A Good-Bye Long Overdue

Currently, our bus is parked at a campground just North of San Francisco.  I came here a couple of times as a child with my family, to see the sights and visit my grandfather who lived in Sacramento. In the cob-webbed cupboards of my mind, I’ve stored images of weaving down Lombard St. in a stuffy rental car; gazing, frightened and intrigued, at the fuzzy image of Alcatraz through the cheap lenses of pre-pay, mounted binoculars; and the towering majesty of centuries-old Redwoods standing as sentries along the rocky streams of Muir Woods.

But each memory is merely a silhouette, a deep outline but no details in the middle, until one moment stands out full and weighty with color, texture, and emotion. 

That moment portrays a long haired child bending over a thorny, blossom-bursting yellow rose bush beside her grandfather.  He is handsome, white hair reflecting off skin tanned by the suns of Hawaii and California over 60 plus years.  His smile dazzles, roping my young heart like he lassoed so many others throughout the years (he left a trail of broken, wandering hearts behind him).  

But not mine. 

With the steady hand of a skilled gardener, he snips the stem of a budding flower at a precise angle.  And he hands it to me. Placing my fingers to offset the thorns, I take it from him and tears trickle down my cheeks.  We are leaving, and I don’t want to say good-bye.

When we got back to Ohio, when the petals began to wilt at their edges and hunch their shoulders, my mom pulled out the creaky ironing board from the laundry room, placed my tired rose upon it and entombed it between two sheets of wax paper. I kept it in my memory box, and every month or so, teetering on an old wooden chair, I’d pull it down from my closet shelf and finger it’s pressed profile. 

Years later, my mom called me to tell me that my grandfather was dying.  She asked me to fly out to Ohio to meet up with her and my dad then fly on to Sacramento to say farewell.  But I couldn’t go.  I wouldn’t go.  I feigned some important obligation I simply couldn’t break.  But really, I was afraid: afraid of flying, afraid of death, afraid of sadness, afraid that the frail old man lying in a bed dying of emphysema would erase what I remembered of him as a child.

But here I am now, driving the same highways he once did and gazing upon landscapes that provided the backdrop for his later years. And I wish I had a do-over.  I wish I had folded fear into my bedside drawer, boarded that plane, and said a proper “good-bye” to my grandfather.

But I didn’t.

A couple days ago, I started out for a jog, turning out of our RV park and down a smooth sidewalk lining dated little houses along a quiet street.  As my gaze swung to my left, I saw an elevated flower bed just ahead of me, lined with rose bushes, each a different color: red, orange, pink…and yellow.

I smiled, tears quivering along the rims of my eyes, and I thought:

I’m not afraid anymore.

When we return from our trip in about 6 weeks and when we have a home again with perhaps a little square of green and brown earth, I think I'll bend over a hole dug with the pink and blue spades of my four children.  And I'll plant a bush that will bloom with yellow roses.

What about you? Do you have a good-bye that is long overdue?

Proof of the existence of God: Beauty is Free

We were on our way back from a little rendezvous with a McDonalds playland in Southern Salinas, when we hit some back-up traffic trying to pull into the truck stop where Willie (the bus) was sleeping.  Chatter from the backseat clued me into the fact that the kids still had a few more ounces of energy to burn and it wasn’t quite 7pm.  So the seed of a thought started blooming in my gray matter.

“Hey, Babe, you want to drive out to Route 1?”

Shawn looked at me, weighing the options in his mind, while a semi ahead of us blew his throaty horn at a stalling colleague.

“Why not?  I’ll run over to the bus and get the camera,” he said.

I almost, ALMOST, said, “Don’t worry about the camera.  Let’s just go before the sun sets.”

But, oh, I’m so glad I didn’t.

I’ve had the opportunity to sample some delicious morsels of scenery on this trip of our ours.  More than once, I’ve whispered, awestruck, “I could definitely live here” in the cool shadows of rocky cliffs or the freeing expanse of brown prairies.  But I didn’t leave my heart- really bury it in the earth and walk away- till we watched the sunset south of the Carmel Highlands on the Pacific Coast Highway.

Now that’s a place I could live.

As we neared the coast and began seeing signs for Monterey and Carmel, Shawn put out the obvious challenge: “Let’s see who can spot the ocean first.”

The kids love this stuff.  Their lazy posture bolted upright and they began scanning the horizon like little owls.  But Dad won this time.  “Look guys!” He pointed to our right where just through the thin bodies of tall trees, the ocean waved at us.

“Oh, wow!”

“Awesome!”

“I see it!”

And see it, we did.

We pulled over at a small alcove and everyone got out to check out the scenery.  Talk about a house with a view...

Of course, I was fully immersed in the gigantically gorgeous surroundings, missing the intricately beautiful touches of nature posed at our kneecaps.  Abra pointed this one out to me and insisted that I take a picture.

The sun kept sliding down the sky, so we got back in the van so we could find the perfect perch from which to watch its final descent.

And perfection presented itself in the form of a modest yet substantial hill jutting ever so slightly out into the ocean's rim.  So we parked up, once again, and I gathered an unravelled sleeping bag in my arms as Shawn and the kids began the jolly march to the top of our lookout.

