Everything except the rings and the vows

Of all the things I won’t regret by never marrying, I will regret never having a wedding ceremony and the celebrations that surround it.

“I’d do it in Vegas,” I remarked to my oldest, likewise never married sister, Wendy, whose only response was the narrowing of her hazel eyes. “And when my first husband and I returned home, we’d throw a big shindig at the Epsom Country Club!”

Such wedding musings were discussed last Saturday evening while attending an engagement party for my youngest sister, Audrey, and her fiancé, Justin. Audrey beamed beside Justin – the very same Justin she vowed was “only a friend” nearly eight years ago during her first semester at East Carolina University.

The engagement party, generously hosted by Justin's Aunt Linda and Uncle Allen, provided an opportunity for both families to gather before the December destination wedding. However, this extended family reunion celebrating Audrey and Justin's approaching matrimony presented a challenge for me and perhaps a few other entertaining family members.

“Behave!” Granny begged, as we pulled into the church parking lot earlier that evening. Such hushed insistence was repeated once more, as we greeted family members in the vestibule and gazed at a collage of the couple’s childhood photos.

Following formal introductions, an assembly of eager eaters formed at the buffet table.

“Oh Lord!” I panicked, realizing Justin was at the head of the buffet line.

One would assume a hefty waist line would accompany my soon-to-be brother-in-law’s “healthy” appetite. Yet, this lover of food enjoys a passion for exercise as well. And at times, Justin combines both food and sport, as he did recently in Greenville’s Krispy Kreme Challenge – a 5K race that benefits juvenile diabetes research. Contestants in the Krispy Kreme Challenge run 1.5 miles, briefly break to eat a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts, and complete the race with another 1.5 mile run.

“I’m the only person in the history of the universe to eat two dozen doughnuts in the Krispy Kreme Challenge,” Justin proudly claimed after successfully finishing the race.

Luckily, Justin crossed Saturday night’s buffet finish line carrying a plate full of food, with plenty remaining.

As my oldest sister and I devoured our diet-sized portions of pig, potatoes, cole slaw, baked beans and hush puppies, I humored some of my ever-constant, rampant ruminations. I questioned whether my parents had accepted Audrey's matrimonial fate. I wondered if, after 26 years of child-rearing, they would readily relinquish their roles as authorities and sole providers. I pondered my parents' bewilderment at that fact that it's their youngest daughter, not one of their 30-something-year-old daughters, who will marry in six months at a Mexican resort. And staring at my dinner plate, I questioned why portion control was necessary for a self-professed spinster such as myself.

“We’re never getting married,” I pointed my fork of pork at Wendy, while explaining the sisterhood's 11 year age gap to a nearby relative. “My parents had all but given up hope, until Audrey’s engagement,” I continued, before stuffing the last bit of cheddar cheese baked beans into my mouth. Bereaving the baked beans' demise, I scooped their remaining sweet soup onto my fork, the perfect glue for attacking the hushpuppy crumbs.

As the engagement party ended with dessert and farewells, the happily fed Eaves family piled into our Fords, Buicks and Hondas for the journey home.

Perhaps I'll never elope and celebrate my matrimony Epsom-style. Yet, Audrey will soon wed. And while attending last Saturday's engagement party, I realized that Audrey will officially join a family that already deems her their kin, and likewise welcomes the Eaves family into its fold. And I'd say that's worth more than a Las Vegas wedding and an Epsom Country Club shindig.

Finding my dancing legs

I remember my first dancing disaster. It was during my Epsom Elementary days, on a rainy afternoon that prevented my class from playing our daily kickball match. Recess was relocated inside, and while a nearby boom-box played MC Hammer’s “You Can’t Touch This,” my classmates and I formed a circle in the back of our fourth grade classroom. In our rendition of Soul Train, we clapped our hands as each schoolmate awaited a turn to dance in the hip hop hoedown. Our then-fashionable flat-tops and side ponytails bounced as we boogied, cheering each performer in the dance circle. From bee-bopping to break dancing, my classmates danced to the beat of “Hammer Time.”

And then it was my turn.

My Reebok sneakers shuffled, my sweatered arms swayed, and my side pony-tail bobbed to the beat of the boom-box. I jived, grinning so wide I could barely see through the slivers of my squinted eyes. And my happy heart pounded to the beat of my feet — until our “Don Cornelius” pulled me from the dance circle. My classmates, whose cheers and clapping had long ceased, snickered as my sneakers squeaked to a stop. My replacement took center stage to a revival of cheers, while I pacified my embarrassment with a Nutty Butty ice cream.

And so began my fear of public dancing.

“I’m warning you, I can’t dance,” I wrote in an e-mail 20 years later, still scarred by the fourth grade boogie turned bad.

