When in Rome...

Before I left for my trip I went shopping. A lot. But among the new outfits, scarves and comfy Tory Burch flats, I bought the basics: Shampoo, Conditioner and Body Wash. I wasn't out of those items when I left, but I replaced them with smaller, travel-size versions to make it easier to transport. One day, I'll open up a bottle of Biolage Color Care and be taken right back to my two weeks in Italy. I like that.

I have debated whether to spare you the details of the travel, leaving just the one-liner that encompasses the whole trip... the sentence we said to one another over and over and over again while there: "I'm so happy."

But I digress. I can't help it. Read further if you like. For you history buffs not interested in my playful lease on this part of my life, you can stop after this paragraph: We saw The Vatican, The Sistine Chapel, Michaelangelo's David, The Cathedrals of Rome, Siena, and Florence, The Trevi Fountain and The Spanish Steps. We spent time exploring Tuscany, shopping in Cortona, and we visited a vineyard in Montepulciano. Justin and I hiked the Cinque Terre Trail (in one day!) and we swam in the Meditteranean Sea. But that's not what I'm writing about.

Words can do a lot to describe what we experienced. But they can't do it justice by any means. I wanted to walk in the door on Sunday at 9 pm, fresh off the plane with memories recent, and begin to hammer out my entry. But jet lag and the need to refresh myself for the impending daily routines won out. Truthfully, I have had more fun reliving the moments, and recapping them to friends. I've been unable to get through a description of our time together without shedding a few tears. It was magical. It was perfect. I could not have asked for more.

Before I left, I wrote about Justin's heart. I read back over that entry this morning and realized it was a far cry from doing his character any justice. I realize the self-indulgence that bloggers possess. For some reason, we think others want to hear what we have to say. I don't care what you take from me, my opinions and my way of thinking. But I hope you get to know my husband. I hope you get him like I do when this is all over. I hope you have that honor.

That fateful Saturday in September (seems like so long ago), I was dressed in my aforementioned knit dress and Ms. Samuels' bracelets. I was calm after landing in Rome. I had been much more nervous during my connection in Detroit... that feeling of the unknown. The stress of travel ahead. But in Rome, I exhaled. I stood in line at the wrong baggage claim for over 10 minutes- waiting, watching, to never see my bag come around the corner. I wasn't hurried like I thought I would be. I was just at peace. When I made it to my bag, I headed toward the swinging doors that protected baggage claim from the outside world. As the doors swung open I saw the partition- much like something they would have between adoring fans and celebrities at a red carpet event. Everyone was watching anxiously to see their loved ones. And there, as the doors swung back, I saw him standing, just to the right. Clad in a blue polo, khakis and tennis shoes, his hair was short and his face was more toned than I could remember. He was the most handsome man I had ever seen. I ran to his side and we embraced, my 66-pound rolling suitcase knocking into my hip. We couldn't let go for at least a minute. Tears came between our kisses even as we were giving them. He had 3 gerbera daisies in his hand. LOVE.

I was dying for someone to capture this. But the short distance between the door and where he was standing didn't allow for much time to hand the camera over and I am sure it was the furthest thing from his mind at the time. Immediately, we had an overwhelming feeling of picking up right where we left off in April. The six months between our goodbye and hello seemed to disappear. We felt the instant connection that had bonded us to one another over seven years ago. The attraction, the sense of humor, the respect and love. I was the happiest I have ever been.

That feeling stayed with me until I left his side last weekend. We spent the first week with family- amongst food and drink and love and laughter (an abundance of all those things). To try to summarize the moments we all shared together would be impossible. I could never recap the memories from that week with our parents and brothers. We traveled Rome, attended happy hour in front of the Pantheon, made friends with our wait staff, and relished in our tourist attitude. We rode the double decker bus and saw the sights like true Americans. We spent four days in a Tuscan villa that became our home away from home. We were hosted, fed, loved and nurtured by Italy. Life was so good.

