Favorite spot

It’s not for nothing that a dog has a favorite spot – a trusted, comfortable niche in the home where she can rest and know the world will spin, undisturbed, while she snoozes.

And so it is with humans. 

Our bed, at latitude.

Unfortunately, our bedroom is topsy-turvy these days.  We’re “remodeling,” which is too benign a word to describe the upheaval, deep angst and nerve-strangling uncertainty caused by the process.

Not that we’re wimps when it comes to change.  In fact, we’ve set an agenda for change in the next few months that’d exhaust newlyweds.

Part of our change, though, is getting the house ready to sell.  It’s too big given our needs, so we want to update it, enjoy it for a few months, then – if the real estate gods are smiling – sell it at a profit.

But getting there requires updating a master bedroom and bath that we haven’t really touched since we moved to this house in April ‘98.

So out goes the bedroom’s Smurf-blue carpet, in comes an inviting beige.  Out goes the old, porous windows, in come new Pellas.  Out goes the curvaceous, fiberglass, ‘70s shower-tub combination, in comes a near-cavernous walk-in shower.

Oh, and then the important things.  Right now we have a toilet that requires two flushes and a stern stare before it accomplishes its work.  And our faucets … well, Cindy’s only produces hot water.  Mine produces hot and cold, though the hot is a trickle and the cold comes forth whether you push backward – or forward – on the spigot.

You can imagine the uncertainty in the morning.  In a rush, Cindy needs to brush her teeth, so she lunges right, to my sink.  But I need hot water to shave.  So I lunge left, to hers. 

It’s a miracle we don’t bump heads.

A new toilet and new spigots, like new windows and carpet, will take care of all of this “remodeling,” of course.  But it’s the interim that’s the killer. 

Chute to the dumpster.  Out goes the old ....

Sure, it’s a time of action.  I just bought a new reciprocating saw so that I can remove the fiberglass tub next weekend. 

I could write pages about the irony of a reciprocating saw.  Check the definition of “reciprocate” and you see nice things like “to give, feel in return,” “to interchange, reciprocate favors.” 

A “recip saw,” though, is not nice. It looks like an AK-47.  It funnels concentrated havoc by causing a blade to move alternately back and forth at hypersonic speeds.  I expect it to move me back and forth most of Saturday and some of Sunday. 

I’ve also heeded the warnings about cutting up fiberglass: Wear a respirator, goggles, long sleeves, and gloves taped closed at the cuffs.  Like on the moon, don’t come up for air because it’ll kill you.

Okay, maybe not quite.  But I’m convinced of the danger of breathing the bad stuff, so armed with my “recip,” I’ll dress like I’m doing a nerve-gas drill in Call of Duty Black Ops II.

By the way, the tub and other plumbing are just the start of this offensive.  I’ll also be taking a hammer to old drywall, tearing out the electrical, pulling up the vinyl floor. 

Exciting!  Demanding! 

Tiring ….

But it’s all to the good.  A modern bathroom.  An updated bedroom.  A marketable property!

Yet there’s one aspect of this change that we’d not quite anticipated.  It had to do with the first sentence of this post – favorite spots – which for Cindy and me is our bed, and sleep,  at night.

For more than a decade, our bed has straddled an east-west longitude.  Our heads have extended east, our feet west.  The reason has to do with the bedroom’s dimensions, I think.  It just seemed a good fit.

And it was.  All things considered, we’ve had consistent years of decent slumber.

But as Cindy removed carpet and made the walls ready for new paint, we decided temporarily to turn the bed 180 degrees – have it stretch north and south – and also pull it away from the wall so that it could sit in the middle of the room.  That way we could reach each wall for stripping, prep and painting.

The problem: Ever since the move, we didn’t sleep well.  Either or both of us were wide awake at 2 or 3 or 4 in the morning.

Cindy insisted it was “feng shui,” the Chinese system for orienting buildings that maximizes the relationship between humans and the universe. The bed is completely out of kilter, she argued.

I didn’t disagree.  The Chinese know a lot that we don’t.  But I tended to blame the dogs. 

Nellie, on dog bed.

You see, of late, we’ve had three dogs in the house.  Small Linus, the senior mutt; big Nellie, the Great Pyrenees year-old; and mid-sized Koa, the Border Collie who was visiting while son Zach was on a holiday trek to the Pacific Northwest.

In a normal setting, no big deal.  But understand that when we shifted the bed 180 degrees and pushed it to the room’s middle, then removed carpet, we suddenly upended reality for all three dogs.  Gone were their favorite spots.

Worse, there was now a clear path completely around the bed, so the dogs could freely roam, their toes clicking on the bare floors. 

Oh sure, we tried to adjust.  We brought in two dogs beds – at opposite ends of the room – to supplement Nellie’s dog crate.

