The Natural.

 

The Money Shot. (Thank you Celise!)

 

 

An open letter to our friends and family.

I can't imagine our wedding day being any better. Jim's service, the flowers, food, music, decorations, memorials, ...they were all perfect. But what made it such a great day, the best day of my life to this point (and that's not an exaggeration in the least), was the people. The significance of the day is magnified exponentially for every family member and friend in attendance (whether there in body or spirit.)

I feel so grateful for everyone who came together, collectively traveling tens-of-thousands of miles (from as far away as England), with kids in tow (and all that paraphernalia: car seats, diaper bags, strollers), and bearing gifts to boot. It humbles me.

Not only do I feel a renewed and more powerful sense of commitment toward Penny, I feel it toward everyone in my family, both biological and marital.

When you love someone the last thing you want to do is disappoint them, and for me that has served as motivation. I feel whatever good things I've accomplished over the last 6 years (and throughout my life) is due to the influence of so many good people, but in very large part due to Penny. Everyone who knows her knows their life is better for it. And I think (I hope) I've made her proud. (For all my nuuuuumerous flaws, I must be doing something right. Hell, she married me.)

I feel a similar sense of responsibility toward all the members of my newly (and drastically) extended family. (If our marriage was a novel it might be titled, How To Go From 5 to 105 Family Members in One Second.)

I hope I can make them feel proud to be in my family, as I feel pride in being related to their family.

As I've said before, a million 'thank yous' wouldn't be enough.

Love,

P.R.

Brothers 1970s 1980s 1990s 2000s -

 

"...until the end of my life."

Penny and I had talked about the vows, but in all honesty, we didn't really get a workable draft until the Wednesday before the ceremony. We wrote them in the car while driving to Michigan three days before the wedding, listening to one of our favorite CDs. (The song Jessie sang so amazingly at the beginning of the service is on this album.)

After laboring over what "ideas" about marriage and love we wanted to project, we just started talking about the things we want for each other. The rest came naturally, each of us contributing a line or an idea (then one of us would get emotional and start welling up).

We had discussed writing two different vows, but we realized that everything we want to say and do is contained in these two-dozen or so lines. (Inasmuch as a lifetime’s worth of promises can be summed up so concisely.) We read the same vows, made the same promises, simply changing "father" to "mother."

This is the second greatest promise one can make to another human being. (The first, of course, is the unwritten promises you make to your children when you bring them kicking and screaming - seemingly against their will - into the world.)

In my opinion marriage is no mere "contract." That's a legal term and has little relevance to the promises we made to each other. Our future is inextricably entwined because we choose it to be so.

It is truly awesome.

From the time that will henceforth be referred to as BW (Before Wedding)...a picture from the wedding shower.

While conversing (through email) with a friend who, sadly, could not make it to the wedding, I had joked about how she had missed the greatest wedding of all time...but I had capitalized all the words and referred to the wedding as GWAT, an unpleasant but humorous acronym which I will use forevermore.

(Or until Penny asks me to stop.)

I have to admit I feel guilty about the amount of time, money and effort so many people put into our marriage. I know that ‘blood is thicker than water’ and the pull of obligation that comes with friendship is strong. (Sometimes that’s a great thing and sometimes it’s irritating as hell.)

It’s amazing to me the number of people who came from thousands (or seemingly thousands considering Saturday’s downpour and being trapped in cars for hundreds of miles with family, friends and/or children) to watch Penny and I speak a dozen sentences to each other. And they gave us expensive kitchenware, amazing art and even their own hard-earned money for the "privilege."

As an adult I’ve never had a completely matching set of flatware. It’s always been a mix of hand-me-downs and ex-roommate or ex-tenant leftovers. I’ve had as many as 9 different types of forks in the same drawer. I can’t say it really bothered me much. But I must also say that it’s pretty cool to look into the silverware drawer in our kitchen and see the perfectly lined up (and shiny) rows of spoons and forks (two different kinds of each) nestled so symmetrically.

Is that weird?

One of our favorite places was olive et gourmando on rue St. Paul, in Old Montreal.





It was exactly the kind of place we were hoping to find.

I had a fantastic portabella paninni with olives, hummus and roasted red peppers.

The cappuccinos had foam thick enough to sleep on.