During the day we were pulled in all directions. A family of 9 means 9 opinions, 9 ideas (at least!) and 9 ways to get there. But we managed. All prior personalities were left at the door- in honor of our most important guest and his newfound, albeit temporary, "freedom." At night, we ate some of the best food any of us had ever tasted. Some nights, we ate at the villa, thanks to Mom's home-away-from-home-cooking. Most meals were shared together outdoors, including those at the villa, where we ate and drank underneath the vine-covered trellis.

The family left on the second Sunday and we cried. I cried because I hurt for them not getting to experience him any more than they did. I felt so blessed to be the one who had that honor. After our goodbyes we hopped on a four-hour trainride to Cinque Terre where we would spend the next 6 days... alone.

When we arrived in Vernazza, the 2nd-most northern town on the Cinque Terre Trail, we were speechless. We were situated in the most pristine and lively of the five towns, a point I had not missed when doing my research for our lodging. We literally felt like we had rolled our heavy suitcases right into Heaven. Our quaint little room looked right out over the Mediterranean Sea. The air was so cool that night that I wasn't sure I could move from the balcony to do all the things on our "to-do list" (shower, nap, get ready, drink, eat). It was here that we began uttering the words, "I'm soooo happy."

That night and the next day, we explored our little town. It didn't take long to walk through the main cobblestone street and scope out the shops that I would frequent over and over again later in the trip, contemplating souvenirs. But it was that quaintness that had us feeling like we owned the town by the time we left. We felt like locals.

On Tuesday, our 2nd full day there, we had planned out a route that would take us on the roughly 7-mile hike along the entire Cinque Terre Trail. We hiked from our town (Vernazza) down to the most southern (Riomagiorre), ferried back up to the most northern (Monterosso) and then hiked the trail between Monterosso and our home for the week. The terrain is extremely rugged, with manmade, rocky steps most of the way. By the time we arrived back in Vernazza around sunset, we felt victorious. We threw off our hiking clothes, bought two beers from the hotel bar and jumped into the turquoise water of our port.

Wednesday was my most favorite day. We put on swimsuits and took a train back up to Monterosso, where the best beaches awaited. We rented the two beach chairs furthest from the public and sunned, swam and snorkled in the clear blue waters of the ocean. Their beaches don't have shells, but rather rocks. I taught Justin about "sea glass," a phenomenon I had only read about, and we went on a day-long treasure hunt to find the best and most beautiful. We made memories I will never forget that day. The time was peaceful and playful and the moments ahead only got better.

The next day was overcast and we were debating how to spend it. We ended up in a few shops, but napped and relaxed most of the day. Every single night was spent the same way- drinks around 7 and dinner between 8 and 9. We always spent the evenings wrapped in conversation with one another.

It was Friday evening, our last night there that we had our best talk. We had made a last-minute decision to head up to Portofino earlier that day. It rained on us and the shops were closed when we arrived. Justin and I shared hotdog and egg pizzas while the rain poured down in front of Gucci, Prada and Emilio Pucci. When we got back to Vernazzza that night, I had every intention to shower and change into a nice dress for our last night in the Cinque Terre. But good conversation turned great and I realized that after sitting down for a drink as we waltzed back into town, my biggest fan was sitting in front of me and didn't care if I got my 138-dollars-worth out of that Anthroplogie dress I had been planning to wear. We ordered drink after drink, there at the Blue Marlin, where we had shared a breakfast of eggs (the only eggs in town) most mornings. We told stories of childhood, ones I know we'd both heard before. But somehow, they all sounded new and different.

That's how the whole trip went. The experiences were new and different. But the feeling was the same. Good, wholesome, comfortable love. That's what I got. That's what he gives me every second of every day of every year.

I left him on Sunday with less tears than I had thought possible and far less than what my silly heart had dreaded leading up to it. I left him with a sense of security, of memory and wonder. I wonder what the Lord has in store for us. I wonder what He'll surprise us with next. I know for sure we weren't expecting any of this.

