It’s almost time for my husband and me to celebrate our wedding anniversary. This one will be our 47th. We will celebrate it very happily. But I keep thinking about #45. It was special. And two years later I still want to talk about it.
What did we, a long-married couple, do to celebrate a remarkable achievement – our 45th Wedding Anniversary – during the hottest summer in living memory in 2016? We took a trip to an outside venue, of course: the Atlanta Botanical Gardens, to marvel at its beauty and the latest installations by Seattle glass artist, Dale Chihuly. We would have dinner “on the grounds” – actually a gourmet meal in the newly-opened, heaven-sent, sub-arctic refuge known as “Linton’s” where we would linger far longer than we ought but blessedly long enough to cool off, re-fuel, and re-charge. Survival of the fittest. After 45 years, we knew all about that.
We had considered lots of [economical] options. Semi-retirement has its pros and cons, after all, and in our case, we have more time to do stuff, but less money to throw around doing it. Go to the movies, a play, a show, an art gallery or two? Eat out locally? Grill a juicy steak and stay in? Certainly not a European vacation or a trip to anywhere very far, for that matter. Semi-retirement = my husband had to work the next day.
We are inveterate gardeners, my husband and I. We love to make our garden grow, and know that it’s only through hard work and commitment that we can accomplish that. So we chose to work in our garden on a blazing hot Georgia day in June. Just think Hadron collider when they smash gold particles together and for a split second, the temperature reaches 7.2 trillion degrees Fahrenheit, only way more sultry with 100 per cent humidity. We labored until around 1:30, then showered, dressed, and drove northward to Atlanta to spend the rest of the day and evening outside appreciating someone else’s garden! Geniuses.
Our trip into the city was typical. One minute we were sailing along on I-85. The next minute we were in the middle of a cluster of crawling vehicles with no apparent cause. Plenty of effect, though. Historically, traffic is predictably unpredictable at or near the University Ave exit and from there it’s a toss-up as to which part(s) of the downtown connector will follow suit and bungle up traffic even more.
This day, sure enough, we crawled from University Ave as multiple police cars screamed past on the shoulder headed north. Just past I-20 we saw the jumble of blue lights as we rolled slowly by, but there were no mangled vehicles, no wreckers, no debris, no nothing, save a small triangle of bright, yellow crime tape flapping with the breeze. Blessedly, we were able to exit from the HOV lane at Piedmont and make it to the Bot Garden around 3:45pm, only about 45 minutes past our target arrival time.
Little did we know, arriving closer to 4pm would be in our favor. Turned out there was a day admission until 5, after which there was a different admission for Chihuly Nights. In order to avoid paying double admission we were advised to “chill” until 4pm, after which time we could buy admission at the day rate but would also be honored for the evening as well. We were hot already. Just the thought of “chilling” gave me all the incentive I needed to go with Plan B.
Enter the ubiquitous Gift Shop, conveniently located immediately to our left. Perfect way to kill 15 minutes and cool off. Here we could most definitely chill.
We both bought hats. Characteristically, Rick grabbed a new ball cap. This one had a smart looking, crisp, green Bot Garden logo sewn on the front. I spied a large brimmed, black sun hat with white stitching and a smart bow on the right crown. I had realized the moment we arrived at the garden I should have brought a hat for shade. This one was chic, the perfect complement for my outfit, and utilitarian. It was the only one of its kind left on the rack. And it was only $24. I immediately grabbed it like a hungry child in a bread line. Boom. Done. We would wear our new hats for the rest of the afternoon, until sundown.
Then we began to search for our anniversary gift to each other. For our anniversary seven years earlier, when we were building a detached garage, we bought ourselves a large, terra cotta pig for the garden path. Our toddler grandson, Harper, loved it, and dubbed it “Pig Pig.” To this day, good ol’ Pig Pig gets a pat on the nose every time we walk down the path. We wanted something as lasting as Pig Pig. We didn’t know what it would be, but knew we would know it when we saw it. We thumbed through coffee table books, handled a variety of trinkets, and baubles, and high-priced tchotchkes. Nothing suited us.
