The Smirk

I am in four seconds of the six-and-a-half minute wedding video. If it’s obvious to me it’ll be obvious to others. 

“I am basically the crew member who gets flung off the Enterprise during the first two seconds of the movie,” I tell David. 

He tilts his head in an attempt to conceal his smirk. 

The smirk is more significant than he knows. For one thing, it lets me know that he, too, noticed that I was barely there; and that he anticipated that I’d notice, get my feelings hurt over it, and put forth a bitter comment. 

The other thing it tells me is that, in his opinion, I’m small-minded for noticing. 

So, in addition to being a non-presence in my son’s wedding video, now my sensibilities have taken a hit because my husband thinks I’m being petty. 

Am I being petty? Yes. He’s absolutely right. The woman who took the video doesn’t know me and it’s her job to be where the action is and to catch the highlights, not follow the mother of the groom around. During the time that most of this video takes place, I was elsewhere catching up with old friends and enjoying myself immensely. 

Also, I detest being the focus of attention, so it’s foolishness to care that I’m not the focus. 

Still, when Sam was a child I discussed literature and nuance with him. And I taxied him from one extracurricular activity to another, years of my life spent in the car seeing that he arrived at a ridiculous number of events on time. Also, considering their future plans, I’m basically losing the son I raised to another family, far away. Ouch. There was a time when I was a force in his life. It seems like that should be worth more than just a few seconds.

 Another takeaway from David’s smirk is that he doesn’t care that my feelings have been hurt. I guess we’ve been living together for so long, witnessing each other’s pains and joys for so many years that anymore it seems predictable and rote. There was a time when my pain was his pain, my indignation, his indignation. Obviously, no more.  

The smirk also communicates a level of superiority, his sure knowledge that he is a better person than I. And this is true. He’s a way better person than I am, legitimately entitled to his self-righteousness. He would never get bent out of shape over something so trivial. He would never take time to count the seconds he’s in a video or take offence over a short film put together by a stranger. 

On the flipside, he’s involved in many community activities, which means that he, too, has his share of successes and obstacles. With whom does he share his triumphs and frustrations? Me. And I never, ever smirk. 

The critical intimation of the smirk also makes me question who I am. Am I wrong to feel the way I feel? Is my perspective skewed? Shouldn’t I be better at letting things go? Am I, contrary to what I thought I knew about myself, actually a narcissist? Is my mean-spirited reaction an indication that I’m spoiled and demanding? And lastly what do I do with my negative feelings if I’m made to feel horrible about voicing them? 

Perhaps what’s needed is a bitch club. Does anyone know of one that I can join? 

How'd the Wedding Go?

Sam and Julia and their entourage descend into Houston on Sunday. Others trickle in from their various world corners throughout the week, until their two Airbnb’s hold thirty people. 

On Thursday, curious about how things are going over at what we refer to as “The Vu Pad,” the Waldos—Betty and her son, Chris; David’s sister, Leanne; and David and I stop by on the way to the planned group adventure at NASA. We enter a bustling house full of happy and peppy millennials, all of whom seem to know each other well and are interested in meeting David and me—because, of course, having raised such an interesting and clever son, we, also, must be interesting and clever. Which we are. As parents of the groom, we have very little to do with the details. Our job is to stand to the side and don proud expressions as the young couple scurries about and arranges things. 

When you’re dealing with moving thirty people from one venue to another, all with their separate needs, agendas, and questions—also, a few couples with young kids—just getting out the door can be frustrating, but Sam moves the whole shebang along, handling it with calm aplomb.

The trip to NASA involves a rainy open-sided tram tour. While it’s a productive bonding experience, I’m too cold to do anything but shiver. But many of the party are avid about the program, so it’s a suitable multi-national activity. 

The next day, another group adventure, a picnic and walk at Brazos Bend State Park, where baby alligators are active, which is pretty cool. More socializing. Bright sun, warmer day, so definitely pleasant.

