Road Trip

This weekend, Tim and I journeyed a total of 800 round-trip miles to Ithaca, New York for a good friend's wedding. The last hour, of our 7-hour drive Friday night, had us weaving with high beams ablaze through corn fields and cow pastures. A little before midnight, we entered into a small college town, where a few friends waited up to escort us to the vacant dorm where we'd spend the next two nights. There were about a dozen wedding guests that had chosen to stay there, as it was a more affortable option than the hotel/spa resort at the reception site. Glenn Hall, built in the mid 1800's, welcomed us with 20 ft. tall ceilings, Victorian style drapery and furniture, a musty/moth ball-like smell, and a large winding staircase that led to a hallway with dormitory rooms off either side with a community bathroom. It sort of felt like your "great grandmother's house meets a European hostel." After chatting with some old friends in the resident parlor room, Tim and I retreated to our room. Tim immediately threw himself on one of the 2 twin beds, rolled over and sighed, "I really dig this room." I, however, wasn't so sure. And I began to wonder if a building this old may be haunted. As I looked around at the sparse room, I started to miss the boys and feel very far away. By then it was 2 am, and I climbed into my twin bed that I had pushed against Tim's. My body, weary from the long drive, slowly began to relax. I became aware of the soothing lake breeze through the open windows and the loud night calls of the insects. At this moment, I decided that I would enjoy this road trip adventure, this very experience, this time away with friends, and this time alone with my husband.

The next morning, we put on our wedding-best and headed into the sunny town for the ceremony. The ceremony would be like one I've never experienced. It was a Quaker ceremony where our friends, Mark and Tina, sat the front of the church and faced their guests. The officiator spoke briefly and told us we would enter into a period of silence together. She explained that we, the guests, were welcome to stand up and share our blessings, advice, prayers, stories with the couple. For the first couple of minutes, no one spoke. Tim and I uncomfortably looked down into our laps and then up again at Mark and Tina, who sat peacefully holding hands and softly smiling. You see they are poets and writers, by nature and trade, and in my opinion, true artists. For this type of ceremony was a risk, a time of vulnerability, a time of trust that something beautiful may arise. And it did. Guests began to stand up, one at time, often with a couple minute pauses between each speaker. Family and friends with quivering voices shared heart-felt thoughts, memories and well wishes, filled with such enormous love and emotion, that there here was not a dry eye among us. This went on for over an hour. Watching everyone from Tina's 80 year old grandmother reminisce about her granddaughter as a child, to our friend Brian remembering Mark as his randomly assigned roommate turned dear friend of 15 years, is an experience that I will carry with me. There's something to say about remembering to tell our love ones how we feel about them now, today.

On Sunday morning, after a night of celebrating at the reception and the after-party at a quaint pub, we headed back through the little town, through the corn fields and cow pastures, and hopped onto the stretch of highway back to MA. As the sun streamed in through the window, Tim and I sipped coffee and listened to several segments of This American Life. It is good to be home now, and back with the boys. And, as I unpack, it is good to have the memory of this road trip.