And then, there it was. Love at first sight: A smart-looking, kinetic whirly gig with not one, but two different, hammered-copper flowers, capable of spinning independently, and yet inextricably linked together as one on the same welded, metal pole to be rooted firmly in the garden soil. We could relate. Perfect for our garden, and perfect for us. The metaphor was inescapable. It was us.
We emerged from the gift shop just after 4:00, happily wearing our new headgear and toting our now personified whirly gig. Rick gallantly ran to the car to deposit the whirly gig as I fanned and blotted myself, complaining good naturedly (I hoped) about the heat to the woman standing next to me. I stood in the shade, checking my phone while I waited. The local news app popped up with breaking headlines that solved the mystery of our earlier adventure with the traffic, and my heart sank.
Somebody had been shot and dumped from a car on the interstate. Good. God. “Unhhh” I groaned quietly. Now knowing we had come so close to being a part of that scene made it feel more personal. I felt a quick stab of alarm, assuaged by sadness, followed by an adrenalin rush of pure and simple enmity. I cursed and fumed silently in my head. “The shootings and the violence these days are fucking outrageous, and there’s no solution in sight,” I thought. Rick returned, smiling, and I closed my phone with a sigh, grateful for the interruption, thankful for my life, for my day, and for him. The heat became a bit more bearable in that moment. With sudden new perspective, how could I complain? We would continue with our splendid day, and we would have no more thoughts of bad things.
I had no way of knowing that only 2 days later, the entire world would be sucker-punched by the worst mass shooting in history at a gay bar in Orlando, Florida. Death and mayhem laid itself at the world’s feet, like a grotesque offering at the altar of terrorism and hate, and we would be helpless to prevent it or dispose of it. Not since 911 would so many be murdered and maimed, and as a world community we would be at once divided and united, taking sides, arguing about religion and guns and gays and plunging ourselves into shock, sadness, anger, and grief. I had no idea that on that sad day I would be reaching back desperately to retrieve the memory of our evening in the bot garden and holding on to it for solace; a healing balm for my soul.
So we stepped up to the booth, bought our admission, and strolled into another world.
And it was good.
We wandered up and down paths, meandering slowly and without purpose, taking everything in as the afternoon sun bore down and the day slowly turned into a hot, sticky night. There was the rich, loamy scent of garden soil; sweet blooms and botanicals full of color and chlorophyll; bird calls and flapping wings; sparkling water spilling over things and down into brooks and fountain bowls. A rare, blissful, barely-there summer breeze lightly swayed branches and rippled green leaves, caressed our sweaty necks, and carried soft conversations and laughter all about. Glass sculptures were lit and glistening like fire and ice; the angular, sharp architecture of the city in the distance jutted into the sky over the top of a round, verdant hill. There were marvelous metal garden gates forged from garden implements, and giant botanical topiaries of animals and beautiful goddesses; majestic crepe myrtles lining either side of a long walk, bending benevolently toward each other to form a high, arched, covered allée. We continued to amble along happily, chatting now and then; smiling; pointing; admiring; discussing; silently enjoying; people watching; posing for a photo now and then; taking a photo now and then; holding hands now and then. Still sweating. Still blotting. Still fanning. We stopped still and stared in awe and in silence now and then. We were happy to take it all in, all of it: the garden, the people, the glass sculptures, the fountains, each other, even the heat.
What a gift it is to just “be”; alive, content, and in no particular hurry, especially in the company of a lifelong partner and love of 45 years. No deadlines. No rushing as we walked through so much sensual stimulation. Phones off. Present in the moment. The gardens alone were breathtaking, and combined with all the added creativity and splendor of so many artful, Chihuly glass installations it was a feast to be taken in and savored. We happily gorged ourselves on it all.
