Four years ago today, the Ump and I said "I do" to each other under a nearly full moon in the backyard of a friend of mine.
In some respects it feels like our wedding was yesterday. On the other hand, I feel like I have been married 40 years, not 4.
That's not a bad thing. My life changed forever on this night in 2001. It was a banner year for the Earehart family. Gracilyn, my niece, was born in August - the first (and more than likely only) grandchild and I turned 40 and got married within a month.
I wish we had videotaped the wedding. At the time it seemed like an unnecessary expense. But during the wedding I developed intense tunnel vision. I enjoyed myself, but I really never got the opportunity to stand back and look at the crowd and the beautiful night and the lovely house and really absorb the whole event.
I was too busy freaking out over the fact that someone was taking too long in the bathroom and I was never going to get my makeup on - a ritual that my Mom and Aunt Ruthie performed like some kind of rite of passage.
I did end up being about 15 minutes late. There are pictures of the Ump wiping the sweat off his head as he waited in his tuxedo.
As I write this blog, it is almost 9:30 p.m. Four years ago, I think we finally had gotten around to cutting the cake. People were starting to leave, so they rushed us over to do the slicing.
It was a lovely wedding that is well-documented in photographs. I am so glad because it was not a month later that my Uncle John died. Those are some of the last pictures of him.
Last year, a fellow teacher/long-time friend of Kenny's who was at the wedding died after a battle with cancer and earlier this summer a dear friend of both of us, Milt, died as well.
When I look at the pictures from that night and everyone is smiling and laughing and eating good food and enjoying good company, it makes me want to have a wedding every year, just to get all those great people together.
It was all assembled from June to September, so in three months we (I - the Ump showed up to help clear a field for parking and to try on his tux) pulled together a outdoor wedding with 250 guests.
I don't think we could do it again. Everything fell perfectly into place - from the minister to the flowers.
It's fun to think back about that night. My memories may not be Memorex perfect, but they have the rosy glow of favorite thoughts and I will keep them in my heart forever.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Monday, September 19, 2005
Nudging fate
Maybe it's because I just turned 44.
Mid-40s. No way around it.
How did I get here? Wasn't it the day before yesterday when I was standing on the commons at Bridgewater College wondering where I would be when I turned 24? I remember it clearly. It was early spring. The dogwoods in front of Cole Hall were blooming. It was the end of my freshman year and I couldn't believe this dramatic first year away from home was coming to a close.
How could I go home and obey Mom and Dad after a year of staying up late and making my own decisions about everything?
On a hot August night, I stood on the midway at the Shenandoah County Fair and thought about how many fairs had come and gone since I arrived in Woodstock in 1985 at the ripe old age of 24.
Nineteen fairs have opened and closed since I first came here 20 years ago. I arrived in September, about a month after the fair of 1985.
It was a hasty decision on my part. The assistant editor at the daily paper where I worked in Harrisonburg chose to come to Woodstock to edit the weekly newspaper after the editor there skipped down the road to start his own newspaper.
I told Dean I would come here for awhile, never dreaming I would stay more than two years. I pretty much knew that I wanted to work for a magazine writing feature articles about exotic places and people.
That's not to say I didn't do stories on exotic places and people in Shenandoah County. There was the guy who had albino bees and 6-foot-tall bean plants. The lady who collected salt and pepper shakers. There was Katie the German Shepherd, who ran an elaborate agility course in her owner's yard. And the flowing-maned smooth-gaited Paso Fino gelding who gave me the best ride of my life.
Not all of the stories were worthy of memory and so I've forgotten them.
Or at least I've laid them to rest for resurrection only at the right time. When I get together with a few members of the original cast of characters who recall those early years at the Herald, it doesn't hurt to remember the unpleasant or embarrassing times. We're like war buddies who made it through deadlines each week, working into the wee hours of the morning to put together the best local newspaper we could.
I don't specifically remember turning 34 while at the paper, but I do remember 35. I've never done well on the odd years. Twenty-five was a hard one and so was 35. Both times I was struggling with the overwhelming feeling that I should have been somewhere else doing something much more important.
From the time I was a young writer (9 or 10), I thought something special would happen to me - that I was destined for some kind of greatness. I kept that notion a secret. It was really the only thing that made me feel special and I didn't want that silver lining to be tarnished by other things.
