Marriage as C25K

I am reading Kate Braestrup's second memoir, Marriage and Other Acts of Charity. 

Her tale reminds me of my favorite admonition about marriage: a successful one is where both man and wife each think they got the better end of the deal. Today is our anniversary. And let me tell you. I won. 

What he got: neuroses, debt, abhorrence of household maintenance, neuroses, vegetables, political rants, oh, and did I mention my neuroses?

What I got: Love. 

A few months ago, in the midst of the time that shall not be mentioned (still processing) I found this was my horoscope:

 

I was crying a lot in those days but this made me grin from the inside out. Because that girl? The one with the mix tapes full of Bryan Adams, Journey, Cheap Trick and every other longing ballad? I want to tell her that those nights of wishing and hoping and thinking and praying - they worked! She won the marriage lottery!

 I just read this amazing obituary; Pink's story is the story Jesus wants to hear from every obituary he reads over his morning coffee. Love. A lot. Openly and with abandon. 

I am not guilty of this behavior.  I fail to love on many - well, most - occasions. My husband, on the other hand, is a gift. My first reaction to anything - a bird at the window, a letter in the mail, a new recipe - is analytic. 

My brain goes to all the factors, the whys, the implications, the context and relation to all things known before. It asserts dominance every time. Let's just say I don't radiate love and grace the way Pink did.

Jack, on the other hand, is the Ghost of Christmas Present. Come, and know me better, man! He lives fully and radiates love. He is grace when I have a tantrum, solace when I am afraid, hope when I doubt. His arms are always open. 

Why do we celebrate anniversaries? Some do to honor what the couple has made of their life together. Home, children, community. Some mark the survival of tumultuous years. Some renew their vows. 

 Today marks six years for us since we first said our vows.

We kept the whole better or worse stuff, the richer or poorer, the sickness and in health bit (see previous post).  We agreed faithful was probably good to stick in. Honesty, respect, trust, etc. Then we took a little creative license and declared: 

"I promise to honor you; to share all that I am with you and to love you all the days of my life."

"I join with you on your journey; that we may learn to better understand ourselves, the world and God." 

Yes, I love him every day. And every day he shows me how to be a little better at it. 

In her conclusion, the lady who performed the ceremony admonished us. "Cory and Jack, treat each other with respect and remind yourselves often of what brought you together. Give the highest priority to the tenderness, gentleness and kindness that your marriage deserves. If each of you takes responsibility for the quality of your life together, your marriage will be marked by abundance and delight." 

She was right. So today we celebrate this 5k victory while training for a marathon. Love is choice every minute of every day. Someday I hope I will finally learn it well enough so love will become my default the way Jack learned it to be from his parents and Pink - and Jesus - taught us it should be.

Have a heart, or a cow

Many years ago we were watching a program about medical advances. They were discussing prosthetic limbs and other artificial body parts that were creating bionic people. Jack was having none of it.
"If I need one, give me one of those pig valves. Or even better, a cow valve!"

We laughed. Who had ever heard of a cow valve?

Fast forward to last fall.
Me: "You really need to see the cardiologist. They found concerns a couple of years ago and there hasn't been any follow-up."
Him: "I didn't like the last guy we saw."
Me: "There are others. Give them a call."

Eventually, the call was made. Tests were ordered. An appointment scheduled. We never made it to that appointment. After the second test the doctor who happened to be there came in. I was at work so he recorded it for me.

(In a Romanian accent:)
"You need an aortic valve replacement plus one, maybe two bypasses. We need to get you in for a heart catheterization immediately."

The past few weeks have been a bit of a blur. That was week one. Week two was the catheterization, which was not pleasant. Watching the video of the vessel function was pretty amazing, however. I'm a big believer in alternative medicine but am properly awed - and grateful - for modern medicine as well. The surgeon on call that day said the surgery was necessary but that the symptoms weren't significant (fatigue and shortness of breath). Because of that he thought it could wait until he was back from covering other cities (Wyoming has two heart surgeons. TWO.) and a vacation. "My office will call and set you up for about a month from now."

Today is Sunday. On Monday last week the office called and said the other surgeon could do it sooner and could we come see him tomorrow? His office is two hours away. We went. He scheduled the surgery for Friday.

"Now, you have a choice. An artificial valve will last the longest. They never wear out, but you have to be on blood thinner for the rest of your life. You can have a tissue valve, which doesn't last quite as long but longer than we used to think. We used to think they would only last 10 years. Now studies are showing they last up to 25 years."

