Coffeehouse Chronicles... and A Wedding, a Stuntman, and Seasonal Croc Regulations
Updated: 6 minutes ago
Good morning, Chroniclers. Got yer cup? Let's go!
Well, Monday was Labor Day. The unofficial end of summer. That means no more white, you fashionless cretins.
The Cmdr was trying to determine whether Sunday was the last legal day for his white Crocs or whether he had until midnight Monday. Would somebody please consult the Google Oracle and settle this matter before he files an appeal?
Last week was a pretty eventful one around the coffeehouse.
We gained a new associate.
The HB Jr. got married on Sunday.
Yep. She's officially hitched.
And we're all pretty excited.
Now, because her new husband is in "the industry," we had to sparkle things up a bit.
That's how he always says it.
"The industry."
As though everybody just automatically knows what that means.
I finally had to ask.
What industry?
Steel?
Mining?
Coffee roasting?
Sausage manufacturing?
What are we talking about here?
Turns out Richie's a Hollywood stuntman.
Oh.
That industry.
Now I understand.
He's worked on a lot of productions you've probably heard of, but when I found out he'd worked on Black Panther, I figured maybe marrying into the family wasn't the most dangerous thing he'd ever done.
The wedding itself was beautiful, but let me tell you something about weddings.
Nobody just "goes" to a wedding.
A wedding is a military operation disguised as a celebration.
For months, the HB and I weren't really involved.
Then came the final week.
That's when the HB Jr. reached the point every bride eventually reaches, where she realizes she cannot simultaneously coordinate decorations, flowers, schedules, vendors, family members, seating charts, weather forecasts, transportation logistics, and the emotional stability of fifty relatives.
At that point, she cried, “Uncle.” Well, to be honest, it was her aunt whom she called upon.
Enter the HB.
Enter Mrs. Scrubbles (“Aunt,” not “Uncle”).
Enter chaos.
Suddenly everybody was mobilized.
Mrs. Scrubbles was responsible for decorating the broom that the happy couple would jump over, along with flower arrangements, boutonnieres, and approximately four hundred seventy-three other things nobody knows exist until a wedding planner says, "Who's handling this?"
Meanwhile, Wedding Day plans changed every fifteen minutes because of:
Puppy Boarding
Babysitting
Carpooling
Bakery goods
Tailoring
Dry cleaning
The list reproduced faster than rabbits and seemed to breed with other lists.
Eventually, on gameday, the HB and Mrs. Scrubbles headed to the venue while the Cmdr and I prepared for deployment.
That was when another crisis emerged.
The Cmdr was still trying to determine whether white Crocs were acceptable wedding attire.
I reminded him that the wedding colors were lavender and pink.
White clogs would not do.
He stood silently.
Tapped his chin.
Disappeared upstairs.
A few minutes later, he returned looking entirely too pleased with himself.
On his feet were lavender Crocs.
The Cmdr looked like Prince if Prince had worked at a bait shop, with an expression on his face that said he’d solved world peace.
I had to admit, it worked.
The Cmdr & I made it to the venue on time.
Then it rained. Apparently, rain on your wedding day is good luck.
I don't know if that's true, but I do know the wedding was beautiful and the happy couple looked wonderful.
As I stood present, witnessing my girl tie the knot, my mind drifted through the decades leading up to this milestone. Honestly, looking back, the signs were there early.
As it turned out, she grew into somebody strong, intelligent, fiercely competitive, kind, athletic, stubborn when necessary, and absolutely capable of taking over a room.
Honestly, the signs were there early.
Fortunately, she found softball.
Unfortunately, nobody warned us that Walnut softball appeared to be preparing children for the Olympics.
We showed up expecting fundamentals.
Instead, we found coaches dressed like Division I recruiters and pitching machines that could launch a baseball into low Earth orbit.
The first ball came out at approximately Mach 3.
The HB, Jr. looked at us. We looked at the HB, Jr. Everybody involved immediately reconsidered their commitment to softball.
Later, the HB, Jr. became an incredible slap hitter.
She'd bunt the ball so perfectly that the defense would panic, the catcher would lose track of it, and the HB, Jr. would be halfway to second before anybody knew what happened.
I still remember hearing opposing coaches yell:
"JUST HOLD THE BALL!"
You know you're doing something right when the opposing strategy becomes desperation.
Then there was the gymnastics phase.
Or as it's known in family history:
The Fertilizer Incident.
I had recently fertilized the lawn.
Generously.
The HB, Jr. announced to JCC (Junior Crime Crusher) & me that she was about to perform some complicated tumbling maneuver involving numbers, fractions, and probably international judges.
She launched.
Flipped.
Rotated.
Achieved temporary flight.
And landed face-first in the most heavily fertilized section of the lawn.
She didn't just fall in the fertilizer.
She entered into a long-term relationship with it.
By the time she stood up, she had fertilizer in places fertilizer should never be.
A nearby earthworm took one look at her and said, "That's too much fertilizer," and moved away.
Like any loving father, I immediately made sure she was okay.
Then I waited until she got the fertilizer out of her eyes, nose, mouth, and at least one ear before laughing.
JCC, who was only 7 at the time, showed no such restraint.
Then she became a mother. An amazing one. She raised four kids who all seem determined to make the rest of us look lazy. At some point, the HB Jr. stopped raising children and started manufacturing overachievers.
Then Richie came along.
From the moment I met him, I knew there was something special about him.
He loves her, supports her, makes her laugh, and perhaps most impressively, voluntarily joined a family that includes softball stories, fertilizer incidents, and a Cmdr who coordinates Crocs with formalwear.
That takes courage.
Richie & Nik, may your life together be filled with laughter, patience, adventure, health, happiness, and a love that grows stronger every year.
And may the Cmdr finally receive a definitive ruling on seasonal Croc regulations.
Until next time, you know what to do!
Drink ‘em if ya got ‘em!
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