It didn’t help. It seems we were all antsy, a bundle of nerves, fitful and fidgety – like Margy sang in State Fair, “… as restless as a willow in a windstorm, as jumpy as a puppet on a string.”  Change can be hard.

And that clear path around the bed – that circle of love?  Cindy and I quickly learned we were at Hell’s racetrack, stuck in centerfield.

It went something like this: When the lights went out, Nellie would start out on a dog bed, Linus on the other, and Koa on the floor.  Then within an hour, Nellie would move to her crate.  Linus, thinking Nellie must have had the better bed, would then move to Nellie’s bed.  And Koa, tired of being on the bare floor, would then move to Linus’s bed.

An hour later, they’d shift again.  Nellie would move to the bare floor.  Koa would come over to nuzzle Nellie.  Linus, thinking Koa now had the better bed, would return to that one.  Nellie, seeing that her original bed was now vacant, would move there … unless Koa got there first. 

If Koa did, Nellie would circle the room in hopes that Linus had moved.  Because Nellie’s patience is as wide as her girth, she’d go ‘round slowwwwly three times before deciding the bare floor would have to do.

An hour later, they’d all shift again.

The worst part?  Because there was no carpet, each move caused the toe-taps to ricochet across the room –  “CLICK-CLICK-CLICK” from Nellie, rapid-fire “Click-Click-Click!” from Koa, muted-yet-biting “click-clicks” from Linus.

Oh, and finally … each time Nellie would rise, she’d need to shake her head 10 times – yeah, I really have counted – whapping her loose lips together like punching bags.

No wonder we couldn’t sleep.  Every hour, it was like Rocky Balboa practicing uppercuts before a cheering crowd of cicadas.

Finally, I’d had enough.

“The bed has to go back,” I pronounced.  “Blame feng shui or the freakin’ dogs, I don’t care which.  But the bed has to go back.”

Cindy agreed.

Peace returns.  The throw rugs help.

The bed is now against the wall, our heads due east, our feet due west. Sure, the bedroom remains upended … walls bare, carpet gone.  But the dogs seem quieter now, although we did scatter some throw rugs to supplement the dog beds – to soften the “clicks,” just in case.

And last night?  Last night I slept like a baby.  My favorite spot was back.

Though I had this weird dream … Mary of Peter, Paul and Mary kept singing to me.  Really.  A song.

“If I Had a Hammer.”

Makes sense.  I own three.  

Of Pyr and paws

Note from Doug:  This first appeared in Pickledish.com, the quilt-business blog that we host at The Kansas City Star.  It’s reproduced here with some minor adjustments. For you returning readers, some of this about Nellie will be familiar to you. But "bear" with me.

There’s a barn quilt affixed to the rear end of my house.

Like a cattle brand, or a bumper sticker, or that tattoo you know about but rarely share, this one’s on the backside, for those behind you to see.

How it got there is a tale worth telling.  It involves a 100-pound puppy, for starters.

If you don’t know barn quilts, they’re the giant, usually plywood, quilt-block squares that dot the apexes of barns.  You’ll find them scattered along this nation’s back roads, from Pennsylvania to California.  We don’t have many in Kansas City Star Quilts’ two native states, Missouri and Kansas, though Iowa to our north seems to have one for every man, woman, child and cow. Perhaps they’d be willing to share.

I latched on to the subject of barn quilts during some road trips through Illinois and Michigan. In fact, I took some pictures for a book we published, “From the Bedroom to the Barnyard.”  (The title is less suggestive than it seems, which is a shame.)

So I’m proud that I built my own.  But how it got there starts with Nellie, our 1-year-old pup.

Nel is a Great Pyrenees.  That’s a dog breed that hails from the Pyrenees Mountains in Spain and France.  Bred as a guard dog, a Great Pyrenees – or “Pyr,” as they’re called – is the favorite of shepherds for its ability to protect the flock. (Pyr sounds like "peer.")

Nellie, on guard.

When we lost our Golden Retriever about a year ago, we knew we’d get a new pup. And eventually we found our way to the kind folks at the Milk & Honey Farm, a Pyr breeder west of Minneapolis.  How and why we chose a Pyr to follow our Golden is a very long, separate story.

Now, we weren’t quite ready for the sheer size of Nellie.  Check out the photo below … that’s Nel at just six weeks old.  I’m holding her as best I can.  Pyrs can grow to be huge – 130 pounds or more.  Nel’s now at 100 and counting.

Nor were we prepared for the long trip home when we finally took possession.  (Here’s the story on my personal blog, slobber and all.)

Six weeks and it seemed 60 pounds.

Nellie quickly made herself comfortable in our back yard.   I can go through the litany of digging and destruction she’s caused – enough 3-foot holes in the ground, for example, to accommodate Paul Bunyan’s personal Putt-Putt course.

