Chicken Noodle Gravy

Boston Strong

2013-04-22T19:10:00.000-04:00

A city has a pulse, a soul. It can be heard in the symphony of sounds that play out on its streets; it can be felt in its old buildings and in its rich culture; and it can be seen in the unique character of its people. This pulse continues in good times and in bad. It beats through happiness and strife. It endures, and in a nation as strong and proud as the United States, the pulse from some cities is so loud and distinct that their identities are often known and treasured around the world.

Cities, like New York and San Francisco, like New Orleans and Atlanta, like Nashville and Seattle and many, many more, exist as both independent entities and brilliant accompaniments to their nation. They shine with rare qualities that make them stand out from the crowd, that make them representatives of our great nation.

Boston is one of those cities. It’s always stood out, and following the events of April 15, 2013, it will stand out now more than ever.

On the third Monday of every April, Massachusetts and Maine observe Patriots’ Day, a civic holiday that commemorates the anniversary of the Battles of Concord and Lexington, the first two battles of the American Revolutionary War. Schools and businesses are closed. Festivities ensue.

Boston celebrates this day of patriotism and pride with the running of the Boston Marathon, the world’s oldest annual marathon. This year’s marathon, however, was clouded by the actions of two terrorists. Just before 3:00pm, hours after the race had begun, twin explosions rocked the finish line of the marathon, sending spectators and runners alike into a state chaos and panic.

Extraordinarily, even before what had happened was completely clear, some people were charging towards the scenes of the explosions. Video of the event reveals some of the heroes of that day, selflessly running towards danger to save anyone they could.

That was the first indication of how Boston would react to the horror and terror of the attack. Instead of folding under, instead of running away in fear, the city and its people would hold their heads high in the days following the bombings. They would prove to exemplify their rallying cry of “Boston Strong.”

While the details of the attack were still being revealed and the suspects were still at large, the city reacted in the only way it knew how: with strength and pride. Unsure of what the days after the attack would bring, Bostonians pulled together as if to say, “You picked the wrong city to mess with.” During the Bruins game on the Wednesday night following the marathon, their mettle was further proven as the entire crowd joined in with the national anthem, all but drowning out the singer there to perform.

Mirroring the moment at the Bruins game, a chorus of voices calling for love and justice has risen to all but drown out the evil deeds of two men, who were identified and subdued in record time, a truly amazing feat performed by both federal and Massachusetts law enforcement. These voices represent a city and a nation that values freedom and justice.

Yes, Boston has a pulse, and today, that pulse is beating stronger than ever, and while it mourns the loss of three bright young lives, it proves that evil actions will not define it, that dark clouds won’t hang over its buildings and trees and streets paved with heart, strength, and bravery. It has been and will forever be Boston Strong.

Number 7

2013-04-14T17:25:00.000-04:00

The Famous Slide

“Braves win! Braves win! Braves win!” I can still remember Skip Carey yelling those sweet words. I had been sprawled out on our living room floor, eyes glued to the television, tomahawk chopping the night away. I was nine-years old and had a pretty serious passion for baseball. As Skip yelled, I danced across the room, screaming and shouting for my Atlanta Braves.

Sid Bream sliding into home base on that fateful night in 1992 is one of those moments that just sticks with you. Great baseball can deliver those moments, and there’s a new baseball team in my life now that I expect will deliver some awesome ones.

My nearly four-year old nephew Garrett started playing t-ball this year. He plays for a less famous Braves team and is the number 7. Naturally, I’m pretty excited that he wears Mickey Mantle’s number, and I’m absolutely convinced that he’s going to be the next Chipper Jones or perhaps Greg Maddox, ‘cause y’alll this boy can throw!

He had his first game over the weekend. Number 7, with a slightly too big uniform and face perpetually smudged with dirt or chocolate, covered first and third and hit a couple of line drives. He ran the bases like a pro and slid into home with a finesse that would make even Sid Bream jealous. Sliding into home and running the bases are his favorite moves, but his real talent lies in his hitting and throwing.

Naturally, I’m partial, but I’ve never seen a three-year old with a better arm than Garrett. I see baseball scholarships and major league pennants in his future. Of course, I won’t push; he’s got his entire future ahead of him, so if he decides to give up baseball and play the guitar instead, he’ll have his Aunt Katie’s undying support. But I do see a little natural talent in the way he tosses that ball.

Sunday afternoon was spent with a family game of baseball in the backyard. Mama and Daddy (Nana B and Papa to Garrett) set up a makeshift baseball diamond, complete with a chair as first base and terracotta planters as second and third. A busted up stick from an oak tree served as home plate.

Papa pitched, and Garrett was first up to bat. He connected on the first pitch, and the crowd went wild. He made it all the way to third, and the tone of the game was set.

We soon learned that baseball according to Garrett’s rules was a little different. The little smarty pants took full advantage of the chair base, sitting down every time he made it to first, and he gave a whole new meaning to the word switch hitter. If ever he swung and missed a pitch, he’d turn around and face the catcher, my husband Jeremy, and say “Now, you throw!” And the catcher would become the pitcher.

Despite some initial confusion over the chair base and switch hitting, it was easily the best baseball game I’ve ever played in or watched. I see big things in Number 7’s future.

Piano

2013-03-04T19:29:00.000-05:00

Source: nadjaseale.com via Sarah on Pinterest

The piano sits silent in MawMaw’s dining room. It collects dust and knick knacks and is all but forgotten by everyone who visits.

As a long-legged, scabbed-knee little girl, I was fascinated by that piano, spent countless hours sitting on its bench, exploring its secrets. I would caress the slightly yellowed keys, press up and down on the squeaky pedals with feet that just barely reached. Sometimes, MawMaw would join me on the bench, and together we’d play chopsticks until the whole household would groan in collective annoyance.

MawMaw can play by ear. She has no need for music; she can just magically find the notes on the yellowed keys, some inherent skill for rhythm and tune that still escapes me to this day. Her skill fascinated me as a child. To be able to sit down at that lovely instrument and just play was something I yearned for, and MawMaw yearned for one of her grandchildren to follow in her footsteps and love the piano as she did.

“She has the long, graceful fingers of a piano player,” I remember her telling Mama and Daddy, a hopeful tone in her voice. Looking down at my stubby, fat fingers now, I wonder how they might have ever appeared long and graceful, but in Mawmaw’s eyes, they were.

Because of her and my keen interest her piano, Mama and Daddy decided to pay for piano lessons for me. Luckily, my Aunt Dera taught lessons. Two nights a week, I went to my aunt and uncle’s house in Tallapoosa to receive the lessons and put my piano-playing fingers to work.

Their glossy black piano was much different from the oak upright that MawMaw played. Its keys were whiter than white and gleamed as my fingers danced across them. Dera patiently sat beside me on the bench and introduced to me the unfamiliar language of music.

Notes and scales and music books cluttered the desk stand above the keyboard, as well as my mind. Happily, and it took plenty of long, frustrating hours of practice, I finally learned a couple of songs. I could pound out a decent “Jingle Bells” and “Jesus Loves Me,” but my specialty by far was the celebratory notes of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”

When I sat down at MawMaw's piano last weekend after gorging myself on her yummy roast and potatoes, my fingers found the notes of "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing." It took a couple of tries and a few missed keys, but the song came back to me, hesitantly at first and then stronger. The piano seemed to remember me.

Unbidden, tears filled my eyes as I reacquainted myself with this old friend from childhood, its keys and pedals as familiar to me as any doll or toy that I ever played with. The knob was still missing from the key cover where I had twisted and turned it a million times in play. The keys were still yellowed and older than when I last touched them, but as beautiful as any instrument I had ever seen.

After my impromptu reunion, MawMaw sat down with us and reminisced of times when PawPaw had asked her to play for him. She would oblige and play for a long while; when she’d return to him in the living room, he’d be propped up in his recliner, sound asleep. We laughed, as she told us how she’d ask him if he was listening, and he would smile and say he heard every note, that he was just resting his eyes.

