terrypetersen

There’s no one thing that’s true. It’s all true. (Ernest Hemingway)

Jay and I arrive at the parking lot at John Bryan State Park—no bathroom within sight. I was sure there was at least an outhouse the last time we were here. We are on our way for a hike that will last several hours through the park and into Clifton Gorge State Preserve. We are walking for the exercise, but we are also escaping life’s pressures and enjoying the glory of God in nature; don’t want unnecessary internal distraction.

Then, my sister Claire calls. Church ended later than usual. She will meet us in a half hour. Ah, we have thirty minutes to find the required services.

It doesn’t turn out to be as easy as we thought it would be. We see a building off to the left on one road, and then notice another, “The Dayroom.” We wonder what that is, and decide to check it out. After all, a room open for the day should have indoor plumbing.

The parking lot is filled, but we find a place nearby and walk to this Dayroom. The building is surrounded by people in costume.

“Do you know if this building has a restroom?” Jay asks a man dressed as a Red Cross nurse. He has on a garish red and white dress, complete with padded chest. Yet his mannerisms are masculine. He has a thick salt-and-pepper beard and ready smile.

He drops his cigarette to his side. “Sure. There is a wedding going on inside. I’m the father of the bride.”

A young boy, perhaps eight or nine years old, in a black cape, directs us to the sides of the building we want.

Inside is a small kitchen where someone is busily preparing meat, perhaps turkey or chicken. The smell is enticing. However, I have no plans to crash a wedding, only borrow one moment in a restroom stall. The main room remains Halloween dark. I see the bride in a gown that looks more packed-in-a-box ready than forever-in-debt Nordstrom.

The room is rich with laughter and music. No one stops me.

When Jay and I leave the building, father-of the-bride is still outside greeting guests and laughing about what a picture of himself he is giving his nephews. He shows us his fingernails, painted a bright red.

I laugh too. Later we discover the outhouse I remembered is on the trail, out of view of the parking lot. Doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t have had the same story to tell if we had found it.

When Jay and I married, we had the tux-and-fancy-gown-style wedding. In a church. Traditional all the way.  That didn’t affect much of life after “I do.” That’s the part that really matters, the part that can’t be predicted. We’ve had some wonderful times; we’ve seen tragedies. No one day is truer than another.

However, I know that it helps to laugh, whenever possible. Like physical exercise it keeps the only-human muscles going.

Here’s to real life! Blessings upon all.