Recaps and Rites of Passage: Winiferd the Blog Turns One and Winiferd the Dog Turns Two

I published our marriage post in a hurry last Friday because I was trying to get the post out to friends and family as quickly as possible.

There's a little bit more to the story.

Ian and I bought our marriage license the day before my birthday, on April 25th.

I forgot to brush my hair and donned my mutant and super-hero shirt. It was a special occasion, you see.

We had zero plans, and in our area, marriage licenses expire after thirty days. I called the courthouse that same day and and politely asked that someone marry us. I received no feedback.

I began calling the courthouse on a daily basis. The weeks passed. With eight days left until the license expired, I began to panic. I called every judge and reverend I could think of, desperate. And they all ignored me.

You guys, we spent 100 bucks on that marriage license. That's, like, ten pizzas from Pizza Hut. Or ten bags of dog food.   

And so, still desperate, I handed the phone to my co-worker who called the courthouse, pretended to be me, and copped an enormous attitude. Within three minutes, I had an appointment with a judge.

I sent Ian a text: "Call me. We're getting married tomorrow at 11:15am."

The morning of the wedding was a blur.

In the car, on the way downtown:

Laura: "I phoned ahead and talked to the judge. Our ceremony might run slightly longer than usual. I added a couple things."

Ian: "Oh yeah?"

Laura: "Yeah. You have to promise to honor and obey me. And I have to promise to make you honor and obey me."   

The cops at the courthouse were straight out of a Reno 911 episode. One rather, err, rugged woman put my purse through a scanner and puffed up like a female Hulk.

Rugged female cop: "Ma'am, do you have a camera in there?"

Laura: Yes. It's my wedding day."

Rugged female cop: <Rolls eyes> <Glares at bride>

Laura: "Eeep."

Rugged female cop: "Cameras aren't allowed."

Luckily another nicer female cop rescued us.

Nicer female cop: "Cameras are always allowed at marriage ceremonies. Congratulations, ma'am!"

Once inside the courthouse, we had a blast. And it was perfect.

The day after we married, Ian and I drove to Jackson for a quick get-away.

We visited the Casey Jones museum and home. You know, the Casey Jones famous for smashing into a stalled freight train and killing himself.

Posing in front of the Casey Jones steam engine. Presumably pre-smash. 

The Casey Jones historic home was terrifying. It had all the charms and graces of the hotel in The Shining. Particularly that scene when the the cascade of blood gushes down the hallway. 

All work and no play makes Laura a dull girl.

Then we went to the Big Cypress Tree state park. We were underwhelmed.

Who drives an extra thirty miles to see poison ivy? We do!

A magnificent specimen of poison ivy

We walked under entire canopies of poison ivy for most of the trail. It was horrifically romantic.

We also visited the Cypress Grove Nature park, which was fifty times cooler than the state park.

We saw ghost-owls. I think.

Yep. Definitely ghost-owls.

Winiferd the dog turns two tomorrow, on May 24th. She has outgrown the incessant hyperactivity of her first year and mellowed into a calmer dog who needs multiple naps everyday.

She adores Spottswood, the yard, the walks around the neighborhood, and the chickens. She even adores New Daddy.

Laura: "Winnie, Daddy loves you."

Ian: "Because I'm forced to."

Laura: "Legally, you have to now. It's in our marriage certificate. I made the judge add a clause."

These days, you'll find Winnie doing this the majority of the time:

Happy birthday, Winnie!

Finally, Winiferd the blog turns one today. The blog has chronicled the best year of my life, and I've had way too much fun writing it.

Thank you for reading, thank you for the feedback, and I hope you stick around.

Married

We got married this morning at the court house.

We brought our best friends, Ren and Sam. 

These two were our match-makers, so we owe them about 30 million dollars apiece. Ren and Sam, your checks are in the mail. They're dated May 18, 2078.

County officials stashed us in a tiny, bizarre hallway while we waited for the judge to marry us. We, umm, got a little silly. And loud. The secretary reprimanded us for being too noisy.

Ian loved the pretty flowers.

The judge who married us was featured in the hallway. Her portrait loomed eerily upon us.

The county officials then led us to a conference room. 

Ren and Sam found it highly emotional.

Which made us highly uncomfortable.

And then we went to the court and were married.

Sam reminded me to throw the bouquet. Sam wanted the bouquet. Sam fought for the bouquet. 

"Give me my bouquet, bitch."

Ren took video footage of the ceremony. I posted the link below.

The judge insisted on calling Ian by his middle name, "Michael." By law, I must now call him Michael. Or Mikey. Or Michelangelo, when he's feeling like a ninja turtle. I love you, Mikey.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y90ZDp9Wav0&feature=youtu.be

Engaged

During the week he wakes early while I continue sleeping. Every morning in the hazy light, he leans down to kiss me good-bye. I'm usually burrowed under covers, and I hear him laugh as he searches for me.

When we arrive home from work, we hug and sway, spinning around slowly. It looks like we're dancing. Ian asks, "Why do we do that?" I reply I don't know, but it's comforting.

Later I chance upon an article that explains the science behind something we already know: rocking relieves stress and provides comfort. It's why mothers rock babies to sleep and people sway back and forth at concerts.

The New York Times recently published an article about the brain on love: "If you’re in a healthy relationship, holding your partner’s hand is enough to subdue your blood pressure, ease your response to stress, improve your health and soften physical pain."

It sounds obvious, but it goes a long way in explaining why I've felt so calm over the past couple of years.

