Alan Ilagan

The evening’s enchantment continued as the night sky went dark. Pools of light glowed beneath the tents and on the porch and terrace, candles flickered on the tables, and paper birds danced in mid-air.

{Carolyn & JoAnn}

{Carole & D}

{The infamous Sue Santa Lucia}

{Alissa & Chris}

{My cousins – Michael, Christy, & Megan. We get to see them every year at New Year’s, and other events like weddings.}

{My brother and me}

{More family – Michael, Aunt Sally, Uncle Ding, Mom, me, Andy, Uncle Andy, & Aunt Ann Sadone}

{Still more family – Karl, me, Andy, Andy’s niece Andrea, and Kristie}

{Me with Skip & Alura}

{Maria & Steve}

{Skip & me}

{Sherri (Skip’s way-better half), Marline, & Maria}

{The amazing Jim Sessions, who was my drink bitch for the night}

{Gary & Andy}

Like most married couples on their wedding day, we didn’t get to make much out of the dinner that was served (I didn’t even get to try any of the appetizers), and we only had time to lift a fast forkful or two off of our dinner plates. From what I understand, the food was great, including the cupcakes from Sweet Temptations (which I did get to try, even if it was the next day).

We hadn’t even thought to reserve one of the tables for ourselves, so with most seats occupied, Andy and I made do on the wicker couch on the terrace, overlooking all our friends and family in the main tent. That was our intimate moment of the evening, the two of us stealing a few quick bites of our wedding dinner, watching the laughter of the beloved people in our life.

It was precisely the evening we had hoped it would be – casual and loose and fun. The color theme was chartreuse and Tiffany blue – which is just a fancy way of saying lime green and aqua. I’ve always loved chartreuse, and Andy’s loved the Tiffany blue of some of his favorite cars. They went surprisingly well together.

As the sun went down on the back terrace, sheer curtains fluttered in the warm breeze, framing cream hydrangeas and glowing ivory candles.

The thousand paper cranes I spent the last year making were finally revealed, dangling on the side porch, winding their way along tent poles, and stationed at each place setting.

We wanted the evening to be whimsical and elegant, a momentary jewel, fleeting and transitory like a dream, founded on the wings of paper birds and garland, bathed in green and amethyst light around the glowing mist of a pool.

The heat and humidity were high, but the rain held out until everyone had arrived and the party was in full-swing. At that point it turned into a soaking wet free-for-all, and that was all right too. From tent to tent we ran, little adventures all around, dodging puddles and dripping awnings, some even basking in the wet relief from the heat.

{The guests arriving.}

{The Cape Cod Crew, in full effect.}

{Jen, Michel, & Sherri. Jen took most of these photos, graciously documenting some of our friends and family. Sincere thanks to her (and a couple of bottles to come).}

{Dad talking to our guests.}

{Carol & Gary}

{Lee & Vince}

{Eric & JoAnn}

{Cal & Lorie}

{Doris & Ed}

{Sue & Deb}

{Mary Ellen & Buck}

{Crazy & Momma}

{Joe, Me, Carla, & Missy}

We are very lucky to have such a great group of friends and family. Prior to that night, I’d always been rather nonchalant about the whole wedding reception party. We’d thrown parties before – some of which had quite a few people – but none of them could have prepared me for this one, and I did not expect to be as affected as I was.  As Andy and I sat on the terrace looking out over all the people we knew and loved in the world, I realized what we had accomplished, what our love had created.

To be surrounded by so much love and support, to see everyone in our lives together under one roof – it was a profound moment, and I suddenly understood what all the wedding fuss was about. We will never again have an evening like that, but we will hold the memory of it close to our hearts forever.

It must have been late July or early August of 2001 when I finally got around to responding to Lee Bailey’s invitation to his home in New York. It had been a loose invitation to come and see him when the roses bloomed, so I called a few weeks in advance to let him know I would be in town (and to scope out whether the invite was genuine). He was kind and insisted I stop by to see him.

When I was a kid, his book Country Flowers was my Bible (a somewhat strange thing for a boy to be so interested in flowers and gardening, but I sensed a kinship and inspiration in Mr. Bailey – in the way he appreciated beauty, in the way he nurtured a garden, in the way he conveyed eloquence and elegance in words and pictures). When I was about twelve I wrote him a fan letter, hand-written on lined notebook paper, and I called information (555-1212) from our rotary-dial phone to find out his address, which they gave without question or concern.

A few weeks later I heard back from Mr. Bailey himself, in a type-written letter wherein he expressed admiration for my love of gardening at such a young age. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to plant a seed in the head of an impressionable child, and his words of encouragement (and the simple fact that he wrote back) had an indelible effect on me. I would revisit Country Flowers often, usually in the dead-middle of winter, when the hope of sunshine and spring was all we had.

It wasn’t until 2001 that I thought of contacting Mr. Bailey again, having been moved by one of the book’s passages, and struggling through another winter in upstate New York. In that letter, I referenced the first one I had written so many years ago, and as he did at that time, he replied again with a type-written letter, the signature betraying frailty and age, but the words still as concise and eloquent as ever. At the end of it he invited me to visit him in New York City, “when the roses bloom”, and that summer I took the train into midtown to do some shopping and see Suzie.

In one of the garish celebrity-themed rooms of the Chelsea Pines Hotel, the air-conditioner was cranked on high. Summer in the city was something I usually avoided, but to meet the man who helped form and shape my lifelong love of gardening, as well as the person who wrote such wonderful words, it would be worth it. Or it would be a supreme disappointment. I wasn’t sure what to expect.