And now that I am home, I realize I won't need the smell of a familiar shampoo after all. The memories are so real I can almost touch them. I pray they never fade, not even a little. I want to revisit them from time to time. I want to travel back to the place where everything was just right, just for a moment. In less than four months, I will have that chance again. No, we're not planning another trip (it will be a long time before we can afford to).

He will be home. And every day with him is like a vacation.

Flying Solo for a Moment More

The time is here. The time I have waited for. Tomorrow I leave on the most exciting journey I have ever taken. I am headed to Italy to see the love of my life. He'll be waiting for me at baggage claim in the Fiumicino Airport. Rome bound. Love is right around the corner. Though it's been here all along.

God is so good. He knows me so well. I wanted a baby. Justin said if we weren't pregnant before he left for Iraq he would take me to Europe on his R&R. He made good on his promise. God did too. He has promised me the desires of my heart. But I feel so undeserving. To both of them.

Let me tell you about my husband. Let me tell you about his life. If you read my blog at all, then you know how it all started with us. But that's just the last seven years. Before that, he had already developed his character into will and determination, into loyalty and a kind heart. All things from which I would eventually learn. His example was noticeable from the very beginning. The silent leader. No one even knows it's him until all of a sudden everyone's following him. He doesn't shout from the rooftops that he's up front. He's just there. And you can't help but go with him.

He'll kill me for saying these things. He's too humble for this.

He didn't have to join the Army. As a matter of fact they tried to turn him away. Too old, too injured, too many traffic violations. But he kept up the fight. He knew from the moment he learned to walk that he had to learn to fly.

I didn't want him to go Active. I was never going to tell him that. I wanted to support him, but I had prayed and knew in my heart of hearts that the life wasn't meant for us. An opportunity came from above. No pun intended. And we took it. He would go on to serve in the Kentucky Army National Guard and become a Chief Warrant Officer. He started flight school the month we were married and I had a stand-in groom at our wedding rehearsal because he was learning to fly a blackhawk. We spent our first year of marriage at Fort Rucker and then moved to Lexington. Bought a house. Started new jobs. Chinook flight school. Fixed-wing flight school. On our five-year anniversary we will have spent three of them together. Our fifth anniversary will be our second together (the only other one was our first).

In October of last year he had been home about a month from his latest flight school, which had separated us for five months. He came home from work one day and said, "We need to talk." I remember where I was standing making dinner in our little kitchen (our kitchen is so small that there's really only one place to stand). I knew the moment he said it. I said, "You're deploying." I fought back tears as he told me the options. One unit would leave in April. One in August. One in November. I said, "I hope you go in April." He was floored. I don't think he was expecting that response. My reasoning? "Let's get this over with." And then we prayed. We prayed for days, for weeks, for a month. Until it was official.

Now here we are. No baby, no puppy (that was another bargaining chip he's since forgotten). I am two days away from seeing his handsome face, standing there in Rome, waiting for me at baggage claim. Praying he fulfilled my only request of handing a stranger his camera to capture the moment.

God is so good. Everybody thinks our time together will be good because we've been apart so long. Everybody thinks that's why our relationship is solid and grounded in one another's long distance love. But that's not it. It's good because it's right and real and honest. It's good because if a question is worth asking to the other, then it's worth saying yes to. It's good because God gave us this undying, fortunate, wholesome love. And for that I am grateful to Him and to him.

Thank you Justin for the man that you are. I'll see you Saturday. I'll be wearing a black knit dress and Ms. Samuels ivory bracelets (I feel prettiest when jewelry makes noise). And I expect to see you smiling, sans camera and with arms open wide.

Ciao,

Twinkles in our Eyes

Here I am on the homefront. Waiting for him. 26 weeks left. 18 have come and gone.

It is odd how his lifestyle there has created in him an oxymoron. He is softer but tougher. It might be equal to the way a humanitarian feels when returning back from a third-world country. Gone are the entitlements and higher standards for living. But there is a new and more fulfilling entitlement- that of freedom and appreciation for life. He's not taking any crap off anybody. But he's the most compassionate and considerate man I have ever known. Even moreso than when he left.

