RED and Lexie got engaged while they were both living in London. In October of 2023, RED took Lexie to Venice and proposed somewhere in the middle of a busy street.  Being a thoughtful young man, he had even set up a camera to capture the moment. Unfortunately, once we watched the video, we discovered that half of Venice had apparently decided to walk directly between the camera and the proposal. People wandered through completely oblivious to the fact that a life-changing moment was taking place behind them. Perhaps marriage proposals are a common occurrence on the streets of Venice. Whatever the reason, the video was more comical than romantic.

At that point, most of our family didn’t know much about RED. Well, I did. I mean I knew about him…but not much.

A few months earlier, while Lexie was visiting Romania, I had received a panicked phone call from her after she and RED had a disagreement. She was convinced they had broken up and was heartbroken. It turned out to be a temporary misunderstanding, but the intensity of her reaction told me everything I needed to know. This relationship mattered.

So when my sister and niece—who is about Lexie’s age—learned that she had gone to Venice with a mysterious young man, the alarm bells started ringing.

“Do you know this person?”

“Did she go willingly?”

“What is going on?”

“Is she being human trafficked?”

I assured them that she was perfectly fine.

“Calm down,” I said. “I know who he is. I know what this is about.”

I didn’t know about the engagement yet, but I knew about RED and I knew about the trip.

I didn’t actually discover they were engaged until Lexie returned to Canada the following spring. We were out having coffee one day when I noticed a ring on her finger.  Now, she was wearing it on her right hand, but Lexie wasn’t usually someone who wore rings all the time. Besides, this ring looked a little better than something from Shoppers Drug Mart  or the prize box at the dentist’s office.

I asked if it had some special meaning.

“Maybe,” she replied.

“Is it a promise ring?”

“No.”

And that was when she finally admitted that she and RED were engaged.

Apparently RED had wanted to call my husband and ask for Lexie’s hand in marriage the old-fashioned way. The opportunity hadn’t presented itself yet, so they were keeping the engagement quiet.

That conversation was also when I learned that RED would be moving to Canada in August. We would need to find somewhere for him to live.

Long story longer, a friend of ours who is a certified marriage officiant married RED and Lexie in our backyard. Since they intended to marry anyway, they chose the spousal sponsorship so they could start the visa process.

We built them a room in our basement, and they have lived here ever since.

Not exactly the Venetian fairy-tale ending people imagine when they think of an engagement.  But then again, real life rarely follows the script.  And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Now Lexie and her father are two peas in a pod.

Lexie and I have a wonderful relationship. We have a lot in common. We’re both creative, we’re both women, and of course we’re mother and daughter. We like many of the same things and can often read each other’s minds. That’s not to say we don’t occasionally exasperate one another, because we certainly do.

But Lexie and my husband Mike? That’s a whole different story.

Their personalities are remarkably similar. They understand each other on a level that sometimes leaves the rest of us watching from the sidelines. In much the same way, my son Andrew and I share an emotional wavelength. We don’t necessarily have the same interests, but somehow we’re often feeling the same things.  It’s interesting how families work that way.

This summer, Mike will be the quintessential father of the bride.  He’s already been asking whether he can wear one of his old suits to the wedding.  The answer, of course, has been a unanimous no.  Naturally, this brings to mind Father of the Bride, where Steve Martin squeezes himself into an old suit, only to split it dramatically while parading around the house. Every time Mike mentions one of his ancient suits, that’s the scene that flashes into my mind.  However,  he found a decent suit sitting in the basement that still fits because Mike has amazingly kept his girlish figure over all the years and its been bride approved.

Just as he has gone above and beyond over the years to help Lexie build her floral business—surrendering our garage and occasionally half the house in the process—he’ll spend much of this summer building props and structures for the wedding. Everyone seems to have a role. Mine involves sewing things and  feeding people.  Lexie and Red are hosting a family dinner as part of the wedding weekend, so I’ll be organizing food, negotiating with caterers, baking pies and butter tarts, and making sure everyone is well supplied with comfort and calories.  I’ll also be sewing tablecloths, backdrops, umbrella covers, and whatever other decorative items are required to transform a patch of forest into a wedding venue.

