Matt and Mel October 10, 2009

We have gathered here at the most beautiful cathedral to celebrate the matrimonial union of Melissa Anne Shinn and Matthew Kenneth Bernier. The bride and groom want me to thank you all for coming way up here on one of God’s higher shelves so that He could see this union closer, maybe. Although they are both from sea level, they were compelled to leave the plains for this—this view, this weather, this lifestyle.  Even the name of the town—Golden—connotes brightness, preciousness, excellence, wealth, joy and happiness, Coors.

Colorado seems to have a Siren-like affect on some Midwesterners.  The landscape promises skiing and snowboarding, hiking and biking, clawing uphill and coasting downhill. Otherwise-normal people move to Colorado and before you know it they are scaling things and sledding down stuff. They snowmobile; they mountain-bike.  Pretty soon their diet goes weird and they live by eating only tree bark and old Birkenstock’s. You two be careful.  It is a slippery slope.

Melissa and Matt welcome you to witness and share their wedding.  Today is October 10, 2009.  This day is unlike all others for our bride and groom because today they participate in the most remarkable and ancient of ceremonies.  Their future biographies will refer to October 10, 2009 because they both make history today. They make a legal union of two into one, but more.  For example, Matt has a great, great, great grandfather, Robert Dyer Reed, who rode a horse all night and built a huge bonfire to see President Lincoln’s funeral train pass. Melissa’s Grandpa Larry once carved and made a cedar chest with a huge heart and arrow for his wife, Velma.  They were married 57 years and Grandma Velma bequeathed to Melissa that chest and her wedding ring. Those gifts are history. Today they merge histories by marrying—every story, every character–of Shinns and Berniers combines.

To begin to grasp the magnitude of this event, I researched the origins of their names.  The Berniers have a naming tradition of passing their father’s name as the middle name of their child:  Leonard Bernier begat Kenneth Leonard Bernier, begat Matthew Kenneth Bernier.  Melissa and Matt may name their first child Rebecca Matthew Bernier, etc.  Anyway, Matthew is Hebrew, and means “gift of God.”  [Wow, don’t let that get to your head, youngster!]  Kenneth is Gaelic, and means “born of fire.” [Also a bit pretentious, really.]  Bernier is French, and is comprised of the two words “bear” and “army.”  My Lord!  It all sounds like an ad for some sort of action figure, doesn’t it? “Gift of God, born of fire, the all new Bear Army!”

Thankfully Melissa’s name is not so masculine and offsets the grandeur of Matt’s. Melissa is Greek, and means “honey-bee.” [Awwww. The bee and bear have an interesting history, don’t they? And the bee and fire!]  Her middle name, Anne, is Hebrew, and means “grace and favor.”  [Matt was certainly never known for his grace.] And then there is Melissa’s last name, Shinn.  The origin is Medieval English, and means…”skinner of hides.”  Whew! The Capulets and Montagues have nothing on the Shinns and Berniers.  Today with their collected history, this couple unites the Bear Army and the Skinners of Hides!  See, we all can just get along.

That reminds me, I haven’t introduced myself yet.  I’m the Good Reverend David DeChant.  I’m Matt’s goofy uncle. I am honored to be here today for many reasons, but the one I want to share is my memory of traveling to Rolla, Missouri when Matt was born. That day, I held his (once) tiny body in my arms.  It was the first time I held a baby.  Matt made me an uncle.  I was the youngest of eight children, and I remember thinking, “Thank God I’m not the youngest anymore.”  Even though you are my sister’s kid, I recognized that my family had grown, that my family history had branched. It is twenty-six years later, and Matt, you have done a fine job so far here on earth. I’m proud of you.  I am honored to be here.  Melissa is a wonderful person and I expect she will class up our family quite a bit, but also because you deserve to add to the story.  You deserve to make this history with Melissa.

Roots

So, this brings us to the definitive work on family history, Alex Haley’s Roots.  The bride and groom young’uns missed the epic mini-series that rocked the world in 1977, so I will provide a little back-story.  Alex Haley was born in 1921 and grew up in the small town of Henning, Tennessee. There, on his grandmother’s porch, he heard the stories of his family, beginning roughly in the year 1767 with his great-great-great-great grandfather Kunta Kinte chopping wood, searching for just the right piece to make a drum for his brother.  Kunta Kinte was just outside the village of Juffure in West Africa that day, alone, and was captured by slavers and shipped to America.   He was to create the first American branch of his family, and 150 years would transpire before Alex Haley heard these stories of the family history since Kunta Kinte; 150 year-long story of marriages, births, deaths, geographical moves, separations—everything. Alex Haley wrote them down, but wanted to expand them with fiction in context to the times.  This of course required historical research into his ancestry to confirm facts and dates, etc.

He started in the present and asked his parents questions, then interviewed older relatives until finally he ran out of information to collect on this continent.  Scholars told him that the key to his research was to find the village of Juffure, then find it’s griot, or African oral historian.

Haley was armed only with the stories from that porch in Tennessee, and the few things he knew about Kunta Kinte.  He knew his grandfather had insisted his name was “Kin-tay,” and he called a guitar a “ko,” and a river “Kamby Bolongo.” African scholars told him that Kamby Bolongo was a reference to the Gambia River, and when pointed out on a map showed a nearby village of Kinte-Kundah, and one called Kinte-Kundah Janneh-Ya. So Alex Haley went there.  He writes, “There is an expression called ‘the peak experience,’ that which, emotionally, nothing in your life transcends.  I’ve had mine, that first day in the back country of Black West Africa.”

