Matrimony and Money

Ah, June, the traditional month for weddings.  I was a June bride myself fourteen years ago.  It was a perfect day - the only hitch being the photo session running a little longer than planned.

When I added up the receipts later, I found that the entire weekend – including my dress for $1000, the 5-day rental for a mini-van, the photographer, the flowers, the rings, and the reception buffet – cost about $4000.  Not bad, I would say.  And it was all planned and executed in four months.  Even better.  And we’re still happily married.  Best of all.

I think it’s safe to say that happy marriages aren’t founded on expensive weddings.  In fact, who would want to start a marriage deep in debt because of a lavish, one-day party?

There are lots of ways to curb wedding expenses.  I made my own veil for $16, as well as the dresses for my two flower girls.  We chose arm bouquets which were far less expensive than the dense round ones that used to be popular.  We asked our groomsmen (my husband’s three brothers) to provide their own black suits.  We had a friend do the music.  We chose free venues for the wedding and the reception.  My mom organized the buffet.

I’m glad we chose to have a simple, affordable wedding.  I won’t pretend it was the most elegant wedding ever, but it was right for us.  We wanted to focus more on the devotion than the decorations, the promises rather than the presents, the commitments instead of the cake.

Maybe in a few years, when we’ve proven that we deserve it, we’ll have a more elaborate party – one that we can invite our children and grandchildren to.  Now that sounds like fun!  Let’s see…what colours should I choose?

Fathers Needed

When my son was born a year ago, my mom couldn’t come to help like she usually does (she had recently undergone knee replacement surgery).  Instead, my dad came to lend a hand.  He played games with the older children, did dishes faithfully, and vacuumed.

Late one morning I caught him on the back porch cleaning the vacuum filter with a toothpick and tweezers.  This simple act of service – doing this thing he knew I would never have time to do in the next several months – brought tears to my eyes.  That’s my dad.  Forever helpful, forever compassionate.

Is it any wonder I feel extra safe and extra loved when my dad comes to visit?  No one can ever take the place of a good dad.

Fathers are different than mothers.  That’s the way it’s supposed to be.  Among other things, they are great at wrestling, giving horsey rides, and teaching kids on a physical level.  Moms are usually better at nurturing and teaching on an emotional level.  The actions and teaching styles displayed by both parents are important in the healthy development of children.

Why do we belittle the role of fathers and downplay their importance?  Why do we let Hollywood tell us that we don’t need dads in the home?

All I need to do is look at the expression on my daughter’s face when her daddy tells her she looks pretty in her new dress, or performed well in a recital, or needs to do better at cleaning her room.  All I need to do is have my husband be away for an entire day to know how much we need him.

Fathers, we love you.  Please spend time with us.  Please be good to us.  The truth is: we need you desperately.

My Kind of Therapy

Around this time every year, I begin therapy.  My start time depends on the weather, but it’s usually sometime in May.  I pull on some gloves, take a breath of fresh air, and stab the ground with a fork.  The healing begins.

There’s something therapeutic about gardening.

It’s hard work cultivating, pulling out those pesky weeds, getting the soil ready for planting.  My muscles ache the next day or two so I give myself a break before I get down on my knees to start the planting.  In go the carrots, lettuce, zucchini, spinach, peas, Swiss chard, tomatoes, and chives.  And flowers, we can’t forget the flowers!

I anxiously watch the sky for sun and rain, and scour the ground for the first tiny green shoots to poke through the soil.  When I see them, I rejoice!

What is it about planting and caring for a garden that’s so soothing, so therapeutic?  I don’t like the dirt under my nails.  The weeds are annoying.  Sometimes the crops are disappointing.  Occasionally the deer and bunnies get to the plants before I do.

Yet there’s something about a garden, something about working to help the earth produce, something about growing nutritious food, something about nurturing, something about being outside, enjoying nature…feeling, smelling, tasting…seeing the worms wiggle through the dirt.

Both my grandmas had very green thumbs.  The one in New Zealand even won an award for her gardening skills and the grounds she cared for.  Maybe someday, if I continue with my therapy, my thumbs will turn green too.

Until then, there’s nothing quite like biting into a crisp, garden-fresh carrot.  Mmmm.  Let the therapy begin.

There's No Place Like Home

We added a few days to the long weekend and headed south for a vacation.  We attended a Valedictorian niece’s graduation, visited my husband’s grandma in a nursing home, celebrated our son’s first birthday, played games with my sisters, and watched fourteen cousins of varying ages interact.  It was wonderful!

But when we passed Edmonton on our way home, I got very excited.  The anticipation of getting home was greater than the anticipation of going away.  I couldn’t wait for my own bed, my own bath, my own kitchen, my own closet, my own computer…

Vacations are fun, but there’s no place like home.

The place we call home can change many times during our lives.  When I left home at the age of 19 and moved to Calgary, I still considered my parents’ home in BC to be my true home.  “I’m going home for Christmas” I would say.  I’m not sure when I stopped thinking of my parents’ home as my home; I think somewhere around the time I got married and started my own family.

I sometimes miss the acreage where I grew up, but that’s what memories and photographs are for. 

As I’ve moved from city to city, I’ve learned that home isn’t so much the location or the structure, but what’s inside.  We fill our homes with the people and things that we love, that make us comfortable, that make us happy.  It doesn’t matter if it’s an apartment, a mobile, a mansion, or a tent.

I’m thankful my parents (who are both 70 this year) realize this.  They took their most precious possessions and favourite furniture and moved into a seniors’ lodge.  They’re downsizing, reducing their luggage, understanding the vacation will end someday and they might as well be prepared for that inevitable, joyous move Home.