January 13, 2010

Presents on River Road


“The birthday of my life has come, my love has come to me.” - Christina Rossetti

January 10th, Mark celebrated his first married birthday. Since it fell on a Sunday, I had all intentions of devising a unique and mildly eventful weekend full of leisurely, comforting things to do. “I’ll make a reservation,” I thought to myself, “for Saturday morning at Mother’s downtown. He’ll have the eggs benedict and I the crepes, and we’ll lean over the table beside the window and watch the people go by." Then, perhaps we’d stroll a bit about Portland, dodging raindrops and window shopping our way through the afternoon. I’d looked into taking a tour and tasting of the Clear Creek Distillery, but found that I should have looked weeks ago. I am ever amazed at how far in advanced the rest of the world seems to plan. I had hoped that we might find ourselves that evening by the fireplace at the Stillhouse, or at home over a lavish dinner I’d been preparing all week. We’d conclude our birthday celebration, then, with the little something that had been waiting on the shelf in the closet for Mark. It would be “just what he wanted!” And thrilled would I be that all had gone so swimmingly.

But his birthday weekend was nothing like this. No, in fact, I believe it was a great deal more satisfying and enjoyable than anything I could have designed on my own. We woke early Saturday morning and, stirring our minds with conversation, lay warm in bed discussing what we knew had to be done that day. The CV joints. They must be taken care of. The day was dry and vacant. We readied ourselves together (which is a most delightful way to begin any day) and said goodbye. We don’t usually have to say goodbye on Saturday mornings, but the CV joints beckoned Mark as my ample wealth of homework beckoned me. It would be all day before my husband returned, only to bear news that there were complications in the installation of the CV joints, his car was rendered undrivable, and we would need to purchase a new part and complete the project the next day - his birthday.

Sunday morning, I must confess, we did not attend church. Sympathize, for this was not out of idleness or remiss. It was the CV joints. We enjoyed breakfast together (at Shari’s, not Mother’s), then made our way over to acquire a replacement part for the car. The drive out my grandparents’ farm (where the doctoring of Mark’s car was occurring) was most delightful. The sky was brilliantly clouded, looming over the ribbon of river we followed. I was eventually grateful for the slow-moving vehicle ahead of us, obviously timid on the winding country road, and for the way time passed so slowly. I made that drive as a child innumerable times - know every bend, every curve, every waterspout jutting from the land slopes above. I know that my dad used to jump off the Carver Bridge as a kid into the Clackamas, and can almost hear the slap of his tennis shoes hitting the water. I know which farm our Christmas trees came from, know the house that used to be a school, know when the road of trees bursts out into the open road of flat, quiet farmland. But we were driving so slowly this time that I could not help but notice things I never noticed before - not the least of which was making a childhood drive now with my husband beside me in the car. You see, I cannot explain it, but there was something spectacular about this.

This birthday weekend was most grand for that reason. Mark and I are both admittedly rather nostalgic people. I suppose I had never felt so young and so grown at once. I think this must be why he likes to watch old movies with me - ones he grew up with, and why he wants to take me to Disney Land, and why he brought me out to Dexter the night he asked me to marry him. To know every part of another person is not merely to engage with them in present experiences, but to also invite them, urge them, into your past. We didn’t get to grow up together as children, but oh, the ways in which we fuse our pasts with this glorious present! That was evermore better than any jaunt downtown. And he did, I might add, fix his car.

Happy birthday, my love. I hope this weekend was as much a gift to you as it was to me.


January 4, 2010

When Potatoes Attack


Dear Reader, I began my new year with a most unexpected encounter with the unearthly. Though admittedly I am a stranger in my own kitchen, and often do I consider the place to be otherworldly, nothing could prepare me for the visitation I would receive the evening of January 1st. I’ve seen things in there before that are better left untold, most undesirable, and far-too-long-neglected. I’ve witnessed the total destruction of leftover-leftovers, what becomes of a bag of forgotten lettuce, mold of every type, the unexplainable thing that happens to blackberry jam when the lid has not been properly sealed ... but I shall keep this post PG-rated. Our refrigerator, indeed, could often be mistaken for some kind of 5th grade science experiment. But nothing has ever disturbed me so greatly as the monster of a vegetable I found doing things behind my back in the kitchen. Mark and I were there together that night pondering what to have for dinner, when I recalled the bag of untouched potatoes that had been hibernating in the cupboard. Thinking they could use the light of day, I flung open the door to a most horrifying sight. Now, trust that I have since educated myself on the nature of potatoes and their customs, but you can imagine my terror when I saw this:

Fortunately I had my husband there to protect me.

Life has resumed as normal, I do believe. We have come to accept the peculiar foreigners living in our cupboard, and I’m not so afraid to be there alone with them. So long as I don’t imagine them conspiring or discovering ways to use their new little appendages, all is well.

All is very well. Mark and I traveled miles during Christmas - sharing our families, driving about, reveling in old friendships, expending more calories than were consumed, caught up in the warmth of our past homes, giving up some traditions and welcoming new ones. It was a rich and wonderful time. Now I sit in the cozy student lounge at Marylhurst and try not to prepare myself mentally for my first day back. I would say that life is back to normal, but there’s nothing normal (in its bland and ordinary sense) about today. We are still quite enamored with marriage, and quite eager for every new morning, every new thing :)

Happy New Year from the Maricles and their uninvited guests!