The old griot of that village spoke for hours in Mandinka tongue and would pause for the three translators to speak.  And it was thus that he said the following:

“Those three sons grew up in Juffure until they became of age.  Then the

elder two, Janneh and Saloum, went away and founded a new village

called Kinte-Kundah Janneh-Ya.  The youngest son, Omoro, stayed on in

Juffure village until he had thirty rains, then took as his wife a Mandinka

Maiden named Binta Kebba.  And by Binta Kebba, (roughly between the

Years of 1750 and 1760), Omoro Kinte begat four sons, whose names

Were, in order of their birth:  Kunta, Lamin, Suwadu, and Madi.  About

The time the king’s soldiers came, the eldest of these four sons, Kunta

Kinte, went away from the village to chop wood for a drum for his brother

Lamin and was never seen again.”

When this was said, Haley managed to fumble from his dufflebag his notebook full of his grandmother’s stories.  His 150 year tale had just been confirmed!  He showed them to the interpreter, who in turn stopped the griot and spoke rapidly to the seventy-odd villagers who had gathered. Everyone got excited.

Haley describes what happened next:  “…Those seventy or so people had formed a wide human ring around me moving counterclockwise, chanting softly; lifting their knees high, stamping reddish puffs of the dust.  The women broke from the moving circle …thrusting their babies at me to touch them.  Each of the people there touched me.”  It wasn’t until years later that he learned at that moment, he participated in another one of the oldest ceremonies of humankind, called the laying on of hands.  In their way, the villagers told him: through this flesh, which is us, we are you, and you are us!  They accepted him after a century and a half as a fellow villager.

There in West Africa, Alex Haley learned that his history as far as he knew it was not only true, but that it did not represent all that was known of his family.  He had discovered the Kinte Line going back hundreds of more years.  The part of the story that led to Alex Haley began with a brother searching for a piece of wood for a drum, and he was now a part of a family bush, instead of just a limb.  Matt and Melissa, I visited your website that includes the story of how you met in the un-air-conditioned dorms of college.  This story is the moment that defines how we came to be here today. This is your drum for your brother, your carved-with-love cedar chest, your patriotic ride to see the President’s train.  Your history starts because it was hot in your room so you slept in the lounge!  Although the story could use some jazzing up, congratulations on finding each other.

Reading

To further describe how history is made by marriage, I want to invite their friend Jacqueline Hubler up to read a passage:

Union by Robert Fulghum
You have known each other from the first glance of acquaintance to this point of commitment. At some point, you decided to marry. From that moment of yes, to this moment of yes, indeed, you have been making commitments in an informal way. All of those conversations that were held in a car, or over a meal, or during long walks – all those conversations that began with, “When we’re married”, and continued with “I will” and “you will” and “we will” – all those late night talks that included “someday” and “somehow” and “maybe” – and all those promises that are unspoken matters of the heart. All these common things, and more, are the real process of a wedding.

The symbolic vows that you are about to make are a way of saying to one another, “You know all those things that we’ve promised, and hoped, and dreamed – well, I meant it all, every word.”

Look at one another and remember this moment in time. Before this moment you have been many things to one another – acquaintance, friend, companion, lover, dancing partner, even teacher, for you have learned much from one another these past few years. Shortly you shall say a few words that will take you across a threshold of life, and things between you will never quite be the same.

For after today you shall say to the world –
This is my husband. This is my wife.

Reading II   Thank you Jacqueline. And also their friend……..

There is a mindset the two of you must daily possess for a successful marriage.  It will be challenged constantly by sickness and health, by money matters, by distance and closeness, by what temperature to cool your house, by who takes out the recycling, by the way you load the dishwasher, and many other unforeseen difficulties.  The following poem by an unknown Indian author is the key to remembering that mindset:

Although I conquer all the earth

Yet for me there is only one city

In that city there is for me only one house;

And in that house, one room only;

And in that room, a bed.

And one person sleeps there,

The shining joy and jewel of all my kingdom.

Group I do

Now we are all going to participate in this ancient human ceremony of marriage.  Melissa and Matt sent out all those invitations and stuff, so I’m sure they will say their I dos and exchange rings, but I want us, the friends and family–the tribe if you will, to show our support as well.  Before I ask them if they do, I want us to all let them know that we do.  So, ladies and gentlemen, friends and co-workers, family, the ghost of Buffalo Bill whose final resting place is here on Lookout Mountain, do you promise to celebrate and support this union between Melissa and Matt?  If so, say “we do.” And can I also get an “Amen.”

Rings

The rings of a marriage symbolize with a circle the unity of two souls into one, and do more than seal the importance of their vows.  Imagine the rings as the adjustable top of a compass and Matt and Melissa as the points.  As they get further away from each other, they lean and hearken towards the other, but become straight when together.  The ring is the symbol of the distance traveled in that circle, and keeps the other foot from going anywhere that will not lead it back home.  As they are parted for their workday or traveling apart for whatever reason, this band suffers not a breach, but an expansion, as the gold is stretched to airy thinness.  These bands of the most malleable and precious of metals are now forever acting the top of that compass, ensuring a return.

Melissa, do you have a ring to offer Matt as a symbol of your love forever as his wife?  Take it please and place it on his finger, and say as you are doing so, “with this ring I thee wed.”

And Matt, do you have a ring to offer Melissa as a symbol of your love forever as her husband?  Take it please and place it on her finger, and say as you are doing so,  “with this ring I thee wed.”

May these rings be a pledge of mutual esteem and affection and serve as a reminder of this afternoon, here on this mountain.  I wish for the two of you to grow in your friendship, and that your home be a happy one.  Let these rings also remind you of the circle of family history you have united.  Fellow tribesmen and tribeswomen, do we approve?  On the count of three say “we do.”  [1,2,3.]  Can I get another “Amen” as well?  You may kiss the one shining joy and jewel of all your kingdom.

Pronouncement

And so by the power vested in me as a Universal Life Minister and the state of Colorado, I now pronounce you husband and wife, Matt and Melissa Bernier. Congratulations.

Paige Rountree was my friend.  I’ve known the Rountrees for a dozen or so years. In that time, I never knew Paige to be anything but happy.  Sure, sometimes when Troy was hanging out at my house, he might get a call from Paige that indicated she was capable of anger, but never towards me.

