Building a Killington Dream Lodge part 23
Duane and I spent time in Vermont when we could get away for long weekends. Duane enjoyed helping Dad catch up with two-man jobs delayed due to his cancer surgery. They talked while they worked about their lives, careers, golf, fishing, and other guy stuff. Dad listened intently to Duane’s neighborhood projects, and wanted to see them for himself while visiting us in Virginia in the fall. They also related stories from childhood—Duane’s life in Charlotte, North Carolina, where his father was a mailman and mother an accountant, and Dad’s boyhood adventures in the wilds of Mexico when his dad was American Consul General. The two men I most loved in the world developed a close father-son-in-law bond together.
Duane’s work continued at the Richmond Redevelopment and Housing Authority (RRHA). I was recruited to become a field representative for the Commonwealth Girl Scout Council. Since we were living in Richmond, Virginia, the capital of the Confederacy, our city and marriage were cross-cultural experiences. Everything was slower and less direct than where I came from. I was a Yankee girl raised in New Jersey by a global father and South Dakota mother. Duane was a Southerner, born and bred. His father’s family was Swiss-German Mennonite. Duane’s mother’s grandparents were English and Scottish immigrants who settled in the mountains of North Carolina. Duane felt more at home in Richmond than I did, but Duane had convinced me to “Bloom where you’re planted.” I was adapting to the beautiful, historic, city of contradictions.
Duane and his boss co-owned a 23-foot Chrysler sailboat. Many weekends we spent exploring Chesapeake Bay from the Mobjack Bay Marina. Sailing on the largest U.S. estuary was limitless and thrilling. It extends from Norfolk, Virginia north to Baltimore, Maryland and Washington D.C. It crosses eastward from Virginia’s coastline to Delaware’s eastern shore. Duane was so Zen on the sailboat, gazing peacefully across the bay, I hardly recognized him. He was living a dream he’d had for eons, maybe from an earlier lifetime. He had a natural knack for sailing that calmed his nervous energy. Except, just like in Vermont, not even the Weather Service could always predict the day ahead…
One warm sunny afternoon, as we sailed along at a good clip, the emergency alarm on our weather radio sounded then a voice shouted: “Batten down the hatches! Head for shore! Extreme weather conditions for the next 20 minutes.”
In a flash, the sun disappeared. Wind violently whipped the sails around. Duane raced to secure them before they became uncontrollable or ripped. I threw the radio into the cabin and grabbed the railing as severe warnings continued. Waves crashed over us. The downpour began. Pitching and rolling started in ernest. As the boat tossed, Duane grabbed the mast to avoid catapulting in the turbulent sea.
I screamed “May Day” on the CB. “The storm has hit us really hard. We’re off the coast by the Mobjack Bay Lighthouse. We’re dragging our anchor. I think we’re in trouble.”
No one answered. Did anyone hear me or take my plea seriously? I prayed we’d make it safely to shore. Twenty minutes later, still clutching the CB, the rain and wind ceased and the waves calmed down. The peril had passed. We were safe.
When I returned to my new job the next day, my female coworkers gasped at our near brush with death (which repeated itself, week after week). It reminded me of close calls in the Alps when terrifying storms arrived from nowhere.
We returned to Killington, which seemed quite tranquil after our harrowing sailing experiences. It felt good to be on solid ground.
Overcoming adversity, even self-inflicted, strengthened our union and built our trust. The pluses of marriage seemed to outweigh the negatives of constant compromise. Give, take, then give some more, like taking turns leading a dance. Sensitivity was necessary, along with frequent mind reading. Conversation was essential. Learning how to talk with each other (and not clam up) was imperative. Sharing our values and beliefs helped overcome challenges in our cross cultural union. Vermont was neutral ground that helped unite us. It gave us the pause to dream big dreams, and the strength to carry them out.
Lots was going on in our lives, then suddenly, I became pregnant. I was excited and filled with joy. I did everything right in the realms of food and exercise. All was well until Week 12 hit. Spotting revealed there was a problem. It led to a horrible miscarriage. The doctored explained it was the most common time to occur when the pregnancy wasn’t viable.
I was devastated, and for a time, depressed, hopeless, and withdrawn. Our minister’s wife wrote me a note. “Better luck next time.”
I was dumbfounded. I was mourning the loss of our dream to become a family. My body and hormones were all askew. I felt as if my body had betrayed me. Duane was compassionate and mourning, too. Six months later, he developed hair loss, a case of alopecia. It was his symptom for the loss we felt.
After the tragedy of the miscarriage, I was discouraged and wondered if our family would ever manifest. We needed something positive to focus on to recover from our anguish and grief. We retreated to Vermont to heal. We talked heart-to-heart, regained our perspective, and dreamed a new dream for our future. I couldn’t foresee one day our Killington Dream Lodge would become our multi-generational family homestead.
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.
