friends

Among the brightest of women

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No doubt we would have been preparing to celebrate Phoebe’s birthday this weekend. While the actual date of her birth fell on February 20, her calendar of festivities filled rather quickly. I imagine this year would have been especially so, being her one-hundredth celebration and all.

Alas, she bid her final farewell at ninety-nine. And for most of those ninety-nine years, we knew nary a thing of this girl from Riverside, California  . . .

We knew her not when entered this world in 1918; when she graduated from Kuna High School in 1935; or when she attended Pioneer Business College in Minneapolis, Minnesota in 1936 . . . when she worked in military communications during  World War II; or when she married the love of her life in 1948 . . . when she lived in New York; or when she returned to Boise, into that grand old house on twenty-second street . . . when she worked for the tax commission; when she raised show dogs; when she traveled about, amassing one adventure after another.

No, we knew nary a thing of her until she joined the “old girls” at “the home.” By that time she’d be quick to shoo away a camera for fear it would make her look old; and she was more than ready to accept her boarding pass to the great beyond–to be reunited with those she loved most of all.

But unlike some who tire of this world, she rarely complained; instead, she chose to make the most of each day. And despite the years that layered one upon another, she continued to have a youthful gleam in her eye.

Perhaps its one of the things that made us fast friends.

Despite our age difference, we shared a love of laughter. We shared a love of clouds and the myriad of ways they dance upon the sky. We shared an understanding that the ache of some disappointments (never holding a baby of your own, for instance) never truly goes away; that you can (and most certainly should) make the best of the hand you’ve been dealt, but a twinge of pain continues to tug at your heart.

I imagine if we had been born in the same place, at the same time, we’d have been inseparable. Instead, she paved the way; she showed me how to grow old . . .

In the few short years we knew her, she taught us the importance of looking your best–even when you can no longer wear the shoes you love, or it takes hours to prepare; that wit remains timeless; that friends and family are your anchors–that you should hug, and say “I love you,” and accept those invitations for as long as you can; that age does not have to dim your spark.

Phoebe, brightest of women–she certainly, lived up to her name.

At her memorial service, her niece read aloud one of her favorite poems:

Life owes me nothing. Let the years
Bring cloud or azure, joy or tears;
Already a full cup I’ve qualified;
Already wept and loved and laughed.
And seen, in ever-endless ways,
New beauties overwhelm the days.

Life owes me nought. No pain that waits
Can steal the wealth from memory’s gates;
No aftermath of anguish slow
Can quench the soul fire’s early glow.
I breathe, exulting every breath,
Embracing Life, ignoring Death.

Life owes me nothing. One clear morn
Is boon enough for being born;
And be ninety or ten,
No need for me to question when.
While Life is mine, I’ll find it good.
And greet each hour with gratitude.

Anonymous

Words she obviously took to heart. And if her life is any indication, it would behoove us all to do the same.

What binds our hearts

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Mondays get a bad rap; Fridays hint of frivolity; Saturday and Sunday stand unrivaled. But Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday? Well, I’ve all new appreciation for those days after the shenanigans of this year.

You see, it was a regular old Tuesday when a certain fellow called and asked me to dinner; it was just another Wednesday when we stopped in at the Train Depot and he asked me to marry him; and it was yet another autumnal Thursday afternoon, when we said I do in the little chapel where we first met.

Not bad for days we tend to gloss right over, no?

Since we both love autumn; and we’re certainly not getting any younger, we opted for Fall of 2017. Which means I had three months to plan. It also explains a lot about those recurring dreams I had in my thirties wherein I was frantically throwing a wedding together at the last possible moment because I was caught completely unaware.

But I digress.

Anyway, I knew we wanted to get married at the church, with a reception at the Boise Depot. As it happened, the Depot had Thursday, November 2 open. So Thursday, November 2 it was.

And I asked my friend, Chad Estes, to do what he does best on that date: to tell our story, in photos; to capture the little moments that make up a most miraculous day . . .

It began, of course, with a frenzy of activity–as weddings are wont to do . . .

Complete with finger cramps (so many buttons). . .

And pretending to be stuck with a pin . . .

The mothers were seated to I denna lijuva sommartid–a nod to the Swedes who were unable to make it back for the wedding. The wedding party walked down the aisle to the Forrest Gump theme . . .