When I worked at their house, she babysat my kids. I am very picky about babysitters, but never questioned anything about Paige’s babysitting since I had seen her success at mothering throughout Cynthia’s whole life.

In the Rountree household, Paige was the glue that held everything together.  She was the reliable one—no offense to Troy (although I’m not telling him something he doesn’t already know). Paige was a tiny woman, but powerful in so many ways.  She was tough. She was strong.  She had an aura of a lioness around the body of a mouse. I imagined she was a magical pixie of sorts—a changeling from another world. Perhaps that explains why she was taken from us so early.

I have a photograph from a Halloween party we had years ago.  Troy and Paige came as a priest and a nun.  In the photo, a man is squeezing the tiny nun.  She is laughing, but you can tell she is about on the verge of discomfort.  The man didn’t know Paige before the night, and he had barely spoken to her before the python-like hug.  I’m not even sure who took the picture.  I know the guy, but I don’t see him anymore these days.  I never asked him why he was squeezing her so hard or whether it was a posed photo or not.  What I do know is that his face looks ecstatic in an almost maniacal, uncontrollable way. I can tell that the guy could not keep from hugging this micro-nun, like a child might hug a puppy. The guy’s partner and Troy are in the shot as well, both confused by the zealous embrace.

I make no excuses for my guest, but I know why he wanted to hug Paige in this way.  She was adorable and cute and precious to a point that one could not keep from hugging her and holding her to yourself.  It was a selfish pleasure.  In other words, she may not have needed a hug, but you wanted to hug her.

Paige was a good wife, a good mother, a good daughter.  I wasn’t related to her, but she was a great friend.  The Rountrees are our only friends outside the perimeter that came to every party we invited them to, and Paige had a lot to do with that.  She insisted they all come downtown every time we invited them because she wanted to maintain our friendship. Thank you Paige for our friendship.  I will cherish it forever.

I know that history teaches us that “whom the gods love dies young,” as the saying goes, but that does not make it any easier for me to accept her absence.  Paige, you were loved and you will be missed.  Whatever fairy-filled magical place that has reclaimed you has robbed us of your happiness and kindness.  I think it is okay to be mad about that, but at the same time, I celebrate the life you had by remembering the joy you brought everyone—not just me, but your family and friends.

I identify with the embracing man in the photo.  Even though he just met you, he had an overwhelming desire to hug you, even to hug you a bit too hard. I know the feeling.  Goodbye Paige.

Introduction

I pay my respects, first, to Caleb Jayson Burns who stands before me with his mother. Caleb’s role today is a very special one.  As Krissy’s son, Caleb is the closest family to the bride, and his support is to be honored now, for he gives his mother away to the groom as a son who is ready to share the life and love he has for his mom with someone else–with Jim.  Some of you may know that Krissy’s father Harold passed away some years ago, so Caleb, you have stood in for your grandfather who would be proud to have you represent and carry out this important task. Caleb, do you approve of Jim Ashby joining your family by marrying your mommy?  If so, say, “I do.”  Thank you.

I also want to personally thank my trustworthy and strong assistant, Kolbe, for bringing down to me the sacred text.

The bride and groom want to thank all of you for coming out today.  Thank you Astons and Picketts, Colliers and Ashbys.  Thanks to their families who traveled from Missouri and Pennsylvania and elsewhere.  Thanks to Deb and Wayne, Jim’s mom and step-father.  Thank you Debbie Aston, Krissy’s mother.  Jim and Krissy are surrounded right now by grandparents, cousins, nieces and nephews, aunts and uncles, and friends.  Whether you had to fly, drive or walk to get here, they want me to thank you all.

This couple has chosen to join in holy matrimony in a sacred spot.  What is so special about this place?  For starters, it is the home of the groom’s father and stepmother, David and Meredith Ashby, a couple with a happy marriage—so much so that the property shows it.  The work behind this garden represents their energy and devotion, shared time and passion, sweat and toil.  Maintaining a garden is a lot like maintaining a happy and healthy relationship.  It takes love, but it also requires weathering storms that come your way, and re-building when necessary. Relationships need a lot of hope, too, faith that your hard work will pay off.  A garden’s beauty is a direct sign of two people who choose to continue its growth.  Let this garden be the example for our bride and groom to combine passions, not necessarily in a patch of yard, but somewhere, somehow, and doing something that you both care about equally and fervently.  Enjoy each other and cultivate your life of happiness together. Thanks Dave and Mere for having us all here trampling your grass seed.

And while I’m mentioning David Ashby, today he breaks his decade-long vow that I would never again have access to a microphone on his property.  Some years back, I attended a concert here in which they allowed me to take the stage. My unique performance was…let’s just say, unforgettable.  Forgiveness is divine, Wise One, and I would like to thank you now properly with an a cappella rendition of some Harry Belafonte.  No?  Maybe later then?

I beg you all to indulge me as I introduce myself.  I’m the Good Reverend David DeChant.  I’m honored to have been asked to preside over this glorious event, and I want to tell you why.  I am Meredith’s brother, and as such, that makes me the groom’s uncle.  This privilege has given me access to the phenomenon known as Jim Ashby, or “JimA” as the kids with  their street slang call him.  I had only lived in Atlanta a couple of years before Jim arrived here.  I am the youngest of ten, so when Dave said his youngest son was moving to Atlanta and that he was even younger than me, I immediately assumed I would no longer be at the bottom of my lifelong pecking order.  I imagined if we ever had to wrestle, I could quickly pin him in a headlock, make him eat a little bit of dirt, and then call me “uncle.”

And although it was obvious that he was no match for my height, my superior strength or my good looks, I soon became conscious of the fact that Jim possesses a talent that no amount of whoop-ass can stifle. This talent has left me jealous more than I care to admit, and has become our only rivalry. I’m speaking of course about Jim’s unchallenged sense of humor. He has the ability to make people laugh at the most inappropriate times—the laughing-in-church syndrome where you can’t stop, and it has afflicted me many times. So maybe I didn’t gain in Jim a younger nephew I could push around or slap on the head, but I did gain a friend for life, and I am grateful.

