As I’ve written before, I normally don’t read other people’s blogs for the same reason I don’t “instant message.” You and I may be friends, but I really don’t care what you did last Friday, or if you’re out of Q-Tips, or if your husband sometimes makes you feel not cherished and special, or if you’ve written a poem in tribute to Barack Obama while you cried over your afternoon chamomile tea and your cat Mr. Snuffers nuzzled your bare feet.
Sorry, I fell asleep just then thinking about that.
Having said that, I’d like to tell you what I did two weekends ago. That was the weekend I went to Kim and Curt’s wedding in the Amish Country/Southern Pennsylvania Arts Belt. Then I traveled south to Virginia, not unlike Lee retreating after his own Northern invasions, to visit Carrie and Jeremy. Wedding photos, for those of you who haven’t already seen them, are on my flickr site (see link to the right).
As many of you know, Curt and Kim have been involved for quite some time, but have faced some unique challenges not of their making in being able to reach this point, so their wedding culminated a dedicated and patient time of working through those challenges and building a stronger relationship.
OK, even I'm not sure what that meant.
But it was time to party hardy.
I flew into BWI on Thursday night, and picked up my rental white Hyundai Sonata with XM satellite radio around 7:30, making the drive up to Lancaster in the dark. This was a vast improvement over the purple Ford Probe I was assigned many years ago by the rental place in San Francisco while visiting Kimberly. Near Union Square, two extremely attractive women crossing an intersection pointed at the car and started laughing at me in my purple Probe while I was stopped at the light. So this was a vast improvement. After somehow figuring out my wrong turn just as I could see the Baltimore skyline, I rocked on past corn fields and McDonalds’ turnoffs in the night, listening to Fox Sports Radio.
I arrived at the Lancaster Arts Hotel around 10, just in time to catch the tail end of "legal secretary meets insurance salesman happy hour" at the John J. Jeffries restaurant downstairs. Now, this is quite the unusual establishment. Its in a renovated old red brick warehouse building, in a cluster of other such buildings near downtown Lancaster. Its an “arts” hotel, meaning that everything is geared around creativity, or as they put it “inspiration.” Every hall is filled with paintings, as are the walls in every room. Each room has a flat screen HD television, a wine cooler, and other fancy touches. The guest services book is printed in the form of a paint sample book, the front desk is called the “inspiration station,” and the maids are referred to as “room stylists.” And they serve breakfast burritos at breakfast, which is where I first happened upon Steven Salzman, our mutual friend from school and college, who of course looks as if though time has stood still for him.
Naturally I had work to do the next day before the 5:30 wedding, so, it being a beautiful day and all, I made the quick trip over to Franklin and Marshall College, a small liberal arts school founded in 1787. This is the second time I’d been on its small but pleasant campus; you’ll understand my attraction for it if you see some of the photos . After walking for a bit, I found a spot in the main mall area and started reading testimony for a few hours. Kind of weird doing that, as the students walked by on the hour between classes. But no less weird than the college mascot. They are the Franklin and Marshall “Diplomats.” Hey Diplomats. Let me explain the whole team mascot concept to you. Its supposed to be something that in real life is kind of menacing, like tigers or bears or, I don’t know, tax accountants. Something to give you some kind of imposing identity as your team hits the field. You get worried having to play the Steelers, or the Giants. But the “Diplomats”? Not so much. What are they going to do? Negotiate a treaty with you? Enter into a joint communiqué outlining a mutually agreeable fourteen point peace plan? Yeah, you people may want to come up with some other mascot.
Attending the wedding itself turned into a typical Chris Reeder enterprise, meaning that I was late and ill-prepared. I told Suzanne that I’d give her a ride, and of course hadn’t managed to get good directions either to her hotel or to the church, requiring phone calls first to her hotel front desk, then to my secretary back in Austin for directions. Even with all that, we got there about 20 minutes late. I think we saw more than we missed. In my defense, we still weren’t the last ones there. On the bright side, we caught all the legalities, missed Craig’s poetry reading, and apparently still got credit from the bride for full attendance (so, keep it to yourself). The downtown church, a Unitarian church, appeared to be an interesting old converted Episcopal church. I missed most of the self-written vows (too far away from the action), but the crowd within ear shot appeared moved. Mrs. Nobbs, Matron of Honor, was radiant. Everything was dignified yet elegant, as you would expect from Kim. We were gratefully spared any contrived drama or production, and everyone appeared to enjoy the ceremony.
