Our Elopement

 I could barely sleep the night before. I had heard about cold feet and remember laughing when my sister told me the previous May that she was nervous but excited about her upcoming nuptials.  

“Nervous?” I’d texted back. “Why? You live with Jason, you love him. What’s really going to change?”

“I don’t know. You’ll see. It’s just different,” she’d said. (“Better” she told me later.) 

As I sat there on the old twin bed at my mum’s house, rereading my vows for the millionth time, I texted my sister: “You were right. I’m so nervous. Why am I nervous? We have been together for six years. This engagement has been going on since December 2018.” But still, butterflies were soaring through my stomach. 

I woke with the sun the next morning, dark circles under my eyes, and spent the day trying to calm myself down— unable to eat much, unable to settle, unable to focus on anything. 

I delayed too long in getting ready and ended up running about a half an hour behind (I’m sure those of you who know me are all shocked to read that). Shelley, meanwhile, was there about a half hour early. I told her to go somewhere else until I showed up because we couldn’t cross paths at the Wildflower Reserve— she couldn’t see me! 

When my mum pulled in to the parking lot, she and I ran for the interpretation center and the ranger, our friend Shane, got us set up in his office so I could get changed into the new dress I’d picked for the day. My blue items were the ribbons I’d tied to my bouquet, my old blue ballet flats, and the gems on the comb for my hair. My borrowed item was my grandmother’s wedding ring set that I tied to my bouquet, and I even ordered an official six pence for my shoe. 

While I was bustling around and trying not to throw up from nerves, my friend Liz, who was marrying us, and Lindsey, our photographer. ran interference and helped Shelley pin her boutonnière on and get into place.

I led Mum to the trailhead I’d decided was my aisle, and as the music started (which we could barely hear), we began to carefully pick our way through the roots and plants to the designated spot. There was a certain point when the trees opened up and I saw Shelley standing there. 

At that moment, I couldn’t remember what I’d even been nervous about. Something clicked into place, like two corresponding puzzle pieces, and everything was clear in my mind. I couldn’t wait to get to her, and that was the most important thing— so much so that I admit I left my mother in the dust and all but ran to my fiancée’s side. 

The actual elopement was possibly the most perfect and beautiful moment of my life— sharing my heart with someone who was also pledging her soul to me. It was intimate and blessed and joyous. It was exactly what we wanted, and the golden light filtering through the trees in our favorite place made everything feel so complete. 

Afterward, we quickly set up a picnic table with some cheesecloth, twinkle lights, and battery-powered votive candles to set some ambiance. Our gorgeous cake was made by our friend and pastry chef Selina, and we toasted our marriage with sparkling apple cider in the vintage glasses I found on Etsy. 

We couldn’t stop smiling and holding hands and just experiencing the joy that is so extensive it manifests by bubbling over in laughter. Lindsey Zern, our photographer, captured every moment so beautifully. 

Shelley and I treated ourselves to dinner at Monterey Bay and enjoyed complimentary champagne and dessert and anticipated our very early morning flight to Laguna Beach for our honeymoon. 

Because of the pandemic forcing us to postpone so many times for the safety of ourselves, our family, and our friends, this just made sense to us. We wanted to be married, and we are so happy with the decision we made last September. 

Cutting our cake 

Love is love.

Sharing my vows

The bouquet I made

Of course Shelley makes us laugh 

Eulogy for a Friend

 I was on my way through New York State last night, listening to a Dateline podcast with Shelley, when my mum gave me the news: Peg had passed away. 

Not everyone lives until their mid-90s, and it is a colossal tribute to the person Peg was that losing her feels too soon. She was a formidable presence— standing many inches over my 5’1” frame, with vibrant red hair, a pop of blue eye shadow, and an opinion about everything; she was a force to be reckoned with. 

My earliest memory of Peg was sitting beside her at a family function. She was related to me only through marriage, but that marriage happened long before I was born, so she’s always been a part of my life. 

In this particular instance, I was about 7 or 8, and I was telling her about the woman who came in from Japan and was visiting with my elementary school class, teaching us origami and a bit about her country. Peg, who was incredibly well-traveled, began telling me about Japan— and that led to Asian culture in general. Imagine my surprise at learning about the misogynistic practice of foot binding during this dinner. I can still picture her using her hands to explain it to me, spoon feeding me feminism before I even knew what it was.  

After that, we sought each other out at every family gathering I attended— graduations, Christmas dinners, Thanksgiving dinners, the occasional baptism or communion or wedding. Peg would always loop her arm through mine as I escorted her to dinner, and we’d sit there swapping jokes and stories throughout the meal while she snuck glasses of wine— she had a particular affinity for Blue Nun. We would talk about politics and rock and roll and cooking and travel— and during my gangly teenage years, she made the awkwardness and shyness I always felt somewhat bearable. 

