Giving Away A Chicken…

The weekend featured the marriage of Baby Chicken and Southern Boy. A mix of joy, exhilaration, and festivity gave way to exhaustion and a cold. Either this mother is losing her party pants longevity or is just plain getting old.

But then I am reminded that each time a cold, flu, or cancer strikes, I believe it is the end of days. It is the one male gene I possess. So, on a Friday eve, instead of happy hour, I find myself alone, sniffly, grouchy, and comparing myself to those many years my senior. Mostly due to my whining as I move about.

The wedding itself was well worth the exhaustion. Nashville opened its arms to us, filling us with country music (yay), hat creation, moonshine tasting, and Blues bands down a famous alley. And the best fried chicken in the land. Thank you, Hattie. Can we be friends?

Moonshine. One steps to the bar and orders a vodka and soda. One sits. One sips. Eyes widen. Throat catches fire and a small “whoa” escapes. A chat with the bartender reveals that we are at the distillery and every drink is crafted with moonshine, regardless of order. Well then. Around the table are moonshine margaritas, beer with chasers, and other various fire starters. After the initial fire, the concoction becomes smoother and a moonshine buzz is quite pleasant. Excuse me, could we sit here all afternoon?

The mansion, site of the wedding, features an old-world vibe, and gardens filled with ancient statuary and flowers to delight even the most disinterested of gardeners. Sisterella and I create a ground arch, which evidently is all the wedding rage. The arch is on the ground behind the couple instead of overhead. It is lovely, different, hard to craft, and wobbly as all get out when placing it just right.

Of course, tears appear. Baby Chicken was still at home when we lost The Norwegian. She knows those first months, and years, of sudden crying, drinking too much, and the pain of adjustment to life without a loved one. He would have named her the rarest beauty on her day, talked dress details as if he had knowledge of craft and lace, and certainly would have reluctantly given her away.

In dead fathers’ places, widowed mothers speak. I tell gatherers how we prayed for this child after being told there would be no more. How I prayed, and continue to pray, for her happy life. How I saw the spark when I met Southern Boy. How a mother’s heart grows and expands in size to see a child happy and welcome another child to the fold. Tears remained at bay until I told her how much The Norwegian would like Southern Boy. In what may have been a haunted garden, a small wind blew and I knew he was with us, holding me up and giving me the strength to give way to the future and another chicken flying the coop.

“They’re grown,” I told him. “We did good. It’s time to dance.”

And we did.