“You’ll be just fine,” my soon-to-be dance instructor reassured me, before ending with, “see you in a few weeks!”

Although I was eager to combat my dancing disability, my family was less encouraging of this endeavor — specifically, my much older sister and her co-conspirator, our baby sister.

“Gina’s taking ballet!” my much older sister scoffed, followed by hyena-like laughter. The baby sister likewise bellowed, rolling in the floor as she kicked her legs. 

Mama’s nostrils flared in her failed attempt to shield amusement, while Daddy joined the cackles with a few slaps to his knee. 

I grabbed my ballet slippers and drove from our “house of hilarity” to dance class.

Although I’d joined an adult dance class, I quickly realized that I was the only pupil with no prior dance experience. And after accepting this handicap, I decided to make friends. And fast. I would need several allies to survive my approaching battle of ballet. 

My classmate camaraderie proved advantageous. Despite my weekly blunders, my classmates didn’t openly laugh at my lack of coordination or my occasional run-ins with poles, mirrors, and walls. And when I nearly fell during one classroom exercise, twisting my foot in a curse-worthy position, a nearby classmate made certain that I was okay. 

As the semester progressed, I watched the lithe lifts and flittering footsteps of fellow classmates, while my own feet awkwardly resisted cooperation. Leaps proved nearly impossible as I struggled to uproot my clumping, cement block feet from the studio floor.  

“I feel like I’m learning to walk!” I laughed, as I tried to convince my legs to cooperate with my brain. 

I have stubborn legs.

Despite my weekly dancing collisions, I enjoyed our weekly stretches, which consisted of hoisting my leg onto a bar in a position that bulged the roll of my growing waistline, while convincing my inner thighs that they were ripping apart from my torso. 

Yet, as each week progressed, my flexibility improved. Likewise, my clumsy dance steps moved from their 1 - 10 rank of “10” to a “9.5.” Although I finished my first year of dance lessons lacking the grace and skill of my other classmates, I triumphed in a personal victory. With my instructor’s never-ending encouragement, my Don Cornelius flashbacks eventually vanished. 

And for the first time, I was center stage, in a circle of cheers and applause.

Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Finding my dancing legs 

Thank you for being our friends

Picture it. NBC. 1985. Four "mature" women, one kitchen table, countless slices of cheesecake, and a half hour of humorous, often hysterical, parodies.

The Golden Girls trumped prime-time television for seven seasons before retiring its comedic quartet in 1992. Yet, despite the sitcom's finale, followed by the death of three of its stars — Estelle Getty, Bea Arthur, and most recently Rue McClanahan — the syndicated series continues to entertain TV watchers, airing multiple times daily.

Pop-culture received a good whack by the witty, often provocative broads. Perhaps for the first time on television, middle-aged women were tackling taboo topics. Most notably, Southern belle Blanche Devereaux flaunted a frisky, sexual appetite, regaling both her roommates and the show's viewers with her steamy stories of men. Blanche and her co-star's scandalous conduct was excused by their "golden age" – their senior status allowed the aging actresses to say and do just about anything.

And they did.

"Blanche: What do you think of my new dress? Is it me?
Sophia: It's too tight, it's too short and it shows too much cleavage for a woman your age.
Dorothy: Yes, Blanche. It's you."

Sophia Petrillo was the spitfire Sicilian who escaped imprisonment from Shady Pines Retirement Home. Her shrewd-tongue offered a glimpse into the life of an aging 80's stroke survivor.
She filtered nothing.

"Blanche: I have writer's block. It's the worst feeling in the world!
Sophia: Try ten days without a bowel movement sometime."

Sophia's candor, often followed by a Sicilian curse, was tantamount to her quick-witted insults. And although all fell victim to her venom, none suffered as her daughter, Dorothy. A divorced substitute teacher, the 5'9" Dorothy Zbornak towered her "Ma" by nearly a foot, yet still answered to her mother's endearing, "Pussycat."

"Dorothy: Ma told me that once I started shaving I'd never be able to stop. I mean, she said I'd regret it for the rest of my life because my legs would have bristles.
Sophia: I was right! By the time you were 16 I could grate cheese on your knees!"

Whereas Dorothy exhibited a crass sensibility, Rose Nylund was the overly naive, kind-hearted "Golden Girl." Known for her "Back in St. Olaf" stories, Rose tormented her roommates with a sundry of Scandinavian terms and Minnesota tales.