In case you’re judging, I realize I should be holding my bouquet lower–but it was really heavy for my pathetic arm muscles.

Let me just pause for a moment to say there are those who love to be the center of attention. I am not of their number . . .

I was, however, told I had a look on my face as if to say, ‘look at me’ (which appalls me to no end). So, apparently, I have a good poker face.

Nonetheless, I’m happy to report we made it; without medication or passing out . . .

Maybe this is the look they’re talking about? I don’t know, but I don’t like it. I do, however, love this photo of my mama.

Then there was that special moment between my aunt and I. You see, when we went in for a hug, the adornments on the front of my dress, got stuck in the lace of my aunt’s, in a most unfortunate position. Let’s just say I feared we were destined to be bosom buddies for the remainder of the evening . . .

Thankfully, we broke free. And continued on to the reception . . .

See that bench? That’s where Dustin proposed. Chad asked us to sit down and carry on a conversation, as if it were just the two of us. Here’s the thing: we both hate our pictures taken; we’re completely awkward. With a camera pointed our direction, we couldn’t act normal to save our lives. So Dustin started being goofy; I started laughing. Which, now that I mention, is pretty much normal for us . . .

We had a cake of pink champagne; a vintage bride and groom amid a sea of flowers stood atop. Those wee cake toppers first made their appearance at my grandparent’s wedding, October 15, 1943 . . .

Funny story: Once my aunt offered to lend me the cake toppers, I contacted the florist to let her know we wouldn’t need as many flowers for the top. Alas, I failed to tell the baker some of the flowers were for the bottom of the cake. Ah, well; que sera, sera.

There were cupcakes, too: Saigon cinnamon roll (Saigon cinnamon cake, cinnamon cream cheese filling, whipped brown sugar buttercream); Southern gent (milk chocolate cake, bourbon caramel buttercream, bourbon caramel drizzle, crushed pretzels); and Summer pint (Blue Moon infused vanilla cake, cardamom custard, orange buttercream frosting).

I thought they’d be easier to send home with people when all was said and done. Alas, nary a one made it to the end . . .

The food, oh the food . . . I’ve never tasted anything quite so divine. That, my friends, is a direct quote. And from the two brussel sprouts and quick bite of slow braised beef I managed to stuff in my mouth, I quite agree . . .

We were lucky enough to have “our” DJ join us; he’s provided the soundtrack to my mom’s fiftieth birthday, my grandma’s eightieth birthday, and now, our wedding.

Dustin chose the song for our first dance. Thankfully, he played the song for me ahead of time; as a matter of fact, he had to play it three times before I could stop crying (Randy Newman’s Feels Like Home, in case you’re curious) . . .

As for the father-daughter dance, my dad was super nervous to dance in front of people. He grew up Assemblies of God, don’t you know–wherein you’ll go straight to hell in a hand basket if you dare trip the light fantastic.

Our solution: invite other fathers and daughters to join us, which was at once less stressful, and completely adorable . . .

And let’s not forget the bell tower, which was open for viewings. We managed to sneak up all by our lonesome for a few minutes (we may have sneaked in a few kisses, too) . . .

All that, and it really came down to our friends and family. The people who have been by our side for the good, the bad, and the ugly. Those who have laughed with us, and cried with us. Those who have built us up, and (when needed) knocked us down a peg. You know, our favorites . . .

Even still, I find it hard to express just how much it meant to have others share in our excitement. All the sweet greetings and congratulations. Those who traveled and took time off work (at the last minute, really) for a Thursday wedding; those who helped setup and tear down; those who raised a glass, cut a rug, and otherwise celebrated along with us . . .

Because a celebration, no matter how grand, is nothing without those you love by your side. For it’s friends and family who lessen our burdens, and quadruple our joy . . .

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As you might imagine, it was important to me that we support small businesses in our big to-do. Here are the ones that made our celebration great . . . 

Photography: Starry Night Media

Flowers: Wildflower Florals & Events

Food: Wild Plum Events

Cake: Boise Cakery

DJ: A Sound Choice DJ Entertainment

Party favors: Apropos Roasters

To our posses

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Last weekend marked a ladies to-do. We left our homes and plans—children left to the care of fathers—to gather together with friends both old and new.

