House-keeeeeeeeping....

Talk about Writer's Block. Or maybe life just got in the way. It is April now and Justin has been home for over seven weeks. So much has happened in our little life together that I hesitate to try to cram it all in to one blog post. Life itself isn't quite back to normal, but our life never really was that predictable.

I will try to sum up the feelings we experienced in the very beginning of this reunion. But it's so hard. Sometimes I have to rely on what others have observed, rather than what I was experiencing. It was similar to my wedding day- the way everyone always warns you that you will be so overwhelmed you will remember nothing at all. I remember my girlfriend Jessica Ditto, who was so loyal and loving to be present for the welcome-home ceremony, saying that when he arrived, I had been too calm and collected for my otherwise neurotic personality. We were having this conversation after the family had gone home and after Justin and I had gotten back into our routine. We were standing in our kitchen when she said it. I explained to her that if I'm given the time to prepare my emotions then I know how to get them in check. Throw a wrench in a plan I had at the last minute and I can hardly function.

But I had the time to prepare for this one. 325 days to be exact. I was standing in the Armory, a cold and sterile building, far from the romantic airport setting in which I had imagined us reuniting for so long. But it was 40 degrees farenheit outside and no one, not even for the sake of romance, wanted to catch pneumonia. I was wearing a black dress that had replaced my original choice of a dress with vintage airplanes on it (Mom decided it wouldn't photograph well). My hair was rolled that morning, with a little bobby pin holding up one side. Red lipstick, red nails; I was going for the pinup look. I even found a pair of vintage-looking stockings with the black line down the back (Calypso, Lexington). If the setting were going to be this ugly, I wanted to do as much with it as I could.

The airplane landed on time and we anxiously awaited their arrival, on foot, through the cold doorway. Their commander entered first, followed by a few other guys and then Justin, who was toward the end. I stood out from the line of awaiting family and waited until I caught his eye. Then I walked calmly into his arms and we kissed, right there in front of everyone, and we cried. Then he said, "Want me to dip you?" And that was it. The crowd applauded. We had an audience. They were probably all thinking, "Rookies."

About six weeks before he got home I made the decision to leave my job as national sales manager for Henry Brown. It had been a long and thoughtfelt process to get to that point, but inevitably I felt an overwhelming need to be available, both emotionally and physically, to Justin when he returned. I had a little over a month to get ready for his arrival. I relished every second of it- the anxiousness, the drive, with the greatest goal in mind- to welcome him home safely and honorably without him having to worry about so much as a car wash.

One week after I had been home from work, Justin called and said we needed to make a decision... fast. The guard unit was offering him another "school." It was his choice whether or not to attend the six-week course, and it would be at Fort Rucker, where we had spent the first year of our marriage. I sat there wondering how he could even consider it, given that he was still weeks away from returning from an 11-month deployment. Then he said, "It starts mid-April. Wanna go with me?"

It just so happens that Fort Rucker is less than two hours from the beach and less than 3 hours from all of our family members. It didn't take me long to say yes. We've been here less than two weeks and I have already visited all our old haunts. I'm taking Pilates at the new gym on post, framing lessons from the Art Center, and going antiquing without buying anything since we are now a one-income family. Justin's class schedule is less than challenging. He gets home between 1 and 3 each day and we play frisbee, grill out and occasionally attend cookouts or "Wing Night." We spent our first weekend at Pop's in Auburn, having drinks on his little patio and attending the 280 Boogy in Waverly, AL. Last weekend we made the trek up to Mom and Dad's farm in Clay County where we were visited by friends, Damian Cuttie and Jessica Pate. Lance Miller put on a fine show at the Ashland Theater, despite the warnings of a Category 5 tornado. Sunday, we put the canoes in Crooked Creek and had a fine time with David Mitchell and his gang of hellraisers. In all honesty, we feel a little spoiled. Yes, spoiled. It just doesn't seem right for anyone to have this much fun.

I would like to think we are living our life like "rookies" now. I would like to think that as we celebrate our five-year anniversary next month, we are still a little "green." I hope that's the case anyway. Recently, Justin asked me, "When are we going to stop acting like newlyweds?" One morning last week, as he waited for his ride outside our little on-post efficiency apartment, he turned to me and said, "I love you so much. I'll always love you. You are my best friend." Then he kissed me and got in the car.

