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Dotting our I Do’s: Why Two Anniversaries Are Better Than One

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Andry and I tied the knot last Friday. Yes, I know, I know. I’ve said that before. The first time around was pledging our love and lives to one another in front of our family, friends and God. This time around was about getting the paperwork in order.

IMG_8693We chose May 9th as our wedding date because of its special significance. It is, as many of you know, my parents anniversary. It would have been their 56th, in fact. And I felt so blessed that my mother was willing to share it with us. I was blessed, too, that she and some of my dearest friends and family were willing to make the trip to my impromptu wedding despite the short notice, distance and expense.

So you can imagine my distress when I realized, only a few days before our wedding day, that there was a paperwork issue. Actually, there had been several, but we thought we’d worked them all out. But we hadn’t. We’d left one thing in the hands of the lawyer who had been helping us, and as it turned out, he didn’t fully understand what was necessary either. Only rather than telling us that… well, it’s a moot point now. Suffice it to say anyone that has dealt with the apostille process has probably felt our pain.

IMG_8692Mumsy talked me down from my mini-meltdown. She reminded me that a marriage wasn’t about paperwork, it was about our love and commitment to one another. She was right, of course. And we on May 9, we pledged ourselves to one another. It was a small ceremony on a beautiful stretch of beach. We were surrounded by the most important people in our lives, and the two random kids with beach towel capes that are in practically every wedding picture.

After the wedding, I set to work getting our paperwork problem sorted out. This was no small feat given the fact that I was in the Dominican Republic, and everything I needed to do was in New York. But thanks to some exceptional friends – most notably Nancy Brienza Duffy who ran around Manhattan for me and then hand delivered my documents to me here in the DR – we got it done.

Of course, there was still some legwork – translations and other documents

Andry's partner, Martinez, stepped up as our padrino.

Andry’s partner, Martinez, stepped up as our padrino.

that needed to be executed – on this end. Which we put in the hands of yet another lawyer. This one delivered, but on a slightly longer timeline than we had expected. It was starting to seem like our civil ceremony was NEVER going to happen.

And then last Friday, Andry called me. He was in Puerto Plata running some errands and had stopped to see the lawyer.

“How about 4 o’clock?” he asked me.

“Umm, today?” I stammered.

It crossed my mind to say no. To ask if they had any openings next week. I needed more time. We’d never be able to round up our padrinos (best man and maid of honor) in time. Could I get my nails done before 4? And there were my roots to think about!

But then I realized how silly I was being. After all, we’d already waited for months. And if there is anything life has taught me, it’s that you never know what tomorrow is going to bring. So I said the same thing I said the first time he asked me to marry him.

Yes.

 

Affectionately yours,

Señora de Gomez

It's official

It’s official

Andry Bismal Gomez Amarante

y Melissa Stagnaro

May 9, 2015 & August 21, 2015

Our padrinos, Martinez and his wife Rabelis, and our stand-in photographer, Jordy Brito.

Our padrinos, Martinez and his wife Rabelis, and our stand-in photographer, Jordy Brito.

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Home

Late summer/early fall is one of my favorite times of the year in Central New York.

Late summer/early fall is one of my favorite times of the year in Central New York.

We received the less-than-optimal news yesterday that Andry will need surgery on his knee. Apparently he had a fracture without realizing it, and now there’s a piece of his kneecap floating around wreaking havoc.

The patient.

The patient.

Or something like that, anyway. When it comes to all things medical, I’m even worse at it in Spanish than I am in English. Which is really saying something.

I hate seeing my love in pain, and with my own surgery still fresh in my mind, I’m nervous for him. Even though I have to believe he will be in good hands, and that once he’s all healed up he’ll no longer be in the debilitating pain he’s in right now. So, positive thoughts!

It’s not just the fact that Andry’s hurting that has me down. To put it frankly, the timing of it stinks. Because it means we’ll have to put off the long-awaited trip/delayed honeymoon we were planning for this fall. I know, in the scheme of things, the trip is inconsequential in comparison to surgery. It’s just that we were both really excited for what would have been Andry’s first trip to the US and an opportunity for him to meet more of the crazy cast of characters in my life – family and otherwise.

What I was looking forward to most, though, was the chance to show him where I grew up. To introduce him to the 152-acres that raised me as much as my parents did, and to the house where I grew up. Because I truly was bringing him home.

A picture perfect summer day in Chenango County.

A picture perfect summer day in Chenango County.

We’ll get there eventually, I know. But I’m still disappointed. I’ve been getting a bit nostalgic for those familiar rolling hills of late, as another gorgeous Central New York summer passes by without me there to experience it first hand.

It reminded me of a poem I wrote while living in Western Colorado. It was an anniversary present for my parents. But in the writing of it, I realized where my heart truly was. And it wasn’t in that junction between the Western Slope of the Rocky Mountains and the High Plains Desert. I moved back to Chenango County less than a year later.

I’m not in the same situation today. I absolutely love my life in the Dominican Republic. But that doesn’t mean a part of me doesn’t miss Home.

 


 

 

HOME

 

I miss

the scent of the fields in summer,

newly cut hay

and tiny wild strawberries

baking in the sun.

 

I miss

the wild iris

blooming

in the high grass of the pasture.

The forty-watt glow of lightning bugs

dancing at dusk.

 

I miss

fingers of rain

tapping me to sleep

on the panes of glass above my head,

the silence of night

broken

by an unexpected storm.