Most likely, I’ll also be helping with her wedding dress.  Holding things up and pinning things. She is designing it herself and has her own ideas so I will just be the sous seamstress.  At the moment,  the fabric is sitting under the sewing table all 15 meters intact. Yikes.

The funny thing is that Lexie knows this industry inside and out. As a floral designer, she’s immersed in the wedding world every day. She knows the planners, the florists, the photographers, the venues, and all the moving parts that most brides never see. She has a very clear vision for her wedding.  Through friendships, favours, and a little strategic bartering, she’s gathered an impressive team of people who will help bring that vision to life.

And so I sit here in my favourite chair—my reading chair, praying chair, contemplating-life chair, and occasionally my staring-out-the-window chair—and I imagine how it will all come together.

More than anything, I want this wedding weekend to feel like the vision she carries in her heart.

As the RSVPs arrive and the date draws nearer, the reality of it all is beginning to settle in. This isn’t simply a wedding. It’s a celebration of a marriage that has already begun.  And somehow that makes it feel even more meaningful.

At long last, we are planning a wedding in this home.

We’ve talked about it. Dreamed about it. Imagined it. Ever since my daughter Lexie was little, being a bride and having a wedding has been part of our conversations. Lexie always knew she wanted a wedding—even during the years when she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted a husband.

And now, at long last, it’s come to fruition.

She’s found her prince charming, so to speak. Although if we’re being realistic, is any man really Prince Charming?

Red comes close.

Had I ever imagined that my future son-in-love would be named after a colour? No. For years, as I prayed for Lexie’s future husband, I gave him a name. Paul. Paul after the Apostle Paul. It somehow felt less abstract to pray for an unknown boy and eventual man if he had a name.

Years later, when Red was telling Lexie about his childhood in Romania, he spoke about how often he and his older brother were left on their own. They got into some trouble, as boys often do, but he remarked that he was surprised they hadn’t gotten into much worse trouble or experienced more serious consequences.Without missing a beat, Lexie replied, “That’s because my mom has been praying for you since I was a baby.”I was ridiculously delighted when she told me that story—not only because she remembered all those years of prayers, but because she knew exactly when to tell him.

Red hails from Romania. Lexie met him while living in London, England, for two years. When her time there came to an end, she essentially brought him home with her.Because he was immigrating to Canada, he wasn’t immediately able to work, which made finding a place of their own difficult. So we happily welcomed them into our home.

One month after Red arrived, they were married in our backyard. The visa process began, life moved forward, and now, almost two years later, we’re finally planning the wedding celebration.

Since I work in a school, I have summers off. This summer will be spent sewing for the wedding, planning the wedding, baking for the wedding, and decorating for the wedding.

And if I’m honest, this whole wedding business has been a dream of mine too.

Of course, I had my own wedding 45 years ago and I’m still married to the same wonderful man. But back then, weddings weren’t quite the cultural phenomenon they’ve become. The wedding itself wasn’t the dream; it was simply the vehicle that got you to the marriage.

Somewhere along the way, weddings became something more. They became celebrations, family stories, and treasured memories before they even happened.

Lexie and I share an affection for the movie Father of the Bride. We quote it far more often than any reasonable people should. Over the years it has become part of our family language. Sometimes I’ll say, “This is a Father of the Bride day.” What I mean is difficult to explain. It isn’t really about weddings. It’s about a feeling. A sense of gratitude. A recognition that life, for all its hardships and surprises, has produced a moment worth celebrating.

A Father of the Bride day is a good day.

And this summer, I suspect there will be many of them.

 

I’m actually just loving this summer so far.

I’ve been on summer vacation, so to speak, for two weeks now. They haven’t gone exactly the way I’d hoped because I wasn’t planning on doing a bit of a home renovation. But I got through that. It’s done. It’s beautiful. And now we move on.

My garden has been incredibly satisfying. Every spring I wonder, Am I going to be able to get it looking as good as it did last summer? And somehow it usually shows up for me… mostly because I show up for it.

