9 Days: My New Parents

If, in general, the notion is true that nervousness visits the unprepared, my life has seemingly been the exception.  High school exams?  I winged those.  Finance mid-terms at Penn State? I studied the night before after not attending, in some cases, classes for the entire semester.  Bar exam?  If you found me in the library studying, I was likely also sleeping.  Arguments held in Judge's chambers? While always meeting the requisite attention that my fiduciary duty to a client demands, I cannot in full honesty claim to the be the next Johny Cochran in legal preparation.  A big golf match with Nick Brayton?  Rather than put in some time on the putting green, I can usually be found drinking a beer and making fun of his hurt knee.  Asking Stacey Blazina to marry me?  If by 'preparation' you mean getting in good physical shape, nah, I didn't do that either.  Simply put:  I'm just not a cat that prepares himself for big events all that well or all that hard.

But, I'm also impervious to nervousness (that sounded *awesome*).  In fact, I can only remember three distinct times I've been legitimately terrified of that which comes next.  The first was the 1998 High School State Playoffs in Hoops and the last was the MLB Wild Card game between the Giants and the Pirates just this past year.  In both cases, both I and the Pirates laid an egg.  Allowing trepidation, fear, and worry into my psyche has done me no favors, unfortunately.

Yet, it was that third time that I'd like to discuss today.  In the Spring of 2014, being the old-school guy that I am, I traveled the 45 minutes it takes from State College to my old stomping grounds of Lock Haven to ask Mr. Tim Blazina for his permission to marry his oldest daughter.  If that wasn't scary enough, there was a rumor going around that his beautiful, yet presumably still skeptical, wife was hurrying home from work to also put me through the proverbial ringer.  

This was high drama, folks.  For a guy who OBVIOUSLY likes to hear himself speak, there was a lot of talking to myself during that long drive on Interstate 80.  "Should I have something rehearsed?  Should I, as usual, just wing it and rely on my natural Smalley charm?  Should I hug him to start or simply business-shake his hand?  Should I talk about sports first to lighten the mood?  Maybe the Raiders, Drew, you know he irrationally still likes the Raiders.  Do I phrase it as a question or just ramble on like I usually do until he kind of, sort of, says yes?  What if he says, "Not yet."?  Do I respectfully say, "While I appreciate your concern, that's not your decision to make?"  No, that sounds too confrontational, and, lets be honest, though he's 25 years your senior, he's in infinitely better shape than you; you've seen him bench-press in the basement, Drew.  Do I also ask Mrs. Blazina?  Should I hug her, like usual, or should I possibly kiss her cheek like they do in France?  Is that respectful or just strange?  Yeah, that's probably creepy. Does she, like her husband, have veto power?  You know she's skeptical of you, Drew.  Do you really want to give her a chance to ruin your dreams?  Would she do that?  Yeah, she probably would.  Damn't.  You're f'd."

I realized that I wasn't prepared.  I realized that I was nervous.

But, then, as these things usually do, a funny thing happened.  Mr. Blazina wasn't intimidating, skeptical, demanding, not at all terrifying.  He was serene, kind, emotional, and understanding, as usual.  He realized that I was doing something I'll only ever do once; I realized that he only has one of two daughters to 'give away' to a young guy he doesn't fully know.  We both realized that, above all, the woman we were talking about was loved by us more than anything.  In a sense, we share a bond that no one else on this planet shares:  the 2 men that possess an unyielding and powerful love for Stacey Lynn Blazina.  We were in this together, it seemed.  I appreciate him for doing so more than I can ever convey.

For her part, Mrs. Blazina caved and embraced this strange, ginger-haired young man rather easily.  Her typical bluntness still remained, her natural suspicion still existed (and perhaps still does!).  Yet, again, she could clearly see my love was sincere and all encompassing for her daughter.  There would be no crushing of dreams, heated interrogation, or awkward silence.  All three of us left knowing that all three of us cared deeply for the same person.  A bond only all the three of us can have.

I've come to realize and appreciate the beauty and class and grace (anything else, Kathey?) of Mrs. Blazina; the calmness and faith and integrity of Mr. Blazina.  I've come to realize the love they have for their two daughters, Stacey and Missy, and two sons, Caleb and Isaiah as well as their dog, Mochi - at least in Kathey's case!  I've come to realize that they care for me deeply.  I respect that and respect them.

