I'm Not In Charge

Just when I thought life was about to get back to my normal routine, I was reminded that I'm not in charge... Not even a little.  Here's what I've been up to and a few things I've learned along the way.

1.  Three weeks ago I got a cold.   It was 90 degrees outside.  Since then I've been drinking cough syrup like it's my job and gone through about 2 dozen boxes of tissues. 

2.  Then totally out of the blue and for no reason at all, I'm getting a stabbing feeling in my right calf followed by what feels like an electric shock-- a really long and painful electric shock in my calf-- and then it just stops.  Completely.  Like it never happened.  At first I thought I was dreaming (while wide awake) but it kept happening over and over.  I have an appointment with the doctor in November-- because it's not "an emergency".  In the meantime, I'm randomly grabbing my leg in pain and trying not to look like a nut case.

3.  Two weeks ago I boarded an airplane with a wonky leg and wearing a surgical mask so as not to infect fellow passengers with my cold.  I discovered said fellow passengers still do not want to sit with me.  When fellow passengers threw a nasty hissy fit they got to have the center seat I was supposed to sit in all to themselves.  I got to sit in Business Class... Where I slept like a baby and never coughed once during the nearly 5 hour flight.

4.  Upon arriving in Cleveland, Ohio from #3's plane ride, I immediately drove like a wild woman to the hospital where my mother is recovering from an emergency surgery.  She's holding her own but has a long road to recovery ahead.  Please keep her in your prayers.

5.  While at the hospital with mom (still wearing a surgical mask along with about ten gallons of antibacterial lotion 100% of the time) I realized it was the same hospital I worked in 36 years ago when I first graduated from high school.  The only thing that's the same after all these years are the elevators-- the ones I used to (and continued to on this trip) get stuck in on a regular basis.

6.  I discovered hospital food is now delivered by folks wearing Fast Food-type uniforms who say "Room Service" when bringing patients their food tray.  I laughed out loud at that one.

7.  I miss the good old days when your actual doctor-- the one who knows you personally because he's treated you for years and has all your medical history-- was still your doctor while IN the hospital.  Now they have "Hospitalists" who make the rounds on every patients in the hospital for your doctor.  Yes, these are smart docs but really... these docs are over worked and have no knowledge of a patient's PAST medical history, they are simply treating the patient TODAY.  It's unsettling when you ask a Hospitalist treating your mother a question about her medical state and a blank stare is received in return-- Followed by a lengthy reminder to the doctor of your mother's medical history.

8.  I think my sisters and I earned gold stars for not knocking the Hospitalists on their butts more than a few times.

9.  That is, except for Mom's surgeon-- Dr. Blue Eyes.  He is awesome, and very cute.  I think our mother would like to take him home with her when she's discharged... Which won't be for a very long time so until then she's enjoying flirting with him shamelessly on a daily basis. 

10. Beware when a hospital offers Valet Parking that is staffed by 80 year old volunteers as a fund-raising opportunity.  It's best to park your own car, even in a blinding rainstorm with a leg that feels like it's being electrocuted.  I'm just sayin'.

11. Are you a "The Big Bang Theory" TV show fan?  If so, then you will appreciate how sweet it was to hear two different generations of my family sing "Soft Kitty" to my mom.

12. Nurses are angels.  Truly-- There is nothing better than a good nurse.  Be nice to them.  And bring them black ink pens.  Everyone is always taking their pens, especially Hospitalists.

Hope you are doing great! 
Welcome to www.TheFiftyFactor.com - Joanna Jenkins
Photo Credit: © John Takai - Fotolia.com and © notkoo2008 - Fotolia.com

No Place Like Home

There are three things in life I know for sure-- Death, taxes and I can always go home to my Mother's house-- No matter what, no questions asked-- Mom will welcome her children with open arms and we will always have a place to stay for as long as we want or need to. (That's Mom with her oldest grand daughter on the left.)

She started teaching us-- her five children, this important lesson at a very early age. Perhaps it was because, at times, a place to call home wasn't always as secure as she would have liked it to be as a child. Her mother died when she was young and being bounced around a bit too much made making a home for her own family supremely important.

