It was 23 year ago today that I made a mistake on my wedding day that I've lived and agonized over. The mistake was this ... When I was asked that day the question all grooms are traditionally asked, "Will you promise to love, honor and cherish her until death do you part?"... my answer was a resolute and unwavering, "I Will!"
Don't misunderstand me. My mistake was on my wedding day. My mistake was not my wedding day. No disrespect to the brides of others, but, I married the single most perfect woman on the planet that day. I've been unbelievably happily married since.
My mistake was simply saying, "I will." In the days leading up to my fateful wedding, I wanted everything about the wedding day to be no less than perfect for my beautiful bride. I agonized over the tux until I got the perfect one. I studied the wedding day script until I knew it forwards and back. I circled and highlighted my key line in the script and read it over and over until my throat was red and raw. "I will." "I will." "I WILL!" I proclaimed to the mirror over and over like I were Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver saying "You talking to me."
The problem was this, since my wife was a wee little girl, she'd been saying her wedding line over and over in her head. She knew the line. She didn't need a stinking script. The only difference was that her line was, "I do."
After I was asked my question on the wedding day. Again, I followed the script and answered "I will." So, when she was asked, "Will you promise to love, honor and cherish him until death do you part?"... she hesitated slightly. She was trapped with me... I mean my answer. She answered, "I will."
Of course, I didn't know anything was wrong at first. We had a great first kiss. We had an incredible reception. However, when we driving away from the reception, on our way to the honeymoon, she said to me, "What's with the 'I Will?'"
I pointed out that I'd followed the script. She replied, "What script?"
Thus, today on my 23rd wedding anniversary I hereby amend my answer to my wedding vows and related vows I've made over the last 23 years in the following manner:
Do you promise to love honor and cherish her until death do you part? I do!
While you may start out in a moldy basement apartment, do you promise to attempt to find an old fixer upper and embark on home improvement projects with vim, vigor and power tools at the risk of your personal safety and manhood to make your bride happy? I do!
Do you promise to have fun, laugh until your stomach and cheeks hurt each and every single day together for the rest of your days? I do!
Do you promise to try absolutely everything together including but not limited to, water skiing, snowboarding, horse back riding, a marathon (next year), para sailing, cutting umbilical chords, green bean casserole, crown molding and chick flicks? I do!
Do also promise to love honor and cherish the life that you've built together which includes, but again is not limited to, two kids, 3 cars, a great (ever changing)house, 5 horses, 2 dogs and a turtle named Sheila? I do!
Do you promise that you will never answer another question with the words ... "I will?" I Do!
I do and always will love my wife... forever.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
The Pinewood Derby
As my son and I walked into the middle school cafeteria where the Tiger Cub Pinewood Derby was about to be held, we noticed that the organizers of the the event had laid the wooden cars out on tables near the track.
On the table were amazing cars in the shapes of hot dogs, school buses, apples, surfboards and the odd car that actually looked like ours ... a car. Many of the cars seemed to have been professional painted with German engineered designs. One car (the father of the boy apparently worked at a toy factory) had a computer aided, machine carved carousal horse on the side panel. Or fluorescent orange pine sports machine seemed a little overwhelmed.
It was a mere five weeks earlier, that my six year old son had snuck up to the side of the bed, gently tapped the shoulder and whispered, "Can we build it now?" A small block of pine, four plastic wheels, a sheet of number stickers and four shiny nails were all that were given to us at the previous nights tiger Cub meeting.
Our goal of that morning was to turned those simple ingrediants into something cool that could propel itself down a plywood track faster than any of the other fifty Tiger Cub cars.
The race organizers finally placed a dinosaur looking vehicle and our fragile car atop the track and pulled a lever which raised a Plexiglas shield from the front of the cars. I watched my son's eyes open wide and the weight of his little body shift forward as the cars hurled down the track that took up the full length of the cafeteria.
I looked quickly back to finish line as the cars crossed and then back to my son who pumped his fist into the air and whispered a victorious "Yes!" My thoughts were ... We won! We won! ... I mean He won! He won! There were more heats to go.
