Just back.
We spent the weekend in Paso Robles, attending a wedding. Wine country. Cypher Winery, to be exact. The most amazing rolling green hills. Vineyards. A casual lake in a hollow, wooden dock perfect for sitting. So gorgeous the topic of conversation was selling our house and moving — not just us, but at least a dozen other couples we spoke to. The best time to buy was twenty years ago but there's still a lot of good land and righteous zoning.
We left Paso after breakfast at Joe's. Ate there yesterday before the ceremony and the plates were so big I had a hard time squeezing into the suit coat I last wore five years ago. Sushi and beer after the pre-wedding dinner the night before might have helped. This morning's drive south along the 101 through California's Central Coast past Santa Barbara and then LA and finally into the OC is among the most beautiful on earth: hillsides blanketed in yellow mustard and large black cows against that forever green grass that made me think of Ireland. I drove hard and fast, trying to beat traffic. Stops were optional though not preferred. My car kept telling me to pull over and take a break. My watch vibrated that it was time to stand.
So now we're home. Not much traffic after the merge of the 101 and 405. Beer and a sandwich at Selma's and all is good. But my thoughts keep going back to that wedding. The bride and groom were so perfect for one another. Every guest seemed handpicked for chemistry. Calene and I sat at a table with the father of the bride's fraternity brothers. Their bond was immediately apparent. We were instantly brought into the fold. It felt like I was sitting at a party with Dan Brown, Sean Railton, Matt Laforet, Ian Aalsgard, George Goldasich, Randy Gerwatowski, Bruce Marshall, and the phantom Terry Sheridan — my brothers in arms from Northern Michigan University.
My Achilles Heel is that I never knew what I wanted to do for a living until I was almost thirty. I came to writing late. So when I am in the presence of two people like yesterday's bride and groom I feel deficient. These were individuals who knew what they wanted to do even before they began high school, let alone college. They focused. Studied. Sacrificed. Watching them bask in the loving glow of their wedding day just before beginning their first residence, a big part of me wondered what I would have been like if I'd known that determination. I have long joked about taking seven years to finish college. My wife did the math the other day and reminded me it was nine. Nine? What the hell was I doing with myself?
Waiting for her. That will always be my go-to.
Before I even left for college, I told my Dad I wouldn't accept a spot at the Air Force Academy's prep school, which would have gotten me into the Academy itself one year later. I went to Northern instead, to run cross country at first, and then just try to finish the semesters without partying too hard with Dan, Sean, Matt, Ian, George, Randy, Bruce, and Terry. I still cherish long Friday nights in Terry and Matt's dorm room, drinking Stroh's and talking our own brand of philosophy. Matt flipping the record on the turntable after each side. SIde One. Side Two. Sometimes a Side Three or change the record. Terry, legs crossed and smoking a cigarette like one of Smiley's spies. Matt the turntable owner. Ian, Randy, Sean, and Bruce, pleasantly stoned. George, the hulking Nordic presence from the football team, dropping in late, cracking a beer and plopping down in a battered armchair like he'd been there all night long. Me feeling guilty about the whole thing, knowing there was a long run in the morning but also sure this was all important. Somehow, we were figuring out life — though each of us used the label "fuck-up" to describe ourselves on a regular basis, as if we would never transcend beer, smoke-filled rooms, and contemplations about "The River."
But if I'd gone to Air Force instead of Northern I would never have met Calene. I would not be a writer. Our boys would still float somewhere in the ether.
My buddies from NMU are hardly fuck-ups. They've all lived large. Each has become a top professional in their fields. A few millionaires. It's the same with those guys Calene and I shared a table with last night. They talked about the stories they could tell, and I had the feeling they were just as turned around as my Gant Hall buddies were back in the day, but they were all just fine in the big scheme of life.
The wedding music was provided by a four-piece quartet. I did not cry during the ceremony. But after, as we were walking to our table for the reception, Calene nudged me as we walked past the quartet. "Listen," she said.
The strings were purring "Can't Help Falling In Love." Our wedding song. The only Elvis song I ever loved. Mist filled my emotional Irish eyes. I choked up. "Yeah," I said to Calene. "Wow. Nice."
Raise a glass to the fuck-ups.