Don't get me wrong, we were absolutely taught to grow up to be self-supporting, independent adults with our own homes but Mom made sure that if life ever threw us a curve ball and we needed a little tender loving care, her light was always on-- literally.

Home is where Mom is and the door is always open. Period.

My siblings and I are remarkably lucky and blessed to have been raised with this knowledge tucked away in our hearts. Some of us have taken Mom up on the offer in our adult lives too, staying a few days or a few years as the case may be.

Her home for the past nearly 20 years has been with her beloved Dave, our step-father, who has the very same attitude and open door policy with his five children. Sometimes their house is a little crowded but none of their children have ever been turned away and there is always enough love and support to go around.

I've told you about their house HERE and the meaningful 40+ year history it has in our family--

The outside is neat and tidy with the pink dogwood tree in glorious bloom every Spring for as long as I can remember.

But the inside-- Let's just say the inside had a protective layer of dust holding it together and my folks had absolutely no problem with that whatsoever. They knew where everything was and eventually all the clutter, nic-nacks and stuff got moved and dusted, just not necessarily on a regular basis.

As signs of the aging process took hold of our folks a few years back, we arranged for a weekly housekeeper to help with the cleaning and surprisingly, Mom didn't argue about it one bit.

This past winter was the first year in dear Dave's life that someone else shoveled his driveway and sidewalks. And this summer is the first year his lawn mover was retired to a landscaping service to handle the weekly chore. He, on the other hand, is not happy about it but, at age 86, we think the guy deserves a break and his doctors do as well to insure he doesn't break anything if you catch my drift.

It's been a rough couple of months for them. In April both my folks were in the hospital-- First Mom, then Dave, and that's when things really took an unexpected turn. Mom came home from the hospital to their big rambling house. Dave went to a rehabilitation facility.

And Dave LOVED it there! In rehab! Swear to gawd!

The rehab center is nestled on a beautiful lake with many of the prescribed activities to strengthen his legs and arms taking place outside in the fresh air. It was like a Senior Citizens Camp with fishing and woodworking and gardening! After a week I actually think Dave was sorry to say good-bye because there were so many fun things for him to do and so much social interaction that, despite his health issues and the need for a cane, he had a spring in his step again.

For at last four years I've been discussing the monumental problem of no downstairs bathroom in their 100+ year old house. The bathroom is 19 very steep stairs away and would be impossible if anything caused them to be immobile, even briefly. None of my siblings, all of whom live within six blocks, have a downstairs shower or tub either. Ahh the joys of owning century old homes and the underlining problems they cause.

Before "downsizing" was part of our vocabulary, Mom and Dave already downsized to this house and had no intention of ever moving again. Then the stairs became a concern but, thanks to mastering denial over the years, our folks turned a blind eye to the potential problem.

The necessity for rehab and physical therapy brought the problem front and center with nowhere to hide.

Thanks to the wildly positive experience Dave had at rehab the often difficult "assisted living" conversation was actually started by none other than Dave himself-- And the even bigger shock was that Mom jumped on it! There was no drama, tears, hard feelings, begging, pleading-- Nothing.

Our folks were ready to move N.O.W.

Oh yes, we are a very happy group of children thanking our lucky stars that this often difficult parental transition is so welcomed by our folks. They'll be moving in late September to a beautiful one story, two bathroom home in an assisted living community that has a continuum of care (translation-- they can't get kicked out if their health turns south) and that will be the very last time they'll ever need to move.

With activities galore, local transportation, extensive health and wellness facilities and skilled nursing all on the rolling hills of its campus, it's really paradise for them. Throw in the fact that several of their friends live there already and it's a whopping half mile from their current home, and well, life is good for one and all.

When my folks and I first toured the facilities in April the same two questions were repeatedly asked and of great concern to them-- 1) "Does the house have extra bedrooms because we have a lot of kids." and 2) "Can bring our dog?".

The answer to both questions was a resounding YES!

So now, when I make my regular trips back home to see family, "home" will be at a new address-- One that still offers all the comfort only a mother can offer. But more importantly, it's a home that ensures comfort and security for our folks as they transition to a place where they will be safe and well cared for-- but still with enough independence to keep them-- and their dog, happy.