Then on to the wedding venue, The Orchard at Caney Creek, a property with on-site lodging that sleeps about forty people. Inexpensive hotels are nearby to take the overflow. 

The rehearsal is entertaining, with flying quips and the goofy uncertainty that stems from the fear of looking like a fool. After that, a delicious dinner, barbecue, which is attended by people who are staying on-site as well as those who are in the wedding party. The joyful mingling takes on a scary aspect as we watch the wine and beer we provided dwindle to near depletion. Considering that the next evening is the main event, this dearth of drink is not good. But the matter is taken care of by someone putting a notice on WhatsApp. On the night of the wedding four hundred bottles appear.

Interlude: On the afternoon before the wedding David and I drive fifteen miles down the highway to El Campo, a town that, as far as we’re aware, is known for absolutely nothing. I pull into a parking lot to do some quick research. 

“Why not go see what that’s like?” David asks, pointing toward the adjacent looming structure. 

It seems I have inadvertently parked in front of The El Campo Natural History Museum. So in we go. The building is actually the El Campo Civic Center and is used for concerts and gatherings. The museum, a few tucked away rooms on the right side of the cavernous lobby, is filled with taxidermized animals. At a guess, two hundred of them, from the smallest jungle cat to the largest bear. Every square foot of wall has a head poking from it.  

A flustered middle-aged woman greets us at the door, invites us in, and immediately starts explaining that the place is disorderly because the princesses have just left. She goes on to tell us how one of the princess’s grandmothers filed a complaint because she couldn’t get a ticket for a granddaughter at the last minute. Our hostess’s indignation over this issue is disconcertingly intense. 

“Look at this place, though,” she says with an encompassing gesture. “I only have room for so many. And I put out a notice days ago that registration was closed.”

“Who are these princesses?” I ask, weighing the possibility that random royals showed up in the El Campo, Texas dead animal museum.

“Every year I host a party for young girls where they dress up in fancy dresses and wear little crowns. And I get some high schoolers to come in and have tea with them.”

“How old are these girls?”

“Three to five.”

Envisioning little girls frolicking amongst the mothy carcasses puts me in a merry mood. We return to Wharton and prepare for the wedding. 

Everything goes smoothly. Smiles everywhere. The bride is beautiful and glowing, her dress is stunning, and the groom is handsome. The vows are touching and sincere and the officiate, a dear friend of Sam and Julia’s, does an excellent job of guiding them through the ceremony. And, to ease curious minds, my dress draws many compliments and I look exactly the right amount of marvelous, setting a standard that all mothers-of-the-groom should aspire to. 

The Cajun dinner is a hit. Perhaps the speeches are a bit gushy and lengthy; but the before-and-after mingling is fun. It’s always nice to see people you haven’t spoken to in a while and to hear opinions and beliefs from other cultures. 

And, speaking of other cultures, twelve nations are represented. Accents, clothing, skin color—diversity is the theme of the evening. The party lasts most of the night. David and I crawl into bed at twelve-thirty. 

We fully appreciate every second of the entire event and look forward to returning to fret-free Marble Falls.  Oh, and the morning after the wedding I get up with a nasty cold, which is not at all surprising.

Love and Luck to Julia and Sam! 

Just married. Notice Julia’s cowgirl boots. In the background officiating is Andrew; and acting as best man is Sam’s brother, Curtis, who did an excellent job handing over the ring.

Afterward, a lovely picture of Julia, Sam behind her. The coordinator is at the mic. The professional pictures haven’t been released yet. I’ll post more when I get them.

Written and Unwritten

Everywhere we’ve moved I’ve had to find a new place to fit in. It makes sense that, because of what I do, one of my first priorities has always been to locate a writers’ group. 

I’ve been in Marble Falls for five years now. Usually I would’ve jumped right into a new group, but when I researched, the nearest ones I found were in Austin; and while I’m sure a clutch in Austin would offer members with interesting perspectives and high levels of proficiency, it’s an hour away and, for this reason, I’ve been lazy about pursuing. But then, a few days ago, David heard about a writers’ group right here in town. It meets at the library, only five minutes away from our house! It’s time to commit. 