"What kind of tissue?"

"We prefer to use bovine pericardium."

We looked at each other. A cow valve??

Friday morning they installed an extra-large aortic COW valve in Jack's heart. He has been missing the cows since we moved. Now he literally carries one around with him. Or maybe more bull. 

Home makeover: Office edition

Before: 

After:

Here is the curtain fabric. It makes the green shag carpet seem purposeful instead of inherited.

His & Hers: Breakfast

On the left, we have hashbrowns, sausage and fried farm eggs.
On the right, we have cantaloupe, cucumber, sunflower and flax seeds.
Guess whose is whose?

I'm pretty sure men have evolved to only feel satisfied when eating something they could have killed on a hunt and women are satisfied most eating things they could have grown or gathered. At least, that's the way it seems in our house.

This was my first foray into raw food. Day 3 now. No day has been completely raw, but let's just say my birthday present to myself was a dehydrator. Last night it made me kale chips and dried cantaloupe. Right now it is making me banana chips and pancakes.  

In the spotlight

Jack was asked to perform a poem to introduce a TEDx Jackson Hole session. He wanted to do the newest in his repertoire (milk out yo ur nose funny) but it was too long for the time-sensitive event. Instead, he did "Larry the Banker" (merely humorous) which came in under a minute.
"Most people get 15 minutes of fame. I got 50 seconds."

Honey Do's

I have a talented husband. He could have been an engineer. He can see anything and figure out how to build it. The apple didn't fall far from the tree. His 93-year-old mother wishes she could come to Wyoming and help him rebuild this house. As she has done to many other homes before. By herself.

The problem is that when you have a talented husband such as mine it is easy to pile on the honey do's. A farmhouse table? No problem. Light fixtures? Yep. A custom bureau/closet? Sounds great. Homemade butcher block counters? Definitely.

You see where I am going with this. Where do I stop? How can any one man get all of this done?

Simon the Zealot

Jack got zealous for Easter this year. Well, for Maundy Thursday. He was picked to play Simon the Zealot in our church's production of the Living Last Supper. It was his first play and he had a big monologue to memorize and even more difficult, he had to wear shorts!

And sandals!

But thankfully, not this. This was reserved for Jesus. Which is why Jesus is invisible in all my pictures. Jesus as Cousin It doesn't photograph well. Or maybe his disappearance from the pictures is more of a spiritual metaphor. Oooh. Deep.

Jack had to grow a beard for the role, but it just couldn't keep up with the 'stache. And he is zealous about that mustache. (Note the atrocious wig on our friend Gene. Why? Why?)

The tableau. Jack is seated at right. Roger, playing Peter, looks like a Greek statue. So regal.

The cast in the afterglow of their success.

The world's largest Dutch oven

I suppose this could be the house that Jack built. It's big enough for someone to live in it. This summer, whilst needing and undergoing back surgery, Jack (with the help of his granddaughter) built what he thinks may be the world's largest Dutch oven.

The base is a cauldron discovered abandoned on the ranch and the top is the end of a propane tank. I wish I had more pictures of the process, but here it is before:

 And here it is in action, doing what it was designed to do: cook an entire side of beef at once.

The fire was stoked at 4am to heat the oven in time to cook the steamboat round for a 6 pm serving time. It was cooked entirely with embers from a burning elm log.

At the party that night, the bonfire burned alone. We all gathered around the oven!

The oven weighs 540 pounds (per the cattle scale) and holds 72 gallons. The handle is a welded horseshoe. The base has three legs welded on to keep it off the heat. A pulley system had to be installed to lift the lid. Luckily, enough tractors were handy to move it!

Ambitions of gardening grandeur

I wasn't going to have a garden this year. In October, when I officially gave up on harvesting a single pepper from four plants, accepted that a lone cucumber would be it from six plants and dug out the four inch posts that had been my corn stalks, I threw up my hands.

"Fine, grasshoppah; you win," I said.They were a plague. Every shape and size. Mandibles of steel devouring nearly everything in sight. (Including the alfalfa, but that's another story.) I grabbed a handful of dirt and declared, "As God as my witness, I will not garden again!"

Famous last words.

Garden 2010 was a nice, tight little number. She was about 17x40, had a couple of winter squash and pumpkin plants, a few zucchini and summer squash, a smattering of tomato plants, four cabbages, the aforementioned peppers and cucumbers. Nothing fancy. The Ford Taurus of gardens. 