My plan is simple:  To make them both proud and comfortable entrusting their oldest daughter to me.  

I'm prepared.  I'm not nervous.

11 Days: Sagamore Hills, the Fuller Boys and Mr. Varner

It is often said that a wedding represents a snapshot of an individual's life.  Where that wedding takes place; who is invited, who is able to attend, who plays a pivotal role; relationships you have; where you are in your career, your journey, your life.  As years go by, those who may have participated are lost by the wayside of time and circumstance.  What was once inevitable becomes less so.  What once was thought inconceivable now seems certain.  Time is to blame and to thank.

Yet, as with generalities, one finds anomalies.  Some relationships endure, never vanquish, always exist.  As time chugs along, as situations evolve, as circumstances morph, some people stand steady in that same familiar place they've always stood.  We find comfort in the familiar; we learn to rely and depend it.  Where change is exciting, familiar is reliable.  Without familiar, change becomes less exciting and more frightening.  Everyone should be blessed to have the familiar.

Thankfully, I do.  In abundance.  I grew up in Sagamore Hills, a little slice of land located near Woolrich whose beauty and personality is only surpassed by the young, burgeoning families that moved in and called it home.  The Fultzes to my right, the Bryertons to my left; the Blacks down the street, the Spitzers and then the Stutzs across from my brother's window.  The Walkers and then the Conigliaros; the Howells and then the Fryes down the way; the Craigs up the hill, the Eberles and Magents down the hill.  All of these names may sound familiar or less so.  All of these names played a part in my childhood that I think back upon fondly.  In reality, a neighborhood is either a collection of homes that are situated closely together.....or so much more.  Sagamore Hills is most definitely the latter.

And, within that little slice of land, arose my familiar.  Down the street to my left, a white house with columns in the forefront and a great yard for baseball in the back, lived the Fuller family.  The mother was serene, generous, classy, inviting, and kind.  The father was blunt, honest, hilarious, a man of integrity, strong, and.....blunt.  Their oldest son was athletic, gregarious, big, intimidating, and, like his father, blunt.  Unsurprisingly, after making fun of his ginger friend across the street for decades, he grew up, out-kicked his coverage, and married a kind and beautiful......ginger. The youngest was funny, athletic, a goon, naturally talented, and intimidated by me. Also, unsurprisingly, the great girl in Josh's life is still going through the decision-process of determining if this maniac is right for her. 

From Jason winning the 'Loser Leaves Neighborhood' fight with Michael Spitzer to me putting a whooping on Josh and discarding him over the white picket fence like a sack of potatoes in our front yard, something exciting was always transpiring in our little neck of the woods.  Sandlot football, wiffle ball, and driveway hoops.  Endless contests of John Madden Football on the Sega, numerous viewing of high school football and basketball tape, and many, many games of flashlight tag.  The Fuller Boys were great neighbors, even better people. Josh, Jason, and their mother, Mrs. Fuller, would be invited to my wedding in 1998, 2008, 2015, 2036; they're special people.  Unfortunately, Mr. Fuller - as he was always called by this guy as a sign of respect - passed away.  As I said on the day of his funeral, cancer walked away knowing it was in a fight with him. We miss him, dearly.  The Fuller Boys are my friends and I'm honored that they will be attending my wedding.

And, if the Fuller boys were my familiar, my *danger* was located down two hills, past the Eberles, and found in a small tan house across the street from the Snyders.  His mother, naturally, was personable, possessed an excellent sense of humor, even wrestled with me on occasion, and had the patience only produced by God's hands.  The reason her patience was so strong.....John Edward Varner.  A young man who had an unquenchable thirst for action, danger, controversy, neighborhood shenanigans, young ladies, and, in general, living life to its fullest.  Hilarious, interesting, never boring, and unpredictable, Mr. Varner gave me the honor and pleasure of being his wing-man on some crazy-ass adventures, some not fit for print.  And, while this probably rings familiar to those that know of this great man, there was also a side to him that is less known.  Loyal, dependable, extremely smart, caring, and always up to listen to another's problems, or, 'clear the hopper' as we call it.  From 'throwing' (inside joke), to driving to various spots in his White Oldsmobile, to hitting unsuccessfully on many, many ladies, John is a friend of unparalleled energy and excitement and loyalty.  When asked by family members and strangers alike, "Who of your friends are you the most similar?", I inevitably respond with John's name.  I'm thankful that, just as 20 years ago, that still remains true and I'm honored that he will be attending my wedding.