The thought of joining yet another group brings about anxiety. Walking into a new place where I know no one and no one knows me, but everybody else knows each other, is one of the hardest things I’ve had to do in life. And I’ve had to do it again and again. It looks like I would’ve become used to it, but I never have. And then there are the other inevitable distressing questions—What if I don’t like them and they don’t like me? What if it’s just a bunch of people wanting to chronicle their dreams? What if, and this is the worst, they can’t write? 

Also, because writers pack their egos in soft foam and carry them baby-style, a balance can be tricky. Some abused souls slump in with their self-esteem dragging on the ground. When offering an opinion after a reading, encouragement is vital, but it can’t be effusive or it may mislead the writer into thinking that his or her work is perfect. And because of the delicate state of the egos, criticism must be so tactfully couched that often the impact is diluted, if not lost altogether. In a vocation that is cruelly competitive and pejorative, a writer deserves support and good cheer from his or her peers. So what do you do when the writing sucks? 

I’ve joined groups in Cairo, The Hague, London, Aberdeen (the poets didn’t consider themselves poets unless they could write in the style of their beloved Rabbie Burns, which led to some good times), at Rice in Houston, Sugar Land, and Singapore. I’ve come together with published authors and would-be authors everywhere—but not Kuwait, where writers kept to themselves and wrote longingly of elsewhere. When it comes to scribbling huddlers, I’ve had exceptional experiences and lousy ones. 

The group in Sugar Land was the weirdest. One evening a week we wandered into a local bookstore, where the manager offered us coffee and set up a circle of chairs. None of us knew each other well and so the greetings were subdued. The meeting was presided over by a middle-aged nutjob with fierce eyes and a swagger. By way of getting started, he would send a mean squint over our heads and begrudgingly invite members to inform the group about book fairs and upcoming author events. Then he would come to his feet and, head tilted so we could gaze at his hairless crown, begin his reading. He went first, always. Somewhere along the way he decided that British historical romance was his genre. My thought at the time was that he probably picked up one of his wife’s paperbacks and decided that, though he’d never read a book or written a page, this bar was so low that even he could write one. 

For a couple of months I sat in the circle with eight other writers as our whackadoodle leader vehemently sputtered his way through the same, yet slightly altered, first chapter—an eighteenth century parlor scene in which men poured tea and aristocratic ladies called one another bugger, which derives from the word buggery and, though its usage is borderline acceptable in our modern day, during that era it simply was not. Nor would men pour the tea. 

After his reading he stood, bowed as though he’d achieved a pinnacle, said a gruff goodnight, and departed, leaving the rest of us stunned, me with my mouth gaping and my head drowning in horrified protests. Not only is reading and running rude; he’d broken the prime rule: write about what you know. 

And then David got transferred. As has been my happy luck over the years, when something like an incomprehensible writers’ group became wearing, it was simply a matter of time before we moved away. Not so, here in Marble Falls. And that’s the source of my apprehension. This is our final home. I will run into these fellow writers until they die, or I do. 

Inexorably, it’s come around again. Another new group. Another agonizing stint of thought holding and tongue guarding and expression controlling—all of which I’m woefully bad at. 

So. First meeting in two weeks. I’ll let you know. 

There’s been curiosity about my dress for Sam and Julia’s wedding next month. The color at the shoulders is navy, which gradually changes to periwinkle at the bottom. I’ll wear it with black boots and plenty of diamonds and gold. Pearls, do you think? Comfort and style, my eternal dual goal.

Annual Catch-up

This was the first time we’ve gathered as a family in ten years, the culpability for which falls squarely on Sam, who’s been in China since he graduated from college. But in December he managed to disentangle himself from his business in a way that allows him to manage it from a distance.