 

I miss

the spearmint taste

of water from the spring.

The roar of water

rushing in the creek.

 

I miss

spider webs

glistening

with heavy morning dew

on lilacs

long grown from bushes into trees.

 

I miss

the cool stillness of the woods

soft pine needles

cushioning my feet,

near the Indian well.

The snort of a buck

startled from the brush.

 

I miss

the scarred trunks of shagbark hickory

standing tall at the tree line,

flanked by walls of stone picked

from a hundred years of fresh-plowed fields.

 

I miss

sitting on the stone patio

with the long shadows of late afternoon,

cup of tea in hand.

I miss Home.

© 2007 Melissa Stagnaro

This is Home.

This is Home.

The Mango Queen

Bowl of Mangoes

Mangoes are, without a doubt, one of my favorite things about living in the Dominican Republic. The worst mango here is a zillion times better than the cream of the over-priced, under-ripe crop you’re playing top dollar for back in the states. I mean absolutely no disrespect by this. But seriously, you’re missing out.

Mangoes the size of your head, people! They exist!

Mangoes the size of your head exist, people!

The Dominican Republic is Mango Nirvana. They come in all shapes, sizes and varieties – even some the size of your head! And each has its own subtly different flavor. But they have one thing in common: they are so freaking delicious I could swoon. Swoon, I tell you.

I had my first mango ‘moment’ a little over a year ago, on what would have been my third trip to the DR in less than six months. I watched Andry bite into the top and then peel it by hand with a few deft moves. When he handed it to me, I wasn’t sure what to do. I kept looking for a knife. And barring that, a drop cloth. Because oh my goodness, the juice! I may have politely declined, but it smelled so incredibly good. So I did the only thing I could do – I bit right in. It was…life changing. As if the stars and moon aligned, and angels began to sing.

I felt my knees go week as the juice made tracks down my arms.

Not my finest hour. But what can I say? The mangoes here are THAT good.

Not my finest hour. But what can I say? The mangoes here are THAT good.

To know me is to know that I absolutely hate to be sticky. I’ve been a compulsive handwasher most of my life. But for the first time in my life, I didn’t care. I hardly noticed as Andry lead me to the sink. I may have whined when he took the inexpertly cleaned pit out of my sticky hand, but he quickly replaced it with another piece of delicious fruit.

I’m not sure how many I ate standing there at the sink that night. I lost track at 10.

Sure, it took me an hour to floss afterward, but that was a small price to pay for such deliciousness.

I am hardly the only one mango obsessed. This entire country is! Workers pause in the middle of their labors to enjoy one or twenty. Who needs to eat a meal when you have Mother Nature providing. On more than one occasion, Andry has actually stopped the car to pick one up out of the road. (Initially I scoffed at this practice, but now I don’t complain. As long as he shares.)

Yes, that is my husband. (For the record, we did have permission to steal these particular mangoes.)

Yes, that is my husband. (For the record, we did have permission to steal these particular mangoes.)

Mango thievery is an art passed down from one generation to the next. It requires strength, skill and, if you don’t have the owner’s permission, speed and stealth. I’ve seen people climb trees, throw rocks and use poles or sticks all to get their hot little hands on this beautiful fruit.

There is one thief in particular who is unrivaled in tenacity and persistence. That’s the Mango Queen herself: Frederica.

As in, Frederica, our dog.

I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t believe it at first either. But let me tell you, Frederica is obsessed with mangoes.

It started as a bit of a lark on our part. She would come sniffing around when one of us was eating a mango, so we’d toss her a piece of the peel or the pit if it still had some meat on it. But soon I couldn’t even eat a mango in the privacy of my own kitchen without her bouncing back and form between the kitchen window and the back door, eager for her share of the bounty.

If I eat one while I’m out, she goes crazy. I swear she can smell it on me.

Freddy and Armando, the brothers who take care of our property, are kind enough to keep us in mangoes from a tree on one of the other properties they care for. When they realized Frederica was a fan, too, they started feeding her growing addiction by giving her the overripe and damaged fruit. Which, by the way, she would sometimes eat WHOLE.

They find her obsession entertaining. Highly entertaining. But then, they weren’t picking up the you-know-what. (I would like to state for the record that while I can find, err, evidence, of her mango consumption she shows absolutely no ill effects despite the quantity of fruit she consumes.)

The Mango Thief. Doesn't she look guilty?

The Mango Thief. Doesn’t she look guilty?

I was amused, too, until I realized that the quantity of mangoes Frederica was consuming was greater than what the brothers provided. The aforementioned tree was no longer producing, yet there were a growing number of fresh ‘kills’ in the yard on a daily basis.

Seriously, the side yard looks like a mango cemetery.

That’s when rumors of a mango thief reached my ears. You can imagine my shock, horror and, ok, maybe a little pride, when I realized Frederica was to blame.

She has discovered not one, but THREE different ways out of the yard, specifically to feed her mango addiction. As the season winds to an end, she’s going further and further afield to find them.

Thankfully, the whole neighborhood seems to find it entertaining. And I can understand why. I mean, who ever heard of a dog addicted to mangoes?

Now, if only I could train her to share…

Frederica isn't the only one who likes to keep the mangoes for herself. Even my own mother won't share!

Frederica isn’t the only one who likes to keep the mangoes for herself. Even my own mother won’t share!