As the decades have passed, I've redefined my hope for something "special" in my life. Some great things have happened, and, God willing, more special times and people will be part of my future.
I confess, however, that in a shady part of my heart, I still feed tiny twigs of hope to the small bright flame that burns with those early dreams of a destiny chartered for me by fate. It is my eternal flame.
When I blew out the candles on my birthday cupcake, I made a wish.
No, I can't say, then it won't come true.
Let's just say I gave fate a nudge.
Mid-40s. No way around it.
How did I get here? Wasn't it the day before yesterday when I was standing on the commons at Bridgewater College wondering where I would be when I turned 24? I remember it clearly. It was early spring. The dogwoods in front of Cole Hall were blooming. It was the end of my freshman year and I couldn't believe this dramatic first year away from home was coming to a close.
How could I go home and obey Mom and Dad after a year of staying up late and making my own decisions about everything?
On a hot August night, I stood on the midway at the Shenandoah County Fair and thought about how many fairs had come and gone since I arrived in Woodstock in 1985 at the ripe old age of 24.
Nineteen fairs have opened and closed since I first came here 20 years ago. I arrived in September, about a month after the fair of 1985.
It was a hasty decision on my part. The assistant editor at the daily paper where I worked in Harrisonburg chose to come to Woodstock to edit the weekly newspaper after the editor there skipped down the road to start his own newspaper.
I told Dean I would come here for awhile, never dreaming I would stay more than two years. I pretty much knew that I wanted to work for a magazine writing feature articles about exotic places and people.
That's not to say I didn't do stories on exotic places and people in Shenandoah County. There was the guy who had albino bees and 6-foot-tall bean plants. The lady who collected salt and pepper shakers. There was Katie the German Shepherd, who ran an elaborate agility course in her owner's yard. And the flowing-maned smooth-gaited Paso Fino gelding who gave me the best ride of my life.
Not all of the stories were worthy of memory and so I've forgotten them.
Or at least I've laid them to rest for resurrection only at the right time. When I get together with a few members of the original cast of characters who recall those early years at the Herald, it doesn't hurt to remember the unpleasant or embarrassing times. We're like war buddies who made it through deadlines each week, working into the wee hours of the morning to put together the best local newspaper we could.
I don't specifically remember turning 34 while at the paper, but I do remember 35. I've never done well on the odd years. Twenty-five was a hard one and so was 35. Both times I was struggling with the overwhelming feeling that I should have been somewhere else doing something much more important.
From the time I was a young writer (9 or 10), I thought something special would happen to me - that I was destined for some kind of greatness. I kept that notion a secret. It was really the only thing that made me feel special and I didn't want that silver lining to be tarnished by other things.
As the decades have passed, I've redefined my hope for something "special" in my life. Some great things have happened, and, God willing, more special times and people will be part of my future.
I confess, however, that in a shady part of my heart, I still feed tiny twigs of hope to the small bright flame that burns with those early dreams of a destiny chartered for me by fate. It is my eternal flame.
When I blew out the candles on my birthday cupcake, I made a wish.
No, I can't say, then it won't come true.
Let's just say I gave fate a nudge.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Devil dog
I think we have adopted a devil dog.
Peanut, the 10-pound, 9-year-old dog who came into our lives because of a yard sale, is one of the strangest dogs I have ever known.
All of our dogs have their eccentricities. Tip is afraid of thunderstorms, gunshots and cars that backfire. He tries to squeeze his large body under whatever table is available at the first rumble of a summer thunderstorm.
Brownie has the fiercest bark, but is the biggest wuss. If she really had to take someone on, she would probably keel over.
And then there is Major. I wouldn't know where to start with him. He only eats small treats. It takes him 20 minutes to eat a Milk Bone. So I have to buy special treats just for him.
But these weirdnesses take a back seat to this little Chinese Crested/Terrier mix who recently joined our merry household.
We'll start with how he eats. He sneaks up on his food bowl, growls menacingly, grabs a mouthful of food, spits it on the floor and then daintily scoops up one piece at a time.
I had been warned that his eating habits would be entertaining, but I had no idea.