We talk every two to three days. We have a video date about once a week and I even got to see his new mustache which he said grew in all different shades. In moments like these I am reminded of the journey our life and love has taken.

If you know us very well at all (and even if you know us just a little), you know about our struggles with starting a family. It's not something we keep a secret. Maybe one day I will sweep it under the rug. Maybe one day my new life will help me forget. But I'm not sure I want to. I have now, an appreciation for life and family that I never would have known. I guess you could say I have developed similar feelings to those that my husband will bring home next February. I guess I once knew entitlement and now I know how easily reality gets in the way of what you always expected you would one day be awarded.

We figured out it was "time" about two years into our marriage. That was in April of 2007. The very first time we tried, I got a positive pregnancy test. Justin was back at flight school and I had to wait all day to tell him the news. I wasn't even sure I wanted what I had received. I wasn't sure until that little pink line faded over the next few days and I suffered what they call a "chemical pregnancy." We went on to try and fail twice more before last November, never making it past a faint line on a few pregnancy tests.

Last November, in between doctors, and right before finally turning to some real fertility help, I found out I was pregnant again- and further along than I had ever been- at almost 5 weeks. The very next day my father called and said, "Come home. Your grandfather is dying." Justin was gone again, this time hiking his dream route on the Appalachian Trail with his childhood friend, Phillip. I couldn't tell him my sad or wonderful news. And I couldn't figure out how to feel. That afternoon, after a subsequent blood test confirmed the news, I sat on my couch waiting for him to call. Behind tears, I prayed, "Dear Lord, if you will just let me keep my grandfather, I will give this baby back." I'm not too concerned with how that comes across. It doesn't mean I didn't want what I had or that I was writing off the creation of human life. I, in no way, had any control over what would happen with that pregnancy, except to nourish my body in the hopes that I could create a healthy home for it for 9 months. I was simply offering up my own needs to God and trying to prove to him the sincerity behind my prayer. Justin later told me God doesn't work that way. But I was desperate.

We lost the pregnancy two days later- the day before Thanksgiving. On January 20th of this year we buried my grandfather. The next day, I found out I was pregnant again.

With help from a hormone supplement (one we discovered I was lacking, through our newfound saving grace of a doctor), we just knew this was it. I told strangers my news because I couldn't tell anyone I knew, and it was just too difficult to keep it in. The next week, I was in New York City at the gift mart. I was taking it easy, given my new state. But I started to bleed lightly after a few days and realized it was happening again. I was losing it. Again, devastation. I called home to my new doctor and we made plans for the future. What was causing this? To my surprise, a week and a half later, I was blood tested again, only to find that after arriving home from the trip, I was still very pregnant. But something was wrong. My levels weren't where they were supposed to be. At 7 weeks, they removed the ectopic pregnancy which had made its home in my left fallopian tube. They were able to salvage my tube and finally remove the cause of all my hormone imbalance- endometriosis. A silver lining amidst my two years of gray clouds. Finally, some answers.

Justin and I had one more chance to try before he left for Iraq. I thought that would be it. It made sense. Let me assure you, people, God doesn't always make sense. I was monitored closely in this process- assuring that all the right circumstances were there. All the stars were aligned and we just knew this would be it. I found out our attempts hadn't worked, of all days, the morning he was leaving. I remember sarcastically saying, "Thanks, God." Entitlement.

Since Justin has been gone, life went on to demonstrate to me that God knew what he was doing. Life went on to show me that He has a plan. Life went on to teach me how to make it. Life goes on for me, even though sometimes I feel like mine is the only one standing still. As my friends get pregnant, decorate nurseries and read books about child-rearing... As my husband serves thousands of miles away from me, I take a good hard look around and think, "God knows the desires of my heart. But to receive them, I must delight myself in Him."

So delight is what I will do. Please pray for us and for this journey. I hope it is a short one. But I know better than to expect it to be.

Y'all dunn asked fer it now!

There I was again at the Nashville Flea Market over the weekend. Can you believe it? I can't get enough of this place.