After the ceremony and receiving line, we walked over to the reception hall together. This appeared to be some sort of converted arts space, with a small reception area where she served wine and cheese, and a larger room where we had a pasta buffet dinner. Patrick and his buddy Miles were the “emcees.” Somehow I missed the cake cutting (I think that’s right around the time that the young woman I was seated next to started showing me 364 photos of her fiancée, reminding me once again to always, ALWAYS, bring my hari-kari knife), and thankfully Kim and Curt spared us the ordeal of the throwing the flowers and garter (really, is there a more tired tradition, I mean, other than the Cotton Bowl?), but I did get to enjoy Mrs. Nobbs’ and the best man David Trimble’s toasts. Both of Kim’s parents looked incredibly happy, and seemed to be having a great time. Her brothers too. Check out the photos there too. You’ll notice I looked magnificent, rocking the hotel assistant night manager look in my sweet baby blue blazer and ill fitting dress shirt. Some other woman at my table made the remark that York, Pennsylvania was in "the South." Honey, that would be cute if it weren't so offensive. I'm going to write some more about this at some point, but if your town lacks barbecue, sweet tea, pretty girls, friendly people, crickets at night, picnics, and "y'all," you're not in the South. If snow is piled high on your main street half the year, if you're wishing the girls in your town wore more, not less, clothes, if you have to dodge grackles all year long and if your town cheers for Penn State and the Pittsburgh Steelers, you are not in the South. Hell, in Lafayette, they think if you're north of Opelousas, Louisiana, you're a Yankee. (Everyone with sense, however, knows the boundary is closer to Cottonport). Of course, everyone wanted a piece of the bride and groom, so my time visiting them was limited. I did, however, get to spend a good bit of time visiting with Steven and Suzanne, which I enjoyed greatly (kind of a weird time warp thing too-I kept thinking “Shadow Box” was going to break out any second and Betsy Clark and I would find ourselves alone in another booth. I know there’s only about five people who have any idea what I’m talking about but trust me that was funny).
The next morning I briefly ran into Curt and Kim at the hotel, who strangely looked not completely wiped out after the big event. They hosted a noon reception at their house, which I had to miss because I needed to head to the next stop on my Summer 2008 tour-Alexandria, Virginia to visit Carrie and Jeremy. The trip through the Pennsylvania and Maryland corn fields on that sunny morning and early afternoon was made kind of surreal by the tribute to the newly deceased Rick Wright, keyboard player for Pink Floyd, who I found out passed away that Monday. One of the XM channels (“Deep Tracks” or some such) did a career retrospective going all the way back to the first 1967 album with Syd Barrett, which basically meant that I was listening to songs like Interstellar Overdrive and Astronomy Domine while looking at cows, sheep, and corn hurtling past the Great White Hyundai Sedan. Somewhere near Catonsville, Maryland when I pulled over for my usual travel fare of grilled chicken salad to go (“para llevar,” as I’ve learned), I thought I was seeing iguanas and lizards flying through the sky (like the beginning of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas). Turns out it was really just local high school kids at a charity car wash.
New and important Washington energy lawyer Carrie and her actor husband Jeremy live near “Old Town” in Alexandria in a pleasant neighborhood near a high school in a red brick building. There’s some road construction nearby, but all in all, Alexandria is much more of a town than I remembered. Its just across the Potomac from Washington, and when I went for a run on the trail that runs alongside the south bank, I could see the Washington Monument coming in and out of view the whole time. They have a number of very pleasant parks near the river which were filled with people out enjoying the nice weather. Alexandria also has a rather bustling main street (the name of which I forget), which appeared to have lots of people walking on either side, going in and out of shops and restaurants. It was a little funny being in Alexandria, Virginia. I lived in Alexandria, Louisiana for a year, and whenever I mentioned it to anyone they just assumed I meant the one in Virginia. Having spent a little time in both now, I can safely say they have little in common.
When you spend time with Carrie and Jeremy, its always action, Action, ACTION! Right! Huh! Yeah, we basically ate and then couched it on Saturday night. Never let it be said that there’s a party I can’t ruin (or a room I can’t clear out). They took me to a great little Italian restaurant about four blocks up the street (weird to be walking from your house to a restaurant but there were several in walking distance). After enjoying a really excellent seafood dish, we walked back through the neighborhood and parked ourselves on the couch to watch Texas scrimmage Rice, but mainly to watch the LSU-Auburn game. Tigers vs. Tigers. Those “War Eagle” idiots were having a “blackout” which is where everyone in the stands wears the school color of black, so the stands look black. I guess this was intended to freak out LSU or at least make some key players have seizures. I’m starting to see more of this on TV, especially in NBA playoff games. Folks, this is just stupid. This is the 21st Century’s “wave.” The Pet Rock thinks this is a ridiculous trend. Happily, LSU managed to pull out the game, after sputtering a bit, despite the blackout factor.
The next morning we managed to squeeze in a really pleasant brunch at a place called the Carlyle. I had a memorable crab cake/eggs benedict dish, and enjoyed meeting some of Carrie’s lawyer friends who joined us. We had Jeremy outnumbered five to one, but these were young lawyers, so they hadn't totally lost their personality yet.
That’s pretty much it. I beat it back to the airport and came home. Exhausted. Ran into my orthopedic surgeon, of all people, and his wife coming back from Annapolis where they were visiting their son who attends the Naval Academy.
For some time thereafter, I had trouble knowing exactly where I was when I woke up in the morning. But I'm recovering, sort of.
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