Experience has taught me to make sure there's no food in his bowl overnight, because more than once the sounds of growling and spitting have waken me from a sound sleep. And it wasn't my husband...
Speaking of my husband, he is totally smitten with this dog. I never dreamed he would love Peanut so much. Every night before we go to bed, he has to "romp-a-domp" with Peanut - who sleeps with us. "Romp-a-domp" consists of a very spirited game of "bite the hand that feeds you."
Peanut is not interested in toys or tennis balls or even the other dogs. The Ump (my nickname for my husband who is an umpire) is his favorite toy.
The Ump's forearm is larger than Peanut, but he is very gentle with the little dog who is attacking his arm like a Tasmanian Devil, growling and hissing and drawing his lips back to bare his teeth.
Quite a sight.
Eventually, Peanut comes over to my side of the bed where he likes me to scratch behind his ears. When I do this, he makes odd little moaning noises - almost puppy whimpers - and grimaces, showing his teeth.
He also loves to cover my face with kisses which would be nice if he did not have the worst breath of any living creature I have ever encountered. He's got the tiniest ribbon of a tongue that snakes out between his sharp, pointy teeth and slaps smooches on us. Unfortunately it is accompanied by a smell that not even a mother could love.
Chronic halitosis, I guess.
Even as we speak, Peanut is in the living room growling at something. I think he needs to go out.
Oh, there's another thing. When he pees, he twirls around and checks out where he just watered the grass, only most of the time his back legs hang in the air when he spins. He can dance on his back legs and he really doesn't bark that much.
And when that lock of ghostly white hair falls between his ears and over one eye, he is actually quite charming.
Peanut can be a little devil, but we love him with all our hearts.
Peanut, the 10-pound, 9-year-old dog who came into our lives because of a yard sale, is one of the strangest dogs I have ever known.
All of our dogs have their eccentricities. Tip is afraid of thunderstorms, gunshots and cars that backfire. He tries to squeeze his large body under whatever table is available at the first rumble of a summer thunderstorm.
Brownie has the fiercest bark, but is the biggest wuss. If she really had to take someone on, she would probably keel over.
And then there is Major. I wouldn't know where to start with him. He only eats small treats. It takes him 20 minutes to eat a Milk Bone. So I have to buy special treats just for him.
But these weirdnesses take a back seat to this little Chinese Crested/Terrier mix who recently joined our merry household.
We'll start with how he eats. He sneaks up on his food bowl, growls menacingly, grabs a mouthful of food, spits it on the floor and then daintily scoops up one piece at a time.
I had been warned that his eating habits would be entertaining, but I had no idea.
Experience has taught me to make sure there's no food in his bowl overnight, because more than once the sounds of growling and spitting have waken me from a sound sleep. And it wasn't my husband...
Speaking of my husband, he is totally smitten with this dog. I never dreamed he would love Peanut so much. Every night before we go to bed, he has to "romp-a-domp" with Peanut - who sleeps with us. "Romp-a-domp" consists of a very spirited game of "bite the hand that feeds you."
Peanut is not interested in toys or tennis balls or even the other dogs. The Ump (my nickname for my husband who is an umpire) is his favorite toy.
The Ump's forearm is larger than Peanut, but he is very gentle with the little dog who is attacking his arm like a Tasmanian Devil, growling and hissing and drawing his lips back to bare his teeth.
Quite a sight.
Eventually, Peanut comes over to my side of the bed where he likes me to scratch behind his ears. When I do this, he makes odd little moaning noises - almost puppy whimpers - and grimaces, showing his teeth.
He also loves to cover my face with kisses which would be nice if he did not have the worst breath of any living creature I have ever encountered. He's got the tiniest ribbon of a tongue that snakes out between his sharp, pointy teeth and slaps smooches on us. Unfortunately it is accompanied by a smell that not even a mother could love.
Chronic halitosis, I guess.
Even as we speak, Peanut is in the living room growling at something. I think he needs to go out.
Oh, there's another thing. When he pees, he twirls around and checks out where he just watered the grass, only most of the time his back legs hang in the air when he spins. He can dance on his back legs and he really doesn't bark that much.
And when that lock of ghostly white hair falls between his ears and over one eye, he is actually quite charming.
