I'm Just Being Frank

It’s true that I probably spend more time with plants than I do with people, but lest you mock me for it consider this: I have yet to encounter a judgmental mountain laurel or passive aggressive Japanese boxwood. The peace lily in the pot by the living room window doesn’t suggest that it might be past time for me to get my back waxed when I’m walking around the house shirtless and the philodendron on the kitchen windowsill doesn’t question my life choices and if I’m really going to eat an entire sleeve of thin mint Girl Scout cookies by myself in one sitting. No, I don’t talk to my plants (I don’t want to bore them to death) and I don’t give them names, yet many of them have a subtle impact on my daily life in ways that you might not imagine.

I come by my green thumb naturally; both my mother and father were inveterate gardeners. So many of the plants in my yard got their start from the home that I grew up in in Corpus Christi. The sago palm that’s preparing to put on a new set of fronds right now is a “pup” from the one that I bought with my father over 50 years ago at Currie Seed Co. The mountain laurel next to my driveway was raised from a bright red seed that came from one that itself was planted from a seed that my father found somewhere. The asparagus fern that fills up an entire corner of my yard came from a forgotten corner at 521 Catalina. And the Mexican petunia that I’m constantly pulling up and throwing away came from there as well. I’m not sure whether to thank them for that last one or not.

I also have plants that have been given to me by friends and acquaintances over the years that remind me of them on a daily basis. The Chinese evergreen in the brass planter on the cocktail table in my living room is a descendant of one that was sent after my father passed away in 1982 by Ann Thames and the folks who I worked with at Dobie dormitory.

The angel wing begonia pictured below came from a cutting that Lesley Woods gave me 30 years ago after admiring the one she had on her patio. Here several years ago I forgot to bring it in before a hard freeze and it died back completely. I thought it was a goner and as I prepared to dump the pot in the Spring to make way for a new plant I noticed the tiniest of leaves emerging from the soil.

I have several pots of Rhapis Palms all of which came from one of my mother’s most prized plants. It was given to her by her dearest friend Ann, Margaret Ann Major Cleaves’ mother and David Cleaves’ and Kim Cleves Huett’s grandmother. It was delivered by the Blossom Shop one afternoon with a card that read, “Just Because. Love, Ann”. That perfectly encapsulated what a truly lovely person she was and I think about her and “just because” often when I view those palms from my kitchen window.

I have an impressive stand of aspidistra (cast iron plant) running the length of the back fence that was courtesy of Mark Krenek though he probably doesn’t know it. It was Rusty Barfield who harvested the original plants from the quaint little house in Old West Austin that Mark was living in at the time.

I have snow bells come up every Winter that are the first harbingers of Spring that Cheryl Wilson gave me (for some reason I feel compelled to send her a picture when they start blooming.)

I have old school flag irises that I dug up out of my aunt’s yard in San Antonio after she passed away in 1993 and I have a pot of English ivy growing at the base of the fountain on my patio that Dona Wheeler Roman bought to brighten up her mother’s hospital room and that she gave to me upon her passing a few days later.

For something that can’t speak, all these plants have a story to tell. So to all of you who I’ve shared plants with, I hope they’ve brought a little bit of enjoyment and beauty to your lives. And if they remind you of me that’s great too. Unless I owe you money.

I was told that I was not welcome at my own estate sale, but that I could come by yesterday for Hookers & Heroin Day. I was expecting to see women in high heels and fishnet stockings and strung out drug addicts pawing through the merchandise. When I mentioned this to the woman who was running the sale she explained to me that Sunday is referred to as H&H day because everything is marked down 50% and you can’t resist having to have it. I was sitting on the bench (which was not for sale or I’m sure it would have been long gone) by the front door watching folks come and go. It was an odd feeling to see people leaving with things that once belonged to you.

I struck up a conversation with a gentleman who was waiting for his wife to complete her purchase. He told me that they were visiting from Corpus Christi and I told him I was the homeowner (or former homeowner I suppose) and that I was born and raised in Corpus Christi. About that time his wife walked out carrying the sconce that had hung in the dining room of my childhood home. I grinned and told them that it was purchased in the early 50’s in Corpus Christi from a long defunct furniture store called The Showroom of Finer Furniture on Upper Broadway. I said that when my mother redecorated in the mid 70’s she decided she didn’t want it and gave it to me. Now, 60+ years later it was going “back home.” The couple was delighted by the backstory and it gave me a little bit of closure to know that something from my earliest memories was going to a new home where it would be appreciated anew.

I’m not sure I can say the same thing about the pillows that I saw the hooker carrying out, but not every story can have a happy ending (see what I did there?)

This morning on my way to work the gates at the railroad tracks on Oltorf Blvd. dropped just as I was pulling up to them. I no doubt groaned as I came to a stop, but my mood lightened considerably when I saw that it was the Amtrak Texas Eagle passenger train. It is a short train after all.

Having a front row seat as it sped by I imagined the passengers in the dining car enjoying a leisurely breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon on fine china with white table cloths and attentive servers in smart uniforms making sure that everyone’s coffee cup is topped off.  

Here’s something I wrote in 2012 that I shared with some of you at the time. It’s not really a story about driving newlyweds because I didn’t actually drive anyone. We were also the caterer, sort of.  There was an officiant, but she didn’t officiate anything.

Fair warning, this is not a feel good story, but then the human condition isn’t all beer and skittles.  If you’re not up to speed on your antidepressant regimen you might want to pop on over to Buzzfeed and watch cat videos instead.