Let me just say that the scent emitted by the potpourri of plant life on the hill made this experience even more sublime.  Shawn and I spent the better part of our 40 minute drive back to the bus trying to describe the indescribable smell.  "Piney", "Sweet", "Spicy", "A cup of chai" all attempted to give language to the aroma, but none was adequate.  But here were the different instruments in that orchestra of delight.  I wish I knew something about plants, but I know less than nothing.  I can only offer their headshots.

And this one:

And lastly, this little beauty:

Once we reached the top of the hill, the chattering chins and purple lips began: the kiddos were cold.  Here are our ladies snuggling in the sleeping bag:

Of course, as soon as we found a spot, the boys found a better one, further up, complete with a sturdy little bench for our comfort.  So we dug deep and pushed further on.  And what a view from the top.

This was on our left:

This was on our right:

This was behind us:

But this was the main event:

I don't know that I will ever have the money to actually live in Carmel, CA.  But funny enough, in that ritzy little town, I was reminded of the goodness of God.
He made beauty free.
And there is a richness in that.
Oh, and this "Super" man lit the way home.  What a guy.

To the Cavern and Back Again

A lot of people have asked me why I wanted to pack all our stuff into a storage unit in Gap, Pennsylvania, corral our 4 small children onto an old tour bus named Willie, and travel the country for 4 months with no home or job (for my husband) to come home to. 

And here’s my stock answer: “Because I’ve always wanted to travel the country.  I just thought it would be interesting and good for the kids’ education.” 

But, really, that’s like Miss Nevada saying, “I would wish for world peace” with a cellophane smile held up by double D’s in a modest but flattering swimsuit. Sure, she does want peace and I do think all this gallivanting is interesting, but it’s such a one-dimensional answer.

The God-honest truth is:  I wanted to take this trip because I flat out NEEDED it.  (And not like you need a vacation to deepen your tan lines and take a break from doing dishes for a while.)

Last fall, upon the thoughtful recommendation of a dear friend, I began seeing a counselor.  During the preceding year I had slowly precipitated into a shadowy cavern, stumbled deep into its damp, musty depths and found a cruel home for my mind there.  I went about my physical life in the daylight, feeding my children, teaching their lessons, filling up the grocery cart and smiling politely at the check out clerk.  

But as I sat in the parking lot, shifting my car into drive, I felt hopeless. “I can’t do this for the next sixty years,” I whispered to myself under my childrens’ laughter drifting from the back seats.

So I waited, checking off my “to do” list each day, cozying the kids on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and a DVD, then closing my bedroom door and bending over my bed, stifling my sobs with an old down pillow. 

And I waited.

Then one fall day, my friend posed the right question.  “How are you doing?” she asked, not in a flippant, conversation-filling kind of way.  No, she asked with her eyes looking directly into mine and her hand holding my elbow.  And her question unraveled me. 

A month later, after ample dragging of feet and persistent self-declarations that “I can figure this out on my own”, I finally acknowledged my limits and heeded my friends advice.

For my first appointment, I took the back entrance into the office so no one I knew would see me.  I hugged the walls like the lead gun in a covert operation.  Then I entered the office with a costumed air of cheerfulness; I wanted to give the impression that I was “here for the good of someone else, just getting some solid professional wisdom to pass along to a struggling friend”.

I waited nervously in my upholstered chair, nonchalantly flipping through magazines I didn’t care about, sneaking eager glances toward the hallway lined with counselors’ offices. And then she appeared beside me as I hunched over a recipe for apple doughnuts.  I shook her hand, smiled, and strangely felt like a 12 year old meeting her homeroom teacher for the first time; I followed her sheepishly down the hall.

But what transpired in the office down that hallway changed my life.

I began finding hope.

I began seeing goodness.

I began hearing truth.

I began extending forgiveness.

I began feeling love.

But it was just a beginning, the first wobbly steps up the long slippery staircase from my cavern.   I felt confident of what I could leave behind in the shadowy place, the past I could set like a statue upon the rocky altars below.  But now I needed a journey, a physical odyssey, in order to shed layers, build strength in my legs, and move upwards. I needed this trip to lose myself one night…and find myself the next morning. I needed this trip to sacrifice…and slowly, painfully be born again.

I needed this trip to wrestle, bloodied and grunting in the darkness…to at last receive the blessing of light.

The Space Between 3 and 33

Yesterday, we drove along the 5 hours of road from Oklahoma City to Amarillo.  The terrain kept changing itself, first flat and endless, then undulating and pockmarked with small canyons and gorges.  And then, in what seemed a quick breath, the land leveled out once again, dotted with cattle and tattered ranch houses.

“I think I could like owning a ranch,” Shawn said beside me, double-fisting the wheel of the bus while gazing at the sprawling fields.

“Yeah,” I replied, kind of breathy, my eyes still scanning the green and brown prairie outside my window.  The land mesmerized me. 

I don’t know these people who populate these dusty, abandoned towns along route 40 heading west to Amarillo.  From the billboards, I know they don’t have a McDonalds within 70 miles of their front door.  I know that the indigo sky at 8:45 in the evening makes you feel like there is nothing on earth between you and heaven. I know that men in cowboy hats really do drive rusty pick-ups down dirt roads at 80 mph, stirring up dustclouds that look perfectly Hollywood.

