We celebrated our 33rd wedding anniversary this week. As I approach my 60th year, I realize that more than half my life has been with Betty J. Brantley. In May of 2012, we will have known each other fourty years. Anyone who has spent time with me understands the horrors she has put up with. After decades of sickness and health, happiness and sorrow, we still make each other laugh, and complete each other's unclear sentences. She gets me, and has always allowed me to be who I am. She is a keeper. I knew it the day we met.
We were introduced by her roommate, Elizabeth, a fellow art student and class buddy in Chapel Hill. The afternoon Liz introduced us, I took the girls for a beer, and then we all drove in my red convertible to a country barbecue joint where I carved our initials on a picnic table, "BJB + RLC." I was smitten. She was not. We became pals. The two roommates held a sort of Salon in their tiny apartment, and threw amazingly stylish parties, with interesting, talented students always lingering in those smoky, hazy early years of the seventies. BJ and I stayed in touch after graduation through newsy letters, and while I was living in Washington, she came for a weekend visit, and our friendship grew and blossomed.
We were wed in the coldest dark of winter by warm candlelight in a small chapel. The groomsmen in black tuxedoes, behaved like naughty penguins; putting raisins on their front teeth to appear toothless, as they paraded down the isle trying to crack my icy face. The beautiful bridal attendants were dressed in cerise silk, and carried bouquets of white french tulips. As a groom, you have the best seat in the house, watching the spectacle unfold before your eyes. I remember every single detail of that play. My dear dad had obtained one of my mother's "little helpers" for me to swallow along with my jitters, so I was as cool as the chilled January air outside. As the crowd stood for the bridal processional, she appeared at the door on her father's arm; dressed in her mother's wedding gown, a cloud of white satin and lace that appeared angelic. Her bouquet was an riotous explosion of wild color - cerise, purple, yellow and pink, as if she had plucked the essence of spring and held it in her hands. She took my breath away.
She still takes my breath away. I wonder if our initials are still on that picnic table?
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Eulogy
On Friday, I took part in a sweet funeral played out by a large cast in honor of Mary Stewart Covington, the mother of my and dear friend, and brilliant artist and writer, Elizabeth Bradford. The early morning interment was at the church where Elizabeth's father's funeral had taken place, and her wedding, at which I was a groomsman for her former husband, David. The old cemetery sits on a boulder strewn hill that overlooks the 19th century clapboard church. As we stood in the bright cold, saying a tearful good-bye, I was overcome by the rush of fourty years of memories.
Mary was called GrandMary by her grandchildren, and "grand" she was. Liz and I were art students in Chapel Hill when she introduced me to her mother for the first time at her parent's annual Christmas party in 1971, which was as elegant an affair as I had ever seen in my 20 years. Upon entering the living room, the grand piano tunes reflected the shimmer of the decor and the incredible Christmas tree. This tree was flocked in white, and covered with live white narcissus in floral tubes, decked out with three sizes of miniature white lights and a dazzling display of crystals and shimmering ancient glass ornaments. The tree was surrounded by a blanket of snow on which there were satin ribbon-wrapped gifts with tiny moss covered pots of narcissus sitting casually about. The fragrance was intoxicating. In 1971, not even Martha Stewart had forced narcissus bulbs. There were white mechanical birds hidden in the branches which tweeted a serenade all evening. The food was southern, mouth-watering bites, passed by waiters, and the bar was stocked and hosted by her loquatious and fun-loving dad, Hurd Bradford. I was simply astounded by that party. As a rather unworldly college student, my world was rocked by that Christmas party and by the "grand" Mary and her great taste. She became my teacher that very night. On later summer visits to their mountain house with Elizabeth, Mary took us to the auction houses and antique shops, and taught me about how to spot a fake and how to grab a treasure. She explained clarity and cut in diamonds, and the difference and importance of platinum. She showed me the secret inlaid drawers in the first real Sheridan piece I had ever seen, her own desk. Heady stuff for a young man who loved design. I never saw a woman who could go through an antique shop in such record time, and with her expert eyes, always find an amazing overlooked find. The following spring after that Christmas party, Elizabeth introduced me to B. J. Brantley, her UNC room mate, and my destiny was sealed, as B.J. and I were married 33 years ago this month.