Of course I'm a little worried that I'm nearly old enough to be a resident in this Senior's community-- I'll be sure to carry my driver's license with me to prove I'm not quite old enough to move in and just a guest. It kind of gives a whole new meaning to "getting carded". Who knew I'd ever be happy to be "only" 53.

Welcome to www.TheFiftyFactor.com - Joanna Jenkins

There's One In Every Crowd

It's graduation season again, have you had the pleasure of attending one? I have-- Actually I should say, one down, two to go.

The first had my beautiful brainiac niece all decked out in her blue and gold robe with ropes and tassels and metals and sashes galore for high school graduation. She rocked it and sat proudly in the very front row in the "Top 12" section of the class. She's a valedictorian (yes, I'm bragging) but it didn't go to her head one bit-- Her three other smart sisters saw to that.

This was the first graduation I'd ever been to where not only the school's Principal but also the Superintendent of the district lectured the audience of about a thousand people on "proper graduation etiquette". They made it crystal clear that the ceremony would stop dead in its tracks if there was any hooting, hollering, cheering, whistling or clapping at the announcement of a student's name-- "Not one peep" were the exact words the Principal bellowed into the microphone.

I immediately reverted to my teenage years and felt scolded. I sheepishly sat straight up in my chair so as not to look like the kind of person who would "irreparably damage the solemnness of the occasion". Gawd forbid.

As I started biting my nails, something I had not done since I was 12 years old, I wondered in my very quiet mind, afraid to move a muscle for fear of making noise and being called out-- sure an intense spotlight would shine brightly in my deer in the headlights eyes, but soon felt a bit peeved for being talked down to.

I assumed the audience, full of proud loved ones of soon to be high school graduates, wouldn't in any way try to disrupt the ceremony. This was a big deal! And of course we'd all act like respectable adults. Right?

Apparently not so much because as they saying goes-- "There's one in very crowd." only in this case there were about 14.

In fairness, it takes a long time for 357 names to be announced, diplomas handed out, and the obligatory posed photo shaking hands with the Principal, so folks got a little restless. But about half way through, the rowdiness started.

First it was the single, very loud, hand clapping after a student's name. The poor kid stopped frozen as if his idiot parent would get him bounced into detention one last time. It caused the ceremony to stop for a full 15 seconds before the diploma was handed over. The announcer calling names over the loud speaker let us know he meant business.

Then a dad, after his beautiful blond baby girl's name was announced, stood in the center of the auditorium and did a wild silent dance that closely resembled the funky chicken. The audience roared, the blond was visibly not happy, and the announcer deadpanned "Was that really necessary?"

Three more students in a row received standing ovations from their large, happy families, all sitting together on the right side of the auditorium, each one trying to out noise the other and cause a bigger scene than the last.

Those students were embarrassed and clearly mortified. Each were dressed in suits and ties grinning from ear to ear-- until their family turned the occasion into a free-for-all. Those three names took a full 10 minutes to get past.

I wondered (silently of course) if this sort of thing happened at really important ceremonies-- Like the swearing in of a President or Supreme Court Justice. Does some one lecture the crowd like they are first graders only to have some idiot make the event all about them rather then the person (s) being honored?

It all seemed pretty ridiculous to me, the rowdie parents, I mean. Weren't they the ones that raised their children to be respectful? Their kids were some of the best dressed of the day and seemed to take it all very seriously. Perhaps if the bull horn was sounded by the parents of the student wearing ratty flip flops or even the three kids who chose to go barefoot to their graduation, I'd understand the carefree attitude.

Oh well, to each his own. I'm sure the students will look back and remember dad-- with his beer belly hanging below his "Help, I've dropped the tv remote and can't reach it" tee shirt and recall what a gigantic fool he made of himself bellowing "That's my boy, now go get a job!".

Two more ceremonies are coming up. The next is my niece's graduation from college and on her way to Veterinarian School and Godson who (and I use this term loosely) "graduates" from eight grade to move on to high school. Eighth grade "graduation" make no sense to me, but that's another post.