Peg was innovative, strong, and ahead of her time: a true feminist. I admired her. I never minded having her hold my hand and bend my ear for hours at a time. The woman could spin a yarn— and then go off on a tangent, only to interrupt herself: “Well anyway…” and get back to it. She was never afraid to share her opinions— everything from great art to aliens to marijuana to George W Bush. 

She would have me laughing myself to tears telling stories about what she called the “blue hairs” in her building (like how she would leave copies of Rolling Stone magazine lying around on the washers or dryers just to see their scandalized reactions). The love of her life, Paul (a perfect balance to the boisterous Peg) built her a kitchen in their basement to launch her catering business, The Fluted Mushroom, and she always had great stories about that too. For example, she once made an apple pie for my idol, Paul McCartney— and charged him $500 for it. 

Peg was a fantastic cook. I always looked forward to whatever she brought to family gatherings— and considering that my entire family makes amazing food, that’s saying something. Peg loved my mother and sister and Shelley. She invited Shelley and me over a few times and prepared us food while we would discuss the state of the world or hear her trash talk certain celebrities with a mischievous gleam in her blue eyes. She made blistered tomatoes one time— the only time I’ve ever seen Shelley eat and enjoy tomatoes. 

Peg loved to travel. She’s been pretty much everywhere, and I would sit, enraptured, listening to her describe places to me that I’d only seen in pictures but planned to visit. She would often burst out with “I need a little R&R” and then jet off somewhere to immerse herself in the culture of somewhere outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. In her early 90s, she suggested we plan a trip to the Amalfi Coast— that she would love to go there one last time. I had comical images in my head of Peg and me zooming down the winding roads of the coast in a little Italian car at 90 miles an hour. 

During one visit, Shells and I helped her with Facebook and created a blog for her. She wanted to write about her little experiences in day to day life, so we called it “Just in Fun” and to date, it has only one post: “Here I am in blogger land, and for once in my life I am lost for words.” That was in 2019. Peg always encouraged my writing as well— including my fervent, burning desire to write books and interview Paul McCartney for Rolling Stone. In fact, she wanted to write a book, and had asked me to do it. 

We set up another session to begin writing, finally. The plan was to get Chinese takeout and get her story down. When we arrived, she dismissively told us she had fallen before we arrived and asked, “Do you think this looks bad?” I saw Shelley’s eyes grow large and she said, “Peg, I can see your bone. Yes.” So we wrapped her arm and took her to the hospital to get stitched up, calling my uncle on the way. That was the first time, sincerely, that her age and frailty perforated my consciousness. She was always so fiery and vibrant that it was hard for me to comprehend she was aging— even as she diminished in height, her presence never wavered. 

Not long after that, the pandemic hit. I saw her once or twice more at family gatherings prior to Covid and we had chatted on the phone, but were never able to arrange a meeting before the pandemic. I was terrified to see her throughout the pandemic, because the thought of unintentionally bringing even the slightest germ to her was unthinkable. What would we do without Peg? So I maintained my distance, promising her over the phone that we would get Chinese and get back to writing once everything cleared up. 

I sat on the hotel bed last night, voice wavering, and asked Shelley if she thought Peg knew what was going to happen. Shelley said maybe, but she may have been ready if she was in pain. I asked if she thought Peg was scared and she said no. When I asked why, she said Peg didn’t strike her as the kind of person to be scared. 

“To the well organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.” 

It sucks when you don’t get to say goodbye. I am shocked and heartbroken— she was such a cool lady; she truly sucked the marrow out of life. I wish I got to spend more time with her, that we had found time to write that book, that we had gone to the Amalfi Coast, or at least taken a photograph together (considering my love for documenting my days, I am dismayed to find not one photo of me and Peg). She always made me feel seen and accepted my whole life— for my writing, when I was fully grown at 10 years old and tripped over flat surfaces, when I came out and brought Shelley to Thanksgiving dinner. I loved her. 

I hope she is reunited with her beloved Paul in heaven, and that she has her own fountain of Blue Nun up there (what a way to go). I’ll raise a glass for her and try to live a life she would be proud of, full of good food, travel, and love. 

Chasing Waterfalls

 Well hello, it's been a while! 

If you've been following along on the interwebs or in real life, you know there was a LOT going on in my life-- an elopement, a honeymoon, a honeymoon hangover, a new puppy, and the joys of seasonal affective disorder. I have so much I want to write about that it's almost overwhelming, hence the lack of any sort of writing whatsoever. I am, however, determined to share some of the highlights of the last half a year (!!!), and what better way to do that than with the most recent? 

