The Little Author That Could

A curtain.

2010-08-23T21:13:00.003-04:00

I can't say how long I stood there, with Mrs. Linden looking up at me. Eventually, she stood, and walked to the door. She left and I found myself taking deep, gulping breaths, which only made me wonder why I was still breathing.

The door opened again and she re-entered, carrying a small glass of water, which she handed to me. I realized that my hands and knees were shaking, and I sat.

There were so many things that made no sense. My mind felt crowded and jostling, like an airline counter when a flight is cancelled at the last minute, leaving all the passengers stranded and wanting answers. I clutched the glass and looked at the water. Mrs. Linden took a deep breath and began to speak.

"When I was 68 years old, I celebrated my 45th wedding anniversary by going on a cruise to Alaska. We had a spectacular time, my husband and I. I had retired from teaching. He had sold his business. I was looking forward to visiting my children and two grandchildren. But, toward the end of the trip, I didn't feel well. A very short three months later, I found myself here, in a room very much like this."

I felt a flash of annoyance, shifting in my chair, wondering why we were talking about her life, when it was MINE that had just ended. MY life that had just been stolen.

Calmly, she continued, "Like you, I was confused in the beginning. Bewildered and, eventually, angry. I was so young--not as young as you, obviously--but, still..." she caught my eye "I felt much like you do."

"You were expecting a baby, your first, I believe. I can imagine that you had dreams of raising that baby, and others perhaps."

Mrs. Linden said the last sentence kindly; carefully. Her tone brought my dry eyes to her face, which was set intently towards mine. "You suffered a fatal embolism, Anna. Instant and painless. There was nothing you could do--there was no way you could fight it or see it coming."

I could feel my emotions at the edges--like a tsunami, the numbness was temporary and fragile, the tide of my emotion being pulled out so that it could come crashing down on me with greater force and intensity.

Again, I whispered hoarsely "What is this place?"
"This" she answered, "is your waiting room. It is the place for you to mourn your own death. It is the place for you to ask your questions. You can remain here, as long as you need. If there is anyone you would like to see, I can bring them to you. It is the place for you to say goodbye. When you are ready--you can just open the door and leave."

She stood, smoothing her corduroy jumper with her hands, and in a more business like tone said, motioning to the heavy brocade drapery "Behind that curtain is a window to your old life. The people that you love and left behind are there. Sometimes we need that--we need to see that they're alright. I would advise you to watch with caution... but that is up to you."

Turning to me, she grasped my arms in her hands, and looked into my eyes for a moment. She nodded slightly and said "I'll be back to check on you. Let me know if there is anyone you need to see." With that, she slipped out the door, letting it click quietly behind her.

With two long, desperate strides I crossed the room and wrenched back the curtain.

A small room.

2010-08-20T14:06:00.003-04:00

The room was small and square. Sparsely furnished, the main piece was a set of two simple, blue wingback chairs that reminded me of something my mother would've chosen for the living room. In between the chairs was a slender cherry wood table and a silver lamp, which was turned on, casting a warm glow on the room. Next to the lamp was a short, round bud vase holding a single white peony. It's fragrance tinged the air only slightly--more like the scent of a memory than anything else. A curtain hung over one end of the room, made of a heavy dove gray brocade, and on the opposite wall was a door. Looking around, I took all of these details in quickly, rubbing my hands on my arms. The room was pleasantly warm, but I felt slightly chilled--like I'd come in after being out in the cold for a long time.

I moved over to one of the chairs and sat in it, watching the door. I wasn't sure where I was, or quite how I'd gotten there. But I didn't feel anxious. That surprised me, slightly. It occurred to me that, not knowing where I was should have made me worry. But it simply didn't.

I closed my eyes and sunk deeper into the chair. For all their simplicity--it was very comfortable. For the first time in months, I felt like I could fall asleep and sleep for hours and hours, uninterrupted. As I sat, waiting, time seemed to move quickly around me.

A very soft knock at the door opened my eyes as the handle turned with a click.

I stood as it opened and I found myself face to face with a kind, familiar face.

My second grade teacher, Mrs. Linden.

Her face, just as I remembered it, smiled at the surprise she saw play across my features. Her gray hair, plaited into a braid. Smile lines around her mouth and eyes. I even glanced down to notice her hands, which had always been dusted with chalk as she waved them around energetically. They were clean now, but still looked just as wrinkly and soft.

Stepping forward into the room, she put her arms around me briefly and reached up to touch her cheek to mine. I was surprised to find that I was taller than her. When I'd seen her last, that had been different. Some things had changed.

"It's good to see you, Anna" she said, cheerfully, "I have to say I wasn't expecting to see you yet, but I'm glad just the same."

"You too" I responded automatically, pausing briefly to wonder what she meant by "yet." I hadn't really expected to see her again, ever.

She gestured to the chairs, "Please, sit! Let's catch up and chat for a few minutes. I'm sure you have questions."

I took my seat again and she went and sat opposite me. I looked at her and was aware that her hazel eyes were looking at me very intently, if kindly. Searching for something. I was the first to look away and down at the peony.

"I love peonies. But they're out of season right now."

"Yes, I would've imagined you'd like them. They're some of my favorites as well."

After a pause, I looked at her again. She sat back in her chair. She had on a forest green corduroy jumper with a peach turtleneck under it. Just like I remembered her.

Finally, I took a breath and said "I don't know where I am."

She nodded, but said nothing.

"I don't even really know how I got here" I laughed, embarrassed.

"Don't worry about that. I think you'll find if you think hard enough, you'll remember. But it's really not important" was her easy reply.

"Oh, well. I guess if it doesn't matter... can you tell me where I am, though?"

And as suddenly as I had uttered it, I felt a tremble of unexplicable sadness that took me by surprise. My eyes sought hers and suddenly there was a flash of remembering. I realized that tears were springing to the corner of my eyes and my hand flew to my mouth. Mrs. Linden knelt quietly by my chair, her hand on my knee.

I was shaking my head, trying to decipher the memories that were suddenly spreading out before me. Memories that didn't seem to be my own, because I wasn't in them.

Placing her hand on my cheek, Mrs Linden lifted my head and said "Yes, Anna. What you're remembering? Yes."

I stood suddenly, and she knelt back--looking up at me.

"I'm dead." I whispered.

"Yes." was her soft, sympathetic reply.

Poke it with a stick...

2010-03-12T08:16:00.002-05:00

I haven't written on this blog in forever. Maybe you've noticed.

But I have been writing! If you stumble across this sleeping blog, and want to come get to know me better, then come on over. I would love to have you.

Would you be mine, could you be mine, won't you be my neighbor? :)

--Becca

I am in love...

2010-01-19T11:34:00.001-05:00

Dear Dave,
I am sorry. I used your Marshall's gift card.

It just couldn't be helped.

Love you,
Becca
I love you

Biographical Sketches... Rose Standish

2009-12-29T15:58:00.002-05:00

Feet slipping over the rocks and mud, Rose picked her way down the hill. Her head was bent against a vicious wind that whipped her skirts against her legs and stung her face. She withdrew even deeper into her rough cloak and a shiver passed through her. Pausing, she glanced up at the pale sky.

"How long?" she wondered "How long until spring finds us?" Placing the wooden pails on the ground, she rubbed her hands together, then picked them up again and, once again, slid downward toward the fort wall at the edge of the water.

Reaching the well, she joined other women filling their buckets with fresh water. Few of them spoke. It had been a long winter. Unkind, even brutal. The fact that the cold continued now even into May taxed even the most patient of them. Not wishing to complain, they said little. They all knew that they were tired of fish. They were tired of ground meal cakes that had no flavor. Most of all, they were tired of the constant cold, and the incessant wind. They wished for warm breezes. They wished for things, green and growing. Too often, unbidden, their thoughts turned to the tulip fields and meadows of daffodils at home.

"Not home." Rose reminded herself, firmly. She hoisted the filled buckets and steadied her footing as she turned her back toward the wind. England would never be home again. This was her home--the place she had chosen. She had agreed to come with her Myles. She had promised herself that she would never look back. It shamed her to admit that there were times when she let her fingers dip into the frigid waters of the Atlantic, just to touch the same ocean that touched the shores of her native land. This was something she told no one.

With the wind at her back and the weight of the filled buckets to steady her, the climb back up the hill was easier than the way down. "Let the wind carry me home" she thought, and then smiled to herself.

Biographical Sketches... Helen Keller

2009-12-27T20:43:00.003-05:00

I've decided to try a few short biography sketches of real people that I admire. Just an attempt to get into their heads. To try on that character, and that voice. My first one is Helen Keller. The first chapter book I ever read was one on Helen Keller, and to this day, she remains one of my favorite people. I've chosen to do a sketch on the day she met Ann Sullivan in March 1887. Helen was 7 years old, and had been blind and deaf for just over 5 years...

It was spring.

Sitting on the front porch, resting her hand on the smooth wood pillar, Helen took in a deep, hungry breath. She could tell it was spring. There were so many new smells--some of them strong, and assaulting. Some of them she had to really concentrate on. And there were smells missing; she couldn't smell as much smoke from the fires as before. The air was warm, and there was a spice to it.

Groping down off the porch, she felt towards the leaves of a bush, and then sunk down on the ground next to it. Helen dug her fingers into the dirt, and smelled the wet earth. Rubbing her fingers together, she felt the clay crumble. She dug some more, and then her finger bumped something... cool and wet. Carefully, with one finger she stroked the creature and felt it recoil and squirm. With two fingers, she lifted it up and put it on her hand. She felt it move. Then she laid it back into the dirt, careful not to smash it. She wondered what it would feel like, to be down in the dirt, where it was cool.

Scootching backward on her rear end until she felt the grass, she lay down. The grass was stiff and prickly. Not soft. It scratched through her tights. She lifted her legs off the grass and held them for as long as she could. She brought them down to the ground, hard, and was startled to feel something big and furry under them that darted away. She laughed. It must be the cat. She got up on all fours and crawled slowly toward to house, searching with her hands for the cat.

She knew that the cat hated her. It ran from her, and she had to find it. Sometimes, when she caught it, she would tug at it's fur. It would scratch at her. Then her mother would try to take the cat away. But she wouldn't let her. The cat was hers.

Suddenly, she felt soft vibrations through the ground and sat back on her heels. Someone tapped roughly on her shoulder. Martha. Only Martha would poke her like that. She made a sign to Martha that meant "WHAT?" and Martha replied by pulling on one of her hands. That meant she was to come inside. She signed again "WHAT?" and Martha rubbed her face. She needed to get clean. Her mother was always wanting her to get clean. To meet new people.

She sighed and got up, allowing Martha to lead her inside the house. She dragged her feet whistfully, and took another deep breath. But it was such a beautiful day.

Merry Christmas.

2009-12-24T20:09:00.003-05:00

As we sprinkled reindeer food on the lawn tonight, I got impatient and dumped the rest of the baggie out in a pile on the lawn.

My husband snorted and said "Who's that for? Fatzen?"

Then he chuckled and continued "On Dasher! On Dancer! On Prancer! On Fatzen!!! FATZEN! GET UP! GOOOOOO!!!"

Ha.Ha.

I feel a story in the works. Tailored especially for obese childrens. ;)

Merry Christmas!

Revised Christmas List...

2009-12-13T11:19:00.004-05:00

I made up my Christmas list weeks ago.

But I've changed my mind.

I want new stuff:

I want the germs that are plaguing my house to cease and desist. No more vomiting. Please. And if my 15 month old could stop emitting farts that smell like a Port-a-Potty on a July afternoon at the fair, that would be AWESOME.
I want to be able to find a pair of tweezers. I know. It sounds like an odd request. But, somewhere in this house, I own FOUR PAIRS of tweezers. And yet my eyebrows are starting to look more and more Old Saint Nick-ish by the day because I.can't.find. a single pair. All four of them would make a great stocking stuffer.
Somehow in the past week, the name ABBY has appeared on my darling, perfect, red mama chair. I love this mama chair. It's my favorite Craigslist find ever. But the big, black ABBY is really kind of killing the appeal. When I asked my kids, glaring at the 5 year old, WHO wrote it, they responded "Um... Abby?" I would like "Abby" remover.
I would like my kids to decide that wearing pants is a good idea. Especially if they insist on dancing in front of the front window to "Run, Run, Rudolph", as is their habit.
I would like "The Drummer Boy" to never.darken.my.doorstep.again. I'll bet his mother hated the drum every bit as much as I do.
My cheekbones. (Okay, it's a repeat request. I asked for them back in 2005, 2006, 2008, as well. But, hey, at least 2007 was a good year.)

That's all for now, but stay tuned. It may change again.

Year 2: In which I never post because of "stuff."

2009-12-09T08:16:00.002-05:00

I am currently not wearing a bra.

This is unthinkable for me.

But the Childrens have just been so darn needy this morning. They're always wanting something. Some of them are understandable. Like breakfast. Cereal. Not that cereal. That one. Without milk. No. With milk in a cup. Not that cup. That's a boy cup.

*sigh*

And now the Wee One, henceforth known as the GREMLIN, wants her thumb sucked, but she doesn't want to do the sucking herself. She wants ME to do it. And if I don't? Then she's going to sit there ON my bosoms (because they are hanging THAT LOW thanks to her and her siblings) and cry/whine/act like a teenager denied her prom date.

Fine. I'll even suck your thumb for you. Lazy child.

But can I at least get a bra on???

Day 172: Date

2009-11-10T07:58:00.005-05:00

Sitting at a table for two. Or six. There are no quiet tables at Chili's. They are all built for groups.

Or just two.

The air is filled with chatter and laughter. Waiters and waitresses skim past each other as they bring food to the table. Sizzling, steaming plates and skillets. Over and over, "Careful, that plate is hot." From the other corner of the restaurant, a group of waiters with an enormous sombrero converge on a birthday table and sing their rendition of happy birthday. I wonder to myself, amidst the clapping, when a new employee learns the song--is it part of their training? And is the whole restaurant expected to join in?

Sitting on opposite sides of the varnished table, my husband and I. Between us, a bowl of chips and a bowl of salsa. He is talking.

I realize how rarely he gets a word in edgewise. How the only time that I really hear him talk like this, about his work, his calling, what he heard on the radio, is on these dates. I feel guilty about that.

I reach out and take a chip and dip it into the salsa, and I watch him...

This restaurant is trendy and small. The settings are eclectic. The wine list is long. We had to get a reservation for our tiny table by the window, a candle in the middle.

Conversation rises and falls, like a wave. The tables are full of couples, although a few have the tables pushed together. Our waiter is wearing black, his arms lined with tattoos. All the waiters and waitresses are wearing black, their shirts expensive. Cashmere, maybe, for the women. Extra starch for the men.

My husband smiles at me across the table, holding the single page menu displayed on brushed leather in his hands. The waiter appears and whisks our wine glasses away, slightly disappointed, when we request only water. With lemon. He runs through the specials of the day, which leave us staring at each other in confusion--did he just say bone marrow with a blueberry sauce?

"We'll need just a few more minutes." my husband says, raising one eyebrow at me. His foot taps mine under the table, and I look down, smiling.

In the end, I order the squash filled ravioli. He orders the bone marrow, making a face at me when it's delivered actually in the bone, with a sprig of sage sticking out of the top. And I watch him...

"This is really good." my husband says, dipping his spoon into his Frosty dessert.
"What do you think these are made of?" I ask, twirling my spoon.
"You probably don't want to know" he laughs.

Back and forth. Back and forth. We're quiet, as we eat our Frosties, and swing on the swings at the local park. I am watching the small group of teenagers, sulking in the corner by the tennis courts. I glance over at my husband, who is gazing at the sunset.

He loves sunsets. Sometimes I forget that.

I scoop out the last spoonful and eat it, then look over at him. I find that he is watching me. And I smile.

Hope Chest.

2009-11-07T22:33:00.002-05:00

The smell of cedar is overwhelming. Sickly sweet.

First, come Christmas stockings. Eight of them, woven, with embroidered names. Picking them up in my hands, I remember how the Christmas goodies would catch and snag on the threads inside. But the orange fit so perfectly in the toe. And peanuts, which always ended up abandoned in a bowl. Left for my father to eat.

More stockings, but only 7 this time. Red felt, with cut out felt shapes glued, untidy, on the front. Names with glitter on glue. I remember sitting at the table in an olive green kitchen and choosing the shapes for my own stocking: a reindeer, a bell, and a star.

A wedding dress, the satin with a slightly yellowed sheen. An a-line ball gown gown with a tiny waist. Long sleeves. Dust on the hemline from my mother's wedding reception. Beneath the gown, the veil--brittle with time.

Christening outfits. Baby blankets. Elementary school projects. A pair of tiny toddler cowboy boots. A Marine dress coat, cut to fit like a glove.

Going through my mother's hope chest is to step back in time. Filled with her hopes fulfilled. Reflecting years of my own hopes...
to wear a dress like this.
To marry a man like that.
To fill my arms with babies.
To hide their blankets in my own hope chest.

Which stands against the wall of my own room now.

Christening gowns. Baby dolls. Faded, dried roses. Graduation caps and tassels.

The smell of cedar, sickly sweet.

Day 171: Work in Progress

2009-11-04T22:49:00.004-05:00

Sunshine day,

happy breeze.

Jumping

in a pile of leaves.

Toss them up,

higher than high.

Deepest blue of an autumn sky.

Day 170...Early.

2009-11-02T07:20:00.004-05:00

Cough.

Cough. Cough.

She rolled over in her sleep, only partially awake. The sound of a tiny cough down the hall drawing her out.

Silence.

She looked up at the red digital number on the alarm clock. 5:30. Just an hour too early. Curving into her sleeping husband as he reached instinctually for her hand, she allowed the warmth and silence to draw her once more downward.

Cough.

Sighing, she unwillingly withdrew her hand and stepped out of her warm bed. Wrapping her arms around herself she closed the door quietly behind her. At least maybe he could sleep for another 30 minutes.

Walking down the hall she listened at the door and heard only the sound of restless sleep... maybe... but then, a cough and a little whimper. Opening the door softly, she reached into the crib and scooped up the small, sleeping bundle. Wrapping her blanket more snuggly, she lowered herself into the rocking chair in the corner. The humidifier hummed in the corner. Softly, she laid her cheek against the fuzzy down on top of the sleeping head. Back and forth. Back and forth. The soft warm weight in her arms. She closed her eyes, patting the little back gently. Maybe she could doze...

A creak. Her head came up and she saw the light from the front window fall across the hall. A little shadow peering into the darkness. The rustle of footsteps, with a blanket in tow. Awake already.

Standing, she lowered the now peaceful baby back into the crib and stroked her cheek just once with the back of her hand before slipping silently from the room. The little figure stood in the hallway, smiling when he saw her. She scooped him up and he cuddled into her. She gave him a hug and walked to the living room. They sat on the couch and she laid him down against a pillow, stroking his hair. He asked for breakfast. Too early. He asked for Daddy. Too early. Try to sleep. For just a few more minutes. He nodded.

Standing and yawning, her eyes itching for just a little more sleep, she heard a small meowing at the door. Opening it for the small cat, all puffy with cold, she followed it's meow to it's food dish. A scoop of fresh food.

Walking back to her room, she slipped in the closed door and shut it behind her. Back under her warm covers, nestling into the now cool pillows.

Just a few more minutes.

Alpine.

2009-10-31T09:15:00.003-04:00

The shadows come early here, and they stay late. Even in the warmest breezes of midsummer, there is a slight sour tang to the air that speaks of coolness. A warning: this will not last. So you hold each day as it comes, like a petal that you know will lose it's color and wilt in your hands. But you cannot help it, and you cannot leave. For the brilliant blue sky and the jagged edges of the peaks are as much a part of you as an arm or a foot. When you close your eyes, they make up the landscape of your mind. The hawk soaring--a tiny speck on the currents of the wind. And far down the valley, the river tumbles over rocks, sending up an echo of greeting.

Winter is coming on fast now, the snow creeping steadily closer on it's descent down the slopes. The brilliant blue of the glacier ice on the peaks is disappearing under fresh, white snow, and there is--more often--the crack of an avalanche on some unseen face. The animals grow shaggy under their winter coats, eating voraciously. But still, the sun is warm. You can sit on a rock outcropping, with a roll of hard bread and some cheese, and feel the warmth on your face--turning your cheeks pink. In those moments, you don't feel so alone. Even though the thoughts of the crowds far below, or even the small village on the opposite hillside, fills you with trepidation. It isn't always easy, when the winter comes, to be so alone. Alone in a hut, warm and secure, that hunkers against a hillside. No way to get out, once the snows begin. With all the wood stacked on the side of the house to get through the winter, and the cows nestled in their stalls. The warmth of fresh milk and alpine flowers, hung upside down to dry, holding your hand through another long, lonely winter.

The View...

2009-10-23T11:03:00.002-04:00

Tomorrow is my 30th birthday.

Which explains why I'm sitting in a hotel in Interlaken, Switzerland. Looking out a window. Getting lost in my own thoughts...

Oh, how I can't wait to start writing when I get back.

Day 166: Ainsley, Part 7 and Conclusion

2009-10-07T20:49:00.004-04:00

I'm not sure how it sunk in, for the Spouse, that he was going to be the one delivering a baby. I know that it only dawned on me, slowly, that we didn't even have time for the paramedics. But at no point did I feel panic, and at no point did I see panic on my husband's face. I think we both knew that it was up to us, and we would do it. He simply set the phone aside, on speaker, and did what the 911 dispatch told him to do.