In fact, the backyard is her domain.  Soon after we got her, she managed to collect the following in the middle of the yard: various sticks, limbs and logs, which you’d expect; two pieces of siding from the house; two Diet Coke cans, crunched to an inch long; a couple of putrid potatoes from the mulch pile; two heavy stones that we’d brought home from Michigan; three pieces of charcoal, Kingsford's finest; two big Nerf balls reduced to golf-ball size; two clay pots; one large brick; a landscape light ripped from the ground with assorted wiring; and half of a giant sea shell.

Oh, and my barbecue brush.

She has other weird qualities. For example, she has the loosest lips and jowls that I’ve ever seen … er, heard.  When she shakes her head awake, her jowls sound like two punching bags made of Flubber, whacking each other senseless.

It was her penchant for digging, though, that inspired the barn quilt.

Standing where the barn quilt is now, there used to be a very large flower box with a trellis that I’d built.  Nellie, in search of cool places to sleep this spring, decided to dig out the dirt in the box and plant herself there.

Nel's comfy flower box.

Sure, it was comfy.  But bringing her in at night was like opening the door to a herd of dust bunnies.

We tried to work with her. (And no, let’s not debate dog discipline here. We acknowledge we were pushovers then.) We figured that because there were no flowers in this box’s future – she’d just dig them up – I’d clean out the dirt and install cushions in its place. Then she’d settle back in, per usual, with no dirt and dust.  

But Nellie missed the cool Mother Earth. The cushions must have felt like a sun-baked Barco Lounger.

So with the planter now empty and useless, I decided to yank it from the wall and haul it to the trash.

What to put in its place?

“A barn quilt!” I announced.  “It’d look perfect, between the two windows.”

Use Frog Tape!

And so I started. I bought a 4 x 4-square-foot piece of quarter-inch plywood, some primer and paint. (Most barn quilts for barns are much bigger – 8 x 8 at least.) The remaining steps were pretty easy:

• I selected a quilt-block design.  I decided to play it safe with a pieced block vs. appliqué
• I grabbed a tape measure to plot dimensions and a long straight edge to draw the pattern
• Before plotting the block, I primed both sides of the plywood twice, then gave it two coats of base color.  I chose yellow for that.
• I drew the pattern.
• I filled in the colors – again, two coats.  (Be sure to use Frog Tape to ensure sharp, clean lines between colors. Amazing stuff.)

I think I need a new saw horse.

 And I was done!  I then used simple wood screws to fasten it to our shake-shingle wall.  And I covered the screw heads with paint to avoid rust and make them pretty much disappear.

So now it hangs, proclaiming my affinity for quilts. I’m sure the neighbors behind don't quite know what to make of it.  Unless you’re a quilter, you might think it some kind of modern public art.

But as you and I know, all quilt blocks have personalities – have names.  And I picked this one carefully.

Kansas Troubles

You see, I was going to put up that famous quilt block from these parts, “Kansas Troubles.”  And full disclosure here:  I tend to vote Democrat, so naturally as a Kansan I’m a bit troubled about where our Kansas Republican governor is taking this state’s fiscal situation.

But my neighbor behind is a staunch Republican, and I didn’t think it nice to broadcast my politics into his kitchen as he sipped coffee each morning. Not neighborly.

So I decided on “Bear Paw” instead.  It’s a long-time favorite of quilters.  But more to the point, that barn quilt is anchored on the wall because of Nellie.  And if you examine that photo of her as a pup, you know those paws are like a bear’s.

In fact, I just measured them – each is about 9 inches round and still growing. If she didn’t hate water so much, I’d call them canoe paddles.

I’m proud of our Bear Paw.  And I’d encourage all to scout your house or outbuilding and see where you might fasten something similar.  They don’t have to be huge.  Context is everything.

Oh, and like quilts themselves, you can pack ‘em up and take them with you should you happen to move on. 

Kind of like the blessing of that tattoo … it’ll follow you everywhere. 

No coincidences

SUTTON’S BAY, Mich. – On Tuesday, we headed North … again to Michigan.

It’s a natural path for us now; instinct takes over.  We point the car, and roughly two days later, without much thought, we’ve arrived.

The Boardman River

We found a place to stay near Sutton’s Bay, which is just north of Traverse City on M-22.  It’s on the west side of Traverse Bay.  Much like my visit earlier this year to Pine Knot on the west side of Lake Superior, we haven’t been privy to sunsets. 

But that’s okay.  My sister Mary Ann in Green Bay reported that there was still color in the trees at her latitude. And it was true.  Upon arrival, the reds and yellows were their own brilliant sunset, gradually dimming ahead of winter’s sleep.