And I know that landscape broke my heart and mended it at the same time.  I wanted it so badly, to roll it up like a scroll, slide it into an empty wine bottle, and cork it just to savor it again 20 years from now.  But it went on for miles, far too big to shake out like a sheet and fold it away.

And that’s what I loved about it: I breathe easier with all that space around me.

Tonight, Sammy has made it abundantly clear that sleep will not come quickly.  He fusses and squirms, reaching into his tiny little gut and forging these tortured cries for “drink” and “Mama”. 

So I sit beside him and he dangles his pudgy fingers close to my knee.  He wants me close enough that he can smell the garlic from dinner in my clothes and the sweatiness of spending hours in the Amarillo cool breeze and hot sun. And he wants to touch: he wants me to pet the palm of his hand and rub his satiny soft forearms.

“Scratch my back,” he whispers, reaching his short stubby arm behind him, trying to give me a quick lesson in proper technique.  So I lightly skim my sandpaper fingers across his tiny back and he giggles. Then I lay my palm down flat, moving rhythmically across his baby round ribs undulating beneath his peachy skin. The crying, the rustling, the whimpering all subside; his eyelids bob towards sleep.

And he breathes easier with no space at all.

Growing Hope

In the planning stages of this trip, I remember lying awake at night thinking of all the details that needed to be arranged: parks to stay at, people to meet up with, budgets to maintain.  In my sleep, I juggled these different balls of responsibility, imagining the worst case scenario if everything didn’t line up.  

Then suddenly I’d wake, eyes like white and blue boulders staring into the darkness, my mind ceaseless in it’s fear… “if we don’t find a Wal-mart to stay at on the third night of our second week, what will we do?  What if we have to park in one of those forlorn, polluted truck stops where unthinkable evil lurks in the night?  What if someone shatters our double thick windows or pries open our bolted, metal door and murders us in our sleep, stealing our children away to the most horrendous, hellish future?  We can’t take this trip; the possibilities are unbearable.”

But then a dear friend planted this little seed in my mind: “What if it’s not horrible?  What if you don’t have to control every situation or every person along the way and in the end it turns out to be the most fantastic thing you’ve ever done?”

I was compliant and allowed that seed to stay where she sowed it.  But I held onto my fears.  I spent the first 2 months of our trip, pruning and watering the thorny vine of my fear, occasionally meandering over to my friend's seed, buried deep in the soil, and giving it the tiniest dribble of nourishment. 

Funny enough, it didn’t need much.  While my fear-laden vine required the precise care of sleepless nights and imaginary disasters, my friend’s simple seed sprouted and grew upon the kind emails received on a bouncy bus ride, an unexpected gift from a stranger-now-friend, Easter candy given on the streets of New Orleans, a bank envelope handed to us that we neither expected or deserved, the sincerest hug from a long-lost friend I’ve never met.  Countless small moments and welcome surprises fed and bolstered that small seed, till it’s hearty stalk blossomed forth the most durable petals of hope.

No, I don’t expect the rest of this trip to be perfect.  In fact, I anticipate imperfection at every turn.  However, I’m realizing that giving up control doesn’t leave the door open to distaster; it paves the way for wonderfully unseen opportunities.

And suddenly, I see flowers all around me.

My Favorite 45 Minutes of Today

We had such a great day with Uncle Chub today. First, we went to the Inner Space Caverns near Round Rock. Wow, how beautiful and strange. The Bigs loved it; the Littles tolerated it. Then we had a bite of lunch at Chipotle before heading to the playscape display over at Chub’s office. When we pulled in the parking lot, I heard every decibel of gasping: “Wow!” “Are we allowed to play on these?” “Are these all his?” A tangible heaven to 4 road-weary kids.

And so the play began. Like a child’s version of Supermarket Sweep, they ran helter skelter around the grounds, frantically scaling the small climbing walls, giving every steering wheel they passed a wild spin, then off they ran to the next wooden playhouse or vacant swing. Honestly, they didn’t stay on one playset for more than 30 seconds; they were simply determined to enjoy a little bit of each thing rather than gorge themselves on one slide or swing, missing out on all the others around them. What a strange and hilarious spectacle to watch.

About 10 minutes into the cacophony of play, Shawn decided to reel things in a bit by starting a game of Hide and Seek. I meandered around, helping the Littles find less obvious hiding places (sitting on a swing kind of took away the mystery of Hide and Seek), and cheering for the Bigs as they attempted to outrun their galloping, screeching father.

Then, two rounds in Shawn’s “Smucker-ness” came out.

Now if you know anything about the Smuckers, you know they love competition and they love games. Even now, as Shawn’s aunts and uncles are in their fifties and sixties, they don’t bat an eye at a hot and heavy game of volleyball, complete with diving to the floor for the ball or smashing it over the net. They’re a feisty bunch.

That said, Shawn couldn’t bear that Uncle Chub and I were just refereeing this game of Hide and Seek; he wanted us in on it. Of course, Chub was just waiting for the invitation. Like a spry 10-year old, he jogged off to hide in small shed nestled on the outskirts of the playsets. The Bigs and Littles nervously giggled as they fluttered from potential hiding spots, never sure where to settle. Shawn counted on, yet, there I stood, the battle inside me raging.