Mary Stewart had an amazing life, and was adored by many as a forward-thinking progressive teacher and philanthropist. She survived three husbands, and her will and faith kept her in this world stylishly alive and alert until her last moments. She passed on her great sense of graciousness to everyone she ever encountered. Mary's service was held in the beautifully proportioned Davidson Presbyterian church on the Jeffersonian-inspired campus. Simple, upbeat and tasteful, the service was followed by a reception at which we saw many old faces; including artists and friends of Elizabeth, and her wonderful family and amazing children, now grown men. We also visited with David, whom we had not seen in over twenty years, and shared laughs over old times. It was a lovely send off.
On the long afternoon drive home, BJ and I sat mostly in silence, lost in the dusty trail of memories, occasionally breaking the quiet with a comment on the day, or discussing the next beach trip with Elizabeth. I realized at some point during the drive that it was January seventh, and that I had buried my own father that very same day, six years earlier. I wondered at the roundness of days and years, and asked myself silently, "will I stand on that hill, overlooking that sweet old church when Elizabeth dies to say good bye, or will she help BJ sprinkle my ashes at the beach, where we three have had so many good memories together." Who can guess what the future may hold. Either way, I imagine one of us will say or write a eulogy of some sort, as a send off to dear old friends and the passage of time together. In the meantime, I give thanks to fate, for bringing Elizabeth, and her dear mom into my life.
Mary was called GrandMary by her grandchildren, and "grand" she was. Liz and I were art students in Chapel Hill when she introduced me to her mother for the first time at her parent's annual Christmas party in 1971, which was as elegant an affair as I had ever seen in my 20 years. Upon entering the living room, the grand piano tunes reflected the shimmer of the decor and the incredible Christmas tree. This tree was flocked in white, and covered with live white narcissus in floral tubes, decked out with three sizes of miniature white lights and a dazzling display of crystals and shimmering ancient glass ornaments. The tree was surrounded by a blanket of snow on which there were satin ribbon-wrapped gifts with tiny moss covered pots of narcissus sitting casually about. The fragrance was intoxicating. In 1971, not even Martha Stewart had forced narcissus bulbs. There were white mechanical birds hidden in the branches which tweeted a serenade all evening. The food was southern, mouth-watering bites, passed by waiters, and the bar was stocked and hosted by her loquatious and fun-loving dad, Hurd Bradford. I was simply astounded by that party. As a rather unworldly college student, my world was rocked by that Christmas party and by the "grand" Mary and her great taste. She became my teacher that very night. On later summer visits to their mountain house with Elizabeth, Mary took us to the auction houses and antique shops, and taught me about how to spot a fake and how to grab a treasure. She explained clarity and cut in diamonds, and the difference and importance of platinum. She showed me the secret inlaid drawers in the first real Sheridan piece I had ever seen, her own desk. Heady stuff for a young man who loved design. I never saw a woman who could go through an antique shop in such record time, and with her expert eyes, always find an amazing overlooked find. The following spring after that Christmas party, Elizabeth introduced me to B. J. Brantley, her UNC room mate, and my destiny was sealed, as B.J. and I were married 33 years ago this month.
Mary Stewart had an amazing life, and was adored by many as a forward-thinking progressive teacher and philanthropist. She survived three husbands, and her will and faith kept her in this world stylishly alive and alert until her last moments. She passed on her great sense of graciousness to everyone she ever encountered. Mary's service was held in the beautifully proportioned Davidson Presbyterian church on the Jeffersonian-inspired campus. Simple, upbeat and tasteful, the service was followed by a reception at which we saw many old faces; including artists and friends of Elizabeth, and her wonderful family and amazing children, now grown men. We also visited with David, whom we had not seen in over twenty years, and shared laughs over old times. It was a lovely send off.