Mom and Dad met me there, accompanied by friends. They with their close friends Janet and Eddie, and I with my gal pals Libby and Lauren. We went down for the day. And what a day it was!

Lauren and I picked Libby up in Elizabethtown and got to the Flea Market around 9:30. We found a nice little parking spot and met up with my parents. Of course, we had to go see Steele first (see the entry titled "Good Stuff Displayed Bad"). It's a good thing we did. I thought Lauren was going to buy him out right then and there. She found herself an antique vacuum cleaner base painted turquoise (which she will use for her outdoor fountain), an iron coffee table with hotel flooring for its tabletop, a turqouise metal scroll for the wall, a brass lamp, and she was given a cross made of iron pipes. Yard art!

I personally found my dream decor, which I suspect will end up being my husband's worst nightmare: Three already-wired lamps made from vintage tin pails. Two were once used to hold lard (I have a feeling he will have an issue with the word "lard" on a functional piece in our living room), and one that used to hold peanuts. I asked Lauren if they were kitschy, to which she replied, "No. They would be kitschy if they were fake. These are dirty and real." Touche.

One of the most treasured memories I have of the Nashville Flea Market (albeit my memories only date back to last November) are that of the little hut that sells fresh roasted, hot-buttered corn in a husk. There, you can nibble away on something relatively healthy- I mean, it IS a vegetable- and you can also refresh your thirst with a nice cup of ORANGEADE. I know, why didn't I think of this? Someone actually said to me, "Isn't that just... orange juice?" Oh, but it's not. It's made the same way lemonade is. With sugar and water. It's divine. I had soon added two fans to the Orangeade Fan Club and it was only about one hour after the first cup that Libby offered to go back and get herself and Lauren seconds. So away she went.

Now, I am about to tell you what happened to my mother, Lauren and myself while Libby was off refilling her newfound obsession. This is not, in any way, an exaggeration (ask them for their version- I can assure you it will be the same). You will almost not believe what happened next. The three of us took off on foot, down a 45-degree angle hill to retrieve our vehicles and drive them back up the road to load our new treasures. You must have a pass to do this (which we did) and there is little to no traffic here for that reason. But alas, there we were hugging the curb of the road, walking to our cars. Let me paint the picture- we were on a paved road that was wide enough to fit three cars across. Plenty of room.

So as we are walking, I hear the loud beep of a car horn. Naturally, your first instinct is to think that you are in their way out of your own stupidity, or that you are in their way because of theirs and either way you might want to move. Well, when I turned to see that this car was riding down the middle of the road and was loaded with 4 heavy, middle-aged women holding small children in their laps it occurred to me they were just being obnoxious by honking at us innocent curb-huggers. It made me mad. And I'm a big fan of fairness, so I simply uttered, "What are you honking at?" No surprise- all four windows were down, but to my surprise, the driver was an angry mid-life-crisis road rager who must have had a target on our three little skirts (we did look cute, as Lauren pointed out and derived she must have been jealous). But here we are thinking I would have just uttered something to tick them off as they drove away. But no.

This crazy loon slams on her brakes- on the 45-degree hill- and proceeds to give everyone in the car whiplash while doing it. The two kids are thrown into the backs of the front seats and the car comes to a screeching halt. As the car stops, we hear these words from the lost soul of a woman in the front seat: "Y'all dunn asked fer it now!" I look at Mom and Mom looks at me and Lauren is already trucking it. It turns out Lauren was deathly (rightfully so) afraid of this woman using her vehicle as a weapon. But at this point, the redneck driver was flinging her own seatbelt off of her (never mind the kids- just save yourself) and GETTING OUT OF THE CAR! Mom and I are thinking "What exactly did we ask for?" And I'm mumbling to Mom, "Do you have your pistol?"

