Suzy Says

You guys! Jarrett and Kalli are engaged!

While yes, they were already engaged, Jarrett had not yet given Kalli the ring. He spent a lot of time getting just the right ring, and he wanted to give it to her at the family estate, where they are planning to get married next year.

I wondered how he was going to surprise Kalli with the ring, and here’s how he did it. They decided to visit us from Eureka, where they live, to select just the right spot for the wedding. We knew it would be down where my siblings’ land partners, Dave and Jennifer, live, so we piled into the golf cart and headed down there, with Jarrett hiding the ring in his pocket.

Option A was what we call the Vista Viewpoint*, where there is a little fence and a slightly obstructed view over the redwoods towards the neighboring ridge. Option B was the place where Dave and Jennifer will eventually build their house. It has a sweeping view, flat land big enough for 50 or more chairs for wedding guests, and trees that create a natural altar for vow taking:

As soon as Kalli saw it, she said, “This is it! This is the place!”

She and Jarrett sealed their choice with a kiss, and then Jarrett got down on one knee and said:

“Kalli, I love you so much. You enrich my life, and every day that you’re with me, you inspire me to be a better man. I look so forward to living our lives together. Will you marry me?”

Kalli’s response: “Oh fuck yeah, I will! Get that ring on me!”

Here is the ring:

It’s a natural ruby, which is Kalli’s birthstone, adorned with champagne diamonds. It’s hard to tell from the photo, but the band looks like a twig. I’ve never seen anything quite like it, and it suits Kalli perfectly.

We celebrated with champagne and a family barbecue followed by a pie Jonathan made from home-grown raspberries:

As the sun began to set and the twinkle lights came on:

I looked around at all the happy, beloved faces around me, the dogs playing together and laughter in the air as we celebrated the past, present, and future together.

*Always reminds me of the Vista Cruiser in “That 70s Show”.

A YEAR AGO: A flat tire is never good.

FIVE YEARS AGO: A camping party.

TEN YEARS AGO: Touring some local artists’ studios.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Mammograms are never fun.

TWENTY YEARS AGO: A visit to the County Fair.

I decided to try some of my own frivolous medicine to help me deal with the recent losses in my life. If it worked for Erica and John, maybe it would work for me, too. I started by indulging in the Royal Wedding, which I had recorded on BBC America so I could merrily fast forward through the hours of boring stuff, like endless speculation on the dress and man in the street interviews. I started watching when Meghan’s car left the hotel.

It was a beautiful day, and I have to say that there is nowhere lovelier than England on a fine spring or summer day. I was glad to see the flawless blue sky and the sun shining down on Windsor. The flowers wreathed around the chapel door were just breathtaking, as were the flowers inside. Harry’s nervousness and William’s joking with him to calm him were charming to see, as was the deep bond between the two of them. I think their mother would have been proud and pleased and I am sure she was in their thoughts.

Meghan looked stunning. I didn’t love her dress, but I did love the train and veil, thoughtfully embroidered with flowers representing every country in the Commonwealth, and the fabulous accessories, from the Cartier bracelet to Queen Mary’s tiara. I couldn’t help but wonder what that formidable queen would have thought of her descendant marrying an American divorcée.

I wish that Meghan had just walked the whole way to the altar by herself instead of just halfway. To me, either she should have been escorted the whole way or been alone the whole way. Her mother certainly looked lonely in her little corner, the only representative of Meghan’s family. I have to give grudging respect to Prince Charles for how he looked after the mother of the bride after the ceremony.

The service itself was the perfect blend of English and American, though perhaps I think that because I myself am the perfect blend of English and American. Reverend Curry stole the show with his uplifting and passionate sermon, the likes of which I am sure has never been heard before at any English wedding, let alone a royal one. The Queen, looking magnificent as always, took it all in stride.

Harry and Meghan’s kiss on the steps of the chapel, under the gorgeous flower arch, was perfection. They are such a beautiful couple, and so clearly in love. The way they looked at each other as they made their vows was a joy to behold. And as they rode through the streets in an open carriage, waving to the ecstatic crowd, it was hard not to feel that a new chapter had started, both in their lives and the Royal Family’s.

A YEAR AGO: The landline ringing was once again bad news: Star had a seizure. She recovered and is fine, though!

FIVE YEARS AGO: Goodbye, disused, decayed and dangerous hot tub! I think I’ll miss you least of all!

I’m not known for my church-going. Having atheist parents will do that to you (and make you wish you had something to rebel against). I can’t remember the last time I was in a church, but it was likely a great cathedral in England with my father. For an atheist, he loved to visit cathedrals and churches in his native land, regarding them as part of his heritage and history. He also had an amazing ability to sing hymns without hymn books, since his school days started with hymns as mine did with the Pledge of Allegiance. Do kids still do that*?

