Packing for the trip I thought about taking my locket with
some of Don’s ashes inside, thinking if I kept him close to my heart the whole
time I wouldn’t feel like a lost lamb surrounded by celebrating couples. But it
didn’t look good with my dress and as I debated the wear-it-anyway question it
struck me that I was being a king-sized, melodramatic widow. If I had thrown
the back of my hand to my forehead and dropped down on a fainting couch, it
wouldn’t have surprised me. A cartoonist would have drawn me as a Victorian lady
covered from head to toe in black with a tidy bun at the back of my head and me
clutching a heart-shaped ash urn locket the size of a box of a Russell Stover candy.
What to do. What to do. That scene in
my head finally made me smile. I was being silly to worry. I put the locket
back in its box. I was a big girl. I could go to a place where a good share of
the guests would be related. And for the bonus round I could even have a couple
of fuzzy navels and not worry about being the designated driver for the first
time in twelve years.
The biggest problem I had getting ready for the trip,
though, was finding a kennel for Levi. I interviewed three before finding one I
trusted not to seriously damage my little guy beyond repair. The first kennel I
checked out had 15 or 20 dogs all running wild together in a sun drenched field
on a 97 degree day. Levi likes the air conditioned comforts of home too much
for that. At the second kennel the owner had forgotten we had an appointment
and in the 20 minutes I waited around I discovered I could have walked right in
an open garage door at the back of the building and let all the dogs out to
play in traffic or worse. The third kennel passed the worried mom test and I
was confident I’d found a weekend sitter who wouldn’t be spending all her time making
prank calls involving letting Prince Albert out of the can. If you don’t get
that joke then you can rejoice you’re not old like me.
The weekend was a wonderful break from life as I’d come to
know it in recent months. I had such a good time. I laughed until my sides
ached and the only time I got teary-eyed thinking of Don was during the
exchanging of vows. At the reception unbeknownst to me my niece, niece-in-law, great-niece and assorted other relatives had all plotted to get me drunk and they kept the flow of champagne punch coming my way. There wasn’t enough liquor in the punch to get a
mouse drunk but eight glasses later---which was seven more than I’d normally
have---I was on the dance floor trying to keep up with the kids doing the
Macarena. Don once told me I looked like a refrigerator on a dolly when I
roller skated---he could literally skate circles around me---and while I was
dancing the thought crossed my mind that I probably didn’t look much different
trying to make my old bones find the clave rhythm. Hey, Macarena!
The bottom line? It was a beautiful ceremony, well-written
and perfectly timed around a rain storm just off shore. The reception was fun
and the stay at my brother’s cottage gave me a chance to spend some quality
time with people I don’t see as often as I’d like. Thanks to my family
who surrounded me with love, I made it over the widowhood hurdle of going to my
first big social event without Don at my side and I not only lived to tell about
it but I had a great time. ©