Last weekend, Shelley and I took Friday off and headed up to Niagara Falls, New York. I still don't have a passport, but we had been to the falls a few years ago in the spring and wanted to see them in the winter. The trip is a relatively short four hour drive compared to the sixteen hour jaunts we usually go on, so it was perfect for a quick weekend getaway. 

We stayed in a hotel called The Giacomo-- a find we scored on Airbnb that promised a newly renovated-but-true-to-its-1920s-origins vibe, a view of the falls, and a suite with a kitchen and morning room service. 

Well. 

This place didn't even have a microwave. The view was a lovely side of the Quality Inn across the parking lot because we were on the THIRD FLOOR, so no falls. The room service breakfast was all pre-packaged and $10 extra a person, and it took us until Saturday morning to notice that the blanket we slept with had definitely a lipstick stain and also something that could have been either coffee or pee. I spent the next night without a blanket! The highlight was the shower-- the bathroom was newly done, clean, provided terrycloth robes, and was bigger than the room. So, don't stay there. 

On Friday we went to the falls in the afternoon and it was SO COLD I wore my mask just to keep my face warm, but it also was so gorgeous! The ice and slush in the rapids leading to the falls took our breath away, and the sunlight caught in the water and produced a rainbow, which made my day (I've always loved rainbows because I grew up on The Care Bears). 

Friday night we had reservations to go to a place called Savor. We had been there during our previous trip, and it's a great deal. It's the restaurant attached to the culinary school there, and so you could get bread, an appetizer or salad, an entree, and dessert for $25-- and it's delicious, fancy food! We had a couple of drinks and dinner, and were dismayed to find out it wasn't open Saturday because we definitely would have gone back for dinner again. Their black and blue burger was great and the toffee dessert was divine. Plus, even though we were considerably overdressed compared to everyone else there, it was still nice to get dressed up for the first time in months. 

Niagara Falls 

All gussied up

I did love the Giacomo's lobby

Dessert at Savor!

Saturday was hilariously full of mishaps. The Canadian side of the falls was bumpin'-- lights, restaurants, a Ferris wheel (?!?!?), and even behind the falls tours. The American side? Not so much. 

It had snowed overnight and none of the roads were plowed. With the wind chill (and Lord, it was windy (Draco almost blew away)) it was below zero. We explored the waterfalls a bit, took a walk, realized pretty much everything was closed, and grabbed a pizza from a place called Goodfella's. It was good greasy pizza and they use the crumbly sausage, so they got my seal of approval. 

Sad room service 

me & Draco 

Rainbow Falls 

The ice was no joke!

Shells 

Saturday night we were going to listen to the live music in the hotel lounge, but more false promises were made and after the mediocre drinks from there the day before, we decided instead to check out this little wine bar we found online called Wine on Third. We got dressed up and drove out there on the snowy roads (thank goodness we have an SUV). We were some of the first people there, and our server brought Shelley an old fashioned and me a glass of Bordeaux. And that's it. 

We sat there 

And sat there. 

And sat there. 

FOR AN HOUR! It picked up a bit in there, but not enough that at no point we could have gotten a refill or put in a food order. So when she finally passed us to go to the back room, we got her attention and asked for the check. We spent the next 30 minutes driving through the area trying to find any place that was open for dinner and just cracking up about how ridiculous it is that at home all there is to do is eat. You can't drive more than a minute without finding some place to sustain yourself. There? Nothing. 

More lobby shots 

That golden hour glow!

We went back to the room and found out that Draco had Shawshanked himself out of his crate and was waiting at the door to greet us. All in all, we were more than ready to pack up and head home. A highlight, though, was seeing the falls at night. That was a huge reason I wanted to go in the first place, and it was coooold but it did not disappoint. It was worth it, and so misty it was like we got to ride the Maid of the Mist anyway. 

Pretty sure I have this same picture from my 8th grade trip...

Sunday we left early and drove through North East, stopping off at a couple of wineries fo some tastings (I will always recommend the Winter Pear wine from Heritage Wine Cellars). We also took a little stroll on Lake Erie, which was frozen solid in parts. 

Strolling on Lake Erie 

Lake Erie 

Presque Isle 

Draco, in flight 

The bright side: In the moment, it was sometimes frustrating and sometimes hilarious, but overall we had fun. We bonded, got a lot of time to talk, and got to enjoy the fresh air. 

The moral of the story: if you go to Niagara Falls in the winter, either have a passport so you can eat in Canada or pack a picnic so you don't starve.