Memories frozen in time - part II

Jackie invited me to a girl's night that evening. She painted my nails, and I did my best to help her with her own (I'm not particularly talented at "girly" things). The bridesmaids were wonderful to me, and I think we all enjoyed ourselves.

The next morning, Jackie styled my hair for me. She arranged her own, and then dressed in her gorgeous white wedding gown. She remained calm and light-hearted, not at all stressed about the day ahead. Time flew by quickly in a flurry of last minute preparations. The time came and we loaded into different vehicles to travel the short distance to the church.

The photographer wanted pictures of the bridal party before the wedding. Jackie included me in a special picture of just the two of us (she mailed it to me later).

The wedding itself passed as planned. Following the nuptials was the formal reception. Jackie placed me at a table with her siblings (including David). We collected our food at the buffet and sat down to converse and dine. Toasts were made, cake cut, and laughter shared among friends. Jackie and Matt played some sort of spoon game, although I can't recall the details. I never felt excluded or uncomfortable, even though I had come alone and barely knew anyone aside from the bride prior to that trip. No alcohol was served for the dinner, as per the beliefs of the bride's family. That would come at the "after" party.

I had been to "socials" before while in Canada as a student. The "after" party seemed to be another kind of social. Anyone could attend, including strangers who didn't even know the bride or groom. A hall was rented, alcohol purchased, and tickets for alcohol were sold to anyone interested in drinking. Etiquette hell would condemn such a gathering as a pure money grab, but it was common practice, at least in the prairie provinces of Canada from what I understand.

Here I must comment that I made a grave error when purchasing my airline tickets for the trip to the Great White North. I had looked into two different scenarios when planning. My options were to (a) fly into Minneapolis, stay a few days, fly to Winnipeg, then fly directly from Winnipeg to Atlanta on the day after the wedding; or (b) buy a roundtrip ticket to Minneapolis and borrow Grace's truck to drive to Canada. Obviously I chose the latter. Unfortunately, I wasn't careful enough when selecting my flight dates, and I entered a return date as if I had picked the former option. That meant I would be flying out of Minneapolis the morning after the wedding, instead of giving myself a day to return to Grace's place in a leisurely fashion. I had to leave directly from the "after" party.

Much of the night remains forgotten in a blur of fatigue and darkness. I didn't drink at all, for obvious reasons. I don't believe I danced, although I might have once with Matt or Jackie or maybe I had a dance with each of them. I never approached David, nor he me. Perhaps it was best that way. Some romances are best left at the "mystery" stage, where each person involved is perfect as he or she is, to the other. There was none of the inevitable disillusionment or disappointment that comes with time and familiarity.

I announced to Jackie I had to depart around one in the morning. She hugged me, and I wished her well in her new life with Matt. I trudged out into the bitter cold night, climbed in Grace's truck, and drove away. As of today, that's the last time I actually talked to Jackie in person.

I can't recall much of the return drive to Minneapolis. At the Canadian border, the security guard glanced skeptically at my Alabama license that did not match the Minnesota plates on the truck. I gave him Grace's registration and insurance information, which of course had her name. Fortunately we both still have the same last name and probably will for the rest of our respective lives. It's not a common surname, at least not in the United States. As I tiredly pulled away from the border station, a truck pealed out ahead of me and sent gravel flying into my windshield. One rock chipped the glass (sorry again, Grace!).

I stopped for gas once in North Dakota. The frigid weather nearly stole my breath away, literally. I could not remember such mind-numbing cold before in my life. Prolonged exposure was capable of killing a person, leaching away body heat until nothing remained but an empty, frozen shell.

Miles of road stretched out in front of me endlessly, blanketed in chill winter night. My exhaustion was such that at one point I had to exit the interstate at a rest stop to catch a quick nap. I left the truck coughing and sputtering in idle with the emergency brake engaged so that the heater continued to weakly puff out lukewarm, stale air. When I awoke, maybe thirty or forty minutes later, dawn was breaking grey and forlorn against the broad eastern horizon. The last leg of my journey took forever. Each minute on the road seemed like ten. Foggy elation, I finally reached Minneapolis! Grace helped me pack up my belongings and dropped me off at the airport with a quick hug. I managed to catch my eleven o'clock flight, still fuzzy and barely able to keep my eyes propped open.