Sometimes I think I wear this “mother” role a little too tightly. Occasionally, deep inside, I feel the desire to act childish once again: jump eagerly into a game of hide and seek, tear out a Strawberry Shortcake coloring page and bring it to life with a fistful of crayons, or twirl around in the cool rain with no regard for the mud on my shoes or my sopping t-shirt.

But when those desires whisper in my mind, “Mother-talk” kicks in: “Now, Maile, you really shouldn’t do that. You’re a mom now. If you aren’t behaving responsibly, who will? There always needs to be someone in charge, an adult on the scene. That’s your job now.” So I suppress the desire and just be “Mama”.

Except today. By the time Shawn’s counting reached to fifty, I was snuggled into one of the round cylinders on the train playset, breathless with anticipation, the sweet nervousness of childhood pounding in my chest. And when Shawn trickled away from base looking for prey, I darted for safety, laughing like my 7-year old, light on my feet, and wonderfully weightless in my heart.

Missing Home

I awoke this morning in a bit of a blue funk. Sometimes it’s hard being on the road, being an island in a sense. We go in and out of people’s lives every few days, stepping into their day-to-day rhythm, passing their local grocery stores, the bank they deposit at every week, the gym whose membership card is slowly deteriorating away in their wallet. We watch from the outside, looking in, and I see them living what I lived two months ago.

And I miss it in a way. Don’t get me wrong, I’m loving this trip. In fact, sometimes I worry that I will never be able to live any other way than this. I mean really, what will I do when after three days and the newness wears off, I can’t lock all my desk drawers, bar the refrigerator door, and sit in “co-pilot” next to Shawn as we rumble down the road to a new, exciting destination. It gets my heart all fluttery just thinking about it.

But I also appreciate the beauty of the routine that I see in the lives of those we visit. Because in routine, you create community. If you eat at the same restaurant every Wednesday morning, you begin to know the people who work there, you establish relationships with the gum-smacking waitress and the bleary-eyed busboy. At the pick-up line at school, you find friendship with the chatty PTA president or the stay-at-home dad who always has the best lunchbox ideas. Or mowing your lawn every Saturday, you find kindred spirits in the neighbors three doors down that now watch your kids while you make an emergency room visit or bring you fresh tortillas and shredded Mexican beef along with tender hugs after you miscarry a baby you loved and lost too quickly.

Those are the things I miss on this trip: I miss tangible friends; I miss familiar grocery aisles; I miss my mail lady with the badly permed hair and cheery smile.

I guess I miss home.

Cheetos at the Alamo

Once we got to San Antonio and parked the van away on a side street, the kids and I walked to the Alamo while Shawn did a little errand over at the post office. It’s a strange thing when a whole city, with all its commercialism and big citiness, was birthed from a small 18^th century Catholic mission which still sits unassuming in the center of the contemporary hubbub. Somehow its presence makes everything else seem kind of audacious. But then I liked that the city was so connected to its roots; I want to believe that all “The Alamo” fanfare comes from a deep desire to honor the landmark and not just a chance to make a buck.

Anyway, the shrine, the museum, and the subsequent grounds were stunning in their beauty. Very earthy with a clear Southwestern flavor that makes you want to curl up in the grass to fall asleep and dream of Don Quixote and his fair Dulcinea.

As we made our way into the Shrine, where some of the actual battling occurred, I felt like an uneducated boob. Honestly, I didn’t really have any knowledge about the battle of the Alamo, aside from the fact that Davy Crockett died there, and I only knew that little tidbit because my 7-year-old told me. There I stood, a homeschooling mother, and the only association I had with the Alamo was the trademarked blue and yellow sign of the rental car chain. Pathetic.

But I guess that’s what this trip is really about. I couldn’t possibly expect myself to know detailed facts of every single place we visit. Sure, there are history buffs out there who would gasp at the gaping holes in my intellect, but it is what it is. On the flip side, I, like my children, got to learn about the battle first hand, by standing on the very land where men took up arms against an impossible foe and sacrificed their lives rather than their freedom. I didn’t learn it from a textbook, but I sure as hell learned a lot by standing in the crumbling walls that spurred the Texians toward their independence from Mexico.

I like that kind of education and I feel blessed to have the opportunity to give it to my children. I don’t exactly know what, if anything, they really absorbed today as we read the placards and discussed the various exhibits. But I believe something will stay with them. And one day when Cade’s mind matures enough to truly absorb the meanings of the terms “bravery” and “sacrifice”, I think he will remember his toes touching the line where legend holds that Colonel William Travis, a mere 26 years old, stood before his fellow countrymen and said, “"I now want every man who is determined to stay here and die with me to come across this line."

Or maybe the memory of eating Cheetos on a wooden bench in the courtyard will leave the bigger imprint.

I’m hoping for the former.

Are there any gaping holes in your knowledge that make you wonder if you slept your way through high school and college history classes?

(For an interesting discussion of the legend of Colonel Travis' speech, check out this article by Mike Cox.)

