Saving graces

This past weekend was another gathering of the cousins so my sister, the one in the middle, brought her old video camera and a tin full of tapes because she and the cousin otherwise known as the artist wanted to watch a video of a dance they did with another cousin, otherwise known as the dancing king.  Saturday morning, at least I think it was Saturday morning, my sister came out to the porch where I was sitting and told me she had to show me something and I was probably going to cry.  She popped out the tiny viewing screen on the camera and popped open the lid on Pandora’s jar.  But instead of my graces flying away I saw them captured on 24-year old video tape, in full living color.

The thing she was so anxious for me to see was an image of a little blonde-headed boy, just turned four, toddling out of the reception hall at my wedding; my first grace.  He was holding onto balloons and smiling, dimples shining.  When he heard his name being called he turned his head this way and that to find the source of the voice of the person who wanted his attention.  When he found it he smiled in a manner that showed he was so happy just being happy.  Watching, I gasped at the memory of the way he was.  His name was Mackie then, but that was subject to change in the coming years. It was Cole the day he left on his magnificent adventure.

When I realized what I was watching I had to stop because I knew if I kept watching I would become emotional seeing so many more people who are no longer here.  Nor did I want to see anything to do with my wedding.  My feelings have nothing to do with my marriage, just the ceremony surrounding it.  That day is a blur to me, most of the memories buried and lost like so many other memories of the younger years of my life.  When I do try to think of it I feel embarrassed.  It’s never been easy for me to be the center of public attention with all eyes on me.  I didn’t know how to act.  I felt foolish and clumsy.  What did I know about planning a wedding?  Nothing, I tell you.  Nothing. 

Hiring a wedding planner was not an option.  I didn’t even know there was such a thing.  In those days and in my circles you just did it yourself with the help of your extended family.  Caterer?  There was no caterer, yet the food overflowed thanks to my mother, her sisters, close friends and cousins.  That is what people in my family did.  They pitched in and made it happen.  My sister-cousin took it upon herself to do the decorating for the reception, and did a wonderful job.  If she had not volunteered I guess there wouldn’t have been any decorations.

So, I didn’t want to see any more evidence of the day.  I’ve never even watched the video my brother made for me.  The thought makes me squirm. 

On Sunday morning my sister got out the video again and I thought maybe I would glance at it so I could see Mackie’s face one more time.  This time she had backed the tape up and there I was, in the beautiful size 7 white dress my mother bought me, standing next to my new husband, sipping champagne. I didn’t look foolish or clumsy.  I looked happy.  I was smiling and appeared to be having fun.  Some maybe even considered me pretty with my ‘80s hair pulled into the poufy head dress my sister made for me.  I laughed, I joked, I showed off my dress and 27-inch waistline; another grace.

As the camera panned the room I caught glimpses of other graces immortalized on tape.  I saw the youth of the ones still living.  I saw the babies that are now grown and having babies of their own.  I saw my feisty Aunt Angela, chiding her brother-in-law, my Uncle Walter, King of the Pinch, for eating something she claimed was hers. “It’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine” she said.  Heaven has its hands full with those two.

Jimmy, my childhood champion, was there in the background, just like he still is in many of my dreams, waving at me from the other side.  

Then I saw my oldest friend in her blue bridesmaid dress, wiping her eyes at something my daddy said to me, or so she said.  I don’t remember the words he spoke.  She is still here, going strong, but her accent got lost somewhere in Ohio, or Illinois.  To her chagrin it lives on in the audio tracks of the video tape.  

I never saw my mother’s face but she was there too, wearing the beautiful dusty-blue dress we picked out the day she bought my dress.  Little did we know at the time she would wear it again at her funeral.

I wasn't looking at the screen when my sister Barbara went sweeping by. I missed her.  I miss her.

And Daddy, he’s there in a tux, holding a champagne glass and grinning in that way he always did on New Year’s Eves when he drank a beer or two.  He tips his glass in a toast to the camera and I take it personally, as a toast to me.  

I crave the faces and voices of my departed loved-ones.  I want to see the graces once again, and keep them alive just a little longer.  Just for the joy of them I’m taking the wedding video my brother made and having it transferred to a DVD so I can watch it in privacy until I feel I can watch it in front of others.   Good memories are worth it, no matter how much you have to squirm in the process.