The one thing I know for sure-- I guarantee you I will be too busy sobbing with pride to shout anything idiotic to embarrass our graduates.

Have you been to a graduation lately?

Welcome to www.TheFiftyFactor.com - Joanna Jenkins

Lately, I've been startled by childhood memories that come flooding vividly to the front of my mind seemingly out of the blue. Not that my childhood was all that "startling"-- It was actually a middle-America, happy-go-lucky kind of upbringing, but bits and pieces of memories can bowl me over when I least expect them.

Like the time I was about 12 or maybe 13 years old and I called my mother a bitch. It was not my finest moment and was over something silly that revolved around me thinking I was the center of the universe, but under my breath, loud enough to make my opinion known, I called my mother a name that was not spoken in our home. As quick and sarcastically as the word passed my lips I tried to suck it back in faster than a speeding bullet.

It happened early one Saturday morning as she came into my room to wake me for dance school. Mom called me on my inappropriate action then never mentioned it again nor did she issue a consequence or punishment. It was the one and only time I ever spoke in that manner to my mother, but 40 years later, I still remember how bad I felt the second I heard myself being so hateful and ugly.

Why on earth I was reminded of that particular moment today is a mystery. It is not the first time I've remembered that awful exchange over the years, but the older I get, the more that moment breaks my heart.

I am nearly 53 years old, my mom will be 75 in a few weeks. Growing up, when any of her five children would act up, she very calmly replied that someday we would have our own children and get a double dose of our shenanigans in return.

Maybe that's why memories of less than shining moments from my past crop up out of the blue to haunt me. I did not have any children to get my "paybacks", for lack of a better word, even though mom was only joking and trying to calm tense moments when she'd promise us our comeuppance.

Of course that isn't why I choose not to have children but I wonder, when I hear harsh words spoken by a boundary-testing teenager or an overly tired and cranky child, if, as a parent, my past memories would melt into the kind of patience my mother continuously demonstrated with her five very head-strong, exceedingly loud and usually obnoxious children, which we were-- In between being perfect angels, of course.

I watch my sisters and brother parent their children with ease and hear them speak many of the same lessons my mother taught us-- almost verbatim-- And yes, they promise their kids "paybacks" when they have children of their own.

Like most kids, I hear my nieces and nephews test, taunt and torment my adult siblings just like we did our parents at their age. But when I'm in ear shot, I try to find a quiet moment to help them realize that words hurt-- and last a lifetime, so maybe they could choose their words a bit more carefully or just plain bite their tongue in the heat of a teenage drama.

That advice usually drop kicks me straight to the "old fogie" category, complete with big sighs, eye rolls and an "are you kidding me?" attitude-- The same way I'd have reacted to a twenty-nice cent lecture from an elder at their age, but I pass the advice on in hopes of sparing them the out of the blue, slap-you-in-the-face memories that have been rocking my boat lately.

There is no doubt that far worse words passed my lips as a child and teenager--hateful, mean-spirited words-- but the small moments are the ones that seem to pull at my heart the most. My mother and I talk several times a week despite living a few thousand miles apart. I can't remember the last time we had harsh words for one another and I am blessed by that.

My hope is that as we age the not so pleasant moments from our past will fade and our hearts will hold only the happiest and calmest of joys. Kinda sounds a bit Pollyanna but that's what I'm working towards.

Welcome to www.TheFiftyFactor.com - Joanna Jenkin

Photo Credit: © ANK - Fotolia.com

Stuff, Stuff, Stuff & GIVEAWAY

Don't forget to enter my Giveaway HERE!

*****

My mother is a great collector of stuff. Her home is full of it. Every nook and cranny, is covered-- Framed photographs-- art work-- baskets-- glass/porcelain/crystal/china... Stuff, stuff, stuff-- All with just a hint of dust to qualify as "patina". From side tables, and book shelves, to cabinets and window sills, a look around her house will leaving you wondering....

Where in the heck did all this stuff come from?

First let me say, even with all this stuff, a good deal of which is breakable, my folk's home is VERY livable and childproof. It's a home you can put your feet up and enjoy, not a museum/don't touch anything kind of place. That said....