We sat around a long table, eating crepes stuffed with cheese and apricot preserves, Nutella and strawberries, plum syrup and freshly whipped cream. We drank rich coffee brought from travels in Dubai and Singapore. We chatted and we remained silent; we laughed and we shed  tear; we encouraged one another in life and we encouraged one another in faith.

A few of us even went on a wee adventure to Table Rock. If you’ve no clue as to what I speak, Table Rock is a butte overlooking the city.

I’ve lived here all my life and this was the first time I’ve driven (rather than hiked) to the top. I had to rely on a friend nearly twenty years younger, who hails from California, to get us there. True story.

Anyway, see the yellow car? That’s the road . . .

If you want to call it a road. It’s more of a sandy incline with potholes the size of your head every five inches or so, just to keep things interesting.

Keep in mind, this photo was taken eye level near the top. It drops down from there.

We drove to allow time for a few brave souls to clamber down a bit and boulder climb. I’m sure it comes as no surprise, I was not of that number. I’ve a hard enough time on flat ground, thank you very much. Instead I perched atop the rocks, looked down, snapped a few photos, and otherwise took in a bit of the dessert beauty . . .

You know, anytime I roam about in a wide expanse of God’s creation, I can’t help but think of the first to do so. Can you imagine? Mile after mile of the unknown. Even when they found a place to settle, peril lurked at every turn. They had to give their all, every moment of every day; even then, it was ill-advised to go it alone.

Now that I mention, the same might be said of us. After all, we are traveling our own frontier. We’ve never been here before; there’s no going back.

If we truly want to succeed at this thing called life, it’s best we round up our posse, our tribe—our wagon train, as it were. We need to find those we can learn from and those we can teach; those who will love us for who we are and those who will encourage us to be all the better; those who will dance like a fool alongside us and cry as if the heartbreak were their own; those who will celebrate our victories and mourn our losses.

That doesn’t mean we have to cling to one another 24/7; because, let’s be serious, that’s an introvert’s worst nightmare. It’s my worst nightmare, if you’d care to know.

It simply means we have each other’s back—

To set one another up for success . . .

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To be there, in good times and in bad, when we’re “normal,” and when we’re a little weird . . .

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To know, whatever comes our way, we’re not in it alone.

Science gals

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Friday evening I received a text from my friend’s daughter–Saturday morning her team would be competing in the statewide Science Olympiad, would I want to come over and watch?

Um, yeah.

Assigned ‘shock value,’ she and her partner joined a dozen or so other kids in a lab where they had to complete a timed task, followed by a written exam. It was completely nerve wracking–at least for those of us watching from the hallway, through the glass panes. 

The kids seemed fine.

Speaking of the kids, there were a lot of them, all wearing team t-shirts. The front of the shirts, above, for instance: Never argue with a 90-degree angle. It’s always right. *snicker*

Sure, I may have never excelled in math and science, but these are my people.

Of course, it wasn’t all work. Since our event took place in the morning, we had plenty of time to kill. So we made our way to the mall, where we bought new clothes, ate ice cream, and laughed until we cried.

When all was said and done, I was thankful to live in a land where girls are not only allowed, but encouraged to think and learn and grow.

I was thankful for the opportunity to witness our future at work.

From what I saw, we’re going to be OK.

Anything, but . . .

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The first Monday of every month is a little to-do called Story Story Night. I’m sure you have something similar in your city—a chance for people to get up on a stage and tell a story ‘without notes.’ This month’s theme was ‘Reckless: Stories of wild abandon,’

The girls at work and I decided to give it a go; we made plans to meet at Mai Thai at 5:00, to prepare . . .

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The end.

Truly, that’s as far as we got.

We sat in a little corner booth, sipping our wines and rum and Coke, laughing and chatting for over three hours—a luxury in these parts.

At one point, our server offered to give us a heads up on time (he knew we were planning to attend Story Story). Oh, so nice, but there’s really no need. We should head up now . . .

But there was one more story to tell, one more dilemma to ponder, one more future to mull. Before we knew it, not only had we missed the start of Story Story, we’d missed it altogether.

Perhaps it’s for the best. I’m quite possibly the least reckless person on the planet. So, naturally, it would be my name they pulled out of the hat for the story slam, forcing me to get up there and hem and haw before coming out with a witty, “One time, I dated a guy who wore women’s shoes. Also, I ate chicken McNuggets once—and I was old enough to know better.’

What about you–do you have a good reckless story?