The Pride of Swimming Like an Amateur

The kids and I walked down to the Guadalupe River yesterday. We heard rumors that there was a nice swimming spot, shallow and not too strong. From the moment Lucy’s eyes opened that morning, she begged and whimpered about the river. But there were chores to do and lunch to eat and babies to sleep and school to be done. Each time I said, “After this we will go to the river,” I knew in her head she called me a liar. It did seem to take forever to get ourselves in order enough to head out. But eventually everything got checked off the list, and we buckled our shoes, packed a backpack with all the necessities, and pounded our way down the trail.

I hate describing scenery because I really stink at it; my words never paint what my eyes see. But also, I think there’s a part of my brain that just switches off when a paragraph of nature imagery begins. Even the greats like Steinbeck could lose me by the second sentence. All that to say, I wish I had the vocabulary that could apply enough color and texture and depth to the description of what we saw as we plodded down the stony path that ended at the river. But I have to try.

On our side of the water, gnarly rooted trees lined the bank occasionally petering out to allow a small stony clearing, perfect for chubby feet to toddle upon and splash into the coolness of a river on an early spring day. The other side of the bank, rocks laid flat and then stacked themselves one on top of the other like the craziest pile of gray and brown pancakes, teetering high above our heads and the trees around us.

But really, you had to be there.

I normally hate taking my kids swimming. It always seems like such a chore, all the lathering and pulling of spandex and last minute potty emergencies. I do it because my kids love it, and really, I remember being a child myself and absolutely loving to swim more than other thing on God’s green earth. But when we reached that majestic swimming hole yesterday, I thought to myself, “I could do this every day of my life.” Talk about a conversion experience.

For about an hour and a half, the kids doggy-paddled and climbed the hunched-over rocks sleeping in the middle of the slowly churning current. Lucy, our resident mermaid, slipped through the water like an oily eel, slithering out of sight for a moment, only to pop up seconds later, shrieking with delight and shivering shoulders.

Eventually, I hiked my skirt up, probably provocatively high to some onlookers, and waded out beside the Littles, ever watchful of the curling water, gathering momentum just beyond the place where they played.

“Look at me, Mama!” Abra shouted over and over again. “Look at me, I’m swimming!” Sure enough, she wasn’t. Instead, she floated on her belly and pulled herself along the surface by gripping the stony ground beneath her and slapping her pudgy feet behind her. It most certainly gave the appearance of swimming.

But no matter. She didn’t care. She didn’t watch Lucy’s technique and think, “Really, I should be putting my head in the water, holding my breath, and using smoother, more efficient kicks. Shoot, I really suck at this.” Nope, she did what she was good at and was really proud of herself for it.

“Wow, Abra, you’re doing a great job!” I gushed.

I could learn a few lessons from my 4-year-old.

The Tennessee Top Ten (Part 2)

Apparently the entire world isn't as dependent on internet access as my husband and I are; we are staying at a beautiful state park just outside of San Antonio and their wifi is as elusive as a cold breeze. So I abandoned my husband and 4 children for a coffeeshop 7 miles down the road so I could get this remaining countdown in your greedy paws; enjoy!

Day 6- Lunch at Amelia’s Tea Room- Each time I visit my sister-in-law, Kim, we always set aside at least one afternoon to have a “girls only lunch”. Really, it’s just our way of saying, “We need 2 solid hours without children so we can finish at least one conversation and eat one meal without interruption”. Our husbands consent (sometimes grudgingly) and we escape without good-bye kisses or details of our location; we like the feeling of just evaporating. The other requirement of our lunch is that it can’t happen at a chain restaurant. We want quaintness, complete with stained cardstock menus and Mom and Pop manning the kitchen. This visit, Amelia’s Tea Room and Bakery in Spring Hill met our criteria. Honestly, the homemade bread and chicken salad were spectacular, but I really reveled in just having time to savor every morsel, to laugh, and to breath deep with Kim and my mom (she was in town, too, and she’s a girl so she got to come along, too--hurray!).

Day 7- Killer Tribes Conference- Take two parents who have been traveling with their lovely but lively 4 children for almost two months in an old tour bus named “Willie” and give them a night at a hotel, alone, and a day full of intellectually stimulating conversation, great storytelling, and hot-when-you-eat-it food, and you probably have the two happiest people on planet earth. We thoroughly enjoyed this conference: the inspiring speakers that we heard and wonderful fellow writers that we met. Was this homeschooling, stay-at-home mother a little out of her league? Absolutely. On a typical day, I have a sum total of 3 intellectual conversations. Here is an example of one:

“Mom, do I need to capitalize the word ‘nugget’?”

“Remember, honey, ‘nugget’ isn’t a proper noun, so, no, you wouldn’t capitalize it.”

(Giggling) “But what if it’s a person’s name. You know, like ‘Hi, I’m Nugget.’”

“Well, I guess in that case, yes, you would capitalize it.”

Clearly I was in no condition to be discussing the cultivation of online community, marketing in the digital world, and clarifying one’s platform. By the end of the conference, my brain felt like a pair of anemic legs after running a marathon. But it was a good tired; we’re ready to sign up for next year.

