Siobhan's beautiful wedding, August 23, 2008

We met at the airport without the crutch of a cell phone. Mitch (unbelievably) doesn't own one, and I didn't want to activate mine -( too expensive). I waited by the luggage carousel, wondering just how did we manage the doubts in the olden days, heard a tap on the window, and we were away, in a brand-spanking new white PT Cruiser, (Mitch is the Fleet Manager for La Brea Chrysler Jeep). Blue skies, a freshness to the air and a drive onto freeways. Whoo-ee! So Cal!



At Marina del Rey, we walked where pelicans and seals fished alongside boats under piercing sunshine. Talk too small to adequately bridge the thirty-something gap of years that have passed since we knew each other at The Loyolan, our university newspaper, but I can tell he's on the verge of a change in his life.

After lunch (I accidentally ate butter as an appetizer, thinking it was some kind of soft cheese), Mitch drove the long way around Pacific Palisades, (beautiful enough to be a 'ride' at Disneyland), past the Port of Los Angeles and finally into Long Beach, where the air was thicker, the heat dry, the sidewalks dusty. We told each other stories of our lives since then, without enough time to ask all the questions.



The American flag flapped in a breeze outside my brother Christopher's small house on California Street. There is a bench on that front lawn, and Caroline and her sister, Lynn were sitting, the two of them, looking a bit stunned to see me. Lynn, with a book in her lap, Caroline, a cigarette in her hand. I hugged Mitch thank you, he had been such a generous host, and crossed the street.


Into Family Land. That strange place where everyone knows way too much about you, and where anyone has the ability to inflict pain in a millisecond. I have lived in Canada for most of my adult life. Even though we're now just beyond Seattle to the north, it's a magic border. People get The Willies when they think about visiting. It's a boundary they respect. One good thing about it though -- because I almost never see anyone, when I do, I'm so glad to see them! In spite of the punishment. That's everyone -- all my brothers and sisters -- except for Therese -- on good behavior for the camera. Call me a masochist.


I had flown down by myself on Air Canada. Hate the inspections, the taking off and putting on of clothes and shoes, the seat belting and sitting in close quarters with complete strangers, the potential disaster scenarios, but imagined the softness of the heat, the quality of the light, the California je ne sais quois. I grew up here. It's in my blood.


Gord hasn't signed the contract for the Richmond 2010 Olympics gig yet, we don't know how far what money we have left will last us. We're within range of paying down our mortgage, but still helping Jaz monthly, ( he's just getting his graphic design freelance business going and it's all about cash flow). Gord wanted to play in the Gibsons tennis tournament; last year we'd missed it for Joe and Tracy Milbury's wedding. He was ranked #4 on the coast, designed their t-shirt and played tennis daily with the best coast players (most in their thirties), beating everyone he'd ever have to play, with the exception of Chris Wales, who always wins. The $5,000 estimated cost for the three of us to go together deterred me from pressing; and I remembered all the laughing I did the last time I traveled solo to visit Mary. My Owen Wilson accent gave me excellent timing, and we were frequently in tears. There's nothing like that kind of giddiness.

There I was on the crispy lawn at 3 pm under a hot sun. A little white dog growled at the base of the screen door as I walked up with my tattered lime green bag. A Maltese lapdog with a personality; I trembled in my sandals.



The deal was this: Mary & I were partners in this So Cal sojourn. She's broke these days - she had bought 22 acres about a year prior to our father's death on Japatul in Alpine but had to cash in her capital gains (as no bank would give her a mortgage because there is no house on the property), and then she had to pay a whopping $65k in taxes). With Caroline's sister Lynn here to visit, there was no room in the Inn-at-Christophers for Mary or me. I agreed to pay for the hotels (using Priceline name your price) and Mary agreed to drive us around, thus saving me the cost of a rental car, and her the cost of accommodation.



When I got there, she was penned in the back yard with her two dogs, Ashwin and Nishi, surrounded by yellow and orange flowers in buckets. She sat in the shade of the garage, snipping, and she graciously got up and posed with Chris for this photo. Mary has a history in the family of 'doing the flowers' for the weddings. The whole deal. She 'did' my first wedding with Jim Hallock, (gorgeous purple roses) and by then she was already a pro.


Gramma Ester Prudell had shown Mary the secrets of flower arranging at Bernadette & Jim Milbury's wedding - and Mary has added her artistry to create these beautiful bouquets for many Hicks' weddings ever since. She goes to the L.A. Flower Mart early morning several days prior (enough days in advance to have the flowers open in time for the ceremony & reception). It's a big job, and lasts days .... I made one ribbon, snipped thorns off some roses and felt very accomplished!



