Biker Wedding

Greetings From Domelandia,

Thirty years ago, a friend did my horoscope. It said, 'You will have many unusual friends."
That's for sure - we've known some interesting people. Today I'm thinking of two of them and remembering a warm summer afternoon...

Linda was tall and thin, loose-limbed and graceful. She had long black hair and carried herself like a queen, as if she were used to being listened to and obeyed. She had a crescent-moon shaped scar on her chin where someone's fist had split it open.

(Lori told me once, "I don't know what it was about Linda - every time she opened her mouth, I just wanted to hit her.")

Linda was the minister at our wedding. Back then there were advertisements in the classified ads of the Mother Earth News for becoming an ordained minister of the Universal Life Church. You sent some money and got paperwork to prove that you could perform weddings, christenings, and funerals. Since the Viking and I haven't been big fans of the religious options in our area, we bought a marriage license and invited a few people to our little valley to watch us make it legal. We asked Linda to marry us and stay for the fried chicken lunch afterwards. Two of my sisters came, and my new friend, also named Linda, stood with us as we tied the knot.

Our wedding day was full of hope and joy and love and happy tears. I had hand-stitched my husband a wedding shirt, and I wore a dress I bought at the thrift store for $5. It was big enough to cover my growing belly. We had little money, but nothing scared us. Our whole lives were ahead of us, and we had True Love. Didn't everyone?

I met Linda's future husband in the laundromat in Trinidad. He came over to where my friend and I were folding clothes. His face was all scratched up, his clothes had dirt all over them, and he smelled like booze. He steadied himself on one of the folding tables and proclaimed, "I think I just got hit by a car."

Jerry was a veteran of the Vietnam War. He was one of many souls who went to fight and came home with demons. Back then, I didn't understand Jerry at all, and I didn't even try to. I lived in my little bubble of happiness, peace, and light. The Viking and I orbited around the sun of an entirely different solar system than the one where Jerry and Linda hung out.

They had a son together. Linda wanted to make their union legal so she could use Jerry's veteran's benefits to go to school and get certified to be a diesel mechanic. We'd see her sometimes, wearing overalls smeared with motor oil, barefoot, smoking a cigarette outside the truck bays where the classes were taught. I could never understand why she liked being barefooted around all that heavy machinery and dirt, but it was part of who she was.

They set the date for the wedding and invited The Viking and me to come. We wanted to be there and help them celebrate. We had a neighbor, Mary Margaret, who loved weddings. We invited her to come along, and the three of us piled into the truck and headed off to the nuptials. Mary Margaret wore a pink and white houndstooth checked polyester suit with ivory-colored panty hose and matching patent leather heels. She brought a Tupperware container with pink and white frosted cupcakes to contribute to the wedding feast.

We arrived at Jerry's house. I was shocked to see the wedding guests. I hadn't realized that Jerry and Linda and their friends were really bikers - I mean the hard-drinking, leather-clad men and their 'old ladies'. I was really shocked to see their kitchen table almost completely covered with bottles of Jim Beam, Mad Dog 20/20, and other hard stuff, as well as piles of marijuana, and an assortment of pills of various colors and sizes. Mary Margaret placed her cupcakes on the table with the other items and fretted about getting her Tupperware back.

It was apparent that many in the wedding party, Jerry included, were already well past drunkenness and had reached that state of intoxication that is otherworldly. I believe the combination of alcohol, various hallucinogens, and lack of sleep contributed to this state. When we approached Jerry to congratulate him, we weren't sure if he could see us. He attempted to speak, but only he understood what he said. I knew he was in there somewhere, but it was scary to see myself reflected in the glassy black pools of his eyes. My own eyes grew big, and bigger still when Waco, the best man, yelled, "When do we get to eat the bride?" answered by haw-haws from his fellows.

Linda came forth from the house, her long, raven hair loose on her shoulders. She wore a full-length black dress--no slave to tradition was she. There was no mistaking this event for a fairy-tale wedding, and no illusions about happy endings, either. The Viking and I kept exchanging looks. I was thinking, "Man, am I glad I have you and not this." I'm pretty sure he was thinking the same thing.

She announced that the ceremony would take place atop Frijole Hill, an interesting geological formation near Jerry's land. It was some distance from the house - we had to get into our vehicles and drive to it. Then there was a half-mile hike to the foot of the hill.

After we got out of our vehicles, Linda made a token attempt to get the milling crowd started in the right direction. Then she appeared to relinquish any thoughts of being in control of anything, and began to pick her way through the rough terrain, avoiding rocks and the occasional cactus--shoeless, of course, as was her way.

Feeling as though we should be supportive of the bride, the three of us joined her. Others began to move in the direction of the Hill, only to forget some critical item ("where's my cooler, man?") and have to turn around and go back to get something.

