Father of The Bride

"As I look around the room this evening, I am struck with one thought.  Not how beautiful this island is, although it is beautiful.  Not how wonderful this place is tonight, but it is wonderful.  I am struck with one thought above all others: Who are you people and what are you doing on my island?

This is a day to be thankful.  First of all, thanks to God because in Him all things are possible.  He is in our lives.  He is on this island.  He is here with us tonight.   And He will be with us at the ceremony tomorrow.  And forever.

Thanks to Jake’s parents, Ron and Diane Rude, and their family, for hosting this amazing event and providing for us so beautifully tonight.  And for sharing their son, Jake.  What a great job you have done with him.

When Jenna first told me about Jake, she described him as this really nice and handsome guy who works at Disneyland as Goofy.   He IS sort of Nordic looking which seemed strange to a North Carolina boy that a person from California wasn’t blonde and tanned.  When we first met him he was tall and skinny and pale.  Now look at him.  Still tall and skinny and pale.  Just kidding. Our family has always loved anything Disney. And now we love anything Jake.

I had dinner with his father recently and Ron described him to me as “favored” meaning that he is someone who always has something good happening to him.  For six years we have watched him grow into the fine man he is today  -- and we agree with his dad.  Jenna is the same way.  They both work hard and play hard.  As a result, good things happen to them both.  And that has been and will be fun to watch.

Thanks to Toni, my wife of 30 years.  My island girl.   Look at her. Doesn’t she look amazing?  Kenny Chesney’s friend described her as an absurdly hot parent.  She is!!  I love you.  Thank you for raising our wonderful family.

Special thanks to the youngest here this week.  Our island babies!!  Lorigan.  Genevieve.  Brennan.  Blake.  Luke. Hudson. Tell your parents to use lots of sunscreen, guys !!

Special thanks to the oldest here.  My Dad.  This place can be a bit of a challenge for Octogenarians.  And thanks to my Mom for the effort to get him here.

Special thanks to those who traveled so far.  From Hawaii.  Jake’s Aunt Becky.  And all the way from China, our niece Devon.  And special thanks to Team California.  Team Arkansas.  Team Texas.  Team New York.  Team North Carolina.

“Gratzi, Gratzi, Gratzi” to our Italian friends from The World Dance Movement.  “Viva Italiana!”

And finally, thanks to the future Mr. and Mrs. Rude.  Such beautiful people.

Turn to the person beside you and say  “Jenna and Jake are the perfect match.”

So, I am Jenna’s father.  And that makes me The Father of The Bride.   But I am also her Pool Boy.  Her Accountant.  Her Mechanic.  Her Personal Physician.  Her Teacher.  Her Driver.

When we visited our homeland in Italy years ago, and picked up a rental car, she taught me to say only one thing:

“Non so nulla.   Guido la machina.” 

Which means  “I know nothing.  I drive the car."  Jenna has always been very wise for her age.  Can I get you anything, honey?

Jenna and Jake.  Look around you.  Take it all in.  You are surrounded by people who love you.  By people who support your dreams.  By friends and family who will catch you when you stumble. This is your safety net.  Spiritually.  Financially.  Emotionally.  These generous and loving and positive people have your back.

Turn to the person beside you, high five them and say  “I have Jenna and Jake’s back.”

See? I am sure you will be well taken care of.

Jenna.  I have another secret which I have kept for over 24 years.  I have been in love with you since the first time I laid eyes on you.  Not many people in that circle.   You have been the center of my world forever.  Now you are the center of Jake’s world.  And believe me, that makes me feel good.  I am so happy with that. 

So, both of you, don’t think of this as a marriage.  Think of this as a really, really long date.  Love each other and care for each other as if you are still dating and trying to impress your date.  Please, I challenge both of you to support each others strengths and dreams, to forgive each others weaknesses and mistakes, to be grateful for your blessings, and to be constantly thankful for finding each other.

And remember to ask the Creator of the Universe to help you with anything you need or want. 

I have a feeling you will get it.

May God bless Jenna and Jake.  And may God bless us all." 

And God did bless us all - with a storm system hopelessly stalled directly over St. John.  Three days prior to the wedding it starting raining horribly with no signs of letting up.  Forecasters predicted 100% chance of misery with rain and flash flooding on the days prior to the ceremony. Members of our large group prayed and prayed some more. And an inexplicable, miraculous break in the weather gave our wedding party two days to gratefully enjoy the beauty of the island on Trunk Bay and then on Honeymoon Beach.  More spectacular weather on the island I cannot remember.