Every visible space has something on it. But the interesting thing is that Mom remembers the story behind every item (all trillion)-- A nic-nak that one of her five kids gave her when they were in 2nd grade, a vintage basket she found at a long lost friend's garage sale in 1962, a birthday present from a grandchild a decade ago, Mom knows the story behind it all.

So imagine my surprise when, during my visit home last week, Mom handed me a box and told me to take whatever I wanted-- That she was getting rid of the stuff cluttering up her house. And yes, she actually used the word "clutter". I didn't know that word existed in her vocabulary!

Aside from the shock that she was willing to unload everything including stuff I'd seen since I was a baby, and aside from the fact that for the first time ever, Mom was referring to her "mementos" as "clutter"-- I was more than uncomfortable at the notion of pillaging my folk's home for family treasures, items that reminded me of my youth, and *ahem*cough*err* things I've had my eye on for sometime now.

Knowing my mother, I knew reading between the lines was probably in order so I immediately asked if she was sick and/or had anything to tell me about her health. She assured me she as not about to kick the bucket, but she was ready to start "decluttering" and figured I might as well take what I wanted rather than "being stuck" with the stuff she would pack up for me and stick a bow on for Christmas.

After much prodding and a few days of stalling, I finally started filling the box. Mom and I both collect blue glass so those were the things she pointed me in the direction of first. Then she "suggested" the lavender glass, then the crystal, then the rose glass, then the milk glass, then, then, then.

Whoa!

If Mom had her way, I'd have needed a U-Haul for all the "stuff" she wanted me to bring back to Los Angeles, but in the end, she was happy with the single box I filled with blue and lavender glass. Along the way however, she did managed to include a huge wool blanket claiming it would help against breakage, but I think she really just wanted to empty a shelf in the linen closet.

All kidding aside, I'm thrilled to have the mementos I remember since I was a kid. Hubby on the other hand, is still grumbling about where we're going to put it all. And, I'm pretty sure the words "you've become your mother" actually escaped his lips but he's not copping to the charge.

Do you have too much "stuff"?

Welcome to www.TheFiftyFactor.com - Joanna Jenkins

Love Is...

What is your idea of love? That's what YorksandBeans at Elemental My Dear asks in her current Blog Challenge.

I'm not usually much of a Valentine's girl myself but this year, times have changed.

This year our family is all abuzz and "love, love, love!" is sprinkled in every conversation, day and night, in person or on the phone, via email or snail mail-- you name it, LOVE is the word heard in our corner of the universe.

Let me explain....

Remember when I introduced you to my mother? She's holding my oldest niece, Queen M, in this picture below. The babe was literally minutes old. I was there, blown away, and took the picture.

Queen M grew up to be this beautiful bride last summer. I was there and took this picture too. She took my breath away.

Yes, our Queen is blissfully happy and very much in love with her Groom Z. Our entire family make jokes about all the lllllooooovvvveee these two share.

And it's a good thing their love runneth over. Because in June, they'll have a little more to LOVE and so will all of us!

SHE'S HAVING A GIRL!!!!!!

The baby is due June 19th, and we are all absolutely in LOVE already!

So to answer the question, although my heart is full with many loved ones, at the moment, Love is.... PINK!

Join the Love Is Challenge HERE! Between now and Valentine's Day the challenge is to make a post, in the style of your blog, about what your idea of Love is... Then link up your post at Elemental My Dear to share the love with the blogosphere.

How about you?

Welcome to The Fifty Factor - Joanna Jenkins

Photo Credits: Joanna Jenkins

My Mother's Journal

My mother, holding her first granddaughter, 26 years ago.

It was one of those gifts you look at stunned beyond words realizing someone took so much time to make such an amazing gift just for you. It was a gift filled with hopes and dreams and fun and sadness and tears and stories of years gone by. But mostly it was a generous gift of love from my mother.

Mom wrote in a journal every day for three months leading up to my 40th birthday. Each day she wrote at least a full page, in her neat, tiny, and very distinctive hand writing, telling me stories about being her daughter. Some stories I knew by heart already but cherished having them in her handwriting. Some were prayers for my good health and happiness. Some days Mom asked questions about my expectations and dreams for the future. Other times Mom questioned decisions she'd made and the impact they had on the woman I've become. I am my mother's daughter and the journal she wrote for me was, and continues to be, an amazing and cherished gift.