I know people feel sorry for us. I know they think we have to suffer so much angst over separation and distance as a military family. But when I sense a little pity from someone, I respond this way: We get to experience a reunion, a romance, a feeling that so few others get to feel. Those emotions make me more thankful for what we have than any year together could ever accomplish. It doesn't mean I love him more because he's been gone. It just means I love him a little harder when he's here.

P.S. A special thanks to my cousin Eva Vaughan, our photographer at the welcome-home ceremony. Please visit her website at www.evavaughan.com.

Open my arms and heart... Check.

A picture worth a thousand words, right? Nothing more to say about that now. Nothing needed.




Paint the front bedrom a neutral color, unlike the rest of the house... Check.
Childhood iron bed needs to be chartreuse to match Anthropologie bedding... Check.
Kitchen desk is too cluttered. Move to front bedroom where there is already a lot going on... Check.

Clean the baseboards. Check.
Mop the floors. Check.
Touch up wall paint. Check.
Wax eyebrows. Check.
Color hair. Check.
Tan. Check.
Sync Patty Griffin (all 7 albums) to Ipod. Check. (and listening now)
Invite the girls over for one last hoo-rah. Check.

Buy more expensive wine than normal, because of the name... Check. www.justinwine.com

Find and decorate a "Christmas in March" Tree... Check.
Wrap gifts... Check.

That's right. The burlap sacks that originally said "Speedy Cook'n"... now say "Peed Cook'n." Go ahead. Laugh.

Post the project without any shame or humiliation in my 32-hour project of recovering six kitchen chairs (in my mother's words, "It adds character.")... Check.

More to come later about the moment for which I've waited 45 1/2 weeks. Stay tuned...

MEREDITH Mainte-NANCE FRYE

If I had it to do all over again, I think I would have quit my job when Justin left and devoted myself completely to a blog about domestic duties while a husband is away at war.

I suppose this could be my theme for entries over the next 7 weeks. I can write about the trials and tribulations of a love-scorned housewife whose husband has gone to war and left her with the never-ending responsibilities of a house in need of maintenance.... Not really. We live in a house that was brand new when we bought it and we live in a neighborhood with a fantastic HOA, so we're not in dire need of really anything (and by the way, Justin would never do that to me). But a girl has to have her projects.

I love Lowe's. I LOVE Lowe's. I mean I really do. I could walk around there for hours thinking of things I could do to improve the function, and even aesthetics, of my house. So last Friday (New Year's Day) that's what I did.

I did go there on a mission. To purchase the touch-up paint colors with which my house is already adorned: All from the Eddie Bauer Craftsman Bungalow collection, because that's the style of the house in which we live. Well, actually, the secret is out that it was built in 2006, so it's not TECHNICALLY from that era, but it's made to look that way. I guess you could call it a "Fungalow" since according to my friend Jessica and me, putting an "F" on the front of anything thereby desribes it as it faux. But I digress.

I also digressed at Lowe's. Finding a perfectly good use for things that I otherwise never knew I needed... And then there was the tile aisle. And there was Michael, the tile guy. I never meant for the conversation, complete with tile-laying instructions, to last that long. I simply asked him, "Hey, about how quickly and easily could you describe the tile installation process for a backsplash? About a foot tall and seven feet wide. Kitchen. Behind a sink. Natural material." And thus, see picture below.

One 15-minute conversation, one buggy-full (in the south we call it a buggy- up here they call it a shopping cart) of supplies, and one mid-afternoon later I had a fully-tiled backsplash (sans grout, of course as it needs to set overnight). My aforementioned friend Jessica, who is a new resident of our fantastic little neighborhood, came by and said, "I go to New Year's lunch at my aunt's house and in that amount of time you tile your backsplash!?!" While this would be a compliment either which way (provided the job was done well), I have to mention this comes from the same friend who actually asked, "Why can't we just spray paint the iron bed in the bedroom?" (instead of garage)

