And life goes on…

I’ve got so much I want to write here. It seems like it would fill a dozen diaries.

The wedding was beautiful. My daughter is everything you could want a daughter to be. And her husband adores her almost as much as I do… maybe even more. Of course I cried my eyes out but I was so happy for her. I also felt proud to me Matron of Honor as well as Mother-of-the-bride. I got to see her face during the ceremony instead of watching the back of her head from a pew. She is the kind of girl that makes everyone feel special, especially me. What a complete angel she was. So many people commented that she could have modeled for Modern Bride or something like that. It’s too bad open diary doesn’t have a way to post a picture or two, but that would kind of mess up the anonymity, wouldn’t it?

The day after the wedding, my brother, mom, aunt and myself all went on a little trip down “memory lane.” Many years ago we used to live in a little suburb about forty minutes or so from where I live now. My grandparents lived in the outskirts of the city. We drove to these places together and talked about the things we remembered. My little boy was fascinated and had a great time tagging along.

We went to the house we’d lived in about forty years ago and a cranky old man came out to ask us what we were doing there. My brother is charming and explained that we used to live in that house. It turned out that this gentleman was the one who had bought it from my parents oh-so long ago.

After that we went to the school where my Dad had been principal. We talked to the new principal there.

We might not have done that except my Mom wanted to go inside and see if there was a picture of Dad up there. There wasn’t, but there was a picture of the old school the way it used to be when we all went there. My mother had taught at the school for a brief period of time before transferring to another (nepotism is frowned upon you know.)

We also drove by the church they went to. My Dad had been the choir director and organist and my Mom had sung. They also had been active in “couple’s club.” I wish we had never moved from there. We relocated to New York after I had finished second grade and life was never the same again. I hated New York and I hate it still. My parents changed in that fast-paced environment. They started drinking and we never had the same support systems we had in the midwest small town.

We went by the home of a family who had been friends of ours. I remember being best friends with their daughter. Last we had heard, the parents still lived in the house. Oddly enough, there was a moving van out in front of it and it turned out they were moving out that day in just a matter of hours. The crew was busy packing up even as we spoke. The parents came out and chatted and hugged us all. I found out that my old friend is on marriage number three and, like me, is also a grandmother. I’m not sure how many kids she’s had in all.

I kept thinking that this family seemed so wonderful. It was like they had done everything right. I remembered pulling taffy in their kitchen and the warm laughter and cozy feelings that rang through the house. I loved going over there to play and spend the night.

In later years the mom studied to become a minister and had a church for quite some time. What, I wondered, could have happened that would cause a woman from that household to have had two failed marriages? Was their family like mine? Did my family appear to be functional and warm only to have a certain corruption under the surface? Was it that way for my friend’s family too?

I always thought life was going to be like a Richard Scarry book. I thought it was already that way for everybody else but me and kids in the inner city. 😉 Once again, as has happened so many times, I’m realizing that it doesn’t seem to be Richard Scarry perfect for anyone.