The next day was just as beautiful, like an island painting.  But the long Father-of-the-Bride walk down the Caribbean "aisle" with Jenna started with a few raindrops from a sky with no rain clouds, like tears of joy from Heaven, then turned into a quick refreshing shower and as our musician sang the verse "Here Comes The Sun", the tears stopped as suddenly as they had started.  And we were blessed with a full rainbow with a heart-shaped cloud to begin the ceremony as God reminded us that it takes a little rain to make rainbows.

And they were married.

Ho Hos From Heaven….

Sunday dinners were usually a feast, prepared by my Dad’s mother or my mom.  We’d return from church to find a meal that was always a surprise.  How they were able to prepare this all at once and have it all deliciously warm and ready to eat at the same time was a mystery.  Laid out on the kitchen counter was a buffet to drool over.  The aromas of home-cooking tickled our nostrils and shiny, empty plates summoned us to eat. 

Homemade bread, ham and turkey or chicken fought the corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, and sweet potatoes for space on the counter like tourists crowding into a hotel elevator.  Pitchers of lemonade and sweet tea stood guard, while we lined up, kids first, then lucky guests, followed by parents and grandparents, each eagerly nudging the preordained person ahead to move along.  Green beans, lima beans, and field peas preserved fresh from our backyard garden smiled up at us, while fresh tomatoes and cucumbers grinned a happy hello, and we returned their welcome with a grateful serving spoon dipped hungrily into their bowls.  Homemade potato salad.  Yeast rolls.  And for dessert, a German chocolate cake, prepared impossibly from scratch, sat surveying the Branner banquet, patiently waiting to join in. 

The menu varied slightly, Sunday to Sunday, and on Thanksgiving and Christmas Days, it was enhanced by a turkey, some cranberry sauce and stuffing, and more family.  It was as if Mom was trying to prepare everything she knew how to cook, all at once.  There was always a group prayer before the meal, led by my Dad, either at the table or in a circle created by holding the warm hand standing supportively beside you. 

My father enjoyed this moment, this quiet minute of attention, as much as he enjoyed grilling steaks every Saturday night for his immediate family.  For some a symbol of success is a fancy car, a vacation, or being able to provide a bicycle for each of your children; for my dad, I think, it was steaks.   Grilled to perfection and coupled with a baked potato, garlic bread, and some oysters or shrimp, we gathered around the Saturday evening dinner table to enjoy the fruits of his success.  Proudly he would take his place at the head of the table and one of us would humbly pray,  “God is great, God is good, thank you Lord for all this food.  Amen”.

Medical training changed all that. Gone were the all-you-can-eat meal plans of my college days and the time to steal a trip home to enjoy the Saturday steaks and the Sunday family buffets.  Now there were trips to an unfamiliar grocery store where I would purchase generic sliced sandwich meat, bargain bread, hard pretzels and some cheap TV dinners.

On Sundays I would take a break from my studies to make my lunches for the week.  Ten pieces of bread, some mustard, and five slices of meat combined and stacked into five sandwich bags and tossed in the freezer for me to grab on my way to the bus every morning.  On Saturdays to celebrate the weekend, I would substitute some peanut butter and jelly  And gulp down a TV dinner that night.  I tried cooking.  I hopelessly deciphered recipes my mom had written on index cards for me, but even the simple ones, like “Get a pot.  Fill it with water.  Boil it.  Put in some pasta.” only depressed me.

But, for some feel-good food, I always had a box of Little Debbie Ho Hos, those magnificent chocolate-rolled, cream-filled pieces of manna from heaven. 

My old friend, Don, watched me trying to live on a student loan budget and losing weight, a penny-pinching hermit studying my life away.  His friend, a sophomore Carolina Cheerleader at UNC, needed a date to a cheerleader party after a football game and although she had an out–of-town boyfriend, Don talked her in to giving me a call.  A pity date.  And one great thing came out of my starvation.  After our first date, Toni and I eventually married.  And we starved together.

On clinical days, a couple of my medical school buddies and I discovered that cans of Ensure, a high calorie, complete nutrition drink, were stored on the Cancer Ward in the Nurse’s Supply Room and through acute scientific observation we found that if a patient died, his allocation of Ensure would not be used.  Every third night when it was my turn to stay on the hospital wards, I would detour to the Cancer Ward, duck into the Nurse’s Supply room and if a patient had died, grab a couple of cans of Ensure.  They had three flavors, Vanilla, Strawberry and my favorite, Chocolate.  And they were better on ice.