Now I have to speak generally about the weekend. Most of the time was spent in the front room at Chris & Cee's with the gynormous tv screen flashing the faces of way-too-young and beautiful Hollywood actors in make-believe urgent situations, while Chris played solitaire on the computer at the dining room table, or was out on one of the many loose-ends errands. I suppose it was a blessing that the sound was mostly off. I found this visual blasting of youth and beauty a bit discouraging as we are all fifty somethings and growing older by the minute. We were often interrupted in our conversational meanderings by the circus-tent antics of the chiming clock on the wall, which Caroline gave to Christopher for some anniversary or birthday, and which Christopher had vowed to give to Caroline, but she beat him to it. The clock is shiny and wonderfully entertaining and sits kitty corner from a framed picture of George W. (At some point during the weekend, George was put in the corner for a sorely needed 'time out'.)

There are two brown easy chairs chairs in the living room, facing the huge screen: the kind that lean back and let you put your feet up on them. One for Chris, one for Caroline. From here, they reign. Caroline loves angels and has a number of flying nymphs hanging from fixtures around the house and you can't help but lift your face to the moving picture which takes up half that side of the room. Altogether, it has a shrine-like feel to it.

Never far away was Lynn, Caroline's Dean-Koontz-reading sister, usually sitting on the far end of the couch with a novel and a Derry accent (as in Northern Ireland) and some wickedly funny sayings which simply pepper her conversation. One such: "Serious as a heart attack." Another, "My body is built for pleasure not for punishment", "Mizzling" (pronounced "muzzling"), meaning weather condition combining "mist" and "drizzle" (obviously not a Southern California term).



Sitting on the couch in the garage, just having finished my one yellow ribbon for Philomena & Jaime's bouquet, I stopped too long to admire my own work:

"What are ye?" she reprimanded. " Just an ornament? That sits pretty on the couch? Get yer wee arse up and over here." Not fast enough. "You're not very motivated! You've got two speeds, Dead Slow and Stop." Caroline and Lynn say 'wee' a lot, as in 'wee dog, wee gerlfriend, wee snit. "Are you complainin'? Yer just a wee moanin' minnie." I was her "new best mucker" meaning new best friend, although I conferred the honor on myself.

It was an exciting and fast-paced visit. First, the confusion between Christopher (my brother, father of the bride) and Kristopher, the bride's child, very much in the lives of grandparents Chris and Caroline. He's now 15 and a strapping young football player. At home everyone calls him "Kristopher" and my brother "Chris".

Chris.


Kristopher.


Once we got that sorted out, we received a call from the NRA soliciting donations. Mary said, "Don't call back, my husband was shot!" We had a wee giggle, after which Caroline went out onto the front porch to have her 16th cigarette of the day. Apparently she quit for four months (that would be January to May 1st 2008), but is now back in the thick of it, and plans to quit come next January. She gives herself a lot of notice, because she really likes smoking, and wouldn't quit if there weren't so many proven, documented ill effects of the evil weed. She's been under a wee bit of stress lately, what with Siobhan's wedding and all.

Then, the Maltese, Jonah. A $1,200 bargain bought by the bride-to-be a few years back when he fit into the palm of her hand. Now he guards the house. He's so -- springy -- and energetic, and he eats vegetables off the floor, so naturally he became the object of some anthropomorphic humor. Christopher likes to goad him by poking his fingers about six inches from his face until he barks and leaps off Caroline's lap.



But the business with the squeaky toy is worth the price of admission. He bites on it - squeak-squeak-squeak, then growls, throwing his little head from side to side as it squeaks for mercy -- and he waits for anyone to wrestle it from his grip and throw it down the hall into the dark.



The thing is, you just have to do it. When he holds the yellow toy down with those fiercesome choppers, you have to grab it. It's compulsive. Then you have to laugh and you have to cry and the tears have to stream wet all over your face as that little guy comes trotting proudly back into the center of the room with that yellow plastic toy squeaking. Life doesn't get much better.

On Friday, my college room mate, Althea drove me to Claire's at the Museum on the Long Beach waterfront where we met Anne and sat under an umbrella on the deck catching up on our 30-some year separation. It was 'Free Friday' at the museum and we took in an exhibit of stunning clayworks and a few Raushenbergs!



