More than a 50th Anniversary Celebration

Two weekends ago, I traveled to Southern Oregon.  Besides being a time to reminisce about my summer exploits (see my last blog for insight into my very scary “rural-roots” psyche), I attended a very significant event.  I watched my parent’s best friends, Sandy and Sonny, renew their wedding vows after 50 years of marriage. FIFTY YEARS. Who does ANYTHING for 50 years anymore??  The 50 year marriage is truly remarkable.  But I was struck by another deep and powerful undercurrent of the celebration day.  

But first, a bit of background…

I don’t remember meeting Sandy and Sonny.  They always just “were”.  I’m told that I was 3 years old when Sandy started babysitting me.  My parents and Sandy and Sonny met when they were in their 20s and have remained best of friends to this day.  My dad will get home tomorrow from an Eastern Oregon hunting (“camping with guns”) trip with Sonny.  (I heard Sonny actually got an antelope.  What??  A freakin’ miracle.  My world is just a bit on tilt.)

Together, for 44 years, my parents and Sandy and Sonny have laughed, played pinochle, raised 5 kids, had misunderstandings, celebrated birthdays, exchanged garden produce, fished, cried over children’s decisions, gone to church, gone to lunch, celebrated holidays, hunted, applauded children’s successes, fixed cars, and laughed even more.

17 years ago (I believe this weekend) Mom and Dad moved 5½ hours away from Ruch to St. Helens.  One would think that this would hinder, distance or at least slow down any friendship.  Um.  No.  Now the friendship has a different texture (staying in each other’s homes for extended weekends, phone calls, bragging about grandkids, and still the “camping with guns” trips), but they are still doing life together.

OK.  Back to the 50^th anniversary celebration in Ruch.  It’s like a camera snapshot.  I am sitting at a table with my parents and yet ANOTHER couple (Pat and Jack) that, to me, have also always just “been”, because I met them when I was 4.  Pat and Jack are also treasured lifelong friends of my mom and dad (and me) AND lifelong friends of Sandy and Sonny. SO!  I am sitting at this table, with people my parents and I and I have known, loved and done life with for 43 years, watching their mutual lifelong friends renew their vows after 50 years.  (Oh, and by the way, just last year, Jack and Pat celebrated their 60^th anniversary.  Mom and Dad are the babies of that little trio and will celebrate their 50^th in 2 years.)

DOES THIS STRIKE ANYONE ELSE AS COMPLETELY ASTONISHING??? 

And let’s not be Polyanna.   I know these six people.  Well.  None of them are close to perfect.  In fact, each one would quickly admit that the any and all of other ones can, at times, be irritating, hurtful and self-centered.  They all have their quirks and the quirks aren’t always cute.  Each of those 3 marriages have been through very, very rocky seasons.  Some have almost not made it.  I have been close enough to all three to personally hear harsh and painful yelling matches in each marriage.

And it is just THIS that makes the whole snapshot at the anniversary celebration so astonishing.  So profound.  So sacred.  So beautiful.

And this is just a snapshot. This “snapshot” of the vows renewal does not even include the “video” that day of me hugging, talking to, and reconnecting with Joan (the farmer’s wife/breast cancer survivor/pillar of the community), Ron and Martha (current pastor of Ruch Church for 30 years/my youth pastor/sang at my wedding), Dorine and Doug (widow and son of Earl, one of my all-time heroes of the faith), Grace (a second mom/ mother of my childhood best friend/woman of courage and dignity) and SOOO many more.   It also does not include the “video” of long line of people sharing memories of Sandy and Sonny – almost ALL of the stories going back more than 35 years!

These are my roots.

Through much of my late teens and 20s, I fought hard to distance myself from the rural, hometown, simple life.  I moved to the city. Single and “sophisticated”.  (Do. NOT. Laugh.)  In many ways, I truly have changed and morphed. And some of those ways I really like.   (My dad told me at the 50^th that I dress like a liberal. Why thank you, Dad!!  Bahahahah!!!!  What the hootie does a liberal dress like?? Someone not from Ruch?? I have no idea! )  But it strikes me at this point in life, that many “sophisticated” people would give anything to have the gift I have been given: simple, basic, goodness-filled, longevity of community connection… those relationships that enrich and bring meaning to our lives. Astonishing.