But even we were surprised at the depths of the reds and yellows, the way they shouted from the hills.  Not a sleepy goodnight, but a barn dance of celebration … a final, loud salute to the goodness of the harvest.

The fun part was that we stopped to see the Slacks on the way up.  We’re all still remembering the antics around the Bellingham wedding.  We reminisced about that, though not too much.  Day-to-day events quickly overtake all of us, and so we mainly shared the latest in our lives.

The latest for me has been both unpleasant and telling.  I won’t share much.  Just know that the vagaries of business sometimes require managers to do things against their very nature – to accept the reality that a bigger cause requires painful and difficult decisions.

I remember when I was in junior high school, and Mom, Dad, Barb and I sat down to dinner in the kitchen.  Looking back now, it was during the recession of 1969 – mild compared to what we’ve all been through lately, but it had a significant effect then.  Housing starts were in descent. Dad’s business – making thermostats for homes, among other things – was upended.  Demand was down, but profits were still required.  The solution?  Cut expenses.  Cut personnel.

I remember then Dad easing into his chair, tense, and Mom asking him what was wrong. And Dad physically shuddering a bit, his hands shaking – I’d never seen him do that – then saying he would have to “let go” of someone the next day … someone who had worked with him for years. That she didn’t deserve this, he said, but corporate had its targets, and targets had to be made or the whole enterprise could be in jeopardy.

I don’t remember when in 1969 this occurred.  Spring?  Fall?  It was a season, though, full of "letting go."

I do know that Dad would count on Michigan to put some emotional distance between these kinds of struggles and his hope for a life better.

And so we find ourselves here.  The timing is a coincidence, I tell myself.  Then again, I believe such coincidences happen for a reason … and so they are not coincidences at all.  We needed this time away, especially now. 

Cindy, me, on Traverse Bay.

We came to explore.  It’s never too early to think about “what’s next,” especially as you approach retirement. Planning is paramount these days.  It takes years to put together an adequate strategy for that kind of “what’s next.”

It’s too soon, of course, to declare that Michigan is what’s next. And we hardly envision us as traditional retirees.  But I think we’ve made a decision that Michigan will be our last stop in our travels.  And not because we’ll be ready to sit on our duffs and admire the reds and yellows and other incredible sights. 

No, instead, it’s because Michigan has always represented for us youth and energy and freshness and a renewed sense of purpose.  I’ve been coming to Michigan for just those reasons since I was 7. It's where dreams are made.

Since 1974, that renewal had occurred at a small red cottage my mother had dubbed Wind Song on Glen Lake.  As readers of this blog know, I and my siblings sold the cottage for a variety of reasons to the National Park Service.  The service in turn knocked down the cottage and let Nature take hold.

Where the cottage once stood.

We visited the cottage site today … the first time we’d seen it since the bulldozer had done its duty.  The view of Glen was as beautiful as ever.  The winds were crisp, the waters blue, the waves dutifully marching down the shore, crashing their hellos.

I braced for more sadness this visit.  But interestingly, it didn’t happen.  We speculated as to why … that perhaps it was past the time for grieving.  That time does heal most wounds.

It also had to do with the promise exhibited by the wild grass and other new growth where the cottage’s foundation had been. After all, during our last visit – when the cottage was still standing but abandoned, dirty, disheveled – the cottage’s state seemed both sad and an abomination … a mockery of all of the joy, laughter and love that had existed within its walls.

Now, at least, the cottage’s spirit had been set free.  And Nature’s might was busting through where there had once been foundation and shadow.

But more than all that, I think it was our mindset about “what’s next.”   We ambled throughout the countryside this visit, looking at other lakes, other cottages.  Imagining moving here or there, and what that would be like. 

Point Betsie.

Sure, we visited the old haunts.  Art’s Tavern for lunch, Esch Beach to marvel at the historic low levels of Lake Michigan, the Point Betsie lighthouse where it still towers, after 154 years, over a shoreline of pesky, hard-to-find Petoskey stones.

But that wasn’t the heart of our visit.  That’s the past.  At some point, we’ve realized, we’ll be hungry for the future. And coming here is natural … has been for almost four decades.

And so we wandered like we used to before children and house payments and other deep responsibilities.  We breathed in the smells, savored the fresh-water breezes, and let our eyes dance with the sun along the shore. And we saw a familiar land, yet one teeming with new opportunities.

There’s a reason instinct pulls us North.

Up here, there are no coincidences. 

Esch Beach ... Lake Michigan.

Nellie this and that

All dogs grow up.  You wish it weren’t so. I’ve yet to see a not-cute puppy, but I’ve seen plenty of pups turn ugly with age. 

But grow up they do, and you go with it.

Better yet, you make a point to look – and listen! – to the subtle changes in the pup’s demeanor and actions.  It’s really kind of fun.