I can almost hear him say it, eyes closed, big grin on his face. The piano was a gift to her from him, an outward sign of their shared love. I guess that's probably why I love it so, because when I look at it, I see PawPaw's heart, and when I play it, I hear his heart.

It's true that the piano may sit silent in MawMaw’s dining room now, but in this girl's heart, the memories attached to it will play on forever.

Change - Dedicated to the Hedin Family

2013-01-14T20:33:00.000-05:00

Change, it’s the only thing we’ve been able to rely on lately. The last few months have been a whirlwind of change and renewal in the Ross household, and while I’m happy about all of the changes and satisfied with the direction our lives have taken lately, I’ll have to admit it’s all been pretty exhausting.

It started over the Summer. Jeremy enrolled online at Jacksonville State University. Since we married in 2007, he’s been working on-and-off to obtain his degree. The summer of 2012 marked the most serious and permanent jump towards this effort, and it also marked the entrance of college loans into our lives.

I didn’t anticipate the stress these loans would add to our lives. I had been fortunate enough to have the HOPE scholarship while in college, so I hadn’t accrued mountains of student loan debt. Also, Jeremy and I had lived under pretty strict self-inflicted financial rules for the duration of our married life and were hard-core avoiders of debt that wasn’t a mortgage.

In an instant, all that changed.

Also changing was my professional life. My supervisor and mentor moved on to another job. Other factors at work started shifting; my footing became less and less sure. And it became more and more clear that it was time to move on. I spent several months in a state of unrest. I was unsatisfied with the direction of things; I felt restless and impatient.

I changed during this time. I became Katie Version 2.0. I was myself, but I was stronger. I was more confident. I was less willing to settle. I was less willing to let people walk all over me. At the time, I didn’t even recognize the shift in myself. I only felt the struggle, the frustration. I overlooked the benefits of hardship. Such is human nature.

Blessed relief came in the form of a new job in December and that’s when I noticed the difference in myself. The weight that was lifted with my new job felt nearly like a personality transplant. The stress that had driven my life for so long seemed to evaporate. The happiness that was always just below the surface bubbled up, and I was the Katie that I wanted to be again.

As my new job evolves, as I find my footing and forge my new path, my happiness seems to only grow. As scary as it was to make the first leap from comfort zone to unchartered waters, I’m so relieved that I made that dive, that I’m beginning to make a real splash in my new career.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of another change. Jeremy will be embarking on a new part-time endeavor. As usual, I feel the butterflies and uncertainties that each new challenge brings. Doubt and hesitation make my heart skip a few beats as I think about the days and weeks to come.

With work and school and new-found hobbies and all of the wonderful things we want to try and do, how will we find time for it all? How will we handle all of these changes? How will we embrace new choices and goals and dreams?

I don’t know. I do know that we have survived change before. I do know that life is change and that I better get used to it. I do know that the only thing we can rely on in the coming months and years is that the world is spinning, and we’re going to need to run to keep up.

I do know that when it’s all said and done we’ll be able to see clearly the changes in ourselves and how through hardships and strife, through love and hate, through dark days and sunny, we only become better.

Hi friends,

My blogging friend Nina and her husband Tom are facing some dark days now. Nina is the author of ArtsyNina. She is the kind, witty mother of Jack and June and the wife of Tom. On January 5th, Tom was in a horrible snowmobile accident that left him seriously injured. He sustained numerous injuries to both legs and arms, to his head, his spine, etc., and his road to recovery is going to be long and difficult.

Unfortunately, the financial burden of this recovery is difficult as well. Because Tom just started a new job recently, he doesn't qualify for FMLA, and Tom and Nina are facing medical bills that will just keep piling up as his recovery goes on.

So that Tom can focus on his priority, which should be his recovery, a GiveForward site has been created in his honor to assist with the medical bills. If you are able to donate even a few dollars toward the Hedin family, I can assure you they will be appreciated. This young family is just like our own families; they just happened to stumble upon a bad turn of events. Even if you are not able to give, please help to share Tom and Nina's story.

Thanks for reading!

There is Always Some Light

2012-12-17T09:48:00.004-05:00

I am not a parent. I am not one of the millions of people who will send my child back to school in a changed world on Monday morning. I will not experience that moment of doubt or hesitation as I send my child off to a place that should be as safe as their own home, holding on to them a little longer than usual as I wrestle with emotions that no parent should ever have to feel. I will not have to have that difficult conversation with a child of seven or of seventeen, struggling desperately to answer an earnest question of “why,” when I don’t even know the answer to that question myself.

I am not a teacher. I am not one of the millions of people who choose to care for and guide future generations, who do so with a loving and patient hand. I won’t look into the faces of twenty or thirty kids who are as dear to me as my own, choking down that sickening feeling of “what if.” I won’t have to attend a training session on what to do if a worst case scenario, heaven forbid, ever pays visit to my own school.

I am not a lot of things, but what I am, what we all are, is human. And collectively, on Friday, December 14, we, as teachers, as parents, as aunts, uncles, grandparents, friends, and as humans, mourned a great loss. A loss of twenty precious angels, aged six to seven, innocently going about their day at school. A loss of six incredibly brave adults, adults who sought to protect those angels, adults who left behind their own angels and loving families. An intangible loss of security, of confidence, of feeling safe where one should feel safest. Something, that some of us, will never get back.

As we mourned on Friday and throughout the weekend, some of us naturally turned towards anger. We shook our fists and raised our voices. We screamed questions of “why?” and “how can we prevent this from happening again?” We offered up our own solutions, citing better gun control laws, easier access to mental health resources and education, bringing religion into schools, teaching better values at home.

We pointed towards all of the usual suspects, desperately seeking resolution, desperately reaching out for some kind of tool to prevent this horror from ever touching us again.

But even in our anger, even in our frustration, confusion, and sadness, we reached out. In the days that followed that unspeakable horror, the world seemed to swallow up Newtown, Connecticut and its mourning citizens in a collective embrace of helping hands, of shoulders to cry on, of shared tears. There were teddy bear and greeting card drives, words written to ease minds and to incite change, dollars collected to provide support to a broken community.

Even in darkness, there is always some light. In this case, it glows from a million hearts from around the world, who collectively grieve for the parents, the teachers, the children, the friends, and the families of those touched by Friday’s event.

I am not a parent. I am not a teacher. But I am and, forever will be, touched by the events of Friday, December 14, 2012 and by the aftermath of love and kindness that restored faith and comforted, not just victims, not just families, but the whole of humanity. Let us not remember the evil that spurred this immeasurable loss. Let us remember the love that caused the world to reach out, the heroes who will undoubtedly continue to emerge, and the spirits of those sweet angels who are now in the arms of a loving God.

All the way down here in Georgia, my light shines for you, Newtown.

Source: 3.bp.blogspot.com via Courtney on Pinterest

The Thankful Turkey

2012-11-22T08:31:00.000-05:00

Source: modernhepburn.tumblr.com via Lauren on Pinterest

On our bulletin board at work, there’s a Thankful Turkey. He’s colorful and bright and has two rows of feathers making up his tail. Each feather has something written on it. The first row has a name of each person in our office and why we’re thankful for that person. The second row is made up of feathers that represent why each person is thankful to work there.

Really, he’s just a piece of clipart that was printed out and pinned to the board. Really, it is just simple words that are written on his fanned out tail. Yet, really, the Thankful Turkey is a whole lot more. He’s a reminder, a lot like the holiday he represents, to stop and remember why we care, why we love each other, why we’re so blessed.

For the entire month of November, my Facebook page has blown up with updates from friends and family of reasons why they’re thankful. Thankful for family. Thankful for friends. Thankful for the simple things. ‘Tis the season to be thankful, no doubt, and it warms your heart to see so many people counting their blessings.

I didn’t participate in the 30 days of thankful on Facebook, and the Thankful Turkey at work barely skimmed the surface of my gratitude, so I wanted to share a few of the things I’m thankful for this year with you, my readers.

