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QUAIL MUTTERINGS #36. An Imperfect Wedding (July 13, 2015)

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QUAIL MUTTERINGS #36.  An Imperfect Wedding (July 13, 2015)

There’s that saying about when bad things happen: What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. I can lean one way or the other depending on the situation, but I still pretty much straddle the fence on that one. One thing is clear though, life is full of those events which can fall into that category. For each and every one of us. Often there is some sliver of a silver lining even if it’s obscured, delayed or presents itself years later in an altered attitude in some distantly related way.
Our beloved canyon was, once again, home to a beautiful wedding between Kali and Edwin. Months of planning and extensive yard work occupied us yet again. Two years ago, Jessie and Sean tied the knot here, providing the stage for her sister and his cousin to kindle their romance. Several of us had noticed the two of them, rocking chairs pushed close together on the front porch. Getting to know each other after the main festivities were winding down.
The magical day arrived on Saturday as our log cabin bustled with the bridal party and helping friends and relatives. Kent and I did our best trying to keep ahead of the game: providing food and scrambling under the avalanche of details, crossing things off our own list of things to get done and adding new ones as they presented themselves. Two hours before ‘Show Time’ our parking attendants were already directing cars up the side of the canyon to the cleared fields. But the flowers had not arrived yet. The bridal bouquets and boutonnieres were to be delivered by the florist at noon and it was now after 12:30.
The photographers wove through the house arranging varying groups of individuals together for digital preservation. The loft was strewn with the remnants of the morning’s hair and make-up scene, furniture pushed aside to make room for artful gatherings of the bridesmaids. Out front, a few guests milled around under the oaks listening to the music coming from the speakers of Kali’s dad’s band.
An hour later, the flowers still had not arrived. Kali had just confirmed with the florist two days before and everything had been set. She’s extremely organized and on top of things. Nikki, my assistant; my sister, Bo; and Jessie and I brainstormed and made phone calls as we were getting dressed. I then decided to get Susan and Dina to pick up whatever they could find on their way back from town. The two of them had already spent all morning decorating the split-rail fence as well as the front porch entry and had gone back to the motel to shower and change. Of all the people involved, Susan would be the one most likely able to pull this off on such short notice. The minutes ticked by as we continued to get ready while trying to not appear too concerned – for Kali’s sake.
It was now ‘Show Time,’ but still, no flowers. I know it’s not a huge deal in the scheme of life, but we were finding it more and more difficult to simply smile and enjoy the moment. When I called Susan again they were just leaving the store. I sent Bo out to grab our cousins and my artist friend Helen, who was also serving as the officiator for the ceremony, joined the flower team. I asked Kent and Chance to meet Susan and Dina as soon as they drove in as I laid out scissors and leftover ribbons and accessories on the dining room table. Nikki apologized to the guests and explained the reason for our delayed start.
Kali came into the kitchen holding an assorted bouquet of fresh-cut, colorful flowers. “Look what Edwin gave me. He wandered around the yard and picked them himself. They’re perfect.” She carefully wiped her tears with the corner of a tissue, touched by her soon-to-be- husband’s thoughtfulness.
“They’re beautiful!”
“I wish my husband would do that for me.”
“That’s the most meaningful bouquet of flowers.”
“Far better than a florist would do…” We all shared the specialness of the moment.
“This is what you’ll remember,” I told her.
Helen added, “You have to have at least one thing go wrong at a wedding or it’s bad luck.”
Susan and Dina stormed in the door and the group sprang into action. As they arranged, clipped, pinned and tied ribbons I pointed out to Deborah, Sean’s mom and the groom’s aunt, the number of actual working artists in that magical circle surrounding the table. It wasn’t exactly an assembly line, but the creative efficiency was miraculous to witness.
Better late than never, we sashayed in to Vivaldi’s The Four Season’s, down the aisle on the wood chippings and found our seats. Edwin and his best man danced in to The Imperial March, Darth Vader’s theme, and laughter erupted. And then we all stood when Kali and seven-year-old- Ian came down together to A Thousand Years played by The Piano Guys, bringing tears to our eyes.
A special seat was left vacant, except for some flowers, for those special, close relatives who had passed on before this very special day. Hopefully, they too felt included in this blending of our families. I was struck by how beautifully elegant and simple the bridesmaids’ uncluttered, white flowers were. So appropriate, I thought, for this occasion. And Kali’s special, hand-picked by the groom, bridal bouquet. An unexpected upgrade had come out of the failed, best-laid plans to create an even better image to deposit into our memory banks.
Three of us: Edwin’s two aunts, Lori and Deborah, and I read special passages. Kali, Edwin and Helen performed a sand ceremony layering the different colors into a glass frame. Ian took his rightful spot joining his mom and Edwin in the pact. They had written their own vows and, of course, more tears. And laughter.
The band played. Tacos were served. Hilarious, tear-jerking toasts were made. For about an hour several of us searched, off and on, for the missing garter. Again, not a huge deal in the scheme of things, but another funny little glitch in an amazingly well planned wedding. By this time, Kali really didn’t care, as someone had handed her a left-over ribbon to use in lieu of. It was finally discovered by two members of the bridal party, in the dumpster, still wrapped in its zip-locked bag. Another one for the memory banks.
Earlier, during dinner, while talking with a long-time family friend, I watched as one end of our split-rail fence toppled over after one of the groom’s cousins had attempted to vault over it after being summoned by the photographer. I turned away shaking my head, not wanting to see the damage. I turned back to watch Kent prop it back up.
“You know, Chi,” my friend said. “You really have a blessed life.”
I studied her face and thought about it. “I guess I do,” I answered. “I have a pretty bitchin’ life.” I looked around and surveyed the scene. Friends and family eating, talking and laughing together. At peace under the oak tree canopy.

