Where I Belong by Gwendolyn Heasley Page A
Authors: Gwendolyn Heasley
Tags: United States, Fiction, Family & Relationships, History, Juvenile Fiction, Family Life, Social Issues, Love & Romance, State & Local, Texas, Schools, New Experience, High schools, Adolescence, Moving; Household, Parenting, Self-actualization (Psychology), Southwest, Grandparenting, Grandparents, Family life - Texas
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they must’ve been in this box a long time. Each one has a label in beautiful script. FLOWERS . DRESSES . FOOD . What are these? I open the FLOWERS one to find dozens of perfectly cut clippings of wedding flowers from some ancient Bride magazines. I open the DRESSES folder and several wedding-dress patterns fall out. Finally, in the FOOD folder, there are a bunch of recipes from The Broken Spoke Daily News : Candace Jean’sPineapple Kebabs, Sarah Ann’s Mushroom Turnovers, Adam’s Ribs. And there are also photocopied recipes from Betty Crocker’s Cookbook. In the margins, there are notes like “perfect for a bridesmaid lunch” and “perfect passing hors d’oeuvres.” Reaching into the bottom of the box, I pull out one more yellowed clipping. It’s a newspaper engagement announcement. It reads,
Mr. and Mrs. Billy Bo Houston proudly announce the engagement of Broken Spoke darling and Rodeo Queen Jenny Jo Houston to New York City investment banker Cole Corcoran the II. The pair met when Jenny Jo moved to New York to pursue a career in modeling. The Houstons are hosting the September 15 wedding at their home. As we all know, Mrs. Houston is a domestic wonder, so the wedding should be newsworthy.
But my parents got married in New York City. I know this because I’ve seen the albums, all six of them. There was even an ice sculpture of my parents! According to my mom, in the 1990s, ice sculptures were the crème de la crème. My parents’ wedding still gets referred to in bridal magazines as the one that changed marriage from a sacrament into a soiree. The late Evangeline Corcoran, my father’s very rich mother, had no daughters, so she spared no expense on the lavish Plaza wedding for her favoriteson, Cole. So if I add 1 + 1 + 1, I know that Grandma Houston had wanted a Broken Spoke wedding and didn’t get it. This is what happened twenty years ago and this is what she and Grandpa had whispered about in the car from the airport. My mom chose a glamorous New York hotel wedding even though it seems her own mother had lovingly spent years clipping, plotting, and planning a hometown backyard wedding. Of course, I understand my mom’s decision—who makes her daughter’s wedding dress? That’s so 1800s. I am sure Grandma knows how to sew, but why compete with Vera Wang? And who serves wings at a wedding? That’s bar food. But still, I feel a bit bad for Grandma Houston, considering all her hard work. Even though my mother never tells this part of the story when recounting her wedding, this news is unfortunately just not blackmail worthy. I carefully put it away and tape the box back up.
I am totally depressed that this isn’t the dirt I needed for a ticket to Kent. To cope, I find my iPod and earphones and listen to my most emo playlist. As I cram two suitcases’ worth of clothes into a closet that must’ve been designed for doll clothes, I wallow in my misery. Just as I am wondering if anyone—even these emo rockers—have ever hurt as bad as me, I spin around to find Grandpa opening the door.
“Sorry, Corrinne, I didn’t mean to startle you. Iknocked, but I don’t think you heard.” He points at my iPod. “You young people and your music. All tuned out of the world. The radio used to be something we shared…. Anyway, I want to hear more about your first day, and it’s time for supper. Hurry now, because I have a surprise,” Grandpa says, and winks obviously for about ten seconds. He looks like he has twitch.
Glancing at my watch, I see it’s only ten minutes past five. I am not sure if this is an elderly thing or a Texas thing, but I can’t imagine eating right now. Sighing, I take off my iPod and join everyone at the table anyway.
When we are all seated, Grandma says, “Let’s say a prayer for the first day of school.” She pauses and bows her head. “Thank you, God, for bringing us another school year and bringing us our grandchildren to share it with.”
I mimic my grandma’s gesture and
Mr. and Mrs. Billy Bo Houston proudly announce the engagement of Broken Spoke darling and Rodeo Queen Jenny Jo Houston to New York City investment banker Cole Corcoran the II. The pair met when Jenny Jo moved to New York to pursue a career in modeling. The Houstons are hosting the September 15 wedding at their home. As we all know, Mrs. Houston is a domestic wonder, so the wedding should be newsworthy.
But my parents got married in New York City. I know this because I’ve seen the albums, all six of them. There was even an ice sculpture of my parents! According to my mom, in the 1990s, ice sculptures were the crème de la crème. My parents’ wedding still gets referred to in bridal magazines as the one that changed marriage from a sacrament into a soiree. The late Evangeline Corcoran, my father’s very rich mother, had no daughters, so she spared no expense on the lavish Plaza wedding for her favoriteson, Cole. So if I add 1 + 1 + 1, I know that Grandma Houston had wanted a Broken Spoke wedding and didn’t get it. This is what happened twenty years ago and this is what she and Grandpa had whispered about in the car from the airport. My mom chose a glamorous New York hotel wedding even though it seems her own mother had lovingly spent years clipping, plotting, and planning a hometown backyard wedding. Of course, I understand my mom’s decision—who makes her daughter’s wedding dress? That’s so 1800s. I am sure Grandma knows how to sew, but why compete with Vera Wang? And who serves wings at a wedding? That’s bar food. But still, I feel a bit bad for Grandma Houston, considering all her hard work. Even though my mother never tells this part of the story when recounting her wedding, this news is unfortunately just not blackmail worthy. I carefully put it away and tape the box back up.
I am totally depressed that this isn’t the dirt I needed for a ticket to Kent. To cope, I find my iPod and earphones and listen to my most emo playlist. As I cram two suitcases’ worth of clothes into a closet that must’ve been designed for doll clothes, I wallow in my misery. Just as I am wondering if anyone—even these emo rockers—have ever hurt as bad as me, I spin around to find Grandpa opening the door.
“Sorry, Corrinne, I didn’t mean to startle you. Iknocked, but I don’t think you heard.” He points at my iPod. “You young people and your music. All tuned out of the world. The radio used to be something we shared…. Anyway, I want to hear more about your first day, and it’s time for supper. Hurry now, because I have a surprise,” Grandpa says, and winks obviously for about ten seconds. He looks like he has twitch.
Glancing at my watch, I see it’s only ten minutes past five. I am not sure if this is an elderly thing or a Texas thing, but I can’t imagine eating right now. Sighing, I take off my iPod and join everyone at the table anyway.
When we are all seated, Grandma says, “Let’s say a prayer for the first day of school.” She pauses and bows her head. “Thank you, God, for bringing us another school year and bringing us our grandchildren to share it with.”
I mimic my grandma’s gesture and
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