"Sir--can you see the baby's head?"
"No... yes. Yes. I can see it."
"Alright, now sir, I want you to guide it out slowly... Don't drop it! It will be slippery!... Is the head out?"
"Almost.... yes."
"Okay. Now guide the shoulders..."
"The shoulders are already out."
"Is the baby out?"
"Yes! Yes--the baby's out!"

And there it was. Our baby. Caught by his father's own hands and handed right into my arms. I remember my first look at my baby's face. All wrinkled and tiny.

At that moment, a knock came at the door and the Spouse yelled "Come in!" There was the slightest note of excitement in his voice. I heard my friend, Lisa's, voice answer back "How we doin'?" I remembered then--we had called her to stay with the kids while we went to the hospital. The Spouse answered her by saying "Well, we have a baby!" She gasped and hurried in, grabbed a towel and started rubbing the baby vigorously. I wanted to hear a vibrant, furious cry, but we were getting only baby squawks that worried me a little. Lisa and my husband both assured me that the baby was breathing. Then Lisa realized we were all referring to the baby as "he" and said "Oh wait! Did we look?!?... It's a Girl!!!"

I looked up at my husband and he looked down at me in utter surprise. A girl! We had both been secretly expecting a boy. In all the surprises of that night, we hadn't even thought to check if it was a boy or a girl.

And then the party started, my doula rushed in leading the firemen who had come to our rescue. They knelt down beside the couch and suctioned the baby, cut the cord, and started looking her over and making notes. About 5 minutes later, the ambulance finally arrived with the paramedics. They got right in there with the firemen and began shooting off questions, "What time was she born?" "Uuuuuh... 3:30?" "We'll say 3:28." In all the quiet commotion, I looked up from the couch at my husband, holding our baby girl in his arms--wrapped in one of the bath towels we'd gotten for our wedding, and my eyes met his. In that moment, we both smiled. I was so happy that I cried. It was like we had the greatest secret on earth. We had just brought a child to this planet--just us. We were the only ones present when she was born, in our calm and quiet home. He was my hero in that moment, and reflected in his eyes I saw all the love and strength that I possessed. I wouldn't have traded that experience for anything in the world.

Several minutes later, they wrapped our baby girl up in my arms and loaded us on to a gurney for the ride to the hospital. Dave stayed behind to clean up a little bit and to send a skype message to my friends Tori and Rob in New Zealand that our baby had arrived, at home, and it was a girl. I asked Lisa to please tell them the story, if she had time.

And then we were out the door, in the warm night that was full of stars. They loaded us into the ambulance and I remember my precious baby girl clutching my finger in her fist with a death grip as her eyes looked up into mine. I'd never had a baby quite that strong before.

When we arrived at the Emergency Room they wheeled us through a crush of nurses who had been on alert for us, and all of them wanted to see the baby. We reached Labor and Delivery and met another huge group of nurses who were chattering and excited. It felt like the biggest, happiest birthday party ever. We finally got a weight, however inaccurate, and guessed at an Apgar score. And I marvelled at the whole experience. I had given birth and never been hooked up to a single monitor or I.V. I was amazed at how much I had loved it.

Eventually, we hugged our paramedics goodbye and settled into the night. It was just our little family again--a baby and her parents. I held Ainsley in my arms, with her little pink hat, and I can honestly say: I have never known happiness like that.

Day 165: Ainsley, Part 6

2009-10-06T14:31:00.002-04:00

People tend to raise their eyebrows at me and look skeptical when I say the following sentence, but I want to assure you that I mean it as much as I can mean anything: I absolutely love doing the whole labor and delivery thing with my husband.

Go ahead and scoff, but I think it is one of the funnest, coolest things we've ever gotten to do as a couple, and--since we've gone through this a few times now--it just gets better each time. We are a perfect match in this aspect of our marriage. An ideal team. If Labor was a sport, we could go for the gold. My Spouse knows exactly how to support and comfort me in a way that helps things to move forward and help me keep my cool. He knows when to gently remind me to open my eyes, and when to get in my face and mirror breathe with me. He knows just where to push on my back during a contraction, and when to make me laugh. And every time I look at him, I can see it in his eyes: he knows I can do this, and he is right there with me. I.love.it.

So. I was in the shower, full blast, and the Spouse was there with me (in his swimsuit, thanks) and we were doing just great. He would help me during contractions and then we'd joke and laugh in between. That's something that I love especially--laughing together and being so excited to meet this new little person. Whoever they are.

I remember, at one point, the Spouse saying "Becca--I think these contractions are closer than 5 minutes apart" and I said "No. They're erratic. Wayne said not to call back until they were consistently less than 5 minutes apart or my water broke."

The hot water held out for an entire hour, and then I stepped out of the shower and said that I thought it was time to call my doula and see where she was, and then to call our neighbor and tell her to come over and watch our other kids. The Spouse got dressed and called my doula while he pulled a few last minute things together.

I was in the family room, draped over my exercise ball and feeling very relaxed. I knew things were going great so far, and was absolutely thrilled at the way this birth was going. Then, suddenly, I heard a little "pop!"... and my water broke. I couldn't contain a huge grin--this was a sure fire ticket to Labor and Delivery! There would be no sending me home, now!! I called out that we should call Wayne and tell him we were on our way.

Then, as the next contraction descended, I heard a faint echo of my the obstetrician's voice at my last exam saying "Wow. Your water is never going to break on it's own." But it just had. And at that moment, I looked up at the Spouse, who was waiting for Wayne to pick up, and he looked down at me. And I swore. Because, in that instant I knew--we had missed our window. We had waited too long.

Wayne picked up and the phone was passed to me. I stood up to speak and, in a moment that struck me as too sitcom to be real, I said "I need to push." The voice that came back, calmly, said "Now, ma'am. These things take time." Shaking a bit, "No, sir. I need to hang up so I can call 911. I need to push." Irritated now, Wayne said "Okay. Call 911. But don't get off the phone with me." At which point, with my teeth clenched I said "I.only.have.one.phone. I need to HANG UP so I can CALL 9.1.1." I threw the phone back to my sweetheart and said "Call 911." He held the phone in his hand and looked at me blankely. "9.1.1. CALL.IT." I ordered as I clutched the back of the couch and slowly moved around to lay on it.

I wasn't even sure where to lay. The couch? Should I get my feet up? Was this going to be messy? Maybe the tub would be better. I could hear that we had 911 dispatch on the phone. I remember my Spouse asking if he should get towels, and an affirmative answer.

As he left the room to go get the towels and I lay there on the couch, it began to truly dawn on me. I wasn't going to make it to Presbyterian Hospital. I wasn't going to give birth in a big suite with nurses and a warming bed. I was going to give birth right here. On my couch. And it was all so "Evening News" that I laughed out loud. But at least the paramedics would be there. Maybe they liked delivering babies. I'll bet they didn't get that many chances to do it. I clenched my eyes and muttered the most fervent prayer of my life: "Oh, Heavenly Father, it's You and me now. Stay with me." That was all I could think to pray.

The Spouse came back into the room and I could here him giving dispatch our information. Again. At this point, I was simply riding each contraction like a wave. I could feel the rise and fall. And I knew that the paramedics better hurry up a bit so, in between contractions, I gasped "We need an ambulance!" He relayed that information to the dispatch and then she spoke these words: "Oh, sir, an ambulance is on the way. I'm here to help you deliver this baby."

Day 164: Ainsley, Part 5

2009-10-05T08:58:00.002-04:00

Tuesday night. My kitchen. I finally, gave in to a much needed nervous breakdown. Crying into my husband's shirt. Copious amounts of saltwater flowing down my face. Hiccuping, gulping sobs.

And then? I felt better. Much better. Prepared to wait another week. To be patient.

My husband tucked me into bed, and I remember smiling as I dozed off. I looked forward to an exhausted but refreshing sleep.

An hour or so later, I opened my eyes. Something was off. I lay there in the dark and looked up at the clock. 11:30. I yawned and rolled over. Then I thought "Oh no. I know this feeling. It's the stomach flu."

At this point, can I just interject and say, is there anything worse than waking up with that feeling? The pre-urp, stomach ache, "green-apple quickstep" kind of feeling??? Because if there is, I have not experienced it yet. Moving on.

Sparing you the details, I made my way to the living room--expecting to spend the night on the couch, alternating between the ever handy huge Tupperware mixing bowl and the porcelain throne. I felt so nasty and crampy, but really low. Not like contractions. Contractions were up high. Like they had been on Friday. I decided to call my mom. She's two hours behind me, so it wasn't all that late where she was. And of course, there was a small nagging voice that maybe, just maybe--this could lead to something? If this was labor, my Mom would be able to tell me. So I got on the phone and chatted with her, aimlessly, as I walked around and straightened the house. The couch was in the middle of the family room, covered with picture frames and fall decorations that had been taken down while I was painting. One by one, I moved them back into their places until the couch was clear. I was starting to wonder if the coming and going of severe intestinal cramping wasn't contractions, and my Mom told me to call the triage nurse over at Labor and Delivery. I hung up with her and lay down on the couch, hesitating. I mean, the cramps were painful, but I really felt like it was a stomach bug more than anything.

I sighed and called L&D triage at my OB office and the call was answered by a nurse named Wayne. I explained to him that I was having pain, but it was really low. He asked if my water had broken--I said no. He asked if I had contractions that I could time--I said no. I told him that the pain did seem to back off sometimes, but it was erratic. He said "Ma'am, I'm going to guess it's probably gas cramps. Take some antacid and call me back if and when your contractions are less than 5 minutes apart, or if your water breaks." I nodded to myself and hung up, although I was feeling more sure that this was the beginning stages of labor.

Around this time, Dave came out of our room to see if there was anything he could do to help me. I told him that I thought I was going to take a shower, and asked him to call my doula Heather and ask her to come over. He did that, and then left a note on the front door. It said "Heather--come on in. We're in the shower. Don't worry, I'm in my swimsuit."

I knew it would probably be several hours, but I gave up on the idea of sleep for the night.

Day 163: Ainsley, Part 4

2009-10-04T19:58:00.003-04:00

6:30 came and went. I wasn't headed back to the hospital. Not all day Saturday. Not all day Sunday. And even though I had a week to go before my due date, I felt overdone. Like insult had been added to injury. Lemon juice in the paper cut.

Done.

But I had an appointment on Tuesday afternoon at 3:30 with my favorite doctor at the practice. He was my one ray of hope. The single thread that kept me from pitching headlong into a batch of cookie dough.

So I did what any 9 month pregnant woman would do: I grabbed a bucket of paint, a roller brush, and repainted my entire house, ruining all my favorite maternity clothes in the process by brushing my ample anterior (and posterior, come to think of it) against freshly painted walls. By Tuesday at noon, I had sufficiently ignored everything else to the point that I was 3/4 done with the living room, family room, and halls. If that hadn't put me into full blown labor, nothing would.

Feeling optimistic, if tired, I entered my doctor's office early--3:00. I knew my appointment wasn't for half an hour, but I hoped I could squeeze in a bit early. I was hoping for good news and a ticket to Labor and Delivery. As I signed my name at the front desk, the nurse looked up at me with a confused expression and hesitantly said, "We thought maybe you'd gone into labor... when you didn't show up for your appointment this morning at 9:00."

"9:00??" I gasped, zipping open my little wallet and finding the appointment card from last week that read "Tuesday. 9:00 am." I felt the blood rushing to my face as I stuttered an apology, "Is there any way you could get me in, this afternoon?"

She turned to the computer and said "Well, I think we can get you in for a quick visit with the doctor on call. It's [Dr. Doogie.]"

Now my face paled. Not Dr. Doogie. "Isn't there some way--any way--I could see... who I was scheduled with this morning?" I whispered. "I'm sorry. Truly. But he's off. For the rest of the week." I nodded, numbly, and she said to take a seat.

I had not only forgotten my appointment, but I'd missed my one chance to see the doctor that I trusted implicitly. He had been my surgeon. Seen me through a very complicated pregnancy. Induced and delivered my second child. Comforted me through a miscarriage. Rejoiced with me in this current pregnancy. And he was.... off. Only a woman who has stood in those very swollen shoes will know what I was feeling. Like your favorite show has been cancelled, forever. Like when my favorite Ben n' Jerry's flavor, Purple Passionfruit Sorbet, was retired. Like there was nothing between you and a pregnancy that could, and would, go on for 13 more years.

They called my name. I went through the routine of standing on the scale as it groaned and the nurse made her little jokes. Waiting in the tiny office for Dr. Doogie. He showed up, looked over my chart, and said "Yup. Looks good. Make an appointment for next week."

At which point I lost all pride. "Please. I was in Labor and Delivery for hours last week. I'm just... so done. Can't you do anything?" At which he smiled his baby-toothed smile and chuckled "Oh! Don't worry! We won't let you go past 42 weeks."

I have never hated anyone more than I hated him at that moment, however irrational. I nodded curtly and made my appointment for the next week and thought I would rather crawl under a rock than face another week.

It was never.going.to.end.

Day 162: Ainsley, Part 3

2009-10-02T08:24:00.002-04:00

Last night, as the Spouse read the latest entry he said "I'm not going to look very good when you tell them that you went to the hospital while I stayed home and slept." To which I replied, "Maybe I won't write about that part."

But then I decided it's kind of essential to the story.

Because when I say "we" decided it was time to head to the hospital, I mean "my doula and I." Dave was tired--understandable. It was 11:00. So we decided to head up and get checked in, and then call him if we were going to be staying. We all know these things can take time.

So we got to the hospital, contractions every 2 to 3 minutes. But I was still smiling. That right there, plus the missing husband, should tell you that things were not quite right. But we checked in, got our nurse, got our bracelet. Answered all the questions. After monitoring contractions for a few minutes, the nurse said "Get comfortable. You're not going home." We called the Spouse to tell him to come--he was watching Bourne Identity. Killing time. Waiting for us to call.

I wanted to get up and move around, but our nurse kept saying "Just a few more minutes on the monitor. Just a few more minutes." The spouse showed up. We were good to go.

Then, suddenly, the contractions stopped. Totally. Utterly. Stopped. I got out of the bed and looked in wonder, with my doula and the nurse, at the monitor tape. We had three hours of good contractions every 2-3 minutes and now... nothin. I waddled around a few minutes. Not even a twinge. The doctor on call was on the floor, so the nurse said she'd go get him. Get me hooked up to some pitocin. Now, I'm a natural girl, but I would've gone for some pitocin at this point.

Enter Dr. McNewbie. Not as recent a graduate as Dr. Doogie... but only by two more months. He'd been practicing medicine for a grand total of 5 months at this point. Nice guy, though. Looked at the readout, turned to our expectant, upturned faces and said "Eh, go home. It's late." The nurse's eyes widened in surprise, "You're... you're sending her... home?" He turned to her, "Yes. I think that's the best course of action." She looked at me, then back at him, then back at me.

I forgot to mention that my nurse was 8 months pregnant. So I knew that she could intuitively sense my palpable, tangible done-ness. Like a turkey on Thanksgiving. Oh yes, she understood. And I could see in her eyes that, if it were her choice, she'd roll in the pitocin cart and crank it up for me. But it wasn't her choice.

Dr. McNewbie laughed heartily and said goodnight. We all stood there for a minute. The nurse said, with a note of false optimism, "Well! I'm sure you'll be back by 6:30 in the morning!" We packed up a few things. I glanced longingly at the little warming bed in the corner... the newborn diapers... the little hat. I thanked my doula for coming. I felt utterly stupid. Foolish. This was my third baby--how could I have performed such a first time stunt??

Birthing ball in our arms, we shuffled back to our cars, and we drove home in the bitter, bitter contraction-less night.

Day 161: Ainsley, Part 2

2009-10-01T15:00:00.003-04:00

By the first Friday in September, all my headstands had done the trick and we had a head-down baby. Perhaps this was the reason I scheduled myself a pedicure. I can't think of why else that would've been, unless I was feeling really sorry for myself. Also a reasonable hypothesis. But I'm pretty sure there wasn't anyone in the Northern Hemisphere that wasn't feeling sorry for me at this point. I was 50 pounds heavier than I had been 9 months earlier, my thighs were tan but still the size of pylons, and I had to get out of bed to go pee at least 10 times every night--a nearly impossible feat because my sciatic nerve liked to play games with my ability to walk.

So I mustered up the energy to leave my kids home with the Spouse (snort) and plunked myself down in a lovely, cushy pedicure chair and became instantly engrossed in "Days of Our Lives", which I'd never seen before but had no trouble following, while "Allison" from Vietnam went to town on my hairy legs and calloused feet. Because of some miscommunication that was either pregnant brain or the nuances of the Vietnamese language, I ended up getting not only Harlot Pink toenails but an orange salt scrub and paraffin foot waxing as well. Perfect.

It was about the time that the delicious smell of chemical tangerines hit my nose that I began noticing them... contractions. Blessed contractions. Based on the commercial breaks during "Days", they were about 5 minutes apart. Perfect. "Bring 'em on," I thought, as I slipped my now soft and sweet smelling feet into the little foam flip flops.

I drove home, patting my very cooperative belly. My mood was ebulliant. I had never gone into labor, but these contractions felt just like the ones I'd had hooked up to pitocin in my two former deliveries, so I assumed they were a good sign. I grabbed my laptop and brought up every full-term pregnant woman's best friend: Contraction Master. The contractions continued, not painful, but very easy to time. We had dinner. Got the kids to bed. They were now two to three minutes apart.

I called my doula, Heather, and she came over to walk with me. I had showered and put on makeup. I could tell I was headed for the perfect birth. Finally, we agreed that we should head to the hospital. It was baby day.

Day 160: Ainsley, part 1.

2009-09-30T11:44:00.004-04:00

There are times in your life when you think "Wow. This feels like a movie... is this really happening to me??"

In my life, I've had that feeling three times:
1. Laying in a field of wildflowers next to a sparkling aqua stream in the Alps, nibbling on bread and cheese.
2. The night my true love proposed.
3. The night I had a baby on the couch.

To kick off my return to writing life, I present "The Tale of the Night When the Nurse said it was Gas Cramps so the Paramedics Didn't Make It On Time and We Had to Get a New Couch Cover."

This story begins actually about 6 weeks before Baby was due. We didn't know if we were having a boy or a girl. We thought the surprise would be fun--you know, the big announcement at birth by the doctor. We thought it would be fun. For about two weeks after the ultrasound. Then we realized that it was one of our stupidest decisions. But too late. So, anyway,6 weeks before my due date, I felt like I was still carrying this baby in the breech position. I had an appointment with a new doctor at the practice, whom I shall refer to as Dr. Doogie.

He walked into the tiny office and tripped over my two children who, as usual, were playing with plastic glove balloons on the floor. He looked disconcerted at the presence of other children, and his eyes kept skittishly flitting to them as he looked over my information. While he did this, I was noticing the lack of wrinkles on his forehead. He seriously looked like an 18 year old doing a "Try Out a Profession" project for their civics class. He asked me the standard questions, and then asked if I had any questions for him.

"Actually, I think I'm still carrying this baby breech." I stated.
"Oh." he said, eyeing the two year old, who was busy stacking the little pap smear tests.
"Um...is there any way you can tell?" I asked, without confidence.
He felt my ample belly and then said "Nope. Can't really tell."

Cue awkward pause.
"So. Um. Who in this practice is best at external versions, just in case?"
"I don't think we keep that kind of information."
"Oh... Is there any way to get that information?"
"Um. Well. When I was in medical school, we googled how to turn a baby. We lit some herbs on a lady's toe and it worked. It set the fire alarms off in the hospital though."
"In medical school?" I stuttered, "And how long ago was that?"
"I graduated two months ago." Dr. Doogie stated proudly.

At this point, alarms of my own were going off inside my head. Dr. Doogie offered to schedule a c-section, on the spot, but I tried to decline politely. I didn't want to be his first, you see.

I went home and proceeded to put on my old lady maternity swimsuit and do headstands in the local swimming pool at every opportunity, trying to get this baby to turn. I had a new purpose in life: to avoid having Dr. Doogie deliver my baby at all costs.

And so a month passed.

Day... uh....

2009-09-22T07:43:00.002-04:00

It has been a long time since I've written. The well dried up. Seemed to have hit the rock bottom of my creativity and imagination.

It was depressing to know the true depths (or not) of my abilities.

So I had to decide: force myself to keep writing, and feel frustrated in the process and unhappy with the result? Or step away. Close the laptop. Wait and see if more would come.

So that's what I did.

And for a long time, nothing came. Not a thing. I would try, on occasion, and find nothing there. So I tried to be patient and keep waiting.

Then this past weekend, I took Thing 3 and got on an airplane to fly to meet some good friends up in New England. It had been a cloudy week here in Charlotte. The very definition of muggy, without a single ray of sunshine. Not typical for here. I was looking forward to the flight and the utter assurance that we would pull above the clouds and see the sunshine, even if it was only for a couple hours.