Peanut can be a little devil, but we love him with all our hearts.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Back to school
Summer is over.
Well, not officially, but the major indicators are in place.
The lawn is getting brown.
The outside water dish is layered with walnut leaves and every time I blast down the driveway, my car tires launch walnuts down the street like lime green hand grenades.
My husband, a high school math teacher, returned to school this week. After a summer of work pants and shorts, I had to organize his school uniform of choice - khaki pants and knit shirts.
For the first time in eight years, he is coaching football again. It is also the first time he has coached football since we have been married. Our fourth anniversary is this month.
In the spring he spends a lot of time umpiring baseball games and is away from home a lot, but this is very different. Football invades his life all the time, not just when he is on the field with the kids.
He keeps a white board tucked under the coffee table. We'll be watching television - I am engrossed in the program and think he is too - and he'll whip that board out and start diagramming plays with black marker.
Once I looked over and he was doing the same plotting, only this time swirling his finger making invisible Xs and Os in the air.
We had a long talk before he made the decision to go back as an assistant coach. He tried to make it clear that he would be required to spend a lot of time away from home coaching, practicing, scouting other teams.
I thought I understood and I magnanimously told him that if getting involved in the game was what he wanted to do that I would stand by his decision. I now know that I truly did not realize what I was agreeing to, how much time he is and will be away from home and how that affects our life.
Football is in his blood. It has been a part of his life for probably 40 years - I bet he played midget football in West Virginia as a boy. His mom gave me the clippings that showed his was a standout high school player and that he earned football scholarships to play at JMU.
He went on to coach at three local high schools, serving as head coach at two of them.
I have never been clear about his decision to leave the game. He doesn't talk about it much. But he said that in his heart he knew that if the right opportunity came his way that he would get involved again.
The problem is that I'm not sure any woman can truly appreciate the core of football. We can love the game. We can know the stats. We can adore the players or the coaches. But football has an exclusive inner club, the price of admission paid by time spent on the field.
When he used to talk about football it was very different from how he speaks now as an active member of the club again. He told a local paper that on the field he feels like he hasn't missed a beat. I hear that in his voice.
And I know I made the right decision to support his choice to step on the field again.
Well, not officially, but the major indicators are in place.
The lawn is getting brown.
The outside water dish is layered with walnut leaves and every time I blast down the driveway, my car tires launch walnuts down the street like lime green hand grenades.
My husband, a high school math teacher, returned to school this week. After a summer of work pants and shorts, I had to organize his school uniform of choice - khaki pants and knit shirts.
For the first time in eight years, he is coaching football again. It is also the first time he has coached football since we have been married. Our fourth anniversary is this month.
In the spring he spends a lot of time umpiring baseball games and is away from home a lot, but this is very different. Football invades his life all the time, not just when he is on the field with the kids.
He keeps a white board tucked under the coffee table. We'll be watching television - I am engrossed in the program and think he is too - and he'll whip that board out and start diagramming plays with black marker.
Once I looked over and he was doing the same plotting, only this time swirling his finger making invisible Xs and Os in the air.
We had a long talk before he made the decision to go back as an assistant coach. He tried to make it clear that he would be required to spend a lot of time away from home coaching, practicing, scouting other teams.
I thought I understood and I magnanimously told him that if getting involved in the game was what he wanted to do that I would stand by his decision. I now know that I truly did not realize what I was agreeing to, how much time he is and will be away from home and how that affects our life.
Football is in his blood. It has been a part of his life for probably 40 years - I bet he played midget football in West Virginia as a boy. His mom gave me the clippings that showed his was a standout high school player and that he earned football scholarships to play at JMU.
He went on to coach at three local high schools, serving as head coach at two of them.
I have never been clear about his decision to leave the game. He doesn't talk about it much. But he said that in his heart he knew that if the right opportunity came his way that he would get involved again.
The problem is that I'm not sure any woman can truly appreciate the core of football. We can love the game. We can know the stats. We can adore the players or the coaches. But football has an exclusive inner club, the price of admission paid by time spent on the field.
When he used to talk about football it was very different from how he speaks now as an active member of the club again. He told a local paper that on the field he feels like he hasn't missed a beat. I hear that in his voice.
And I know I made the right decision to support his choice to step on the field again.
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