In the midst of the hustle and bustle, the dish inventories, the pinata-making, and, yes, the lingering illness, I have to remind myself to take the time to enjoy the view.
We're holed up for the next ten days (!) at my parents' place, which also happens to be the venue for our wedding. Unlike plenty of other soon-to-be-weds who barely have a chance to see their rented venues before the big day comes around, we've had plenty of opportunity to walk the property, noting the changes in elevation and enjoying the way the light moves as the day passes.
The house is old, a much-renovated farmhouse that's drifted in and out of my family for the past hundred years or so. It's the house my grandfather was born in, and when I pointed out for him the osage orange tree we were planning to have our ceremony under, he was quick to note the site's proximity to that of the (long-ago demolished) outhouse.
Outhouse aside, it's still a great old tree, the osage orange. If you squint a little bit, you can see the iron wagon wheel that's grown into the crook of the tree. It's about twelve feet off the ground now, and I like to imagine that day however long ago that someone first thought it would be a good idea to lean the wheel there against the base of the tree.
There are plenty of other trees, too, and clearings bordered by green cornfields and wheat that is just starting to turn gold. When the wind isn't rustling in the leaves, you can hear the neighbor's cows bellowing from down the road.
We probably couldn't have gotten farther from the street noise and pigeons of our little apartment in Seattle if we'd tried. Still, this is the place where I spent the first eighteen years of my life, and it still feels a little bit like home. Hopefully, for my man and his visiting family--who weren't lucky enough to be born in the wilds of the Midwest--it will all just feel like a pleasant pastoral vacation...