We boarded the plane and found our seats clear at the back. The flight wasn't full, which was nice. I put Thing 3 in the seat next to me, which was open, and stretched out. Waiting for take off. Then I saw a teenager coming up the aisle. He caught my attention because he looked familiar, and out of place. He looked like the kind of teenager who should be hucking hay bales in hometown. He looked like the kind of quiet teenager that would be much more comfortable all alone on a mountain then on an airplane headed for Baltimore and beyond. In my head, I knew he was a cowboy. This is not a title I give lightly. True cowboys are very rare. They work on farms and ranches. They are quiet a respectful. Cowboy is a title you earn through back breaking work in sweltering heat and freezing cold, not something you buy at a Western Wear Outfitters. This was a cowboy. He nervously found his seat. Struggled with the buckles. Looked about apprehensively. Not long after, I noticed another figure coming up the aisle. I knew immediately that he would be sitting in the seat next to the Cowboy.

He was older. Well into his sixties, if not seventies. His face was lined and had a deep, permanent tan. His silver hair combed carefully. He looked just as nervous as the Cowboy, who I'm guessing was his grandson. He clutched a blue duffel that had written on it "THE SPA at ARCHWOOD" in a familiar font, circa 1986. He saw the Cowboy with relief and nodded. He
"Excuse me, ma'am"-ed himself past the flight attendant, and settled himself into the aisle seat. The Cowboy showed him how to put on his buckle. They were looking around, quickly--like chipmunks or prairie dogs.

The engines revved. I handed Thing 3 a "TAKE ONE" copy of a Herz rental car pamphlet to chew on and continued to watch what was happening directly across the aisle from me. The flight attendant stood in the aisle for the safety demonstration, and they hurried to grab the safety instructions from the back of the seat pocket in front of them.

Their first flight. A grandfather and his cowboy grandson. I wondered where they could be going. What could be so important that it would get this grandfather on a plane, after so many years. The Grandfather stood to get his blue duffel out of the overhead bin after takeoff and I noticed the tag still on his navy blue jeans. Brand new. From Walmart. I wondered if some sweet wife somewhere had bought them for him--for his trip.

And suddenly, I wanted to write again. I had something to say. Something to write about.

I was breaking through the clouds into the sunshine again.

Rumba.

2009-09-02T07:53:00.003-04:00

You know those little vacuum cleaner robots? The round ones that zip around and (kind of) vacuum your floor, without you having to do anything?

I have one of those. Kind of.

Only it's a lot more efficient model. It can really get under things and in things and around things. It moves really fast. It does awesome with cat food. I'm pretty sure it could handle just about anything. Including shirts, toy cars, Barbie shoes, and papers that your child's teacher may or may not have sent home with important lunch numbers on them.

No. It isn't actually a Roomba. Or whatever they're called.

And it isn't a goat. (Although that's a nice thought.)

No.

It's Wee One. Very soon to make official Thing 3 status.

Watch out for your toes.

Sniff.

2009-09-01T09:46:00.003-04:00

I have this really awful habit.

(That got your interest, didn't it???)

Well. I do.

I never bring stuff in from the car.

I'd like to say that it's because my arms are so full of Almost-One-Year-Old child, not to mention Thing 2 who wants "UP" so he can "PUSHTHEBUTTON!" while trying to open the back door, let the cat in, and not trip over or otherwise injure Thing 1 that I just don't have the energy to go back out and gather all the STUFF I left in the car. But there's a good chance that I'm just lazy. So the stuff gets left there.

Which may or may not include the following:
An assortment of children's books.
A toy microphone.
A stale donut.
Empty water bottles.
Rotten baby bottles.
Raisins in the carpet.
Papers. Always. Papers.
Broken Happy Meal toys.
Receipts that I don't remember where they were from or why.
Frosties cups.
Frosties spoons.
deflated pool toys
possibly used swim diapers
1.2 tons of graham cracker crumbs

I think that's a fairly comprehensive list.

But no where on the list are the words "DIRTY SOCKS THAT SMELL LIKE GARLIC WRAPPED IN CABBAGE DIPPED IN FERMENTED BEAN CURD."

So what is that smell in my car?????

The Final Frontier

2009-08-26T08:02:00.003-04:00

Here's the thing about celiac disease: there are so few things that you can eat that you feel like the things you're allowed to eat, you should be able to eat as much of them as you want. As often as you want.

Which, for me, means Frosties.

Because they're gluten free.

This is a revolution for me. In the Bread Years (as they will hence be known. I also considered the Good Years or the Tasty Years, but I digress) I would have a Frosty on rare, special occasions. Sometimes when travelling. Delicious, chocolate smoothness. Mmm.

But now?

Just don't be surprised if you see my ancient minivan, which resembles a sheep, pulling into the local Wendy's once a week. Or once a day.

Welcome to the Final Frontier. In search of all things Gluten Free. Especially Gluten Free things that are convenient, cheap, fast, and don't taste like cardboard/gruel/poop.

And Frosties so pleasantly fulfill every single one of those requirements.

Bless them.

Hiatus

2009-08-19T19:54:00.003-04:00

It has been a long time between writings.

Because there are things I just don't how to write about yet. Because sometimes life is all-consuming.

Currently, The Spouse has taken Thing 1 to go ice skating. It has been much anticipated by her. I hope that she is having a wonderful time. She doesn't have enough "wonderful" in her life these days. This past Sunday, I walked with her into her children's class and saw the three little girls in her class sit down together, put their hand over the one open chair, and say "You can't sit by us. There isn't room for you."

And my heart broke into a thousand pieces.

Because I know these girls are good, kind little girls. Because I know that they aren't being mean, intentionally. They are just friends. And she isn't part of the group. But the lost, forlorn look on my daughter's face brought me to such a helpless, hollow place. I wanted to scoop her up and carry her out. I wanted to tell her that there would always be a place by me, for her. But I can't do that. So I pulled up a chair for her, gave her a hug, and left.

Things like that leave very little in me that is worth writing, and they seem to be happening a lot lately.

And, at the same time--not.

Because I've spent this evening with Thing 2, watching him while he watched his current favorite: Robin Hood. His chatter about the characters and laughing over the story. He is my Boy. And I'll take half an hour of sheer joy in exchange for a day full of confused temper tantrums. Any time.

So there really isn't any point to this post, except a simple "Here I am, and this is where I am." I feel grateful, at least, to have someplace to say it.

Day 159: Clementine, Chapter 18

2009-07-27T22:03:00.002-04:00

"Where are we going?" Violet moaned, as she dragged her feet.
"House hunting." I snapped.
"It's hot." she replied.

I spun around, "Go home, then! I'll go by myself!" I shouted at her. She cocked one eyebrow at me and screnched her big blue eyes.

I turned on my bare heel and stomped off. It was quiet, but after a couple minutes, I heard her feet plodding slowly after me. I was glad. I didn't really want to be alone. I really wanted her to come. But I didn't want to go home because my Mom would be there, and I didn't know if she knew where Rose was. I didn't want her to ask me. I didn't want to know what they'd been fighting about. And I didn't want her to tell me.

What we needed was a new house.

So I rushed down the wide streets of the trailer park and past the brick wall that was the entrance to Meadow Brook, with it's burned out lightbulbs and flowerbeds that were tangled with weeds and pansies gone to seed. I turned left and kept walking for a really long time.

Violet didn't say anything. She sucked on her fingers, savoring sticky remnants of Twinkie. I marched past neighborhoods that I knew well, looking for something new. I wound past the busy streets of town and up into streets I'd never visited before. These weren't subdivisions. These were neighborhoods. The streets were lined with arching trees. The homes were made of brick--some of it so old that it looked crumbly. Perennial flowers were established, here. Door knobs were worn with coming and going. Old houses. Beautiful old houses.

I never let myself come wander these streets. As much as I could dream about a ranch home over in Willowmere subdivision, I couldn't even let myself imagine living in a home with old wooden floors, polished banisters, and narrow stairways. Houses like this weren't for people like us.

But today? I felt like that was just what my family needed. Maybe if we could live in that house, over there--the one with the wide front porch, then Rose wouldn't have to sleep in a closet sized bedroom and she'd want to be home more. Maybe.

Violet walked next to me as I slowed down. I finally came to a stop standing in front of a yellow house. It had a sharply peaked roof, gracefully curving stairs, and a wide lawn stretching to the road. Violet looked up at it and nodded.

"This is a nice one." she said. I sat down on the curb in front of it. "Yeah" I said "It's really nice."

And for the first time in a long time, I started to cry.

South Beach No Cholesterol Gluten Free Diet = Super Awesome-ness

2009-07-19T22:39:00.003-04:00

Um. For those of you still checking in????

THANK YOU.

I know I've been a total slacker in the blogging department. It's just that the karma I've got going on right now? It's pretty amazing.

You all know about the broken toes.
I found out that I have celiac disease. (Thanks, Mom.)
And high cholesterol. (Thanks, Dad.)
I'm doing South Beach.
And I'm trying to decide if I should homeschool.

Let's just say that if I worked on Clementine right now, it would probably have a tragic ending, and no one wants that. *grin*

So--I have a goal to deal with my plethora of issues, and be back writing each day starting next week. I'm taking one more week off. Then I'm back, and I've got chapters stored up, so please come check in and let me know what you think!!

Day 158: Clementine, Chapter 17

2009-07-12T22:53:00.003-04:00

I almost tripped over one of the throw rugs.

I was thinking about 1,000 questions, I can tell you that much.

What was Rose doing, asleep on the Finley's couch? I didn't know she even knew the Finleys, really.

And suddenly I was furious.

My father had stayed up, waiting for her. He had sat in our uncomfortable chair in the front room, reading about Egypt. He had been worried. And she had been at the Finleys??? This didn't make any sense. My adolescent mind suddenly had the urge to pull her hair, run away, break something, eat something, and laugh all at the same time.

I followed Mrs. Finley dumbly into the little kitchen.

"Twinkie?" she asked, holding out a limp paper plate with Twinkie halves on it. I shook my head. Violet looked at my out of the corner of her eye as she took a Twinkie and placed it on the napkin Mrs. Finley offered. We all sat down at their kitchen table, a nice solid wood dining room set crammed into the tiny space. High backed chairs and velvet seat bottoms. I saw Violet sneak her pills and then take a bite of Twinkie. I honestly think I heard it crunch.

Mrs. Finley leaned forward conspiratorily "Rose is asleep in the front room, so we have to be quiet." I stared at her. Her eyes twinkled. "I don't want to wake her up, poor dear." My eyebrows raised. I think they disappeared into my hairline. I'm pretty sure.

Poor dear????
Selfish beast.

"What's she doing here anyway?" I asked, bluntly. Apparently I spoke too loudly, because Mrs. Finley looked at me sternly for a second and then opened her mouth to reply, but a voice came from the doorway, "None of your business."

Mrs. Finley's mouth smacked shut and she turned to Rose, who was standing in a pair of jeans and a rumpled tank top. Her hair was standing up in all directions and I could still see lines on her cheeks from a beaded throw pillow.

"Is so my business" I said, feeling bold, "Dad waited up for you all night. I had to sleep in their bed."
She rolled her eyes at me and turned to ask Mrs. Finley if she could hop in the shower.

At that moment, I felt like my sister was a complete stranger.

Oh, for the love.

2009-07-07T10:33:00.002-04:00

Two weeks?! Has it really been more than two weeks?! Good grief.

I was doing so well!
I was being so with it!

I was doing flylady and whipping my house into shape.
I was following my strict eating rules.
I was making my BED for crying out loud!

And then I slipped on my bathroom floor tile and jammed my foot into the edge of the door. And I didn't even swear.

I just hobbled out to the couch to inspect the damage, which--of course--was an open invitation for my two year old to come zooming over with nothing less than a tennis racquet to see what was wrong and he whacked my foot again. And I didn't even swear.

I gimped around for the rest of that day--managing to pull together Father's Day dinner, somehow. Trying to lavish The Spouse with the praise and attention he so richly deserves. Then the next day, a family birthday, I dragged my poor children to the urgent care to get my foot x-rayed. Yup. Broken. They handed me a massive blue shoe and a bottle of Lortab and wished me luck.

So I took my lovely blue shoe to Girl's Camp this last week, which required a lot of up and down, and popped Lortab to get through the nights with sweet twelve year olds needing one more story and one more tuck-in. I am a much nicer person on Lortab. I still notice the things that annoy me. They just don't annoy me.

Home from Girl's Camp. No naps to be had. And my bottle of painkillers is empty. So what else is going to happen but get a nasty flu? It's probably the swine flu. I wouldn't put it past me, I really wouldn't. And my HAIR IS FALLING OUT.

Out the window goes my clean house! Pass the chocolate! Drown me in chips and salsa!

Did I mention that I didn't even swear?????

Lortab and a broken foot

2009-06-26T23:07:00.003-04:00

This is Dave, Becca's husband. Becca asked me to post that she's sorry she hasn't posted in a few days, but she'll post again soon. I'll fill in with a limerick:

I shouldn't have kicked at that door.
But I tripped on that thing on the floor.
Now Lortab's my friend,
So my day's at its end,
I just wish I could take a bit more.

Now you're all glad Becca is writing this blog and not me.

Day 157: Clementine, Chapter 16

2009-06-24T20:43:00.003-04:00

When I woke up the next morning, no one was home. My dad was gone to the cherry warehouse. My mom sometimes stayed late to finish her charts from the night before. I knew that my dad had stayed up, waiting for Rose. I heard him call my mom at work around 2:00, and have a brief, muffled conversation. I lay in their bed, listening, but I didn't feel especially worried, and was even less so now, in the daytime. Whatever Rose's problem was, she would figure it out.

I sat on the vinyl chair, holding a mug that had King Vitamin cereal in it and skim milk. Stale King Vitamin cereal tastes like sawdust and cardboard. No offense to anyone who likes it. Just my opinion. I looked around our kitchen. The small oven with a dish towel hanging over the handle. My mom hated that oven because you couldn't fit a Thanksgiving turkey in it. "What good is an oven that can't even cook a turkey?!" she would bemoan, every November. Yellow marbled laminate was peeling off the counter tops, showing the cheap pressed wood underneath. I looked at everything as if it weren't my own home, but someone else's. If I were a visitor, what would I think of this place?

"But then," I thought, dumping my uneaten cereal and milk down the disposal, "who would ever come to visit?"

I didn't bother to put shoes on as I walked out the door and down the street. I hadn't visited the Finley's in a few days, and maybe Violet would be home and come with me. On the way, I tried to think of every possible trouble Rose could get into. I wondered if she'd shoplifted something from her favorite store at the mall, Wet Seal. Maybe someone at school had given her some drugs. Weren't there drugs at every high school? Maybe one of those drugs that is supposed to make you super thin. I guess it could be about a boy, although I never saw Rose with one boy more than any other. That was part of the problem of having a teacher for a dad--they all knew him, and he knew most of them. Who would want to date a girl if you'd failed her dad's algebra class?

The problems of high schoolers were baffling to me. I knew that high school was important, I had overheard my mom say "But, Rose--in high school, you're playing for keeps" at least twenty times. The grades you made, you kept. The clubs you joined and sports you played would determine what kind of major you had in college. You were playing for keeps.

As I got close to the Finley's, I saw Violet standing on the curb. I was glad. She smiled and waved at me, and I waved back. She fell into step beside me, without saying anything, and we walked up the ramp to the Finley's front door. I knocked on the glass and Mrs. Finley cracked the blinds just a bit, motioning for us to be quiet. She silently slid the door open and beckoned us in.

We slipped in from the sunlight into the darkness of their front room. All the shades were still closed. The swamp cooler was churning out humidity. I could hear Mr. Finley typing at the keyboard in his miniature bedroom, working on his family history. And on the couch, under an intricate and ugly afghan, Rose was sleeping.

Day 156: Clementine, Chapter 15

2009-06-21T23:35:00.003-04:00

I knew Rose was in trouble because my dad said "Hey, kid, why don't you go sleep in our bed tonight?"

Which meant only one thing--he was planning to sit in the chair in the front room and wait for her to come home, at which point he was expecting a discussion that probably wouldn't be conducive to someone who was sleeping on the couch.

I always felt like waiting up in the front room would've been so much more of an impressive gesture if he'd owned a shotgun that he could lay across his lap. A shiny, polished Browning rifle, catching the gleam of the streetlamp as the door slid open.

As it was, I knew he would be sitting in the chair with his latest book. The touch-sensitive lamp on to it's dimmest setting.

My mom had looked hesitant as she headed to work that night, sending meaningful backward glances at my dad. I was bursting to know what they were all fighting about, but I knew full well that my parents wouldn't tell me straight out. I would have to stay awake and catch the discussion, that was all. Or wait until Rose was in the mood to vent while we were brushing our teeth. She did that less and less, though, so eavesdropping was my best chance.

I took a long, cool shower, to kill time. I would splay my fingers and watch the water run off the tips in little arcs. I used one of the guest soaps that was shaped like a seashell. I shaved my legs for maybe the third time in my life. Then I stretched into a long-sleeved t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. I brushed and flossed my teeth. Twice.

I sighed. And looked at the little digital clock by the sink. It was 10:00.

I walked out to the front room and found my dad with his head bent over a battered copy of Egypt: An Economic Geography. He was a sucker for the giveaway bin at the library. I kissed the top of his head and he smiled at me absentmindedly.

"G'night, love. Sleep tight."
I nodded, "Sure, Dad. Good luck."
"Thanks, kid."

I walked down the narrow hall and climbed into the sunken mattress in my parent's bedroom. I turned off the overhead light. I stayed awake, for the longest time, listening to the soft sound of my dad turning the pages of his book. I was determined to stay awake until Rose got home, to find out what they were fighting about.

But Rose didn't come home that night.

Day 155: Clementine, Chapter 14

2009-06-17T18:48:00.003-04:00

We never found a meadow. Or a brook. We did find a pair of broken binoculars, a size 6 shoe, a whole Walmart bag full of cans to recycle, and 1,354 cigarette butts. Give or take a few.

I invited Violet home for dinner. She asked if my parents would mind. "They won't mind" I blurted, without considering.

I'd never had a friend home for dinner before. I'd never really had a friend home for any reason before. My parents would probably have a hard time concealing their giddy delight. Maybe Violet wouldn't notice.

Pushing open our glass front door, I called out "I'm home!" and walked into the kitchen, Violet on my heels.

I had interrupted something. I could tell. My dad was standing at the sink, twisting the life out of a dishrag. His face was composed into a tight calm. My mom was stirring something in a pan--her shoulders slightly hunched. She didn't look up. Rose was standing across from them giving her very best teenage girl "I resent authority" glare. I hadn't noticed how much she had perfected that art form before.

"Hey" I chirped, falsely, suddenly embarrassed by the awkward silence, "this is my friend, Violet."

My Mom jumped and sloshed something over the side of the pan. It landed on the burner and started to smoke. My Dad slapped a smile on his face that appeared genuine, "Well, hello, Purple! Nice to meet you!"

Violet wore a gigantic smile as she shook his hand comfortably. She looked so at ease. I snuck a glance at Rose, who was now glaring at the curling, faded linoleum. Her arms were folded across her chest, her hands balled into fists against her sides. "What's with her? What were they talking about?" I wondered. I never sensed tension like this in my family before.

My Mom finished wiping off the stove and turned, finally, to meet Violet. "Violet. Hello. We didn't know Clementine was expecting company." As she said this, she shot me a glare that said "Some warning, next time, please?" Trying to make up for things, I asked if there was anything I could do, to help with dinner.

"No. Just grab a seat. We're just about ready" said my dad, placing a bowl of lettuce on the table. Rose, letting out a sigh that was meant to be heard, stomped out of the room. At least she didn't slam her door.

Good. She was gone. We only had 4 chairs at the table and I didn't feel like dragging one of the living room chairs in. My mom put a hot pad on the table and set the pot on it, while my dad poured some milk. He even found some napkins in a drawer and put those next to the plates. I could tell they were trying to make things nice, because I had a guest. I would have to wait until later to find out what they were all fighting about.

Once my parents were seated, we started to dish up. Violet rummaged in her pocket and I saw her pull out another little wad of pills in a tissue. She popped them expertly into her mouth when my parents weren't looking at her, and swallowed quickly. At least, she thought they weren't looking. I could tell from a slight tilt of my mom's eyebrows that she had seen. Might as well get it over with.

"Violet has C.F." I tried to sound offhand about it. I hoped she didn't mind me just dumping it out there like that. I was watching for their reaction. Ever the nurse, my Mom's eyebrows shot up to her hairline. My Dad, of course, didn't skip a beat, "C.F.-- Clown Feet?! Oh, how terrible for you, Purple! Do you mind if I call you Purple? But I'm sure that you can special order shoes from the circus, right?" He shot us a wink. I giggled, and Violet put on a tragic air "Thank you for your sympathy, sir. It is so difficult to find shoes in a size twenty around here. Especially in green, which is my favorite color." I was laughing, stirring cheese as it melted into my chili.

Which reminds me, what was my mother thinking--cooking chili on a summer day? Two options: dings and dents bin at SaveMart or Special Buy at Big Lots.

I was relieved, now that they knew about Violet. My Mom would be able to explain it to me. And they wouldn't think she was bad for taking pills. They would know why she coughed a lot. They would make it all make sense.

Rose came back in the room. She was wearing her swimsuit under a pair of shorts, a towel over her arm. "I'm going swimming with some friends."

My Mom didn't even try to veil her surprise, "Swimming? Where?" There was the slightest hesitation from Rose, and I could tell my parents had sniffed it out. "At a friend's house. They have a pool." I knew my parents wanted to find out every blessed detail--whose house this was, what friend it was, if parents were going to be home, who else was going to be there. But I had a guest. They didn't want a fight. Violet was looking at them, with her wide eyes, so they finally just nodded.