This mastery of the craft of humor creates instant joy, and I can assure you Jim, it is a skill that you will use more than you can imagine in your marriage. My advice to you is –keep momma laughing and everything will be fine.

So the other reason I am here is because of Krissy.  It takes a special person to be the other half of the phenomenon known as Jim Ashby.  In true warrior fashion, Krissy has proven herself to withstand the force it must surely require to be in her shoes. She exemplifies intelligence, patience, and kindness. Krissy, “though the road ahead may contain many ‘ob-stackles,’” (as the blind man said in O Brother Where Art Thou), I have every confidence that you will rise to the challenge and conquer them all.  Your strength and beauty make you a perfect match to accept Jim’s hand in marriage and walk the Path of Life alongside him.

CEREMONY

Today, May 16^th, 2009, we celebrate the matrimony of James David Ashby and Kristin Lynn Aston.  We, all of us, are here to offer our support to this couple.  We hope their marriage today plants a seed of love and happiness that flourishes and vines together forever. This spectacular showing of friends and family is a testimony of that support, but even so I ask you all to do one more thing to express your love.  After all, most everyone here would crash any party that has bacon-wrapped scallops and free booze, so let us also offer a reinforcement of our support with group participation. Guests of this wedding, friends and family, neighbors and co-workers, whoever you are here today, if you support this union between this groom, Jim Ashby, and his bride, Kristin Aston, please say together “I do.”  (I DO)  And can I also please get an “Amen!?

Now, let us celebrate the union of Jim and Krissy. Marriage is the combining and melding of two people, but also two souls together forever. For this to happen, married couples must respect each other, trust each other, and have patience for each other. They must labor to make each other happy every day. They should pray together, dream and hope together, overcome challenges together, and  live their life as one entity.

From this point on, you Jim, and you Krissy, are responsible for each other. You two have to take care of each other.  You are partners until you pass this earth. And then, you are blessed by being paired in the heavens, where your two souls become forever one.

The following verse was written centuries ago by an unknown Indian author, and I think it defines the mindset that will lead to a successful and sacred marriage:

Although I conquer all the earth

Yet for me there is only one city

In that city there is for me only one house;

And in that house, one room only;

And in that room, a bed.

And one woman sleeps there,

The shining joy and jewel of all my kingdom.

Rings and Vows

The rings of a marriage symbolize with a circle the unity of two souls into one.  Imagine the rings as the adjustable top of a compass and Jim and Krissy as the points.  As they get further away from each other, they lean and hearken towards the other, but become straight when together.  The ring is the symbol of the distance traveled in that circle, and keeps the other foot from going anywhere that will not lead it back home.  As they are parted for their workday or traveling apart for whatever reason, this band suffers not a breach, but an expansion, as it is stretched to airy thinness.  These bands of the most malleable and precious of metals are now forever acting the top of that compass, ensuring a return.

Krissy, do you have a ring to offer Jim as a symbol of your love forever as his wife?  Take it please and place it on his finger, and say as you are doing so, “with this ring I thee wed — I cherish the path that we will be taking together – -for the rest of our lives and in the heavens.”

And Jim, do you have a ring to offer Krissy as a symbol of your love forever as her husband?  Take it please and place it on her finger, and say as you are doing so, “with this ring I thee wed — I cherish the path that we will be taking together – -for the rest of our lives and in the heavens.”

May these rings be a pledge of mutual esteem and affection and serve as a reminder of this afternoon, here in this garden temple.  I wish for your friendship to grow with this union, and that you flower together through a lifetime of happiness.  Kiss her.  Kiss him. Can I get an AMEN?

So by the power vested in me by the Universal Life Church and the County of DeKalb in Georgia, I now pronounce you husband and wife, Jim and Krissy Ashby.  Congratulations!

“Ladies and gentlemen, the wedding ceremony has ended. The newly-married couple would like to take about 20 or 30 minutes for picture taking, then will re-join their guests in the reception in the front lawn.

Dinner buffet will start around 5:30pm, so please until then, imbibe in beverage, imbibe in each others’ company, and imbibe in the special moment that we have just shared together.”

Jason Zyglis/ Michelle Southall Wedding  September 6, 2008

WELCOME

Welcome everyone and thank you for coming out today to celebrate the marriage of Jason and Michelle.  We–their friends, neighbors, and family–are here to support this supreme commitment they make to one another here in this beautiful place.  We offer our love and support of this union.  We want them to start their married life together surrounded by the ones who are dearest and most important to them.  So whether you walked across the street or traveled by plane to get here, you show your encouragement, your blessing, and your lifelong support for their decision to be married.  Jason and Michelle thank you.

And though many who helped define who Jason and Michelle are have passed from this world, we offer our remembrance.  I will mention some of them now so that we can include them in this most special of days.  Thank you Jean Zyglis, Jason’s step-mother, who taught Jason to take risks.  Thank you Richard Zyglis, Jason’s grandfather, who simply spoiled Jason like only a grandfather can.  Thank you Florence Fitscher, Jason’s step-grandmother, for teaching him that a grandmother’s love extends to all.  Thank you Leonard and Eileen Baumann, Michelle’s grandparents, who taught Michelle life is about laughter and happiness.  Thank you Peter and Trudy Southall, Michelle’s other grandparents who taught her that cultural differences are something to cherish and share with others.

INTRODUCTION

I’d like to introduce myself now.  I’m the Good Reverend David DeChant, a Cabbagetown resident and friend.  I’ve only known Michelle and Jason for five years now, but I hope to know them for the rest of my life.  A series of plagues that have swept through our village has helped to secure our bond.  We share our survival of tornadoes, mill fires, graffiti artists, graffiti vigilantes, herons—and one summer Jason and I even both broke out in a nasty bout of Esther Peachy LeFever.  I mention these terrible maladies because buried within Jason’s five page typed “suggested” outline of this wedding, there is a brief allowance of my own moment to introduce myself and provide a personal reason for being here (followed by a bold and underlined director’s note saying “remember:  entire ceremony 20-25 minutes”).  This was the wedding couple’s gracious hint to me not to aggrandize, as I have a tendency to do.

