Judy Sunde Hanawalt

Things I'm Thinking About

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Amy and D's wedding

Wedding Time

April 7, 2015 / / 6 Comments

For three days in early March, I fell in step with time somehow, and it moved at exactly the right speed. It didn’t pass too quickly, causing me to miss out–I felt like I was seeing and hearing and enjoying everything. It didn’t crawl too slowly–I never wished for a moment to pass, I was never tempted to rush to the next thing. The days unfolded at the perfect pace.

It was my daughter’s wedding weekend.

Friday was spent picking up family and friends as they arrived at the airport and running errands to pick up suits and dresses and food. Late afternoon, we walked to a nearby park for the rehearsal, with the sun setting on the bay and shining in our eyes. Afterwards, the festive, talkative crowd made their way back to our house for the rehearsal dinner.

Mounds of food–smokehouse meats, mac and cheese, coleslaw and corn bread–greeted the group, and conversation and laughter soon filled the house and spilled out into the backyard, where there was a fire crackling in our patio fireplace. I flitted from group to group, enjoying snatches of conversation, a joke or a hug here, a few sentimental tears there, so happy to see everyone happy.

Saturday morning, the day of the wedding, I woke to the sound of a text message. It was the bride, awake early, too excited to sleep. She and her bridesmaids had spent the night at a nearby hotel where they would all get ready for the wedding together. “I wish you were here,” she said. Are there any sweeter words from your baby, all grown up now?

The day was busy with more errands; picking up fruit and Cheeseboard pizza to bring to the bridesmaids, getting make-up done, helping with dresses and hair, making sure all the last details were taken care of. I was not much help, really–I was floating through the day, relishing the moments in the knowing, generous care of family and friends. It was like a square dance, tasks being passed, traded, shared, dropped and picked up,  a quick do-si-do and swing your partner. Is there any better way to celebrate a happy event than in this cheerful collaboration?

Then it was time. We were all there: the guests in their seats on the Brazil Room patio, the groom, bridesmaids and groomsmen lined up, the  preacher at the front, the bride at the door, nearly bursting with the emotion of the day. My two sons walked me down the aisle to my seat, and I savored every detail. The late winter air felt like spring, the tree branches above us were white with fragrant blossoms, and the sun splashed over the tree-covered hills in the distance.

The musicians started to sing the processional song, an acoustic version of a family favorite, and memories of all those growing-up years came rushing into the present moment. We stood and turned to see the beaming bride on the arm of my husband, who was biting his lip to keep back the tears, so full and happy and proud. Is there anything more precious–a daddy and his little girl, this father walking his daughter to her husband with no reservations?

It felt like time slowed then, suspended in a curling wave of joy.  They walked to the arch of flowers at the front, the elements of the service unfolded, and the new Mr. and Mrs. danced down the aisle to the excited clapping and whoops of family and friends.

We moved inside the reception hall, with its tall leaded-glass windows and elegant, timbered ceiling, and found our seats at the long tables for the meal. The happy couple came sweeping into the room, all smiles and laughter, their happiness bubbling over and flowing to the guests, that wave of joy breaking and surging  in as graciousness and grand celebration. We ate, we toasted, we danced and danced and danced.

After cutting the cake and the tossing the bouquet and the garter, the bride and groom changed into traditional Nigerian wedding clothes, joining the groom’s family in their colorful, lavish attire. A Nigerian blessing song played while the couple danced and were showered with prayers and money, folded bills tucked into their pockets and headwear and thrown in the air over their heads.

Suddenly, it was time to leave, as if the clock was about to strike midnight and turn us into regular people again. The family and friends who hadn’t left yet bustled around, collecting clothes and shoes and flowers from the dressing room, grabbing gifts, leftover favors and wine from the tables and loading it all into our van. We directed tipsy revelers to safe rides home and said hasty goodbyes.

The newlyweds came to our house late morning the next day, and we lounged in the living room, snacking on bagels, fruit and quiche, drinking mimosas and pot after pot of coffee. Family and friends came and went on their way out of town. There were gifts to open, stories to tell from the day before, and pictures and videos to share. Late in the evening, we drove them to the airport to leave for their honeymoon.

The wedding weekend was over.

Several days later, regular thought patterns began to stir in my brain. I felt like I woke up from a mid-day nap, a haze slowly clearing. I need to do laundry! We’re out of everything–I need to go to the store! Planning, organizing, and thinking about the details of daily life returned, making me realize they’d been missing. I had gone about my normal weekly schedule, but I was unusually peppy and dreamy, sharing photos on my phone and telling everyone about the joyous event. I had been in a cloud of wedding giddiness, a happiness hangover.