It’s never the same from year to year, but it’s always beautiful in different ways. Gardening is one big experiment, and I love waiting to see what that experiment is going to produce. I’ve given up on vegetables, but I don’t miss them. Instead, I have gorgeous perennials and annuals, and I’m now up to seven rose bushes. They’re all blooming, and every time I do my early morning garden walk  they make me smile.

And finally… summer has arrived.

My husband turned on the air conditioning in the middle of June, but most days I was sitting here wishing I could turn on the fireplace but that doesn’t make sense.. It just never felt like summer. But now it does.

I’ve already seen two sets of fireworks. Fireworks just feel like summer to me. They’re festive and uplifting and spectacular. I’d love to have fireworks at my daughter’s wedding, but since it’s happening in the daytime, I’m thinking that might be a little difficult to pull off.

My early morning walks have been well worth the effort. The mornings are beautiful, and once I’ve accomplished that, I usually feel like accomplishing something else. It’s funny how one good decision often leads to another.

I’ve made my first potato salad of the season. We’ve had watermelon. I baked a lovely Fourth of July cake for my husband and me to celebrate our 45th wedding anniversary, which happens to fall on July 4th. I have to admit, I love the way Americans celebrate Independence Day. It’s probably the only time I’m ever a little jealous that I don’t live there. I love all the red, white, and blue.

Sometimes I’ll be driving somewhere on one of those perfect summer evenings—taking my mom home after she’s spent the afternoon with us or heading to Costco for cheap gas—and I find myself wishing I had somewhere to go just to soak up the evening. But most of the time I simply head back home. Gas is too expensive for aimless joyrides.

We did spend an evening at the Stampede, though. The Stampede itself left a little to be desired this year, but it was still a lovely summer evening. And the fireworks made it all worth it for me. My husband and I also went to see one of the big summer blockbuster movies. We didn’t understand half of it, but that’s okay. The popcorn was excellent, and when we got home our son explained the entire plot to us.

My mom loves coming over to sit on our deck. Her apartment gets unbearably warm in the summer because she doesn’t have air conditioning, so bringing her here for the afternoon has become one of my favourite little routines. We usually stop for Starbucks on the way, and then she sits outside as long as she wants, enjoying the breeze and the flowers.

And the best part?

I still have seven more full weeks before I have to go back to work.

There are gardens to tend, books to read, walks to take, movies to watch, roses to admire, and probably a few more fireworks to enjoy.  Well maybe not fireworks but for sure, thunderstorms with lightning.

I’m planning on savouring every bit of it and holding these summer memories close to my heart… so that when January arrives, I can pull them out again and live on them for a while.

Summer has slipped quietly into memory. The air still hums with warmth, but the season of freedom—the weeks of long mornings, of wandering and lollygagging—has drawn to a close. I knew it would. It always does. That’s the way of things.
This summer did not fly by in a blur; it stretched, slow and generous, like a deep breath I didn’t know I needed. I woke to mornings without obligations, with no destination waiting. I lingered in the garden—small but abundant—watering when I wished, clipping blooms, photographing their brief perfection as reminders of what thrived and what faltered.
From the comfort of my deck, I listened to the familiar symphony of summer: the laughter of children splashing in plastic pools, the whir of lawn mowers, motorcycles humming faintly on distant roads, aspens whispering secrets to the breeze. This year the storms spared my little patch of green, and with the rains it grew lush, like a pocket of jungle in the city.
I walked miles, not every day, but enough to feel my body lengthen into the years ahead. I began books and paintings, though few found their endings. I prayed often, as my grown children scattered into adventures—motorbikes on open roads, camping trips under wet skies, transatlantic flights for work. They lived widely; I lived quietly, and still, through them, I lived.
It feels almost like I am writing one of those old school essays: What I Did on My Summer Vacation. Perhaps teachers still assign them. My list is modest, and maybe that is why summer stretched so long. There was space. And space is its own kind of abundance.
Tomorrow, I return. To work. To closed-in shoes and cafeteria routines. To beef burgers, pizza, chicken fingers. To the steady rhythm of service.
And yet, as autumn opens before me, I feel anticipation more than loss. This has always been my favourite season. The nostalgia of new notebooks and sharpened pencils. The comfort of sweaters—my truest companions. The farmer’s markets brimming with promise, baskets filled for canning and pies. A season that insists on gratitude, on gathering, on giving thanks. Though gratitude should not be seasonal, autumn reminds me to practice it more deeply.
I think of the girl I once was, walking home from school, scattering leaves with each step, delighting in the sound of their crisp surrender underfoot. That memory lives in me still, bright as the turning trees.
And so I move forward, season into season. Not with sadness, but with thankfulness for the gifts of what has been, and with a heart open to what is yet to come.