As the races went on, one could visibly see the disappointment in the faces of the children who lost as they sighed, stamped their feet or looked with scrunched faces back towards their Moms and Dads. Conversely, the winners were light on their feet and full of joy.
The curious thing was the neither the joy of the winners nor the sorrow of the losers seemed to last long. While there were a few exceptions, most of the boys seemed to bounce back to the state of the middle rather quickly.
My son was no exception. He seemed very happy with his victory at first then he went quickly back to exchanging headlocks with his friends. While the other fathers and I were nervously awaiting the next race, the boys that been knocked out were staging crash up derbies with pinewood cars that seemed to have $20,000 European paint jobs.
When his friends cars were racing, my son would cheer as loudly as anyone for their cars to win. This did not seem like it would bring the years of glorious memories to victors that I imagined or the years of agonizing memories to the defeated.
Amazingly, I had to remind my son that his name and number had been called for his next heat, we ... he ... won easily. Each race we won moved us closer and closer to the finals. Glory would soon be mine ... er ... his. I was, infact, planning my son's victory speech in my head as heat number 4 began.
We were racing against a car that was painted to look like an ambulance. Yes, a cute, idea-- but hardly a thought was made to the air that would furiously pound into the front of its course and blocky exterior. The race started out close, but the ambulance started pulling away. Then our car slowly began to gain. I looked at my son's hands high in the air as the cars crossed the finish line. It ended up a victory -- for the ambulance. My son's hands dropped.
I looked back at our car resting solemnly against the bumper at the end of the track. I then found my son at the exact moment he was flying through the air about to do a full body slam onto a large pile of boys.
Yes, trophies are nice, but when it comes down to it, our small victory was just building the car, just trying and having hope. Winning was not the most important thing that day. We had to race the race -- we ... he ... had to try. Anyway pee wee baseball came soon after. We got a trophy for that.
On the table were amazing cars in the shapes of hot dogs, school buses, apples, surfboards and the odd car that actually looked like ours ... a car. Many of the cars seemed to have been professional painted with German engineered designs. One car (the father of the boy apparently worked at a toy factory) had a computer aided, machine carved carousal horse on the side panel. Or fluorescent orange pine sports machine seemed a little overwhelmed.
It was a mere five weeks earlier, that my six year old son had snuck up to the side of the bed, gently tapped the shoulder and whispered, "Can we build it now?" A small block of pine, four plastic wheels, a sheet of number stickers and four shiny nails were all that were given to us at the previous nights tiger Cub meeting.
Our goal of that morning was to turned those simple ingrediants into something cool that could propel itself down a plywood track faster than any of the other fifty Tiger Cub cars.
The race organizers finally placed a dinosaur looking vehicle and our fragile car atop the track and pulled a lever which raised a Plexiglas shield from the front of the cars. I watched my son's eyes open wide and the weight of his little body shift forward as the cars hurled down the track that took up the full length of the cafeteria.
I looked quickly back to finish line as the cars crossed and then back to my son who pumped his fist into the air and whispered a victorious "Yes!" My thoughts were ... We won! We won! ... I mean He won! He won! There were more heats to go.
As the races went on, one could visibly see the disappointment in the faces of the children who lost as they sighed, stamped their feet or looked with scrunched faces back towards their Moms and Dads. Conversely, the winners were light on their feet and full of joy.
The curious thing was the neither the joy of the winners nor the sorrow of the losers seemed to last long. While there were a few exceptions, most of the boys seemed to bounce back to the state of the middle rather quickly.
My son was no exception. He seemed very happy with his victory at first then he went quickly back to exchanging headlocks with his friends. While the other fathers and I were nervously awaiting the next race, the boys that been knocked out were staging crash up derbies with pinewood cars that seemed to have $20,000 European paint jobs.
When his friends cars were racing, my son would cheer as loudly as anyone for their cars to win. This did not seem like it would bring the years of glorious memories to victors that I imagined or the years of agonizing memories to the defeated.
Amazingly, I had to remind my son that his name and number had been called for his next heat, we ... he ... won easily. Each race we won moved us closer and closer to the finals. Glory would soon be mine ... er ... his. I was, infact, planning my son's victory speech in my head as heat number 4 began.