We reached the bottom of the hill and began to climb. There was a trail to the top which made the hike a little easier. The Viking had to reach back and help pregnant me and Mary Margaret in that short skirt and heels, but we finally got up there and found a rock to sit on. Upon reaching the summit, Linda pulled out a long white cigarette, lit it, and walked to the edge of the cliff. There was a good view from up there and you could see the wedding party coming along. They were spread out, laughing, drinking, taking their time. Occasionally, we heard Waco yelling his sentiments about having his way with the bride.

It seemed to take a long time for the remaining guests to get up the hill. Jerry's buddies stayed close to him, keeping him well-lubricated and shouting encouragement. He was doing OK until he got to the bottom of the hill. He could barely stand up, but for some reason he decided to climb straight up the cliff instead of taking the path. Perhaps he didn't remember that there was a path. This route required some hand-over-hand climbing skills and I wondered how that was going to work out. His final approach to the summit slowed as he struggled over boulders and around trees. From time to time, Linda, cigarette in hand, sashayed to the cliff edge and back, taking note of his upward progress and reporting it to the rest of us.

Finally, the lusty cheers from his friends told us that he was nearing the top. He flung an arm over the edge of the cliff and tried to pull himself up. We did see his arm and part of his head. Then he lost his grip and fell crashing and hollering down the hillside to a ledge about 15 feet below.

Everything went completely quiet. I thought, "How ironic to die on one's wedding day." Linda walked to the edge of the cliff and took a long drag off her cigarette. She tossed her hair back and exclaimed, "You're not getting out of it that easy, Montoya," then turned on her heel and strode away.

Jerry regained consciousness and began climbing again. This time, his friends helped him, pushing from below and pulling from above. He made it to the top, one wrist bleeding from a deep laceration, and bleeding from scratches on his face and arms. He and his crew moved a short distance away to rest and ready themselves for the ceremony.

Finally, Waco called Jerry and Linda forward. Waco asked Linda, "Well, do ya?" and Linda answered, "Yes." He turned to Jerry and asked, "Well, do ya?" Jerry said, "I - don't - know" and walked away. A dozen groomsmen followed him, and together they formed a circle with their arms over each other's shoulders. They stood there with their heads down, talking things over. The circle began to sway around and around but its members remained upright. Jerry decided to give it another go. This time he answered "I do."

This was followed by lots of yelling and hollering, but there was no hugging or kissing. The Viking and I, along with Mary Margaret--well, we were done. We hightailed it back down the hill and to the truck and didn't stay for the wedding supper.

Linda took some classes but didn't become a diesel mechanic. She and Jerry got a divorce and she moved to Arizona, I think. She died there - a violent death, we were told. Their son came to live with Jerry.

Along the way, Jerry cleaned up his act. We got to know him, and he and The Viking really made a connection, especially after The Viking offered to help him do some work on his house. We came to respect and understand him, and we were glad of that.

Jerry passed on a few years ago. According to his wishes, Jerry's friends helped dig his grave. One of them looked at Jerry's coffin while this was happening and said, "Well, this is just like Jerry. Lying down while everyone else is doing all the work."

He rests in peace on his land.

Remembering MizLa

Greetings From Domelandia,

It's a mild mid-winter morning here in Southern Colorado. Just enough warmth to tease me into thinking about Spring and gardening. I walk over the long hill and back most days. This morning - I am not making this up - I saw a black caterpillar on the road. He was cold, but alive. I tell him, "It's JANUARY, for Pete's sake! Where did you come from?"

On windy days I keep to the forest where the trees protect me from the wind. It is quiet there. A couple of days ago I passed one of our favorite picnic spots, and memories of a gorgeous summer day came back to me. Our daughters and I are in the box canyon south of the house. Strawberry blonde daughter isn't walking yet--she's riding in the baby carrier on my back. The Redhead is holding my hand, and I'm helping her negotiate rocks, cactus, and other obstacles that can trip up a three-year-old. We sit down in the shade and take sandwiches and drinks from our picnic bag. A lizard scurries by and takes refuge under a nearby rock. His small body shines iridescent green and blue, and his sides move in and out as he breathes. The girls have a good long look at this mysterious creature in the deliberate fashion of the very young. I don't hurry them. We have plenty of time.

When I was a child, my friend MizLa gave me the gift of time. I think of her a lot when I'm outside in the garden, or feeding my birds, or walking in the woods. She's one of the reasons I am a nature freak.

Dad worked in an office all day, and Mom spent most of her time cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry for our family of seven. Her afternoon hours were spent preparing the large evening meal in her one-woman kitchen, so we kids made ourselves scarce until dinnertime.