Sometimes, familiar breeds boredom and causes one to take for granted the gifts and traits of another. Sagamore Hills, the Fuller Boys, and John Edward Varner will never be taken for granted nor cause me boredom.  They helped me grow up and become a man.  I'm thankful they'll see that on full display on August 8th, 2015.

12 days: Finding Purpose

When faced with a momentous occasion looming on the horizon, it's perhaps natural and somewhat comfortable to first gaze back rather than courageously look ahead.  Most of us are resistant to change, afraid of upheaval, and presumably apprehensive about what may be in store for us around the proverbial corner.  Only when we are content with where we have been can we then be undaunted in the face of where we are headed.  Pursuant to that same line of thinking, we often draw demarcations in our lives:  before now, there was then; after then, there was that.  It's tidy, it's organized, and it separates the years from the other years, the bad times from the good, the crazy from the serene.  

Or, perhaps I'm wrong (the strange does occur!) and I'm of a particular class of individuals that, in their quest to prepare for the next chapter, enjoy looking back at the beginning of the book.  Call it being introspective or, perhaps, label it as having too much time on my hands.  Or both!  But, in a little less than two weeks, I plan on marrying the love of my life and beginning such a life thought to be inconceivable just a few short years ago.  What I once was, in large part, I will never be again. What I once did, to a large extent, I'll likely never do again.  And so on and so on.  

All of the aforementioned psychobabble shouldn't be characterized or interpreted as maturity, as that term is commonly understood, or having undergone some awakening that has just recently managed to break through my stubborn conscience.  Unfortunately for my future wife, I'm pretty much a 'what you see is what you have to deal with' type of cat.  Depending on your point of view, I'm likely always to be young at heart or immature; easy-going or lacking seriousness; joyful to be around or just a clown.  As a child of Mary Louise Smalley, it's rather difficult to change from extrovert to introvert, from bold to guarded, and from social to recluse.  That's just the way we are wired, folks.

That being said, and in the interest of sincerity and naked honesty, it's become increasingly apparent and obvious to myself, and perhaps even more obvious to those that know me best, that my life has recently been separated into two tidy, organized, and clear halves:  That without *purpose* and that now with.  And, while the journey to such a glorious destination has been arduous, rough, and complicated, the reason why I've finally arrived is brutally simple:  Stacey Lynn Blazina.

While most find purpose by way of their careers and/or their faith, I've never been all that interested in practicing law nor have I, while respecting those that do dearly, been able to hear His voice as clearly as others have heard.  I went to Duquesne to study law because I thought I wanted to be a politician.  I thought law school is where those that either are/or consider themselves to be above-average in intelligence usually go.  Since then, I've lost all interest in politics and I'm convinced that most people of above-average intelligence are usually smart enough to know what they want to do before taking on nearly $60K in student-loans. And, while I try to live my life by His teaching, I'd be insincere and dishonest if I were to proclaim that through God I have found my purpose.  I will not shut my eyes nor close my soul to His words, but I've yet to find my purpose through that which I cannot *see* and that which I cannot *feel*.  

I *see* my fiance interact with those we know not at all.  Her effortless grace and stubborn kindness never hides, never goes away.  That which we are born with is tough to discard in some corner or hidden behind some wall.  Where I lose patience, she (usually!) finds a way to lose frustration.  Where I see the worst, she (usually!) is able to sift through to locate the optimistic.  Where I see a lost cause, she sees a reason to search harder.

I *feel* her generosity, love, and respect for her family and my own.  I feel her commitment to our lives.  I feel her warmth throughout my days.  I *feel* loved.

Before her, I was meandering through life, folks.  I tried to be a good friend and I think I've succeeded.  I tried to be a good son, brother, and uncle.  I think I've succeeded.  I've tried to be a man that people liked and enjoyed spending time around.  I think I've succeeded.  But, I also tried to be a man that had a passion and purpose for something, anything.  I failed.  

Nothing struck me like my love for Stacey Blazina.  Nothing focused the unfocused.  Nothing drove the idle.  Nothing sparked the fire.  Nothing, but her.

In 12 days, I already know my purpose:  Be a good man, be a good husband, and, hopefully, be a good father.  

She gave me such a purpose.  I'll take it from here.