When our friends Leryann and William got engaged back at Christmas, they’d planned to have a beach wedding in Puerto Rico. But then covid happened, and they had to pivot: this time to a stateside wedding. This past Sunday morning, they married … in our backyard!

The wedding was a delightful mix of homemade and traditional, formal and relaxed.

Leryann’s parents, Chiro and Lery, were able to come from Puerto Rico, and a few, local friends rounded out the small gathering.

Ellie was the flower pony. My older son’s friend took photos. My older son filmed the wedding, which was live-streamed to all their friends and family in Puerto Rico: this took a bit of technology gymnastics, especially when it came time for the toasts and blessings and we had to jump back and forth between listening and speaking, but it all worked out. My niece made the waffles for the brunch, and my younger daughter’s friend was in charge of serving the food. And I officiated.

Back in the spring they were remaking their wedding plans — and struggling with the strain of dashed dreams and the stress of planning a wedding far from home in the midst of a pandemic — we’d offered our place for the wedding and then I added, “And I could probably marry you, if you want.” A friend of mine had gotten a one-time license to officiate a wedding awhile back, so why not me? They’d jumped at the idea.

A quick online search revealed that in order to be a one-time civil celebrant all I needed to do was fill out a basic form (name, address, intended date of wedding), provide a copy of my driver’s license, and write a check for 61 dollars. There was a trip to the courthouse to drop off the paperwork, and then a second trip to pick up the official documents and take the oath, and that was it.

I had no idea marrying someone was so easy! And so much fun!!

William and Leryann planned and organized the whole wedding themselves, from choosing the menu for the waffle bar brunch and buying all the ingredients, to bringing the blankets for people to sit on, to making all the signs and decorations, to writing the wedding ceremony.

Leryann was able to include the moments that were so important to her: her father gave her away, they had their first dance on the clubhouse porch, the wedding godparents were able to give the first toast over Zoom, and her mother sang a song.

And there were other moments, unplanned ones, that made the wedding feel all the more relaxed and fun-loving. My younger son had to run inside to fetch the forgotten jars of sand mid-ceremony. I dismissed Ellie as planned (we were worried she’d cause a distraction by rearing or pooping) and then immediately changed my mind because she was being so good. People waited patiently while we worked out the technology glitches, reminded me when I forgot to pause so the servers could hand out the flutes pre-toast, ran over to silence the dogs when they barked, and laughed when the flower “girl” nibbled the back of my dress.

A backyard wedding might not have been their original plan, but Leryann and William handled the challenges with tenacity and grace, turning it into the sweetest, most joyful little wedding you ever did see.

Congratulations, you two. We love you!!!

All photos, except the one of people milling about and the last, were taken by Theo Yoder. 

This same time, years previous: three shining dragon eggs, Sunday, putting up walls, four weeks down, three to go, in which a pit bull bites my butt, zucchini fritters, the quotidian (7.14.14), Saturday nights.

Last week three of my kids and I went to a local, youth-led Black Lives Matter protest. Driving down the small town’s mainstreet, we were greeted with a disturbing sight: armed men, their semi-automatic rifles slung over their shoulders or cradled in their arms, clustered together in parking lots and lining the streets.

As the line of cars crept towards the park where the protest was to be held, my kids stared, horrified.

“Is this even legal?” my younger daughter asked.

I wasn’t entirely surprised. Another student protest, held a few weeks before and at the opposite end of the county, had been greeted with a similar show of force. The day after that protest when I’d seen the photos on social media of the masked men — members of actual organized militias, I learned — some of them lining the perimeter of the gathering and others lurking in the treeline, I’d felt physically ill.  

Still, I’d kind of hoped that sort of craziness was specific to just the other side of the county, not my side.

I was wrong.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been debating whether or not to put a Black Lives Matter sign in our yard.

I’m not a sign person — or rather, my husband’s not. He finds signs — in yards, on bumpers, printed on clothing — too in-your-face aggressive. Why the need to announce everything you think and believe? he asks. And my mediator friend says that yard signs heighten differences, pitting people against each other.

They both have a point. At a time when the political divide in our country is getting dangerously deep — in our rural county, Trump signs are around every corner, dangling from fences and flag poles, affixed to swimming pools and porch railings — is it pointless, or worse, counterproductive, to take a stand here?

On the other hand, maybe it’s all the more necessary?

At a seminar on bullying a few years back, I learned that it’s most productive to align yourself with the person being attacked, ignoring the bully entirely. This doesn’t mean that the bully is never held accountable; rather, in the heat of the moment it draws focus from the one inflicting harm to the one who is most vulnerable, providing that person the necessary support and connection.

Perhaps we need to quit tiptoeing around those who are clinging, white-knuckled, to biggoted ideology and instead focus squarely on this fact: Racism is so prevalent in our culture that when Black children (at the first protest, some of them even wore bullet-proof vests because of death threats) organize a peaceful protest against systemic racial oppression, white men run for their guns. 

I knew full well that whether or not I put a sign in my yard was inconsequential — a sign wouldn’t make me more anti-racist, and it probably wasn’t going to change anyone’s mind. The issue is endlessly complex — there is no right answer — so round and round I went, unable to let it go because, at its core, my little sign conundrum stood for a much deeper question: For a white woman in a politically conservative, rural Virginian community, what did it look like to try to be anti-racist?

A couple months back when I learned about our town’s silent march for Black Lives Matter, I wasn’t sure I should attend. Would it be safe? What did Black Lives Matter really mean? I didn’t have any close personal connections to Blacks, so was it even my place to participate? Would I show myself for what I am: a bumbling, awkward white woman?