Though with Nellie, it’s cute, sure ... but not so subtle, and not always fun. Let me count the ways.

The weigh-in: She’s bigger now, of course.  We think about 95 pounds.  Given her age of close to 10 months, that’s about right.  So she’s closing in on 100.  Out of curiosity, I checked on other things that weigh 100 pounds.  There’s the Burpee Big Maxx pumpkin with a 70-inch girth, but you have to leave the gunk inside.  A Hellfire missile weighs 100 pounds, plus it can knock out a tank.  Also, the Hawkbill Sea Turtle … slow like Nel, though Nel doesn’t like the water.

So she’s among interesting company. But now we think she might not reach the 130 pounds warned of by the breeder.  Yes, she’s getting bigger, stouter, somewhat taller.  But the pace seems to be slowing.

Not likely to to be this big.

Nellie and Linus.

We might be wrong.  And she’s still plenty big.  Linus can walk under her virtually untouched.  And it’s nice to rub a dog’s head without having to bend over.  But when we got her, I feared she’d get as big as the dog in the photo at right.  Now I’m thinking I can forgo building the stall.

Wacky jowls:  Here’s where we know she’s bigger.  She has the loosest lips and jowls I’ve ever seen – actually, heard – in a dog.  You see, each time she wakes up from a sleep, she rapidly shakes her head about 10 times.  I’ve counted. 

A lot of dogs do that.  They shake out the cobwebs, do a little stretching.  Ol’ Nel, though … well, her jowls sound like two punching bags made of Flubber, whacking each other at 120 whaps per minute.

Can’t imagine?  Go to your bathroom, close the door, and try this: Open your mouth halfway, get your cheeks nice and loose, then hum as low and as loud as you can hum … and shake your head back and forth 10 times, fast, like your head was going to fly off.  Really shake those cheeks!!  Hum loud!!

Yeah … that’s what it sounds like.

White fir cometh:  When we got Nellie, we figured she’d shed a bit.  In fact, the web sites said she’d shed in the spring … to rid herself of the undercoat to stay cool by summer.  She did, and she has. 

A full-o'-her brush, man!

But for some reason she’s doing a fir-flying sequel, and this seems worst than the first. Maybe it’s the drought. Regardless, we have enough white hair in the house to qualify as an assisted living center.

Personally, I think there’s a way to capitalize on this … maybe a line of Great Pyr sweaters.  “Madame Nellie’s Great-Pyr Cashmere.”   A nice ring to that.

Drool me a river:  Nellie’s trip from Minnesota to Kansas City is now legend among some.  (See "Christmas Gift.")  Who knew that a pup could produce five gallons of slobber? 

She’s matured now, though.  She actually likes to go for rides in the car.  Oh, sure, you still have to spread a towel across the storage compartment between the front seats. Nellie insists on looking out over the dashboard. 

But before, when she was shorter, she couldn’t quite see out the window.  And I think that prompted anxiety and a wide-open spigot.

It’s not nearly as bad now.  Still, she has this need as you drive to not just poke her head between you and the front-seat passenger, but push her head hard against your upper arm and shoulder. The whole trip. Not sure why … maybe it’s her way of keeping her sea legs.

So less slobber, yes.  But we aren’t slobber free yet.  We have wet shoulders to prove it.

A mighty roar:  I’ve mentioned before that Nellie is not much of a barker.  Mainly she barks at her own reflection in the kitchen window at night. Rarely outside. So that’s good for the neighbors.

But like any adolescent, her voice has gotten deeper.  She and Zach’s dog, Koa, like to roughhouse. Often they do this standing.   But just as often they collapse on a dog bed, they’re bodies stationary but their mouths agape, jawing on each other’s jaws.  (Nel’s loose lips are Koa’s favorite.)

And while they do so, they growl like two fat walruses, snarling deep, wet snarls. It’s frightening, really.  Not to mention the slobber. In fact, Nel likes to do her whacky jowls thing after this bit of back-and-forth jawing, sending drool 10 feet high.

To fully experience that, try the bathroom exercise again, but this time fill your mouth with water.

Note the chewed-on fabric.

Couch potato:  One area in which she has not grown up is her couch behavior.  Our decision – because it was cute – to let her on the couch as a pup has proved fateful.  Our poor red sofas have suffered the greatest injury – cushions devoid of fluff, pillows disemboweled, the couch covers themselves stained by biscuit residue.

We’ve battled back, although our past tactics were weak – standing the cushions on end, resting footstools on our easy chairs, pinning up the wall quilt so it was out of reach.  It’s looked like we’ve been ready to vacate for the last two months.

The Sofa Scram ....