As with any fine meal there’s a time to stop. Satiety becomes anesthetizing when one is full to the brim, when not one more morsel can be ingested, be it food or art. We had filled ourselves with multi-sensual food. Now it was time for a real meal. We found our oasis and took refuge in the garden’s glassed-in restaurant. It was blessed relief from the heat and we rested our eyes and aching feet, still seeking sustenance for body and soul in dinner. The provisions were delicious and welcome; our conversation lively, pleasant, enjoyable. As is his custom, Rick engaged our server in friendly conversation and we discovered her to be an art student working on her degree. I could relate, not with the waitressing part, per se, but with the part time job part and the struggling art student part.
As we spoke with her, I flashed back to my four year struggle starting 13 years earlier to check a box off my bucket list: finish my college degree. I had devoted many years to supporting my husband’s career and raising our family. With Rick’s veterinary career firmly established and our children grown and out of the house, I wanted my turn at bat. I wanted my chance to stand over the plate and swing for the fences. By the time I got around to it in 2003, however, I was apparently an ancient at age 53. None of my credits transferred. I would be starting from scratch.
My lifelong career was always in music, during which time the lack of a music degree did not stand in my way. I had sung with the ASO Chorus and famed choral conductor, Robert Shaw through 10 seasons and a European tour; I taught music at a private school where they didn’t need the paperwork, and I did a damn fine job. I performed all over the place in shows and cabarets and sang more weddings than I care to remember. I was a paid soloist in church. And I celebrated my 50th birthday with an epic, one-woman show at the Rialto Theater in downtown Atlanta. With all that it was not necessary to get a music degree. I didn’t need it.
I wanted to learn something different and I had an interest in graphic design, so I chose a 4 year art degree. I was accepted into the Atlanta College of Art on a portfolio that, looking back, was lacking but showed potential. I attended ACA for three years, changing my major to painting along the way (because the pace of graphic design was not, as it turned out, my jam), followed by one year at the Atlanta campus of Savannah College of Art and Design because – it’s true, timing in life is everything – ACA quietly, and quite inconveniently closed its doors the summer of my upcoming senior year. As non-traditional students of a certain age are wont to do, I took it all very seriously. I was stubbornly committed to succeeding in school, much like I was in my marriage.
I wanted to learn, to see how far I could elevate my learning, to be the best student I was capable of being. I wanted that degree. I would not quit. That meant a veritable four year marathon that would tax me to the absolute max, testing me physically and mentally. It was a free for all the likes of which I had no way of knowing would be so difficult. It was four years of proving to myself I could do something I didn’t know whether I could actually do.
Four years of starting over meant core classes like English Comp, English Lit, Psych 101, Math, and World Cultures, plus all the art and art history classes and subsequent assignments I would be required to accomplish after coming home from my part time job as staff soloist at St. Mark Methodist Church in Midtown Atlanta. On any given day, my commute one way meant a 45-to 90 minute drive depending on traffic. Optimistically, on the days I worked I would be arriving home at 10 or 11pm followed by homework. So. Much. Homework. On Sundays my time was consumed by the commute both ways and singing two services, requiring me to leave home at 7am and arrive back home around 2pm. The balance of the day was left for school work. It was an unsustainable agenda, and I came to realize it would be necessary for me to leave my job after a year of that grueling schedule in order to accomplish my college degree. I had been singing in that job for 9 years, and loved it. But something had to change. So, yes, I did quit something. It was a matter of priorities and reality. I simply could not do both.
Still, with laser focus on my goal and no job to distract me, I struggled. There were lots of all-nighters. So much studying. So many tests. So many papers to write. So many projects. So much traffic every day. The hard wooden seats of the drawing horses hurt my over-50 butt and lower back after a 5 hour studio class. My feet swelled after sitting in a chair for hours in my foundation classes. Spending long hours standing in photo darkrooms, bending double over silkscreen tables, standing at painting easels all took a toll. I wrote virtuoso essays and studied long hours for exams. I was crushing it with a 4.0 average.