Meanwhile, we make it a good ways down the hill before we turn back to see this nutjob standing in the middle of our nice, wide road, in a middle linebacker position. She has her hands cupped around her mouth and her feet are nicely planted in a rather manly-looking plie position. And she's yelling, "I was TRYIN' to tell y'all to GIT out of the RO-AD!!!" At this point, there was nothing we could do but... laugh. And laugh we did. We laughed all the way to the shady spot under a tree where we determined the deadly vehicle would have plenty of things to run into before it ran into us. It took a good minute and a half for us to regain our composure and walk the rest of the way to the car. Only then, did we see the weighed-down nissan make its way out of the grassy parking area and disappear on the other side the guard shack. We're pretty sure they sat there for a minute plotting our deaths. But we didn't care.

We were living on the edge of our curb. And whatever we "asked for" was worth every redneck second.

RC Cola and a MoonWalk

Life hasn't written much lately, or at least it hasn't given me much time to. Okay, so maybe I'm not officially a "writer," but I feel a little like a negligent mother- I haven't typed out my take-them-or-leave-them thoughts in nearly three weeks.

In that time, you would think life would have given me a little material. After all, I have since visited my parents' farm TWICE, finalized a much-cherished and much-needed trip to Italy to reunite with Justin and family (part of the time), and Lord Jesus, help us all.... Michael Jackson died.

I spent the first trip to The Farm cherishing my time with my dad, his mother ("Ma"), my sweet Granny and the rest of the family that makes me the only little gully-gully-gull- or spending time being "Lucy" as my mother refers to me. We had a low-key weekend then. That Sunday we had the local schmocals over for "Cowboy Church" a tradition that is anything but traditional... or is it? How, once, did a congregation really meet? Would they not have been surrounded by God's beautiful bounty? It doesn't get much more beautiful than Clay County, Alabama.... God's Country. Dad gave a memorable sermon and pointed out the land we were given (not by my parents, but by our FATHER), appropriately, on Father's Day. Spending time in that part of the world turns me into a different person. Not because I wasn't myself before I got there, but because it teaches me to act like the person I really want to become.... Simple, back to the roots, back to the earth. And whole.

On my second trip to The Farm, I was accompanied by friends Jessica and Michelle. We booked our Southwest flights (Louisville-Birmingham) at the last minute and I convinced them that it would be a relaxing 4th of July weekend. We arrived around 3 pm last Friday and headed straight to Flat Rock (or the Redneck Riviera, as we affectionately call it), a large stretch of limestone that slopes off into Lake Wedowee and is rumored to be the same rock that makes up Stone Mountain. There, you can sunbathe and wade in the bathwater-like lake. We drank white sangria and read books, the three of us basking in the glow of nothingness and lack of responsibilites until our cell phones got service again. It was sheer peace. As a matter of fact, we hardly talked at all. We enjoyed home cooking at the tiny cabin my father built with his own hands, and slept on air mattresses on the screened in porch. Heaven, I tell you.

Justin and I planned a trip to Italy in September and October. In Rome we will do like the Romans. In Tuscany we will do as we please. I am overjoyed. For the first week our families will join us. Our plane tickets are purchased, our hotels are booked. And there is a villa waiting for us in Cortona (where Under the Tuscan Sun was filmed). www.vrbo.com/47564 We will see Rome, Florence, Siena and Cortona with our parents and brothers. We will see Cinque Terre by ourselves- a welcomed respite from the worldly obstacles that have kept us apart. Justin and I will be together in Italy for fifteen days. I count my blessings all the time. I am the happiest woman in the world.

In other news, the King of Pop is gone. I was a fan, but not a FAN. I admit he was talented- he had his hey day. But it was over long ago. Gone were the days of his smooth dark skin accompanied by his smooth moves. Gone was the well-written music inspired by 80s-era, over-the-top flamboyancy. Gone were the early nineties when his looks had changed but his music hadn't. Gone. Why are we just mourning him now? He was gone a long time ago.

I think the hardest part of watching this fanfare over his death has been that we put all this stock into celebrity and image. We lift these people up and create idols out of them. We worship them, pine for them, long to meet them, and try to emulate them as much as possible. And for what? I beg you- I urge you- to prioritize your admirations.