Finally I decided I’d go. To learn, I told myself. If I felt uncomfortable, oh well — new things often were.

At the march, I was relieved to see lots of people I knew (if they were there, then maybe it was okay that I was, too?) and the whole march unfolded easily, peacefully. I was glad I’d come. I could do this.

But then at the closing gathering, the speaker asked everyone to show their support of Black lives by raising their right fist, and I panicked. I don’t wave my hands in the air at church. I don’t dance. I don’t put my hand over my heart for the pledge of allegiance (and I don’t recite it either). Self-contained, respectful standing is the extent of my physical symbolic gesturing, and now I was supposed to raise a clenched fist into the air?

Not wanting to stand out, I put my fist up. And then I stood there, inwardly cringing and trying to make sense of what I was doing.

“If putting my hand in the air is what they need,” I told myself, “then I need to get over myself and follow their lead.”

It still felt weird, though.

At last week’s protest, when we were kneeling in silence for nearly nine minutes, the same amount of time the then-police officer knelt on George Floyd’s neck, one of the counterprotesters standing on the road at the back of the park started yelling, “Don’t steal for criminals!”

Don’t steal? I thought. But we weren’t stealing anything.

And then I realized, Oh, not steal, kneel. Don’t kneel for criminals.

As his angry shouts continued, his voice cracking under the strain, I noticed people one by one silently — proudly, calmly, courageously — raising their fists.

This time, I didn’t hesitate.

Just two rallys in, and suddenly I was a person who does these things: I am here; my body is here.

It feels so good to finally be moving.

The other day, my brother sent out an email to our family group. “I’m placing an order for BLM signs. Let me know if you want one.” And my older son immediately responded, “Yeah! Thanks. Get one for me!”

That day at lunch we all took turns going around the table, each person sharing their opinion about putting up the sign. It didn’t take long to reach a consensus, and after lunch my son stuck the sign in our yard.

It felt right to have the sign up, but I was still conflicted. A sign didn’t solve anything. Was I doing more harm than good? Was it my place to speak up?

And then the next day when I was up in my room working on this post and the rest of the family was outside doing yardwork, a pick-up drove by and a male voice bellowed “White lives matter!” and all my doubts vanished.

Clearly, it’s high time I speak up.

P.S. We’re already on our second sign: last night someone climbed our fence, came into our yard, and took the first one.

This same time, years previous: all things Thursday, the quotidian (7.9.19), the quotidian (7.10.17), one weekend only, let’s talk, what my refrigerator told me, soft and chewy breadsticks.

Normally I toss the Costco membership magazine in the trash with barely a second glance, but this time, bored and looking for something bright and shiny to entertain me, I idly flipped through the glossy pages, slowing to study the ones that had food photos. Which is how I discovered this recipe for mushroom burgers with cheese.

Since some of my family members adamantly despise mushrooms, I wouldn’t normally pay this sort of recipe any attention, but it just so happened that I had a half of a costco-sized box of mushrooms in the fridge from the other evening when we’d had friends over for supper and I, excited at the prospect of catering to more sophisticated palates, had grilled up a bunch of mushrooms with the other veggies.

I made four regular burgers to appease the mushroom haters and a batch of the mushroom burgers. This way, no one could be mad at me for springing a new recipe on them (my older son agreed ahead of time to eat a mushroom burger), yet I knew there was a good chance that, still hungry, a few of them might venture to try something new.

The burgers were fantastic. The added mushrooms gave them heft (read: made them enormous!), yet at the same time, they felt incredibly light and tender. My older son thoroughly enjoyed his mushroom burger, and my husband and younger son each had a half and declared them tasty(!). Maybe there’s hope for them yet?

(A day or so later, I had a leftover half burger, this time in a warmed flour tortilla and topped with curtido. So good!)

Mushroom Burgers with Cheese 
Adapted from Jennifer Pallian’s recipe in the July 2020 issue of the Costco Connection.

The original recipe calls for topping the burger with Swiss cheese. Not having any, I used a mixture of sharp cheddar, Muenster, and fresh mozzarella.

8 ounces white button mushrooms, rough chopped
1 small onion, rough chopped
2-3 tablespoons bacon grease (or canola or olive oil)
1 teaspoon salt, maybe a little more
1 pound ground beef
black pepper
2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce
sliced cheese: Swiss, Muenster, Colby, Blue (!), etc.
4 buns, split, buttered, and toasted/grilled
mayonnaise (and ketchup and mustard, if that’s your thing)
leafy greens and bacon, optional

Put the mushrooms and onion in a food processor and pulse until finely chopped (but stop before it turns into a paste). Melt the bacon grease in a skillet and add the mushrooms, onions, and a couple shakes of salt. Cook until the moisture has evaporated and the veggies are starting to brown, 7-10 minutes. Remove from the heat.

In a mixing bowl, combine the ground beef, mushroom and onions, worcestershire sauce, teaspoon of salt, and black pepper. Shape into four, gloriously fat patties.

Grill on one side for about 4 minutes before flipping, topping with lots of cheese, and grilling another 3-4 minutes.

Spread the toasted buns, both top and bottom, with mayonnaise. Add a burger (and lettuce and bacon, if desired). Devour.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (7.8.19), fresh strawberry cake, three things about writing, the puppy post, the quotidian (7.8.13), the quotidian (7.9.12), grilled flatbread.