – what? I didn’t ask him to marry me. What did I say? ‘Wanta have a commitment ceremony?’ It couldn’t have been that, that sounds so lame. And I know it sounded good. It was well thought out for perfect dramatic effect, a nice balance between simple and heartfelt and WOW. The same balance I hope to conjure up for today. Well, I can’t remember exactly what I said back then, be that as it may. Richard was bowled over, happy, and we dove into plans for the big day. And there were invitations and a cake and showers. We decided to have the ceremony at our home, outside, weather permitting, on March 27th. We invited 75 of our closest friends to attend. And we invited our families. My sister was my Best Person. And my mom and dad, divorced for 25 years, both came. “Who would’ve thought that the event to bring mom and dad back together, “ my sister wryly intoned, “would be their son’s gay wedding.” And that’s what many mistakenly called it, a “wedding.” There was a last minute push by our activist minister presiding over the rite, Mel White, to make the day political; he wanted us to publicize it, have tv cameras there, but no, we didn’t feel it was fair to our invited friends (my mom would’ve probably loved it). And it was important to both of us that it be about our love for one another, first and foremost, that nothing over shadow that. The day was exquisite, sunny and warm, perfect. We’d had a spate of soggy weather preceding the day so we really lucked out. We set up chairs in rows on our front lawn which magically appeared around tables for the reception following a quick reception line through our living room. There were a few little snags – our photographer didn’t show up (Richard’s brother Mike came to the rescue and now takes wedding pictures as a profession) and there was an accident out on the Hollywood Freeway which held up the proceedings for an hour, forcing our dear friend Patrick to wear his fingers to the bone playing the same 3 introductory songs on his harp over and over again in slightly different tempos and keys to give a little variety. Finally we began and as we stood there under our huge camphor tree, out under the clear California sky, in front of our supportive family and friends, uttering those words that had been said in so many ways by so many people in love throughout time, the power of the act filled everything around about us. You could see it in the expressions of our friend’s faces, the tears in their eyes, you could feel it in the air, you could almost touch it. This mysterious something. We honored our parents for being there and gave them each a red rose and embraced them. More tears. Various friends spoke passages from plays or prayers, some sang, one smudged our rings with sage invoking a Navajo blessing. And we spoke our love for one another through the agreed upon liturgy. We’d memorized our rites. Richard went up on his lines, just a bit, but it felt good saving him, as if it were a performance, looking into each other’s eyes and giving one another strength, being present in this miraculous day, with our love for one another, aware that we both had decided to take our relationship to another level in the presence of the people most dear to us. At the end of the ceremony we faced the congregation and were introduced as life partners. And then we partied. Richard catered the reception dinner himself. Wine and champagne and cosmopolitans flowed generously. A jazz band played on the side patio. It was a grand day.
So we’ve had our party. We’ve had the presents and the do. And now it seems fitting to New England and to Vermont to have a simple ceremony at the Town Meeting Hall, in the presence of a Justice of the Peace and 9 of our local friends and tie the knot. It also seems appropriate that this desire to get married, like the decision to move to Vermont, came a bit out of nowhere. There’s mystery and magic in it. We were moved by a friendly force beyond our ken and control. We’ve come to expect that here. And that’s fine, letting something be easy. There are enough difficult things that life (or a New England winter say) will bring that we will have to contend with; we don’t have to manufacture difficulty. Why not focus on ease and grace and enjoying the ride. And Richard certainly continues to help teach me that.
I’m going to start writing the words for Richard now. Wish me luck.
No, wish me ease and grace and an effortless simplicity in expressing myself, in expressing my heart.
I intend a fantastic day with my husband and our dear friends.
Yes, we’re getting married, we’re making it official, taking advantage of Vermont’s right to same-sex marriage. A lot of people feel that the right to get married was the compelling pull that drew us here in the first place, but no, not true. The pull that brought us and keeps us here is still a bit of a mystery. And marriage has never been a thing I’ve been that excited about, whether it’s heterosexual or homosexual. I do admire those who are passionate about it. I do love being in these heady times where that right may very well be argued in front of the Supreme Court of the United States later this year. I often feel as if it should mean more to me. And who knows, maybe it does. Maybe there’s a disconnect between what I say and what I feel, the head and the heart.