Chi Varnado is a contributing writer for The San Diego Reader. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail are available on www.amazon.com. Chi directs the Ramona Dance Centre. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com.

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #25. Origins of Quail Mutterings (December 13, 2013)

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QUAIL MUTTERINGS #25.  Origins of Quail Mutterings (December 13, 2013)

 

               I have been fascinated and intrigued by quail my whole life. As a young child one of my first memories was of the quail living around us. I remember hearing them rustling under the bushes talking to each other and watching them glide over the rocks in single file. They were always part of ‘Being Home’ for me. A sense of ‘All is well with the world’ fills me still when I hear their distinctive call echoing through the canyon. When a flock of them takes flight amongst the sage brush the sound of their wing-beat is unique. One can tell without seeing that it’s quail. I think their muted, staccato-like voices sound like they’re muttering to each other as they peck around on the ground under the buckwheat. They don’t sound insistent or particularly forceful in their opinions – just having an open dialogue. So I coined Quail Mutterings for my essays since I mostly just ramble about my experiences meandering through the canyon. Perhaps similar to the way the quail communicate. I only hope my mutterings provide a little entertainment.

I remember a ‘little happy,’ as I like to call them, that I shared with my dad. It was during the year following the fire that he motioned for me and said, “Come on, Chi. Get on the back here and let’s go for a ride.”

More for him than for me, I climbed onto the back of his quad and we putted down the dirt lane. Usually I’d much rather walk than drive a noisy, smelly, gas-guzzling machine, but that wasn’t an option for him at eighty-three years old. We toodled on down the dirt road going five miles-per-hour, turning northward at the T, halfway to the main road. At the top of the hill we stopped and shut off the engine. He pointed out landmarks in the adjacent valley.

Dad straddled the seat on the quad while I leaned against the rack on the back enjoying the warm spring evening. Suddenly, a male quail, with his beautiful top feather, walked over the small boulder we were parked beside and jumped off the edge into the bushes. A plump, gray female followed, over the rock and then jumped into the brush. And then a baby quail, with its quick little running steps, ran across the granite. Both of us held our breath wondering what might happen when it got to the edge. It jumped off the end! Then it scurried through the leaves below, catching up with the parents. We smiled at each other as another wee one appeared on the rock and did just what the first had done. And then another and another and another. We kept very still, breathing lightly, so as not to disturb the family’s journey. I felt lucky to be there, so close to them and to my dad.

 

Just this week we broke ground, beginning my grandmother’s (Bamoo’s) rebuild, ten years after the Cedar Fire. Designating corners and marking boundaries for the new house – a simple rectangle built into the hill, only three-square-feet larger than what was previously here, is exciting and at the same time a little scary. Building small, just over nine-hundred square-feet, enables us to have the potential to make this project financially feasible. I sure hope this proves to be the case.