But now we’ve seized on technology to help.  First, we purchased some inexpensive slipcovers for the red couches – to hide the embarrassment of our weak pet pedagogy. Then Cindy found this device called the Sofa Scram Sonic Scat Pad, which looks like a compact, black  Slip and Slide.  You stretch it across the couch, and if a dog jumps up, it lets loose an ear-piercing squeal – like a smoke alarm.

It works!  Nellie won’t go near the couch now.  Though Zach was surprised when he sat down with a sandwich to watch TV. 

We’re debating whether to buy two more … one for the other red couch, and one for the living room.

We should probably get one for the bed, too.  You see, each time in the morning, when I’m brushing my teeth, Nellie nonchalantly jumps atop the bed.  With Riley, our Golden, a stern look and a loud “Riley!” would shame her down.

Gotcha Nellie!"

But not Nel.  “Nellie!” we’ll say.  She feigns to not understand.  “You shouldn’t be up here!”  She lifts her eyes up, but that’s about it.

And then you succumb. You walk over, rub her ears, and she raises her big head to sniff your nose.

Sure, she’s growing up.  But she’s still cute. 

A walk with seagulls

BELLINGHAM, Wash. – She stepped, barefoot.

As I escorted her through the forest path to the wedding site, at last to her groom, I wondered why.

Meghan, Eric, and her happy feet.

In the moment, I knew it was good. It’s Meghan’s love of the woods, I figured. Simply that. Nature had created a soft carpet of forest decay – cool, damp, like Michigan sand after a gentle rain.  So welcoming.

I dipped my head to her ear as we walked, whispering, “I’m proud of your bare feet!”  We both smiled.

Meghan wanted to feel this land on this important day – this land that had so captured her heart.  It’s why we were in these deep woods. To be enveloped by them, embraced by them.     

Only later, long after the wedding, did I think about the innocence of unclad feet, how tiny hers were at birth, how much traveling they’d done since. How much more they would do with Eric at her side.  The freedom they represented on this day.

* * *

After months of planning, we’d arrived on the west side of Mount Baker, the white-capped giant that stands watch over Bellingham, Wash.  It was Friday, the day before the wedding … our rehearsal time.  The weather was perfect. There was a spot of rain on the drive up but it was sunny and cool now.

Weather on a mountain can be fickle. If we'd taken just a short drive beyond our point on Mount Baker Highway, we would have encountered snow on the ground.  But here it was mild, the sunlight’s rays sliding through the deep green, casting shadows below the moss-draped branches of cedar, fir and pine.

Hiking in.

The trail to the clearing was elusive.  I didn’t drive far enough; others drove past it.  But we managed to meet up, and the wedding party marched along the path like young Scouts on a hike.

Some of us had seen the clearing before.  For others, this was their first look.  You could catch the wonder in those eyes.  They’d peer up, gather in the enormity of the towering trees, then talk softly.  Earlier I’d wrote that it was a place “blessed with the quietness of a church, the grandeur of a cathedral ….”  I was comforted to know they seemed to agree.

Looking up.

Quickly, the business of the day took hold. Logistics were key. Steve, our close friend of more than 30 years, would be the officiant of the wedding.  He began organizing the troops. 

We pointed to the small slope at the base of the clearing’s biggest tree.  That’s where the wedding party would stand.

Others helped define the “center aisle,” a smallish path that wandered east around a gathering of other large trees.  Meghan and her bridesmaids decided she would prepare herself here tomorrow, out of view of the clearing.

Steve in command.

There was some discussion about whether the groomsmen and bridesmaids should be on the left or the right side of the slope. That was resolved, though both sides had to switch after both bet wrong. 

And it was important to find a good spot for Brandon and his banjo – the musician and instrument for tomorrow’s event.  We found it, atop the split trunk of a massive tree that had toppled years earlier. Though sitting, he would be above the congregation the next day, softly plucking strings, our organist deftly pressing keys.  

Brandon and banjo.

And so we began … a rough run-through of the ceremony first, then a smoother effort on the second try.  Steve did well with his words, even when “Meghan and Eric” at one point became “Eggan and Meghan.”  But that was fun. That was Steve. It relaxed us all.

Oh … and Meghan and I got to practice our walk up the aisle twice, my left arm angled, her arm in mine. 

The path was indeed soft, with some small ups and downs ... like life, if you’re extremely lucky.

But it was good.  It was all good.  We were ready.

* * *

How fast it seems that we got to this point, Cindy and I.  Sure, every mother and father thinks about this day, when their young grow older, find a partner, exchange vows.  But it always seems a distant time, a reality that’s never quite real until it arrives.

It’s a time for reflection, of course.  You take stock of yourself as a parent. You always wonder if you’ve done enough, done all the right things, done good. 