He and Julia will marry in February at a venue in Wharton, which is southwest of Houston. The wedding is pulling in guests from all over the globe, and promises to be a Gatsbian affair, with shimmery gowns hanging from elegant shoulders, crystal flutes held aloft by graceful hands, and self-possessed scions in tuxes. For now Sam is living in Boston, where Julia works for the Belfer Center; but they intend to move to the UK next fall, where Sam will earn his MBA at Cambridge. 

Julia is, above all else, agreeable. She doesn’t stress over nonsense and she likes to keep her thoughts on an intellectual plane. She and Sam communicate and work well together; and she possesses admirable forbearance when it comes to the way he eternally ponders details. In addition to being beautiful and smart, she’s got a quick sense of humor, so David and I are very happy that she’ll soon be part of our family.  

Also with us for the holidays, our oldest son, Curtis, and his wife, Anna, two hard-working lawyers in Houston. We love the way Anna helps plan meals and makes full use of our kitchen during her visits. Some women regard their kitchens with stingy ownership: not so, me. I view the space where the stove and refrigerator reside with a sense of gloom. I can put a meal together, but I have no patience or flair. I don’t mind that I’m an uninspired cook: I’m good at other things. Everyone needs a creative outlet and Anna’s is cooking. She truly enjoys it, which brings everybody around her joy as well. 

And Curtis, well he’s one of the brightest and wittiest people I know. This past year he’s become active in politics. Currently, he’s the campaign treasurer for a high school friend of his, Leonard Chan, who’s running to be District 26’s Representative in Austin. Go Leonard! If you live in Sugar Land, this is your guy!  

While Sam is at a point of exciting transition, there’s no denying that David is the busiest of all of us. He’s on the board of Habit for Humanity and also enjoys building the houses with the guys who’ve become his friends over the last couple of years. Though traditionally there has been an acrimonious relationship between the board and the labor, by simultaneously serving in both capacities David has brought about better communication between the two factions. 

 He is also on the vestry at the church. His job is to care for the buildings and property. When a toilet is clogged, he’s the one brandishing the plunger. When the blinds quit going up and down, he’s the one who climbs the ladder and changes the batteries. Without exaggeration, I would say that he’s had to stop by the church for one reason or another every day for the last year. 

And here’s another thing: the community garden, run by another of his groups, the Master Gardeners, had to be relocated. And guess who was put in charge—you got it, David. Water storage and irrigation systems, electricity, trench digging, the construction of raised beds, permits from the city, and the assembly of a pole barn and shed—he oversaw it all. The preparation is over now and the gardeners will soon step in for the spring planting, thereby providing organically grown produce for the needy citizens of Burnet County. Good job, David!

As for me, while I’ve always been a contented soul no matter where I landed, Marble Falls is proving to be thorny. It seems to be populated by people who hate things for no reason and seek no knowledge in, or experience with, that which they’ve decided to hate. I guess because I’ve lived in other countries and have come to understand that there are different ways of going about things, it’s hard for me to tolerate close-mindedness. Here, I’m in the process of learning not to voice any opinion that offers a new concept or alternative view; but holding my tongue makes me feel insignificant and kind of sick. 

Too, the small successes with my two novels have come and gone and there is no new publishing contract in sight. Over the last three years I have written the first four installments in a mystery series. My heroine is intriguing and loveable and my agent is enthusiastic, which for a time made me feel great about the work, but months have passed and I’ve begun to feel forgotten. She used to send me updates about publishers she was presenting to, but as it’s been so long, I can only assume that all the publishers have taken a pass. Oh well. The work continues—maybe someday another break will come. 

So yeah, I’m going through a bit of a slump.

Which is why it was so wonderful to spend time with our sons over the holidays. We gathered around the fire pit on the back deck and shared stories and jokes and talked about all the adventures we’d had together and the plans for what’s to come. The wine flowed and we laughed a lot; and in the presence of my children I rested in a place where I could be the person I am, a serene and contemplative woman who’s proud to have once influenced such intelligent and gracious people. 

Happy 2020

Meet Gaius, Sam and Julia’s cat, twice Dilly’s size.

This isn’t the greatest picture, bit it gives the general idea.