On the long afternoon drive home, BJ and I sat mostly in silence, lost in the dusty trail of memories, occasionally breaking the quiet with a comment on the day, or discussing the next beach trip with Elizabeth. I realized at some point during the drive that it was January seventh, and that I had buried my own father that very same day, six years earlier. I wondered at the roundness of days and years, and asked myself silently, "will I stand on that hill, overlooking that sweet old church when Elizabeth dies to say good bye, or will she help BJ sprinkle my ashes at the beach, where we three have had so many good memories together." Who can guess what the future may hold. Either way, I imagine one of us will say or write a eulogy of some sort, as a send off to dear old friends and the passage of time together. In the meantime, I give thanks to fate, for bringing Elizabeth, and her dear mom into my life.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
January one
I awoke early this first day of 2011 thinking of a lyric I vividly remembered from a 1974/1975 new years party. The song was written by Phoebe Snow whose music I adore, and she had just released her eponymous first album. The year 1975 set in motion amazing events that would change my life forever, but on that last night of 1974, in the midst of a recession, jobless, and alone, Phoebe's lyrics struck a cynical nerve in a cynical time.
My buddy Tim hosted the party at his parent's house, and we played billiards and drank beer all afternoon preparing for the evening. Of course, his saintly and progressive parents were out of town. A lively and large college crowd of friends came and celebrated well into the wee hours. At midnight, Tim and I dressed as "Father Time" and "Baby New Year," with banners of the year numbers fashioned across our chests. Tim had the body, so he played the shirtless diaper role, and I dressed in a sheet and carried a borrowed old sythe. Sometime before dawn, after everyone had either left, scored, or passed out; I mournfully and drunkenly played the Phoebe Snow album over and over and over on the record player, and when I awoke on the floor, it was 1975. No explanations appeared.
Several years ago, Tim sent me the treasured photograph of us shot at midnight in costume. I took a long hard look at that picture this morning and went on a trip down my dimming memory lane with You Tube to find the song called, "It Must be Sunday," with the funny lyrics. The last time I went out on new years eve was 2000/2001. These days, my last night of the year is spent in contemplation as it was last evening. No expectations ever for the last night of the year. Here is the verse of the witty and timely lyric that stuck:
"December thirty-first
Is the very worst time of the year
You got to think of people
That you like enough
To share your beer
Just when you're having fun
It's January one
And you wait for explanations
To appear."
No explanations magically appeared this morning. No excuses either for the old year now history. This mornings dawn brought hope and expectation for a year of personal growth; of expressing joy and passion, and of living with as little cynicism as possible. It's January one.
My buddy Tim hosted the party at his parent's house, and we played billiards and drank beer all afternoon preparing for the evening. Of course, his saintly and progressive parents were out of town. A lively and large college crowd of friends came and celebrated well into the wee hours. At midnight, Tim and I dressed as "Father Time" and "Baby New Year," with banners of the year numbers fashioned across our chests. Tim had the body, so he played the shirtless diaper role, and I dressed in a sheet and carried a borrowed old sythe. Sometime before dawn, after everyone had either left, scored, or passed out; I mournfully and drunkenly played the Phoebe Snow album over and over and over on the record player, and when I awoke on the floor, it was 1975. No explanations appeared.
Several years ago, Tim sent me the treasured photograph of us shot at midnight in costume. I took a long hard look at that picture this morning and went on a trip down my dimming memory lane with You Tube to find the song called, "It Must be Sunday," with the funny lyrics. The last time I went out on new years eve was 2000/2001. These days, my last night of the year is spent in contemplation as it was last evening. No expectations ever for the last night of the year. Here is the verse of the witty and timely lyric that stuck:
"December thirty-first
Is the very worst time of the year
You got to think of people
That you like enough
To share your beer
Just when you're having fun
It's January one
And you wait for explanations
To appear."
No explanations magically appeared this morning. No excuses either for the old year now history. This mornings dawn brought hope and expectation for a year of personal growth; of expressing joy and passion, and of living with as little cynicism as possible. It's January one.
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