Welcome were the visits from family, parents, Toni’s aunt and uncle, anyone, who would, God willing, take us out to eat.  On those special occasions we could ignore the prices and just order from the left side of the menu.  And several times we were moved to tears when we discovered that after our visitors had gone, our refrigerator was filled with leftovers and our freezer stocked with steaks.

One especially beautiful Chapel Hill spring day, our money depleted and our cabinets dark and barren, we collected our loose change to buy some bread and peanut butter for sandwiches to last us until our next student loan check.  Walking to the hospital, already tired that day and not knowing what medical misadventure would challenge me, wearing my hospital scrubs and white coat and my stomach gurgling, my mind wandered to images of more secure and satiated times past.  Our family, hands clasped, gathered around a tantalizing Sunday turkey.  Homemade potato salad.  Yeast rolls.  Dad’s proud face chewing on a Saturday steak.  My mom’s homemade German chocolate cake. 

I stopped at the familiar crosswalk, alone, my stomach growling, and waited hungrily for the “DON’T WALK” sign to change. 

“God, what am I doing?  Please send me a sign.“ I silently prayed while an unyielding campus bus, then several cars whizzed coldly by me. 

And then to the left waiting to turn across my crosswalk, I saw it.  A Little Debbie delivery truck.  

The Little Debbie delivery truck turned across my path, its rear door swinging wildly, left open by its distracted driver.  A large tray, full of Little Debbie Ho Hos ejected from the truck cargo hold, landed sweetly on the crosswalk before me, its contents spilling onto the road, its unaware driver continuing on.  The sun’s rays reflected off the packages strewn before me, a surreal glow emanating from them as the traffic sounds muffled and movement around me blurred and slowed. 

The crosswalk sign changed to “WALK”.  God had sent me a sign.  Ho Hos!  Ho Hos! Manna from Blue Heaven!  If I had a tail, I’d have wagged it.

Passersby likely still talk of a strange Chapel Hill morning when they watched a doctor standing in the middle of a busy road, shamelessly stuffing packages of Ho Hos into the deep pockets of his white coat, then into his mouth, grinning a creamy chocolate-coated smile at the audience around him as he scurried toward the hospital, feeling full, renewed and restored.

I Saw It In The Movies….

It was hotter than usual on St. John that day, but the beach never looked better. Gentle waves of indigo and green drifted in from the sapphire sound while the Virgin Isles sparkled beyond. The steady trade winds from the east pursued cottony clouds flying across the intense blue sky and created a strong westerly current in the main channel, but in the shallows at the shore the water was calm, cool and clear. Under the palm trees there was a public hut, a place to get a snack and escape the sun, but we were basically alone, like Tom Hanks in Castaway, alone and deserted in this tranquil place. 

We reminisced about the first time we had seen this beach and how we were struck by its beauty and nature. We waded out into water so clear we could see reef fish darting over to play, attracted by our colorful swimsuits. We watched a stingray glide by, innocently feeding on mollusks and ignoring our toes digging into the white, soft sandy bottom. To our left, tropical birds played in the waves near stands of rock that had for ages guarded this shoreline and protected its radiant reef which rested in shallow water, home for abundant flamboyant fish and a couple of sea turtles. We were in The Blue Lagoon.

Our friend had told us, though, of a day she had hiked here with her dog, who loved to swim and retrieve a tennis ball she would throw out in the water. Time after time the dog swam out to the deeper water to grab the ball and fetch it back to her. But on another throw the wet dog whined and would not go back in. She looked out and saw the dorsal fin of a shark cut through the blue surface, searching for her dog. We remembered a previous visit here with family where we had snorkeled into deeper water and seen a large shark resting on the bottom. And the theme from Jaws played in my head: Duh Dah. Duh Dah. Duhdahduhdah…

Out beyond the generous swim zone and the reef near the deeper main channel floated moorings, like oversized beach balls, each occupied by a large boat anchored to it with a mooring line tied to the ball. Their sterns all pointed west because of the strong current and they were all lined up like parked limousines at a Hollywood premier, million dollar vessels strategically spaced to avoid contact and damage should the prevailing wind or current change direction. Centuries ago this is where explorers and pirates had ventured out; any moment the Black Pearl might sail by, with Captain Jack Sparrow posed on the mizzen, bellowing "Why is the rum gone?" But now there were only yachts and several 45 foot catamarans.