As I began to get back to normal, I recalled feeling a similar altered awareness of time before. The way wedding time felt stretched and a little distorted reminded me of the sharply-focused, slow-motion experience of tripping and falling. Every central detail was in full color and high definition, while the background details faded away; every moment seemed packed full of moments. Scientists have theorized that this slow-motion feeling comes from the brain laying down extra sets of richer, denser memories as a result of being in a situation–usually a frightening one–that brings about strong emotions.

In this case, it wasn’t fear or danger, though, that heightened my experience and memory. It must have been the strong emotions that accompany profound family events. We added a member to our family. We saw our child become part of another family. We were surrounded by the tangible love of friends and family. At the center of it all, we witnessed the bride and groom’s obvious commitment and love for each other, free from second thoughts or doubts. It was a celebration without fear. There was only excitement at the future stretching ahead for this new family.

Is there anything more worthy of enjoying and remembering  in slow motion?

 

Stories We’re In

March 20, 2015 / / 1 Comment

“Love, no one cares about the stories they’re not in.” Matt Nathanson

Sometimes we enter a story, stumbling into it without realizing it will become a story we care about. There’s a choice at the beginning, but it leads to unexpected places. A door opens, we walk into a new place, and suddenly our story changes.

Our youngest boy was 12 and wanted to play football. We had put him off for a few years, not wanting him to get hurt, but decided to let him try it. There was a Pop Warner team in Berkeley, so we went to the open sign-up event without knowing much about the program. After we talked to one of the coaches and he addressed our fears about safety, we joined the team. It was one of those unmarked doors that leads to a place that undoes and remakes your heart.

Our son was one of two white boys on the team, the rest mostly African-American. We joined their families at practice, parent meetings and games. This is a football community focused on keeping their boys off the street and out of trouble, giving them good role models and providing the skills and exposure that might give them a shot at going to college with a sports scholarship. Our son was there to play for fun. He will have the opportunity to go to college without a sports scholarship. He isn’t in much danger of getting into a gang, or of encountering violence the same way many of his teammates are.

Out on the field, though, he became one of them, and in the stands we became part of the parents’ group. We came to the field from a different place, but once there, we were part of the football family. We loved it. We saw a genuine care for the kids, the community coming around the kids to protect them and lift them up. Joining them, we were invited into this caring: the anxiety of an uncertain future, the fear of losing a child to violence or jail, the pain of being ignored or treated with suspicion with no explanation except for racial bias and the fierce belief that they can make a better life. There is an openness, hope and positivity in the face of hardship in that community that is contagious.

I began to see my own white community from the other side. When our team from a more urban setting went to play the richer and less-diverse suburban teams, the way the players and parents looked at us and treated us seemed so obvious and ignorant. I’ve been on the other side.  I know the feeling– the unease and apprehension when the tough-looking team from the bad part of town shows up, the brave posturing to hide the fear. Seeing it from the other side, though, was hurtful. Now these were my kids.

I know their names and their families. I drive them to games, I cheer for them when they succeed and encourage them to keep going when they fail, just like their parents do for my son. Can’t the people from the other team see that our players are kids like their kids–the same age, the same size, the same goofy sense of humor, the same love of video games and junk food, the same insecurities about hair and acne and crushes, the same dreams for a future? No, because our kids are scary.

One time in particular, the racism was overt–the name-calling, the trash-talking, the accusations. Our kids and coaches were maligned, our parents not trusted to do the usual volunteer jobs, like moving the chains to measure first downs. There were threats of calling the police. Assumptions were made, stereotypes were believed, cultural differences were misconstrued.

My husband and I were shocked and confused and angry. We were scared for our kids. We were saddened that our boys now had one more reason to believe they wouldn’t be treated fairly. How could this possibly be happening? It was not right.

The other parents were angry, but not surprised. One of them said to us, “This is what happens when you let your son play with black kids.”

It was a holy moment. We had the privilege of being included in their community, of suffering what they suffer, of seeing in a new, profound way what we had heard about but could never really understand. Their story became my story, and I haven’t been able to forget it.