Now, I could easily do the standards. I’m obviously thankful for my amazing parents, my loving husband, my wonderful sister, and darling nephew. I’m thankful for my extended family, for my cats, for having a job and a roof over my head.

But I’m also thankful for the details.

I’m thankful for waking up to warm blankets on cold mornings. I’m thankful for long, deep-into-the-night, philosophical discussions with my husband. I’m thankful for friends who are diverse and different and who bring new opinions and experiences into my life.

I’m thankful for the experience of walking on the beach in November and watching the sun set over the waves and for the sight of a Magic Kingdom stretching towards an impossibly blue sky.

I’m thankful for the memories of grandparents now gone and for the stories and hugs shared by the one still here. I’m thankful for the sticky kisses of a three-year-old nephew who lights up the world of everyone he meets.

I’m thankful for the taste and warmth of potato soup in the winter and the chills of ice cream in the summer. I’m thankful to be Southern and to know my history and to know that I live in one of the friendliest places on the planet.

I’m thankful for the words that flow easily from my fingertips and for the ones that stick and keep me up at night. I’m thankful for the storytellers who came before me and who made me love to weave a tale and to pour my heart out on paper.

I’m thankful for spending four fun and sometimes difficult years in the English Department at the University of West Georgia. I’m thankful for the lessons learned there and at Bremen High School and in the school of life. I’m thankful for the student loans that will allow my husband to earn his degree within a few short years.

I'm thankful for hard-earned experience and for an amazing team of coworkers for the last four years. I’m thankful for new beginnings and the new journey I will embark on starting December 3rd. I'm thankful for unanswered prayers and for opportunities that you don't always see coming.

I'm thankful for so much, for the little things and for the big things that fill my heart.

Happy Thanksgiving from Chicken Noodle Gravy!

Stormy Weather

2012-11-06T20:28:00.002-05:00

“When it rains…”

“…It pours!” My friend finished my sentence loudly and with tons of feeling.

We’d both been having a rough couple of weeks: those types of weeks when nothing seems to go right and when everything closes in on you. The domino effect of bad luck had invaded our lives, and we were in one of those dreaded funks.

Looking back, the things that were bothering us weren’t really all that bad. They were simple things, the bumps and turbulence that life hands you sometimes…just to make sure you’re still paying attention. It’s those kinds of times, those kinds of bad days and frustrating moments, that make the good days that much better. It’s important to keep things in perspective, to not get bogged down in the bad, and to always appreciate the good.

It’s easy to say all that now, looking back, having watched a week of devastation on the East coast from Super Storm Sandy, having heard about the countless tragedies affecting those around us, tragedies much worse that the simple problems I had been facing. But even those facing tragedies and bad days today will surely have a brighter tomorrow…that’s just the ebb and flow of life.

And I sincerely hope that that’s also the ebb and flow of government and the future of our nation. Let’s face it, y’all; America is in one of those funks I described earlier. Our nation is having a “bad day.” We’re still the greatest nation in the world, but the beauty of America, the beauty of freedom and democracy, there’s been a shadow cast on it lately.

We used to be united; a country full of opinions and differences but that was ultimately cohesive: a team, a family. We’re not united anymore, though. Opinions and differences that were once respectively shared now only seem to tear us apart; the politicians leading us jump on those differences, highlighting them, driving the wedge between us further and further down.

The last few weeks have been a blood bath. Television, Facebook, Twitter: everyone’s been abuzz with election commentary and mudslinging. On Facebook and Twitter alone, I’ve witnessed countless personal attacks over whose voting for whom and whose opinion is “right.” Friends fight with friends, and the division between us is driven even further.

But like I said, maybe this is just a funk, a rough period for America. Maybe one day soon the economy will turn around and relieve some of the stresses Americans have been feeling. Maybe one day soon politicians will reach across the aisle and join together on making important changes. Maybe one day soon we’ll be a great nation united once again, with respect and love for each other and all of our freedoms.

On Tuesday, I will vote. I will exercise my right and freedom as an American citizen. I will do so among countless fellow citizens, citizens who may not be casting the same vote as I but for whom I have nothing but the utmost respect. On Tuesday, we have a chance for a new beginning, no matter who is elected. We have the opportunity to start fresh and come together once again. We will vote for different candidates; we will never see eye-to-eye. But we will always remember that we are a nation, a nation of diversity and unity that has the potential for greatness.

Stormy weather will pass, and the sun will shine once again.

Author's Note: This was written in response to The Lightning and the Lightning Bug's prompt "Storm." Hope you'll join us!!

On Halloween Past

2012-10-28T17:47:00.000-04:00

For three years in a row, I was a black cat. With long whiskers and a little nose drawn on my face with eyeliner, a tight headband with felt ears, and a black turtleneck and leggings, I pranced around our neighborhood, meowing, hissing, and embracing my role with verve and vigor. Sure, I wasn’t the most creative at dressing up for Halloween, but it was a holiday I loved nonetheless.

I looked forward to scooping squishy handfuls of guts and seeds out of big orange pumpkins. On such occasions, Mama would cover the kitchen table in yesterday’s newspaper, preparing the work space of the family artist: Daddy. Daddy’s deft hand would then trace that year’s masterpiece onto the surface of the pumpkin. I loved to watch him, as he cut out each sliver and chunk, the spooky face of the gourd emerging before my very eyes.

After the carving was complete and as the sun was setting, we’d deliver, with much ceremony, the finished Jack O’Lantern to its rightful spot on the front porch. Mama would place a small tea-light in the bottom, light the wick, and Jack would come to life, glowing spookily in the early dusk of the October night.

These memories of early Halloweens are still treasured, and the same sort of excitement that gripped me as a child when the air would cool and pumpkins would start popping up on front porches still bubbles up every fall.

In a perfect recreation of that childhood ritual, Jeremy and I line the kitchen table with newspaper. The perfect pumpkin, which has been chosen with much consideration to carving surface, stem, and color, graces the table, as my mad scientist husband brews up a suitably unique theme. Last year was “Cannipumpkin,” in which a smaller pumpkin was affixed to the larger one as if it was being eaten. This year the theme seems to be leaning towards zombies; they’re trendy right now, and we want to be as timely as possible.

Cannipumpkin

My grown-up Halloween doesn't include the trick-or-treating of childhood days gone by, and to be honest, I sometimes miss the process of going door-to-door, smiling shyly, and receiving the fruits of my labor. I miss getting home from a hard day’s night and dumping that plastic pumpkin and all of its treasure into the living room floor. Organized child that I was, I would group my candy by type and color. The bounty of Snickers bars, Smarties, and Dum-dum pops would sustain my sweet tooth for days.

Nowadays, I have to purchase my own trick-or-treat candy for those potential ghosts and goblins that will grace my front porch on Halloween night. I wish I could attest to being one of the “good houses” with the best candy, but alas, the alarmingly high price of that “best candy” means we offer mostly off-brand fare. Nevertheless, we still get to enjoy the antics of trick-or-treaters, even though we’re a little bit too big to join them. I’m lucky enough to live in a big, friendly neighborhood with lots of families…which is an even bigger reason we have to go with the cheaper candy.

There’s just something really special about Halloween. It’s the only holiday that occurs during my favorite month. It’s at the perfect time of the year weather-wise. It’s got candy. And even more important, it’s got that special combination of mystery, spookiness, and family-time that makes for some wonderful memories.

Happy Halloween! May your trick-or-treat bag be filled with Snickers, Milk Duds, and Skittles and all the other great goodies of the "good houses."

I Remember

2012-09-30T20:13:00.000-04:00

Memories are funny things. Sometimes they are long-lasting, at other times fleeting. Sometimes they are triggered by pictures, sometimes by nothing more than a familiar smell. They are fragile and delicate and ever-so-precious, and I didn’t really realize until recently, really within the last two years, quite how much I should treasure them.