It took me nearly three weeks to read the entire journal cover to cover, although I could have easily done so in an afternoon. At first I read quickly, ending up in a puddle of tears or fits of laughter with each story she told. But the more I read, the more I wanted to stretch my mother's words for as long as possible. So I forced myself to slow down and read only one page at a time, even if the page ended in mid-sentence.

Some of the stories, I suspect, were difficult for Mom to share with me. Others I knew she was smiling as she wrote. As for the stories asking me questions about my life today or my impressions of my childhood, well, I still haven't answered all of them, at least not in writing. We've spoken about many of the stories in the journal but some questions I don't have answers to yet. Not that there are any deep dark secrets to unearth. That's not it at all-- I had a great childhood. It's just that some of life's experiences haven't unfolded completely and aren't finished enough to answer properly.

When I was transferred to San Francisco for my job 24 years ago, I detoured from New York,where I was living at the time, and spent the weekend in Ohio with my family before heading West. It was back when family and friends could walk passengers through security and to the gate when flying. Mom took me to the Cleveland Airport and told the story of how she stood looking out the window for a full 30 minutes after my plane was out of sight. She said she simply could not move and wondered how I was strong enough to make such a bold change.

I remember that day clearly. Mom insisted on coming to the gate instead of dropping me off curbside. She always said she needed to "flap her arms to help the plane take off" and that day was no exception. Saying good-bye, and walking down the ramp and around the corner to the plane was the longest walk of my life. Mom had tears in her eyes and would have understood if I did too, but that's just not "me", so I waved one last time and kept a smile on my face until the plane was in the sky. I was okay, but I was really, really sad to be saying good-bye to her. And the truth is, I was able to make that major life change because Mom raised me to be a strong and independent woman.

Mom's journal also remembered the time Dad brought home a gallon of black olives and told us kids to eat them until they were gone! Dad, frustrated that the black olive dish was always empty before we actually sat down to dinner, thought he'd teach us a lesson by "forcing" use to eat all those olives in one sitting. Ha! There were five kids in my family and a gallon of olives was a drop in the bucket to us. Heck, the first fifty olives went on all our fingertips before we even took a bite! Mom remembered us teasing Dad about that for years.

Mom recalled Saturday nights when, as a young girl, I'd shower and shampoo my hair so she could set it in pin curls to look nice for Sunday School the next morning. She remembered the countless dance recitals she attended, usually on the hottest days of the year, in an auditorium with no air-conditioning. She told me about each of my grandparents and the details of the day I was born. And she told me countless times how much she loved me. But I knew that already and have never doubted that fact a single day in my life.

So this journal, this piece of my mother's heart that I carry with me, means the world to me. There isn't a day that has passed that I haven't looked at, or thought of, the journal, it's that close my heart. Sure, sometimes a month or two has passed in the 11 years since I've received it that I haven't opened to a page and read, but it's right here with me.

This precious gift, my mother's journal to me-- answers the oft-asked question, "If the house were to burn down, what would you take?". My answer would be "my mother" even though she doesn't live with me. I'd take her journal.

What would you take?

Welcome to The Fifty Factor - Joanna

Sunday in My City #9 - Cruising

Do you know Unknown Mami? She's awesome and she created a fun Sunday theme inviting you to get out and take pictures of your city to share with the rest of us. Click here for details and her logo and click here to see Unknown Mami's City today.

A few years, my husband and I took a cruise from Vancouver, British Columbia to Anchorage, Alaska with my Mom and Dave. Of all the traveling we've done, this was by far one of the most visually stunning trips we've ever taken. Since life in Los Angeles wasn't exactly "picture worthy" this week, I thought I'd share a few photos from the trip.

It rains a lot in Alaska so places like Taku Glacier Lodge in Juneau have a lot of trees that look like this.

Actually, Alaska has A LOT of trees period. The foliage and trees were gorgeous.

Below is the view from an old gold mine in Skagway. That white streak down the center is a waterfall peaking through the fog.