Our two old horses, which normally get to roam free in the canyon, have been unhappily corralled more often, in order to protect them from the open trenches and stretched-string boundaries on the house site. Our feed bill goes up too since they usually supplement their diet on the various grasses growing in the creekbed and up toward the saddle. For every action there is a reaction, as we learned in physics. Even though we are only replacing what was already here before, it will be different. And also, time has passed and things (wildlife and plants…) have changed. But then again, even if we don’t consciously change anything, nothing ever really stays the same. Change is inevitable.

Sometimes I find this extremely sad, like when I can’t help dwelling on how things used to be when my parents were still around. I miss them both terribly. I know that things will never be the same again. At this point, if I’m lucky, I start to live in the present. Be grateful for what is. Right now. Because that too will be gone shortly. So I’m trying to remember to stop and smell the flowers.

As the holidays approach let’s take the time to appreciate each other and fill those memory banks with good, quality experiences. I have so many fond memories of growing up here. These are probably the main reasons I’ve chosen to stay and embrace this lifestyle. There’s a timeless peace that permeates the canyon which works for the quail and for me. Rebuilding and preserving a legacy that my family began generations ago feels right and fulfilling to me. So, may each of us find that inner compass that helps steer us not due north, but allows us to meander just enough to happen upon those ‘little happies,’ wherever and whenever they might present themselves. Let’s just make sure that we’re awake enough to recognize them when they appear.

 

Chi Varnado is the author of two books. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire; and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail, are both available from www.amazon.com. Chi directs The Ramona Dance Centre: www.ramonadancecentre.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com.

QUAIL MUTTERINGS #22. A Memorable Wedding (July 22, 2013)

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               I don’t think there’s such a thing as a standard wedding. I’m no expert, that’s for sure, but I think we managed to pull off a pretty good one for our daughter last month, even if I do say so myself. Over two-hundred people descended into our canyon to take part in this country wedding. A live bluegrass band played in front of a rustic fountain I’d put together featuring an antique hand water pump feeding into a converted cattle water trough. Guests had a choice between barbecue or vegan, and home-made horsd’oeuvres. Each ivory-draped table displayed vases of fresh-cut flowers, candles, napkin-wrapped utensils and champagne flutes. Some out-of-state folks, I heard, thought that our venue was part of a Hollywood set and couldn’t believe that people actually lived in the log cabin. The mix of attendees was incredibly diverse, perhaps due, in part, to the combinations of the families involved.

Jessie’s two dads walked her down the stone steps off the front porch and through the bark laid path leading under the canopy of oaks. When the question was asked, “Who gives this woman?” they replied a choral, “We do.” Chuckles rippled through the crowd. Tom is her biological father and Kent is the dad who helped raise her with me. She feels doubly blessed.

When guests arrived they entered something that had taken on a life of its own, regardless of what we had to do with it. Perhaps Denise and Henry, let’s say, follow the signs and balloons from the top of Mussey Grade down to the dirt road where they turn left.

“Follow that car in front of us, Dear,” says Denise. “They must know where they’re going.” She notices the ravens flying overhead.

Hand-painted directions and two strapping young men, the brother and a cousin of the bride, urge them forward through the open gate and up the narrow lane curving to the left. Henry notices various other signs: FOLLOW THE PARKING ATTENDANT’S DIRECTIONS, NO PARKING, BATHROOM, QUICK SAND, POISON OAK AREA… “This is interesting,” he says to Denise. He pulls forward and backs into his parking space, as instructed. She holds his elbow with her right hand while pressing the wedding gift under her left arm as they walk down the solar-light lined path toward their destination. It is now 2:30 PM.

Quite a few people are already milling about, waters in hand, under dappled sunlight speckling the scene. Denise sets her present on the gift table and Henry ushers her to a seat near the split-rail fence.

“They sure have done a lot here. This place is lovely,” she says. Wood chippings completely cover all the areas from the natural bowl where the ceremony will be held, to the driveway and creekbed containing the tables, as well as the dirt road leading in. She picks up the hand-fans off their chairs before sitting down and hands one to her husband. “Another nice touch. Oh yes, I heard that Jessie had spent a couple years teaching in China. I’ll bet this was her idea.”

A friend of the family officiates the service referencing a parchment book she hand-crafted, marked with a silk ribbon. This beautiful piece of artwork will also serve as her gift to the new couple, complete with their chosen verses and dialogue. She orchestrates the “Handfasting,” draping strands of different colored strings over their joined hands, explaining how each one signifies a specific strength in a marriage.