The last day of July.  I don’t want it to end.  I mean….I LOVE August…but I don’t want August to end so I don’t want it to begin.  I want to stay right here in July relishing the anticipation of August.  June 30. The summer was so full of promise and expectation.  The excitement of slower days and slower living. the opportunity to lollygag my way through a couple of months. And lollygag, I’ve done.  Well except for the two bakery days I held in my front yard. July 1 and July 31.   When I hatched this idea in the spring I thought I would do it every week.  HA.  Jokes on me.  It’s a lot more work than I thought.  Maybe I’m doing it the wrong way?  or maybe I just realized I didn’t want to spend my entire summer vacation working.  Once again I am blessed to be working at a school and have the summer off.  Of course all my friends joke (even my colleagues) about my pretend job.  13 hours a week. But hey,  it really takes up 3 days of my week.  So I have a super long weekend every week but the days I do work I consider work days and usually don’t get much else done on those days due to exhaustion.   And I certainly don’t want to spend the summer working more than I do during the year.   All that to say…..I’m as light headed as a school kid when summer vacation rolls around.
I was anticipating a stay-cation but serendipity had me on a plane East to visit, bond and discuss health issues with my siblings and that was good use of 11 days of July.  My garden has turned into a tropical rain forest aka jungle and I love it.  With the added initiative of adult children living at home it was set in motion and now I nurture it.  Adult kids don’t have time to water plants.  But I do.  I can’t wait to get up in the morning and take a little meander in my secret garden. See what has sprouted overnight.  Deadhead things to keep them fresh looking.  ooh and awe over the variety and the colors.  I can see clearly in my mind the stark emptiness of winter in the backyard and am totally astounded at the evolution to green that takes place. A tropical paradise.  So some afternoons I just sit out there with a cool beverage and slide off my sandals so my toes can commune with the grass (I think it’s called grounding these days). The sound of the aspen leaves swaying in the breeze is a pleasant lullaby to fall asleep to.  It’s all fun and games until a wasp starts hovering. Back in the house for me. I have plenty to do inside  Paint.  Read.  Write. Stitch. Knit. Bake. Cook. or lazy in my favorite comfy chair and play with my phone (which happens more often than not).  I’m not apologizing.  I’m on summer vacation.
July has not disappointed.  And now comes ‘even slower living’ August.  I have plans.  Plans to do as much of nothing as I can.  Since I am considered a senior now….I can slow down and get away with it.  No one expects too much of me (except myself).  If I could just get her off my back, I’d be free as a bird.  Sometimes I feel guilty lounging in bed while my husband is getting ready for work …but not too often.  Why spoil a good summer feeling guilty?  I still keep the house clean (sort of) and do the laundry and buy the food and sometimes I even cook it. Water the plants.  Walk the dog. And find things for people.  I have four other adults living here and no one can find anything. Am I right?
Often I look around and wonder….what am I doing with all this stuff but now is not the time to figure out what I am going to do about it. No siree. I am not planning on spending August purging and organizing.  There will be plenty of time in the fall for that.  And maybe I’ll still think of a way to get out of it.  The great thing about procrastination is that you never have anything to do today and you always have something to do tomorrow.  So I’m going now to spend my last evening of July lapping up the spirit of relaxation and vacation so that I am fully prepared for doing nothing in August.