"Home by 10:00." said my Mom.
"Yeah. Sure." said Rose, slinking noiselessly from the room and out the front door.

Day 154: Clementine, Chapter 13

2009-06-14T09:44:00.004-04:00

And I did what any 13 year old would do if they heard that sentence. I flat out denied it.

"You're not going to die, Violet."
"Yes, I am."
"Well, yeah--someday. Everyone's going to die, someday."
"My someday is probably closer than yours."

Now she was ticking me off.

"Yeah? How do you know?" I stopped. One hand on my hip, dangling the Walmart bag, wondering how death got into this conversation in the first place. Violet turned and looked up at me. She sure was short. "I know I'm going to die before you because I have C.F. And people who have C.F. don't live very long. I think the record is 32. Or something like that."

She sat down on the curb, so I sat down next to her.
"What's 'C.F.'?" I asked, repentant now.
"Cystic Fibrosis."
I scooched a bit away, and she laughed "It isn't contagious."
"Cystic Fibrosis." I spat. What an ugly sounding disease.

Violet launched into a spiel that I could tell she'd given before. It sounded like something straight from a thick pamphlet you would get at the pediatrician's office. It might be called "CYSTIC FIBROSIS: A CHILD'S GUIDE." She was talking about mommys being a plus or minus and daddys being a plus or minus, and if you get two plusses then you can get a kid with cystic fibrosis, which means you get a whole ton of mucous, which is snot, so you cough a lot and your parents have to smack you on the chest and the back so you can cough into a tissue. And you have to take pills when you eat. That's what I got from her explanation, but it still made no sense.

"So, you got it from your parents. But I can't catch it?" I summarized.
"Right."
"Is this why you're so short?"
"I'm not short," she sniffed defensively, "I'm petite. And yes."
"Oh. I wondered. Because you pretty much look like you're 7."

And then we cracked up laughing. Hysterically. Sitting there on the curb, with tears rolling down our cheeks, laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world that she looked like a 7 year old. When we finally ran out of steam, I opened the plastic bag and handed her a sandwich. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a tissue that had some pills wrapped in it. They were huge, but she swallowed them without any water, then took a big bite of sandwich.

I was chewing my own sandwich, with the morning sun warming my back and my hair. I could tell it was going to be smothering hot today. I hoped we'd find a semblance of a meadow soon so I could go swimming.

I finished my sandwich and brushed the crumbs off my Bugle Boy jeans. My mom had handed me these jeans and said "They're name brand! Bugle Boy. They're cool." I wondered what year purple baggy jeans with a high waist and tapered legs were cool in.

Next to me, Violet clapped her hands together, dusting off crumbs. "Let's find that meadow brook."

Day 153: Clementine, Chapter 12

2009-06-12T15:51:00.003-04:00

We walked down the street, Violet clutching a jar for anything she might find, and me carrying a plastic Walmart bag with two peanut butter and honey sandwiches. Violet walked purposefully, stopping on occasion to inspect anything that caught her attention. She had decided to walk to the back of the trailer park, and start the hunt for the brook and the meadow there. I lagged slightly behind, looking passively at the things that were as familiar to me as the back of my eyelids. Violet had a lot of enthusiasm. It was good that I was there to provide some balance.

Suddenly, I remembered that when I'd asked Violet what grade she was in, she'd replied that she didn't know. What kind of answer is that?

"What kind of answer is that?" I said. Out of the blue.
"Which answer?" asked Violet, holding an old, decaying leaf up to the light.
"What grade you're in. How can you not know what grade you're in?"
"I don't go to school."

Wait. Wait a second. My thirteen year old brain couldn't process this information. I could feel the gears turning. What could this mean?

"You mean you're home schooled." I stated, proudly.
"No."

No. I bit the inside of my cheek and scrunched up my face. Violet looked up at me.
"My parents don't send me to school." she admitted.
"They don't... send you... to school."
"No."
"Why?" I puzzled.
"It's complicated." she muttered.
I snorted.
"Did you really just say 'it's complicated'?"
She nodded, shortly, in response.
I waited, but she didn't say anything else.
"But everyone has to go to school. There are laws."

Wow. I couldn't believe that came out of my mouth.

We walked for a minute in silence. I heard a tiny sigh next to me.
"My parents don't send me to school because it's a waste of time."
"But that doesn't make any sense--you learn lots of good things at school. It isn't a waste of time."
"It is, if you're me."
"What makes you so special?" I asked sarcastically, kicking a pebble.
"My parents just don't see the point in sending me to school all day every day when I'm just going to die."

Day 152: Clementine, Chapter 11

2009-06-11T08:52:00.004-04:00

I woke up sore the next morning and watched specks of dust floating in the sunshine coming in through the window. I hated sleeping on the couch.

For one thing, I couldn't really roll over and go back to sleep--especially during the summer. The sun came in and hit me right in the face. Before long, it got hot. Even the sound of the swamp cooler, chugging along, send only a damp whisper of cool to this corner of the room. So I could either pick up my pillow and go lay on the floor in the hall, right under the swamp cooler, and risk being tripped on by Rose or my mom getting home from work, or I could just get up.

I got up.

I walked into the kitchen and got myself a glass of lukewarm tap water and stood there staring out the window at the street as I drank it. Tabitha Sloane was dragging her rottweilers and miniature pony down the street, carrying her shovel and plastic bags. She only did that for appearances. Anyone who lived in our trailer park could look in the gutters and see that she didn't pick up after her pony. Just down, I saw Paulette walk out to her car, wearing a skirt that I'm fairly sure was never intended to be worn before 8:00 in the morning. She saw me in the window and waved her cigarette at me. I nodded back.

It was going to be hot. Maybe I would go lay under the swamp cooler after all.

I put my red Pizza Hut glass in the steel sink and turned to go get dressed. Out of the side window I could see our front steps. Sitting on them, making dandelion curls, was Violet.

I walked to the front door and pushed it open, "Hey!" I said happily, "What are you doing here so early?" She half turned and looked at me "You said to come by sometime."

Yeah, I had said that. I guess I just supposed that "sometime" was generally interpreted as "some afternoon."

I walked out on the porch and sat next to her. She continued to peel thin strips off of dandelion stems that curled up delicately. "What are you doing today?" I asked her. Somehow, she seemed like the kind of girl that would have something in mind. "I wanted to find the meadow and the brook. You wanna come?" It took me a second, and then I laughed. "There isn't any meadow or brook. Miss Peggy just made Meadow Brook up." She tilted one eyebrow "Have you ever looked?"
"Yes. And there is no meadow and no brook."
"Well, I want to look anyway. Do you want to come?"

I curled my bare toes around the edge of the cool wooden stair. I had been thinking to go to the pool. Wandering around the trailer park in search of a meadow or brook that I already knew weren't there sounded hot and boring. But then I glanced over at Violet, who had tossed the dandelion curls into the grass and was looking at me.

"Sure. Why not? Can we bring a picnic? I haven't had breakfast."
Her eyes got a peculiar, guarded look in them, "Sure. Or we could look for berries."

All of a sudden, I knew the look. She hadn't had breakfast either. And she probably didn't have any food for a picnic, and she was embarrassed. I felt so much older and wiser as I smoothed things over, "Why don't you come in and have some cereal with me, and then I'll make us some sandwiches and we can look for berries, too?"

Her face brightened, "What kind of cereal?"
Then I scowled as I remembered, "We only have Captain Vitamin. It was on sale."
She didn't skip a beat, "But I'll bet you have milk!"

Day 151: Clementine, Chapter 10

2009-06-08T22:16:00.002-04:00

Rose was back.

I got home from the pool, pushed open the front door that was never locked, and squelched to my bedroom. Only the door was shut. I never shut the door. When I opened it, I saw Rose flopped on her back on my bed. Only, I guess it's her bed again. Because she chucked some socks at me and told me to stay out of her room.

I squelched back to the kitchen and took off my wet sneakers and draped my anorak over the kitchen chair because it was damp. I needed clothes. I debated going back to Rose's room and asking her if I could get my clothes, but the closest thing to the socks she'd thrown had been her Sunflowers perfume and if she threw that, the whole trailer would stink.

I opened the fridge, stared at it for a second, then shut it again. I stood there, looking at the business card size magnets for JOJO'S PIZZA: WE DELIVER and BAILEY, BENSON, & FELDSTEIN, ATTORNEYS AT LAW. Sometimes I like to see how many letters of the alphabet I can find on one magnet. I'd already done the one for the lawyers. It had every letter but K and Q.

I opened the fridge again. Still nothing good.

My mother had a tendency to buy ingredients, rather than food. Food is things like Oreos and Doritos and string cheese, or even fruit. Stuff you can eat. Ingredients are flour and oil and soy sauce. Things that are absolutely no good on their own, and--therefore--of no possible use to a 13 year old. This made looking through the fridge a daily ordeal.

I slouched back to the table and sat down in one of the vinyl chairs. A lone banana sat in a bowl in the middle of the table, covered in black freckles with little fruit flies hovering over it.

I heard my dad's Sentra pull into the driveway, and I saw him out the window. He was carrying a grocery bag. Thank heavens.

He came straight into the kitchen and plunked the bag down on the table proudly, "Fresh cherries! All you can eat!" I pulled the bag toward myself and pulled out a big plastic tub filled with cherries. They were the ones that were a little bit dinged or bruised and would never last to get to a grocery store, but not damaged enough for pie filling. My dad could bring home as many of these as he wanted; it was the single perk of his cherry job.

He sat down in the chair next to me and reached for a handful of cherries, popping them in his mouth, chewing and swallowing. He never washed his cherries and he always swallowed the pits. Rose and my Mom would make faces at him, and say "That's disgusting." Which is exactly why I grabbed a handful of cherries and popped them into my own mouth.

"Going swimming?" Dad asked, between gulps. I shook my head, "Already been. Just drying off." Instinctively, he leaned his chair back on two legs and looked down the hall at the closed door of Rose's bedroom. "Ah. Gotcha. What's up with Rose?" I shrugged at him. I just knew she wanted to be left alone.

Day 150: Clementine, Chapter 9

2009-06-07T21:26:00.004-04:00

And I don't know why I did what I did next, but I did.

I laughed.

And you know what is never a good idea? Laughing at someone when they tell you their name. I know this, from personal experience. When your name is Clementine, middle school teaches you pretty quickly that it isn't nice to laugh at people's names.

She shifted and placed her little hand on her hip and looked at me with wide eyes. I cut off my laugh with an awkward "harumph."

"Violet?" I cleared my throat, testing the sound of the name, "Like the flower?"
"No. Like the color."

She didn't sound mad at me for laughing.

"My name is Clementine." I offered.
"Like the song?" she asked.
"No. Like the fruit." I responded.

Suddenly, we were both grinning at each other.

"You said you live here--where is here, Violet?" She turned and pointed down the street, "We just moved into that nice, blue house. Down there." I got goosebumps down my spine, and resisted the urge to correct her. It wasn't a nice blue house. It was a double wide Clinton Homes Trailer, circa 1987. "Your family have an Astro van?" I blurted out. She raised one eyebrow at me as she continued to smile. I felt like I'd been caught spying. Again.

"Hey--what grade are you in?" I asked, changing the subject.
"Dunno."
"What do you mean you dunno? How old are you?"
"Ten."
"You don't look ten."
"My birthday's July 4th. I'll be 11 this summer."

I studied her, trying to figure out if she was telling me a joke. She was the tiniest ten year old I'd ever seen, if she was telling me the truth. My sister Rose was already wearing a bra when she was ten, and Violet hardly looked ready to ride a bike without training wheels. As I thought about Rose I realized that we all had nouns for names--we were all things.

Thinking of Rose also made me realize that I was standing there in broad daylight in a dripping swimsuit and a soggy anorak and she wouldn't have claimed me as her sister at that moment if you'd bribed her with a shiny new car.

"I gotta get home, Violet. I live down there," I said, pointing, "In the gold trailer. You can come by sometime, if you want."
She nodded solemnly, "Thank you, Clementine."

I walked away, my wet sneakers squeaking all the way home.

Day 149: Clementine, Chapter 8

2009-06-04T22:33:00.002-04:00

"Where have you been?" I demanded.
"Nowhere. Right here." she replied softly, carefully depositing a bug in her jar.
"I've been looking for you. And I haven't seen you. What's your name?"
She looked up finally, with her piercing blue eyes. They weren't light blue--they were dark blue. Not as dark as the sapphires on my mom's class ring, but close.

She studied me for a moment, and I shifted in my wet sneakers.

"Why were you looking for me?"

Uhhhh... rats.

"I just wondered, who you were. And, uh, where you live?" I stammered.

She turned back to the gutter, shifting to the next pile of leaves and trash. "I live here." she said softly, distracted.

"Here?" I asked, confused, "Where, here?"

Picking up the little jar, she finally stood. She screwed the lid, which was punctured with holes, on the top. Then she wiped one hand down her shorts. Then the other.

Looking me in the eye, she said "Violet. My name is Violet."

Day 148: Clementine, Chapter 7

2009-06-01T07:25:00.004-04:00

It was going to be a hot summer. It was only mid-June, and the air already prickled with the heavy scent of hot asphalt. The leaves on the trees, which still hadn't lost their spring green, looked a bit wilted by the afternoon.

There was only one place to be in heat like this: Cherry Hill Community Pool. So packed with people paying $2.00 a person that it's more filled with people than water. The perfect place to sit and watch the world go by. I yanked on last year's blue swimsuit, which my mother said was a fortunate Goodwill find, and covered it with a green anorak. The anorak was ridiculous, but I wasn't about to walk to the pool without a cover-up.

For two hours, I sat and dangled my feet in the water, then slid in once to get wet all over. I spent ten cents for a Jolly Rancher, and then started home, water sloshing around my bare feet inside my tennis shoes.

I had just entered our trailer park and was finishing up the very last shards of my Jolly Rancher when, up ahead, I saw a little figure crouched down on her haunches in the gutter--looking at something.

Blackberries.

I approached her quietly, like a wild animal. She was barefoot, wearing cut off sweats and another too big t-shirt. There were leaves in her hair. Her hand held a stick, and she was using it to turn over leaves and garbage. Next to her foot was an old baby food jar, which looked like it was being used as a makeshift rolly-polly bug habitat.

"Hey." I said, hands on my hips.
She didn't look up, but replied with a soft, gravelly "Hello."

Day 147: Behind the Scenes

2009-05-28T23:09:00.003-04:00

I have missed two days. I know. I am very (very) aware of that sidebar that says that my goal is to write something here "every day". It's staring at me. Even if I'm ignoring it.

But I haven't really been ignoring it. I've been "storyboarding" or sketching out where I want this story to go--figuring out the Point A and the Point B. It's a good thing to do, I'm thinking. Because if I don't know where I want to go, how will I ever get there? But it's not something I can really share here... not really...

So, meanwhile, for the next DAY, I'm going to post one of my favorite stories I've ever written. I have never posted it here. Because I like it too much. ;) Let me know what YOU think!

***

It is always dark on Christmas day in the North.
There is no sun at all, but only stars that blink sleepily
and ribbons of light that dance across the sky:
red, green, yellow, and blue.

The clean white snow is sparkling,
and the whole earth is quiet,
as if it's taken a deep breath in,
followed by a sigh.

From above, a sleigh made of rich, polished wood glides down,
landing softly on the snow.
The reindeer that pull it toss their heads lazily about;
they are hungry from their long night's work.

Father Christmas climbs from the sleigh,
now light without it's Christmas load.
He steps to one of the reindeer and runs his hand over it's fur,
offering a small handful of oats from his pocket.

His eyes are tired, but sparkling.
His mind is filled with visions of Christmas trees,
with their branches wrapped around the secrets of the coming day.

Reaching into his heavy fur cloak, Father Christmas pulls out a small package,
wrapped in shining paper and tied with a red bow:
the last gift of Christmas.

Father Christmas guides his reindeer into the stable,
where they are groomed and fed,
and then he steps into his small and cozy home.

He places the gift on the heavy wooden table.
After hanging his cloak on the hook behind the door,
he fills his mug with steaming cider, and sits down at the table.

Taking the gift in his large, rough hands
he sings in a deep, strong voice

"We three kings of Orient are,
bearing gifts we traverse afar,
field and fountain, moor and mountain
following yonder star...
Star of wonder, star of light
star with royal beauty bright.
Westward leading, still proceeding,
Guide us to thy perfect light. "

Smiling, he pictures children around the world,
discovering the gifts he'd left for each of them.
He had many friends that helped him to make the gifts,
but each year there was one he made himself.

Father Christmas was very old.
Many, many years before a new star had appeared,
and his three friends from the East, the West, and the South
had gone to seek the star.

Each had carried with them a gift: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
But Father Christmas, of the North, had stayed behind, for he was busy,
and had not prepared a gift for his king.

So now, each year, working slowly and carefully,
he carved one gift out of the finest wood.
A gift worthy of an infant king, if ever he were to find him.

And each year, when he wasn't busy
carving and smoothing and polishing,
he spent every waking hour, making gifts for children everywhere.
This was his gift for his king.

Now, holding the last gift of Christmas,
that he was still waiting to give,
he gazed at the flickering fire and the snow fell softly against his window.

He thought of the children, waking now, and finding the gifts that he'd left for them.
Smiling contentedly, his heavy eyes began to close, and he hoped his gift for his king would be enough.

Day 146: Clementine, Chapter 6

2009-05-25T22:31:00.003-04:00

"The trailer next door to the Finleys is for rent" I mentioned that night as I grated the cheese for dinner. My Mom stood right next to me in the tiny kitchen, stirring taco meat.

"Which trailer?" she asked, disinterested.
"The blue one." I replied, not quite sure why I'd brought it up.

My dad walked in, his hands stained orange from sorting cherries and circles under his eyes from teaching driver's ed. "We don't want a blue trailer. We already have a gold one." he joked, yawning and mussing my hair.

I put the cheese on the table next to the diced tomatoes and the sour cream, and then heard the front door slide open. Rose was home. I didn't even have to take a step to grab another plate out of the cupboard and put it on the table for her.

She poked her head into the kitchen, "Mm, smells good, Mom." My Mother beamed at her, "Staying for dinner, Rose?" "Um, yeah. Think so. I'll be here tonight." There was a tiny hesitation in her voice that I noticed as I placed a fork next to her plate. She glanced at me and then looked away.

"Hey, kiddo" my Dad said to me as he plunked himself down into his seat "You wanna get in your pajamas and go to Brewsters for 'Free Ice Cream if you Wear Your Pajamas' night?"
I nodded vigorously, already going through the list of flavors in my mind. Grasshopper... Cinnamon... Chocolate Explosion... Graham Cracker...
"Are we not invited?" my Mom pretended to pout.
"No. You always complain about being seen in your pajamas in public" Dad teased back.

Half an hour later I was standing in front of Brewsters, considering the list of ice cream flavors. I was wearing my fuzzy purple pajama pants and an old t-shirt with my slippers. My dad was wearing matching navy blue silk pajamas with a black robe. We'd given them to him for Christmas. Former students gaped and giggled, and he smiled at them good naturedly. He already knew what he wanted "Fudge Brownie Mud Slide." I couldn't decide between "Jamaican Me Crazy" and "Birthday Cake Confetti", and then I saw the Flavor of the Week: blackberry.

Blackberry. Who was that girl? I'd kept looking for her, everywhere, in the couple weeks since I'd seen her there, in the blackberries. I'd purposely wandered through all the neighborhoods anywhere close to that wild berry patch, and never seen the slightest trace of her. I was beginning to think that maybe I'd seen a ghost.

Day 145: Clementine, Chapter 5

2009-05-23T20:43:00.004-04:00

Balancing my melamine plate carefully on one hand and nibbling at bits of chip with my other hand, we made our way down the hall to Mrs. Finley's bedroom. I had to be careful not to trip over the small area rugs that she had placed everywhere to keep people from stepping on her nice, white carpet. She paused at the closed door, raising her eyebrows at me excitedly and said "Ready??" I nodded once and took a bite of Twinkie.

She threw open the door and said "Ta-da!"

The last time I had seen Mrs. Finley's bedroom, there was a patchwork quilt on her bed, a dresser with, approximately, 300 assorted knick-knacks, and a rocking chair in the corner. A bit shabby, but comfortable.

But now? She had outdone herself.

The window directly opposite me now had scarves of sheer fabric hanging lopsidedly over the metal blinds. Below the window, her bed was draped a deep red sateen comforter with heart-shaped throw pillows. The homey nick-knacks had been replaced with vases of fake roses that had fake, plastic dew drops on them. A feather boa hung on one corner of the mirror and an overwhelming scent of dollar-store, rose scented candles wafted out the door.

I almost choked on my Twinkie, as my eyes bugged out of my head.

"It's my sexy bedroom" she boasted "I watched a show the other day that talked all about how important it is to make your bedroom a romantic haven."

A romantic haven? Glancing over my right shoulder, I could see Mr. Finley's bedroom just down the hall. He had slept in a separate bedroom, he claimed bitterly, for more than 30 years. Crammed in there with a tiny television set, every book Louis L'Amour had ever written, and his steel toed cowboy boots.

"Wow, Mrs. Finley. I didn't know you liked red so much" was all I could manage. She beamed in my direction and waved me in with a breathless, "Make yourself comfortable, dear." I looked around for someplace to sit and finally settled on the foot of her bed. She chose the rocking chair, now bedecked with furry pillows that shed.