One of my first memories happened when I was three-years old. It was dramatic enough to stick, I guess. Horse-lover that I was, and have always been, I somehow thought it would be a good idea to take my rocking horse and put it up on my bed, so that I would be up higher. For a few fleeting moments, I was a cowgirl, riding off into the sunset of my bedroom, but then I slipped, fell off the bed, and the rocking horse came tumbling after. Right onto my left arm…breaking it.

I don’t remember the pain. I don’t remember crying, like I’m sure I did. But I do remember the yellow plastic of that rocking horse. I remember its red yarn hair, and its blue nose. I remember the sound of the sand that weighted its bottom as it slipped from the bed and onto my bony arm.

It’s almost a miracle that I can remember those simple details, and of course, there are other miracle memories that are a lot more precious, like the twelve years of memories I have of my grandfathers.

I remember PawPaw telling stories of the Navy and his pet kangaroo in Australia, and I remember Dorsey singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” and tickling me into a fit of giggles. I remember PawPaw rocking on the front porch with a gray and white cat in his lap, and Dorsey walking across the yard with an entourage of rescue dogs trailing behind him.

I didn’t know that I would only have twelve years with them. If I had, I think I would have written things down, things that have all but slipped away now. Things I can’t ever get back. Sometimes, our memories betray us that way.

My grandmother’s memories betrayed her in a bigger way. When her confusion first began, we worried. We took her to doctors and specialists, fearing the worst, hoping for only the best. Alzheimer’s is an awful disease…and that’s a gross understatement. It steals those things that are most precious to us, those memories we love and treasure, those pieces of loved ones gone by.

It can be fickle. Some days, it grants its victim clarity; they are back in the present, sharp and clever as ever. But most days, it thrusts them into the past, a past where worries from yesterday haunt their troubled eyes, where those long-dead trip in and out of their lives. It causes confusion and pain, for both the victim and their family.

For two long years, we watched my grandmother struggle with this disease. We held onto good days like gold and cried on the bad days. There’s a reason they call Alzheimer’s “The Long Goodbye.”

She passed away two weeks ago. Stubborn spit-fire that she was, she never stopped fighting in those two years, fighting for herself and for her family, and now her fighting has ended. Finally, that long, hard struggle to hold onto those priceless memories is done.

Her memories have been fully restored, and she’s with my grandfather and my Gram and Papa now. Our hearts ache, but we’re comforted by that, by the fact that she’s her old self again with all her memories…a gift for eternity.

“I remember.” Two simple words that now hold a world of meaning. Fleeting and delicate as can be. The good ones are a gift, write them down, and lock them away for yourself and for the future.

My Meme, 16 years old, Southeastern Fair

Windows and Doors and Hope Rekindled

2012-08-28T22:32:00.000-04:00

Source: keepcalmandlovedisney.tumblr.com via Megan on Pinterest

Everything happens for a reason. Or so they say.

From the time we're old enough to know true disappointment, it's repeated to us like a mantra, a lulling pacifier designed to sugarcoat failure and despair.

It's a sentiment that wears many hats.

There's the standard: Well, everything happens for a reason.

The educational: Must be a lesson in there somewhere.

The hopeful: When one door closes, another opens. Or the variation: When a door closes, a window opens.

The romantic: There's plenty of fish in the sea.

The religious: God works in mysterious ways.

Whether it's uttered to soothe the wounds of unrequited love, the smarting ache of a hard-learned lesson, or the tormenting letdown of a wish unfulfilled, we've all heard the phrase and its many cousins. We've all experienced disappointment, unanswered prayers, and the like. That's life, as they say. Whoever they are.

In the midst of sorrow and defeat, it's a hard thing to hear. I suppose it's difficult to see how something positive could come from something negative. At least in that moment it is.

I've lived through one of those moments recently. The worst of the disappointment has passed, though I still have times where I want to scream "why!?!?" at the top of my lungs. I think, for the most part, I'm now at a point where I'm looking towards the future, wondering what windows and doors are hanging open, waiting for me to step through.

I've never been a terribly patient person. I want things to happen NOW. Waiting until Christmas to buy that new bauble that caught my eye? Not gonna happen. Waiting to adopt a new cat until "cat fever" has left, and I'm thinking straight again? Nope, not me. Waiting to get to know a little better the man I met online only months ago before I marry him? Nah, it'll all work out.

I'm just not a wait-and-see kind of girl. So waiting to see what kinds of new opportunities might be just beyond the horizon is not really my cup of tea. But you know what? There's a lesson to be learned here. Don't they also say that good things come to those who wait?

Patience, Katie. Patience.

So, I sit and wait and hope, hope, hope. Because everything happens for a reason, and for everything there is a season. And y'all, my season has always been fall.

Here's to windows and doors and hope rekindled.

Source: capecodcollegiate.tumblr.com via nk on Pinterest

Funk

2012-08-03T08:16:00.000-04:00

Source: vkontakte.ru via Letie on Pinterest

And I don't mean music.

I'm in one. Bad.

A writing funk of epic proportions. And a life funk. It's been about two months now. It sucks.

It happens. We all know it. Life throws you a curve ball, and inspiration flies out the window. I'm not going to go on and on about it. It's all been said before. By me. By others. We're human. Life isn't perfect. Writing isn't perfect.

The second anniversary of Chicken Noodle Gravy is fast approaching. A little over a month away. So crazy to think that it's been nearly two years since I started blogging about my love of a strange family dish most people have never even heard of.

Looking back on the last two years, I'm happy. Happy to see the new friends I've made. Happy to see the changes in myself.

I'm more confident. I write more. I'm now being paid to write. My relationship with my husband is stronger and happier than ever. I'm more positive. My outlook is always improving. I still worry, but I don't wallow in my worry quite as bad. I stand up for myself. I don't let everyone walk all over me anymore. Mostly.

Despite some minor irksome details over the last couple of months, things are pretty amazing, and I'm one happy girl.

Take that, Funk.

War on the Front Lawn

2012-07-08T18:54:00.000-04:00

The seven stinging aggressors

should beware the burning
of gasoline retaliation.

For Lightning and the Lightning Bug's Eleven prompt. Our challenge was to tell a tale in eleven words. I decided to use my yellow jacket encounter as inspiration.

Waffle House Love

2012-06-26T19:51:00.000-04:00

Our first date was at a Waffle House. After he drove 2,829 miles to reach me, I figured that buying him some waffles and hash browns--scattered, smothered, and covered--was the least I could do.

As far as first dates go, ours was pretty unique. We’d known each other for less than four months and only through phone conversations and emails. This was the first time we’d met face to face, and despite what should have been an awkward situation, everything about that moment felt just right.

The smell of bacon and stale coffee punctuated our conversation, and the only thing that interrupted our focus on each other was the occasional visit from our waitress. I think we were both in shock that we were together, in shock that we’d gone through with what any rational person would have called crazy.

We met online. We hadn’t been looking for each other, but you always seem to find the things you need even when you’re not looking. He lived in California; me in Georgia. But little things like distance weren’t going to keep us apart.

Our unique courtship was fast, too fast by some standards, but for us, it was perfect. For four months, we spent nearly every waking moment talking to each other, learning each other’s quirks, falling in love even before we had the chance to lay eyes on one another.

Concerned friends desperately tried to talk me out of love, citing any number of very good and rational reasons why our relationship wouldn’t work. They worried that he was playing a game with me, that he was using me, that he was some random murderer bent on killing me. I listened patiently to their concerns; if the shoe had been on the other foot, I would have been the one voicing those concerns…but this was different. This was real, and I knew that in my heart.

I’m probably the least impulsive person you’ll ever meet. I always overanalyze and overthink every situation in my life. I always look before I leap. Every time, except this time. This time I let my heart do the thinking. I trusted that we were meant to be. Because we were. What other explanation could possibly be found for a typically cautious, withdrawn woman to throw away rational thought and do something so out-of-character and insane?

There is none, except that it was meant to be….much like that first date at the Waffle House was meant to be.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was us. I remember just how the sunlight filtered in on our table, how the engagement ring that he’d slipped on my finger the moment we met glinted in that brilliant light. I remember tilting my hand this way and that just to watch it sparkle. I remember thinking that this was the man I would spend the rest of my life with. I remember the happiness consuming me.