What does one wear to meet a hero? In the heat of a city summer, where the sidewalks bake and the subways broil, all fashion bets are off, and it becomes a matter of what will best stand up to sweat and sun. In this instance I chose a pair of light khakis, sandals, and a short-sleeve button-up shirt in breathable cotton, a faint abstract pattern of white clouds on the lightest of blue skies.

Mr. Bailey’s penthouse was only several blocks away on W. 23^rd Street, but well before our agreed-upon meeting time, I began a slow, leisurely walk to calm my nerves. Though not known to many of my contemporaries, Lee Bailey was a celebrity to me, and not just on a famous level: he was a personal hero, whose eye for beauty was an inspiration, and whose writing taught me the transporting power of words. On reaching the appointed building, I gave my name to the doorman, who politely directed me to the elevator, telling me to take it all the way to the top floor.

No matter how many times I see it, the sumptuous look of wealth always astounds me. The ease of it, the refinement, the quiet serenity – the world is different this high above the city. Even the air is altered – cooler on this summer day, and streaming in through the French doors that opened onto a surrounding roof deck. There is no need for crude air conditioning, and a woman greets me in the hallway, leading the way to meet my idol.

I sit on a couch in the living room, surrounded by understated elegance and finery, and I accept a glass of ice water. Lee walks in slowly, looking older than the book jacket photos, but with a twinkle in his eyes betraying a life well-lived. We share some small talk, and I manage to hold a conversation despite my awestruck status. He suggests we take a walk around the roofdeck, and apologizes that I just missed the roses. A few straggling blooms are all that remain from June’s bounty, but it doesn’t matter.

Somehow, it is enough just being there with my hero. After years of admiring him from afar, I am still the little boy who wrote this gentleman a fan letter, having no connection to him whatsoever aside from the words and photographs he assembled in his book, and yet it is not awkward. We return inside, and he shows me where he does most of his correspondence. Tall shelves of books line the walls and reach upwards to the ceiling. A printer and computer sit on a desk. He is no different from anyone else, yet he has known and created such beauty.

We part shortly after, and I feel honored to have been granted an audience with him on this peaceful summer day. Back on the street, the heat is still there. I loosen a few buttons on my shirt and walk back to the hotel. We will maintain a correspondence for a while – he will send me his latest book and invite me to several of his holiday parties (each a separate post for another time). When I don’t hear from him for a while I send another letter, and a few weeks later I receive a response in the mail with his return address.

Savoring the moment, I bring the letter into the formal living room, settling into the couch and slowly opening up the promise of a hero’s words. It is a short note written in a strange hand by someone that I don’t know, and inside its folds is a copy of Lee’s obituary, several weeks after the fact.

It is a bittersweet moment – the shock of his life being no more and the gratefulness of having been some small part of it, at the very end. Though I did not know him that well, and would consider it much too bold to call him a friend, I knew I would miss him. Without knowing it, he guided me in his own way, his words steering me and keeping me on track, always on the path to beauty, to something better.

A three-four-part look at our wedding party… starting Friday.

When we got married, Andy and I did so out of rather selfish, non-heroic reasons: we loved one another and wanted to commit to each other under a sacred bond, and the blessings of family and friends. We just wanted to formally declare our love and create an official legal partnership. We had no social agenda or political motivation, so the idea of our union paving the way for gay marriage equality never really crossed our minds.

It wasn’t until we were opening the cards and gifts from friends and family that the greater extent and meaning of what we had done came to full realization. We were two gay men who had dared to marry each other, when it’s not even legal in our home state or most of our country, and then celebrate our union in front of 200 people – doctors, lawyers, police officers, co-workers, a Congressman, and family and friends from across the continent. A few of the letters expressed thanks for furthering marriage equality, something neither Andy nor myself thought much about prior to this.

It was an elegantly-framed poem written by a friend that may have affected us the most. To begin with, anyone who can write a poem is pretty impressive for that reason alone. I’ve always found poetry to be one of the most difficult forms of writing to accomplish well. (Somehow I squeaked through with a ‘B’ in the sole poetry course I took at Brandeis, and that was just analyzing poems by others, not writing anything ourselves. Good thing, because, to put it simply and unpoetically, I suck at it.)

Someone who doesn’t suck at it is our friend Skip Montross, whose virtues I extolled a few weeks ago, and who turns out to be the pretty damn good poet who penned the poem for us. That it was written by a straight guy moved us both – that it was from great friends like Skip and Sherri was even more touching. I knew Skip was a good guy – I didn’t know how good until we read this:

“His and His Towels”

By Skip Montross

We searched both high and low,

For the perfect gift to give.

Something that you’d remember,

For as long as you both shall live.

But they don’t make his and his towels you see,

What you’re doing is kind of new.

Sadly the world isn’t there yet,

They’ve not caught up to you.

Some people are convinced,

That theirs is the only way.

They say marriage is not the right of every man,

Especially those who are gay.

But yet you’re both defiant,

And your love you do not hide.

Brave and boastful you share it,

Full of both beauty and of pride.

Those of us who’ve known you,

Through your long and storied past.

Know that yours is the truest of loves,

The kind to ever last.

And as you drink and dance and laugh,

Take a look at your gathered friends,

For in the face of arrogant ignorance,

They stand with you till’ the end.

But worry not of that this night,

Just bask in joy and glory.

For tonight we choose to celebrate,

The “Andy and Alan” story.

(PS to Skip – This totally makes up for changing into a golf-shirt half-way through the evening against my express wishes. All is forgiven.)