Taking a bite of hot dog, I asked her "You said it matched something. What does it match?"
"Oh!" she fluttered "I'll show you."

She took three short shuffles across the room and pulled back the sliding door to her closet. Reaching way into the back, behind all the eras of clothing surely hiding in that space, she pulled out a garment bag. Unzipping the bag, she slid out a red satin dress and held it up for me to see.

It was a very pretty tea length dress, the kind of dress you saw in pictures from 50 years ago. The folds in the satin were so established that it looked like they would be impossible to iron out.

"It was my going away dress. For my honeymoon." Mrs. Finley said dreamily, softly stroking the fabric, "I felt so beautiful."

Oh. I got it.

"Well, this quilt matches it just right then!" I said cheerfully. She smiled at me, but her eyes were still far away. She shook her head and put the dress back in it's bag and shoved it into the recesses of the closet again.

"Hey, Mrs. Finley," I asked "has anyone looked at that old trailer next door? Do you think anyone will rent it?"

I tried not to let my voice sound too hopeful. I knew that my only hope of getting a friend--a real friend--was for someone to move in. It was a long shot. Not a whole lot of middle schoolers moved into trailer parks. That's why my mom says "Hope springs eternal." Because you just can't help yourself from hoping that a new best friend will move in down the street and have a trailer even dumpier than your own.

"Hm. I think I saw Miss Peggy show it to some people yesterday. Driving a red Grand Prix. You can never trust people who drive Grand Prix."

I nodded.

Parents of middle schoolers probably wouldn't be driving a red Grand Prix. What I needed was a 1991 teal Astro van. If she spotted one of those looking around next door, then my chances were lots better.

"Well, I gotta go, Mrs. Finley. Thanks for the hot dog."
She nodded again, smiling, "Come back tomorrow, dear. You can help me re-do my bathroom."
I grinned as I waved to Mr. Finley, who grunted back, and walked out the front door.

I stopped short. Parked next door was a teal Astro van. I almost could've bet it was a 1991.

Day 144: Clementine, Chapter 4

2009-05-22T22:43:00.005-04:00

On the first day of summer, I was laying on my bed staring at Orlando Bloom and his huge adam's apple when I heard the first ice cream truck of the season. It was playing "How much is that doggy in the window."

I was going to spend the next three months listening to an ice cream truck drive in relentless circles around our trailer park. Trailer parks are magnets for ice cream trucks. Ice cream trucks and satellite dishes. We had those in abundance.

I got off my bed and trudged to the curb to watch the ice cream truck go by. If I had money, which I didn't, I would've stuck my arm out and waved to the guy. He had a gold tooth in front, and wore a RAIDERS baseball cap. I would've asked him for an orange creamsicle, and then I would've changed my mind and gotten a chocolate dipped mint cone. Then I would've sat down on the curb and eaten it really slowly.

But I didn't have any money. So, the truck drove slowly, hopefully by, and the driver waved. I didn't wave back.

Balancing on the edge of the curb, I listened to the music fade and decided to go see if anyone had moved in next to the Finleys.

The trailer park was quiet. A lot of people were gone to work. I knew the Finleys would be home. They never went anywhere. I had spent the last 2 summers hanging out in their trailer while my dad was at the cherry warehouse and my mom was sleeping off her last shift.

The trailer next door still had the FOR RENT sign up front, so I walked by and went up the ramp to the Finley's front door. Tapping lightly, I could hear a basketball game playing in the background and the sound of Mrs. Finley's house slippers as she shuffled to the glass door. She pulled back the curtain, holding a pack of hot dogs, and smiled and waved at me as she yanked at the door. It didn't budge. She grumbled at it for a second before yelling through the glass at me that it was stuck and to pull from my side. I pushed the door aside easily.

"Come in!" she said, too loudly. "I'm making wieners for Harry and I for lunch. Have some." I glanced at the clock--10:00 in the morning. "Um, thanks..." I grinned back at her. She shuffled towards the kitchen and I followed, waving at Mr. Finley as he sat, enthroned on a plush pink armchair. He had three remote controls lined up at his fingertips, and the volume up at full blast. He nodded in my direction.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Finley was putting the hot dogs on ancient white melamine plates that had gold roses peeling off of them. Next to each hot dog, she put a pile of crushed up, stale potato chips, and half a Twinkie. Shoving one plate into my hands she said "Come see my bedroom. I redid it. So it would match."

"Match?" I muttered. Match what???

Day 143: Clementine, Chapter 3

2009-05-19T23:10:00.003-04:00

That night, sitting at the dinner table, I kept thinking about that girl. Holding my fork and scooping up my Hamburger Helper Stroganoff, I could see the berry stains on my fingers. Who was she? Why had I never seen her before?

My father sitting across the table from me, his worn black slacks covered in chalk dust from teaching, cheerfully asked "Well, Munchkin, what kind of house did you find for us today?"

He always asked me that. Every day. I could count on him to ask, and so I always had a descriptive answer.

"Two stories. Stone and shingle, craftsman style. Trampoline and pond in the back."

He nodded appreciatively, "Do you really think craftsman style is the right choice for us? Don't you think it's going to look dated in a few years?"
Shaking my head, "No. Craftsman style is much better than stucco. I like brick, but it's hard to find brick that goes all the way around, and I don't like siding."
Again, he nodded, considering seriously.

I reached for the corn, without asking for it, so my dad saw my fingers.
"Berry picking?" he asked, surprised, "Without me?!"
"Not really," I gulped, "I was walking home, and... there was a girl. She was picking berries and she gave me a few."

Both my parents raised their eyebrows now, hopefully. They wondered if I'd made a new friend, I could tell. "Who was it? Anyone we know?" asked my mom. "No," I replied, scooping up some orange jell-o, "at least, I didn't know her. She was lots younger than me. I've never seen her before."

Too young for a friend, they were thinking.

I stood up to clear my place and scraped the leftovers into the garbage disposal. My mom glanced at her watch and suddenly switched into what dad and I called "Flight of the Bumblebee" mode--zooming to get out the door and to work on time. She pecked the top of my head with a "G'night. Do your homework." and then rushed out the door. My dad, whistling off-tune, put all our plates in the dishwasher and then walked down the creaky hallway to his bedroom to grade quizzes.

Tapping my short fingernails on the counter, I wondered what to do now. It was the end of the year, so I didn't have any homework, really. I couldn't watch TV while Dad was grading. It drove him crazy. I guess outside was my best option.

I slid open the front door and turned to walk down the street. Paulette was just getting home from work in her colorful car, talking on her cell phone and nearly ramming into her mailbox. Further down, I could see Tabitha Sloan walking her two rottweilers and her miniature pony for the evening. Mariachi music blared from somewhere close by, mixed with the steady "thud, thud, thud" of a car stereo system's bass amplifier. I walked absentmindedly by the different trailers on my street, noticing the various wind chimes, flags, and lawn decor that seemed to change with both the season and the current occupants. Turning right at the next street down, I could see Miss Peggy, wearing a long broomstick skirt and with a long cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She was hammering a red FOR RENT sign in front of a faded blue trailer. Double wide, but with only a patio and no lawn. I wondered who would rent it. Would their father be a teacher, too?

Next to the blue trailer was where Mr. and Mrs. Finley lived. They were old. Very old. They didn't have stairs to their sliding front door, but a ramp instead. Jammed into the dirt was a painted sign that said "One hot chick and one old crow live here." I liked the Finleys. They made me laugh. They were the only ones who, like me, thought that living in a trailer park was something you could laugh at and be ashamed of. They were the only ones who didn't have trailer park pride.

Maybe the Finleys would tell me as soon as someone rented the trailer next door.

Day 142: Clementine, Chapter 2

2009-05-17T22:46:00.003-04:00

It was one day like any other, near the end of school, and I was walking home. That day I had walked around a neighborhood called River's Run Estates, and chosen a beautiful home for my family. Two stories. Trampoline in the back and a little pond with a fountain in the front. I was thinking about what kind of fish I would put in the pond, dragging my clogs in the dust and watching it swirl around my ankles, when I happened to look up. I knew that I'd heard something, but wasn't quite sure what. I could hear a mockingbird in a nearby tree, but nothing else. Then, turning to my left, I saw a pair of huge blue eyes looking at me curiously from the middle of a patch of blackberry bushes.

The eyes were set in a round, chubby face that was covered in purple blackberry juice. Above the blue eyes was a tangle of curly blond hair, sticking out in every possible direction. It was a girl with both her grubby mitts just full of barely ripe blackberries. She grinned at me broadly and held out her hand.

Now, I was standing a good 10 feet away from her. And all of a sudden, it struck me how bizarre this was. What in heaven's name was a little girl doing, all alone, standing in a blackberry patch at 3:00 in the afternoon anyway? And offering berries to a stranger? And not speaking a single word? Bizarre.

I shook my head. She grinned bigger and took a couple steps forward, still holding out her handful of half smushed berries. I could see that she didn't have any shoes on, and her feet were covered in purple berry stains, too, and her legs were covered in scratches from the briers. Seeing those scratches, I felt kind of guilty for not taking the berries. So I stepped forward a little bit, too, and took the berries from her hand and popped them into my mouth.

They were warm from the sun, and still slightly sour.

Standing there, chewing my berries, I stared at the girl and tried to guess her age. I decided that she was 7, maybe. But then why didn't she say anything? She just stood still and stared right back at me, smiling and rubbing her dirty hands down the sides of a raggedy RANDOLPH MEMORIAL DAY 10K t-shirt that was much too big for her, while she balanced on one foot.

It was something about the t-shirt that made me realize, with a shock, that this girl must be poor. Really poor. So poor that even a trailer park would be nice. The kind of poor that made my own mama look at me over her glass of blue Kool-Aid at dinner and say "You eat that green bean casserole, young lady. There are kids who would be grateful to have it." Wow. Poor enough to be grateful for green bean casserole. I looked to the left and right of me, for any sign of a house. I couldn't see any. Just the tangled undergrowth of the trees, buzzing with the sound of bees.

"Where do you live?" I blurted out.
She just smiled.
"I mean, do you live... around here?" I tried again, more politely.
She laughed--a deep, staccato sound that surprised me.

Suddenly, with hardly any noise at all, she whirled on the foot she had been balancing on and darted off through the bushes and into the trees, where I couldn't see her anymore.

I looked down at my own hand, and the purple berry juice on my fingers.

Bizarre.

Clementine, By Chapter

2009-05-17T21:15:00.002-04:00

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Day 141: Clementine, Chapter 1

2009-05-17T00:30:00.006-04:00

I live in a trailer park.

I'll give you a second to let that sink in. Go ahead. I'll be here.

Like I said, I live in a trailer park. It's called Meadow Brook Terrace Trailer Park, which sounds so much nicer than Circle-L Trailer Park, about three miles down the road, just after the Sunoco gas station. How can an L be a circle, anyway?

I don't know why in the world they named our trailer park "Meadow Brook." There are no meadows, unless you count that space where the Vasquez family got their panties in a twist and ripped their not-so-mobile home off it's foundations a couple years ago and the weeds have run amok. And I've looked everywhere for a brook and never found more than gutters that run when it rains. But, then again, the owner's wife--Miss Peggy--has what she likes to call an "artistic bent". Maybe she imagined the meadow and the brook.

Our trailer is gold. I don't know why trailers can be gold, since you never see real houses that are gold. But ours is. Gold siding on the bottom and off white on the top. This is better than the trailer three down from us. It is "coral and azure" which could also be called "pink and aqua". The owner ordered it, special, to match her Berretta. My sister calls it a Witchmobile. She's right, you know. And what kind of person orders their house to match their car? But that's Paulette for you.

Inside our gold trailer, there is a kitchen, a living room, a closet that is supposed to be a bedroom, a bathroom, and a bigger bedroom at the back. They all go in a line, off of one hall. I sleep in the closet that is supposed to be a bedroom. My parents sleep in the big bedroom, and my big sister sleeps on the couch in the living room when she isn't begging her friends, who have real houses, to let her sleep there. She says that she has friends because she bought a pair of jeans at the mall that cost $100 of her babysitting money. She wears them everyday and washes them every night. She says I don't have friends because I wear Faded Glory brand clothes that my mom buys me on the clearance racks at Walmart, so I'm always wearing sweaters in the summer and shorts in the winter. It's a vicious cycle, but I've accepted it.

Rose, my sister, had the little bedroom originally, and I had the couch, but when she started sleeping away from home more nights than not, my parents said I could have it. When they told her, she just shrugged and told me not to touch her Orlando Bloom poster on the wall or her collection of perfume on the shelf. I did pretty well, considering the temptation, but every once in awhile I did allow myself a spritz of "Sunflowers."

My mother is a nurse. Doesn't that sound like a noble profession? One that you would be proud to have your mother be? Well, I am. I tell people who will pay any attention at all that my mother is a nurse at East Central Medical Center. She wears navy blue scrubs and a name tag with stars on it.

My father is a teacher. It is also a noble profession. But it's also why we live in a trailer park. He teaches algebra to middle school students, driver's education at 4:00 in the morning at the high school, and sorts cherries in the summer. I don't usually tell people about the cherries.

And me, well, I ride the bus every day to and from school. And every day I get off the bus with a big pack of other kids, just trying to blend in, at one of the local neighborhoods. I watch them scatter to their brick and stucco homes, with shade trees out front and pansies planted around the mailbox. I wander through different streets, every day, and pick a different house that I would like to buy. Then I walk home. Usually a mile or two. But I promised my mom never to cross any busy highways, like the 74, and get squashed. No one ever asked me to go home with them, to listen to music or watch a movie. No one seemed to notice that I got off at different stops.

But I didn't know that someone was watching, and that my life was about to change--for the better--much sooner than I knew.

Day 140: Lavinia, Processing

2009-05-14T23:46:00.003-04:00

Tonight, I am debating what to do next. I think I'm ready to move Lavinia off my blog, and keep working on it away from here. It has taught me really good things. Like how terrible I am at dialogue, which is something I want to work on. I think one of the most important things I learned was realizing, one day, that each day's entry needed to have as much work and detail put into it as I would put into a short piece that was only one chapter long. I realized that I wasn't taking the time to savor or build the story's pieces, because I was in such a hurry to outline the plot, so it became more fun to write, after that. Like I said: good things.

But, where to from here? I have a couple things I would like to try, but have a hunch I would be miserable at. Like writing things from a man's perspective. Or writing an "action" or "mystery" type of story. I'm mulling it over, and will see where I go next!!

For those who have read, and left comments, thank you. :)

Day 139: Lavinia, Chapter 14

2009-05-13T22:18:00.002-04:00

Not letting go of her hand, Charles pulled Lavinia over to a small path at the side of the lane and sat down on a low stone wall. She sat next to him as he silently looked at the ground, trying to compose his thoughts. He released her hand, and clasped his together for a minute, closing his eyes briefly. She waited.

Finally, he turned and looked into her eyes, "Lavinia, I needed to see you; to talk to you, but I don't even know exactly how to say what I want to say. All of the things I had intended to say, sound so simple now" his voice trailed off. Gazing downward, he seemed to gather his courage before continuing, "I need you to understand, about me. I need you to understand why I'm doing what I'm doing. So you can make your choice."

She was a little confused, "Make my choice?"
"Yes" he said in a rush "because... I would ask you to be mine. But I feel that I cannot ask you that, if you don't understand." With that he reached for her hand again.

Sitting on the cool stone wall, suddenly she could hear the wind in the trees and the rustling of their leaves. The sun on her back was warm, glinting off the dew on the grass, and birds sung lightly overhead. His hand was warm on hers. She was amazed, in this moment, to find that her thoughts were still and composed, like untroubled water. She had not expected Charles to propose, which he just had. She had especially not expected that she would feel so utterly alert and peaceful.

"What is it, then, that you need me to understand?" she asked calmly.
"About my new faith, Lavinia. I can't ask you to marry me and be my wife, if you don't understand this part of me."
At the mention of this strange religion, she suddenly felt an icy coldness course through her veins, but she remained silent. Something in her whispered that now was not the time for her to speak.

And so he began, in a rush, "I met the elders, as you know, in the square. I was just curious--like most people are, I think. I attended their cottage meeting that night, well--you remember. I do not know what I expected, but I went, even though I felt torn, because I wanted to see you as well. But something told me to go.

When I got there, the two elders spoke. The first one spoke of a prophet, like Moses or Elijah, on the earth--right now. The second spoke of a book that he has translated by the power of God, called the Book of Mormon. I was fascinated by the things they talked about--not because of how new they were, but because of how the pieces seemed to make everything fit. Everything made sense. So, I borrowed a copy of this book from one of the elders."

Looking up now, at the trees overhead, Charles seemed to speak more to himself than to her. "I began to read it, and I knew it was true. I didn't even have to pray about it. I just knew. I decided that I would be baptized into their faith. I don't have to tell you, because I am sure that you have already heard, that when I told my uncle of my intentions, he made it very clear that he would disown me if I chose to be baptized. I would lose my apprenticeship. I would be penniless, and I have nowhere else to go. So I have not been baptized."

Lavinia suddenly exhaled in relief. She had not known if he had actually joined this church or not. He had not. So, there was still hope. He looked up at the sound, and stared at her for a moment--trying to understand the reaction.

"I intend to be baptized, Lavinia. As soon as I can be. I have just decided that I will wait until I have saved enough to sail to America, and then I will be baptized, and go to join the other members of my faith there."

With that sentence, all of Lavinia's hopes shriveled inside of her. She felt herself go numb. He was leaving. He was going to be baptized into this church, and then he was going to leave. Tears sprung to her eyes, and she didn't even care if he saw.

His gaze softened as he pressed her tiny hand inside his, "Lavinia, I cannot ask you to marry me, now. To come with me. I know that is not fair. But, I can ask you, please, to at least read this book." At that, he drew a small, tan volume out of his pocket and placed it in her hand. "If you will only read it. Consider it. If you have any feelings for me, at all. If your answer is no..." and his voice caught. He paused a moment. "If your answer is no, then all you have to do is leave the book on my doorstep. But, if your answer is yes..." he looked at her, his eyes shining, "if your answer is yes. Then you can return the book to me, yourself."

Having finished, he looked spent. Lavinia stared at her skirt, and the little book laying there. After a moment, he stood quietly and said "I have to go. Thank you, for listening to me."

She did not say a word.

Scheduled Maintenance...

2009-05-11T23:05:00.003-04:00

Hi. :)

I spent some time tonight editing a few things and, most importantly, putting together chapter lists. You'll notice on the sidebar two new buttons, one for Lavinia and one for Fields of Gold. If you click on those, they'll take you to a Table of Contents for each story, so you can read them by chapter. For Lavinia, I've also added a link at the bottom of each chapter to the next day.

New installment tomorrow: the big talk between Charles and Lavinia, circa 1855. Yeehaw. ;)

Day 138: Lavinia, Chapter 13

2009-05-10T22:40:00.003-04:00

At the mention of her name over the pulpit, Lavinia turned a vibrant shade of red. She felt uncomfortably like 100 pairs of eyes were boring into the back of her head, and she wished she could sink into her shoes and disappear. Instead, she slouched just a little bit and kept her gaze on her bare knee caps. She realized that she needed to be more diligent in shaving them.

In her flustered embarrassment at being mentioned, she had missed the first several minutes of Jenna's talk, and felt a vague satisfaction at that. If Jenna was going to call her out in front of everyone, then it served her right to have her words have the opposite effect on her intended listener.

As her mind came back to focus, however, she listened somewhat absentmindedly to what Jenna was saying. It was obvious that she really, truly believed every word that she had prepared. It was also obvious that it wasn't easy for her to share some of the things she was sharing, which surprised her roommate. It had not occurred to her that Jenna might be just as hesitant about the sharing of her faith as Lavinia was about learning about it. She decided she would at least forgive Jenna for trapping her.

The talk was only about 10 minutes long, and then Jenna sat down and someone else got up to speak. Lavinia didn't look at Jenna for several minutes, but instead thought wistfully of her Grandma Jane. She had always wished that she'd had a chance to know her better--to understand what she believed, and what she loved. She had always thought it was too late, to understand that part of her family and her past. It was that thought that made her raise her eyes and meet Jenna's gaze. Doing so she found herself returning her roommate's warm smile.

On the drive home, a full three hours later, Lavinia didn't say much. Jenna kept a companionable silence, while the tinny speakers forced out some classical radio from a local station.

"My grandmother was a Mormon, you know." Lavinia blurted out suddenly. She needed to get it said. Jenna raised her eyebrows slightly, but replied with a simple "Oh?"

"I never really knew her. We never lived close, and she died when I was barely a teenager. But I know she was Mormon."
"But, your family--aren't?" Jenna asked, sounding slightly confused.
"Maybe my dad was christened a Mormon. I don't know. He joined the Air Force, and met my mom. She's Catholic. A good Catholic." Lavinia emphasized.
With a sideways glance, "But I've never seen you go to mass. Are you Catholic?"

Somehow, this question caught Lavinia off guard. She wasn't ready to talk about her own faith, or lack of it. She wanted to talk about her grandma. She wanted to know what her grandma had believed, so she could file it away as part of her genetic makeup--what made her, her. And so she stumbled over the question of what religion she was.

The pause was lengthy enough that Jenna politely moved on, saying lightly "It was really nice of you to come with me to church today. You are such a good sport." Lavinia only laughed shortly and replied "Well. Going to church once a year won't kill a person, I guess."

