Eternal Thanks [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Eight years ago today, 10-10, at 11:11am, Kerri and I were married. Our guests teased us that our reception started at 12:12. The food truck was delayed in showing up and arrived one minute late at 1:02.

The altar was awash in daisies. Susan made daisy cupcakes. The first day I met Kerri she was holding a daisy so that I might recognize her at the airport. Daisies have been our flower ever since. She carried a bouquet of daisies as she walked down the aisle to join me.

Kerri wrote and recorded a song for me that played when I entered the church. It was a blue jeans wedding, our guests wore white shirts so we could wear our beloved black.

So many of our friends and family made food, decorated the beach house for our reception, fetched wine and coffee, built the bonfire on the beach. Kerri’s choir circled us and sang We Are Family. I like to think of our wedding as a barn-raising. My sister and niece jumped in to organize the moving pieces. So many people showed up and pitched in. Judy played her magic harp. Jim played his guitar. The ukulele band sang What A Wonderful World. Kerri and I shared words from our Roadtrip. Arnie and 20 were at my side. Kirsten and Craig stood beside Kerri.

We skipped out of the church just as we skipped out of the airport on the day we met.

Each day, every single day, I am grateful for the second chance that life brought to me. I. Am. The. Luckiest. Man. Alive.

If for a moment you doubt that this universe is generous, all you need do is think of me. Think of us.

and now © 2015 kerri sherwood

read Kerri’s blogpost about OUR ANNIVERSARY

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Follow The Rules [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

“Do you remember when you used to stand up without sound effects?” she asked. We burst out laughing at the truth of her question. A gathering of friends comparing the aches and pains of simple movement.

Kerri and I have initiated a few new roadtrip travel rules. First, we stop before the sun goes down. The days of seventeen hour long-hauls are over. Diminished night-sight made that rule necessary. Next, we stop every few hours to stretch our legs. We’ve found that if we don’t stop, the only way out of the car is to roll off the seat and crawl to the curb. Social grace and the aesthetics of aging made the stop-every-few-hours-rule essential. People at rest areas get nervous when our car door opens and I fall groaning to the ground, crawl with my elbows around the car, reach up to open Kerri’s door, and pull her moaning to the pavement.

Let’s face it. It’s not pretty. It’s always a better idea to stop while there’s still some feeling in our legs.

read Kerri’s blogpost about LONG DRIVES

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Return To Adoration [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

The good news is that, eventually, late becomes early and my adorability is magically restored. Kind of like a reverse pumpkin in the Cinderella story. Or, perhaps a more accurate analogy, like a werewolf during the dark hours, I metamorphose back to a less-loud-adorable-man-shape with the sunrise.

Mostly, I am grateful that her memory is short and with the sunrise she seems to forget the werewolf-in-me. Either that or she’s imagining or dreaming the snoring (I’ve never heard it so I am understandably filled with doubt). What matters is I awake each morning from a restful sleep and look at her with adoring eyes. Come to think of it, that may be why my adorability is magically restored. Not magic, it’s an adoration loop!

There’s an explanation for everything!

read Kerri’s blogpost about ADORATION

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Love Both Ends of the Spectrum [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

Training manual for an artist’s life: there are times of plenty. There are times of pain. In the times of plenty it is impossible not to know there will be times of pain. In times of pain, it is impossible not to believe that there will be times of plenty. The tide rolls in. The tide rolls out (just as in every other life).

The results? There are two that accompany both times of plenty and times of pain. 1) The ever-present weird comparison. This meal = a week’s groceries. The weird comparison is probably why we love to cook at home. And we do. We love it. 2) The unassailable hope. It’s an exercise in focus-placement. It’s never really about the cost; it’s about focusing on the experience. We regularly split a burger and a glass of wine whether in times of pain or times of plenty. We regularly love every minute.

Pain and plenty are both worthy experiences on the full palette of life. We are capable of savoring a side salad. We laugh all the way home because the tip is often the most expensive portion of our bill (our daughter and my mother did serious time as wait-staff and we know the value of a great tip).

Loving both ends of the spectrum simply means that we are fully loving life. And we are. It’s not really about the food anyway.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SIDE SALADS

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Love Your World [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

It’s simple. Dogga wants to be where we are. He reads us like a book. He anticipates our every move and makes certain our passage is clear of marauders.

He does not split himself in confusion. He does not hold onto the past. He never worries about the future. He is all in, every moment. His happiness is sourced in our happiness. When we are on opposite sides of the house he places himself directly between us.

Last night, we watched him struggle to get up from the floor. We caught each other’s eyes, said nothing. I remembered the moment, years ago at farmer Don’s farm, that the little Aussie puppy ran to us and sat at our feet. He chose us. In that moment, we became his whole world and I do not exaggerate to write that he became ours, too. We chose him. Our whole world.

read Kerri’s blogpost about DOGGA

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Measure The Path [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

And isn’t the true wealth of life about the extraordinary people that walk the path with you? I am, every day, astonished by my good fortune, especially by this woman who chooses to walk this life with me. In this measure, I am unbelievably rich.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HOLDING ON

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smack-dab. © 2023 kerrianddavid.com

Ask A Rhetorical Question [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

Our stove is almost as old as I am. It was made at a time before planned obsolescence, before things were built to break down. I imagine the people that designed and built our stove had a sense of pride in their work. They built it to last. They were from another time, closer-in-spirit to craftsmen and craftswomen than cogs in a fast moving economic wheel. I imagine the pride they felt in their work was directly connected to the loyalty they felt toward their customer and also their employer who paid them a decent wage, union benefits, a pension.