Happiness still consumes me nearly six years later. Jeremy and I are married now. We celebrate our fifth anniversary in October. We’re not perfect, by any means. We fight. We get on each other’s nerves. But we’re deliriously happy, and we love our life together with all of its quirks, the four cats that surround us, and those lovely dates at Waffle House.

Me and My Shadow

2012-06-17T09:15:00.002-04:00

Daddy and Me

His boots would be sitting by the door; a day's work of sawdust and clay settled on them like the dusting of a first snow. They always fascinated me, those boots. I would silently watch him put them on sometimes, deft, weathered hands moving in a muscle memory dance that would always conquer that complex system of laces and hooks.

But he wouldn't have them on tonight. They would be sitting by the door, a reminder of obligation and worry that held no place in this nightly ritual.

He would have on a pair of boat shoes, shoes that I'd slipped my own small feet into a thousand times, and if his boots represented work and obligation, those boat shoes represented freedom and happiness.

After scooping up some kibble and tossing it into a bucket, we'd make our nightly trek through the backyard, up to the hill where Barney the basset hound would be waiting patiently for his meal. Our journey there would not be ordinary, and it would always be ours.

I'd follow beside him, my smaller steps matching his larger ones in a perfect rhythm, a Daddy-and-Daughter dance always with the same soundtrack.

He'd sing, "Me and my shadow, strolling down the avenue, do de do, do de do."

Every night. Just the same. The sun would be setting, and our shadows would stretch before us, tall and silly, as silly as he and I, singing and strolling and sharing that time together when boat shoes and a basset hound could chase our worries away.

I'm still my Daddy's shadow, always following in his much larger footsteps and remembering that no matter how old I get that will always be true.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy!

Too Much

2012-06-13T20:00:00.000-04:00

Crying in the Lowe's parking lot for fifteen minutes over a dead goose will really make you reassess your sensitivity levels. I didn't know the goose. I didn't know her family. And yet, there I sat, body wracking with uncontrollable sobs, overcome with emotion and unable to stop picturing that damn, dead goose.

I figure she had a family. She and her little suburban flock have long been a part of my local landscape. Their lake is a small one that's cut in half by a four-lane highway and surrounded by perfect little subdivision houses.

She and her flock made daily (sometimes hourly) pilgrimages from one side of the lake to the other, defying death and speeding Volkswagens for God only knows what reason. A flock of geese waddling across a four-lane highway has its way of slowing down traffic, but every now and then, when driving past the lake, you'll see a poor soul who has been mowed down by some careless driver.

The poor soul I saw this last time when driving by the lake threw me for quite a loop.

The tears didn't start immediately. No, we were well on our way to Lowe's and nearly to the other side of town when the dam finally broke. I kept picturing the goose and her family. I kept remembering that Canada geese mate for life. I kept wondering what her poor mate would do when he realized she was gone.

I don't know why but that solitary goose nearly broke my heart.

I realize that I felt too much in those moments in the parking lot, husband awkwardly patting my leg and telling me it would be alright, Lowe's customers curiously peering into our car at the sobbing crazy lady.

I realize that I feel too much in a lot of situations.

Whenever I think of my hypersensitivity to situations and people, I always think of that scene in How the Grinch Stole Christmas when the Grinch's heart grows three sizes. It becomes so big that it nearly bursts out of the frame.

Source: google.com via Tifanie on Pinterest

Yeah, that's my heart. It's too big, too soft, and I feel too much. Too much pain. Too much sadness. Too much passion. Too much anger. Too much everything.

This is both good and bad.

Good, when I need to throw my entire heart into something.

Bad, when I cry over a dead goose.

Sometimes I really do wish I didn't always feel too much, especially when the pain is nearly unbearable, but in spite of that, I don't think I'd change my big, soft heart for anything in the world, because even though it's sometimes strange, even though it's usually oversensitive, even though it causes me plenty of trouble, I kind of think it's pretty special.

Hanging out with the pretty special folks at yeah write; won't you join us?

Gone with the Rain

2012-06-12T07:00:00.000-04:00

"Please, please, please don't go out there."

Jeremy was doing a fine job of ignoring my pleas or maybe he couldn't hear them. In fact, it was raining so hard that he literally may not have been able to hear them.

That must be it.

So, naturally I turned up the volume. "You're crazy for going out there! You're either going to get struck by lightning or blown away by a huge gust of wind. This is not a smart move."

He was busy putting on his shoes at this point, but he did take a moment to glance up at me, give me "that look" (you know, the one that says, 'you're being ridiculous'), and tried to appease me with a hasty, "Oh, I'll be fine."

I was not to be appeased. He got up from the couch, picked up his jacket, and headed for the door. And of course, I did what any level-headed, reasonable woman would do; I grabbed hold of his arm and clung like a burr.

He sighed. "Katie, I'll be fine."

But I had a feeling that he wouldn't. Just one of those gut feelings.

It was just a summer downpour. I knew that. I knew that probably the worst that could happen was that he would get drenched and track puddles of water all over the house.

Or that he could get struck by lightning. Or blown away.

Reluctantly, I loosened my hold on his arm, and just like that, he was gone. Out into the thunderstorm. Risking life and limb. All in the name of...

...a tomato plant.

Our little garden was taking a beating from the summer storm. One of the tomato plants had collapsed with a particularly strong gust of wind. And Jeremy, my foolish hero, was charging into the breach to save it.

As I waited for him to either return or drown in the rain, I paced back and forth, rang my hands, twisted my hair. Minutes seemed to pass, then hours. My entire life was moving in slow motion.

He was back in less than five minutes, looking smug and completely soaked. We both went to look out the back window at his handy work, and it took everything I had to keep from laughing when we saw the tomato had already collapsed again.

Poor, smug, drenched Jeremy.

He had defied death, and his efforts had been in vain. He couldn't just listen to his wife and wait for the storm to pass. Nope, he had to save it then, in the middle of a monsoon, just to watch it fall over again.

After fighting the urge to tell him "I told you so" a couple of dozen times, we settled back onto the couch to watch television and enjoy the rain from inside. Ten minutes hadn't even passed since our short-lived afternoon drama, when Jeremy said, "Huh."

Still focused on the TV, I absentmindedly asked him what was up, to which he replied:

"My ring is gone."

Which was the cue for scene two of our increasingly dramatic performance to begin.

Yep, Jeremy's wedding ring was missing. It had come off when he was failing to save that poor, little tomato plant. It was now probably floating down the river that had replaced my backyard, never to be seen nor heard from again.

Now, in addition to being a bit of a drama queen, I also happen to be very superstitious, especially when it comes to symbols, especially when it comes to symbols that were supposed to represent the unending circle of our love, especially when it comes to symbols that cost a whole lot of money.

Logically, I knew a ring could easily be replaced, with a layaway plan and a good chunk of our savings, but I couldn't help but keep picturing that ring as the ring I slipped on his finger on our wedding day, the ring that meant so much to both of us.

After some cursory panic, some tossing of couch pillows and bed sheets to make sure the ring wasn’t inside the house, Jeremy rushed back into the storm to look for it.

He made two trips.

Nothing. And so, I did what any level-headed, reasonable woman who knows her husband stinks at looking for anything would do, I threw on a rain jacket and bravely tracked down that missing ring…after the rain slacked.

And sure enough, after five seconds of real searching, I located it amongst some blades of grass, waiting patiently to be found.

Next time, I feel sure that Jeremy will wait for the storm to pass before rushing out to save a tomato plant. Next time, I feel sure that he’ll listen to his wife.

Maybe.

The Friendship Oak

2012-06-01T07:51:00.001-04:00

Probably a maple tree but the closest thing I had in my picture album.

From beneath the shade of the ancient oak tree, the child separated herself from the world around her. In some ways, it was a self-exile, a way of escaping a world that was often cruel and hard to understand, but in truth, the truth that lay in the darkest corners of the child’s heart, the separation was a painful one.