Friday night (our last in Montreal) we ordered take-out; a Cuban paninni and a small cheese plate Penny asked them to put together for us. We ate in our hotel room while watching Memoirs of a Geisha.

Courtesy of Mark - the Rajczyk/Gurvis/Goldman family...with its newest members Penny and Ben.

Dinner aboard the Bateau Mouche

 

 

 

 

 

La Palais de Congress 

 

It’s too tempting to write every impression, every recollection from the last 10 days.

I’ll resist…for now.

We’re going to get to see the “official” pictures tomorrow. (Many thanks again to Eddie.)

Until then…some images from Montreal...

Here's the first picture I took at my own wedding (using my trusty little digital)

Doesn't she look amazing?




















And here's the last picture I took on my wedding night.


















After the last beer had been emptied and the last s'more had been devoured, after the last car had left and the flames in the the bonfire had dwindled to embers, all that remained was a bale of hay (and somewhere off in the pasture, some very confused cows).

In about an hour we’ll be leaving for Michigan, our car packed with ribbon and picture frames and a small bubble maker to keep the kids entertained and a half-a-dozen cases of wine and 30 small pots of daisies.

When we return in two weeks the daisies will probably be wilting, the wine will have been long since consumed, the ribbon (having been tied to trees) will be frayed (if not burned in a bon fire). But we will be husband and wife and our new life will begin in earnest.

There will be laundry to do and dishes and the kitchen floor (which Penny hates because it scuffs so easily) will have to be washed. We will return to our jobs and there will be bills piled up on the desk (the cool antiquey one we found for $60 at an estate sale) in our foyer.

And nothing will be the same again.

As of this second (and anyone who lives in Michigan knows the weather can change by the minute) there is a 0% chance of rain for next Saturday in Grand Rapids. Thursday and Friday are standing at about 20% each day.

I know that some people will say the act of writing this down has just jinxed us. Well, I’m sure I’ve made this point abundantly clear - I don’t believe in that sort of stuff. I believe in luck (sort of) to the extent that you make your own. Sure, some people are born to rich parents, (or, sadly and more commonly, to poor parents) or with a certain look that their generation finds attractive, but basically your luck is what you make it.

For example, someone who wins the lottery is lucky…but you can’t win if you don’t buy a ticket. That’s making your own luck. It’s the same thing with marriage. You’re lucky if you meet someone you’re “compatible” with (however you define compatibility), but you have to work at making it into a relationship.

As for the weather…there’s nothing we can do about it. You can plan a wedding in a meadow, and if it’s 75 degrees and sunny, you’re lucky. But you should rent a tent just in case.

Forgive my indulgence.

Getting married next Saturday is the best decision I've ever made. I sincerely feel like the luckiest person I know. If I were a religious man I would use the word blessed.

I think of myself as a person whose belief system is based predominately in "reality." I believe in things that are provable. That being said, there are plenty of things I can't measure or "see" that I believe, things I think of often and will never truly understand: time is relative, the immensity of the universe, the power of human emotions.

My "pragmatic" belief system led me to reject ideas I shouldn't have:
-One person can change the world. (They can and do.)
-People can change (they can...for better or worse).
-I had to solve everything by myself (I underestimated peoples' abilities, or their capacity for caring).
-Marriage. (I dismissed it as antiquated, patriarchal, wealth control, institutionalized nonsense. Frankly, I thought it was a con.)

The irony (besides the all-too obvious irony that I'm getting married) is that my parents had an exemplary marriage. What I saw between them was respect, affection, empathy. What I never saw between them was disrespect, hostility, dishonesty. I never saw (and I mean this...never once) spite, hatred, apathy, jealousy.

Of course there were disagreements, between them, between my brothers and I, every imaginable combination.

And too little time.

It's easy to romanticize the past, especially now, so close to my own wedding. The emotions I feel from moment to moment are so heightened that everything I do (I'm not exaggerating...everything, from what I pick up at the grocery store to how I stand at the plate in my coed softball league) is literally imbued with more emotion than maybe such mundane acts should ever posses.

I well up with tears on a daily basis. We were sitting in Leona's the other day, just going over the plans for the ceremony: the introductions, who goes down the aisle when, we say the vows, etc. etc., and I started crying.

And my dad won't be there. I can't believe it's been almost seven years since he died. He never saw me go to grad school, write a play, never met the woman who is going to be the mother of my children. In so many ways he made me a better person, and Penny makes me a better person still.

