We Got Married Again, This time not in a fever

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans
to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a
future."
Jeremiah 29:11


I woke up this morning with a painful leg cramp in my left calf, a stab of agony more effective than any alarm clock. I staggered one-legged to the kitchen feeling decrepit and ridiculous and squeezed a dollop of yellow mustard into my palm and ate it in a hurried gulp. It makes the cramp go away almost immediately. Something to do with the vinegar or turmeric. Pickle juice works too. The pickles in Newton refrigerators are always drying out, their juices sacrificed to counter onslaughts of leg cramps, a curse inherited from our father and exacerbated by a failure to properly hydrate. But nothing can get a morning in motion as decisively as a leg cramp. Sometimes a little pain is a good thing. It prods you into action.

Dahlia needed color pages, although she probably has a stack around the house somewhere that would supply her until Fourth of July weekend 2018. She has a doll house she got yesterday at a holiday garage sale, a pink Barbie bedroom set that folds out in fantastic detail, complete with a used Barbie and a pink Barbie car, and another doll in shimmery silver princess dress. There is a whole social/political argument here about the merits of Barbie and body image, but Dahlia is delighted by her new treasures. She lays them out on the kitchen floor to show them to me, the four-poster bed that folds out with a drapery of delicate pink fabric above it, the white plastic makeup table and a private bathroom with stairs that lead up to the tub. I remark to her that her own room is like that, pretty and pink with nice furniture, but she sagely points out all the features of Barbie's first own room, not to disparage her own but in enthusiasm over her new toy. It's amazing the hours of happiness you can buy for a child for five bucks at a neighborhood garage sale; her mother got it for her on the way to the rodeo yesterday because the family would be busy with occasions and events today and Dally would need something to entertain her when she lost interest in the barrel races and rodeo clowns. It will be a long and joyous day for the Wheeler family. If your family is not busy this weekend you ought to come out and say hello. There's the rodeo featuring the One Armed Bandit and his trained buffalo, the Barbeque Contest, handsome cowboys and pretty girls, and fireworks. Your daughter or niece could play Barbies with Dahlia in the grandstands. I'm sure they'd be fast friends in two minutes. With kids it's as simple as "Want to play?" Color, creed or national origin do not matter, only sharing and taking turns. Kids are way ahead of us in understanding Dr. King's dream and the preamble to the constitution. They are sages in our midst, and the hope and delight of the village.

Marie and I had a marvelous day yesterday, at General Canby Days, held annually at Wait Park in Canby, Oregon on the fourth of July. One of the highlights was strolling around and seeing all the beautiful babies and small children. We have a habit, borne out of a belief, of always to stopping to admire and smile and compliment families we meet on their babies and little ones. For one we both genuinely adore kids, and for another it is tremendously gratifying to see the pride rise to the parents' faces in having their child praised, and we mean every word of it. To see their bright faces and best picture-taking outfits and delighted smiles is a tonic and a joy. Marie adores children, had four of her own she nursed until 24 months, and babies unfailingly smile eagerly when she bends down to greet them. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat children and old people, and my lovely wife has a special light for both.

We strolled about Wait Park and had a banquet from the food booths, chicken curry from a taste of Himalaya, marionberry shortcake, apple pie, Vietnamese chicken skewers, cold lemonade. There was a band playing in the gazebo and they played two hours without a break, a group of older fellows, one in a Hawaiian shirt that looked like Elvis, a heavy set guy on bass, and a lead guitar player in a straw hat. They played Chuck Berry and the Eagles and a tender version of America the Beautiful, and a couple of ten-year-old girls danced with one other on the grass, a few couples joining them around the park. The parade started at two; we were delighted to see we'd gotten there just in time. There was the mayor riding in a beautifully restored yellow 1938 Ford, the junior high marching band, Cub Scout troupe 503, the Canby youth football program, the Community Theater Production of "Lil Abner," veterans in their uniforms, the Greatest Generation taking one last march to scattered applause, clowns tossing candy, fire trucks, antique tractors, ambulances and police cars and the Les Schwab tow truck. Two little boys watched from the corner waving tiny flags. A family across the street clapped for every entrant, the boys and girls who'd decorated their bikes with red white and blue streamers and the library float. Politicians shook hands and their supporters waved signs. Cutsforth's Market had the best float, a old grocery truck with a produce display on its bed, purple cabbage and red peppers and yellow squash and fresh lettuce laid out to form a rainbow. The hokiness of a small town parade is the center of its charm, the open declaration that these simple things are the best we have and we're damned proud of them and we should be, and the real stars of the parade are the shining faces that line up along its route and set out their folding chairs, believing and hoping in their town and the people who work there.

