A Delightful Announcement

My brother Timothy, the hirsute gentleman at left, is now engaged to the charming Abbie (who actually looks better with her eyes open, but that was the best picture I had). *claps hands and squeals excitedly*

It was Timothy's concerns about the logistics of proposals that inspired my earlier post on the subject. In the event, however, the questions proved irrelevant, as he proposed more or less accidentally. He was planning to propose next month, but, in the course of one of those long rambling conversations about life, the universe, and *us*, the beans were spilled, so he decided to just go ahead and ask. Which being accepted, the two of them went to her parents' house to ask permission, and then to the breakwater to watch the stars, and only the next day got around to thinking about buying a ring.

I am rather afraid, though, that the poor boy has no idea what he is getting himself into - not regarding the marriage, but the wedding. When I last talked to him, he seemed somewhat disturbed by the fact that Abbie's best friend, within two minutes of hearing of their engagement, had pulled out her bridal magazines and was poring over them with Abbie. I assured him that this was a normal female reaction, and that he should merely resign himself to being an acessory to a relentlessly feminine event.

Scenes from a Fourth of July Parade

On the recent holiday, I agreed to accompany my sister and her two dogs to the parade in a nearby town. (It is essential to the proper socialization of pets, she explained, that they be trained to handle such potentially alarming things as crowds, loud noises, candy-throwers with dangerous aim, and candidates for local political office.) She also persuaded one of her dog-training friends to come along with her own dogs. So we set out along the streets of Watertown in a procession: three women, two bulldogs (one tugging on the leash in excitement, the other looking ready for a nap), a hyper-friendly golden retriever, and a comparatively tiny, frenetic terrier puppy. As we walked along the streets where the parade was lining up, the clowns, costumed float-riders, and marching band flag-twirlers all stopped to look at us. The leotarded little girls from the gymnastics school wanted to pet the puppy, and had to be herded back into line by their instructors.

We reached the corner where the parade was to begin and, seeing that the crowds were already two or three people deep along the route, decided to watch from there. So many other people had the same idea, however, that our view was soon blocked and we decided to plunge ahead. Negotiating between the rows of people with the dogs, we made about the same pace as the parade itself, and thus got to hear the stilt-walking Lady Liberty quizzing parade-goers about the history of the Statue of Liberty for four blocks, until at last we found an unoccupied shop doorway to huddle in. An air conditioner on the second floor of the shop dripped at regular intervals, making a small pool beside the doorway and always managing to land on my arm or foot, no matter where I stood.

One old gentleman walked back and forth along the sidewalk, and petted all of the dogs each time he passed us. "You are so bossy," he scolded Sarah, who was trying to make Honey sit calmly to be petted. "How would you like it if she told you to sit?"

An Elvis impersonator's float was stuck in front of us when the parade momentarily stopped. He gyrated his hips and sang "I'm caught in a trap . . . I can't walk out . . ." for five minutes straight. Doesn't that song have verses?, I wondered as I desperately waited for the parade to get moving again.

A physical therapist, dressed as a leprechaun, walked behind a banner advertising his business. What physical therapy and Irish magic have in common, I'm sure I don't want to know.

"God Bless the U.S.A." got applause, blaring from a float advertising a BBQ place (at least, I hope that's what it was), decorated like a Wild West saloon.

Nearly every act, in fact, was advertising something, whether a local business or a political candidate, many for obscure offices. (Who would have thought that County Coroner was an elected position?) The largest political contingent were the green-shirted multitudes supporting the Republican gubernatorial challenger whose name, cleverly, was Green. "Would you like a sticker?" one of them asked the little boy next to us. "Yes, please," he replied. "Oh, you are so polite!" she exclaimed. "You deserve some candy too." She gave him a handful. This little boy, I noticed, was making out quite well in the candy department; his pockets were full already. He never went running after the candy that landed in the street, or ran clamoring to the candy-givers, as the other kids did. He just stood, looking eager, behind the lawn chairs in front of us when people went by with candy, so that all of them thought that he, being in the second row, had been overlooked, and made sure to hand him some. A very smart child.

Home

The sky is a clean, hard blue, and the fields are a clean, hard green, stretching down to the muddy brown line of the creek. The darker green treeline forms a crisp, jagged border with the sky. The grey fieldstone and peeling red paint of farm buildings break up the purity of the green, just as the stern white clouds break up the blue.

There is a wonderfully expected, unsubtle beauty about this place - the beauty of things that are so entirely what they are. The sky is as blue as possible, without shadings and without haze, and that is its glory. The fields are long rectangles of uniform green, succeeding one another without pause, and that is their glory. Everything, from the clouds to the fireflies, belongs to its place. It is not a stark land, but it is sturdy, without excess. It must be, to survive winter undeformed.

The people of this land are like it: just what they appear to be, only more so. Straightforward, hearty, impatient with nonsense. Hard-working Monday to Friday and drunk on Saturday. Full of summer but hard against winter.

For four years, I kept cheese curds in my fridge, and my dorm keys on a Green Bay Packers keychain, to remind myself that this is where I belong. But now that I am here, what do this land and I have in common? I devise complications within complications; nothing is straightforward, for me. How can I explain myself to the clean, hard sky, let alone to the farmer down the road?