We recognized one of the catamarans tied to a mooring ball, upstream from all the others. It looked exactly like one our family had lived on for a week, years ago. As we talked, I noticed it changed positions. Had the wind shifted? Had the current changed? We talked more but the boat diverted my attention. The other boats downstream were still in their same positions, but this one seemed to have moved a bit more with the current. We studied her more closely. I could not see any mooring line or anyone aboard. No sails were deployed. No sounds from a motor. This 45 foot sailboat had come loose from its mooring. It was definitely adrift and slowly moving toward the other boats and the reef beyond them. Two hundred yards off shore, adrift, and on a collision course. 

While I started swimming, trying to take a course to intercept the boat that now seemed to be picking up speed, Toni, recognizing imminent disaster, headed to the beach to find help. 

I swam hard. 

Pathetically, in my mind now I was Tarzan, crossing the Congo River, unfazed by the crocodiles and sharks, swimming recklessly to rescue Jane and Boy from the cannibals. My long dark locks flowing and my sinewy, bronze muscles glistening with each stroke, my family implored me to swim harder. Stopping to wrestle a shark, but somehow not losing my loincloth, I would press on, grab the line and pull myself on board, then start the engine. 

I swam harder. 

Now, I was James Bond, jet black hair with a little gray at the temples, wet but still perfectly combed, determined to save Fedosia, the gorgeous and sultry Russian princess held hostage on that boat which had been hijacked by pirates carrying a nuclear bomb. Once I had saved her, I would put on a tuxedo and some cufflinks, have a martini and then perform equally well in the love scene to follow. “Oh, James…” 

I swam faster.

Now, I was Indiana Jones, clenching my firm jaw and wearing my iconic hat, beaten up from all the fighting but doggedly swimming to overtake the submarine and recover the stolen Ark from the Nazis. “Boat? What boat? You can do it, Dr. Jones!“ 

"I can do this." I thought to myself. "I saw it in the movies.” 

I was gaining on my target only twenty yards ahead and on course to intercept her. But, in the middle of the channel with the other boats and rougher water surrounding me, fatigue set in. And I realized with the wind causing the drifting boat to pick up speed, I was not going to make it. 

Seeing two men on a nearby boat now within earshot, I stopped, gathered my breath and yelled at the top of my lungs. “Captain!” They turned, surprised to see a swimmer this far from shore, and did a classic double-take. “That boat is adrift!” And seeing two boats now only a few yards apart, they sprang into action like lifeguards in the Titanic. 

On shore, Toni scrambled to the beach hut and told the attendant there about the drifting boat. Sara came out and looked. 

“Who is that guy out way out there?” she asked. 

“That’s my husband.” Toni answered smugly, leaving out adjectives like “crazy” or “psycho”. 

“What is he doing?” Sara asked, more excited now. 

“Trying to save the boat,” she replied, trying to sound as if I were just going to check the mail. 

I was now two hundred yards out, in shark-infested waters, fighting the relentless current and partially obscured by other boats. And the catamaran was now just a few yards from colliding with the next moored boat, and then our blessed coral reef beyond. 

“He’s swimming down the catamaran?” Sara muttered, dumbfounded.

With much urgency, Sara immediately placed a call to the harbormaster who dispatched a rescue boat at full speed. I could see this boat coming, heading straight for me, and as I bobbed breathlessly in the water, I watched the two guys I had alerted jump into their dinghy and speed to the drifting boat. 

The two guys arrived first. The boats were now only a few feet from colliding. Snagging the loose mooring line, they used their boat to stop the catamaran and begin to turn it just in time, and then tug it out of harm’s way back to its original mooring. The rescue boat circled the commotion and, determining all was under control, headed back to shore. As the two guys returned to their yacht, they looked at me and gave me Two Thumbs Up. Then left me. 

Now two hundred yards from land, alone, and pretty tired, I began the long swim back to my amazing wife. 

“What were you thinking?” she asked worriedly, as I stumbled back onto shore. 

I thought of telling her about Tarzan, and James Bond, and Indiana Jones. But instead decided to keep it simple. 

“Don’t ask.” 

When we returned to the hut the following day, Sara interrupted her staff meeting to recognize us and thank us for saving the boats and the reef. She shared a picture she had taken of me from shore, a tiny dot in the middle of the sea, and introduced an embarrassed me to scattered applause as “that guy who swam down the catamaran”. 

Now, I was Tom Cruise, accepting the Academy Award for Best Actor in Mission Impossible. Stay tuned… 

The Penny….

As far as I could see in both directions there was a train track.  To the east the tracks made a gentle curve before finally disappearing behind a stand of tall, leafy trees; to the west the tracks vanished straight into a tunnel beside a warehouse under the highway.  