Marjorie LaMartine (MizLa) lived three houses down from our home on Rosebud Drive. From the time I was five or six years old, her house provided the perfect after-school destination. I'd find her outside, performing the daily rituals of tending bird feeders, scrubbing birdbaths, and watering her yard as well as an amazing variety of plants. Her yard, shaded by huge trees, was an oasis in the hot Texas afternoon. Exotic flowers and plants, streaked and spotted with improbable colors, unfurled graceful leaves. The soft fragrance of poppies and bluebonnets drifted through the air as we moved inside the cool green canopy.

I had so many questions, and she knew so much! She told me what species of birds liked which kind of seeds, and that some ate insects instead. The birds added their musical opinions, and she knew every voice. Cardinals, mockingbirds, sparrows, titmice, starlings, and wrens were easy to identify, but if we saw a visitor to her sanctuary whose name we didn't know, we'd find it in her bird book. She had other books, too--books about rocks and minerals, stars and planets, fish, flowers, trees, mammals, and reptiles. (After she explained why toads and lizards and snakes were good for gardens, I no longer thought they were icky). An hour at MizLa's was more educational than science class, and a zillion times more fun.

MizLa wasn't like other ladies I knew. She had a cosmopolitan presence, from her slim, stylish clothes to the way she arranged her pale hair. She wore tailored blouses, slacks (not jeans!), and canvas shoes to work in her yard, but she always 'dressed' for dinner. Her husband, Francis, arrived home at six from his job as an engineer, and expected dinner to be on the table and his wife to look presentable. The dinner hour was their time to reconnect, and I respected the boundaries of our friendship. I went home when she started dinner.

She and Francis had no children. (She often laughingly introduced my folks as 'the parents of her children'). Her house was immaculate, and the shelves in the living room of her tiny home held books with mysterious titles. She had an amazing collection of knickknacks. My favorite was a green ceramic lady on tiptoe, arms stretched up and out, captured forever in a moment of ecstasy. MizLa's home furnishings were eclectic. Lace doilies accompanied Navajo rugs in the bedroom. Placed in front of an ordinary chair in the living room was an ottoman constructed from the legs and feet of a former moose. My sister and I loved to pet those strange and wonderful legs.

One afternoon, I received a phone call from MizLa. "Can you and Madeline come over and bring your doll baby bottles?" The excitement in her voice told me something was up. "Yes, we have..MOM!! Can we take our baby bottles to MizLa's?...No, we don't know what for...MizLa, what for?" MizLa: "I have something to show you-you'll see." "MOM! MizLa says WE'LL SEE!"

Sister and I hurriedly gathered our doll bottles and raced to MizLa's. We found her in the living room, kneeling beside a small cardboard box lined with an old sweater. We sat down and peeked into the box. Nestled inside were five baby cottontail rabbits.

MizLa said, "Well, let me just TELL you what happened today! I saw Chessie (her cat) attack a rabbit. I tried to get the poor thing away from her, but it was too late. Then I saw a baby rabbit just lying on the ground. I picked it up and saw a hole underneath it. I realized I'd found the mama rabbit's nest. I kept reaching inside and pulling bunnies out until I had five of them in my pocket!"

Sister and I sat by the box, listening to MizLa's story and feeling sad at the tragedy of the murdered mother rabbit and her orphans. Poor babies! They were little snips of soft brown velvet. "They're so sweet!" I was barely able to contain myself. "Can we hold them?"

MizLa smiled. "We're going to try to save these babies, and when they're grown, we're going to set them free. They're not pets--they're wild animals, so it's best if we don't handle them too much. It's not good for them when they're so tiny, and we don't want them to get too used to people."

I'm sure my sister and I would've protested if this announcement had been delivered by anyone other than MizLa, but we believed her. Instantly, we wanted what was best for the bunnies. We were content to hold them only to feed them or to move them out of the way when we changed their litter. Every day after school, we'd race to MizLa's house to take care of the rabbits, and each day they grew bigger and more active. Soon they were moved to a cage outdoors and started eating rabbit food and grass. We loved them, but we didn't give them names.

The day before they were released into the woods near our house, I said goodbye. It was a lovely late-spring afternoon and I sat beside their cage one last time. The afternoon sun slanted through the trees and shone through their long transparent ears. I saw the veins lit there; they were tiny blue rivers. I stroked their soft fur, and knew that tomorrow they would be free. I was happy for them.

It was hard for MizLa when my sisters and I grew up and moved too far away for daily visits. We stayed in touch, though, and brought our own children to meet her. It's been a long time since we heard the news that she was gone, but I remember feeling that the world had lost a very special woman.

She is still with us. I felt her presence this morning while I was looking at that caterpillar and wondering how it came to be here. Thank you, MizLa, for all the wonderful memories you gave us, and for the gifts that we don't remember. For nurturing us with your love of nature, and for loving us.