But it was the glaciers that took our breath away. I described them as "humbling", my husband used the word "spiritual"... Seeing such massive, powerful beauty left us wondering how anyone could think for a second they should be disturbed by oil drilling or that global warming isn't a "real" issue. In the picture below, we saw a chunk of ice break off that was the size of a Volvo!

We saw three separate glaciers in Glacier Bay National Park located in Southeast Alaska. About 90% of the annual visitors to the park arrive by cruise ship (roughly 28 ships from 13 companies per year). The park only allows two cruise ships per day to enter the park during the warmer months.
To give you an idea, the above Margerie Glacier is about 250 feet high. The glacier extends another 100 feet below the water line. By comparison, the Statue of Liberty is 307 feel tall.I would love to go back and spend more time in Alaska both by ship and on land. It was a stunning trip and one that we returned home from and actually felt rested and rejuvenated! Usually after a trip I need a vacation from my vacation.

How's your Sunday?

Welcome to The Fifty Factor - Joanna

I Married Him Twice - Chapter Three

The final of three chapters.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

We knew we wanted a small, family oriented, wedding. But, since my Dad was so sick, we also knew there was no way he could travel to Los Angeles for the ceremony, plus we knew most of my family, understandably, wouldn't leave his side to make the trip here. And, we knew that Beloved’s 50 family members in Los Angeles weren't all going to travel to Ohio. So we did what any stressed out--not really interested in a big wedding blow-out--let’s make this happen so both our families can be there-- kind of couple would do.

We got married twice. Once in Los Angeles and then again the following weekend in Ohio.

Yep, for a girl who didn't think marriage was a priority, and for a guy who had never mentioned it once in six years, it was now hugely important to be married "properly" and that to us meant having all of our family witnessing our vows.

I fancy myself as a no-drama kind of girl despite all the sobbing mentioned in Chapter One and Chapter Two. And I am extremely organized and detailed oriented, so pulling off not one, but two weddings, in two different states, in a short amount of time, sounded like a piece of cake. If that isn’t proof that love is blind, nothing is!

As planning began, Beloved only had one requirement for our dual nuptials-- His two daughters needed to be with us at both. That was the easy part. I wanted the ceremonies "sooner than later" so my father could be with us in Ohio.

Dad was not doing well and had been confined to bed or a wheelchair for months while he endured horrific chemotherapy. When we called to tell him our plans and ask for his blessing he was thrilled about our marriage but thought we were crazy to have two weddings. His advice-- Elope! Nevertheless, we set the dates-- both dates-- each one week apart, for August and September.

There is something to be said about planning small weddings in a short amount of time. You have to just go for it with no second thoughts! For Los Angeles, the hotel for the ceremony and reception, food tasting, music, flowers, cake, license and invitations for 64 guests were all wrapped up in a couple of weekends. For Ohio, it was one trip home to confirm the reception hall, ceremony, which was in my Mom and Dave's back yard, food, cake, music, flowers and invitations for 42 guests. Of course there were about 500 other details to consider but the big stuff was covered.

Then there was the issue of my dress. Let me remind you, I am not a girlie-girl and I was not interested in a “wedding gown". I was thinking more in the lines of a "nice suit" for the ceremonies. But, my Mom thought it was important-- no mandatory, that I at least try on a couple of “real” wedding dresses. She knew I was stressed about the planning and about my Dad’s rapidly declining health and she convinced me that I “owed” it to myself to try on some wedding gowns. You know, because it would make me feel all happy and joyful... “like a real bride”.

So, on my long weekend home in Ohio to plan our 2nd wedding, Mom, my three sisters, and my six young nieces, whisked me off to a bridal shop. Not just any bridal shop either. Oh no, no, no. We went to a bridal shop where the minimum amount of lace on any given gown was at least fifty yards.... Think Maria in "Sound of Music". Think Princess Diana. Think my worst Barbie Bride nightmare. Swear to gawd! Every dress was over the top frilly, especially for a non-girlie, thirty-five year old with a "lace phobia".