I was saddened to hear of the deaths of a number of US Soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan the week MJ died. Was there fanfare over that? A televised funeral? I think not. And I don't expect there to be. I do, however, expect that we begin to look up to, respect, love, and admire the men and women who keep free the nation that produced the icons like Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett and Ed McMahon (who by the way, was a decorated Marine- you don't hear that in the news now do you?).

We have forgotten those who gave their lives for our freedom, but we will never forget how to moonwalk.

If heroes were actually regarded as heroes... we'd attend welcome-home cermonies like we do concerts and fan letters would be sent to the ones who really deserve it.

"Let me tell you a something about my family..."

"We are as thick as thieves...." (for all you Real Housewives of New Jersey fans out there).

Oh, but we are.

Sunday is Father's Day. This is the first Father's Day my father has had to spend without his father. Ironically, we'll all be spending it (sans Michael, as he is in Telluride with a "friend") at our family farm- the farm my grandfather purchased many years ago. My grandfather, "Daddy Moe," as affectionately referred, passed away in January. He was 81.

Life always brings unexpected events. There are no certainties, but uncertainty. His death was unexpected and life-changing. For the past five months we have reflected back on our memories and his presence in our everyday things- the things I never even knew he had influenced.

Back in November, Moe fell ill. He had always been a reasonably healthy man- strong as an ox, and with a temper to prove it. At 78 years old, he punched a man in the face for trespassing on his property and refusing to leave. It had only been three years since that had happened. The week he went into the hospital, he and Dad were spending time with one another at the farm. My grandfather was like an M&M,- a hard coating on the outside, but in the right hands he would melt. He loved his grandchildren, and I like to think we had a special bond, as I was the only girl of 6 grandkids. But he wasn't a fanatic about capturing photographs. As a matter of fact, it struck my father oddly that he was suddenly carrying around a disposable camera that day, walking the 200 acres of land.

Somehow, I think he knew.

He was so proud to have conquered a steep hill, walking as hard as he could to keep up with my father. He was breathing heavily, but beaming with pride. We think that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Unbeknownst to us, the "pig valve" his heart had received 16 years before, was failing. That Friday, he was admitted to the hospital and never came back out.

When Moe passed away, we developed that little camera and found the last photograph of him taken in good health. There he was, standing on the front porch of my parents' cabin, proud of his land, his heritage, his country, his legacy. In his camouflage coveralls and jacket, and a hunter's orange cap on his head, his strong hands grasped the flag of the country he had once served.

He died a proud man. Proud of my father and his sister, Beth. Proud of us grandkids, proud of Helen, his wife of over fifty years. Proud of all that he had done and made for our family. Proud of this country.

My father's father. My "Daddy Moe."

My father is a writer and a painter too. Maybe we inherited that creativity trait from Moe, as I can remember receiving a letter in the mail from him as a child that included a hand-drawn picture of their dog, Sarge with a broken leg. I thought about framing the "last photograph" on the front porch. But I decided that I could honor my heritage a little more by painting it in my own style- with my own flair.

That's how Moe was. He had his own flair. He didn't live by anyone else's rules.

Dad and I got that trait from him too.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. I hope you like the painting. I'll see you tonight when my plane lands in Birmingham. Tomorrow, I'll pass you the tools as you hammer away at the barn that, one day, I'll tell my grandkids "We built together."

Monkeys with Car Keys

Last weekend (surprise, surprise!) I met Mom and Dad, and Marta (a long-lost family friend) in Nashville. I haven't talked much about my mother, but here's the only way I know to describe her (and by the way, it won't do her justice- trust me): A jill-of-all-trades, event-planner, Texas-music-manager, housewife-and-stay-at-home-mom-turned-LED-light-saleswoman, caterer, singer-songwriter, pistol-packin'-mama. Ok, that will do for now, although I suspect a story or two is due soon so that you come to appreciate her talents as much as we all do.