So, quickly, the reason I am here today begins in 1374 in Germany with a plague of this nature that ravaged Europe during the Middle Ages.  As everyone knows, Europe was wracked with measles, small pox, syphilis, St. Anthony’s fire, leprosy, lycanthrope, calentures, the famous Black Death, and many others.  The one I want to focus on didn’t fit the normal parameters of a plague.  It wasn’t just a disease, it has been referred to by scholars as The Dancing Mania of the Middle Ages. It has also been called St. Jude’s and St. Vitus’, tarantism, Carnevaletto delle Donne, Astaragaza, Tigretier, Convulsionnaires, and Jumpers, but whatever you call the Dancing Mania, it lasted for almost 400 years.  True, many of the sufferers exhibited clear signs of disease:  Catatonia followed by manic energy, drooling, gnashing teeth, syncope, erratic bouncing and leaping, wild delirium.  However, they didn’t call it The Dancing Mania for nothing—the one non-disease symptom was unstoppable dancing.  They formed circles hand in hand, and appearing to have lost all control over their senses, continued dancing, regardless of bystanders, for hours together, until at length they fell to the ground exhausted or dead.

Records show the numbers in these circles reached into the hundreds, sometimes more than a thousand revelers.  The Dancing Mania afflicted the pious and the heathen, the rich and the poor, the land owner and the peasant, the young and old.  Some dancers, as I said, danced themselves to death, some in their zealotry smashed themselves against rock walls and bled to death.  And yet, the phenomenon spread, and the numbers grew.  Peasants left their plows, mechanics their workshops, housewives their domestic duties, to join the wild revels, and rich commercial cities became the scene of the most ruinous disorder.  Children left their parents, and servants their masters, to amuse themselves at the dances of those possessed.

And, of course, possession was the most likely of culprits in those days.  Exorcisms were as common as flu shots today.  The clergy were at a loss.  Physicians were worthless.  Some of the dancers were swathed in cloth and bound by many men.  Blood letting was common.  Nothing worked.  In fact, many of the women while in for a penny, were in for a pound, and stripped themselves of their sweat-soaked clothes.  Imprisonment followed.

Perhaps it was the nudity, perhaps the Bacchanalia-like drinking and amorality, the music, but these dancing sessions drew crowds.  A malady of this kind was contagious to the susceptible, and many were infected as easily by the appearance as by the reality.  So gangs of idle vagabonds, who understood how to imitate to the life the gestures and convulsions of those “really” infected, roved from place to place seeking adventure, and thus, wherever they went, they felt like that town could use a little spasmodic dancing to liven up the melancholy of serfdom.  For this reason, it was hard for the exorcism to cleanse the populace, impossible for the physician to drain enough of the people’s blood, impossible for the righteous to preach away the evil.  In Italy, the bite of the tarantula was to blame, and the belief at the time was to simply dance out the poison.  Musicians were trained to play quick, lively bursts of music for hours and hours, thus giving rise to the tarantella dance still common to this day.  But the dancers outlasted the musicians, as they still do today.

Theologians and clergy were at a complete loss.  The problem eventually became merely contained, but not eradicated.  Certain weeks of the year became allotted to tolerate the behavior, or certain festivals were accepting of the frenzy.  Indeed, the St. Vitus Dance was so named because it was what the folks did to celebrate the venerated saint.  Today we have our Octoberfest, our Mardi Gras, our Carnival, our Chomps and Stomp.  What caused The Dancing Mania of the Middle Ages?  It is the same thing that causes mosh pits and Wickerman Fesivals.  It isn’t, as the churches believed, a possession of evil spirits, nor is it the venom of a deadly spider bite, nor anything other than a human need for joy and carousing, and yet it is more.  At play are the fields of psychology, religious ecstasy, mass behavior, and the primal need to freak out once in a while.  The plague is an irresistible force, as it always has been.

Ladies and gentlemen, friends and family of the bride and groom, I am here because of the various plagues that have swept through Cabbagetown in the decade I have lived there.  I mentioned some earlier, but gentrification would be another, of which I was arguably a part of.  I myself have been a plague on my own village, as have Jason and Michelle.  They moved to town and started stirring up the people.  It was assumed by many that they did not give in to the temptatons of the Dancing Mania.  As they began to settle in and join the tribe, it was assumed that perhaps they were of the group of poser vagabonds that just wanted to trigger a dance just for the spectacle, but the skeptics didn’t believe they suffered from any melancholy of serfdom, certainly.  After all, not participating in the Dance is like going to a concert of a band you don’t like.  If you don’t like Metallica, say, you can’t just go and head bang all night.  You simply cannot fake it for long.  I think I can tell the difference, and I was pleasantly surprised to witness the affliction in Jason and Michelle a few times.  Our Cabbagetown plagues are Christmas Crawls and Chili Cook-offs and Mingo retreats, and haunted houses and hula hoops.  We plowmen will abandon our crops at the drop of a hat, actually, and it is easy to tell the difference between someone who merely lives there and smells of a New England patina but suffers not from the delirium, and someone like Jason or Michelle who happily join the Dance too, like the rest of us tormented with the affliction.

It is my great honor for many reasons to have been invited by them to share this day, but I am here because by asking me, it proves they are not afraid of my particular contagion.  I look forward with great pride to my lifetime friendship with you both.

CEREMONY

Marriage is perhaps the greatest and most challenging adventure of all human relationships.  No ceremony can create your marriage; only individuals can do that—through love and patience, through dedication and perseverance, through talking and listening, helping and supporting and believing in each other, through tenderness and laughter, through learning to forgive, learning to appreciate your differences, and by learning to make the important things matter, and to let go of the rest.  What this ceremony can do is to witness and affirm the choice made by Jason and Michelle to stand together as life mates and partners.