We constantly scheme about our next big move: enterprises, non-profits, homesteading. We're still so poor we can only dream of some things. We share politics and ideology. We share a similar approach to life.

When I was younger, my friends dubbed me "Logical Laura." When Ian and I began dating, my practicality was one of the first traits he noticed.

One night in those early days, he remarked, "You're very pragmatic." I replied, "Yes, I am." It's a trait that makes me feel disconnected from other women sometimes, but it's a trait Ian admires. I can be myself.

One of Ian's friends suggests a nail polish color for me, and Ian instantly feels amused. I haven't worn nail polish since I was a kid. He knows me better than anyone.

I sometimes feel like I bring him down. When we began dating he would send me romantic messages, and I would feel embarrassed and wouldn't know how to respond.

Ian: "I tried to romance you."

Laura: "I know."

Ian: "You weren't into it."

Laura: "Nope."

He expresses himself with ease. He talks about his day, the people he encounters, how certain plants and animals make him feel, why he loves nature, and the things he's learned. He people watches all the time. He's intuitive.

I'm often quieter. I find it difficult to express myself sometimes. It drives my mom nuts. He knows when I'm upset because I grow very quiet.

We attend a party where I laugh and joke with friends. A guy makes harsh comments to no one in particular. I shrink back, silent and suddenly exhausted.

Ian whispers in my ear, "Are you okay?" I whisper back, "Yes."

"Do you want to go home?"

"Yes."

So we go home.

He is a gentle man, so gentle that we make off-colored jokes about the domestic violence he supposedly incurs and then roll with laughter.

We go to a thrift store, where he examines the tools and spots some shelves he'd like to buy. He also sees a dainty picture book about cats, containing a drawing of two tuxedo cats who resemble his own. He opts for the picture book. He chuckles at himself: "I could have gotten shelves but instead I got a book about cats."

He loves tinkering with electronics, taking things apart and putting them back together. And, of course, he loves the natural world. He sees a beauty and calmness in nature that many people overlook. He plaintively wonders why modern society eschews the natural environment. His favorite word is "sustainable." 

We talk about our past, about our bikes and pets and parents and the things that brought us joy and the events that brought us heartache.

We talk about the present, which wholly encompasses the two of us. When I think about my life now, I think of Ian. And we talk about the future, a future we will share.

Ian and I got engaged in early December 2011. Over the next several months we quietly told friends, prompting many, "Well, duh" reactions.

Since our first date in October 2010, we've done everything together. Every decision is a mutual decision: every dinner we eat, every show we watch, every appliance we buy.

Ian is my first truly serious boyfriend, the only one I've lived with. I remember feeling nervous about sharing everything with him, but it quickly became innate. I became a part of him and he became a part of me.

I can see crow's feet around his eyes when he smiles and gray hair in his widow's peak. I look at him and try to envision what he'll look like when he's older.

He's two years older than me. When I was 19, I took a sociology of marriage and family class. My professor warned, "Ladies, marry someone a few years younger than you if you want to avoid widowhood. Women outlive men."

I think of that and hope he and I live for a long time yet. I realize that I don't mind growing older, because I will be with him and he will think I'm beautiful. We crawl into bed late one night, and he tells me I'm beautiful. I suddenly feel shy even though he's told me many times before.

We both agree that we already feel married. In my own quiet way, I feel jittery with excitement. I can't want to become Mrs. New Daddy.

Some Rooster: The Miraculous Transformation of Jonathan Fuzzy Proctor

Over the past two months, the chicks have shed their down and acquired feathers. Except one.

John Proctor went through a patchy, raggedy stage like his sisters, and we assumed he was on the verge of morphing into a feathery monster who would soon be kicked off the homestead, right into our bellies.

But sometimes miracles happen.

John has always had a different look to him. As a baby, his giant forehead gave his face a perpetually intense look.

He was the only chick to calmly pose for close-up photos. He was the first chick we could identify by name, and he was certainly the first chick we grew attached to.

John Proctor never grew feathers. Instead, he shed his down and promptly grew a mound of fluff. What we had initially pegged as a large forehead grew into an impressive Afro.

John-John is rapidly growing into one of the fanciest roosters we've ever seen. Ladies and gentlemen, we think we have a Silkie Bantam.

We first considered the idea when my parents visited the chickens a few weeks ago and stared at John, perplexed.

Laura's mom: "That can't be a rooster. He has no feathers. Maybe he's a late bloomer?"

Laura's dad: "Maybe he's a guinea?"

Then we went to Mansfield and saw a huge cage full of Silkie Bantams. We also saw this sign:

Silkie Bantams have an extra toe. And John has an extra toe. Everything clicked.

We can't eat such a special, fancy rooster. He's a doll. His bottom half has puffed out into a fuzzy hoop-skirt. His 'fro grows by the minute.

He has begun to crow, albeit a half-crow, in that screechy, adolescent voice boys acquire during puberty.

He's the gutsiest of the chickens. When we release them from their cage and let them play in the yard, he ventures the furthest out. He also herds the other chickens and keeps a protective eye on them.

When we scoop up the hens, he peeps furiously, upset that the girls have left his sight.

Ian: "Listen to John. He's mad that I took his bitches."

In short, we are crazy about John Proctor. Being so elegant and fluffy, I've started calling him Jonathan, and his full name is now Jonathan Fuzzy Proctor.

If you were worried we were going to eat the boy, then worry no longer.

John-John is here to stay.