The main road crossing this track had four lanes, along with sidewalks, and the crossing was marked by obtrusive black and white signals on each side of the road which stood tall, like armed sentries protecting the train’s territory.  Traffic on this busy avenue would sometimes slow but the cars still made a hypnotic, bump-de-bump sound as they crossed.  Hard rusty steel gleamed on its surface, kept shiny by the passing trains.  A pungent diesel odor escaped from the gravel-filled spaces between the timber ties, blackened with tar.

Ridiculously close to the train’s path, no more than ten feet from the tracks at it closest corner stood a tiny, red brick building, defiant and courageous, with a sign out front that read Branner Shoe Service.  When my parents would leave me there, the track was the first place I explored. 

Branner Shoe Service, owned and operated by my grandparents, was a busy place on Saturdays, a day off for most people to run errands, but Bill and Allie worked as a team six days a week to keep their business successful. Shoe repairs had to be completed so people could be ready for church on Sunday and work the next week. Customers kept the bell at the front door tinkling as it opened and shut.  It was their business and they rented this tiny space for years, walking honorably in their well-worn shoes to work each day from their home three blocks away, on Sunnyside Avenue, a street appropriately named for them and their decent and admirable attitude.  Sometimes, to give my parents a break, they watched me.  And I watched them.

I watched my grandfather, his gray hair combed neatly back and donned in a full gray apron with blue stripes that enhanced the color of his steely blue-gray eyes, operate with ease fantastic machines, devices that pressed and cut leather, machinery that sanded soles and sewed in stitches on delicate pieces of pedestrian art while spitting out clatter and clang that demanded the attention of a four year old boy.  So I watched.

My grandfather remained serious, his strong chin firm and focused on the job at hand but he lit up when he saw me, taking a break long enough to wipe the sweat from his brow with his sinewy hands and place one reassuringly on my shoulder.  Then back to work and with the help of Willie, his assistant and the first black man I had ever seen, he repaired the stiff outer coverings for the feet of the thrifty and fashion-conscious.  As he labored, I worried that the great and raucous machines might at any moment turn on him but he deftly kept them at bay, probably at times daydreaming a bit, putting himself in the shoes of the doctors and lawyers and bankers who owned them.

My attention fading, I returned to the front of the shop, just a couple of steps away, where I watched my grandmother. Effusive and sparkling, she hosted the waiting customers like a hummingbird at a flower shop.  She flitted and fluttered between the boxes of orders lined up on shelves behind her, to the next guest in line, to the cash register, and back again. Each time a fee was paid, the cash register made a proud and singular ring.  And my grandmother would sparkle again. 

She would bend over, putting her smiling face as close to mine as her aging flexibility would allow her and placing both hands on my cheeks, she would coo, and give me a playful squeeze and a hug that would last me all day.  And sometimes, she would slide a few pennies to me to begin a familiar and welcome routine in which I would happily visit the nearby gum machine, make a deposit and receive a sweet reward.  Chewing that gum and with an extra penny in my pocket, I would sit quietly in a vacant vinyl chair reserved for customers, feet not reaching the floor, and wait. 

It started slow at first, a faint whistle from the east, but growing louder and louder with each blast.  My heart quickening, out the door I dashed, straight to the tracks.  Courage building and putting fears aside, I stomped to the base of the closest signal.  The train thundered faster now and triggered the signals to erupt.  Traffic stopped.  Pedestrians paused.  Lights flashed like lightning.  Bells tolled like a cathedral on Sunday.  The ground pulsated, the guardrails banged lower, and the train pressed on, blaring its warning whistle again and again.  I grinned.  It was a rowdy storm and I was its center.

Grabbing the penny, I spit the gum into my hand and reached onto the cold, vibrating rail, placing the sticky combination onto the shaking surface.  It held.  The heavens shook now, as the beast roared and electricity filled the air.  My ears split and my chest thumped.  Boom! Boom! Boom! rumbled the engine, spewing smoke and scattering rubble.  Time to go.  I retreated a few steps, and just as I had done all morning, I watched. 

This time the train was the one working hard.  Like my grandfather and grandmother, it rumbled on, responsible and industrious, serious about its work but making a happy fuss along the way.  Doing what trains do, they clattered along the tracks of life and before disappearing into a tunnel, flashed by me in an instant, never to be seen again, but leaving me with memories that would last a lifetime. 

And one flat penny.

Cruz Bay, St. John, USVI. circa 1920