The other day when the Justice of the Peace stopped by to go over the script for the ceremony and I read it out loud, I was amazed by how I potent these simple words were. I thought ‘Oh, this is something important, this thing we’re about to do.’ It was a bit of a déjà vu. I looked over to Richard and smiled, wondering if he was thinking the same thing I was thinking, namely, our commitment ceremony in Los Angeles in March of 1999. It had taken us/me a while to get to that day. We’d been together for 5 years. We’d taken baby steps of commitment - moving in together, buying rings for one another; however, I had balked at the idea of a ceremony to cement the relationship. Cold feet? Perhaps. But coupled with that was my indignation that the act had to be politicized, that I couldn’t simply do it because I loved Richard. A future guest at the ceremony would later say, “This had to be about love because you certainly weren’t getting anything from the government by doing it.” But despite all my inner wranglings over whether to do it or not, one morning I surprised Richard by asking him to – what? I didn’t ask him to marry me. What did I say? ‘Wanta have a commitment ceremony?’ It couldn’t have been that, that sounds so lame. And I know it sounded good. It was well thought out for perfect dramatic effect, a nice balance between simple and heartfelt and WOW. The same balance I hope to conjure up for today. Well, I can’t remember exactly what I said back then, be that as it may. Richard was bowled over, happy, and we dove into plans for the big day. And there were invitations and a cake and showers. We decided to have the ceremony at our home, outside, weather permitting, on March 27th. We invited 75 of our closest friends to attend. And we invited our families. My sister was my Best Person. And my mom and dad, divorced for 25 years, both came. “Who would’ve thought that the event to bring mom and dad back together, “ my sister wryly intoned, “would be their son’s gay wedding.” And that’s what many mistakenly called it, a “wedding.” There was a last minute push by our activist minister presiding over the rite, Mel White, to make the day political; he wanted us to publicize it, have tv cameras there, but no, we didn’t feel it was fair to our invited friends (my mom would’ve probably loved it). And it was important to both of us that it be about our love for one another, first and foremost, that nothing over shadow that. The day was exquisite, sunny and warm, perfect. We’d had a spate of soggy weather preceding the day so we really lucked out. We set up chairs in rows on our front lawn which magically appeared around tables for the reception following a quick reception line through our living room. There were a few little snags – our photographer didn’t show up (Richard’s brother Mike came to the rescue and now takes wedding pictures as a profession) and there was an accident out on the Hollywood Freeway which held up the proceedings for an hour, forcing our dear friend Patrick to wear his fingers to the bone playing the same 3 introductory songs on his harp over and over again in slightly different tempos and keys to give a little variety. Finally we began and as we stood there under our huge camphor tree, out under the clear California sky, in front of our supportive family and friends, uttering those words that had been said in so many ways by so many people in love throughout time, the power of the act filled everything around about us. You could see it in the expressions of our friend’s faces, the tears in their eyes, you could feel it in the air, you could almost touch it. This mysterious something. We honored our parents for being there and gave them each a red rose and embraced them. More tears. Various friends spoke passages from plays or prayers, some sang, one smudged our rings with sage invoking a Navajo blessing. And we spoke our love for one another through the agreed upon liturgy. We’d memorized our rites. Richard went up on his lines, just a bit, but it felt good saving him, as if it were a performance, looking into each other’s eyes and giving one another strength, being present in this miraculous day, with our love for one another, aware that we both had decided to take our relationship to another level in the presence of the people most dear to us. At the end of the ceremony we faced the congregation and were introduced as life partners. And then we partied. Richard catered the reception dinner himself. Wine and champagne and cosmopolitans flowed generously. A jazz band played on the side patio. It was a grand day.
So we’ve had our party. We’ve had the presents and the do. And now it seems fitting to New England and to Vermont to have a simple ceremony at the Town Meeting Hall, in the presence of a Justice of the Peace and 9 of our local friends and tie the knot. It also seems appropriate that this desire to get married, like the decision to move to Vermont, came a bit out of nowhere. There’s mystery and magic in it. We were moved by a friendly force beyond our ken and control. We’ve come to expect that here. And that’s fine, letting something be easy. There are enough difficult things that life (or a New England winter say) will bring that we will have to contend with; we don’t have to manufacture difficulty. Why not focus on ease and grace and enjoying the ride. And Richard certainly continues to help teach me that.
I’m going to start writing the words for Richard now. Wish me luck.
No, wish me ease and grace and an effortless simplicity in expressing myself, in expressing my heart.
I intend a fantastic day with my husband and our dear friends.
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