True to the Spaniard's word, my friend Nancy waited at the Atlanta airport to bring me home. The mild southern climate was a haven from the oppressive iciness of the north. We chatted amiably on the drive back, but my worn out brain couldn't follow the conversation beyond casual pleasantries. My cats welcomed me into my apartment, and I passed out, once again cozy in the familiarity of my own quarters.

Memories frozen in time - part I

No use denying it anymore. Winter is here and I'm far from ready. So many unfinished projects that once again will be pushed to next spring, in the hopes that they will finally be done.

As I searched for the tank water heater for the ponies, I couldn't help but appreciate that I didn't have need of it until December. It could be much worse. I could be back in Winnipeg and dealing with winter horsekeeping for far longer. Or in Russia, only much later in the year. While I enjoyed the White Nights in St. Petersburg, somehow I don't envision that the opposite (24 hour darkness) would be particularly fun.

Speaking of Winnipeg, the last time I endured the mid-winter mind-numbing cold of Canada was in 2003. I lived in mild Alabama at the time. One of my best friends from my brief stint at the University of Manitoba invited me to her February wedding. I believe she suffered from insanity. Just kidding, Jackie... Maybe... If I lived in the Great White North, you can bet I would be getting married in the summertime (provided I was actually moved to marry some unfortunate soul).

So there I was, carrying a coat and wearing heavy gear into the Atlanta airport having worn shorts just the day before. The Spaniards (sorry, Jaume, I mean Catalonians) dropped me off, promising that someone would pick me up when I returned.

My brief flight took me to Minneapolis where my oldest sister lived. I planned to visit her a few days and then borrow her truck to drive to Manitoba.

In the two years I resided in Alabama, it snowed once. Three inches (maybe) that melted on contact with the road. Heavy wet snow. Everything was closed, of course. I found it hilarious.

Alabama must have spoiled me.

As the plane circled to land in the twin cities, the unwelcome sight of foot deep snow met my eyes. No grass visible anywhere. Instead of long-needled pines and gentle red soil, I saw stark, black, leafless trunks with raw branches shivering in the wind. Grey sludge edged the cleared roads and ice glittered ominously over pale sidewalks.

Grace, my sister, lived in Minneapolis while she attended the University of Minnesota for her doctorate program. Interestingly, one of the professors on her committee knew me from Purdue University, my undergraduate alma mater. I had talked to him on numerous occasions after a class he taught during his short tenure at Purdue. I didn't see him during my visit, but Grace had told him I would be there and he sent his greetings.

Grace picked me up at the airport and drove me to her tiny subfloor apartment. My modest digs down South seemed almost palacial compared to the miniscule one bedroom efficiency apartment she resided in with her three cats. Every spare inch of space exploded with boxes of books, papers, and miscellaneous objects collected throughout her thirty plus years of existence. I would be sharing her full size bed that barely squeezed into the cramped bedroom.

One of Grace's friends met us for dinner at a small Italian joint a short walk from her place. We ordered pizza and I joked about becoming an icicle. Conversation was easy and entertaining.

I spent the next morning wandering around the University while Grace was busy at school. Campus wasn't very far from her apartment, but the path was slick and treacherous in spots where thick snow hid patches of black ice. My feet grew numb quickly, so I headed into the enclosed walkway of the Washington Avenue bridge and crossed over the mighty Mississippi River, protected from the chill wind by thick plexiglass. Staring down into the turbulent, murky water, I watched ice flows coast briskly downstream. Not far away stood the Interstate 35W bridge that would collapse years later.

Upon reaching the far (West) end of the bridge, I turned and headed back. Blinding rays of sun reflected off the multifaceted metallic structure at the end of the walkway. I squinted against the blazing light, intrigued by the design of the building. Grace's friend had some art on display in this, the Weisman Art Museum. (Later in the year I would see another structure, the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain, clearly styled by the same architect, Frank Gehry. That's a story for another time.)

While in the greater Minneapolis area, Grace and I dined with our dad's half brother and his family. I hadn't seen Uncle Earl in ages. She also showed me her office on the St. Paul campus and introduced me to some fellow grad students.