And it’s not like it’s a one-way relationship – that we give, they take.  We’ve gained so much as parents of Meghan and Zach. So very much.

“There really are places in the heart that you don't even know exist until you love a child,” wrote novelist Anne Lamott.

We’ve found those places, and continue to find them.  Sometimes they surprise us … a twinge that causes the heart to flutter and a few tears.  Or a surge of joy, laughter and, maybe, tears of a different sort.

When Cindy and I arrived on our first night in Bellingham, at our rental house that I’d dubbed Wedding Central, I cooked dinner.  And while cooking, I played some tunes.  It was then I asked Cindy to dance … to a Sinatra version of  “Somewhere Beyond the Sea.” 

“My lover stands on golden sands …

And watches the ships that go sailing.”

We tend to dance in the kitchen – something Cindy’s parents, June and Jack, taught us as newlyweds.

This time we also cried a bit, but a happy cry.  Reality had begun to take hold.  Curly-haired, blue-eyed Meghan – our first baby – was getting married. 

It was our own brief celebration … that we’d done good.

* * *

Logistics, again. The day was at hand. A shuttle bus of invitees was on its way.  Others had parked at the small restaurant a few miles below the wedding site, and they carpooled up the mountain.

The wedding party was set.  The bridesmaids were in their fine, cream dresses; the men in dark pants, homespun shirts and suspenders. 

Helping Meghan.

Meghan and her entourage were behind the trees.  The bridesmaids had helped Meghan with her dress, a delicate, beaded work of artistry, symmetry and a hint of history.

Everyone had now arrived. It was time to start.  Brandon began plucking.  The groomsmen lined up behind Eric – Eric’s brother Carl, Meghan’s Zach, Andrew and Nick.  Brandon would soon join them.

And the bridesmaids then entered, floating along the path from Meghan’s chosen spot … Alison, Amanda, Tiffany, Laurie and Erin.

Then, at last, Meghan and me.  And we walked, carefully, slowly, Meghan's bare toes outstretched, finding the sure footing.

We arrived at the front. I gave her a hug and kiss.  She then joined Eric, who beamed confidently, proudly as Meghan approached. I gave Eric a thumbs up.   

And Steve welcomed all.

The ceremony.

“This clearing symbolizes the essence of the bond our couple will forge today,” he said. “Of strength and endurance, built upon the rocks that they both cherish … yet richly colored, deeply softened by Nature’s hand to reflect the gentleness and co-dependence so alive around us.

“It is a touch of Heaven on Earth.”

So it began.

* * *

Meghan and Eric were successfully wed.  It was both beautiful and beguiling … a Monet painting in motion.  The tall forest proved the rich, green canvas; the graceful bridesmaids emerged from the woods like apparitions of another age; the smiling young men in black suspenders dutifully awaited, gentlemen all.  And, at last, the bride met the groom, with grins they immediately shared.

There was laughter, some gentle advice – Steve eloquently reminding them of the wisdom of the Apostle Paul … “Love is patient, love is kind ….” – there were the vows, the rings, the kiss.

Then Steve's announcement: “I now present to you, Eric and Meghan Hoffnagle.”

And there were the cheers. From below … and, I like to think, from on high.

* * *

Broadway Hall

Later, there would be celebration.  Broadway Hall, which sits atop the bluff overlooking Squalicum Harbor and Bellingham Bay, was built in 1905.  And on this night, it was dressed to the nines, its windows lifted high to catch the bay breezes. 

Meghan and Eric had labored to make two kinds of centerpieces for each table – a trio of colorful tins for the table’s top featuring native rocks, moss and flowers; and a mobile, suspended from the tall ceiling, of a bird cage, wide rings and delicate, colorful paint chips. The tiny colors shimmered in the hall’s stray winds. 

Combined, they mimicked the Washington horizon itself, where the Earth reaches up to touch the sky.

On top of each table was a table cloth ... though hardly.  There was a quilt – a collection of applique patterns that Meghan systematically designed and Cindy determinedly stitched – into multiple covers that provided the foundation for the centerpieces.

The table cloths.

There was also good food, drink and incredible toasts, the most poignant (for Cindy and me)  from son Zach, who eloquently described the love, dedication and devotion that binds not just brother to sister but unites an entire family.

(There is that moment for a dad when it dawns on you – when you see your son no longer as a young adult but as a man, grown.  This was my moment.)

And there was dancing.  Lots of dancing, long into the night.

Meghan had made it clear that she wanted most to dance this evening.  To let loose the planning, the weighty decisions, the uncertainties that come with organizing such a ceremony.  To be free to enjoy family, friends, life. 

Meghan has tattooed atop her left foot the image of four seagulls soaring, stretching to do their own sky dance before the Michigan sun.  The four are us ... Cindy, Zach, Meghan, me. 