They just didn't work on me. Seriously, even the women running the bridal shop were laughing at how ridiculous I looked in the "princess" gowns. But, gosh, Mom and the girls were so happy, and so cute, and so into it all, that eventually, all my little nieces were trying on flower girl gowns and twirling in front of the huge three way mirrors and-- Oh! My! God! I'm embarrassed to say, it happened. I got “bridal fever”. Gawd help me.

No longer did a “nice suit” sound right for such a monumental occasion. All I heard in my pea brain was the old “I’m only doing this once” conversation that a crazy bride gets in her head when she's justifying going over the wedding edge. Suddenly my sensible self was out the window and my "bride self" really, really needed a wedding gown. Gasp! But I drew the line at lace and hoops and veils. I decided to return to Los Angeles and tone it down to a more age appropriate dress that I could wear to both ceremonies.

The problem was, our ceremony in Los Angeles was in a much more formal setting then the casual garden wedding planned for Ohio. Finding a wedding dress suitable for both was a challenge. So I did what any sensible, down to earth “bridal fever” crazed woman would do. I bought two wedding dresses! But they were not Disney Princess-ish in any way, shape, or from. I wasn't that crazy. They were nice, simple dresses, in a "wedding gown" sort of way. Ha!

With the dress drama resolved, I again focused on my miserable job, unpacking the new apartment I'd found (no I we not moving in together until we were married), the ticking clock til the weddings, and my Dad’s declining health.

Over the next few months I made multiple trips to Ohio to spend time with Dad and with each trip it was apparent the end was inching closer. We had long talks during our visits and I knew he was happy knowing I was, in his words, “finally settling down”.

Despite my “bridal fever”, I was realistic and knew my father would not be walking down the aisle with me. I was also fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to attend the Ohio ceremony, but I assured him we’d see him just before and just after we said our vows and I’d carry him with me on my heart. I’d be wearing a pin of my father’s both times we married and knew he’d be thinking of us at each precise moment.

I wish I could say this has the happiest ending of all, but it doesn’t. Dad died three days before our first wedding. My eyes sting even typing these words. He had so many things he wanted to live for, all of which involved his ever-growing family, and I know our wedding would have brought him great joy. My siblings and their spouses were all with him when he passed; I was on the phone from California. As I spoke my last words to him, my sister told me his eyes were open and the words were registering when I asked him to watch over us at both of our weddings.

I have little memory of the next three days-- They passed with little sleep and deep sadness. The only comfort found was knowing Dad was no longer suffering-- Something often said at times like that, but still not easing my grief.

My most vivid memory of our first wedding, which was beautiful, was of my mother and brother walking me down the aisle to my waiting Beloved and his two daughters. As important as the day was to me, there were no more tears on my face-- they stayed in my heart. I knew if I started to cry during the ceremony, from joy or sadness, I would not be able to stop.

So there, under the Los Angeles stars, surrounded by loved ones, Beloved held my hand and kissed me at least 20 times—No, he did not wait until the end of the ceremony to kiss his bride, he just kept kissing me, as if to bring me extra joy and extra love when I needed it, and him, the most.

We honeymooned in Santa Fe for a few days before we arrived in Ohio, first to bury my father, then to marry for a second time the following day. By now we'd had ten days to let our sadness sink in and it seemed as if our Ohio family was finally able to exhale and relax a bit.

We walked ourselves down the aisle together following a meandering stream of toddlers. My nine year old niece was my Maid of Honor, my eleven year old nephew was the Best Man and all my youngest nieces and Beloved’s three year old grand daughter were Flower Girls. My five year old nephew carried our rings.

It was a garden ceremony filled with laughter, lots of little people, and an abundance of love-- Truly a family affair. Mom and Dave gave us a spectacular wedding in their garden with a meaningful history to me.

Would I recommend two wedding in seven days? Absolutely, but only if you're surrounded by your loving family and dearest friends.

And yes, I’d do it again. Afterall, I have TWO dresses and lots of wedding planning experience.

Today, August 28th, is my first 16th wedding anniversary.

September 4th is my second 16th wedding anniversary.

I am blessed to have married the same wonderful, loving man-- twice.

Welcome to The Fifty Factor - Joanna

Top Photo Credit

Chapter One

Chapter Two