"Rose: [Dorothy is unhappy with her son marrying an older, African-American woman] The same thing happened to the Bigbotters back in St. Olaf. You see Gretchen had this thing for Buddy, but Mr. Bigbotter didn't approve - he did his best to keep them apart. But, one day he came home, early, and found Gretchen and Buddy in... how will I say it... most indelicate situation.
Dorothy: What did he do?
Rose: Well he yelled at them to stop — but they wouldn't so he turned the hose on them!
Blanche: He turned the hose on them?
Rose: Well they were in the front yard!
[Blanche gasps]
Dorothy: Wait - wait - wait a minute, Rose. Buddy and Gretchen — weren't people were they?
Rose: Of course not - they were dogs! Gretchen was a Dalmation and Buddy was a Schnauzer — and Mr. Bigbotter wasn't too happy when he ended up with a litter of Schnalmations!
Blanche: ...You know, Rose, sometimes I wished somebody had turned the hose on your parents."

Although the dim-witted Rose was a catalyst for jabs, she tackled an AIDS scare in one of the series more serious episodes. "The Golden Girls" addressed other difficult issues, including family fueds and estrangement, dementia, organ donation, in-vitro fertilization and homosexuality. The show effectively addressed these issues with a delicate balance of gravity and humor.

Regardless of age, viewers identified with these witty characters. Some of us related to Dorothy's anger, slamming the door on her ex-husband Stan, season after season, while others empathized with Rose, Blanche and Sophia, who had lost their spouses to death. And all of us understood, and continue to understand, the desire for companionship, which these four women discovered in one another at 6151 Richmond St., Miami.

"The Golden Girls" showed its viewers, week after week, that life's hurdles are best combated with friendship, laughter — and cheesecake.

Perhaps most significant, however, "The Golden Girls" entertained a younger generation while demonstrating that although age is accompanied by physical alterations, it doesn't render void one's desire to continue living.

To a sitcom and its four broads, whom I met 20 years ago while a child and understand more fully today as a 30-year-old, I offer my appreciation and admiration, which is sure to only grown as I approach my own golden years. “Thank you for being a friend.”

Advice from a cousin, a cowboy, and the Lord

Four years ago, my cousin Justin departed Epsom’s Burgess Farms, trading Southern Vance High School’s pomp and circumstance for UNC Wilimington’s beaches — and classrooms. As a graduation gift, his mother organized a scrapbook of letters from well wishers, an opportunity for family and friends to congratulate Justin, while offering encouragement as he embarked on his four years of strict study.

Somehow, despite its more eccentric character, my letter made its way into the scrapbook. I’m sure Aunt Michele winced when she affixed my letter, featuring a magazine clipping of Willie Nelson brandishing long braids and a guitar, into Justin’s memory book.

My mid 20’s “words of wisdom” began:“Congratulations, Justin! As Willie Nelson states in one of his more popular songs, ‘So You Think You’re a Cowboy:’

‘So live life as you find it,
The best that you can,
Tomorrow cannot right the wrong.
Don’t wait for tomorrow,
To bring you your dreams,
‘Cause by the time that you get there,
they’re gone.’ ”

I chose this Willie Nelson composition, a lyrical masterpiece reflective of life’s challenges, because its meaning has evolved in my life over the years.

Having triumphed over college, I’m certain Justin understands his dreams are achieved only through effort. And as he continues along life’s journey, Justin will realize that “tomorrow cannot right the wrong” — but living one’s best, despite the past, is the best any of us can do.

After my lyrical analysis, I continued reading my letter to Justin, chuckling at the following, although accurate, witticisms:

• “Next, I encourage you to treat life as the thrilling adventure that it is. Grasp the many opportunities available to you, and most importantly, take risks. However, and from experience, I advise you to not tell your grandparents of these adventures and risks!”

• Travel. Travel every opportunity you get, and study abroad while in college (which he did). My recommendations include the Czech Republic, Italy, Switzerland and Ireland ... well the list goes on and on. While you are there, you might decide to grow your hair out, grow a beard, and learn to play the guitar, banjo or harmonica. Just do this away from home!”

• I ended my letter: “Always keep Epsom a part of your spirit.”

Yet, while composing this letter four years ago, I omitted one factor that guided me not only through the hurdles of my college career, but those faced in following transition years.

Despite country and western lyrics and humourous quips, I failed to mention that true success, whether in college or while carving out one’s career post-graduation, rests in the spiritual guidance of God. In every, “What’s next?” quandary of my life, God’s answer has errupted into a series of life-altering, unquestionable resolutions. His undoubtable force has always propelled me into that next phase.

Jeremiah 29:11 says “... For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future ...”

And although this scripture wasn’t included in Justin’s high school graduation letter four years ago, I’m including it this time.

Congratulations, little cousin!

Gina Eaves is an Epsom native, a Peace College graduate and an advertising representative at The Daily Dispatch. Her columns appear on Sundays. E-mail her at geaves@hendersondispatch.com. Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Advice from a cousin a cowboy and the Lord