Anne said "that's not art, they're taking advantage of us" referring to a couple of pieces of ripped up cardboard pasted onto a board. I'm married to an artist. I love hearing people say "I could do that." There we are, under the umbrellas and all that sun. It was really great to spend some time with them.

Back at the house, more flower arranging in the heat. I made friends with Mary's rescue dog, Nishi, who limps around with her tail between her legs, looking meek and pathetic, sad evidence of her former abused life before Mary. She shot straight to my heart, as I usually go for the under dog. I talked softly to her and she wagged her tail a bit. It was a wee moment.



Mary's van was another adventure altogether. I don't judge a van by it's mud, or cat paws on the windshield, I don't. Let's just say she had to clean off the front shotgun seat before I could sit down. First, throwing some indescribable things in the back. Then, I think she swept it and blew on it. I could tell it used to be a velvet sort of fabric. But the smell in that van made me forget everything. You just have to breathe into your sleeve, hoping the ride doesn't take too long. At first I thought it was straw, because two years ago when I smelled that van, Mary said it was the straw she'd recently stuffed into it. I can tell you now, it's not straw. It's a strong, acrid smell which is . . . how can I describe? An old folks' home with the heater blowing. And then I found out the dogs sleep in there on a blanket. So they won't get bit by the rattlesnakes at Japatul. Mary doesn't have health insurance, either, one of the dogs was bit by a rattlesnake and it cost $1,500 for the antidote. I worry about her, tooling around in that van with the dogs - and living by herself on that big property.

Another thing about the drive: I'm usually behind the wheel at 50 klicks (31 miles) per hour in my sleepy hamlet of Roberts Creek on the West coast of Canada.. We drive the Lower Road to Gibsons or Sechelt. There is a highway but I'd rather not have the pressure of others on my tail upping the ante. Top speed: about 50 miles per hour. So sitting shotgun roaring around at 70 MPH was a bit of a white knuckle experience.



I know I used to drive like that when I lived in California, up close to the bumper in front, weaving in and out of lanes, but I've been in gumboot land for too long. Towards the end, (Sunday morning) I found myself BRACING before stepping in. First the smell, then the speed. I'm not a believer in superstition, but I crossed myself, hoping I could travel in a more, ahem, modern car, or maybe just one which is sent to the cleaners more often. No offense to Mary! I love her. But I had to console myself that there is no comedy without the suffering of the low status character, so that means me and Nishi.



I'd arrived all summery in white pants, feeling proud of myself that I had just the right touch of international, casual, warm & cool (it was raining in Vancovuer and 80 degrees in So Cal). Usually I wear black as it goes with anything, and Mary said,

"Patricia, you've got to toss those pants. The waist is too high." Then she announced with a finality I couldn't resist, "You need a fashion intervention."

At first we thought our three star hotel by the Long Beach airport was a steal at $75 on Priceline. Upon closer examination, it was only a 2.5 star; there were plastic bug traps in the corners under counters to lure bed bugs -- and it was definitely NOT by the airport. That meant minimum five miles farther. Each way. On city streets. In that van.

Anyway the first morning she showed me her favorite websites(free wireless at the hotel) and one is a fashionsita site (Style Bubble) with a really hip, young woman who combines the most outlandish items with other articles of clothing. Anything seems to go. She stands in front of the mirror looking shy and cute (Mary really likes her and I have to admit, I felt a warmth for her flair) . . . and takes a photo of herself and posts it on her hip-talking site where you can put tablecloths over top of your pants and wear chiffon over a bra and claim success!, the more the merrier. I could see where this was leading, but I was putty in her big sisterly hands. I didn't have much to work with (again I was proud I'd packed light) but at the last minute I stepped into my skanky pj top and wore it as a skirt! Here's what I looked like when I went to lunch with my long lost roommates at swishy Claire's:



Another try with my private designer behind me:



We loaded up the van with the centerpieces, drove to The Petroleum Club and began to assemble them on the guest tables. In the glass vases gold fish were to swim under candles; we were all quite skeptical, but in the end, it looked good.

Siobhan stopped by the night before the wedding. We learned about the five offers on other properties which fell through (one was due to Realtor Fraud), and about the 5 acre property which should close on Friday the 29th. The whole new family (Ralph, (hubby to be), and three children from his first wife will move together to this estate property (5 bdrms, 4 baths, newly renovated) in hot tooley-ville, California. Seriously, I think they are going to be happy together - and I felt really privileged to understand the story of their wedding - the stakes for all of them as Raphael and Siobhan marry. Here's Siobhan with Jonah.