I will, however, remember my most recent visit to a religious establishment.

One of the receptionists invited me to her baby’s baptism at St. Anthony’s in Mendocino. It is the oldest parish in the county, and the church is small, but charming:

I expected that the ceremony would be part of a Mass on Sunday, but unsurprisingly for one uneducated in the ways of organized religion, I was wrong about this. The baptism was held on a Saturday, in a stand-alone event.

I arrived a few minutes before the appointed hour, and was bemused to note that I seemed to be the only one there. I peeked into the church, and it was empty, as was the hall. I texted my boss, who was also invited, and she confirmed the place and time and added that she was on her way.

Eventually people started showing up, including the guest of honor in a long white dress and fetching bonnet. We took our places in the pews, where I admired the striking ocean mural behind the altar:

and the pretty stained glass windows:

The family of the baby to be baptized was also at the altar in all their finery, but the godparents were nowhere to be seen. The priest called out, “Where are the godparents?” When he got no response, he stormed down the aisle, robes flapping, fuming, “I’ll find them myself!”

He did, and the tone was set for the ceremony. He raced through it, not allowing anyone to answer presumably important questions like “Do you reject Satan?” before barreling on to the next rhetorical question. It was the same with the “pray for us” call and response with the audience. It was like the whole thing was choreographed by the Ramones.

At the end of the ceremony, he vanished out a side door, never to be seen again. I didn’t realize it was over at first.

I expected him to thank us for witnessing such a momentous occasion, and possibly shake our hands on the way out the door, but he was off to be grumpy somewhere else.

All in all, it was not the beautiful, spiritual event I had expected. But it was memorable.

A YEAR AGO: I was in beautiful Monterey, enjoying the Aquarium, the warmth, and the sandy beaches.

FIVE YEARS AGO: A ceremony of a different kind: a surprise wedding!

*My knowledge of kids and what they do is almost as extensive as my knowledge about churches and what people do in them. I realized recently that none of the people I still keep in touch with from high school have kids, and with delightful exceptions like Erica, most of my friends don’t, either. Hmmm…

Every month at the jobette, we feature a different artist and try and have a theme for First Friday, the day we and other downtown businesses stay open late and pour wine and serve nibbles, alomg with book signings and meeting artists.

This month, we featured the fine woodworking students’ work from our local college, which was displayed at a gallery on Main Street this month. The students installed a wonderful window display at the jobette. Here it is from the inside – I couldn’t get an outside shot that wasn’t totally glare-y:

This is a very prestigious program, and students apply from all over the world for one of the 22 available spots. The students must be dedicated to their craft: they will be at school six days a week, eight hours a day. As you can see, however, the time is well spent.

This set is inspired by “Mad Men” and is called “Don and Roger”:

Here’s a better look at the top of the “Don” table, which certainly conveys the complexity and elegance of the mysterious Mr. Draper:

This corner cabinet is beautiful in itself:

But when you open it, the door looks like a wing, and you can see that the texture of the wood inspired the artist to make an altar to his totem animal, the owl:

It’s a very spiritual and moving piece. Guy, I thought of you when I saw it.

This was my favorite, an exquisite roll top desk with elegant, willowy legs:

So feminine! And so cleverly designed: the roll top vanishes into the body of the desk when it is rolled back.

I’m so proud of these young artists and what they have achieved. Their fiutures look bright – and beautiful.

Decisions, decisions! Last Friday, there was the tree lighting ceremony in the Big Town, to be followed by the Lighted Truck Parade. It was also First Friday, the day that shops and galleries stay open late, and I should have stopped in to see my colleagues, but I had other plans.

Going to church.

It was very possibly the first time I had been to church since my father’s memorial service eleven years ago, and that was in a Quaker meeting house actually built and attended by William Penn. You know, the guy who put the Penn in Pennsylvania. It was nearly 400 years old and beautifully simple.

The church in this case is one of the best known and best loved landmarks in the Village (and is also both a national and a state historic landmark), built in 1867 of local redwood to replace a much smaller building put up a decade earlier. Here’s how it looked then:

And here’s how it looks now:

Fortunately, I had brought my trusty little flashlight, which has taken up its winter residence in whatever handbag from the Suzy Collection that I happen to be carrying. It was pretty dark in the Village, despite the occasional streetlight and the welcoming light from the church’s beautiful windows:

I scored a cushioned pew right next to the heating vent – bliss! – and about 5 rows from the altar. After taking off my coat, I looked around. This was my first visit inside this little jewel box, and it is just beautiful:

I could easily imagine the chandelier and wall sconces lit with flickering candles instead of eletcric light bulbs. It’s hard to tell from this picture, but the cross is beautifully hand carved:

Those are little white paper doves on the holiday decorations.