For some, friendship came easy. Girls with perfect pink dresses and overflowing wells of self-confidence skipped along the playground, chatting and giggling and owning recess with their entire beings.

For her, friendship was a constant battle. She latched on to those popular girls with their perfect pink dresses, worshiping them as princesses and fueling their already secure self-esteem. Some days, the days when they needed her around, they would welcome her into their inner-circle, make her feel a part of their secret world. Other days, as if she were a pesky fly, they would swat her away, uninterested in her shy, bookish ways, unconcerned about her feelings and her paper-thin heart.

And so, she made friends with the squirrels and the occasional stray cat…and of course, the ancient oak with its loving branches and its reassuring shade.

The gnarled roots of the tree reached up from the ground and provided not only a cradle for the child but also an imaginary world where she could cook acorn stews and dance with magical fairies. From its comforting embrace, she would watch the other children and wish for someone to come by and steal away her loneliness.

And sometimes, someone would. A fellow loner, or a girl in a perfect pink dress looking for a side-kick. They would flit in and out of her life and her solitary playground world, but none of them lasted as long as the oak.

The oak saw her through happiness, sadness, good days and bad. The oak was her friend, her confidant, her source of joy and comfort.

The oak still stands in that quiet spot beside the playground, still sheltering shy and lonely children, still bringing a sense of friendship to those who may not otherwise feel it.

The child who loved the oak eventually grew up, leaving behind the playground and the ghosts who haunted it.

But she still lives within my heart. She still struggles with her shy nature. She still befriends the confident, popular girls in need of a sidekick. She still climbs trees and loves animals. In many ways, she’s still that same child who played beneath the oak, longing for friendship and struggling with insecurity.

Sometimes, I still feel trapped on that playground, playing amongst the roots of that ancient oak. Maybe, to some extent, I’ll always feel that way. Maybe we all feel that pang of loneliness from time to time, as we fumble our way through life seeking connection, friendship, and the comforting arms of an old oak tree.

Great reading and writing to be found at the wonderful place known at yeahwrite. Check it out, meet new friends, and improve your own writing!

Writing on Cue

2012-05-29T21:18:00.001-04:00

The Lightning and the Lightning Bug wants us to write uninterrupted for ten solid minutes. Didn't think I was up to the challenge, but I managed. Will you join us? Click the link below!

9:03pm

Ten minutes of uninterrupted writing? You’d think that’d be easy, and for some, it probably is, but for me…the classic overthinker…this exercise has been torturous. I’ve thought about it while showering. While lying in bed at night. While eating my fruit roll-up for breakfast. While grooming my four cats. I’ve thought, and I’ve thought, and I’ve officially given up thinking at this point in favor of getting something…anything down on paper.

I’ve realized something over the last few days. I suck at “just writing.” I need a purpose. I need an idea. I need direction. Sitting down and writing just to write? Nope, that’s just not me and that kind of makes me ashamed. I should be able to write on command, right? Yeah, not so much. I’ve never been that kind of writer. I need just the right amount of inspiration mixed with just the right amount of motivation mixed with just the right amount of wine, then I’m set. But until I hit that “just right” point? I can’t just write.

When I thought of this prompt on Sunday, I thought, “yay! Something I can actually participate in.” Because honestly, I’ve been running short on the inspiration department lately when it comes to prompts and writing. I just don’t get inspired like I used to; then again, I figure I’m just going through a dry spell. Happens to the best of us, right?

Well, I’m sick of dipping my quill into a dry inkwell. It’s time to get that inspiration back…even if it means just writing for ten minutes about absolutely nothing other than writing, which is probably boring for anyone but me.

I picked up my novel again over the weekend. And by “picked up,” I mean I opened the Word document it was hiding in and actually started looking it over. I even wrote a few paragraphs tonight. 250 words to be exact. Which is 250 more words than I’ve written for it in nearly six months. Sad but true. Like my new determination to walk off my jiggly beer gut and live a healthier lifestyle, I’m also determined to write this damn novel.

That means spending less time surfing facebook and twitter and looking at cute pictures of cats on the internet, but it must be done. I have a story to tell, and I’m going to tell it.

It feels like it’s already written in my head anyway; I just have to find a way to get it down on paper, and I will. I’m determined. If it takes 5,000 nights of 250 word spurts, then that’s what it takes. Becky Garrett wants to be heard; she’s sick of living only in my head.

Well, my last minute is winding down. I guess I can write on cue after all.

9:13pm

One Potato, Two Potato

2012-05-28T08:00:00.000-04:00

Source: theentertainingelf.com via Bonnie on Pinterest

Less than a month ago, the hubby and I were well on our way to growing roots and being couch-bound for the rest of our lives. We were on a fast road to nowhere, and considering we were only in our twenties, our sedentary lifestyle was becoming something of a joke.

Something had to give…and if anything, it needed to be our guts.

For a long time, I had a somewhat reckless view of my own eating and exercise habits. I was of the opinion that life was too short to diet and exercise. Basically, I thought to myself, “Self, I could die tomorrow, and if I do, I want to enjoy my last few meals to the fullest!”

With that attitude, I really could die tomorrow.

Y’all, I wasn’t just eating badly; no, I took eating badly to a whole new level.

Junk food for breakfast. Junk food for lunch. Rich, greasy food for dinner. Beer, wine, or soft drinks with many of our meals. I’m ashamed to say that it had gotten a bit out of hand.

Growing up, I wasn’t a big fan of food. I could take it or leave it, and more often than not, my parents had to beg me to eat anything at all. My food of choice was junk food then, too.

Most of that changed when I met my husband. He loved food and introduced me to things like sandwiches and pot roast, and because of his influence, this long-time picky eater finally fell in love with food. Head over heals, in fact, and my normally fit figure fell with me. Since I met him back in 2006, due to our eating habits and our couch potato ways, I’ve gained nearly 30 pounds.

My extra weight hadn’t really bothered me until…it happened.

Back in February, I attended an event for work. Nothing major, a career day for a bunch of middle schoolers. My primary goal was to not scar them for life.

Mission probably accomplished.

Scarred children aside, a local newspaper photographer was also at the event, snapping candids and then taking a posed group shot at the end of the day.

I'm not the biggest fan of having my picture taken, but at the time, I thought nothing of it. Then one happy April day, a co-worker brought in a newspaper clipping with that spectacular group photo on it in all its black and white glory.

I usually hate pictures of myself. I'm possibly the most un-photogenic person on the planet, but this was bad even for my standards.

Slouchy. Paunchy. Icky. Those are the three words that came to mind when I saw myself.

That photo was officially my wake-up call. It was time to get healthy.

Luckily, I have another couch potato joining me in my endeavors: my husband. During our month of eating better and working out (and by "working out" I mean walking around our neighborhood instead of sitting on our couch), we've learned a few things we thought we should share with our fellow couch potatoes who may be thinking about pulling up their roots:

1) Gnats do not taste good. We walk at about 8:00 each night to avoid the heat of the day. Unfortunately, avoiding the heat means we have to encounter wicked little gnats, which try to fly into our mouths, noses, and eyes...with much success. I've swallowed a couple of the little suckers, which is a wholly unpleasant experience. Trust me.

2) You can get a stitch in your side just from walking. I never would have thought that I was so out of shape that I could be in physical pain after strolling around our neighborhood. I was wrong. After a few weeks of walking, the stitch doesn't come quite as often, but man, when it does...

3) You shouldn't try to jog after only three nights of walking. There's a natural order to these things. Don't try to speed that order up...you may end up coughing up a lung.

4) Your iPod is your friend. The Glee soundtrack that is on permanent loop on my iPod is an excellent walking partner. The upbeat tracks pump me up and give me just the right dose of energy to keep me from giving up too soon. Of course, they also make me want to dance...which for the person walking with me may or may not be a good thing.