She hoped she'd gotten the message across--she'd gone once, to be nice, but she had no intention of going back again.

Day 137: Lavinia, Chapter 12

2009-05-09T22:20:00.005-04:00

Standing among her grandmother's beautiful peonies, Lavinia closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. She could smell the damp earth and the soft moss. The faint breath of curling ferns, and heavier perfume of peonies. She felt the tension drain from her shoulders and face, and her thoughts, which had been like a hive of disturbed and angry bees, seemed to quiet and settle.

She opened her eyes and finally admitted, to herself, what was bothering her. She was avoiding Charles on purpose. She was trying to be charming and encouraging to James. But her heart wasn't in it. She couldn't seem to quit hoping to hear Charles' confident step coming up behind her, or listening for the tone of his voice in a crowd. This was a problem.

It was all over their small parish that Charles Mann was taking up with the Mormons. Derisive glares and whispered comments seemed to follow him wherever he walked. It made Lavinia blush defensively for him, but she said nothing. Her brothers, especially, made fun of the baker's apprentice and his new faith. They never teased, to her face, but she knew that her stony silences probably made it pathetically clear that she cared about him. She also knew that his uncle had told everyone that if he joined this new church, he would be out on the street. No apprenticeship. No livelihood.

The thought of that, of everything he was risking and everything he could lose, made her heart feel tight inside her chest. She had the inexplicable sense of her own life slipping through her fingers, and she didn't quite know how to catch it. The anxiety crept back into her shoulders as she sighed and carried the basket of peonies back to her Grandmother Jane.

After a cup of Earl Grey tea and a comfortable silence, she walked out the front door and began walking down the lane. Her eyes were on the road, thoughtful, as she walked. Then, unexpectedly, a shadow fall across her path and she looked up.

She hadn't expected to see him there, and her breath caught in her throat as she looked up into his eyes. Her hand flutter upwards as she realized, with a start, that his eyes were brimming with unshed tears.

He reached out for her hand, and, in an unsteady voice, he quietly but determinedly said "Lavinia, we must talk."

Go to Chapter 13

Day 137: Lavinia, Chapter 11

2009-05-07T21:31:00.003-04:00

Lavinia was quiet on the drive to the church in Jenna's old blue Sentra. She loved Los Angeles on Sunday mornings because it felt nearly deserted. In other cities, like New York, the traffic never seemed to stop. Whether it was 8:00 at night or 2:00 in the morning, people were coming and going. But here on the edge of the west coast, the crowds vanished on Sunday mornings and you could drive at a reasonable pace and enjoy the palm trees that towered on either side of the road.

When Lavinia had moved here, she had been delighted to discover two roads: Wilshire and Santa Monica Boulevards. Both ran from the center of the city all the way to Ocean Avenue and the endless Pacific. If you got lost, all you had to do was drive north or south toward one of these roads, and you would know where you were. It was predictable, and Lavinia loved it.

Of course, she had driven by the gigantic Mormon temple on Santa Monica. It stood up on a green hill behind it's gates, towering in the sunlight. She always smirked a little at the irony of the gritty streets right in front of it, complete with their Guess billboards and half naked people. What a place for a house of worship. The temple was so huge that she'd never noticed the church behind it, but it was into this parking lot that Jenna turned.

Suddenly, Lavinia felt nervous. She had been to a Mormon church, once before. Years and years before, with her grandmother, but she didn't remember anything about it. Jenna parked and they got out of the car and walked toward the nearest doors. They were a little bit early, but other single adults were already pulling in as well. Inside, the building smelled of cinnamon air freshener, floor wax, and paper. There were utilitarian chairs and a couch in the lobby, with a large picture of Jesus on the wall.

Lavinia recognized the sister missionaries as they approached them, and introduced themselves again. Jenna turned to Lavinia, "I have to sit up on the stand to give my talk, so I thought you could sit with the sisters. They'll be able to tell you what's going on, if you have any questions" and she walked down the hall. Feeling a little bit trapped and uncomfortable, Lavinia looked at the sister missionaries, who were looking at her expectantly. After a moment of awkward silence, she finally said "Well. Lead the way." and followed them into the chapel.

The chapel was a wide, open space and simply decorated. There were no pictures or stained glass windows, just simple woodwork and a clock on the wall. In fact, the only decoration in the entire room was a vase of blue hydrangeas on the pulpit and a lace tablecloth covering the communion table. They made their way to a pew about four rows back from the front of the chapel, and the sisters slid to the center of the bench. Lavinia groaned inwardly and unwillingly followed; she had been hoping for an aisle seat, near the back, so she could remain inconspicuous and leave quickly, if she wanted to.

The pews around them were filling with people who smiled and chatted with each other, or sat quietly and doodled on paper or stared at the ground. Quiet organ music filled the chapel, and people grew quiet for the beginning of the meeting.

Lavinia's mind floated back to her grandmother, Jane. She could only remember fuzzy details about her father's mother, since her father had been in the Air Force and they had moved a lot when she was young and her grandma was alive. But her grandmother had had a yellow house, she remembered that very well, and a huge backyard that was filled with living and growing things. As a child, on their rare visits, she had spent hours exploring her grandmother's carefully tended garden, dotted with fruit trees and bordered by grape vines.

The most distinct memories, oddly enough, were memories of saying goodbye--of looking through the back window, waving goodbye, and crying. Usually, in her hand, she would've been clutching a tissue tied around several lemon drop candies--something her grandma always, always had in her house. Lavinia knew, somehow, that her Grandma Jane would've understood her, and her restless loneliness. She also would've been pleased to find her, here.

She pulled her attention back to the service, which seemed to be simple and straight forward. After they passed the sacrament plate, which Lavinia quickly passed over--unsure of what to do, they moved right into the simple talks. Jenna was second. The first girl, who introduced herself as Michelle, gave a talk that, she said, was about faith. It sounded, to Lavinia, more like a personals ad intended for the men in the audience. Several times, she had to look down at her lap and smile at the transparency.

Then it was Jenna's turn. She stepped to the pulpit, opened her notebook and set it to the side, before folding her hands together and smiling out at the audience, then turning her gaze directly toward Lavinia.

"Brothers and Sisters, today I'm going to be talking about what makes our church different from other churches. And I'm going to be talking, mostly, to my friend Lavinia, who is visiting with us today....."

Go to Chapter 12

Day 136: Lavinia, Chapter 11

2009-05-06T21:59:00.002-04:00

She was constantly irritable. Melina avoided her. Teddy spent the majority of his time hiding in the study with his tutor, or working with their father. She felt her mother's eyes on her constantly as she stormed about their house, first picking up a book and then laying it aside, then picking up some stitching only to let it fall in her lap as she gazed out the window. She could hardly even stand to be around herself. Finally, she pulled a shawl around her shoulders and headed down the lane to visit her grandmother.

Many people found Jane Dunwell to be harsh and proud, even by the kindest of standards, but Lavinia always found her presence to be soothing and stabilizing. She was a very strong woman, with hair that was almost black, pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head. She reminded Lavinia of a bird, with her penetrating eyes and in the way that she tilted her head and moved swiftly wherever she went. Born to privilege late in the last century, Jane Wyatt married well enough to please her demanding parents--a promising officer in the British Navy, John Dunwell. But then, after only months of marriage, her young husband had died at sea, leaving her alone and expecting their first child: a boy. Lavinia had never heard her grandmother speak her late husband's name, or talk about him in any way. When she asked her, once, what he was like, Grandmother Jane had tersely replied "I don't remember. I hardly knew him."

As she walked, Lavinia wondered, again, what her Grandfather John had been like. She wondered if Jane Wyatt had loved him, when she was young. She wondered if her grandmother had forgotten, after all this time, how it felt to gaze into deep brown eyes. How it felt to be young.

She approached the door of her Grandmother's lovely, but modest, home and knocked politely. Mary, one of two servants in the house, opened the door at the familiar knock and smiled. She took Lavinia's shawl and led her into the breakfast parlor, where her Grandmother stood at the window, looking out.

Seeing Lavinia enter the room, a warm light entered her eyes, even though she did not rush forward to meet her. Lavinia was her favorite grandchild, and she always enjoyed her company. She could often sense the child's moods and whims, and was happy to be silent as she talked. "The young need to talk," she thought. Even before her granddaughter had spoken, she could sense agitation in the air around her, so she bent down and picked up a basket near her feet that had some shears in it.

"Lavinia, please go into my garden and gather some flowers for me. Peonies, please--they'll be past their peak soon, and I want to enjoy them in the house. Be careful of the forget-me-nots or you'll trample them." she instructed with authority.

Lavinia almost sighed with relief as she took the basket from her grandmother and went outside. She knew that she wouldn't have to think here, that her grandmother would give her things to occupy her mind.

Behind her, Jane Dunwell had turned back to the window and watched Lavinia's willowy figure as it moved around the garden. Something was definitely bothering the girl. She wondered if it involved James Fenwick, whom she knew that her son and his wife had been encouraging in his attentions to their daughter. Somehow, she didn't think so. James Fenwick reminded Jane of a hummingbird: flashy and appealing, but entirely unpredictable and undependable. No. She didn't think that James was a good match for her Lavinia.

But, if it wasn't James, then who?

Day 135: Lavinia, Chapter 10

2009-05-04T21:34:00.004-04:00

Opening her eyes, Lavinia lay under her heavy blue feather comforter and looked at the early morning sunlight streaming in her window. She lay there, thinking, and looking at the small clay pots of herbs perched on the narrow windowsill: basil, mint, rosemary, oregano. They brought life to her small room with their delicate, pushy green selves. She loved their texture and their smell; she loved everything about them.

It was Sunday morning, so no work today, but she could hear Jenna showering. Glancing over at her clock, she guessed that she was already getting ready for her church, which started at 9:00. Stretching and rolling to her side, she thought about this.

What kind of twenty-somethings get up at 7:00 on a Sunday morning to go to church? Even more--what kind of twenty-somethings are happy about it? She couldn't figure it out. Every week, Jenna put on a skirt, picked up her Bible, and went to church for three hours. This left the apartment predictably empty every week. In any of her former apartments, Lavinia would've basked in the silence and the solitude. But here, it often seemed, after Jenna left, that her apartment seemed to echo with the emptiness, like going into someones house after they've been on vacation for a week. It was disconcerting. So, Lavinia would pull her bike on to a bus and head down to the beach to ride along the boardwalk and watch the waves. Sometimes she would go to the Getty Museum for the afternoon, sitting for hours at a time by the shallow pool and watching people come and go. By the time she returned in the evening, Jenna would usually be home, and usually with a few friends who, by now, Lavinia was familiar, almost comfortable, with. It was predictable, and she liked it.

She closed her eyes and debated going back to sleep for a little while longer when there was a soft knock at her door. Surprised, she invited Jenna to come in, which she did with a smile. She was wearing a pretty blue flowing skirt and white sweater. Her wet hair hung loosely around her face and she carried her toothbrush.

"What are you doing today?" Jenna asked.
"Uh... I hadn't really..." stumbled Lavinia in reply.
"Great. Come to church with me," Jenna smiled down at her "I'm giving a talk today."

Lavinia's mind seemed to pause in it's confusion--what had she just been asked? Come where? Looking dumbly at Jenna, she finally managed "I have nothing to wear. I don't even own a skirt." Disappointment clouded her roommate's face, but then she brightened, "Yes, you do! That pretty black skirt you got for work a few weeks ago." Rats. "Oh. Uh. Okay. Yeah. Sure." Lavinia stumbled. Jenna grinned at her and retreated quickly from the room, in case Lavinia changed her mind.

Still confused, Lavinia threw off her covers and rubbed her eyes. She showered quickly, then found the black skirt at the back of her closet and pulled it on with a simple button-up shirt. She kept wondering how she'd gotten into this position, but found that she didn't mind. She would already know some of the people there. She was interested to see what Jenna was "giving a talk" about.

She walked out to the front room and found Jenna standing by the door with her Bible, a magazine, and a notebook under her arm.

"Ready?" she asked.
"Ready."

Go to Chapter 11

Day 134: Lavinia, clarifying

2009-05-03T22:42:00.002-04:00

Just--really quick, and since all of my creative energy was completely tapped into and drained by my children many hours ago, a quick clarification on the current story for those who are confused:

There are two Lavinias.

One Lavinia lives in central England circa 1835.
One Lavinia lives in Los Angeles circa 2009.

Does that help??? (I know, I need to make it more clear in the writing, but I felt like if I just put that out there, while I continue to slaughter this rough draft, it might at least make it bearable.)

Thanks!

Day 133: Lavinia, Chapter 9

2009-04-30T22:54:00.005-04:00

It was a few days later that Charles caught up to her as she was walking down the tree lined streets that led into town. He seemed a little breathless as he fell into step, and smiled down at her with sparkling brown eyes. She didn't allow herself to linger on his gaze, but turned her eyes forward, setting her jaw determinedly, as she greeted him coolly. As the walked, she continued listening to Milena as she babbled in her perfectly nine year old way, trying to act oblivious to the man next to her.

Charles ignored Lavinia's aloof greeting and teased Milena until both of them were laughing, and then told her that if she wanted to run to his uncle's bakery, that she could have a treat of a fresh, warm bun. With a squeal of delight, Milena raced ahead of them, while they continued on in silence.

Lavinia waited for an apology, or an explanation, for his absence three nights before, but Charles seemed content to be silent, lost in his own thoughts. Irritated that she cared what he was thinking, she walked a little faster, but he kept up without even seeming to notice.

"Did you have a good party, the other night?" he finally offered.
"Yes." she practically snapped back.
"I'm sorry that I wasn't there. I had every intention of coming." he said cheerfully.
"Oh well, I'm sure that it must have been something very important. James and I spent hours talking--the time just flew" she lied, glancing sidelong to see his face. This last remark had finally bothered him, she noted with satisfaction. Good.
"Don't you want to know where I was?"
"I hardly see how it's any of my concern, Charles. If you couldn't be there, you couldn't be there. It wasn't as if I invited you." Somewhere in her mind a little alarm went off. She was being unforgivably rude.

He stopped walking and turned to her, and she hesitated next to him. His silence drew her gaze to his face. His eyes, she saw to her surprise, seemed to be brimming with happiness--of something he was anxious to tell her.

"Lavinia, I went to that cottage meeting. With the preachers from the Mormon church. I didn't mean to stay. I only planned to listen for a few minutes, and then leave and join you. But, once I started listening, I was captivated..."
Cutting him off, she began to walk quickly again.
"I don't want to hear about it." she replied, unable to keep the hurt and disappointment out of her voice.
Catching up with her, he reached for her arm, which she snatched away. The sparkle had dimmed and his brown eyes seemed to plead with her to listen, "Lavinia, I..."

"No, Charles. It's no good. No."

She left him standing there in the street, looking after her as she gathered her skirts and hurried away.

Go to Chapter 10

Day 132: Lavinia, Chapter 8

2009-04-29T22:55:00.004-04:00

She opened the door, and there stood Jenna with a quart of ice cream and a huge smile.

"Sure. I was just coming." Lavinia tried to sound casual as she followed her down the hall.

There were several friends, none of whom Lavinia had met before. Jenna waved at them briefly, and said their names, but Lavinia knew she wouldn't remember a single one. She nodded at them and then sought haven in the freezer, pulling out her pistachio ice cream and setting it on the counter next to several others.

One of the guys exclaimed over it, saying it was his favorite kind, but hard to find, as he began dishing himself a large bowlful. Lavinia felt relieved--she had brought the right thing. She studied the different cartons of ice cream so that no one would feel like they needed to talk to her, but Jenna handed her a huge ice cream cone and comfortably introduced her into a conversation she was having with one of her friends.

"Vinia knows a lot about that kind of stuff" she easily transitioned, "She works at a homeless shelter as a social worker. What do you think, Lavinia?"

And suddenly, because it was something she was passionate about, Lavinia lost her shyness and found herself talking and laughing with the small group. They wanted to organize a service for the homeless shelter, but there was some debate about what, exactly, would be helpful and how to go about it. She was in her element.

Eventually, the conversation drifted in other directions--some of them confusing and foreign since they revolved around Jenna's church, which these friends were members of, too. Lavinia worked on her ice cream cone and decided it was about time to head to bed when suddenly, one of the girls, Michelle, maybe, asked Lavinia a question that made no sense to her. Jenna put her hand on Lavinia's arm, laughed lightly, and said "Oh, Vinia doesn't go to our church. She puts up with me, though." Lavinia smiled and made to wash her hands at the sink. From there, she was able to make a quiet exit.

Later, after getting into her pajamas and reading for awhile, she heard Jenna say goodbye to her friends and start cleaning up the kitchen. Lavinia put her book down and walked out to the kitchen. She joined Jenna at the counter, scooping some sprinkles into her hand and tossing them into the trash with a crumpled napkin.

"Jenna...thanks. For inviting me. You didn't have to, but it was nice" she said, with her back turned to her roommate.
"Hey--it was fun to have you. I think you really helped us pick a good service project." Jenna said easily, then--continuing, "I'm sorry about the church stuff. I hope it didn't make you feel uncomfortable."

Lavinia turned to Jenna, who was leaning against the counter looking intently at her. Trying to gauge her reaction, maybe.

"Don't worry about it." was Lavinia's reply.

She put a couple glasses in the dishwasher and walked back to her room to go to bed.

Go to Chapter 9

I'm ba-aaack...

2009-04-29T08:24:00.002-04:00

Hellooooo, everyone. I'm back. You know I had a good trip because a) my back is sunburned and peeling and b) I don't dare step on the scale. A very good trip indeed.

Now. Back to this story...

Which, by the way, I feel like pontificating about for a second. "Lavinia" has created some interesting breakthroughs for me. For one thing, it's the first time that I've been able to see where I wanted the story to go, from the very beginning. I have an end in mind. It's good. I'm excited about it. The tricky part, now, is to figure out how to GET there. I have these two characters that have the same name, in two very different time periods and settings half a world apart. Their stories will move closer and closer together, but for now there's a lot of jumping. I have to remind myself, as I write, that this is a rough draft. One of the chapters I wrote the other day made the modern Lavinia introverted, and I thought "But what if I decide I don't want her to be introverted?" and I had to remind myself that I can always go back and change what I don't like or what doesn't work. There is a lot of detail missing, and things that need to be fleshed out. I guess, what this version is, is a skeleton of the full story. I need to be able to see ahead, clearly, and know the whole pattern before I weave the story together completely.

Your feedback has been so helpful--I can't emphasize that enough. I need to know what's working, and what's not. Know that I'm keep suggestions and comments in mind, even when I don't get to them right away. You all are my sounding board and, on the days when I just.don't.feel.like.writing--my reason to write. Thank you!!!

Now back to the story...

One more thing!

2009-04-20T23:12:00.002-04:00

While I'm gone...

giveaway, girls. Good ones:

Go to Meanest Mom's latest billion commented, everyone wants in, post HERE.

Day 131: Lavinia, Chapter 7 and on vacation

2009-04-20T22:56:00.004-04:00

I'm headed out on vacation until this coming Sunday, and won't be able to post the next chapters in my story until then, but Pleaaaaaaase don't go away. I will certainly be working on my next installment, and I want your feedback!!!!!

Until then, I'll leave you with this...

He never came. She tried, the whole party, to make conversation with James--to be amenable and agreeable to everyone, but she was afraid that her disappointment showed plainly on her face. She just couldn't recover her staggering hopes. She finally sought out William, and he agreed to leave a bit early, much to Ted's frustration as he was deeply engaged in conversation with the lovely Jane Bellweather by the window.

On the quiet ride home, her disappointment turned to annoyance. He had told her that he would come, if he were invited. She'd made a fool of herself, chasing after him. Who was he, anyway? But the thought of his brown eyes turned her annoyance away from him and to another source.

Those Mormon preachers. She was sure that he had missed the party to go to that cottage meeting. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. By the time they pulled up to their gate, she was furious. What kind of people came to a foreign country, just to make trouble and spread lies? She had found them curious, and a bit pathetic. Now, thrusting her chin slightly into the air, she determined that they were more than that--they were base and evil. She loathed them, and determined, from that moment, to ignore them completely, and at any cost.

To be continued on Monday....

Day 130: Lavinia, Chapter 6

2009-04-18T21:59:00.006-04:00

Jenna, it turned out, was going to be a great roommate.

After Lavinia met the missionaries from down the hall, and had learned that her new roommate was a Mormon, she worried that Jenna would be a weirdo who prayed over her constantly.

Instead, Jenna was a dark haired girl with hazel eyes. She worked at a local library, while studying for her degree in library science. She laughed easily, and--best of all--gave Lavinia plenty of space. She was always friendly, and would leave notes on the fridge that said things like "Thanks for doing the dishes. Have a good one." Never any awkward glances on her way out the door, wondering if she should include Lavinia. No forced invitations. Live and let live.

It was the perfect level of roommate commitment for Lavinia. She didn't need a best friend or a pseudo-sister. She just wanted someplace to sleep, read, and think clearly. She felt best when she was able to focus on her casework at a local homeless shelter, comfortable in her professional detachment from the people she worked with every day. A roommate like Jenna was just what she needed.

And, as for being a Mormon, she watched her carefully, trying to figure out the implications of that. She knew that there was never any wine or coffee in the apartment. She never had to worry about her stumbling through the doorway and passing out on the couch, or having men suddenly sleeping over. As far as she could tell, it just meant that Jenna's lifestyle didn't interfere with her own. Maybe, this time, she'd be able to stay in one place a little longer.