If you looked at our yard this year, you'd think Verizon was pushing an upgrade. Jack and Colonel got all excited with their plow and new fence and I got a bit overzealous with my seedlings.

The new space is more than double last year's. We've gone from approximately 680 square feet to around 1700. I have 16 winter squash and pumpkin plants, 86 potato plants, 400 onions, 35 tomato plants, 16 cabbage plants, Brussel sprouts, Swiss chard, beets, pole beans, eight or 10 zucchini plants... you get the picture.

This was partially strategic. The more I plant, the more likely the grasshoppers will leave something for us to eat. Right?

Calving out heifers

First, let me say that both the word "calving" and the word "heifer" are new additions to my vocabulary. Calf, I knew. Turning it into a verb seemed a bit of a stretch of proper grammar. In case you, too, are new to this vernacular, let me help.

Heifer: a female bovine who has yet to have a calf.
To calve: Giving birth, or assisting in the labor.

I have no I idea why it is called calving out heifers. It just is. I'd say I don't ask, but I do. I'm a librarian. I ask a lot of questions, but they don't all have answers.

Calving heifers is Jack's absolute favorite thing in the world. Better than German chocolate cake, even. He spends every Spring babysitting them every hour all night and checking them all day, pulling, nursing and doctoring as needed. And need is the word. The cows (after they've calved once they get promoted) are left to calve on their own out in the big pasture, but these girls would never make it.

For some, nature kicks in and they instinctively nurture and care for their young. For an alarming number, however, they are stunned at what is happening to them and not at all sure how or interested in caring for their babies. Jack convinces them being a mom is a good idea. He is the perfect midwife; he knows when they need help and when they just need to be left alone.

 I just like to watch all the babies.

The wicked stepmother

It was an out of body moment, really.

It was our first official date. I knew he had been married before and had children, but the details were fuzzy. When I got them and did the math I was suddenly on the hood of the truck looking back in at myself.

This man, with whom I was so enamored I drove over a thousand miles for a date, had five children? And two of them were older than me? That's a lot for a girl to digest. (And even more so for the children!)

Fast forward a few years. Everyone seems to have adapted remarkably well to this sitcom scenario in which we live. Before we got married, Jack asked all of his children how they felt about it.

Most responded along the lines of "we just want you to be happy, and she makes you happy." One smiled in mock relief that she was off the hook for taking care of him when he got old. The youngest declared she was the youngest of his children and preferred to stay that way.

I agreed with the latter request, but told the other one that as soon as he got old I was shipping him to live with her!

This family is full of humor and good nature and they accepted this Yankee in with open-arms. We just got back from visiting them and I am again awed by how gracious and welcoming they are to me. The situation is strange - at least outside of Hollywood - but somehow it works. This last week I was struck by how the bond I have with Jack shapes the bonds I have to his family.

Two of Jack's five children might be older than I am, but with all of them my feelings are colored by the way he treasures them. His need for them to be happy and successful is catching. On paper, I am the stepmother to a woman nearly six years older than I am.

It is ridiculous and inappropriate to assign "mother" in any way to such a relationship, but it perhaps not incorrect. I want to be a person on whom they can rely. A resource in their journey, to help in any way I can.

I am not their mother. I am not their sister or cousin. None of us has a template for how to navigate this relationship. We do not have a shared history. But for me there is a sense of responsibility that defies explanation. I feel the urge the mother hen has to nudge the chick in the right direction, to where he can gain traction. Who am I to presume I know better than they? Good question. I told you - it's odd!

There is a lot of discussion about how fractured family trees have become and indeed, they are certainly pruned in new ways, but as long as we are open to relationships our trees will blossom.

What I do know is that watching my husband puff with pride when his chicks gather fills my heart and make me love him - and them - all the more.

Why did the bull cross the road?

One side of the highway we have cows and calves. On the other side, the bulls. 

On my way home the other night I encountered this:

Luckily, right behind was this:

And this is what ensued:

Turns out, Jack can move a bull with just about anything, including a F350.

Gives new meaning to the word "Drover" (DROVER: One who drives cattle or sheep ), don't you think?

At least one car had pulled up behind me and this was all happening on the slope of a hill where drivers coming at 70 mph down the hill would not be expecting a bull nor an oddly placed truck. The Highway Patrol came to help.

Jack knew exactly where to steer this errant youngun.

He went back in the way he came out, under the wire stretching across a ditch.

But he is NOT happy about it.

Ten minutes later, Jack caught him sneaking under AGAIN and had to stretch more wire across that span. 

Sorry, Bud, no cows for you yet!