5) Fashion is everything. On our first few nights of walking, Jeremy and I were totally unprepared fashion-wise. We walked in jeans. Jeans. What were we thinking? Since then, we've realized the important of proper exercise clothing. It really does make a huge difference.

6) It could be worse. This one comes from the hubby himself, who thought he'd much prefer couch-sitting and video game-playing to an active lifestyle. "It's not as bad as I thought it would be" is about the best endorsement you're going to find from this former couch potato.

And that's true. It could be worse....worse being where we were a month ago with our poor eating habits and days spent sitting around doing nothing. I'm loving our new active, healthier lifestyle so far...despite the gnats, stitches, coughed-up lungs, and that overwhelming urge to dance.

Source: tumblr.com via Lesli on Pinterest

Hanging out with the fabulous folks at yeah write!

We Are Young

2012-05-21T20:09:00.000-04:00

Source: Uploaded by user via Jenna on Pinterest

Sitting on the mountain, on that already sweltering early May morning, I almost wished I could steal their youth from the air. It felt electric, energized, and I breathed it in as if it might take me back ten years, to where they stood now.

I envied them. I envied the hopefulness and optimism that now coursed through their veins, like a sweet elixir fueling their dreams. I remembered feeling that, too, all those years ago; I remembered the possibilities that seemed just within my grasp; I remembered looking forward to a future in which I would finally call the shots.

But at this particular graduation, I noticed the students experiencing something that I did not remember, something that just wasn’t a part of my high school experience. And for this, I envied them even more.

Fifteen graduates were lined on that stage. Fifteen unique, vivid youths ready to conquer the world. Only fifteen. Not thirty. Not 100. Not 500. Only fifteen.

Their experience was unique, enviable. Lovely. Most of them had grown up together. Thirteen years together. Not rare but still unique in the fact that their class was so small, forever bonded by memories, experiences, and friendships that more closely resembled family.

My high school years, on the other hand, were neither unique nor enviable. I expect that my experience resembled the experience of many. I was a wall flower, invisible, a lone wolf. I didn’t fit in with a particular clique, so I didn’t fit in at all. I was too different, too weird, too everything.

When I sat waiting to graduate that May evening all of those years ago, I don’t recall feeling particularly sad. I knew I would never miss those high school years of heartache and pain. I knew I wouldn’t miss being lonely, being self-conscious, being an outcast.

But the fifteen who sat on that stage in front of me now, they taught me something new, something valuable and sweet that I’ll hold on to for years to come.

They were sad, sad not only because they grew up together and were going to miss each other but also sad because they were going to miss something infinitely more important, something that was impossible to get back.

Youth.

I’m still young. At twenty-nine, I’m not one of those women who laments about how old I’m getting or worries over the years ticking away. I try to live a youthful life, with laughter, trips to Disney World, fruit roll-up lunches, an over-abundance of cats. You know the usual.

But when I was waiting to graduate, waiting to walk across that stage and into my new life, I wasn’t thinking about what I might be losing, what I would never be able to get back.

These kids were. You could tell it in every word they said, in the tears streaming down their faces. They knew that the days of after-school snacks, of family dinners, of tears in their parents’ arms, of bike rides with the neighbor’s kids, of catching lightning bugs at dusk—those days were coming to a close. This moment, a proud, exciting moment was the beginning of something new, but at the same time, it was the ending of something equally important, something that is precious and fleeting and beautiful.

I tried not to cry with them as the graduation came to a close. I struggled not to grab the hand of my Daddy, who was sitting next to me, and hold it like I did when I was a little girl. But I kind of wish I had.

These kids were incredibly lucky. Lucky to have grown up in the comforting, supportive arms of a very small school. Lucky to have found each other and the friendships they so obviously treasured. But even more than that, they were lucky to be wise enough to realize that saying hello to the future also meant saying goodbye to a pretty darn good past.

Source: Uploaded by user via Ann-Sophy on Pinterest

Once again, I'm with my friends at yeah write. Hope you'll do yourself a favor and click the link below to meet some wonderful writers and friends.

Patchwork of Love

2012-05-18T08:50:00.000-04:00

Today, when driving in to work, I heard a phrase on the radio that I completely fell in love with. Two women were talking about their parents and how the relationship between their parents had shaped their lives. One of the women described seeing her mother and father exchange loving, tender glances. She stated that such moments helped build and shape a patchwork of love that would endure into her adult life.

Patchwork of love. Such a beautiful thought. When I heard the words, I immediately imagined a huge, intricate quilt with vivid and unique patches, woven together with a myriad of different threads. I imagined that my own quilt could stretch far across the sky, wrapping the Earth itself in a warm, comforting embrace.

There would be patches of the strangers who darted in and out of my life and yet left an indelible mark of kindness.

Patches of animals and pets, their fuzzy souls making everything more fulfilled and complete, their friendship filling a gaping hole of loneliness through so many heartbreaks.

Patches of friends, those I can touch and those I can only speak to through words on a screen, but all of those who reached out and whom I reached out to for a lasting connection of laughs and tears, shared happiness and fears.

Patches of memories. Of Pawpaw. Of vacations to Florida. Of Easter egg hunts and Christmas mornings.

Patches of the family I so adore, the blessing of a lifetime, the genesis of my own patchwork of love, the memories shared, the bond of blood, the certainty that if I ever need them they’re always just right there.

Patches of the man I love, the partner and friend. Patches of his hugs and kisses and the comfort of his smell and the sweetness of his heart. Patches woven together across great distances with a strong thread that cannot be broken or cut or torn apart.

I am blessed with patches of many shapes, sizes, and colors, but as beautiful as my own quilt is, I find myself even more marveled and mesmerized by the patchwork of love of others, by the differences I see in each. Because truly, the most incredible thing about a patchwork of love is that not everyone's will be built the same or look the same.

Some will be sewn together later in life, past the dark days of an undeserved childhood, past the void left empty by those who should love you the most. Some love has to be built from the ground up with a family that may not be from blood but is instead from the heart. The threads of this patchwork are like steel.

Some, the lucky ones, are born with a patchwork already started for them. From the moment they are conceived, so is the soft quilt that will envelope them through childhood and on.

Some will endure rips, tears, burns. Some may even begin to unravel at certain times, but they will be sewn back together. They will from this darkness be stronger than ever.

Some patchworks...most I would say...will revolve around family. Families of all shapes and sizes and colors. Families brought together by the only thing that really matters: Love. These are the patchworks that will be so alike and so different. These are the patchworks that we all must embrace because of that common thread, that universal thread that bonds us all, regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, or gender.

Patchwork of love. Such a beautiful thought, and the even more beautiful thought is that each person carries with them a patchwork of love and that each one is stunningly unique and yet always tying us together with that common thread of love.

What does your patchwork of love look like?

Source: inaweofapplique.blogspot.com via Kristin on Pinterest

To the Mother

2012-05-13T09:52:00.000-04:00

Source: liveinternet.ru via Mariya on Pinterest

To my Mama, who kissed away tears and hugged away fears, who taught me to love, to be kind and respectful, who shared everything with me from wisdom to wishes, who stood hand-in-hand with my Daddy and made me who I am today.

To his Mom, who raised such a selfless man, who raised such an intelligent man, such a goofy and loving man, who raised the man who would be my soulmate, my best friend, and my partner.

To the Mommy, who kisses a toddler's boo-boos, who looks at him with her heart in her eyes, who found the love of her life and the sweetness of a child's hugs.

To the Mother, who didn't have to be a mother, who chose to be the best mother they could ask for, who chose to raise them right, who chose to love them with her entire heart.

To the Mother, who is yet to be, who waits patiently and wishes and hopes and dreams, who will one day be who she is meant to be, will one day love the child she is meant to love.

To the Mother, who has gone away, who watches out from above, who is always in your heart, wishing all the best for you and loving you from far away.

To the Mother, whose chicks have flown the nest, who wrestles with her babies having grown up, who is always there for you even when you're the adult she dreamed of.

To the Mothers, who struggle everyday, who juggle everyday, who stress and worry and love anyway.