I was there to see my beloved swimming teacher, Sallie, sing in a choir. In addition to teaching swimming to grown-ups and kids, she is also an addiction counselor, and somehow still finds time to go to practices and perform in a choir. She is the petite girl on the left in the front row:

Sallie is radiant when she sings – she just glows. I told her that after the performance and she said that she loves to sing. It definitely shows!

It was an eclectic program, including spirituals and songs from all over the world, as well as a hymn or two and Christmas carols. For “Ave Maria”, the choir split up and some went into the choir loft:

which produced an ethereal stereo effect for the haunting song. In one of the spirituals, there was a line about how Mary had only one child, which made me wonder how that happened. Assuming Jesus, Mary, and Joseph were real, you’d think that birth control would have been an issue back then.

And although “Silent Night” was my beloved maternal grandmother’s favorite carol, the “Holy infant so tender and mild” part always make it sounds like you’re going to eat him. But I kept these thoughts to my silly, shallow Self (at least until now).

When the performance was over, I greeted some friends and chatted for a while before heading home under the blazing stars. It was a magical evening.

I guess I – and you – should just get used to the time lag between things happening and my reporting on them, if you haven’t already. I am now writing about a long, long time ago, about last Friday. In fact, it was last Friday.

One of the many things I love about our little community is its vibrant arts scene. The Big Town celebrates this on the first Friday of every month, with galleries and shops staying open late and serving wine and nibbles. The First Friday this month was also our “new” office’s Grand Opening:

Megan and I stopped by to say hello, and were warmly greeted by my colleagues. I felt like the King of Kensington introducing her to so many people, and it made me realize how much I have become part of the community in the (relatively) short time I have lived here. Claudia Springs was there, pouring local wine, and there were appetizers and music. Our Chairman, a County native, just happens to be a founding member of the seminal 1960s band It’s A Beautiful Day, which was part of the San Francisco music scene along with luminaries like the Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane, and was DJing the event. It was a huge success and I’m really glad we stopped in.

Next up was the incredible altar display at Town Hall, which I have attended in the past and really didn’t want to miss. This is in the Mexican tradition of celebrating lost loved ones on the Day of the Dead, the day after Halloween or All Souls’ Day. We were greeted by a wonderful painted skull in a birdcage decorated with Monarch butterflies:

The perfect way to set the tone. The Hall was filled with beautiful altars to remember lost loved ones. This one, for a librarian, was both my and Megan’s favorite:

From this view, you can see that the “roof” of the altar is a book:

I love the little brass hands holding the library book cards.

This one is a suitcase full of love:

It is for a woodworking artist, shown in his studio.

Besides the delightfulness of the sugar skull with the candy corn, this wonderful little box with family photos and handmade white silk roses contains a touching little poem, which starts:

Clearly that goal was achieved:

And this lovely lady is remembered in all her glamorous glory, with her embellished compact and swansdown powder puff:

I’d like to be remembered that way, too.

And now back to our regularly scheduled program. Hope you didn’t mind the brief detours into the sporty and political.

As I mentioned in the Halloween post, the Town Hall had a beautiful exhibit of Day of the Dead (Dia de los Muertos) altars. For those of you who aren’t familiar with this ritual, it goes back thousands of years to indigenous people in Mexico. Altars are made for dead family and friends, including marigolds, decorated sugar skulls, and mementoes, and families go to cemeteries to visit their dead, celebrating them with food and drink. I love the idea of welcoming our lost loved ones into our lives.

The celebration occurs around Halloween, but isn’t related. In most parts of Mexico, November 1 is dedicated to children (Day of the Innocents or Day of the Little Angels) and November 2 to adults (Day of the Dead).

The Town Hall exhibit included both kinds. They were beautiful.

For a life-long traveling salesman.

This one could be for me.

Monica coordinated this lovely remembrance of pets. I might contribute next year. I was too sad this year. I think it was too soon.

For a little angel.

I love the chintz suitcase.

Frida Kahlo inspired.

There was a thunderstorm last night.

I hate thunderstorms.

Fortunately, we don’t get them very often, and when we do, they don’t have the verve and ferocity of East Coast storms. I still remember the storms we had during the summers in Maine when I was a kid: lightning smashing a tree in half right outside our cottage (conveniently located on a pond, for extra lightning attraction); lightning crackling out of the outlets in the walls; the house shaking with the might of thunder.

