This past weekend, I flew back to Pittsburgh, rented a car and drove northward into the hinterlands of Pennsylvania to attend the wedding of The Godson.
The entire experience was a bit of a trip. No pun intended.
Sometimes I think I’ve become too much the New Yorker, in that side trips into what many New Yorkers think of as “the flyover states” tend to leave me bewildered and lost, socially.
The wedding was held outside of Titusville, PA, near the hometown of The Bride. The country around Titusville is all rolling wooded hills and farms and the like – really stunningly pretty. And the people are almost universally friendly. I stopped to fill up the gas tank in my rented Jeep Liberty, and the wizened lady behind the counter at the gas station/convenience store greeted me as warmly as the neighborhood guy who’d come in ahead of me. The same thing happened on my way back to Pittsburgh; I pulled into the Kwik Fill outside of Oil City, PA, and this bearded, scary looking guy behind the counter was as nice as pie, as was the barrel-chested farmer and skinny (and cute) guy who were behind me in line – every last one of them had a smile and a friendly greeting for me.
People there make eye contact. It’s unsettling.
Just kidding.
A little.
The wedding itself was a lovely affair, managed mostly by the mother of the bride and the bride herself.
It was at the Cross Creek Resort and as the sun set over the golf course and the surrounding hills, the most amazing orange light came steaming through the room where the reception was raging.
All in all it was a lovely weekend. I got to see my family, and I spent Mother’s Day in the company of my mother for the first time since I moved to New York six years ago. To top it all off, she shared the drive back to Pittsburgh with me – the most quality time we’ve spent together in years.
Something occurred to me as we were driving back. Coming home for this wedding was the first big family event I’d attended (aside from my Dad’s funeral, of course) in probably ten years. Maybe more. The father of the groom, my brother, has four children, and the groom was the last of them to marry. One’s already given my brother a grandchild, who I met for the first time.
It all just leaves me wondering what it is that I’ve given up for my years upon the wicked stage. I’ve spent the last twenty years unable to attend these sorts of functions because I was in some show somewhere, or dirt broke and unable to get to wherever the event was taking place.
When my parents celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary, I happened to be in Pittsburgh working, so I got to go to the service at the church, but had to miss the reception to do an evening show. What sort of idiocy possessed me to think that the work I was doing – the life I wanted to lead – was worth that? Actually, I’m less inclined to indict myself than I am the theaters who cast shows in such a way that the understudies – if there are understudies at all – can never go on and there’s no chance that an actor can have an evening off for anything short of The Apocalypse.
I don’t know. Clearly, I made these choices. And I’m happy that I did. It was the life I wanted at the time. In general, I strive not to dwell on the past and regret, but in this case I can say I really wish I’d found a way to balance all that.
The wedding this weekend was a little taste of what I’ve been missing all these years. I should have been closer to my family. I should have been at those other three weddings, the weddings of the four or five other nieces and nephews who’ve gotten hitched. I should have attended family picnics and family vacations and such.
Coulda shoulda woulda, huh?
The entire experience was a bit of a trip. No pun intended.
Sometimes I think I’ve become too much the New Yorker, in that side trips into what many New Yorkers think of as “the flyover states” tend to leave me bewildered and lost, socially.
The wedding was held outside of Titusville, PA, near the hometown of The Bride. The country around Titusville is all rolling wooded hills and farms and the like – really stunningly pretty. And the people are almost universally friendly. I stopped to fill up the gas tank in my rented Jeep Liberty, and the wizened lady behind the counter at the gas station/convenience store greeted me as warmly as the neighborhood guy who’d come in ahead of me. The same thing happened on my way back to Pittsburgh; I pulled into the Kwik Fill outside of Oil City, PA, and this bearded, scary looking guy behind the counter was as nice as pie, as was the barrel-chested farmer and skinny (and cute) guy who were behind me in line – every last one of them had a smile and a friendly greeting for me.
People there make eye contact. It’s unsettling.
Just kidding.
A little.
The wedding itself was a lovely affair, managed mostly by the mother of the bride and the bride herself.
It was at the Cross Creek Resort and as the sun set over the golf course and the surrounding hills, the most amazing orange light came steaming through the room where the reception was raging.
All in all it was a lovely weekend. I got to see my family, and I spent Mother’s Day in the company of my mother for the first time since I moved to New York six years ago. To top it all off, she shared the drive back to Pittsburgh with me – the most quality time we’ve spent together in years.
Something occurred to me as we were driving back. Coming home for this wedding was the first big family event I’d attended (aside from my Dad’s funeral, of course) in probably ten years. Maybe more. The father of the groom, my brother, has four children, and the groom was the last of them to marry. One’s already given my brother a grandchild, who I met for the first time.
It all just leaves me wondering what it is that I’ve given up for my years upon the wicked stage. I’ve spent the last twenty years unable to attend these sorts of functions because I was in some show somewhere, or dirt broke and unable to get to wherever the event was taking place.
When my parents celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary, I happened to be in Pittsburgh working, so I got to go to the service at the church, but had to miss the reception to do an evening show. What sort of idiocy possessed me to think that the work I was doing – the life I wanted to lead – was worth that? Actually, I’m less inclined to indict myself than I am the theaters who cast shows in such a way that the understudies – if there are understudies at all – can never go on and there’s no chance that an actor can have an evening off for anything short of The Apocalypse.
I don’t know. Clearly, I made these choices. And I’m happy that I did. It was the life I wanted at the time. In general, I strive not to dwell on the past and regret, but in this case I can say I really wish I’d found a way to balance all that.
The wedding this weekend was a little taste of what I’ve been missing all these years. I should have been closer to my family. I should have been at those other three weddings, the weddings of the four or five other nieces and nephews who’ve gotten hitched. I should have attended family picnics and family vacations and such.
Coulda shoulda woulda, huh?
No comments:
Post a Comment