Happy Mother's Day

Boring

2012-05-12T08:00:00.000-04:00

Source: tumblr.com via Roy on Pinterest

Truth is I’m boring. An ordinary twenty-nine year-old woman hiding behind fantastical stories and characters I can only dream of knowing. I grew up in an ordinary hometown. Was raised by two ordinary, if not amazing, parents. Had an ordinary, if not happy, childhood.

I’ve not traveled very far, no further than my own country for sure. My most exciting vacations have occurred in Florida: Orlando and St. Augustine, Pensacola and Cape San Blas. I’ve been to Texas, California, Illinois…and no further.

Truth is I’m a bit of a homebody.

My simple pleasures in life are eating a good meal, cuddling on the couch with my husband, tending a small vegetable garden. Nothing too exciting, pretty ordinary and boring I guess.

I wonder sometimes how it could all fit together. An ordinary woman from an ordinary town writing, or at least trying to write, extraordinary non-fiction and fiction. I don’t have a vast well of exciting experiences to draw from. I’ve not been in many relationships. I’ve not even had that many friendships. I’m pretty much a loner with loner tendencies attempting to weave together words in an appealing and interesting way.

All of my heroes had fascinating and exciting lives. They were expatriates and war heroes, serial womanizers and alcoholics. They traveled extensively and walked on the fringes of society. They were the Hemingways and Faulkners, the O’Connors and Poes.

They were tortured and unstable. Artists driven by pain and passion.

I’m cheerful. Happy-go-lucky.

Lower middle class.

Average.

Ordinary and boring.

The closest I come to tortured and unstable is with social anxieties and neuroses. And yet, I write…just like they did. I’m driven to…just like they were.

Not all writers write from dark places. I understand that. Not all writers lead romantic, sensational lives. I understand that as well. But these heroes of mine did, these extraordinary talents who inspire me and whom I aspire to be like were never ordinary or boring…at least by this fan’s approximation.

So how does ordinary, boring me expect to follow in their footsteps? Where can I find inspiration and passion that’s equal to theirs?

The answer is…everywhere.

In the twisting limbs of the ancient oak tree that grows just down the street, watching generations come and go and change with the wind.

In the smiling, toothless grin of the construction worker who’s working hard to bring air back into my office building.

In the laughs and shared secrets between me and my husband, whispered late at night to the summer song of crickets and hoot owls.

In the ordinary, boring days that drag on too long and yet never last long enough.

In the ordinary, boring life of a woman chasing her dream and catching handfuls of wishes-come-true along the way.

I don’t have to travel the world (like Hemingway). I don’t have to drink through pain and sorrow (like Faulkner). I don’t even have to marry my cousin (like Poe). I just have to live life and perhaps look a little closer for my inspiration…because what may first appear to be ordinary and boring may actually be pretty extraordinary after all.

Where do you find inspiration? In grand adventures or everyday blessings?

Speaking of extraordinary, have you visited yeah write yet?

Mouse-Earing the Pages

2012-05-10T20:00:00.000-04:00

150 days. 150 days stand between me and a Disney World vacation.

Although I’m counting down, I won’t wish this time away. The precious days leading up to our trip will be spent preparing, planning, and looking forward.

Basically, I will be turning into what those in the Disney know call a theme park commando.

You know my type. I schedule bathroom breaks between rides on Splash Mountain and Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. I map out the perfect route to Toy Story Midway Mania, so that when the ropes drop I’m first in line. I peruse the various restaurant menus, picking out the perfect entrée, beverage, and dessert.

It’s all pretty obnoxious. In fact, I think it’s safe to say that I get on my own nerves with all the Disney-centric talk, research, and all-consuming preparation.

But I can’t stop. Like a woman-possessed, I pore over Disney World-related websites, print out planning guides, gobble up secret tips. I’ve even started buying clothes for the trip, carefully selecting t-shirts and shorts that will be both comfortable and cute. There’s a special section in my closet where they all hang, tags still intact, waiting for their big day.

The really sad thing is (and there are many sad things here) that once I get to Disney World all of this planning will have been for nothing. We basically do whatever we want to when we want to, which is how vacation should be in my opinion, but up until that moment when we do arrive, every minute of the trip will be scheduled and overscheduled and rescheduled and back again.

And y’all, I don’t even have kids. This is a trip just for me and my husband, a fifth-anniversary celebration to the most magical place on Earth and one of my all-time favorite vacation destinations.

It may seem pretty strange at first: a childless couple in their twenties choosing to go to Disney World on vacation. Isn’t Disney World for kids, you ask? Well, yes and no. It’s for kids, but it’s also for grown-ups. For the adults who refuse to give up fun and goofiness and everyday magic.

Even Walt Disney himself believed that Disney shouldn’t be intended for kids alone, saying: “You're dead if you aim only for kids. Adults are only kids grown up, anyway.” And I guess that’s what Jeremy and I are: kids at heart with obsessive compulsive vacation planning tendencies.

At this juncture, I’ve just about exhausted all of the planning and preparation options available to me, and believe me, there are a lot.

So this weekend I’m going to begin what I refer to as the Disney World Extravaganza notebook, a compilation of all of the menus, planning tools and tips, reservation confirmation documents, and other Disney World odds and ends, all combined stylishly in a pretty green notebook that matches our even prettier green Disney luggage.

After that, we will have around 145 more days to fill with excitement and anticipation, and therein lies my problem. When I’ve already done everything there is to do to prepare, what else is going to be there to get me pumped about the trip?

Ugh. See? Obnoxious.

What do you do to prepare for vacation? Are you a vacation planning maniac? Any tips on how to best enjoy the preparation and counting down?

This post is part of the Disney Blog Carnival. Just click on the link for great Disney-related articles and blogs!

I Was There

2012-05-05T07:50:00.001-04:00

I was there...

...as a little girl, tucked tight with you in Mawmaw and Pawpaw's guest room, kicking you awake constantly with my flailing legs and arms. You probably hated having to share a bed with me, your annoying little sister, but I loved those nights; excitement would rush through me, the thought of a slumber party with my big sister would nearly overwhelm me. We'd lie awake and whisper to each other, sister secrets shared in the dark and away from adult ears.

I was there...

...helping you decorate for prom. Ducking behind you when your cute friends would come around. I lived in awe of your high school world, crushing on boys way older than me and worshiping you as the princess that you were. I was always just on the outskirts of your world, separate but a part of it because you allowed me to be a part of it. And those times when you didn't allow me to be a part of it? Well, I'd just tell on you like the brat that I was...and still am.

I was there....

...as we grew older, the nine years separating us became fewer and fewer, though the physical distance between us expanded. Friendship blossomed, and we were there for each other in new ways. Georgia Tech games, trips to Disney, phone conversations that would last for hours. Tough times came and went, and we had each other through it all; sisters and best friends. No one understood us like we understood each other, through both joy and pain.

I was there...

...when your water broke and a new adventure began. Labor didn't stop you from doing loads of laundry and offering to drive yourself to the hospital. You've always been strong like that...even when you think you're not, you are. The strongest person I know. And then you gave us Garrett, sweet, unique, handsome little Garrett, a new bond between us, another branch of love.

I was there...

...to watch you become a mother. Years of practicing with me, offering love and guidance, made you a pro. You handled the transition like a champ, though stresses would come and go. You began raising a polite, caring, and very nearly perfect little boy. Jeremy and I would talk about your skill and patience with him, the way you seemed to be born to be his mother.

I was there...

....and I am there. Through it all. Thick and thin. We're sisters. Alike in so many ways and just enough different to make it all more interesting and fun. I know I can call you anytime. I know I can count on you for pep talks and sharing tears. Miles may still separate us, but no distance could dampen our friendship and support of each other. Thanks for being the best big sister. Thanks for putting up with me when I was an annoying tag-a-long and tattletale. Thanks for seeing me through heartbreak and sadness. Thanks for sharing the many happy moments that build our lives.

And happy birthday!

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