We were racing against a car that was painted to look like an ambulance. Yes, a cute, idea-- but hardly a thought was made to the air that would furiously pound into the front of its course and blocky exterior. The race started out close, but the ambulance started pulling away. Then our car slowly began to gain. I looked at my son's hands high in the air as the cars crossed the finish line. It ended up a victory -- for the ambulance. My son's hands dropped.
I looked back at our car resting solemnly against the bumper at the end of the track. I then found my son at the exact moment he was flying through the air about to do a full body slam onto a large pile of boys.
Yes, trophies are nice, but when it comes down to it, our small victory was just building the car, just trying and having hope. Winning was not the most important thing that day. We had to race the race -- we ... he ... had to try. Anyway pee wee baseball came soon after. We got a trophy for that.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Ode to Happy
The stock market's down
Traffic's really bad
Life's full of stresses
My wallet's real sad
Where is the happy
Where is the joy
How does one find it
While the world does anoy
Yet, my health is quite strong
My wife is the best
I have a roof overhead
My kids are well dressed
My stomach is full
My job is still there
We have lots of pets
I still have my hair
Happy is my choice
I'm told time and again
It's all in my head
with haromony and zen
Choose to be happy
Choose life without stress
Choose life without "No"
Choose answers with "Yes"
Kiss the wife a bit longer
Pet the dog one more time
Tell your kids that you love 'em
Write bad poems with ryhme
Let the bad days come
But dream all the big dreams
Watch the clouds float by
Hear the birds and streams
Where is the happy
Can I keep all the highs
Happy's already with me
I'll just open my eyes
Traffic's really bad
Life's full of stresses
My wallet's real sad
Where is the happy
Where is the joy
How does one find it
While the world does anoy
Yet, my health is quite strong
My wife is the best
I have a roof overhead
My kids are well dressed
My stomach is full
My job is still there
We have lots of pets
I still have my hair
Happy is my choice
I'm told time and again
It's all in my head
with haromony and zen
Choose to be happy
Choose life without stress
Choose life without "No"
Choose answers with "Yes"
Kiss the wife a bit longer
Pet the dog one more time
Tell your kids that you love 'em
Write bad poems with ryhme
Let the bad days come
But dream all the big dreams
Watch the clouds float by
Hear the birds and streams
Where is the happy
Can I keep all the highs
Happy's already with me
I'll just open my eyes
Eating Dirt
My eighteen year old daughter loves everything about horses, horse shows and everything associated with the word ... "horse". She loves the smells of saddles, the sensation of landing the perfect jump, the nuzzle of a muzzle and even the endless waiting (and build of anticipation) at horse shows.
However, my seventeen year old son would rather eat dirt than step a single sneaker into the barn. He'd rather gargle glass than go to a show. Riding a horse would be less welcome than a Zombie Alien Invasion from the putrid planet of "Puke"... or whatever video game scenario applies.
While my daughter is tearing up the show ring and will jump 3 or 4 foot jumps a top her hay fuled steed, my son is shredding rails, slashing through snow and jumping 30 foot jumps aboard his gravity powered snowboard.
He loves the cold wind in his face, the feel of the ever steepening terrain as the evergreens blur by. He even enjoys the thrill (and great story) of the occasional crash.
My daughter, on the other hand, would rather eat dirt.
However, my seventeen year old son would rather eat dirt than step a single sneaker into the barn. He'd rather gargle glass than go to a show. Riding a horse would be less welcome than a Zombie Alien Invasion from the putrid planet of "Puke"... or whatever video game scenario applies.
While my daughter is tearing up the show ring and will jump 3 or 4 foot jumps a top her hay fuled steed, my son is shredding rails, slashing through snow and jumping 30 foot jumps aboard his gravity powered snowboard.
He loves the cold wind in his face, the feel of the ever steepening terrain as the evergreens blur by. He even enjoys the thrill (and great story) of the occasional crash.
My daughter, on the other hand, would rather eat dirt.
