Marilyn was frantically coordinating the search for a lost dog in town, with the help of many of her many friends. Flyers were made and circulated, descriptive emails went out, dog sightings came in, and then search parties went out, only to return empty-handed and frustrated, but still determined.
Meanwhile, her nephew and his wife flew in from London, completely unrelated to the dog. Totally delightful people they are; he a large, muscular, skull-shaven lad with tattoos across his body, she a charming, vivacious, and not-in-the-slightest-bit demure lass with flaming crayon-red hair. They fit right into the dog search. They fit right into the block. And they promised Marilyn that the dog would be found before the wedding was held that Saturday in Marilyn’s back yard.
The couple who owned a house down the block was finally getting married after 37 years spent together in love. It was a long engagement. It’s not that they balked at marrying; it was New York State that balked at marrying them. Peter and Andy lived happily together on the block for years, the block they still consider home even though they temporarily live out of town caring for a close relative. The love Peter and Andy have for each other was always recognized by their neighbors, just not by the state. But that would finally change on Saturday.
A wide circle of friends scrambled to finalize arrangements for their reception, including many of the same people who were scrambling to find the missing dog. Marilyn’s relatives, Chris and Tania, fit right into preparing for Saturday’s wedding; they were in that warm circle of friends and neighbors.
Then, on Friday, the missing dog was finally found -- just before the wedding, just like Chris and Tania had promised. All were flooded with a deep sense of joy and relief, even though the stresses of last-second wedding preparations refused to abate.
Something else happened on Friday also, nearly half way across the globe, which would touch this normally quiet block in Phoenicia. Twenty-year-old Douglas Cordo, a Private First Class in the 25th Infantry Division out of Fort Wainwright, Alaska, died in Afghanistan from injuries sustained in a roadside explosion of an improvised explosive device. His grandmother Helen, a former teacher who stays connected to all her former pupils, lives on that block in Phoenicia.
Helen was expected to be at the wedding, and she showed up briefly -- early, before the ceremony. Deeply shaken, Helen wanted to personally convey to Peter and Andy why she couldn’t attend their wedding. Then friends and family began arriving, flocking to Marilyn’s back yard to bear witness to Peter and Andy’s love. One side of the couple’s family has German-American roots, the other side is Cuban. Everyone basked together in the warmth of a remarkable celebration, though those who know Helen missed her absence, and were deeply saddened by the reason for it.
Tom, who lives right around the corner, officiated at the ceremony with kindness, grace, and dignity. He’s a patriotic man, a distinguished war veteran and a Republican who was handily reelected to his position as Town Justice the last time that he ran. He is also a good neighbor and friend of Peter and Andy.
Peter and Andy were very emotional during their ceremony – their love not in the least bit dimmed by the 37 years spent waiting for that moment. And they struggled to find adequate words to express how deeply grateful they were for all of the love and support that surrounded their union, both that day and for years preceding. But Peter and Andy love Helen also, and her loss was never far from their thoughts either on that day. A neighbor from another block gathered up some food from the reception to take across the street to Helen’s house.
I live on that quiet block in Phoenicia also, a few yards from where the marriage took place last Saturday, and I feel fortunate that I do. Today our block again seems quiet, just as it has most every day since I moved onto it nine years ago. Today the war in Afghanistan continues, just as it has on every day since I first moved to this block. Most days nothing happens to make me think about Afghanistan. But I am again sharply reminded that any day, without a warning, that war can find any one of us at home. There is no block quiet enough to escape it.
Tom Rinaldo writes the Dispatches from Shandaken column for the Watershed Post's Shandaken page three times a week. Email Tom at [email protected].