Sometimes Lavinia would see the missionaries on their way in or out of the building. They would nod and smile at her, but never said anything.

Unlike Jenna, it began to bother her, just a little, that they never invited her to learn more. Wasn't that their job? From what little she knew, weren't they supposed to be chasing people down? Wasn't she good enough? It annoyed her. She wanted the chance to tell them she wasn't interested, and then remembered, blushing, that she had told them exactly that when they'd come to borrow some sugar. And she wasn't interested.

But, still. Why didn't they ask?

Given their distance, and the space that Jenna always gave her, it surprised her one morning to find a note on the fridge that said "Ice cream tonight? Here. 8:00."

Ice cream? What did that mean? Was it an invitation, or a warning that there would be other people at the apartment? Lavinia didn't know what to make of it. She might have something else to do, at 8:00. She could go see a movie, by herself. There was always something going on, somewhere in this city.

But, deep down, she was surprised to realize that the thought of ice cream and visiting sounded fun. She wished she knew who else was going to be there. She thought about it as she pedaled her mint green bike to the shelter, and again as she pedaled home. She stopped at Ralph's and grabbed a quart of pistachio, her favorite, just in case. When she got home, she shoved it to the back of the freezer, and went to her room.

Her stomach was in knots. She just didn't do well--meeting new people. She corrected that thought, she did fine with meeting new people at work or school. But new people, in her home, made her cringe. She glanced at the clock--there was still enough time to jump on her bike and head to Westwood village for a movie. She could use some air.

Then she heard the door open, and two female voices chattering and rustling plastic bags.

She recognized Jenna's voice, but who was the other one?

Then she heard a third woman's voice. So, three girls. A girl's night in.

A knock at the door, and she froze when she heard some men's voices from the hallway coming in. Not a girl's night, then. A whole party. A lot of people. At least 5, that she could hear. She wanted to panic, but then felt silly. She knew that Jenna wouldn't care if she sauntered past the whole crowd, waved at them, and walked out the door. The part of her that had wanted to join in was growing ever smaller. She just wanted out.

She jumped when there was a light tap at her door, and Jenna's voice "Hey, 'vinia? You want some ice cream?"

Vinia? She had a nickname? No one had ever given her a nickname before. She liked it.

Throwing her shoulders back and plastering a smile on her bewildered face, she opened the door.

Go to Chapter 7

Day 129: Lavinia, Chapter 5

2009-04-18T00:03:00.005-04:00

She spent extra time, that day, on her appearance. She tried to get each curl to set just right. She chose one dress, and then another. It was just a small gathering, mostly family and friends that she'd known her whole life. But, if he came, she wanted to look her very best.

William and his young wife, Beth, would be her chaperones for the evening. She guessed, by the care he'd taken, Ted was also hoping to see a particular someone at the small party, but she said nothing.

They arrived at the house, brilliantly lit in the falling summer night. William and Beth entered, but she held Ted back just a moment to linger a little over the beauty of the evening sky. Her family liked to tease her about her love of nature--they told her to take up her walking stick and follow Wordsworth over the hills, writing poetry. She soaked in a moment of the peace and stillness, before she allowed herself to be led inside, where Ted quickly disentangled himself to go and join a game of cards already in progress.

Lavinia walked once around the room, stopping to chat with her friends, then finally settled herself on a chair at one end of the room facing the door.

Charles was not there, but her cousin Anne had assured her that they had sent over an invitation, as she had requested. She tried to assure herself that he would come.

Within a few minutes, the chair next to her was occupied by a long familiar face with blue eyes: James. Her parents, she knew, would have loved for her to pay more attention to the young man. As he talked now, she observed him. His face was long and thin, with a high nose. He smiled readily, and his blue eyes often sparkled beneath his curly blonde hair.

She had tried to like him. She knew that he favored her. In fact, she wouldn't be suprised if, one day soon, he approached her father. And what would he say? What would she do? He stood to inherit a substantial piece of property, that he was already busy managing. He was a devoted son to his parents, and a wonderful brother to his siblings. He was her friend.

But then why, she wondered, did she wish that his blue eyes were brown?

Go to Chapter 6

Day 128: Lavinia, Chapter 4

2009-04-15T22:22:00.003-04:00

Lavinia groaned inwardly, and almost couldn't help the grimace that surely showed on her face.

Two Mormon sister missionaries. Standing there. Smiling at her.

She had been in the apartment a total of maybe one hour, and they'd found her already? They must have a radar for fresh audiences.

Pulling the door open a bit wider, before they could say anything, she said "Look, guys. I'm new here. I'm really busy. And besides, I'm just not interested."

The two women, probably around her own age, exchanged glances before one sheepishly held up a measuring cup.

"Sorry. We just wondered if we could borrow some sugar. And an egg. We're you're neighbors, just down the hall, and we're making cookies."

Lavinia blushed profusely. "Oh, um. Well--I don't...have any sugar yet. Or eggs."

"Oh. Well, uh--you're roommate? Jenna? She's a member of our church, and she said..." the girl finished lamely.
"Okay. I mean, Jenna isn't home right now. I haven't even met her, but if she said it was alright."

Opening the door, she turned and walked into the generic kitchen and started opening random cupboards. The two girls followed her in and stood silently as she pushed aside boxes of pasta and cans of tuna fish, looking for the sugar. Finding it, she handed one the bag, and then grabbed a carton of eggs from the fridge.

Shoving it at them, she said "Here. You can just return what you don't use."

They thanked her and moved for the door.
"I'll tell Jenna you came by." Lavinia said, in a voice full of forced cheerfulness.
"Great, thanks. It was nice to meet you."

Closing the door behind them and bolting all the locks, Lavinia shook her head.

Somehow, she would've expected Mormon missionaries to be different.

Go to Chapter 5

Day 127: Lavinia, chapter 3

2009-04-14T22:56:00.004-04:00

Lavinia strode distractedly up high street. She tried to look like she wasn't looking for someone, when she was. Holding her younger sister Malina's hand, she hardly heard her protests about wanting to stop and look at ribbons. In her distraction, she walked right past the shop she had come to visit.

Up ahead, she saw a small crowd gathered, and a smile dawned on her young face. Malina was truly protesting now and tugging at her hand. She let her go, and told her to go find Ted at the printer's shop, giving her a playful swat as her sister darted away. Then she turned back to the crowd up ahead.

She smoothed the front of her pale pink gown with her hands, even as she remembered her brother William's taunting remarks about wearing a ballgown just to walk into town. Now, it was worth it.

As she approached, she tried to come at an angle that he couldn't help but see her--even though she could see that he was engaged in conversing with some men at the center of the circle. She saw his deep brown eyes rise for a moment and catch her figure as she approached lightly, smiling quietly. A smile lit his face for just a moment before he returned to his discussion.

Wanting an excuse to talk with him, she stood at the back of the circle to listen and then recoiled as she realized that the men in the center of the circle were preachers--Mormon missionaries. She had heard of them, but never seen any. She was curious, but suddenly nervous. She knew that if her father or brothers saw her, she would have a hard time answering their questions. She glanced over her shoulder and stepped back a pace. Then, she heard his voice--so steady and clear, questioning the men. Her heart picked up it's pace, and she felt a flush of pride. He may be just an apprentice with no father, but he was intelligent and quick. His question was pointed and logical. She knew he would put these liars in their places, and felt far less uncomfortable suddenly.

But his tone was not attacking, simply honest. He had no intention of making fools of them, although she sensed that he easily could've. They announced that they would be preaching that night, at a cottage meeting and invited the listeners to attend. People muttered lowly and turned to walk away.

Not wanting to seem bold, she had started walking slowly back down the street, stopping to admire a new display in a shop when she heard his sure footstep fall easily behind her.

She turned to him, standing close behind her, and smiled. His deep brown eyes smiled back, and he offered to escort her back to her father's printing business. She nodded slightly and they began to walk, side by side.

She commented, politely, on his question to the Mormon ministers, and then complimented him on trying to help them to see the error of their doctrine.

He was silent a moment before replying, "Yes. But their arguments are sound, even if they aren't logical. They speak with conviction. I admire that."

Turning to him slightly, "But, surely, you don't intend to attend their cottage meeting tonight, Charles?"

He was quiet, before proceeding thoughtfully, "I hear much of them--the bad and the good. I wish only to see for myself."

Lavinia realized that her hands were clasped quite tightly into fists as they had walked. She had a small pit in her stomach.

She knew, deep down, what an uphill battle was facing her in regards to Charles William Mann. As far as her family, and their whole community, was concerned--he was a no one. No family connections. His only prospects due entirely to an uncle who had taken him in out of charity, and who owned his whole life until his apprenticeship was finished. Although she loved the sight of his brown eyes and the sound of his deep voice, she knew that there would be no point in hoping, if he chose to mix with this new faith.

Impulsively, she asked if he wasn't planning to attend a small gathering of friends that night at Honeywick, her cousin's home. She blushed, and realized how forward and obvious she was being. He would guess, surely, that she was just trying to keep him away from that cottage meeting. Trying to be in the same place that he was.

He only smiled as they reached her father's print shop and said "If your cousins were to extend the invitation, I could not refuse." He looked down at her for a brief moment, and then turned and strode away.

Go to Chapter 4

Day 126: Lavinia, chapter 2

2009-04-12T22:45:00.005-04:00

Standing with her hands on her hips, Lavinia looked around the tiny bedroom and sighed.

Another apartment. Different roommates. A new job. Everything changing, all over again, but everything staying the same.

She pulled a box to the middle of the floor and opened the top, then began to pull out picture frames, books, a mirror--things that would make the place feel like home. Make it feel the same as any other place she'd ever lived.

From another box she pulled out her blue sheets and stretched them over the twin bed in the corner. On the night stand, she put her eiffel tower lamp and alarm clock. It really was a tiny room, and the bed and nightstand practically filled it.

Moving to the window, she looked out at the view of the back parking lot, a fence, and another apartment building behind. She checked the window to see if it had a lock, and realized that a piece of pvc pipe, cut to fit, was in place to keep it from being slid open. It would be safe enough, she guessed, on the second floor.

Turning again to her room, she knew what this room really needed: something green.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Her roommate, whom she hadn't met yet, wasn't home. She hesitated. It wouldn't be for her. She didn't know a single person in this city. Maybe she should just ignore it and finish unpacking.

It buzzed again, and she moved into the dingy hallway with it's generic white paint and brown door. There was no peep hole, so there was no way to see who was on the other side. She gently pulled back the dead bolt, but leaving the chain lock in place and opened the door a crack.

On the other side, brown eyes smiled down at her.

Go to Chapter 3

Day 125: Lavinia

2009-04-11T22:04:00.005-04:00

Green was all she had ever known. Rising out of cracks and crevices, smoothing lines of stone. Gazing into the tumbling brooks or wide, clear streams--it gazed back at you. Even in winter, it never fully retreated, but instead became a muted backdrop. In summer, it burst forth in profusion, greeting you with it's heavy scent and rustling branches. It was all green.

Lavinia was born on a warm summer day--the first day of July. Wrapped in a cool linen blanket, her grandmother had carried her over to the broad window and held her up to the sun dappled afternoon light. She had studied her tiny, bruised face and stroked the clenched fist. Her mother Hannah, in an exhausted sleep, did not see her stern mother-in-law lift the tiny child to her face and place her cheek against the dark hair, rocking gently.

She was the third child. There was nothing remarkable about being the third. But the first girl. And there was certainly something special in that.

In the next room, her father William tried to quiet 4 year old William and 2 year old Edwin, called Ted. The boys were tired of being cooped up all day. They wanted their mother. Short of that, they wanted their father to swing them up to the ceiling like he normally did, and not constantly shush at them.

Grandmother Jane laid the baby softly in the beautifully carved wooden cradle, her soft smile fading, and then, setting her face, she turned and brushed out of the tiny bedroom.

Chapter 2

Lavinia: By Chapter

2009-04-11T21:00:00.000-04:00

Here is the Lavinia story, to date, by chapter.

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13

Day 124: Fields of Gold, Chapter 32

2009-04-10T20:59:00.005-04:00

It was a magical day. The kind that, I anticipate, will happen only once in my lifetime.

We left the temple in Dave's car--my mom handing me our picnic basket with our lunch, but cautioning me that, since it was warm, we might want to stop at McDonalds in the next small town instead. We laughed about it, and then we did. A husband and wife of two hours, going through the drive through. I ordered a chicken sandwich.

We had a beautiful afternoon, followed by the perfect evening. We had our reception in the backyard of a good friend who had been one of my mentors growing up. She had a stream running through her yard and, when I was only 16, had asked a bunch of us girls to come and help us line it with stones. Three of us came, and she told each of us that we were welcome to have our receptions there--someday.

It was the perfect setting--a stretching back lawn that was a deep velvet green, overlooking fields that highlighted the mountains of my childhood. I remember my younger brother standing at the back fence, stroking a gentle horse that had wandered over. I remember Dave's nieces and nephews running up and down along the stream. The sound of people laughing as the sun sank and the light taking on a golden tint that makes the whole world shimmer.

We had always anticipated a first dance, as a couple, but had never chosen a song. The owner put on the theme song from the old Romeo and Juliet movie, "A Time for Us." We danced. Then Dave danced with his mom, and I danced with my dad. I can't say the word "perfect" too many times in connection with it. It was perfect. But I was growing weary. In the pictures from the reception, you can see me wilting just a bit. I didn't feel so well.

We made our big exit, through rows of friends and family throwing handfuls of rice, and jumped in the car that was draped in tulle. As we pulled out, I caught a glimpse of my brother, Ben's, face. He had huge tears in his eyes.

There is something no one ever warns you about, when they talk about getting married. They don't talk about how things will change with the siblings that you're close to--the ones that you call and talk to. The ones that you have twenty years of inside jokes with. They will always be your siblings, and you may always be close, but marriage does change things. I knew, as I looked at my handsome younger brother, standing there in that perfect evening, that both he and I knew that it would never be just the two of us, laying in a tent, laughing our heads off and reciting movie quotes, ever again. It hit me suddenly, and I started to bawl.

We drove away from the reception, me sobbing, and Dave looking confused. I cried all the way to the bed and breakfast. Dave turned off the car, where he said "Um. I guess we'll sit here until you're done crying." (I'm sure people would not have believed the reason the bride was sitting in the car bawling was because she was missing her brother, but I swear it's true.) I pulled it together. Dave turned to open the door and realized he'd made a tactical error. As we'd jumped in the car, he'd locked the doors.

This was a 1987 Quantum. There were no power locks. And this particular car was missing the knobs that allow you to pull up and unlock the doors.

Here is Dave in his tux. Here is me in my wedding dress. And we are locked in the car. There is only one thing to do: Dave climbed out of the sunroof. (My hero.)

For any newly married couple--there is a lot of "wedding night" anticipation, but does any bride, really, expect that her McDonald's chicken sandwich is going to come back to haunt her with a vengeance?? I sure didn't.

It sure did.

My most vivid memory of that night is being curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor, stroking the blessed cold tile, and paying homage to the porcelain throne. I couldn't believe my luck. All pride, and beauty, went out the window. This was a crash course in marriage if ever there was one, and Dave passed with flying colors. He offered to hold my hair, asked if there was anything he could do, and went downstairs to have his eggs benedict. Alone. On his honeymoon.

The proprietor's wife, noticing his absent bride, inquired politely and sent him back upstairs with some pills filled with cayenne pepper. She swore they would do the trick.

All hail cayenne pepper.

Monday morning we were off for our four day cruise off the coast of California and day at Disneyland--and the rest of our lives.

It was the beginning of our happily ever after, which has included lots of roads and highways across many states. Various trips to different emergency rooms. Most importantly, it has welcomed three new characters. It continues to amaze me. And every once in awhile, I look over at Dave, and he looks over at me and smile, and I know--I'm home.
**
Epilogue
*My beautiful strand of pearls was flushed down the toilet in 2007. May they rest in peace.
*I wear my gold engagement band every March, to celebrate our engage-iversary.
*Dave's wedding gift to me was a beautiful album containing all of our letters and e-mails, his journal entries, and his letters to his parents. Best wedding gift ever.
*The watch lasted until a trip to Africa this year, when it fell and cracked. So much for time. On to eternity. *grin*

Day 123: Fields of Gold, Chapter 31

2009-04-09T20:31:00.003-04:00

There are really no words to describe how I felt that day. There were too many. They were too varied. For some--there are no words.

So I did the only thing I could. I made a video montage.

I love these pictures.

I love the memories of this day.

I love that man that I married. I love that he looks exactly the same today as he did then--while I look...um...not exactly the same.

I hope you enjoy--I'll be back with my final chapter, and a prologue to answer some questions, tomorrow.

Day 122: Fields of Gold, Chapter 30

2009-04-08T20:27:00.003-04:00

As I approached the entrance of the temple, I could see Dave standing and looking down at me. I was so glad he was there. Suddenly, everything felt more real to me.

I had quite the entourage with me, carrying my dress and all the accouterments of bridal paraphernalia. I walked up to Dave and he gave me a nervous hug. Someone snapped a picture. We both laughed. I hugged his mom, who lovingly put her arm around me as we walked in the doors.

Walking into a Latter-day Saint temple is a supremely peaceful experience. They are remarkably quiet places, and each one has their own personality. One of the things that Dave and I both loved about the Manti Temple, and why we had chosen to be married there, was because it feels very warm and welcoming, in a country kind of a way. No one is hurried or rushed. Everyone smiles a lot. They pulled me over to one side and took all my things, placing a small sticker on each item with the number "17" on them. There were 25 weddings in the Manti Temple that day, and we were number 17. (I later found out that in the Salt Lake Temple, there were 96 weddings that day.)

Dave and I were escorted down the wide hall and into a small office where we signed our certificate and answered a few questions, and then we went our separate ways to get ready.

In the Manti Temple there is a special room called the Bride's Room. It is not large, but has been lovingly decorated. There are four small vanities with mirrors and a delicate chandelier. Attached to this room is another small room with a wall entirely lined with mirrors. I entered the bride's room and my mom, sister, and an attendant from the temple helped me to put on my dress and fix my hair just so. There were two other brides in the bride's room--one just married, and one waiting to be married like me. We laughed and congratulated each other.

Once I was all dressed, I remember standing in front of all the mirrors. My mom was on one side and my sister on the other. I think it was the only time, in my life, when I would have completely believed that I was beautiful. Everything that I was feeling inside matched how I appeared outside. I have never been happier.

My attendant reappeared and I went with her to meet Dave. I remember the gentle rustling of my wedding dress as I came into the hall where he sat waiting. He looked nervous and young. I could tell that he was missing his father. He stood up and took my hand, and then dropped it after we'd only walked a few feet. He kept stepping on my dress, standing that close. We laughed a little, and it seemed to ridiculous, at that moment, to be wearing such a thing.

We entered the room where we would be married, called a sealing room, and spoke briefly with the man who would officiate. He gave us an encouraging smile, and then our guests began to enter. They were all perfectly quiet, and they filled the room and even lined the walls. Dave and I were seated on a small love seat, with his mom seated at Dave's left and my mom seated at my right.

The officiator welcomed everyone to our wedding, and then spoke for just a couple minutes. He gave us a few little pieces of advice, which I have always tried to remember: always be honest, use a soft voice, pray together, and respect each other. As he spoke, I kept my mind and eyes focused on him. Dave, meanwhile, was clutching my hand ever tighter--he wanted me to look at him. I knew if I looked at him, I would start to cry, and I didn't want to miss anything important.

I remember everything seemed to be in a haze--I wanted to hurry up and be married. I wanted every minute to last forever. I could see everyone smiling, but also how many were choking back tears because Dave's dad wasn't there. I looked up at Dave, and he looked down at me. We were both crying.

Soon, we arrived at the actual marriage. I listened carefully, trying to make sure that I didn't miss a moment of it. Almost in one breath it seemed, and we were husband and wife. It was then that I fully, intently looked into Dave's eyes. He kissed the bride. Our friends and family grinned and laughed.

Standing together, we exchanged rings. Dave had mine engraved, and it said simply, "You're home."

Day 121: Fields of Gold

2009-04-08T13:46:00.002-04:00

While I'm writing--here is the last picture of Dave and I *before* we got married.... :)

commercial break

2009-04-08T09:21:00.002-04:00

Sorry guys--we've got some wicked strep throat going on over here. I hope to get a post written today, but that all depends on a very delicate balance of penicillin, Nyquil, and sleep.

I'll be back.

Day 120: Fields of Gold, Chapter 29

2009-04-06T18:14:00.006-04:00

There is no way to describe what it is like to open your eyes and realize that it's your wedding day.

That Saturday morning, I woke up to my mom's soft call. My dearest friend, Desaray, was laying next to me. She had stayed the night before, letting me talk. Letting me process. I will be forever grateful to her for the gift of her company that night.

I opened my eyes and could see the early morning sunlight coming through the curtains of my window. I looked at my ceiling fan, covered with tiny glow in the dark stars that I had bought when I was 13 years old. I could feel the weight of the threshold I was crossing--leaving my parent's home for the last time. As I rose and opened my door, I found a small business size card taped to the door. In Dave's handwriting was a tiny note "See you soon!" with a small bride and groom drawn under it. He'd given it to my mom the night before, and asked her to put it there.