Michelle gains strength today from her sister Samantha Southall(?), who has joined her up here as a witness.  Jason has chosen his best friend since 14 years of age, Aaron Barber, to do the same.  And we begin with a reading by their friend Clay Beers, in the spirit of the importance of strong friendships to a marriage, they have asked him to share with us their story.  CLAY BEERS READING

VOWS

Michelle, please turn to Jason and read the vows you have written for him.

Jason, please turn to Michelle and read the vows you have written for her.

Two people in love do not live in isolation.  Their love is a source of strength with which they nourish not only each other, but also the world around them.  And in turn, we, their community, their family, their friends, have a responsibility to this couple.  By our steadfast care, respect, and love, we can support their marriage and the new family they are creating today.  I ask those of us present today to surround Jason and Michelle with your love for them, to offer them the joys of your friendship, and to support them in their marriage.  If you can handle that, say “WE DO!”  Can I get an “AMEN?”

RINGS

The rings of a marriage symbolize with a circle the unity of two souls into one, and do more than seal the importance of their vows.  Imagine the rings as the adjustable top of a compass and Jason and Michelle as the points.  As they get further away from each other, they lean and hearken towards the other, but become straight when together.  The ring is the symbol of the distance traveled in that circle, and keeps the other foot from going anywhere that will not lead it back home.  As they are parted for their workday or traveling apart for whatever reason, this band suffers not a breach, but an expansion, as the gold is stretched to airy thinness.  These bands of the most malleable and precious of metals are now forever acting the top of that compass, ensuring a return.

Michelle, do you have a ring to offer Jason as a symbol of your love forever as his wife?  Take it please and place it on his finger, and say as you are doing so, “with this ring I thee wed.”

And Jason, do you have a ring to offer Michelle as a symbol of your love forever as her husband?  Take it please and place it on her finger, and say as you are doing so, “with this ring I thee wed.”

May these rings be a pledge of mutual esteem and affection and serve as a reminder of this afternoon.  I wish for the two of you to grow in your friendship, that you vine together through a lifetime of happiness, and that your home be an inviting and healthy place for your children and your friends forever.

By the power of your love and commitment, and the power vested in me in the state of Georgia, I now pronounce you husband and wife, Jason and Michelle Zyglis.  Kiss her.  Kiss him.

Rest in Peace Richard Rowland

I once contributed an article to this newsletter that begins to describe David and Richard:

There are geniuses amongst us named Richard and David.  If you don’t know who they are, you may have heard of their company, Wonderfalls, and probably have seen their vehicles with the company name on the sides.  The quality of their work is exceptional as well, but the remarkable thing about these two is their artistic auras.  These guys just drip with creativity.  Every inch of their house and yard is interesting and provocative.  I wish the city would establish their property a museum and give them grants to keep spreading their canvas as long as they are blessed with life.  Their natural creations in the form of parks and gardens, landscapes and oases, or pagodas and barns, all bear the distinction of a style unmatched in their field or any other.  I used to be in their line of work and they are monuments in the industry.

David’s last name is Thayer and Richard’s I don’t know, but if I had to guess, I would say it is Richard Smileypuss or Richard Butternubbins, or something else extraordinary.  These two guys define Cabbagetown, they put us on the map as far as I’m concerned.  They are the makings of an independent film just waiting to happen.  The alien world that birthed them must be made of zany Dr. Seussian inventions of creatures and structures that defy logic and physics, but have a surreal quality of familiarity.  Always go to any party they invite you to, even if for just a second.  Most especially, be humble in their greatness, for they have traveled long and hard, and have seen sights a thousand men haven’t seen.  We are not worthy, and I am grateful for them.  Stop by at your own risk and bring a bottle of something warm.

It is with the utmost regret that I now announce that Richard Rowland is no longer with us.  Cabbagetown, nor earth, will ever be the same again.  Our own King of Cool has left the building.

I know I’m not the definitive voice on Richard, but I can assure you the weight of his death upon us is visibly devastating.  I hear how everyone is so deeply affected, even if they didn’t “get” him.  Partly this is because no one ever met another person like him, so everyone remembers that moment.  My suburban friends still talk about “That Halloween at the freaky haunted house where the entertainment was body piercing.”  They say it with reverence, as if they survived a war.

People have had religious experiences on that property, and they don’t forget it as long as they live.  Richard Rowland was often the reason they had a religious experience there—one felt they had to go home and pray after standing around him for a while!  And I’ll tell you why.  Richard had achieved the extremely envious state of Enlightenment that most of us have only read about.  Richard lived in a state of being that chanting monks sometimes fail to reach.  My evidence for this is simple:  he absolutely didn’t care what anyone thought, and that made him the freest person ever.  Even the Dalai Lama cares what you think of him, or else he wouldn’t wear a robe, right?  Well, Richard sometimes didn’t even need a robe!

He was devout enough in his faith, following his own path with his choice of lifestyle, fashion, state of mind, speech, –his entirety–, that he absolutely did whatever he wanted all the time.  There was never a second of his day that he pretended to be something he wasn’t.  It was beneath him to create a character for someone else’s benefit, so he never did.  If the Pope or the President ever came to Richard’s place, they would have had the same experience as anyone else.  Richard Rowland’s legacy was that he didn’t care what your opinion of him was, so he didn’t have to sacrifice his integrity to provide you with a good one.

His aura was a tornado and it threw many people into a spinning, reeling state.  But those of us with the constitution for such storms uncovered in his larger-than-life personality a truly humble, truly human, facet that the weak overlooked.  Richard was beautiful and creative and funny.  Richard literally gave away the shirt off his back before.  He lived the most surreal and wonderful life and was full of tales of celebrities and cities and all things extraordinary.  He probably never had a normal minute, and neither did anybody in his company.