Anyway, we met there because she was planning an event, catering, booking her artist, etc. (I'm not kidding- she was doing all of that) for a friend of hers I've heard about for years. This woman, who I had never met- thank God, or my most productive years would have been spent trying to become her- is named Sara Caroline. She and my mother became friends when Mom was the owner of a wholesale linen clothing company (oh yeah, she did that too). SC was my mom's customer from a trunk show in the Nashville area, and she later commissioned Mom to make a few pieces, tailored just for her, each with its own sense of personality- a conservative jacket or top with a WILDLY colored lining- you know, in case she ever needed to pull off a "flashing" with clothing underneath, of course.

The friendship ignited when they discovered that the reason behind the name of my mother's clothing company, Blue Moon Linens, was something they had in common. On a cold Halloween day in Alabama and Arkansas (I'm actually not sure if it was really cold in either state, but it makes for a better description), two women were born under a Blue Moon- just hours apart. I never knew her, but Mom kept saying, "I can't wait for you to meet Sara Caroline. You will LOVE her!" In my wildest dreams I couldn't have imagined how much I really would.

Sara Caroline's husband, Van- who reminds me of Randy Travis, but doesn't talk as slow- is a doctor who runs Bella Vita in Dickson, TN. http://www.bellavitalaser.com/. He supplies the Nasvhille area with good healthcare and a little help becoming more beautified, all within 30 minutes of the city. Together with Sara Caroline, he uses his position for the betterment of a community. Last Saturday, they used their roles to raise money for the Help Center, a donation-based organization that helps the needy citizens of the area and is based in downtown Dickson.

We set up the tables in a rustic fashion- as if you'd just stepped right onto a Texas ranch and had only a flask and a bandana to accompany your meal. There were raffia-tied vintage-printed napkins, big jars of lemonade and sweet tea, peanuts in the shell, and enamel-ware skillets for plates. It brought on thoughts of an old cowboy movie complete with scruffy men loudly scraping their pans with reusable, traveling forks. Go green, right?

That afternoon, after the bones of the event were in place, Mom, Marta and I had been allowed the pleasure of accompanying Sara Caroline to her Dickson home. We were in awe of the beautiful home they had lived in since before their children, Andrew and Ian (two charming, well-rounded boys with a 10-year age difference), were born. The house was oozing with character. You see, I forgot to mention, Sara Caroline is an artist. For years, I have been in awe of her creative paintings- namely a gorilla with a martini in its hand. She loves to paint apes. While in her house, after witnessing an oddly sculptured pair of wooden/leathery/furry monkeys on her kitchen countertop (a slab of onyx), I asked her, "Sara Caroline, why the fascination with apes?" Her response? "Honey, we're all just monkeys with car keys."

During the tour, we were introduced to the paintings of her mentor- the woman who had taught her the trade. In a small light-filled room between her living room and master bedroom that seemed a catch-all for the most important things in the house (namely a Pram that Van bought her before they had children- something she asked for because she simply wanted it and then used it to push the neighbors' children up and down the street), there was a portrait of a young SC. I asked her who had painted it and she said her mentor had, but with a little help from herself later on. She had gone back and "painted in bigger boobs and a bigger diamond."

Later that night, we all got ready inside the clinic. Proving that pictures aren't the only thing she paints, Sara Caroline gave me a makeover from the makeup room. After consuming a beer and some well-chosen lipstick (as I tend to lick it off as soon as it's applied), we threw the event under a rented white tent in the parking lot of Bella Vita. Guests began to arrive and partake in the tamales made by Sara Caroline's hispanic housekeeper, Hema. Someone once likened their relationship to that of Will and Grace's Karen and Rosario- a description that, in my opinion, makes them both that much more endearing.

In order to attend, guests made donations to the Help Center. Entertainment was provided by Austin Cunningham http://www.austincunningham.com/ , a singer-songwriter from Garland, TX who makes friends with his audience by singing songs that do one of two things: 1. Remind you that you once experienced that, or 2. Makes you realize you want to. The tamales were good enough to make you want to slap your Mexican mama. We raised our glasses and money too. A good time was had by all.