Happy Beyond Happy
I'm frequently asked by the curious non-equestrians at work, "How often do you ride?" My typical responses are "Me ... Oh ... not since the Nixon administration" or "They don't let the wretched ride."
The truth be known, I did ride almost daily while courting my wife 23 years ago. She was teaching riding lessons and I was taking riding lessons so I could actually see her when she wasn't exhausted. She even convinced me to go into a little schooling show. True story: I almost ran over the judge and then cut off a 75 year old woman in a flat class causing her to fall from her mount. After my primary rival was taken away in an ambulance, I got second in the class, much better than I expected.
I now rarely get on a horse...maybe every 5 years or so if the stars line up just so. Yes, it usually does take 5 years to recover. Even when I do ride, it on the pony Bobbie. I'm 6 foot 2. If he starts getting fresh, all I have to do is straighten my legs and he just trots out from under me.
Truth also be known that none of this is or was ever about me. The quicker I came to that realization the better. My role is cleaning stalls on the weekends, picking up the feed at the store, doing night checks, trailering horses here and there, fixing stuff, helping with turn out and yes paying some bills. The horses are as much about me as breathing is about smelling the flowers. I'm only a side benefit that comes with the entree.
However, I love (and I do mean love) to watch my wife and daughter ride. The horse and either rider float so effortlessly around the ring with such grace and beauty that it's almost like a spiritual type of experience for me. OK ... before you think spiritual in the sense that I'm channeling my long dead fore fathers ... no ... nothing Casper the Friendly Ghost here.
Watching them ride somehow makes me feel like I'm part of something bigger.
I always have to stop and watch for a moment. I'm always at least tempted to grab a camera. I always get tears in my eyes.
It's not truly about their riding either. Yes, my wife and daughter both are accomplished riders and no I don't get the same feeling watching others ride (that would be weird), no matter how good they are. I do, however, get the same feeling watching my son snowboard effortlessly over powered snow.
The watery eyes, the spirituality, the sappy stories do not come because of the beauty of the ride of horse or snowboard or because I live to peal onions.
It comes because someone I love is doing something something they love. It makes them happy beyond happy, which makes me happy beyond happy.
Ride Happy!
The truth be known, I did ride almost daily while courting my wife 23 years ago. She was teaching riding lessons and I was taking riding lessons so I could actually see her when she wasn't exhausted. She even convinced me to go into a little schooling show. True story: I almost ran over the judge and then cut off a 75 year old woman in a flat class causing her to fall from her mount. After my primary rival was taken away in an ambulance, I got second in the class, much better than I expected.
I now rarely get on a horse...maybe every 5 years or so if the stars line up just so. Yes, it usually does take 5 years to recover. Even when I do ride, it on the pony Bobbie. I'm 6 foot 2. If he starts getting fresh, all I have to do is straighten my legs and he just trots out from under me.
Truth also be known that none of this is or was ever about me. The quicker I came to that realization the better. My role is cleaning stalls on the weekends, picking up the feed at the store, doing night checks, trailering horses here and there, fixing stuff, helping with turn out and yes paying some bills. The horses are as much about me as breathing is about smelling the flowers. I'm only a side benefit that comes with the entree.
However, I love (and I do mean love) to watch my wife and daughter ride. The horse and either rider float so effortlessly around the ring with such grace and beauty that it's almost like a spiritual type of experience for me. OK ... before you think spiritual in the sense that I'm channeling my long dead fore fathers ... no ... nothing Casper the Friendly Ghost here.
Watching them ride somehow makes me feel like I'm part of something bigger.
I always have to stop and watch for a moment. I'm always at least tempted to grab a camera. I always get tears in my eyes.
It's not truly about their riding either. Yes, my wife and daughter both are accomplished riders and no I don't get the same feeling watching others ride (that would be weird), no matter how good they are. I do, however, get the same feeling watching my son snowboard effortlessly over powered snow.
The watery eyes, the spirituality, the sappy stories do not come because of the beauty of the ride of horse or snowboard or because I live to peal onions.
It comes because someone I love is doing something something they love. It makes them happy beyond happy, which makes me happy beyond happy.
Ride Happy!
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