Building a Killington Dream Lodge, part 22
Bright Vermont moonlight flooded the great room as we entered the upstairs of the Killington dream lodge. Flickering firelight from Dad’s new wood stove danced across ceiling, walls, and floor. The aroma of gingerbread filled our nostrils. Mom placed it on the counter to cool and cried out “Welcome!” as she crossed the room. She and Dad embraced us with bear hugs, eager to hear about our honeymoon.
I was excited to show Duane our homestead. He loved it as soon as he stepped indoors. Duane was in awe of what Dad had built over nearly two decades on our two Vermont acres. Duane knew old and new housing issues from decades of work in neighborhood redevelopment. He and Dad had lots to discuss about roof leaks, drainage, the sump pump, etc.
We stepped outside on the deck to stargaze. The Big Dipper was barely visible with the Hunter moonlight. Through the trees, the moon was rising, sending streaks of light across the yard. We kissed and I pondered the miracle of the Cosmos that brought Duane and me together unexpectedly.
Duane Finger was the North Carolinian (“tarheel”) I met at the Chinese Embassy reception. He’d just returned from a friendship tour with the U.S.-China Peoples Friendship Association. He described China’s positive developments like family farms—the new focus of agriculture (following the era of communes), the excitement people felt, their ability to buy bicycles and appliances for the first time, impressive hospitals and children’s palaces, and the importance of U.S.-China friendship.
It was 1979. The Cultural Revolution had ended. Major efforts were being made to restore stability and improve the peoples’ lives. I found China’s changes to be hopeful, the opposite of my impressions in Argentina. I was eager to learn more positive developments, so I joined the Richmond Chapter of the USCPFA.
Duane invited me to go sailing on his sailboat docked at a marina on Mobjack Bay. Although it rained off and on, the day was unforgettable. “Dutchmen’s britches,” little patches of blue, appeared in the sky over Chesapeake Bay. Soon it cleared up. After that, I was hooked on sailing and had fallen in love with Duane Finger.
He wrote me a letter after we met and poured out his heart, revealing his intention to focus on our relationship, a bit less on his all-consuming career (which he was also passionate
about).
Duane was in. My old beau was out. When my ex-boyfriend spotted Duane in a Chinese restaurant, he approached his table and declared, “Guns or knives? I challenge you to a duel.”
“It’s too late. Jill’s made her choice,” Duane calmly stated. Chad stomped out on the street as his face turned red.
Duane Finger was my knight in shining armor who came to rescue me with love and compassion, sensitivity, and understanding in my time of distress. He guided and supported me through my depression after my harrowing time in Argentina. His kind hazel eyes were framed by vintage wire rim glasses. His thick brown hair was shining and soft. He played the trombone in a band so his lips were full under his mustache. He was a problem solver extraordinaire and never hesitated to act. His brilliance, intellect and love for learning impressed me to no end. I also admired his upstanding character and dedication to his work in community revitalization in poor African-American neighborhoods with the Richmond Redevelopment and Housing Authority. Duane was engaged in building communities. He was trusted and loved by the people he helped.
By Margeurite Jill Dye
I invited Duane to meet my whole family for Thanksgiving in New Jersey. He was anxious until my brother Billie introduced a new family tradition—the fine and delicate art of Jello slurping. We laughed as we inhaled as much Jello as we could in one breath. It had to be sucked from one end to be successful. Everyone tried then we laughed til our ribs hurt. We giggled, guffawed, joked, and reminisced in a lively reunion—Duane’s initiation to our eccentric fun clan.
I began a new job as local coordinator for Neighborhood Housing Services, recruiting and facilitating teams of community leaders, city planners, and lenders in Richmond. My work also involved improving housing by building a sense of community.
One weekend, returning from North Carolina’s Outer Banks, Duane (sort of) proposed to me in the International House of Pancakes, saying, “I guess it’s time we, uh, think about, um, the possibility of, uh, getting married.”
I said “Okay! Yes!” and we began our year long engagement and decided to live together in preparation.
Our do-it-yourself wedding was held in Pace Memorial United Methodist Church. We wrote our own vows, baked our yummy wedding cake with 33 cups of hand grated carrots Duane and his buddy prepared together. Duane’s ex girlfriend and I made a delectable cream cheese frosting that my sisters-in-law decorated the cake with. We hung ribbons and holly on the pews from Duane’s backyard. I wore my great-grandmother’s lace wedding gown. Our dearest friends played the bagpipes, guitar, and piano at our nuptials. My nieces were our flower girls and nephews, ring bearer and ushers along with my brothers. Dad walked me down the aisle.
It was ethereal. I felt as if we all rose to Heaven as our wedding unfolded.
Our friends and family were witnesses to our love and devotion to each other, building community and U.S.-China friendship.
The theme of our wedding was “Serve the People.” Since China was our matchmaker, we invited the Chinese Embassy to send a delegation. Twelve Chinese diplomats and staff attended and declared, “We’ll build a monument on the spot where you met.”
Our wedding receptions were held in the church and in a dear friend’s house. We mini-mooned on the Outer Banks where Duane spent school breaks with his parents as a boy. It was quite chilly and bleak in March but perfect for cuddles, long talks, and books wrapped in blankets in our cozy bed.
We traveled throughout Europe in the summer for our real honeymoon. Duane met my European friends in Paris, Austria and Germany. They took him to heart, as I did, and we caught up several years apart.
Traveling in Europe with Duane was amazing. His knowledge of history enriched each experience and complemented my interests in language and culture. We made great travel companions from the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe to Monet’s Giverny, gorgeous Provence, lively Nice and Monaco, the Côte d’Azur, Alps, Heidelberg, Munich, Venice, Salzburg, Graz and Vienna before we flew home to plan our next grand adventure.
The first thing we did was drive to Vermont before winter’s fury set in. The leaves had just peaked. I wore every layer of clothing I’d packed. We watched early snow fall in late October through the vast windows in the great room. Crystals sparkled on evergreen treetops. Outside, our boots crunched through brittle ice crust.
Dad and Duane commiserated on how to prevent damp cement downstairs. I was grateful Duane became Dad’s son-in-law but also replaced me as Dad’s new right-hand man.
Marguerite Jill Dye is an artist and writer who divides her time between Killington and Bradenton, Florida. She loves to hear from her readers at jilldyestudio@aol.com.