Loyalty is always a two-way street. Pride is like that, too. A job well done is well done for others.

In our times it seems almost everything operates according to the rules of planned obsolescence. Everything is quickly outdated. Replaceable. Including the customer. Including the employee.

Kerri’s question is as sadly current as it is rhetorical: What about loyalty?

read Kerri’s blogpost about LOYALTY

smack-dab © 2023 kerrianddavid.com

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Come Home [on saturday morning smack-dab.]

It’s a big day. Kerri has lived in this house more than half of her life. I am approaching a decade in our home. In other words, I’ve lived in this house longer than I’ve lived anywhere in my adult life.

The first moment I stepped foot into this house I felt and saw in my mind the word, “Home.” It unnerved me a bit since, after several months of correspondence, Kerri and I had only just met in person. Also, I was a dedicated wanderer, the kind that is never lost, so I didn’t believe I would ever experience the feeling of “home”. It wasn’t in my cards.

Life changes fast. That first night we crawled out a second-floor window, sat on the roof and sipped wine. It was cold so we wrapped ourselves in blankets. I’d been waiting my entire life to find someone who wanted to crawl out the window with me. Home. My wife and our house. Inseparable stories woven together through time. I am unbelievably fortunate that her house has become our house and it loves us as much as we love it.

Home. I feel it. It was in my cards all along.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HOME

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Take Another Look [on Merely A Thought Monday]

I am surprised that our favorite go-to trail is the yellow route at Des Plaines. The first time we tried it, years ago, we were swarmed by mosquitoes from beginning to end. We ran-walked, swatting the air the entire way. Kerri stopped to take a photograph and I lost site of her in a mosquito cloud. It was a scene straight from an Alfred Hitchcock movie. We swore we’d never go back.

I have no memory of why we gave it a second try. How long was it after the first very-bad-no-good-mosquito-fest? I can’t remember. I only know that I’m grateful that we challenged our first impression and gave it a second chance. It has become our solace, our reset on a bad day. It is the place where we walk away our troubles and talk through our tribulations.

Over time we’ve learned it. We know its rhythms. We know when and where we are most likely to see deer. We know when the cranes will pass through. We know when the turtles will emerge. And, we now know when to avoid it. It has become a significant part of our story.

As we walked it yesterday, in the hour before the mosquitoes come out, I pondered how many opportunities and rich experiences I’ve missed because of a bad first impression. A useful mantra popped into my head from my days facilitating DEI workshops: have your first thought and work on your second. In other words, doubt what you think. First thoughts, first impressions, are often sandy soil.

A single experience is a very small test sample. Give the trail another hike. Go at dawn or dusk. What’s true in spring is different in fall. The same is true with people. I’m an introvert and generally make a lousy first impression. How fortunate am I that others decided to give me a second chance?

Of course, the fly in the ointment of this thought-train is mosquitoes. I have no need to give them another look!

read Kerri’s blogpost about MOSQUITOS

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Thank Dale [on Two Artists Tuesday]

Dale is back. And he has an attitude. The people in the neighborhood know better than to approach Dale. He wants to be left alone on his daily constitutional and will answer even the friendliest “Hello!” with a harsh retort. Gobble-gobble.

We saw the young couple before we saw Dale. They were frozen, mouths a-gaping. They were pushing a stroller and were caught between curiosity and caution. Spelled. You’d have thought they just spied a Leprechaun strutting down the street. We slowed the car, stopped, and followed their gaze. A turkey was in the hood. Dale was just outside our door. Strutting down the sidewalk. He warned us to mind our own business and crossed the street behind our car just to make his point.

Here’s the weird idea that flashed through my mind as Dale stomped across the street: he reminded me of Scrooge. Suddenly, my imagination was awash in the turkey version of The Christmas Carol. I was particularly taken by the possibilities of the ghosts! How might the turkey Jacob Marley appear to the Scrooge-like Dale? The Ghost of Christmas future? The options were hysterical and inspiring. I wanted to thank Dale for the idea but he was already strutting far down the opposite sidewalk. I wanted to tell Kerri but she’d had enough of me for one day. I kept my idea to myself.

The young couple were suddenly released from their spell and the husband looked at us, child-like, “Turkey!” he pointed and smiled.

“Yes,” Kerri replied in a sing-song affirmation, “We saw it, too.”

I wondered at the final scene in my Turkey Carol. Dale, after a night of ghost-visits, flings open his window to the morning light, unable to fully comprehend what he’d just experienced. He asks a small child on the street, “Boy! You there! What day is it?”

The boy, taken aback by the sudden question coming from a notoriously unfriendly bird, replies, “It’s Christmas, sir!”

Dale, newly made, throws his wings above his head and dances with relief.

read Kerri’s blogpost about DALE

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