Michigan does remain in her soul.  And in ours.

So it was no surprise that Meghan danced this night with feet still bare. 

We watched her soar … she, Eric, her seagulls. 

The surefooted dozen.

Wedding-day photography by Aubrey Joy Photography.

Wedding Central

SEDRO WOOLLEY, Wash. – We arrived safely at Wedding Central, a hillside house at the foot of Anderson Mountain.

The gathering place

This rental sleeps 16, we’re told.  And as we prepare for friends and family to arrive, I consider the overflow possibilities – a crib would be my last resort, though it does have toys.

It’s hard to overstate the contrast of this place and where we left.  Kansas City suffers from 104- and 106-degree days, while Anderson Mountain boasts night-time temperatures of the mid 40s and even-more-pleasant mid 70s at day.

We hear that things will cool back home with the arrival of the All-Stars on Tuesday.  We’re grateful, especially on behalf of the panting dogs we left behind.

Water from above.

As to this place, well … it’s the Great Northwest after all.  On the east side of the house is the foot of the mountain itself.  Dense, thick forests march upward on the other side of the drive.  A small, mountain brook bubbles down, sending soft murmurings to the front porch.

Inviting trails wind their way up the hillside, though it’s hard to know where they go.  Their entrances are easily seen, but the paths are swallowed quickly by the dark green.  We’ll explore later.

Wildflowers below.

Down the hill are wildflowers and wild berries.  A swath of deep grass by one berry patch was flattened, obviously by something big and hungry.

It’s the birds, though, that are the stars.  We don’t have binoculars, and we’re not expert in birdcalls, so the species elude us.  But they’re a vocal lot.  They were up with the dawn, which comes at about 4:30.  And judging by the range of tunes, some in concert, others discordant, there’s enough variety here to make a birder blissful.

A favorite among critters.

But it's a 100-strong chorus in need of a choir director.

The house itself is spacious – sleeps 16! – with a design more contemporary than we’re used to.  But very pleasant … almost Norwegian with its blonde floors and smooth, spare  furnishings.   The kitchen is very large and boasts a table as big as a flatboat with two long benches at either side. A good place for friends and family to gather.

Friends start arriving tomorrow.  Today, though, we’ll hook up with Meghan and Eric and their friends, the Humphreys.  The four went camping last night south of Bellingham.  We assume it was a pleasant night, though Meghan called this morning asking if they could stop in for breakfast.

They had brought all the fixings for their own early meal but forgot the forks.

“Sure,” we said!  We have forks.  At least 16.  And so we await their arrival.

It’ll be good to see them.  Cindy and I have both been a bit teary as we march ever closer to the big day.  But I think that’s mainly because we’ve been on our own as we traveled, with time to think about the wedding.

That’ll change as more people arrive.  Then each hour will begin to tick by, the activity will hasten, the to-do list will grow.  I imagine it’ll be a bit like a wormhole in space … you get pulled along its path, ever faster … very fast! … only to pop out the other side to peace and calm.

Whatever it is, it will be a fun ride.  Emotional, sure.  But we’ll have our silly times, too.

Steve and Nina, middle, help toast the cottage's final days.

Laurel Slack maybe said it best in a Facebook post a few days ago.  Laurel’s the daughter of Steve and Nina Slack, close friends of many years.  Steve will be the officiate at the wedding.

Laurel and her friend Jake arrive tomorrow.  Steve and Nina get in Wednesday.  Their son Tyler and friend Sarah arrive Friday.  Meantime, our son Zach arrives tonight.

It seems anytime the Weavers and Slacks converge, merriment ensues.  Not the har-de-har, bad-joke stuff.  No … more the nonsense that sends us to senseless giggling.

I remember when Cindy, Nina, Steve and I went to a stylish restaurant in Glen Arbor, Mich., during one of our many visits Up North. Steve ordered a Rob Roy, I ordered a Manhattan. Both came equipped with cherries.  The area is cherry country, if you don’t know. 

Those potent drinks and a menu heavy in cherry-related dishes had Steve and I imagining cherry concoctions the way Bubba spilled shrimp recipes to Forest Gump.

Steve and I laughed, then cried, causing deep frowns among Cindy, Nina and the stuffy folk at nearby tables. He and I tumbled out the side door with snorts and tears, gasping for some Michigan air.

From left, Eric, Zach, Meghan, Laurel, Tyler, Jake.

After a few deep breaths, we returned, almost serious now, and ordered Poulet aux Cerises … chicken with cherries.

Anyway, Laurel said it best on Facebook:

“Super excited to see Meghan, Zach, Doug and Cindy in 3 days!  Get ready to laugh – the Slacks are coming to Bellingham!”

Indeed they are.  Wedding Central becomes Comedy Central. 

We’re ready.