Day 8- Willie Wonka with Ryan- The last night at my brother’s house, all the kids grabbed their assorted blankets and pillows, and piled into the living room for one final movie night. We didn’t have an agenda, just figured we’d find something on t.v. that would put the kids to sleep and semi-entertain the adults. Lo and behold, we stumbled upon the opening credits and eerily cheerful music of "Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory". The decision was made. The kids seemingly overlooked the disheveled appearances of the actors (honestly, were they all systematically man-handled before filming) and the pathetic special effects (come on, 70’s Hollywood, my two-year old could create a more convincing Everlasting Gobstopper machine with a cardboard box, a bed sheet, and a pogo stick). Meanwhile, we adults reminisced about our first experiences with Willie Wonka. I, to this day, am extraordinarily disturbed by the oompah loompahs; my children are far braver than I am; the orange faces and green hair didn’t bother them in the slightest. But I loved that night, sitting beside my big brother, surrounded by our separate broods of children, sharing stories of growing up, and watching the cycle continue in the small bodies curled in our laps.

Day 9- The Drive to Memphis- Since this journey began, my official title has been “co-pilot”. I perch in the bouncy, barbershop-esque chair beside Shawn and watch the radiating blue dot that represents us on my IPhone map app, relaying to Shawn when to turn right, which exit to take, how many hours are left till we put Willie to bed for the night. And occasionally, I do a really poor job at my post. That happened on our drive to Memphis. A simple right turn would have put us on Interstate 40, humming along at a plucky 70 miles per hour towards Memphis. But I said “left”. Thankfully, in return for the additional hour on our trip, we got some visually delicious views of the hilly country in Southwestern Tennessee: two-business towns snuggled in yellow-flowered valleys and cavernous rock quarries yawning between green groves of trees. Some mistakes are worth making.

Day 10- Houston’s with Nancy- I think I’ve finally resigned myself to the fact that I will go up a pants size during the course of this trip. I think I’m okay with that, but the jury’s still out. I bring up that point only because the gastronomically perfect meal I shared with my dear friend Nancy played a large role in my expanding waistline. Our “estrogen lunch” had all the makings of a memorable meal: deep and transparent conversation punctuated by the best veggie burger and ahi tuna salad I’ve ever tasted. Sure, you’re thinking “Veggie burger and salad. Come on. You’re exaggerating the weight gain a little bit, aren’t you?” Indeed, no. We also polished off a plate of chips, queso, and guacamole and shoehorned in a dish of apple cobbler and strawberry shortcake: epic eating for two hand-over-heart foodies. Nancy, again, my deepest gratitude for your hospitality and friendship; we created a memory I will always cherish!

And, there, my friends, is my experience of Tennessee in ten experiences. Thanks for journeying along with me, and please, please, please add your Tennessee favorites in the comments below!!!

The Tennessee Top Ten

For over a week, we had the pure joy of lingering in the lush and varietal state of Tennessee. (A word of warning: We instantly fell in love with Nashville, hence it has been bumped to the top of our “move-to locations” list; head for the hills now, Nashvillians!)

So what did the Volunteer State do to catch my eye? In chronological order (beginning with our first day and ending with our last), I give you The Tennessee Top Ten:

Day 1- The North Atlanta-Chattanooga-Nashville Drive: Crossing over the threshold from Georgia to Tennessee and the subsequent scenery that it involved was breathtaking. At one point, as we drove through the soft hills and valleys of Chattanooga, all six of us were camped at the bus’s various windows gasping at the impromptu waterfalls cascading down the rocky walls of the highway and the houses peppered high upon the ridge overlooking the modest city. “I wanna live up there!” Cade kept shouting, and I simply nodded and smiled in agreement. From such a young age, we instinctually know that there are few things better in this world than a room with a view.

Day 2- Silva Porkchops and Hand-churned Ice Cream: After spending several weeks living on a bus, it was a welcome relief to pull into the charming home of my brother, Ryan, and his wife, Kim. They and their 3 children greeted us with tight hugs, comfy couches and clean bathrooms, all luxuries we never take for granted on this trip. And our second night there they treated us to a memory-searing meal of barbecued porkchops and hand-cranked, homemade vanilla ice cream. Believe me, you’ve never eaten porkchops like these before. And hand-cranked ice cream, come on! Who does that anymore? Apparently Ryan and Kim do, and they’re damn good at it, too.

Day 3- The Adventure Science Center: Eager for a test of our sanity, Kim and I ventured out into Nashville to take our brood of 6 children (Sammy conjured up a case of constipation and got to stay home with Daddy) to the Science Museum on the outskirts of the city. It’s a hodgepodgery of educational fun (especially the poop slide in the Bodyworks exhibit: it farts when you fly out at the bottom!) with a McDonalds-esque playplace in the center of the action; mind you, this playplace is on a serious dosage of steroids, spanning 4+ stories with a lookout at the top that features the city skyline. My legs kept cramping up as I attempted to climb to the top. In the end I couldn’t do it. My nerves got the best of me so I had to take Lucy’s word for it that it was “so awesome” at the top. I’m such a chicken.

Day 4- Seven Little Words: During our stay in Nashville, I became semi-obsessed with this app called “Seven Little Words”. So on the 4^th day as we recovered from the science adventure and my sister-in-law ran errands, I lounged on the couch, breaking up the occasional cousin dispute and eating veggie chips while playing this addictive little game. It’s kind of like a crossword puzzle, but not exactly. Check it out for yourself…if you dare. I excuse my obsession by telling myself that it’s expanding my vocabulary and keeping my mind sharp so I won't end up with an overdone meatloaf for a brain; I suggest you come up with an excuse beforehand so you can ease your guilty conscience when you realize you’ve spent an alarming number of hours staring at a tiny screen mumbling to yourself and ignoring your children.

