Yesterday, I coordinated a wedding. Sounds relatively simple, yes? But, the reality is far more saturated than that basic description. It’s almost noon. I don’t intend to change out of my pajamas. I may or may not get back in the bed soon. My blisters have blisters. My lower back is speaking a language mostly comprised of ampersands, asterisks, and at signs. Yesterday was a fourteen-hour day and the day before was similar. The last time I ate a complete meal was probably 3 days ago. I spent most of yesterday in an alternate world, one where I was constantly in motion and barraged by questions. At one point, I looked up and saw an actual line of people, probably only 3 or 4, but my brain saw a Woodstock sized gathering. Each person had some random object in their hand. They were the helpers, the ones who say, “What can I do,” but don’t really seem to understand what it is you need. One by one, they shouted, “Where does this go,” as they held up their _____ (insert: saltshaker, doily, wood slice, burlap runner, something that looked like a twig, a pebble, a handful of dirt). It gets to the point where you cannot form words any longer. I have learned to just smile, hold out my hand, and take the object. If I’m still coherent and someone has made sure I take occasional water sips, I will exclaim, “Oh, I’ve been looking for this,” in order to make them feel victorious. Wedding coordination, the making, the styling, the set up, and the takedown, is one of those things easiest done solo, in my opinion. Then, there’s the added angst of being the person who makes sure everyone walks at the proper time. The flower girls mustn’t cry for mommy. The horse in the pasture behind the macramé altar mustn’t nibble on the macramé. The photographer promised to have the pictures done in 30, but you know it will take hours unless you reign them carefully. The father of the bride is always going to wander off right before the dance with his daughter. And, on and on we go. I am reminded why I don’t do weddings anymore. My almost 55-year-old body can’t run on adrenaline as long as it once could. The old gray mare just ain’t what she used to be.
Yesterday, as I watched the son of my only female cousin, the closest thing I’ll ever have to a sister, marry a beautiful girl who was able to stay calm and worry about nothing else besides lining up when and where asked, I was reminded about the power of our minds. They had hired a magician to roam around through the rural outdoor venue, showcasing his skills of prestidigitation. He handed my husband a quarter. It melted in his hand. He is a self described mentalist, this magic man. He said that what you will things to be will make them be. I willed that wedding into success. Sure, I had the experience to know what would surely disintegrate and the trickery to make people notice something else, instead. For some odd reason, his comments reminded me of my mother. My father asked my mom, around a decade ago, “Marsha, I never thought you would stop smoking. How did you do it?” Mom had been a smoker since 15, per her statements, although, it’s far more likely she smoked regularly earlier than that age. Her parents were both smokers, too. Some of my earliest memories are of my mom pulling up to the pharmacy where my grandmother worked. There were multiple counters and areas where you could make purchases within the store, but the front counter was where the cigarettes were sold. A woman named Ruby manned that counter. She looked strikingly similar to the Miss Crawly character from the kid’s movie “Sing.” Mom would hand me 50 cents and make me recite what 5-year-old me would say to Miss Ruby. “Long Salem Lights, Momma,” was my reply. Then, off I would go, to return momentarily with Momma’s cigarettes. Miss Ruby would be smoking behind the counter. It seems as impossible to believe that as it does to believe a whole pack was less than a dollar. Long live the 70s. Miss Ruby was old. She had deep crevices around her lips and permanent yellow nicotine stains on her pointer and middle fingernails, from constantly holding a cigarette in that exact spot. I would always forget my words. Miss Ruby knew, though. That’s the kind of smoker Momma was, one who smoked enough that the general public knew what to sell her young daughter. So, I’ll bet you’re wondering the same thing as my father all those years ago. How did she quit? She said it was because of the room.
When my daughter passed away, my mother would frequent her gravesite daily. Without fail, she would sit on the hard cemetery ground and grieve over the passing of a teenage girl. She told my father one day that she stopped smoking because of the room she imagined in her mind. She thought that maybe it was Heaven, though she hadn’t taken the time to determine that for certain. Chynna, her granddaughter, was in this room. Chynna would speak to her through the room’s door. “Grandma, you can come in here, but only if you’re not smoking anymore.” And, Momma really wanted to go into that room and sit with her only granddaughter, who she missed so deeply. So, she quit. She weighed the options. She made a choice between a cigarette and a door. The mind is a wonderful thing.
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