Denise nods her approval. The four-year-old “Ring Bear,” as the bride’s nephew calls himself, does a splendid job carrying the basket holding the rings and sitting up front with his granny. The flower girl is a tom-boy and sports black shorts, a white button-down shirt and suspenders. Her preferred title is “Expert Horticultural Attendant.” The bride’s two sisters join the bridal party along with two friends. The chosen color is a deep purple. Six groomsmen, including the man of the hour’s brother, flank the groom. They are all wearing suspenders over white shirts and black pants.

The year leading up to this event has felt like non-stop preparation for me. When Jessie first told us that she wanted to get married here in the canyon, for sentimental reasons, I was thrilled. I’ve always been open to this, but I really had no idea what was in store. An absolutely humungous guest list along with multiple expectations from the other families involved had me reeling.

First of all, in order to accommodate parking for over two-hundred people, massive amounts of brush clearing had to be done. This meant hand-clearing, with shovels and machetes, an area out-of-sight from the proceedings, to ensure a beautiful country wedding. In turn, the chippings from the piles of scrub oak and buckwheat became the ground cover for the entire venue. This was made more aromatic by bringing in additional loads of various tree shavings. Spreading all this by manual labor took weeks.

Jessie’s dad’s family and Sean’s folks came up from the city a few times for our potluck work parties. At first, the creekbed had seemed a bit rugged to Jessie’s step-mother. When we originally showed it to her she said, “You’re going to grade this, aren’t you?

“No. This is one of our most level areas. It is a country wedding, after all,” I’d responded.

“The Aunties” have hearts of gold. One of them has construction skills and installed a hand-rail along the rock steps. They made most of the signs that we posted everywhere. I’d made a list, complete with arrow directions, for them to work from. We hung Christmas lights in trees and on the porch, placed solar lights to designate the path to and from our parking area, wrapped potted geraniums with burlap and ribbons to accent the seating area, and “The Aunties” loaned us an elegant canopy for the beverage area. We picked up a very large livestock water trough from the feed store for iced drinks.

When our good samaritan neighbors received their invitation they offered their tractor to smooth out the road. I had a couple loads of asphalt grindings delivered and thanked them profusely. Their guest cottage became the honeymoon suite.

My friend volunteered to arrange all the flowers. For months, we saved interesting jars and soaked labels off. She borrowed my truck, since I had a shell on the back, and picked up the multitude of lovely blooms on Thursday down in San Diego. My sister and another friend helped trim, wrap bouquets and arrange on Friday. On Saturday, the day of the big event, she drove the truck, filled with over a hundred vases of beautiful flowers, very slowly in the dirt road. So gradual was her progress that one of the groomsmen jumped out of the car behind her and ran past, laughing all the way up the road. I heard this story later from both of them, independently.

Five-hundred pounds of ice was brought in that morning. I’d hired two parking attendants, four servers who happened to be my advanced dance students, and my assistant to help manage the day. Sean’s parents generously covered a lot of the escalating expenses, and Jessie’s dad and step-mother helped with all sorts of things including making the horsd’oeuvres the night before. I suggested that an outline should be made detailing the order of events… for the helpers, similar to what I do for our story ballets. However, I’m rather clueless about wedding etiquette and such and recommended that someone else might want to take this on. It was Sean’s mom that stepped up to the task gracefully.

From 8:00 AM that morning the place took on a life of its own. Every square inch of the house was occupied. The bridal party was up in the loft getting their hair and make-up done and then the photos. Jessie used the bedroom upstairs for her changing area… The groomsmen took over our bedroom downstairs. I finally had to kick them out to get dressed myself. The step-brother who brought the vegan/gluten-free food spread out in the kitchen while the flower crew set-up shop on the dining room table. The log-railed staircase and living room overflowed when the photographers set up. All these independent microcosms were functioning on their own, but also as part of the larger macrosystem.

As my son escorted me down the aisle I felt as if we’d entered a completely different world. It was like a magical atmosphere had descended and transformed our yard. I’d never felt anything quite like this before. It was clearly a different zone.

Quite a few people asked if I had considered opening our place as a wedding venue. I don’t know. Perhaps the canyon is asking to be shared?

Chi Varnado is the author of two books. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire, and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail, are both available from www.amazon.com. Chi directs The Ramona Dance Centre: www.ramonadancecentre.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com.