Friday night, I was home alone and actually excited about it. I picked up the house which was a disaster and was going to remain a disaster until I was able to finish grouting the week-old backsplash and flip the breaker back on. Up to that point, dirty dishes had sat unwashed and stacked on my kitchen table. UGH! If you are thinking to yourself that I could have hand washed them, no such luck. My disposal was also turned off so the sink was a little clogged. Anyway, I grouted the tile and felt victorious. Only problem? I had gone back later in the week to replace "Marble Beige Unsanded Grout" with a lighter creamier color of "Sanded Grout." My kitchen was a complete mess and every time I moved the carton of powder grout, it burped a big cloud of dust all over the countertops and sink. Finally, hours later, I had cleaned up the mess and sat down to have a beer. I purchased it at Whole Foods for a friend who came to town and it ended up... She's pregnant! Surprise! So I was left with a really fancy version of a "tall boy" with 7 % alcohol content, in such a pretty bottle I might add. http://www.gooseisland.com/pages/matilda/25.php

An hour later, Justin was calling and I was waxing on.. and on... about my night, even throwing in a few dates in the conversation which we, under no circumstances, ever mention over the phone lines. Finally, he asked, "Are you drunk?" I wasn't really, but I had gotten a little tipsy. The next day I wrote an apologetic email for any American security that might have been compromised. He told me later, "I will only worry if you are drinking alone and crying. If you are drinking alone and acting that funny again, I don't care." Apparently he and the guys had a good laugh over my poor judgment.

Saturday I spent the day with Brigitte http://www.brigittenguyen.com/. She's headed to the Vancouver Winter Olympics in February to compete in Bobsledding. Just kidding. She'll be cooking for the athletes. She's a chef who has been on FoodTV and will be competing again in the Food Network Recipe Showdown, airing in March. I love her. Top five favorite people- she's one of them. Anyway, we went to An Antique Affair, the show that opens once a month on Manchester Avenue. I found nothing of any value to me, but stumbled upon a 48-ft. square oak table from 1910, in pristine condition, and boasting SIX leaves! I sent Jessica (yet again, part of this blog) a photo of this kitchen table she so desperately needed and she wrote back "SOLD!" It's riding around in my SUV currently. She gets back tomorrow from Seattle and I'll get her to help me unload it into her kitchen.

Saturday night I spent the evening with two friends who just so happen to be two more of my top five favorite people, a couple named LaVoyed and Cheryl Hudgins (featured in this article of the Wall Street Journal: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970203674704574336414204385806.html). In case you haven't noticed, I only put my famous friends in my top five. Just kidding. But their "fame" just goes to show you how dynamic they all really are. Anyway, I counted my blessings that day because I got invitations from two people I love and admire. I spent the evening drinking LaVoyed's mudslides with them and eating homemade chili.

Sunday, it was project time again. I had been late to Cheryl and LaVoyed's the night before because I got too caught up in staining my "shoe shelves" a dark ebony, only to realize I was out of mineral spirits to clean the stain off the brush and had no choice but to do all the staining at once. Since the shelves had dried overnight, it was time to hang them. I had naturally, already purchased the necessities for this project earlier that day at Lowe's.

Now what I'm about to tell you might be offensive to some. But I have the right to talk about women, since I am one and I think I know a thing or two about being one. While I was at Lowe's buying the "shoe shelf" equipment (only a woman would go to Lowe's to build something to hold her shoes), I stumbled upon both a man and a woman standing side by side, who worked there. Now, I'm no sexist but I do have a few theories. First of all, I'm not a big fan of women sportscasters. I think it is possible that they know about as much as a man when it comes to the current state of a team's statistics, its batting average, or its past 10 seasons. But what I also know is that she didn't grow up playing tackle football in the front yard with her dad. And second of all, if she did.. that's weird.

Anyway, I have this same theory about home improvement. I mean, when given the choice of asking for help from a man or a woman, I'm sorry ladies, but I'm going to choose the man. So I did. But this certain lady really, really wanted to help me. So I followed her to the screw aisle (please, no comments- there's no other way to say it). I needed two kinds of screws for my L-brackets. One pack held the 1/2-inch long ones to go into the shelf itself. The others would go into the wall. I repeatedly told her that I was screwing them into drywall. So she handed me a pack of TWO-INCH long screws (no anchors) made for wood, stating that my dry wall was probably two inches thick. I don't know any dry wall that is two inches thick, so that should have been clue number one to stick to my theory, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt.