After the parade broke up Marie and I lost $12 playing 50 cent Knights of Columbus bingo, called out cheerfully by a handsome man in a Canby Cougar hat. I tried everything; I did the wave, held my card upward toward the sky, turned my baseball cap into a rally hat, but we were cursed in bingo. We couldn't win. The little girl across from us needed G-47 to win 9.50 and we were rooting fervently for at least her to get a win but another lady rose excitedly to her feet after B-11. Our losses mounted until we gave up, barely escaping Bingo addiction.

We bought some kettlecorn and a couple of bottles of water and toured the crafts booths. There was an art workshop where for 5.00 you got a small mounted canvas and dabs of oil paints, and the instructor would lead you through the creation of your own landscape painting, and some of the resulting efforts were genuinely beautiful to look at. A couple booths down were some hand-carved mahogany statues and delicate vases, and some college students selling Hawaiian shaved ice.

On the other side of the street there was a booth selling inexpensive necklaces and jewelry, and among her wares the lady had a velvet tray of men's rings. Faithful readers of the blog know our story began June 1st and I had just sold my ring in the fourth month of our separation. Marie had pawned her engagement ring by then, although she still wears her wedding band on her right hand, a modest one with small diamonds and tiny pink sapphires. I sold the ring because I was broke and discouraged, and when Marie found out she tore at my face with her fingernails, enraged that I could be so callous and certain I had discarded and dishonored our vows. I hadn't, but her rage was overpowering and real and nothing you could reason with.

Five weeks have gone by now and a lot of patient work and prayer and healing, and this had been the loveliest of days. I pointed to one ring and the vendor, a woman with short gray hair and gray eyes, probably in her late sixties, handed it to me and I turned it over in my hands. Sixteen dollars, just a little more than the cost of two rounds of golf at Frontier, the old Sisul farm. It was thin and cheap, engraved with lotus blossoms and scrollwork. "Will it tarnish?" Marie asked. "It's sterling silver," the vendor replied, eager for a sale, "It will tarnish a little but it will wear best if you wear it everyday and use a little polish from time to time time. It's a traditional Hawaiian design."

I tried it on. I have a broken knuckle on my ring finger, an old Thanksgiving football injury that healed poorly, and it's difficult to find rings that fit. "It's a size 12," she said, "the largest one I have." I tugged it over the enlarged knuckle. It fit perfectly. The wedding band Marie had bought me in February 2006 was thick and sturdy, platinum, polished and manly. This one was slightly effeminate and decidedly cheap. I had $20 left after bingo and our snacks. "At least it's a ring," I said. "We can get a nicer one later." I gave the woman our $20 and took change, and Marie and I kissed. She transferred her wedding band back from her right hand to her left and we went back over to hear some more music from the band.

The rest of our second honeymoon was a simple one. We had no place to lay together so we went over to the golf course and then to Molalla state park, took a hike along the river. Then we bought some fried chicken and grapes and two tall cans of beer at Safeway, and drove over to the field behind Trost school to watch fireworks, a large, lovely display of soaring rockets and brilliant colors. There was another family parked next to us, portable chairs set up in front of their red mini van, and they too had a beautiful baby with pudgy kissy cheeks. We held hands with the top down and watched the fireworks, kissed goodbye, and Marie got in her car and drove home. It had been the most pleasant day, easily our best Fourth of July. Troubled couples particularly struggle around holidays. So much stuff gets dredged up, and expectations are heightened. She is a beautiful, tender girl. And now we are wearing our rings again, and that's a good beginning.