As exciting as my whole learning experience was, it was equally arduous and demanding for both of us. My husband had been completely supportive, but even he was weary of what it took to deal with my exhausting timetable, and what it took to check the box. He was a captive audience forced to listen to some pretty dramatic primal screams emanating from my basement workspace, which were as stressful and disturbing for him to hear as they were for me to issue. He ate a lot of dinners solo while I spent late hours working in the screen printing studio or the computer lab. I dragged in at all hours freshly traumatized by the latest rush hour traffic, covered in paint, or printmaking ink, or screen printing goo, or smelling like the chemicals in the photo lab tanks. On some occasions he sweetly had my dinner waiting, and more than once I had only enough energy to bend over my plate with head in hand and stare blankly, opening my mouth just enough to allow a slim rivulet of drool escape over my lip and down my chin. How fetching.
By graduation day I had acquired a bad knee in need of surgery, frayed nerves, and a weight problem. I had been tested and stressed past the point at which I thought I would survive. In 4 years I felt like I had aged 20. But I crossed that stage in 2007 to receive my diploma, Summa Cum Laude, and I was – we were – elated, proud and so very grateful. I had done it. WE had done it.
It was the same way I had approached our marriage, and still do. No exit. Work hard with integrity. Have passion. Work through the obstacles. Support each other. The only way out is through. Build bridges, hold hands, and walk across together. Enjoy it all if and when you can. Love and appreciate it all, nonetheless.
Come to think of it, that’s the way we garden, too. It ain’t all fun and games. Things die; bugs descend; body parts ache; the work can be backbreaking; there are no guarantees; sometimes you have to start over. But commitment, faith, encouragement, and perseverance bolster a weak body. Through it all, we honor our promise to tend our garden. And the end results are, more often than not, thoroughly rewarding.
All of that flew through my consciousness as we sat there on our anniversary and chatted with a young, tattooed, millennial striving to check off her own boxes. I hoped she would follow her path and succeed. I said a silent prayer for her success. I ran through my favorite Bernstein piece in my head, “Make Our Garden Grow” from Candide:
Let dreamers dream
What worlds they please
Those Edens can’t be found.
The sweetest flowers,
The fairest trees
Are grown in solid ground.
We’re neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We’ll do the best we know.
We’ll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow.
And make our garden grow!
Our waitress took our photo, we paid our bill, and now thoroughly sated in every possible way, we went back out to happily wend our way back through the garden holding hands, back to our car, and back home.
The roads were clear by the time we headed south, but I craned my neck as we drove by the crime scene we had passed earlier. There was no trace of the flapping, yellow tape or flashing lights; no sign that a soul once living had been taken away at that spot. I don’t know what I thought I would see, if anything. Silly of me to even look. But I did. Because, somehow, it mattered. Some ill-fated stranger mattered to me. I wondered if they were married. Did they have kids? Were they loved? Did they love someone? Did they live nearby? Did they have a garden? I hoped my thoughts made some cosmic difference. I thought of it simply as a personal benediction of sorts, my own silent send-off in case they had no one to whom they mattered, just as the strangers two days later in Orlando would matter.
Driving home I was deep in thought as I marveled at our longevity as a couple. Bernstein played again in my head. Being married 45 years hadn’t happened by accident any more than having a beautiful garden was accidental. I was 21; he was 22. We were babies. We had no idea what chaos life would lay at our feet. But we were intentional, stubbornly committed, and we hadn’t just survived 45 years, we chose 45 years. Some years were happy and some found us besieged and barely hanging on. There had been 45 years of lessons; times to celebrate and times to grieve; opportunities to learn when to listen and when to talk; children; grandchildren. And I’m here to attest to that sickness and health thing.
After 45 years, our marriage felt secure, comfortable, reliable, loving, respectful, and still – always – intentional. We did the work, accepted the things we could not change, changed the things we could, and after 45 years we earned the wisdom to know the difference.
Our 45th anniversary blessed and enriched us in many ways, most certainly with a cosmic reminder and reality check: nobody knows what the next year, month, day, or even the next moment holds. Make the best of this one. Be present. Be kind. Hang on. Love someone. Work hard at loving someone and being loved. Take a hand and smell the roses. Care for others. Be intentional. Have a garden.
And wherever or whatever your garden is, make it grow.
We’re neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We’ll do the best we know.
We’ll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow.
And make our garden grow!
onehappygardener 