The emails that many felt compelled to write over the last weeks have a common theme:  “the first time I met Richard he was rude and obnoxious to me but I eventually fell in love with him.”  In fact, I bet it will hereafter be a claim to Cabbagetown fame to have once been insulted by the great Richard Rowland.  People will probably now argue over which of them was more chastised by him, or who saw what dangling out his Daisy Dukes more times.  I treasure my encounters–it has indeed been an honor.

It is said “Whom the gods love die young.”  So, he was taken from us because he was needed somewhere else.  Richard was just way too cool for planet earth.  What more could we offer a man with a soul as free as his?  What could regular humans possess that would appeal to a man with his spirit?  The gods wanted him back, and after all, he had reached Enlightenment.  Amen.

Goodbye Richard.  As I said before, I know you traveled long and hard, and saw a thousand sights I will not see.  I was not worthy, but thanks for the brief time we had together.

David and Richard’s vines of brotherhood grew and twisted together for 40 years. Their list of accomplishments is too long to even scratch the surface here.  The temple they created on Powell Street is a mere fraction of the work they have done in our city.  Their time has been spent beautifying our environment.  Thank you.  We could use more like you.

Dearest David, we mourn with you and are so sorry for you personally for your loss.  Hang in there and blossom again this Spring.  We will wait.  We understand.  Cabbagetown needs you.  Long live the King.

–Reverend Dave DeChant

BUT THAT WAS NINE MINUTES AGO

Koffer had high-tech live-stream videotape of extreme close-ups of the sun through filters and thermo-sensitive digital color enhancement, with a multi-fractional atomic clock in one corner racing in high speed to record the amoeba crawl of individual sunspots.  He explains to me we are witnessing the elements being created all the way up the Periodic Table where Hydrogen begats Helium begats them all the way up to Iron.

Host

Danny knew the difference between run-of-the-mill itchy butt and what he had now.  He felt as if maggots were squirming around on his butthole, not as if he just wasn’t fresh and perhaps needed to have a dry wipe.  Nor was this hemorrhoids, which he had had once years ago and would never forget. He knew he had no choice but to nip the problem in the bud and find out what was going on down there.  He knew the problem was dire when he woke himself up over the last two nights scratching himself.  He got out of bed immediately and changed his underwear and washed his hands.  He knew in his heart that the next stage of  relieving that miserable itch was to out-and-out spelunk.

He started on the internet, mostly to stall the inevitable “mouth of the cave exploration.”  He quickly ruled out maggots and tapeworms and skin ailments of all types.  One promising possibility, pinworms, seemed to fit all the criteria.  You can get them from dogs, which he had been near lately because he’d been considering a puppy and had visited a few breeders.  The website said that the queen pinworm leaves the bowels at night at lays tens of thousands of eggs on the human anus.  The eggs, if left undisturbed for a few hours, hatch, and all the pinworms go back inside the host, like baby turtles struggling across the moonlit sand to the safe cool waves.

The good news, according to the internet, is that the treatment was just one dose of a common medicine.  Danny shifted in his office chair.  If he didn’t have pinworms and he couldn’t make the itching stop, he would have to mutilate himself.  He felt that pain in that sensitive area would be better than itching.  He imagined the best tool for the job would be a sharp round metal file.  A cheese grater would be effective, Danny mused, but the flat panel of the traditional grater would probably not reach the critical spot.  He thought of poor Job of the Bible, scratching himself with bits of broken pottery, and wondered if he had any out back.

But there was still that matter of confirmation, and Danny steeled himself like a drunk over a toilet.  “Okay, okay, be a man.  Get it over with.  You want to know, don’t you?  Just do it. Just do it.”  He gulped his wine and grabbed his flashlight.  He remembered when he bought that flashlight because it was expensive–$60.–but he justified it because a trusty flashlight is a safety tool.  One shouldn’t skimp when it comes to an expense of safety, he always believed.  Plus it was one of those futuristic LED bulbs that never burn out and the weight of the thing reminded Danny of a gun, it felt powerful in his hand.  He nervously chuckles a bit thinking, “I bet the manufacturers never had this particular usage in mind.  I doubt this photographed would make it into one of their ads for a $60. flashlight.”  Then he added to himself, “God let there not ever be a record of any kind, let alone a photograph of this ever surface.”  He double-checked his apartment door lock, and closed the blinds even tighter.

Danny McCurty then cut the lights.   He is on his back, naked except for boxers loosely hanging from a foot.  His elbows locked behind the knees steer the concerned region wider and higher.  One hand holds a small shaving mirror flipped to it’s magnify side.  The other hand shakily grips a flashlight like a revolver.  Then he thinks the mother pinworm may be out and he can grip her in a tissue and stop tonight’s progeny, so he puts the mirror and the flashlight in the same hand to grab a Kleenex.

He waits for the itch to get bad.  The click of the flashlight sounds like an expensive click—it is crisp and loud like the snap of a finger.  The light fills the room, but he clicks the button again because it has two settings.  Immediately there is an update to Danny’s itching butt saga.  The predictions were true.  The world wide web had informed him ahead of time that his symptoms pointed to an obvious malady.  He had pinworms.

In fact, he had what seemed like millions of them.  They swam in a viscous jelly around his sun-never-shines.  Tinier than maggots, more snake-like than larvae-like, it looked like microscopic spaghetti noodles were wrestling to get away from the beam of light.  The mass was already noticeably smaller than when the flashlight first clicked, so Danny nabbed with his tissue with fear and hatred.  He squealed into the dark room, dropping the flashlight and mirror onto the bedspread.  Darting blindly into the bathroom, he smashed his right shoulder into the doorframe and dropped the wadded tissue from his hand.

He felt like a rape victim.  Something unwanted was inside him.  It made him nauseous and he fought back a very strong urge to throw up.  He groped behind himself and found the light switch.  He would be alright, he thought, but he pointed at himself in the mirror and spoke aloud to the bathroom, “You had to know.  Now you know.  What are you going to do?”

