I'm sitting at our shared laptop. It's really his, but now it's mine too. Yours, mine, and ours. Same with the car. And the house. Oh wait, it was all his. His and now ours. I brought very few material possessions into this marriage.
Okay, so I did bring a couch. A white one. I bought it and stored it in his garage.
Actually, I brought two couches into the marriage. I purchased another one of the couches just yesterday from a nice man. I guess that means I didn't bring it into the marriage? I bought it yesterday. Maybe I just wanted to talk about the couch right here right now. A burnt orange velvet. I put a bright yellow pillow on one side. Am I crazy that I love it? I love it so completely that I fell asleep on it last night. And I dreamed happy things.
He's not crazy about the couch, but he's color-blind. And not really into 70's furniture. Or velvet. He does like me. And he likes that I love the couch. So, he helped me load the couch into the truck and bring it home.
We stuffed all the cushions into the cab of the truck. As we drove down the street to bring it home, the velvet kept changing colors as the light reflected through the windows.
The couch. The couch is mine.
29 July 2010
13 July 2010
Patchwork
He and I went out to a hill in Payson, Utah. We stood right up against the mountain bench. It's land my dad's family owns. Laura, let's buy it, he says. He's kidding; we're broke.
He wants to live on a ranch someday. He's from Las Vegas, but he's a farmer at heart. I knew that he wanted to be a rural town boy in the end. I want to be a city girl. I like the city. He knew I wanted to be a city girl.
Maybe we decided to work through that discrepancy later? But secretly, I think that I'd live with him in the country and we'd be happy. That's just how life is; we put it all together-- hopes, dreams, and love-of-our-lives into patchwork. And that's just how beautiful it was looking over orchards and a reflected sunset.
This land looked over a patchwork of green and yellows and blues.
He wants to live on a ranch someday. He's from Las Vegas, but he's a farmer at heart. I knew that he wanted to be a rural town boy in the end. I want to be a city girl. I like the city. He knew I wanted to be a city girl.
Maybe we decided to work through that discrepancy later? But secretly, I think that I'd live with him in the country and we'd be happy. That's just how life is; we put it all together-- hopes, dreams, and love-of-our-lives into patchwork. And that's just how beautiful it was looking over orchards and a reflected sunset.
This land looked over a patchwork of green and yellows and blues.
05 July 2010
Enjoy.
I hesitate to do this. But I guess I'm not hesitant enough.
I'm not sure whether I'm doing this to compliment our photographer (who I loved), to re-live our happy day (which I loved), or to show you, in some way, how much I love this guy that I really love. Duh about the really loving this guy part.
Folks, he's great.
Enjoy the pictures of the day.
by Jessica Peterson
I'm not sure whether I'm doing this to compliment our photographer (who I loved), to re-live our happy day (which I loved), or to show you, in some way, how much I love this guy that I really love. Duh about the really loving this guy part.
Folks, he's great.
Enjoy the pictures of the day.
by Jessica Peterson
01 July 2010
The Vegetable Gene
I planted a garden. I took those little plant-starts tenderly out of their plastic and tucked them into new dirt homes in our backyard. I was a good gardener. I tilled the ground, de-rocked the dirt, and put a little water into the bottom of the holes before setting the plants inside. He helped me fertilize a bit-- all in an effort to give the dirt a little more life.
After the planting, I sat in our flower-power porch chair and looked at the plants. I knew, right then, that these plants would be the joy of my summer days.
My mom was an avid gardener. It's a gene that she carried from her father. My grandpa. I wrote an essay once, My Grandpa, the Vegetable Man. Yes, he's a vegetable man with a garden like you've never seen-- massive, green, abundant. He's known to say-- It's been twenty years since I've bought a vegetable. He says it proud.
Well-earned pride, I'd say.
I didn't know that the gene had come through to me until I was sitting in the chair on the porch. I felt the adrenalin of excitement pulse as I imagined the tomatoes and the zucchini that I would be harvesting in just a few weeks time. It said six weeks on the carrot seed packet.
The next morning, the plants were dead. One night, I was sitting on the flower-power chair dreaming of peppers and carrots. The next morning, I sat on the strip of sidewalk by the now-dead plants. One night. Twelve hours. That's how long my dreams lasted. I don't want to say I cried. I didn't. But I'm not exaggerating when I say that there were tears involved. They just didn't overflow very fast. But there were tears.
Because you see, I wanted a garden real bad. It's just that that life-giving fertilizer was death to the dirt. Fertilizer can be bad for dirt. Too much fertilizer and no time to let the dirt cool off. I didn't know the dangers.
I'm not a vegetable man.
After the planting, I sat in our flower-power porch chair and looked at the plants. I knew, right then, that these plants would be the joy of my summer days.
My mom was an avid gardener. It's a gene that she carried from her father. My grandpa. I wrote an essay once, My Grandpa, the Vegetable Man. Yes, he's a vegetable man with a garden like you've never seen-- massive, green, abundant. He's known to say-- It's been twenty years since I've bought a vegetable. He says it proud.
Well-earned pride, I'd say.
I didn't know that the gene had come through to me until I was sitting in the chair on the porch. I felt the adrenalin of excitement pulse as I imagined the tomatoes and the zucchini that I would be harvesting in just a few weeks time. It said six weeks on the carrot seed packet.
The next morning, the plants were dead. One night, I was sitting on the flower-power chair dreaming of peppers and carrots. The next morning, I sat on the strip of sidewalk by the now-dead plants. One night. Twelve hours. That's how long my dreams lasted. I don't want to say I cried. I didn't. But I'm not exaggerating when I say that there were tears involved. They just didn't overflow very fast. But there were tears.
Because you see, I wanted a garden real bad. It's just that that life-giving fertilizer was death to the dirt. Fertilizer can be bad for dirt. Too much fertilizer and no time to let the dirt cool off. I didn't know the dangers.
I'm not a vegetable man.
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