The next day, after polishing off a morning coffee I was positioned with my newly-stained shelving on the floor of my closet. I was ecstatic about the idea of displaying my new Frye boots and leopard-print platforms where I could actually see what I was choosing to wear (I'm a big believer in seeing what you own, or you will forget to wear it... is this a problem?).

First, I went to drill the unrealistically long screw into the drywall only to find that it was so far in that it wiggled and threatened to come out the other side and land in my bathroom. So I moved on to the shorter nails that I had used to screw into the wood, all the while cussing the lady at the home improvement store for her lack of knowledge. Thirty minutes in, I had all of the shelving on the wall and was just drilling the last shelving into the very bottom of the wall. Beaming with pride from my success, I must have knocked the wall with my drill and out of nowhere the six other shelves came crashing down and landed on my head. I don't really know why, but this too must have been the Lowe's lady's fault as well and so I cussed her into the first of next week.

One Starbucks-bold-with-two-raw-sugars-and-cream and yet another Lowe's run later, I was back in the closet (ah hem), hammering DRY WALL ANCHORS in, followed by a 3/4 inch screw.

Alas, the project was complete and very industrially fashion-forward, I might add. So, the moral of the story is... Think twice about a woman telling you how to stain wood, build and hang shelving and curtain rods, rework an old lamp, or tile a backsplash. As a matter of fact, disregard this entire blog entry and exit this computer screen.

I am quite the hypocrite, aren't I?

The Dreamer and the Realist

I'm not really as aloof as I sometimes might sound. I do have this uncanny ability to put up my best defense mechanism- getting over it. But while that might be the end, there is usually a long journey of a means to getting there.

I got there quickly last Friday night when Justin told me his news. I feel selfish about the way I wrote the last entry because I didn't really address the most important people in the equation- my husband, and namely his comrades. It wasn't until I got a comment on my blog from one of the guys in the unit who Justin has come to like and admire that I realized my mistake (he calls him "good people"). John wrote that they were disappointed too. And then I thought for a good long while about how two more weeks makes them feel. I realized there are a lot more things that they have to look forward to in a homecoming, than the waiting families and friends can ever really imagine. I mean, after all, we have stood here on American soil, in our day-to-day lives (albeit a bit empty without their presence), but we got to get on with it. Their hopes, dreams and realities were essentially put on hold. And now, two more weeks will go by with them experiencing "Groundhog Day." I bet two weeks is a lot longer to them than it is to you or me. That's why I feel selfish today.

I am also selfishly devoted to finding a way to cope. I say it's selfish because in the last three years (really four, if you count his second stint at flight school) I have had to do a lot of that and I've become a master at this whole self-soothing thing, you know, at making myself feel better. Infertility woes- ups downs and in betweens, the loss of two grandfathers within eight months of one another, time for training spent away from the love of my life, a (now eleven-month) deployment to Iraq. I would say the list goes on and on, but really it stops there. At least at this moment. You see, I am not a pessimist. And while I like to call my husband one on occasion, he always replies, "I'm not a pessimist. I'm a REALIST." But I am neither. I am the eternal optimist. The somewhat UN-realistic optimist. A dreamer. In a favorite song from my childhood, Nanci Griffith sang:


Where are all the dreamers that I used to know
We used to linger beneath street lamps in the halos and the smoke
The wing and the wheel, came to carry them away
Now they all live out in the suburbs
Where their dreams are in their children at play

At seven years old, listening to the Texas folk artist from the backseat of my parents' minivan, I knew not what she sang. I simply didn't have control over the cassette player that was frequently filled with the music choices of my godparents and their heritage- rubbing off on my mother and creating in her a deep, deep love affair with the Lonestar State.

Nowadays, I understand. I get a little caught up in the future, and am not so concerned with the past. In the middle of doing so I often forget about the others who are on this journey with me. Too busy dreaming, I guess. I am selfish in my dreams. But less so in my actions I hope. I would follow Justin wherever he wants to take me. And I will do it without complaining (for the most part). I am caught up in my own love affair. And it makes me do things I otherwise probably didn't dream about.