The next morning (day of the wedding) all the goldfish were dead. They hadn't waited long enough for the chlorine to clear from the water. Chris was dispatched to fix the problem, and when he got back I was waiting to drive to Home Depot (where the bride & groom were registered!!) to pick up a gift.

Home Depot is not a fun place to shop for a wedding gift, but there it was, a list of their preferences, down to the serial numbers. We marched up to a shelf of garden hoses and garden hose holders, and while I fell for all the other models, Chris waited patiently until I came to my senses and bought the ugly grey plastic model they'd chosen. There's just no accounting for people's taste. When we got to the reception, we noticed there was another hose-roller-upper, apparently a hot item. (It turned out that Frannie had bought the other one, but she had the sense to get a return-gift card for hers.) Here's Chris holding the thing outside Home Depot.



Now for the wedding. I had landed a four star hotel for Saturday night for an extra $5, realizing afterwards that Long Beach in the middle of summer is not anyone's preferred destination. Mary and I suited up swiftly in the swish room and got back into that smelly van. We arrived in scorching heat. My little camera was practically useless, but I did get a few pix. Frances and Tom also contributed. I think Phillip and Peter were 'official' photographers.

Matthew Milbury, his bride Heidi, Jim and Bernadette outside the church.













Here's Bernadette and Philomena's daughter, Nena, whom I haven't seen in ... well, a year, and who has blossomed into an absolutely drop dead goregous gal!



Look at these young women! Good God! Gregory and Young Boon's Jennifer, and again Nena; for flat-out youth and pulchritude, they stole the show.



Gregory's Kristina and Nena.



The whole Greg & Youngboon family, with Andrew and Nena.


Keelin didn't like her dress, but being the bride's sister, she had no choice. However, here she is, doing her best to make it look great.


Peter recited the first reading, "a woman is made from the rib of a man". Philomena's scriptural reference was how the wife is subordinate to the husband, and the sermon covered bridezillas, momzillas and the stubbornness of the man getting in the way.


"It's lost in our culture that the husband is the spiritual leader of the family," the priest said in his role as expert, "Although sometimes the wife has to jump in because the husband doesn't have a clue." I puzzled at all this discussion (I'm assuming Siobhan chose the scripture?) as my recently gained knowledge that Siobhan is effectively, the chef of this new little family contradicted all these gathered reminders, but the men in the room must have felt somewhat reassured. Still, the vows got me all choked up, and they were spoken so softly - as if the couple wanted some privacy in this public ceremony.


I always think of Mother at these weddings. She had a special devotion to the Blessed Mother, and there is a ceremony at the end, where the bride and groom consecrate themselves to her at the side the altar, with candles. I think they did this on this day.


Here's Lynn Ward Hegarty and Caroline Ward Hicks (mother of the bride) at the church.


Philomena and Anthony (in the foreground). Michelle (Anthony's wife and Jaime Romo, Philomena's husband) at the church.


Then, the reception at The Petroleum Club, the same venue as Joe and Tracy's wedding last year. The bride arrives with her entourage:


Bernadette and Siobhan at the entrance to The Petroleum Club.


Four sisters: Frannie, me, Bernadette and Mary:


3 brothers: Andrew, Greg and Phillip. Greg is on dialysis two times per week. He drove down with his family from San Jose, and drove back the night of the wedding. They stayed at our hotel - he bid $70 for a room -- and got it!

















Siobhan and Rafael before the wedding toast.



Father of the bride, giving a toast to the newlyweds.



Here's Katherine, Anthony's firstborn, and Jaime Romo, Philomena's handsome husband.


I got to hold Tom's youngest, Elizabeth, but not for long. She had waken up.


She's squirming to get out of my arms right now!



Look how pretty Mary looks, and Bernadette. Those brown eyes.



Andrew, me and Chris.


Tim and Judy.



Phillip and his family with Frances.



Here are Phillip & Debi's boys: Stephen (the golfer) and James.


Jessica (Tom's eldest) and Isabella (Phillip's 2nd daughter)


The little one in the front with the big smile is Michelle, Gregory & Young Boon's youngest. Her 10th birthday fell on the Thursday after the wedding. I didn't get any photos of Peter and Romy, or Tim & Judy's family.


Below, Philomena and Jaime after receiving the announcement and bouquet in congratulations of their 22nd anniversary. The DJ had the idea to ask the band to play their favorite song, and Mary asked Jaime what that song was, so when it came on, Philomena was thrilled. See that, tears down her cheeks.


We're cheap dates. We laugh, we cry at the slightest thing.