Oliver and Tie

November 4, 2014 / / 0 Comments

Oliver, our golden retriever, was 12 when we said good-bye to him. Our hearts were broken; he had been part of our family since we brought him home as a puppy. He is in the background of almost every childhood memory, his happy, goofy presence at every birthday party, every holiday, every trip to the family cabin in the mountains. Furry blurs of a golden wagging tail brush the edges of photos, and especially in the later years, his sleeping form stretches out in the backdrop of family events. He was always there, a constant companion, calmly witnessing our lives, then jumping up to join us at even the spelled word w-a-l-k.

When he died, I missed him. In the grief though, there was also relief. I didn’t have to worry about leaving him home alone too long, or about his increasing pain and difficultly with daily tasks . Over the course of a few weeks, the tumbleweeds of golden dog hair diminished and the floors stayed clean. When the mood struck, we could leave home for a few days without having to make arrangements for dog care. I decided I would get used to the empty feeling the house had when the kids were away. I was a one-dog woman, I consoled myself. I had known one great dog love.

The kids, though, began to agitate for a new dog. We need a puppy, they told me. Even the kids no longer living at home joined the cry for a new dog. A dog exactly like Oliver. It doesn’t feel like home when there’s not a dog greeting us, they lamented. We can’t go to the cabin without a dog, they implored. I admit, I had looked at Golden puppies on the internet, just a quick peek to see what was out there. When the pressure came, it didn’t take much to persuade me. Before the excitement had a chance to mellow into reality, we were hot on the trail of a puppy.

Our little Tie came home two months after we lost Ollie. We named him for the tiny town our cabin is near, Tie Siding. He was adorable, energetic, hilarious–he cocked his head and perked up his ears and we were smitten. He reminded us so much of Oliver, but was so different at the same time. He charmed us with his love of snuggling, his ability to lay on his back and manipulate his toys with his agile front paws, and his eagerness to please. He was exhausting, though. The promises of help and commitment from the kids wore thin and all but vanished when school started in August. It was me and Tie, and he wasn’t lying down in the background.

Walks and exercise became essential daytime events, and missing one meant an unpleasant evening of diverting Tie from destructive chewing and annoying attempts to pull us into his slobbery games of tug-o-war. He loved his toys, and he loved putting them under the furniture and then digging and barking to get them. A tired dog is a good dog, so the adage goes. It was my job to do the tiring out, and I wasn’t very good at it. I began to question the wisdom of getting another dog. He was driving me crazy.

A neighbor who also had a puppy told me about a park up the street where neighbors with dogs met to let them play. A few minutes of frolicking with other puppies was much more effective than a long walk, he assured me. After trying it once and reaping the benefit of a calm evening, I became a regular. As often as I could, I went to the park, let Tie off his leash for his romp, and settled in to chatting with the dog owners who visit the park every evening. After a few weeks, I started seeing these neighbors around town, and inviting other dog owners I met to join the fun. Some evenings, the park was crowded with racing, wrestling dogs. Other nights, it was just a dog friend or two. Every time, Tie would come home happy and tired. A good dog.

Still, I wonder if it was a good idea to get a puppy. My fifth child left home to start college, leaving our nest nearly empty. One more remains at home for a few years, and Tie will be a sweet companion for him. The work of caring for a dog, though, could outweigh that on certain slobbery, busy evenings. I was ready to be done with that responsibility. He ties me down. Was our name choice a subliminal cry for prudence?

He also pulls me out, though–out into my neighborhood for some exercise when I would rather sit on my couch, out into my community to meet people I otherwise would have no connection to, and out of myself to see the world from the viewpoint of a purely happy, loving, excited canine. Tie is breaking into my one-dog heart. I can’t resist the look of expectation on his furry face when he rides in the passenger seat of the car, taking in the sights; his love for his blankie, and how he shows it to all visitors; the way he leaps in the air with all four paws when he sees me putting on my shoes for a walk; and his warmth on my feet when he follows me wherever I go and lies down near me. Whether it was a good idea or not, I think I love him.

The other day on a walk with Tie, I realized I don’t accidentally call him Ollie anymore. I’m not constantly evaluating Tie’s personality and behavior in contrast to Oliver’s, the only way I could make sense of him at first. My memories of Oliver aren’t quite as distinct as they were, now blending into general dog experience. That makes me sad, missing Oliver again, my first dog love, but also happy for Tie’s sweet company.  I guess I’m not a one-dog woman.