There is one thing I know from listening to that song: I want tokeep my dreams. As a matter of fact, I want them to come true. And as a sidenote: I don't want to move out to the suburbs and live vicariously through my children's imaginations. I want our future family to be a product of mine and Justin's love affair with one another, first and foremost (those of you who have children will say, "Right. Let's see how that works out for you."). But it's good to have dreams.

So right now I am dreaming. I can't tell you everything I am dreaming about, but I will tell you one of them: I am dreaming of a Monday in March, where Justin flies back into my life (remember, it's the "WING and the wheel" that carry things away). After he gets home, maybe I'll fill you in on some of the dreams we dream together, and those that we dreamt apart. One thing is for sure- I did a lot of it while he was gone. We'll sit around and I'll fill his ear with many of them, and inevitably, he will bring me back down to earth once more.

In the words of Nanci, and as a shout-out to my mother (because she's busy dreaming with me), "Here's to all the dreamers... may our open hearts find rest."

God and Uncle Sam Have Senses of Humor

Why do I even bother? Number one, I am a child of God- how can you really ever predict, plan or prepare for His intentions? But even if I thought I had some means of control over this crazy life of mine, why don't I consider for a moment that I am also owned by the Army?

I have to smile about it. I can't be too sad or upset, disappointed or let down. After all, it's just two weeks. TWO WEEKS! But I was foaming at the mouth to tear off week 7 on my paper chain this Sunday and round the corner to a mere 6 weeks left in this long-awaited journey of ours. But alas, there is red tape. Forget a Valentine's Day arrival- it was just too good to be true, and far too romantic I guess. End of February, Lord willing. Sam willing too.

I know it's only two weeks and Justin says to be thankful for his tour not having been extended for six months or something crazy, and all-too realistic these days. I am thankful. It's all relative. I was just so wrapped up in what little time was left. I mean, you can read- you saw how I had already planned out the day of the ceremony, the menu for dinner, the week following. But God probably laughed as I wrote it- he IS all-knowing, after all. And I went on and pretended that I knew what He had in store. That's okay. A sense of humor has always been important to me.

I bet He almost busted a gut today watching me at Lowe's, buying paint, rollers, brushes, and spur-of-the-moment supplies to lay tile along my kitchen backsplash (which I DID today, and did WELL, I might add!). All that and 8 weeks left.

Oh well. More time to feather my nest.

Why Half and Half Makes Me Feel Whole

Remember the blog about self-soothing? It's hard to believe I wrote that one over 8 months ago (37 weeks ago, but who's counting?). The other day I went grocery shopping and bought Half and Half. I turned the carton over to reveal the expiration date: January 9th. Less than one month before Justin's release date! (Mark Twain said you shouldn't use exclamation points, but I'm excited.)

You should see my paper chain. It used to be woven all the way around the banister up to our bedroom. Now, it boasts just 7 little rings that entertwine with only two posts on the staircase. On Friday I can say, "Justin will be home NEXT MONTH." On Sunday there will be just 6 weeks left. How odd that I am now starting to feel like I am running out of time to get my tasks completed. I have to feather my nest. The kitchen paint needs finished (got to buy a ladder to do it), the front bedroom needs a new shade as does the old iron bed, the living room needs touched up, the base boards need cleaned, the kitchen chairs need recovered (I'll post pictures of this project later- 6 high-back oak chairs that are getting grey ticking stripe on the seats and vintage burlap sacks on the backs, finished with antique copper nail heads), the master bedroom needs new bedding and a good cleaning as does its bathroom, and on and on and on. I'm headed to New York at the end of January, which leaves me with only five weeks to do it all.

Less than a month after that Half and Half expires, Justin will board a plane back to the United States. He'll de-mobilize at a stateside Army base and make his way back to the Frankfort Airport, where he left us 44 weeks earlier. The family will come to town and we will reunite again on that little tarmac. We'll hug and kiss, eat and drink, and then I'll show our little home to him. Some things have changed since he left. I want to experience that moment together, alone. I want him to be able to take it all in. A few hours later, we'll meet the family again and have dinner at Shaker Village. Then we'll all stay up late having drinks at our house and catching up before the others retire to the hotel. We'll meet for breakfast the next morning and then spend the day in our little kitchen as everyone helps with our "Christmas in February" meal. We'll sit down to a menu of Frye-d Turkey (thanks to Jason), Mom's creamed potatoes and green beans, Giada's butternut squash lasagna, and Granny's sweet potato pie (made by me). Then, we'll open gifts which we postponed so our Soldier could experience Christmas at home. And I bet he's not expecting what I have for him. That's okay- I'm not expecting what he has for me either since he says he already has it and I never saw it come through on our American Express. Mom, Dad and Michael will probably head home the next day. His family will stay on for another day or two. And then he and I will leave for Asheville, North Carolina where we'll finish out what little time we have away from the hustle and bustle of family, work and our everyday responsibilities.