I left the following morning in Grace's little reddish-purple truck. At the time I had a 1996 blue Ranger ("The Blonde" because she was pretty but not much to her, just a sad little four banger). Grace's Ranger was a year older than mine, had a manual transmission like mine, but didn't have cruise control (mine did). I certainly missed the good ol' CC on long stretches of open interstate.

My course was direct: I-24 North and West through MN to Fargo, ND, then straight north on I-29 to Manitoba. Five years had passed since the first time I ventured over this route. Jackie lived in Steinbach, a tiny town not far from Winnipeg. I stopped in each state to pick up a highway map and take some pictures for posterity (this was before I had a digital camera). Prior to crossing into Canada, I stretched my legs and explored the Pembina State Museum. My cheeks reddened rapidly in the cool afternoon air.

Jackie had to work, so her fiance, Matt, introduced himself to me when I arrived at their modern townhome. He invited me to tag along for his "bachelor party." Having no other plans, I agreed. Matt worked as a trucker as did most of his friends. They converged at the local watering hole to drink beers and tease Matt about his upcoming nuptials. I suppose I served as the token woman, surrounded by friendly, good-natured strangers. In stark contrast to most of the snobbish people I encountered while living in Winnipeg, these men were welcoming and down to earth. I enjoyed myself immensely and fell right into ribbing Matt with the rest of them.

After the small gathering, Matt and I returned to the townhouse where Jackie and I finally reunited. It was as if the previous four years melted away and we were old pals again. She shared the photo album from her trip to China. I brought some of the pictures I had taken while in Russia. We discussed our school days and some of the people we knew "back then." Aside from Jackie, I had only kept in contact with one other person from my Manitoba days, a French Canadian named Geneviere (Jay).

The following day Jackie, her cousin Kelly (from British Columbia), and I traveled to Winnipeg to visit old haunts. The University looked the same: a hodge-podge of clashing architectural styles thrown together haphazardly. So many memories there, some best left dusty and undisturbed. Jackie picked up her wedding dress from the seamstress and excitedly displayed it to us. On the way back to Steinbach, she showed me the store where she met Matt while working as a cashier, and then she told me their story. Weary of men at the time, Jackie didn't want to date anymore. Matt continuously passed through her checkout line and asked her out until he wore her down and she agreed. "The rest, as they say, was history."

The church Matt and Jackie attended was located just across the street from their residence. However, due to heavy snows and accumulation of that precipitation, the plows piled a small mountain of snow over the median of the road. It towered several feet above our heads. We couldn't even make out the buildings opposing us. Jackie's solution was to drive several blocks down the road to a break in the drift, then around to the other side of Mount Snow.

Jackie introduced me to all the bridesmaids and groomsmen. Most of the people present were strangers, but one face I recognized instantly. Jackie's younger brother David. He and Jackie's ex-boyfriend Andrew had escorted us to the spring formal back in college. I don't know if Jackie was aware of it, but David and I had flirted while we danced together eons ago, and I remembered that keenly when I encountered him again.

Jackie's younger sister, another Cindy, knew me previously as well. We met during a trip Jackie and I took from the University dormitories to her home. The other Cindy was already married with an adorable little girl.

I watched the rehearsal half-heartedly, but primarily I wanted to check out my surroundings. The church, while not small, didn't hold a candle to the mausoleums Southern Baptists adore so much in the Bible Belt. It housed a kitchen with an adjoining gym that doubled as a reception hall. I assisted in setting up and decorating tables in the hall.

Darkness fell rapidly in the frigid February night. The rehearsal dinner commensed at a cozy restaurant across town. Jackie asked me to drive separately so that she could put Matt's wedding present in the back of Grace's truck. Matt loved carpentry, and Jackie's gift to him was a sturdy tool chest with plenty of drawers for all of his implements.

Dinner was wonderful. I felt welcome and comfortable amongst Jackie's loved one. However, her mother, a stern Menonite woman wearing a modest white bonnet and austere dress, remained aloof from the others.

I tried my best to avoid looking at David. I don't know how much he remembered about our time together, but the past came rushing vividly to the forefront of my mind whenever our eyes inadvertantly locked. He remained polite and slightly remote whenever we conversed.

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Wow, this post has grown way beyond the simply memory I originally intended to scribe! I guess I will have to continue the tale tomorrow ;-)