************

Saturday mornings in June can be depended on for two things; one, that there is a likelihood that a well-dressed Jehovah’s witness will knock on your door and two, if you’re a caterer that you will have a wedding that day. There were no knocks on my door last Saturday morning, but I did have a wedding that evening to get ready for. As I drank my coffee I thought about how my day was going to unfold and prepared accordingly. I ate breakfast, took a shower (so I can sweat like a horse for the next 12 hours) and donned my work t-shirt with “We’re here for the party!” emblazoned across the back of it. I checked to make sure I had packed everything I thought I would need. Energy bar, check. Advil, check. Black pants, white long sleeved shirt, black necktie, check.  The couple getting married had also contracted to use Swoopy, my ’62 T-bird convertible, as their get away car so yet another list was gone over. Tire pressure, check. iPod with “Swingers” soundtrack downloaded (Dean Martin’s “You’re Nobody ’til Somebody Loves You” is the opening track; take THAT, Etta James), check. No A/C, check unfortunately.

In the five years I’ve been doing this I’ve probably helped plan and manage 50 to 60 weddings. And while I don’t remember the particulars of every single one, there are bits and pieces of each that stay with me. The memory of this past Saturday will no doubt stay with me for some time because, well, there wasn’t a wedding. En route to the kitchen I got a call from our office manager saying that it had been cancelled. That call set off a chain of events that sent all of us involved on a roller coaster ride that we really weren’t prepared for.

As told to us, the night before the wedding party went out after the rehearsal dinner to take in the Austin night life. While at a bar on Dirty 6th Street, the groom’s brother (and best man) got into a heated verbal exchange with a stranger that turned physical resulting in the brother having his head thrown against the sidewalk and cracking his skull open like a ripe watermelon. That one punch changed the course of so many peoples lives; some for the next 24 hours, some perhaps forever.

We received a call on Saturday morning and were told that the groom’s brother was having major brain surgery. Not to be glib, but is there really any other kind of brain surgery other than major? I didn’t speak directly with the two main points of contact, namely the groom and the the bride’s sister, so all of my information was secondhand. I don’t begrudge anybody having to make gut-wrenching decisions under such circumstances, much less changing their mind. At first the wedding was cancelled. Then they thought they might postpone it until the next day. Then they thought they might just have the ceremony and offer dinner to those guests who wanted to stay. Regardless of what form, if any, the event took on there would be no alcohol served. This cycle of uncertainty went on for about an hour before the decision was made by the catering manager to proceed as though we were going to cater a wedding that evening. It was now 1:00 PM. The ceremony was slated for 5:00 PM. Hotel pans with stuffed chicken breasts were carefully placed into cambros. Extra iced tea was brewed and poured into 5 gallon buckets. The van was loaded with all of our equipment and we were off.

When we arrived at the venue at 2:30 there was no one there. As our staff began to show up I explained to each of them the circumstances and that we didn’t really know what to expect. Our mantra is “Enlightened Hospitality” and I told them that their enlightened hospitality needed to be turned up to 11 that day. The vendors began to arrive; the florist, the photographer, the band; all were told what had happened and to proceed as though the wedding was going to take place. Keep in mind also that all the vendors including us had been paid. Crass though it might be to say at a time when people are struggling with difficult decisions, money does play a role.

We got to work getting everything set up. The plan was for 100 guests with plated dinner service, We set up a bar with every non-acloholic beverage we could lay our hands on at the kitchen before we left. In the main hall servers were folding napkins and setting out water goblets and flatware. A beverage station near the entrance with lavender lemonade and water with mint and cucumber in glass dispensers was readied to cool guests off as they arrived. The chefs got to work making hors d’oeuvres, preparing salads and finishing off the main course. A coffee station was set up. The wedding cake arrived and colorful vintage dessert plates that the bride had rented were set out. Flowers and candles were put on the guest tables. And then we waited.

At around 3:30 the parents of the bride, who were lovely people, arrived along with four bridesmaids and two fellows who were to be ushers. And that was it. They were the only ones who showed up. No bride. No groom. No guests. Not a single one. Heart breaking doesn’t begin to describe it. The photographer took a few awkward pictures. The band, thankfully, did not play. We then proceeded to serve dinner to 8 people at a table in a room set for 100 guests. It was a bit surreal. After dinner the bride’s parents and the bridesmaids got up from the table and began to pack up the decorations. They asked us if we would slice up the untouched wedding cake and box it up for them to take with them. We helped them load their vehicles. They tipped us. We went though the usual process of breaking down the bar, cleaning the kitchen, stacking rental items for pick up and loading our van for the trip back to the kitchen. We were done by 7:00 PM. Some of the staff had only worked an hour.

I’ve not heard any follow up since Saturday evening. So. Many. Questions. But regardless of the answers, all I can think about is how the lives of the bride and the groom, as well as those of their families, changed in an instant the night before.  (I did find out a couple of months later that the couple got married in a civil ceremony and that the brother recovered though I don’t know to what to extent.  All I could think of was that that was going to be one tense first family Thanksgiving).

And the icing on this sad not-wedding cake?  When I was ready to leave I got into Swoopy, turned the key, and a sound that could only be described as that made by a box of hammers being dropped from a second floor window came from under the hood and rendered the car undriveable (turns out it was a broken engine mount). Even though I had already been paid, I decided it was the universe’s way of telling me that I needed to tear that check up. Good “carma” so to speak.