He showered and scrubbed his whole body, and thought to himself that this particular ritual was important for his soul.  The cleansing didn’t rid his body of these parasites, but he felt better from the heat and the scrubbing, and it gave him the strength to finish the job. His first reaction was to strike at his foe, so he chewed up two laxatives.  He knew the medicine was just a car ride away, but he couldn’t drive all the way to the 24 hour pharmacy far enough away from his neighborhood as drunk as he was.  He thought the Ex-Lax would remove a good deal of them, anyway, in the mean time.  He would quickly regret this action.

He pictured himself purchasing the pills, and the cashier giving the change back to him with the knowledge of Danny containing worms in his bowels showing in her eyes.  Maybe she would even hold the change above his hand and drop it to avoid contact with “the infested guy.”  She would tell her coworkers and they would rewind the surveillance tapes to get another look at “the infested guy.”  They would know.  He decided he would have to shoplift the medicine.http://www.mercenarygraphix.com/

The Year and a Half of The Dog

Across the pond lived the meanest child-hating dog of all time.  Because of that dog, the boys of Lee-Summit couldn’t circumnavigate the pond.  This made fishing and frog gigging extremely tiresome to go all the way back around—a half-mile loop—to patrol the water’s edge for fauna.  The property owners were not allowed to fence the water’s edge, but the dog made even the right-of-way impassable.  The dog was a German Shepard named Buddha, but sacrilegiously referred to as Hitler by the boys.  One boy, Keegan, said his dad didn’t want the boys to refer to the dog as Hitler because it was disrespectful to Buddhists and Germans alike, as well as offensive to the dog’s owner, whomever he was, and probably to many dog breeders to boot. The boys of Lee’s Summit continued with the nickname throughout Buddha’s life.

Buddha had lived outside all year long, unchained.  He never left the property, but he enforced it at its borders with snarling and barking.  The five boys gauged their chances daily by whether the dog was in his doghouse or not.  Several times they ran the 160 foot lawn to keep from going back around, and several times they didn’t make it before Hitler caught them.  Each of them had suffered the same wound enough times to know it wasn’t worth the risk again.  The wound was a quick bite on the butt.  It was never more vicious than that—almost as if the dog showed some mercy, but bled and bruised each of the suburbanites.

Sadly for Buddha and Buddha’s owner—whomever he was—that dog’s life ended December of that winter.  He died the night of the big freeze.

Schools were closed for a week and the boys tested the pond’s ice each day by cracking holes with stones and sticks.  When they couldn’t get through, they knew it was safe to shovel the snow off it and mark out their hockey rink.  It was then they discover Hitler’s demise.

The dog had never shown any signs that it couldn’t live in the cold.  It never whined or shivered.  The oldest boy, Monte, said this was because it was like a shark and had to move all the time killing so it could keep from sinking.  He was actually more sedate in the hundred degree days in the summer and the boys had taken advantage of his lethargy often.  In the winter though, especially with slippery snow, they would never dream of trying to outrun the beast.  With the lake frozen, they weren’t certain “Hitler wouldn’t invade over the border.”  They walked to the edge of the yard, carefully ten or so feet from the shore, and shoveled a line the full length of the dog’s domain.  Starting with Derek, the youngest at 13, each of the five boys urinated along the freshly exposed ice, using Buddha’s tactics to mark their own territory, which was all the frozen water.  They would give Hitler his Germany, but they would never surrender their “Hocklandia” to that Nazi canine.  Having peed, the boys of Lee’s Summit hooted and called out to the German Shepard to see if he would accept the terms of the boundaries.  He never came out.

There was only two snow shovels between the five, so three broke out individually and marked off the rectangle by shuffling their feet and turning frequently to see how far the others paced.  They took turns with the tools after the bounds were laid, twenty minute shifts strictly enforced by Billy, 14, and his stop watch he zealously guarded and obsessively used for each bus and car ride, each commercial, each class and break between bells even thought they were constant and mechanized.  There were eight inches of snow since the first night of the big freeze, and the enormous piles that began to border their hockey rink proved it was hard work.  Three-fourths of the task was completed when Eric, 15, started laughing.

“Someone’s bean bag froze in the ice!  Oh shit, guys–it’s Hitler.”  His tone was so full of fear that the other four turned towards the bank of the pond, expecting the dog to be charging.  It wasn’t until Eric then said, “Man, he’s dead,” that they suddenly realized Eric meant the dog was frozen in the pond, under the ice—actually through the ice.  His brown fur was snowy, but dry, and poking out over the green ice around it.  Buddha’s head and tail were underwater, only his articulated spine poked through.

The boys all gathered around and swept at the snow to see if they could figure out what happened.  It was easy to create a scenario.  The dog had walked on the ice for about thirty feet.  There was then discovered an abrupt ridge and an obvious frozen path that veered straight parallel to the shore for maybe twenty more feet.

“When Buddha knew he wasn’t going to make it back to the shore, he circled…look!” said Billy.  He pointed to where the wake of the swimming dog had frozen in perfect ovals.

“Maybe he was chasing a duck or something,”  Keegan  posited.  “Man, it must have been right at the wrong moment.  Another hour later and he might have eaten a duck.  Ten minutes sooner and he wouldn’t have gotten as far out and might have made it back.”  They solemnly pondered the events in silence for a minute.

At some point Derek started shoveling snow back over the dog and they all joined in with hands and feet to pile a suitable grave.  After staring back at the house and then to the lake, they imagined just how horrible and cold Buddha’s death had been.

Then they recalibrated the boundaries of their hockey rink to account for the frozen dog lump at one end.  After another hour where few words were exchanged, the rink was ready.  It had been laborious and then creepy and then sad, but the games started to immediately change the group mood back into a more adolescent song of laughter and accusation, and boisterous competition.  The end of Hitler was temporarily forgotten.http://www.mercenarygraphix.com/