Whatever good is in me is mine. But I didn't form it alone. Far from it. At this point in my life my human frailties are all mine; my strengths have been absorbed from better sources: philosophers, artists, people I've met (and I'm grateful for what I'm able to recognize as good in the world).

I never believed in "meant to be." And I still don't. It's nothing more than pure coincidence that Penny and I met. We were born in different cities, years apart. Grew up in completely different parts of the country. Our families were from different continents. We weren't introduced by friends, or betrothed as children. There was nothing "arranged" about our meeting; (I know, I know...that makes it seem even more like it was preordained). We were waiting tables in some random restaurant. When we met, there was undoubtedly a spark...but how did it happen that this person grew to become for me ... more than I believed was possible.

We've heard people say (usually in bad movies) I love her so much it scares me. I have no idea what these people are talking about. I've never felt safer in my life. Do I worry about money and kids (I have dreams about them) and "The Future?" Of course.

I'm not walking around in a foggy euphoria (I read way too much about politics to have any delusions). I know life is hard, and I know how lucky I am in more ways than I probably deserve.

Penny is the most obvious example of that.

You know that time between full sleep and full wakefulness? The time when you’re not sure whether you’re dreaming or actually experiencing? I love it. I looked it up; it’s called Hypnopompia. It’s defined as “the experiences a person can go through in the period of waking up.”

Experience is an interesting word. Because when you think about it, you’re not really experiencing anything. You’re just lying in bed. You’re not doing anything. The “experiences” are all in your mind. But they seem almost real. Sometimes you can’t be sure…’did that happen – or did I dream that.’ That’s pretty cool.

If you’re lucky, you get to take your time waking up. You get to experience even more of that other reality that occurs mostly in your head. If you wake quickly, one of those freaks that spring out of bed, that time is (sadly) short.

But I’ve been lucky recently in that most of my days I don’t have to wake at any given second. I don’t have the snooze button to look forward to and hate at the same time.

But I’ve been unlucky in that most of the conversations between Penny and I have taken place with one of us in that hypnapompic state. It’s always sweet, usually amusing and occasionally frustrating. We’ve learned to communicate under the most difficult of circumstances…with one of us barely conscious.

“Honey, did you see my keys?”

“Tfffhere inm…hmmm…de fhhhunt.”

“Thanks.”

If we can do this, then everything else will be a snap.

 

I just returned from five days on the farm. I cleared fallen limbs and branches, started painting the stage and ate more meat than any man (or woman for that matter) should.

The weather couldn’t have been nicer if I’d made it myself. Every day was rain-free. The few clouds were more picturesque than threatening.

I watched my first bull testing, a process so graphic everyone should be made to watch it. The smells…musky bull, earth, shit, and something else I won’t even try to describe though it’s the most palpable…more intuitive than sense-oriented. Loud, angry, frightened bulls don’t moo. They scream, honk, howl. They kick and thrust and fall onto their front knees drooling, their enormous mouths flinging spit and snot and occasionally blood in every direction while their heads are held in place by giant metal bars.

I saw a day-old calf, still wet and wobbly. 104 pounds. (I don’t care how big the mom is, that’s gotta be uncomfortable.)

The meadow and the pasture are starting to bud and bloom. It’s invigorating, physically and emotionally. Every time I leave there I wonder when I’ll be able to go back. (I wonder if I would appreciate it as much had I’d grown up there.)

People in “the country” know a lot about their world. More than the people I daily see. Black walnut trees (and how the taste is different from English walnuts), and multiflora rose (apparently invasive and a total nuisance), and garlic chives (growing wild everywhere in clumps and patches).

This wedding is going to be amazing.

100 days to go. Someone asked me the other day why, after all this time, did I feel it was time to ask Penny to marry me. I’m a person who likes specifics. I prefer the rational to the emotional (though anyone who’s seen me watch sports on TV would argue otherwise).

The only answer I can give in full sincerity is that it just felt right. After thinking and weighing (the options…not myself) and wondering and worrying…it simply felt right.

The old cliché is true; when you know you know. And I knew. And fortunately, so did Penny.

Penny and I went up to Richland Center, WI (thank you so much to grampa Ursin, Lois, Allen and Kristi). The clean air and open spaces almost hypnotized us. And Cody and Ebony are the sweetest dogs ever.