Day 5- Centennial Park in Nashville: Imagine a much smaller and cleaner “Central Park” with a replica of the Greek Parthenon smack dab in the middle and you’ve got the idea of Centennial Park in Nashville. It’s a gorgeous little space of greenery in the city that is a complete delight to visit. Blooming red tulips dotted the gardens that surrounded the pond that spanned one side of the park. Meanwhile, the Parthenon perched majestically as the centerpiece with children (mine included) running down it’s columned walkways, screaming if only to hear their voices echo. At the far corner of the park, lunch trailers set up shop to feed the hungry hoards from the office buildings bordering the park. It was at one of these trailers that I wrapped my lips around one of the best sandwiches I’ve ever tasted, courtesy of Hoss' Loaded Burgers: an organic beef patty stuffed with gooey cheddar cheese and topped with BBQ sauce, fried onions and cilantro. Mind-altering.

So once again, I’ve gotten a bit long-winded with my top ten so I shall have to continue tomorrow when your mind and eyes are fresh. Till then, my friends…

The Excitement Continues: Part 2 of the Countdown

Photograph by Simply S Photography

Yesterday was merely to whet your appetite.

And the countdown continues...

Top Ten Things I Loved about Florida (Part 2):

5. My Key West Mahi Sandwich at Dexter’s with Janet Oberholtzer- In all the wisdom of a mother and woman, Janet surmised that a certain someone (me) could probably use a little “children- and Willie –free” time during our stay in Orlando. See, Shawn was getting to do all these outrageously wonderful things like spend evenings conversing in poetry over coffee and wine with other writers (and even found himself chumming around with a Mr. Billy Collins). All the while, I sat at home darning socks and milking the cows. Okay, not quite, but might as well. I was breaking up arguments over who got which Lego head and mucking out the stall of my son’s diapers. Hell, I’d rather be sewing and squeezing cow teets. Anyway, Janet saw a need and filled it with a delightful lunch and chat at a gutsy little restaurant called Dexter's. I’ve been on a Mahi Mahi kick since this trip began (totally random) so I caved for a Key West inspired Mahi Sandwich topped with onion rings and Old Bay tartar sauce. When the waitress brought it to the table, I loudly proclaimed that “I could never eat a sandwich that big” and promptly accomplished that very feat. Thank you once again, Janet, for your well-timed invitation.

4. Spanish Moss hanging in the trees- During our wild and wonderful scavenger hunt with Tamara in Gainesville, we visited this sweet little park called Payne’s Prairie. Our children were desperate for the smallest glimpse of a real live alligator, and Payne simply outdid himself. As we walked along the sinkholes and swamps, pointing and shouting (myself included) at each sun-bathing reptile, these gorgeous trees, eerily draped in Spanish Moss, swayed and whispered all around us, like giant Miss Havershams dusting around in ghostly wedding dresses. Hauntingly beautiful.

3. The Sunset on Lido Beach- On the same night that Abra was doing compulsive sand angels, our timing at the beach synced perfectly with an oncoming sunset. As the sun lumbered closer to the western skyline, we talked and laughed beside the lapping sea, like the hundreds of other beach goers that evening. Birds flocked as a giggling and excitable crowd tossed little morsels of food onto the sand. Others walked lazily, sandals hanging from fingers, along the drunken line where the water and beach collide. Some athletic types threw frisbee while most lazy types laid on towels or sat sprawled in beach chairs. The coast was a frenzy of activity until, all at once, as if we were all a part of some subconscious flash mob, every single person on that beach, stood still and watched the sun lie down in the horizon and cover herself with nightfall. I could cry just thinking about it now, the humanness and holiness of that moment.

2. Le Macaron- Centuries ago, way back before we had any children, while Shawn and I were living in England, he surprised me one Valentine’s with a day trip to Paris. Long before dawn on a misty cold Saturday morning, we boarded the Eurostar at Kings Cross station and shuttled our way to the City of Light. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much light leaking through the rain laden clouds that day. It poured all day long, as we walked the café lined streets with my Bon Appetit Restaurant Guide in hand. One restaurant was labeled an “absolute must” on account of their superb macarons. I had no idea what a macaroni was, but when I am told that I simply must eat something, I rarely decline. The restaurant was packed, teeming with lunchtime diners, so I picked a simple chocolate macaron from the gigantic glass display case, and slipped out the front door. What nestled in that brown paper bag was the stuff of dreams, my friends. I won’t attempt to describe one because it is not a verbal experience; it is a physical one. Ever since that day in Paris, my mouth has chased that sublime delicacy. And my journey came to an end at a chic café on St. Armand’s Circle called, simply, Le Macaron. So pleased with myself, I walked out of that shop with a smart little box protecting my bounty: Salted Caramel, Dutch Chocolate, Vanilla Bean, Praline, and Pistachio, and I ate every single one (but only after I fawned over them for a day or two, and then Shawn demanded that I “just eat one already!”).