The long-term warmth, connectedness, affection, support and reflexive commitment that is still alive and well between all of these people is an imbedded foundation of clarity, wealth, anchoring and (even now) renewal for me.  As I grow older, I am allowing this legacy to permeate my soul.  Shape my identity.  More deliberately.  I am learning to deeply treasure it. Savor it.  It is rich.  And so very rare.

Memories of Summers in the Ruch Metroplex

Last weekend my husband and I hopped in our little Nissan and took I-5 South to beautiful Southern Oregon.  Ruch, Oregon, specifically.  It’s the little (almost) town where I grew up in the late 60s and 70s.  (It didn’t even have a post office.  Still doesn’t.)  Ruch (say “Roosh”, please – not “rutch”) is located in the spectacularly gorgeous Applegate valley and boasted (during those years) 2 gas stations, 2 grocery stores, 2 churches, a bar, a hair salon, a trailer court (where I lived my first 6 years) and my small elementary school.  It was populated with farmer, red-neck, timber-worker types and (further away from the busy metro center) pot-smoking, bead-wearing, skinny-dipping hippy types.  (Who didn’t necessarily like each other.) Guess which of these sets I herald from.  (Clue: my dad is a Rush Limbaugh fan.J)

Well, the jaunt south brought back memories of summer in the ol’ hometown …

My summers were spent in the water. The Applegate River was one huge playground.  We would swim, dive and (a few brave/stupid ones – not me, mom!) jump off the bridge at Cantrall-Buckley Park. And be chased by harmless but absolutely terrifying water snakes.  Or if we had a full afternoon, we would grab inflated, old tire inner tubes (remember the smell of those things??) and float on the river with our faces turned up toward the hot summer sun.  And severely scrape our butts on the jagged rocks that caught us by surprise. (Awkward place for band-aids.)  

I also spent hours and days at a time in the pool of my best friend Sheryl.  Above ground pools were pretty new back then (ok… at least in Ruch) and we would swim, talk about boys and lay out on the deck of the pool listening to the Beach Boys and Evie.  (No comments on that combination, please.)   After a dinner of grilled hamburgers and fresh-from-the-garden-corn-on-the-cob, we would watch the sun peacefully set on the other side of the Applegate Valley and then swim late into the hot night playing Marco Polo, tag or whatever.  Ahhh, summer.

In junior high, when I felt especially motivated, I would call a friend, hop on my purchased-with-my-own-money-in-4^th-grade Schwinn 10-speed. (Do you even understand how much $130 was to a 4^th grader in 1974??  Yep.  Still proud of that.)   We would ride 15 miles over the mountain into the neighboring (Rogue) valley and the 15 miles back.  It was grueling and steep going up (oh, my lungs burned!) and very steep, fast and wonderfully adrenaline-buzzed going down.  Clocking 40 mph, logging trucks passing us – WHY am I still alive?  Well, when we arrived in Medford, we would go directly to Bi-Mart. (Why Bi-Mart, you ask? I have absolutely NO idea.  Who really understands the mind of a junior higher?)

My dad owned a Honda 90 motorcycle.  BEST.  VEHICLE.  EVER.  When I was 8 years old, I learned to drive it.  No, not ride it.  Drive it. I was not tall (read: short), and once on the bike, I could not touch the ground.  So I would stand by the motorcycle, put it in gear, THEN I would jump on the seat and turn the throttle and go – all in one simultaneous motion.  Once up and moving on that Honda 90, I was a demon on wheels.  We lived on the side of a mountain that had paths, back dirt roads, deer trails and old logging roads.  I tore them up.  Then I discovered places I could catch air and do some pretty impressive jumps.  And land right side up.  Most of the time. (Remember Bactine?  Went through about a bottle a summer.) 

Well, there you have Connie and a little slice of her childhood summers... Totally fearless. (Except for the snakes.)  Unbelievably stupid.  Oh. And utterly feminine.

Next blog… more about the trip to Ruch and our surprisingly meaningful visit…