On the Bus

October 22, 2014 / / 0 Comments

I step up the stairs, pay my fair, take a seat or find a place to hang on before the driver pulls away from the curb with a lurch, and I’m there, on the bus. Sometimes it’s full, sometimes empty, sometimes I see people I know, sometimes I’m anonymous, sometimes I chat with the person next to me, and sometimes I avoid eye contact.The bus stops and starts, dropping off and picking up passengers, and eventually I push the stop-request button, stand up, and get off at my destination.

Some would rather drive their own car to avoid the restrictions of a set schedule and routes, and the irritation of smelly seat mates or talkative strangers asking personal questions. Some don’t mind the odd people and the uncomfortable experiences, and consider the bus to be freedom, transportation unhindered by traffic or parking meters. Some have lost faith because too many times, the bus was late or didn’t come at all, or passed them by, too full to pick up any more riders. I am somewhere in between. I have a car, but I like to ride the bus.

Driving gives me control. I can come and go on my timeline, and add in an errand or side trip on a whim. I can take the dog with me and load up the back with groceries. Driving is about me. The frequent interactions with other drivers, pedestrians and bikes, though, makes taking to the road a challenge. Rude drivers cut in and honk and waggle judgmental fingers, distracted pedestrians step out into crosswalks without looking up, and bikes fly into the intersection, seemingly without concern for anyone’s safety. Angry fists, mouthed insults and a mighty frustration are common.

The bus is not about me. It’s relinquishing some responsibilities, taking on others–bus schedules, bus fares, bus routes. The bus doesn’t wait, doesn’t let you on without payment, and doesn’t change it’s route when you’re going the wrong way. It’s reliable, but not certain–often, it’s late or early or doesn’t come at all. Real time tracking on smart phones has taken the mystery out of it, but catching the bus is still not an exact science.

My earliest bus memory is as a small child with my grandmother. My grandparents lived in Grand Rapids, and my grandmother never learned to drive. My grandfather took their car to work each day, so household errands were done on the city bus. We boarded at the corner about a block from their house and went downtown for her to shop and get her hair done.

Later, in Southern California, my friend and I took the bus to the mall once in a while. It was a long ride through parts of town that seemed scary, and I always worried that we would end up somewhere and not be able to get home. Getting there and home again was an accomplishment; it was a brush with danger, a little excitement in our suburban existence.

I have been to cities with amazing transportation networks, like Paris, Washington DC and Berlin, and I have lived in cities with such limited service that I never considered using the bus. Here, I love having bus stops close to my house. Out the back door, through the back gate, up the neighbors driveway and it’s a short half-block to our stop.

It’s not the actual bus ride that I like, it’s the idea of the bus. Taking the bus is a life skill. It’s an exercise in fitting in instead of controlling. It’s slowing down and letting go of the need to be captain of my own destination. It’s breathing room. It is connection to the larger community as you step into the crush of the bus and take your place in the crowd.

Out of Suburbia

October 7, 2014 / / 1 Comment

I’m not the adventurous type. I like consistency, familiarity. When my husband’s job required a move–the second in three years–I surprised him, and myself, with an uncharacteristic sense of daring. I was feeling a little reckless.

The first move, from Colorado to California, broke my heart. I had put down roots in Colorado with no reserves, planning to live there forever. After three years in a little town east of Sacramento, I wasn’t so attached. His new job was in the Bay Area, and I suggested we look for houses in Berkeley, the home of our alma mater, UC Berkeley. We had both graduated from Cal in the ’80’s, and when we moved away in 1986, I don’t think we expected to return. It didn’t seem like somewhere we would actually live–it was almost bigger than life.

When you have lived most of your life in the safe, predictable suburbs, Berkeley looks reckless and daring.  We’d spent the previous 20 years looking for a safe place to raise a family, with low crime rates and high test scores. I had a growing desire, though, to make our world bigger instead of smaller, more inclusive instead of more exclusive. Berkeley was calling.

The bustling downtown, the crowded restaurants, the narrow streets busy with bikes and cars and pedestrians were exiting. The old, noble houses within walking distance of libraries and coffee shops sparked my imagination. It felt edgy. Berkeley felt alive.

There’s a sense here of being in the center of the world, and it’s contagious. It feels connected; there is an awareness and concern for the world that was new to me. For the first months, I was nearly drowned in the outpouring of opinions and passions I was trying to process–and that was just the bumper stickers.

We put our kids in the public schools, elementary through high school. We wanted them to experience diversity, to learn to appreciate and feel comfortable with different cultures, to love people different from themselves. In this town, the problems of the world are real, and our kids’ ideas of who they are and how they fit into the would be challenged.

I had no idea how much it would change me.

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