1. Celebrating Abra’s 4^th Birthday- As soon as this trip was planned back in December, Abra somehow got wind that her birthday would be taking place in Florida. She proceeded to remind us of this fact every…single…day. So when the day finally arrived, March 5^th, we were all worked into a lather about it: the Bigs were eager to shower her with presents, Sammy was eager to open all her presents, and we, the parents, watched, feeling bittersweet towards the vision of our flopsy little girl inching further away from babyhood. With the urging of the Bigs, we got her a Barbie laptop for her birthday, this chintzy hot pink contraption with computer graphics fresh from the eighties. When she opened the present, we squealed with delight, gushing about how fantastic it was; she just stood there and smiled that goofy old smile of hers. I think we could have wrapped up a box of toothpicks and she would have been just as pleased. It was the sheer joy of a birthday that sustained her. “I just love birthdays,” she told Shawn later that day. “Birthdays are the best thing ever!” Well said, Miss Abra; well said.

And there you have it: Florida in a very long nutshell.

Any things I might have missed in the countdown that you simply must add? Please do in the comments below.

Otherwise, back to work all of you!!

Top Ten Things I Loved about Florida (Part 1)

Photo by Simply S Photograpy

My blogger husband, Shawn, used to do these little “Top Ten” lists, back when his blog was a mere toddler. But now that he’s all grown up in the blogosphere, he’s abandoned the “Top Tens” for heavier subjects like theology and women’s rights. Today, I shall take up his mantle and treat you to a good ol' fashioned countdown, however, it will come to you in two installments. I know you live time sensitive lives, but my fingers couldn't be stopped.

On Tuesday we left the Sunshine State after 2 1/2 weeks in her warm splendor. I felt she needed a fonder farewell, so without further ado (the clock is ticking):

The Top Ten Things I Loved about Florida (in a very particular order)

10. Buying a flat of strawberries at Detweiler's for $7 in the middle of March- I ‘m not sure about the rest of you out there, but I have most certainly noticed the hike in food prices, especially since leaving on this trip. Back in Lancaster County, I did most (if not all) of my grocery shopping at BB’s Grocery Outlet, where I could get 32oz. containers of organic yogurt for $0.99. That’s not reality, folks. So when a whopping huge tray of strawberries presents itself for the measly price of $7, I see snack time taken care of for the whole entire week and pounce on that deal.

9. The Bat Sanctuary in Gainesville- Towards the end our adventurous day out with Tamara Lunardo & Co., she mentioned that perhaps we might want to meet up with her later that evening to watch thousands of bats fly around the University of Florida campus. Okay, so those weren’t her exact words, but that was the gist of it. I was intrigued and freaked out at the same time, but thought, “Hey, this is a chance of a lifetime. Twilight be damned, I’m going to see the bats!” And what a spectacle it was! Two houses built on really high stilts sit in a small clearing right in the middle of the university. In these houses, thousands of bats live, and each night, at dusk, they all fly out toward the lake just across the road. The night we went, the show had an added feature when a hungry hawk showed up for a dinner at the bat smorgasboard As the flying mammals came streaming from their homes (really, they just look like birds; it wasn’t that creepy), the hawk would slice through the air, picking off the ill-fated ones. Greedy little monster made at least 3 or 4 trips to the buffet (but it did make it all the more exciting for us onlookers).

8. The Sand of Lido Beach- I realize that just about a week ago I wrote a post, cursing the beach and it’s grainy counterpart, sand. I, in fact, wrote that post before going to Lido Beach and sinking my calloused toes beneath the powdered-sugar sand that surrounds it. Really, it was lovely, and the whole family got into the fascination. We were there for a family picture session with Shawn’s sister, Shar, but our youngest daughter simply couldn’t resist the allure of the sand. In her flouncy little dress, she laid her body right down, face first, and began making snow angels in the sand. “Mama, I just love this sand; it’s so soft!” she kept shouting. If I was 30 years younger and less concerned about showing my underwear in public, I would have done the same thing.

7. Pinecraft- I first came to this Amish/Mennonite/Beachy/"Any group that requires women to where a head-covering” neighborhood back in the early days of our marriage. If you’ve never experienced this little nook of the universe, consider taking a detour and check it out if you are ever in Sarasota. It's truly a walk back in time, where bikes rule the roads and the local ice cream stand is filled to bursting each and every night of the week (except Sundays, of course). And the part I probably enjoyed the most (besides the ice cream; that’s a given) was playing Black Rook with Shawn’s family in the evenings. It’s a card game, yes, but they throw in these coy little terms like “trump” and “bump” that keep it edgy all at the same time.

6. Three-wheel Bikes- Without #7, this line item wouldn’t exist. Why in heaven’s name these overgrown tricycles haven’t hit the mainstream, I will never know. Honestly, I love these bikes. Fun, because you feel like a 3-year old all over again, and practical, because they have a gigantic basket attached to the back, perfect for hauling anything from laundry, to groceries, to small children. I’m sure there are drawbacks, but I have yet to find one.

By now I am sure I have eaten up at least 3 to 4 minutes of your much-cherished lunch break, so I shall save the remainder of my list for tomorrow. Till then, I leave you with bated breath, I’m sure.