I am ready for this moment- dirty, unfinished, undecorated house and all. I am ready to begin the rest of our life together. I have to prepare my heart, although I think that is the thing that needs the least attention.

Clay County, Life's Bounty

I was born and raised in Atlanta.. for the first ten years anyway. The state I've lived the longest in? Alabama. Throughout my entire life, I have traveled the state known as the "heart of dixie"- moved away, moved back, and moved away again. But I've always called it home.

My parents were high school sweethearts in Ohatchee, Alabama- the homecoming queen and the center of the football team (not quite as romantic as being able to say the quarterback, but still worth mentioning). Dad met Mom when the 3rd graders were asked to go read to the 1st graders. Mom was his "student" and he thought she was cute. What isn't cute about a first grader? But I guess it was love at first sight for Dad. He asked her out when he was 14 and she was 12, and then kissed her on the school bus. The rest is history. Or is it? I believe that sometimes in life, things don't actually become history. They get weaved into our makeup and come back to haunt us from time to time.

They sought out a new beginning, at 18 and 20, respectively. They set up house one state over, in Georgia (which must have seemed exotic to them at the time). Dad went to school at Southern Tech and they both worked nights at a photo developing shop. When I was one year old they bought a house in a newly-developed neighborhood and we lived there until Dad was transferred to Huntsville, Alabama 9 years later.

While living in Atlanta, I too thought Alabama was exotic simply because it wasn't Georgia. I would claim it as if it were mine- when in reality I only went there a handful of times in a year to visit my grandparents. But for some reason, because my parents and grandparents were born there, I felt like it owned me. And when we moved there, it just seemed right. I knew I would never live in Atlanta again. It had just been a pitstop along my parents' journey together. A means to and end. A detour.

They settled in Decatur, Alabama and have lived there ever since. The only problem is, they're never there. On weekends and in between business trips, they head off to a little spot on the Alabama map that we don't even call by its city. Clay County... life's bounty.

Situated about 30 minutes south of I-20, it might be the most convenient place on earth, geographically at least. From there, you can reach Auburn (our alma mater and Justin's hometown), Birmingham and Atlanta within an hour and a half. But it's not convenience that we're after. It would be more likely to fall in love with this place if you're already in love with inconvenience. That's what you get in the country... but that's part of its appeal.

Clay County feels like home even if you're only there on weekends. It's a place where your alarm system is leaning next to your bed- fully loaded and ready to defend. Your dogs sleep with you in the small cabin built by a father's hands (and a little help from the locals). There's always enough food on the stove, in case an unexpected visitor stops in, and most often does. When there's not enough to share you do it anyway and eat less. Christmas trees are cut, not bought. There are stories told by real-log fireplaces, like the one about the man who "was so sorry he had to dig his own grave." In Clay County you discover that a pot of potatoes boiling sounds just like someone driving up the dirt road and you're not sure which outcome you'd rather have. The doors are always open, but the house isn't always clean. When a man needs help, he gets help. When a woman is home alone, the man stays outside. When a loved one dies, a tree gets planted. When a friend gets cancer you buy the things he needs to sell, even if you don't need them. When a Soldier goes overseas the men sit around and talk about the wars they fought, until he comes home and they can hear about his.

The Piggly Wiggly is twenty minutes up the road, and you have to drive 30 miles just to buy beer, but it's that inconvenience that appeals to those with an old soul- those who enjoy the leisurely pace, the unexpected, and the journey you take when you have to work a little for what you get. If this is foreign to you, then hop in your car right now and head to the spot between Lineville and Cragford. You might have to stop and ask for directions. But what's the fun in getting there if you already knew where you were going?