I shook right along with it, but my father and brother would count the time between the thunder and lightning, calculating how far away the storm was and when it was (thankfully) going to bother someone else.

Here in my little house surrounded by trees threatening to blow down in the storm and crush roof, car, or Self, it’s impossible to escape the storm. The living room has big sliding glass doors, a window above them, and from the couch I can also see the glass-paned front door and the skylight in the bedroom. In the bedroom, there’s the shaky balcony door, which blows open in the wind, and the afore-mentioned skylight. Since it’s a loft, I can also see the glass doors and living room window, even when I’m in bed. It’s like living in a fishbowl, especially when you’re trying to avoid the sightning of lightning and the rumbling of thunder.

It’s not a completely unreasonable fear. I mean, people do get struck by lightning. My grandmother once told me the story of a relative who was engaged to a man with a crotchety old mother. Apparently, he couldn’t get married until the old lady had shaken off this mortal coil, and she took her time about it. Eventually he was free to marry, though the parties involved were no longer young. But before they could make it to the altar, she was hit by lightning when crossing a field and died an old maid. The horror! I’m not sure if it’s a true story or an Awful Warning meant to keep silly girls from venturing out in thunder storms, but considering that I still remember it after more than 30 years suggests that it made an impression.

The storm seems to passed during the night, and I was happy to wake up and find that the power hadn’t been knocked out. Every time it’s rainy and windy I worry about that. Megan and Rob have had two trees fall in their garden so far this winter, but both of them fell politely away from the house and damage was avoided. For now.

I’m kind of surprised by how upset I am over losing the original of this post. I had a hard time putting it back together. And it’s not as good as the original.

Also, since I had internet problems when I was up there last week, I got out of the habit of writing nearly every day. I find the more I write, the more I write. If I take a few days off, I have a hard time getting back in stride. Go figure.

Here’s the reconstituted post. Sigh.

Rose’s funeral fiesta was amazing. It was held at her former house, which will soon be my house. Dozens and dozens of people were there; kids ran around the garden and played on the trampoline. It turns out that I also have a swing, seen here being modeled by Jessica:

There was a buffet, and a bar with red and white wine, water, lemonade, and of course margaritas. Overhead, there were beautiful hand-cut banners with images traditional for Mexican Dia de los Muertos* (Day of the Dead) celebrations. Here you can see skeletons bearing a coffin, with lit candles on either side:

There were little shrines all over the garden, with flowers, candles, little sculptures, shells, and some of Rose’s work (she was a gifted potter and artist). I love the saw repurposed as art in the last photo:

There was an altar for Rose, covered with photos from every stage of her life. My favorite was one of her sitting happily in a hammock, beaming with joy.

All over the garden, there were notes and letters to Rose and her family pinned to the trees. We also wrote messages in a little book. I have to admit that I was as proud as a mother when I saw Jessica write “I miss you Rosemarie. Love, Jessica” in the book. She signed her name in cursive writing, a new accomplishment.

A mariachi band had come all the way from Santa Rosa, and serenaded us as we ate, drank, and talked. Erica set up a tip jar for the band before setting to work carving a watermelon to look like a flower.

Mark, who was Rose’s son-in-law, announced the last song the mariachis would play. It is a traditional farewell song, and sounded to my untutored ears like “Los Galindos”. Mark says the title means something like “Little Birds”. It was a lovely and moving song. As the artists took their leave (and their tip jar), we moved our chairs to the part of the garden where Rose’s altar was.

A microphone was set up, and people got up and spoke about Rose, including her granddaughters and, remarkably, their friends, all of whom were less than 10 years old; the woman who had introduced James and Rose many years ago in Baja; and James’s cousin. There were laughter and tears, and many shared memories. Rose’s daughter Citlali recited a poem, and played a tape of Rose’s brother Axel, who couldn’t be there, singing Charlie Chaplin’s Smile.

As the sun began to set, Mark set a large chunk of clay beside Rose’s altar and invited everyone to take a piece and make a bead, which would be fired in Rose’s kiln. I patterned mine with little dots in spirals, and Erica made hers look like a little face. Here are some of the beads on Rose’s altar:

The celebration went on long into the night, with impromptu music provided by the guests, playing guitar, harmonica, and conga drums. Candles were lit and flickered in the moonlight. As Mark hugged me good-bye, he gestured around the garden and said, “She is everywhere here.”

*It’s on November 1. My new landlords have offered to celebrate with us, so we can do something special for our parents. It’s the day after Halloween, when I will be the newest member of Jessica’s trick-or-treating entourage. Last year’s numbered six.