I slipped on some flip flops and, in the tradition of Anne of Green Gables, went on my last walk through my childhood neighborhood. Desaray walked next to me, letting me remember out loud. I remember saying to her that I'd always wondered how I would feel on my wedding day, and if I would feel nervous or excited, and expressing surprise at what I felt: ready.

By the time we got home, it was time to kick into high gear. I showered and did my own makeup. Having learned my lesson, my sister Jen did my hair in a simple style--something I might've worn any day, with half of it pulled up and half curled under. She tied it back with a small white ribbon.

The phone rang. It was Dave, calling to say good morning. I grinned as I heard his voice, and commanded the butterflies in my stomach to find their formation. He promised to leave on time, and said that he'd meet me in Manti.

I slipped into a knee length black sheath dress with a black jacket, then hung the strand of pearls he had given me around my neck. We loaded my dress, slip, shoes, bouquet, and--finally--a picnic basket with a lunch for Dave and I into my grandparent's suburban. Time seemed to be going in slow motion, as I climbed into the car with my parents and younger brothers. We pulled away from the home that would never by my home again.

The drive down to Manti, Utah in June is a beautiful one. It weaves through the base of a narrow canyon surrounded by mountains then into a wide, open valley. You can see from one end of this valley to the other end, more than a 45 minute drive from one end to the other. In June, this expanse is a vibrant, living green. Not long after you enter the valley, you can begin to look for the Manti Temple, a tiny dot up on the hill far ahead of you. As you approach, it grows larger and it is truly breathtaking.

Completed in 1888, the Manti Temple looks like a castle on a hill. It is made of cream colored limestone that seems to glow from within. What makes it all the more striking is that it stands in the middle of this wide open space, overlooking mostly ranchland. As we drove, I watched it getting closer and closer. The closer it got, the more awe struck I became. We finally turned in the wide gates.

Looking up, I could see Dave. He was standing at the entrance of the temple, looking down, and waiting for me.

Day 119: Fields of Gold, Chapter 28

2009-04-05T21:44:00.005-04:00

The day before our wedding arrived. There were hundreds of last minute things to take care of, and little moments to savor. I went along with my dad to pick up his tuxedo. I ran with my mom and my sister to the local craft store to buy tulle and rice that was safe for birds so that we could make our grand exit. My florist brought my bouquet, and even though it didn't look at all like what I'd asked for, it was still beautiful:

I ran to the jewelers to pick up Dave's engraved wedding ring, as well as the wedding gift I had chosen for him--a Swiss Army Watch.

The day flew by, and by afternoon my mom turned to me and said "What are you planning to wear?" My mind was a blank. "To what?" Her eyebrows raised a little "To your wedding dinner, Becca. Tonight. In an hour." "Oh. Ummmm..."

Honestly, the thought of what to wear that night hadn't even made it on to my radar. I was about to meet Dave's many, many, many relatives. Aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, nieces, nephews, not to mention his mom. And I hadn't given my outfit two thoughts.

Trying to appear calm and put together, I went to my room and started opening my packed boxes trying to find something that would work. A pink button up shirt that I'd worn for our engagement pictures. Fine. Pants? A skirt? We were having dutch oven--so, casual. But I was the bride. So--dressy? I chose a simple stretch khaki skirt and slip on flat shoes. I pulled my blonde hair back into a simple pony tail and put some lip gloss on. I felt ill prepared. I did not look like The Bride. I hardly looked like a Friend of The Bride. But it was time to go, so I would have to do.

My heart was pounding when we got to the church and I saw all the people that I didn't know, but would soon be related to. My own extended family, although wonderful, subscribe to the "we don't have to show up to show that we love you" philosophy. I was just thrilled to have my own immediate siblings, who took up all of one table, in a room filled with the warmest, nicest, happiest strangers I'd ever seen.

The evening was a blur--my future mother-in-law read a letter from my far away father-in-law who was, at the time, frantically trying to get some missionaries safely out of Liberia in the middle of a hostile government takeover. My dad gave a brilliant toast. Then my future sister-in-law, Nicole, and brother-in-law Mike got up to perform a song. Dave and I didn't have a song, in particular. There had just never been one that stood out. But there was one--a certain version of one--that I hoped would become our song. It spoke of all the things that I hoped for us. Eva Cassidy's version of "Fields of Gold." I had asked Nicole to sing it, without telling Dave what I'd asked for. It was a surprise.

Nicole stood up on the stage, looking as cool and calm as she always does, in a white shirt and blue skirt. Mike sat with his guitar. They began, and Dave reached over and took my hand.

All evening long, my heart had been beating wildly out of nervousness, but as Nicole's flawless voice spilled over me I felt calm. It seemed like our whole future was being laid out for us. I looked into Dave's eyes, and I saw it all there.

After a couple more songs (Dave sang our version of "Forever and Ever, Amen" for everyone), we hugged everyone and said that we would see them tomorrow.

As Dave and I walked out of the church building, I handed him the black Swiss Army box. He opened it, and smiled. I told him it was supposed to symbolize time and all eternity.

It would begin tomorrow.

Day 116: Fields of Gold, Chapter 27

2009-04-04T20:32:00.000-04:00

Wedding week.

Growing up, I think that I envisioned that my wedding week would be filled with flowers and lace and beauty. I imagined standing in front of a mirror in my dress, basking in the anticipation of all that was yet to be. Ha! Little did I know how desperately I would want that week to be over. Never did I imagine stress. I couldn't have imagined tears, anxiety, and more tears. I never dreamed that, two days before my wedding, I would stare at the sparkling diamond engagement ring on my finger and wonder if the man of my dreams was just marrying me because somehow, some way, he had no idea what he was doing.

Ah, what a week.

It had come at last, and I remember sitting in church on my last Sunday as a single girl and wondering if I would really feel any different the next week. It felt odd and surreal, in lots of good ways. Dave and I were both more than done with the engagement phase of our relationship, and ready to begin our happily ever aftering. If only we could get through the next five days.

My future mother in law was flying in from Africa, and the party really couldn't begin until she arrived. In the meantime, I was all kinds of nervous. I had met her before, of course, and really liked both her and my future father in law, but I hadn't seen either of them since I'd gotten home from my mission. I hoped that she would still like me, now that I was going to be her daughter in law. I hoped I wouldn't say the wrong thing or spill anything on her nice carpet. I wondered, deep down, if I was what she had imagined for her tall, handsome son.

All of Dave's siblings were arriving, with their children, as well as my older siblings--from Colorado and Massachusetts. Everyone was going to be there, all together, for the first time in years. I couldn't believe it was all for me--for my wedding.

Two days before, I was in my bedroom packing up my childhood. There were piles of clothing to give away. Boxes of yearbooks and posters and pictures. I didn't know what to do with half of it. My oldest niece Grace, who was two at the time, appeared at the doorway with some tulle in her hands. She pulled me down into a kneeling position and proceeded to drape the tulle over my head like a veil. She tugged and arranged until it was just so, then--stepping back--clapped her little hands and said "Now my Becca married."

All the butterflies in my stomach seemed to find their formation at that moment. I was stressed. Dave was stressed. But everything was going to be alright. The next night would be our wedding dinner, and then on Saturday we would be married and everything would be perfect.

I just had to hold my breath until then.

Day 117: Fields of Gold, Chapter 26

2009-04-03T21:39:00.006-04:00

One of the great blessings of my life is that I have a sister, and that sister is a beautician. Some of my early memories include her pulling my (always) too short hair into a tight french braid and putting flowers into it. She was, and is, a miracle worker.

It was time for me to have my bridal portraits taken, and I told her my vision--Gibson Girl. A loose upsweep do, a la Anne of Avonlea:

She caught my vision. The night before, she worked painstakingly to turn my drab, mousy brown hair into beautiful golden and honey strands. It took hours and hours and hours for her to carefully color and foil the strands so that they would look just right. By the time she was done, in the wee hours of the morning, I didn't even care what color it was. I just wanted to go to bed.

The next morning, however, I did care. It was blonde. Very, very, very blonde. I wasn't sure about it--I either loved it, or hated it, but couldn't quite tell which. She assured me that I loved it.

That afternoon, I poised myself in front of her as she used an army of bobby pins and hair product to pull my hair into a gibson girl updo. Mission accomplished, we piled me, my dress, the slip, and some flowers in the car and headed up to the park where we'd agreed to meet my photographer. On the way, we stopped so I could say hi to Dave.

He was waiting for me as I got out of the car and approached him. I could see it in his eyes, which were strained ever so slightly at the corners. I smiled at him as he gave me a hug and I said "You hate it." "No, no..." he stuttered "..Um... Are you going to leave it like that?" (When, I wondered, would I remember that he was incapable of lying about anything, and not to ask him things unless I really want to know the answer???) "Um. Yes." was my reply. "Well--have fun!" he cheered for me.

Feeling anything but a radiant bride, I shlumped back to the car and we drove to the park, There in the parking lot, I squeazed into my size 6 wedding gown. It *almost* fit. You could get it done up. You just couldn't breathe. Or look too closely at the seams. But it would have to do. My photographer took shots of me sitting, standing, with my veil and without. I grinned, twisted my head, and contorted my back trying to get into the perfect positions. I suddenly pitied models.

After the photoshoot, my parents and sister dropped me off at Dave's so we could go see a movie together. Driving to the theater, I began pulling bobby pin after bobby pin out of my hair and it slowly came loose, falling in little waves down to my shoulders.

Looking over at me and smiling he said, "Hey--I like the color." And I knew he really did.

He was so perfect for me.

Day 116: Two entries in one day! Fields of Gold, Chapter 25

2009-04-01T12:42:00.002-04:00

There is another important test that engaged couples should go through, and it is called Ski for Free Day in Park City.

Dave grew up on the west coast, and had to drive several hours to get to the nearest ski resort, but it was something he grew up doing. He knew how to ski, and he liked it. I, on the other hand, grew up within a couple hours of many world-class ski resorts, and had never put one foot on a slope in the winter time. My only experience with skiing was in a backyard, 10 years old, my dad standing over me in utter frustration saying "Just stand UP!" as my skis and the boots attached to them began to go downhill without me. It was not the most positive father-daughter experience and, thankfully, my dad gave up after that.

But now I was an engaged woman and the thought of "hitting the slopes" with my fiance seemed romantic and appealing. So, we rented equipment, I put on my best cute "snow bunny" outfit, and we headed to Park City with my younger brother and his date.

It all started out alright. I mean, the boots fit, and my little snow hat with tassels was super cute. But that's about where the fun ended. To say that I am not athletic is like saying that water is wet--it is just a fact of nature and there is no changing it. I don't run, throw, or catch. I certainly don't make friends with an icy slope at any sort of speed.

We're on the bunny hill. Three year olds, with their bodies tucked down for maximum aerodynamics, are flying past me. I am trying to perfect "the pizza" formation of my skis. They keep going different directions, and the formation they like the best is called "x." I am going so slowly, the snow is probably going to melt before I get to the bottom of the hill. Dave is being patient--slowly going through the motions with me, giving me pointers. I fall and can't get back up. I slide over to the fence, and pull myself up. We try again. More patience. More pointers. I fall again. Dave is just down the hill from me. He's looking at me. I try to get up. The skis slide. I try again. The skis slide. "Just get UP!" I hear him say. I give him a look as I reach toward my boot. "Don't you DARE take off that ski." Click. I glare at him triumphantly, taking off my skis and standing up proudly. He gives me a look, and, without a word, skis down the hill while I reattach the boots to the skis from a vertical position.

The evening is long. It is cold. Dave is as patient as he could be under the circumstance of trying to teach the most uncoordinated, scaredy-cat woman on the planet how to ski. It's a good thing this date was free, or there might have been serious consequences. We decide to do one small run. We get on the ski lift. I realize, as it starts ascending, that I'm going to have to get OFF this thing with skis on my feet. I feel kind of nauseous. Dave is prepping me. He is assuring. He is trying to pretend to be confident that I'm not going to utterly wipe out.

He slides off easily and, mustering any and all confidence I had left after such a date, I remembered the wise "Fake it til you make it" mantra and propelled myself off the seat. To my astonishment,I skied smoothly down the slight slope, stopping perfectly in front of Dave. He was impressed. I was relieved. Now we just needed to get down the rest of the hill.

That night we decided two things: Dave would be the one to teach our future kids to ski, and my purpose at ski resorts is to wear a sweater, look charming, and drink hot chocolate in the lodge.

Day 116: Fields of Gold, Chapter 24

2009-04-01T09:09:00.004-04:00

Being engaged is fun for approximately two weeks. You have people to tell. Everyone wants to see the ring. Which, by the way, if you happen to be wearing a thin gold band and not a diamond, people kind of raise their eyebrows at you and smile cautiously. They're trying to figure out if you're:

Making a political statement about the unethical nature of diamonds.
Poor and practical.
Marrying a cheapskate and hating it.

The exception to that being people of a certain generation who were just happy to see frugality and restraint being practiced by anyone in my generation.

You should know that I adore weddings. Adore. I'm the kind of person who buys wedding magazines for fun, and loves to browse the latest trends on The Knot. I started planning my wedding when I was 9 years old, which--being 1989--I envisioned my colors being mauve and dusty blue and a sequin bedecked dress with ginormous puffed sleeves. I just knew that planning a wedding with the man of my dreams was going to result in the most beautiful, perfect wedding ever.

I decided to do everything differently than I'd done it for my first engagement. No periwinkle for me. No Salt Lake Temple. No wedding luncheon at the Joseph Smith Memorial Building. Nope. Everyone was doing periwinkle or lavender, so I chose a Martha Stewart Weddings trend of apricot orange and pear green. We chose the Manti Temple to get married in, since we had shared memories there and we both loved it. Our wedding luncheon would be the night before our wedding, rather than the day of, and the reception would be outdoors. It was going to be the perfect blend of casual and classy, trendy and traditional.

But something else was different than planning my first engagement. Not just that the photographer I'd always dreamed of hiring had moved to Dallas, or that I was having a hard time choosing centerpieces. The thing that had changed, was me. I no longer cared as much about bridesmaid outfits or the perfect bouquet. What I did care about was planning our marriage, even more than our wedding. I went to our university bookstore, marched upstairs, and bought a whole armful of books that were required for a marriage course. I got the his and hers workbooks to go with Saving Your Marriage Before It Starts, as well as brand new copies of First Comes Love, His Needs, Her Needs, and Love for a Lifetime.

Well armed, without really giving him a choice, I began to throw these books at Dave and tell him that we needed to get studying like our lives depended on it. Because they did. And, really, this is a great litmus test for an engagement--any man worth his salt will care enough about his fiance, if not about actually studying the books, to get his hands dirty and jump in. These books are not for the weak--they require revealing weaknesses, discussing expectations, and brutal honesty. We went through our workbooks separately and alone, working through the things that came up where we differed. This resulted in some painful dead-end conversations, as we called them, and there were things we skirted around (finances), but--as our engagement wore on, Dave and I were confirming that we looked at the world the same way. We not only got to know each other better, we got to wrestle with the every day-ness of marriage and began to establish the foundation for our marriage style. I am so grateful to say, now, that planning our marriage was more important to me than planning our wedding. I think I had my priorities in the right place.

Although, looking back, if I could've known that "apricot orange and pear green" were going to devolve into a very 1980's "peach and sage green" I might've spent just a little more time rethinking that decision.

Day 115: Takin' the night off...

2009-03-31T22:09:00.004-04:00

Hi everyone--thanks for checking in! I'm taking the night off from writing to let the last part of the story simmer. I think I know how I want to write it, but I need to spend some time mulling it over. :)

Thank you for reading. Seriously. You have no idea.

I'll be back tomorrow.

Becca

Day 114: Fields of Gold, Chapter 23

2009-03-30T20:23:00.003-04:00

I don't know why I was so surprised. I don't know how I didn't see it coming, but I truly didn't. I think there were two major reasons why. First, I was wearing overalls, and a girl just doesn't get engaged while she's wearing overalls. Second, since we were both sitting on the ground, Dave had to kneel up on both knees, rather than get down on one knee. It threw me off.

"Will you be my wife?"
I felt like I was falling and flying at the same time. I don't think I could've remembered my own name if you'd asked me. But I was suddenly aware that I was repeating "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!!"
Grinning, he opened the box to reveal a thin gold wedding band, and explained that he hadn't wanted to wait for me to choose a ring. He wanted to propose. We could get a fancier ring later. He slid it on to my finger, and I don't think any 1 carat diamond has ever been more beautiful than that simple ring was to me that night.

Jumping up, he said that he had more surprises and that he would be right back.

While he was gone, I stood up and leaned against the railing and looked up into the still night sky. And I started to cry. Surely tears of happiness, but also tears of amazement. The unthinkable had happened, after all that time. I whispered, to myself, "I'm getting married..." and then uttered the shortest, simplest prayer of thanks.
Dave came back out with a bottle of sparkling cider and a dozen deep cream roses. Trailing behind him were Mike and Sarah and a camera. To this day, the picture that they took is one of my favorite of Dave and I. We are grinning like idiots, in the best possible way.

After they took our picture, Sarah said "Can I hug you now? We're going to be sisters!" That comment, that welcome, just completed the evening for me. I could not have been any happier.

The only thing left to do was drive over to my parent's house, even though it was almost midnight, to show my mom the ring.

Day 113: Fields of Gold, Chapter 22

2009-03-29T21:33:00.004-04:00

The month of February was, for the first time in my life, flying by. We had started to look at rings and kick around possible wedding dates in May and June. I met, for the first time, another one of Dave's sisters--Cyndi. She was enchanting in every way, and I was delighted to find another kindred spirit in this family. I almost couldn't believe how blessed I was at the thought of joining a family like this one.

I grew up in an absolutely fabulous home, with parents who did many things right. They had provided me with opportunities to learn, work, and serve. They had been unfailingly loving and supportive. To have been born to such a family is a rare and precious thing. To be able to marry into a family that is equally loving and accepting was nearly beyond my comprehension.

One night in the second week of March, I walked down the hill from school. I was wearing a long sleeved pink shirt and white overalls, and was in a great mood. I had been at my oil painting class, and Dave was spending the evening at a religion class. I didn't expect to see him, but hoped that he would call. I had just walked into my room when the phone rang--too early for it to be Dave. To my surprise, it was. He asked if I wanted to go hang out with Mike and Sarah that night. He was going to bring his guitar, so he and Mike could play. It wasn't like him to skip class, but--sure--I was always up for a date and some time with Dave's family.

He came by a few minutes later, and seemed a little edgy. I tried to bring up the issue of possible dates again, but he didn't really want to talk about it. I tried to figure out what his deal was, but couldn't put my finger on it. When we got to his parent's home, where Mike and Sarah were living while his parents were out of the country, he pulled his black guitar case out of the trunk and we went inside.

Sarah was there, watching the news of Elizabeth Smart being found. We talked about that for awhile, and then Dave asked me if I wanted to go out on to the balcony with him. It was a cool night, with a brilliant moon. Everything was peaceful and still, and--as soon as we were outside, all the edginess melted away. This was a place we had always loved. It was perfect for watching sunsets, or looking at the stars. Dave grabbed a couple of fleece blankets, and we sat down to enjoy the early spring night.

He told me he had a surprise for me, and opened a pocket on his guitar case. Surprised, I held out my hand, and he placed in it...

a Lindt dark chocolate bar.

I was thrilled. (Home from Switzerland mere months and still going through withdrawls.) I was so happy that he laughed and said "If I knew you were that easy to please... but that isn't your only suprise." Reaching into the pocket again, he pulled out two things: a picture frame and a small notebook. He told me that he had something he wanted to read to me--a journal entry from his time in Jerusalem, about a time when he had wondered if he would ever find the love of his life, and felt assured that he would find her, and she would be everything he had always wanted. The experience had been striking enough that he took a picture of the place he was sitting as he had written the journal entry.

He handed me the picture frame, which included that picture and, under it, the words "Everything I've always wanted."

I was so touched at how sweet Dave was, and--to be totally honest--kind of overwhelmed. I wondered if I really could be everything he'd always wanted. I wasn't even totally sure what that "everything" was. I was a little afraid.

As I considered those feelings for the first time, he pulled out his guitar and started strumming the familiar chords to "Forever and Ever, Amen." Only, as he started to sing, I realized that he had changed the lyrics to fit us. They were funny and delightful and romantic.

I wondered if this man was for real.

What a great date! What a fun night. Not bad, since I hadn't even been expecting to see him. I was tired and content. He laid his guitar down, and we talked a bit, then he knelt over to give me a kiss. As he kissed me, he slid something into my hand.

It was cool to the touch, smooth, and square. Looking down--I saw a rosewood ring box.

He leaned back on his heels, looked into my eyes, and said "Will you be my wife?"

Day 112: Fields of Gold, Chapter 21

2009-03-28T22:04:00.003-04:00

So we were "chilling." Not ring shopping or wedding planning or choosing a date.

Yeah, right.

If I know anything about myself, it's that I'm not the most patient person. Besides, having been engaged once before, and that engagement being BEFORE 18 months in Switzerland with it's chocolate, I had a size 6 wedding dress to fit into. I needed a timeline. Dave, however, was still chilling and getting used to the idea. So I'd just have to learn some patience and wait for him to actually propose.

In the meantime, I was looking forward to my first ever Valentine's Day as someone's girlfriend. (Well, except 6th grade when I was going out with a kid named Brock. Talk about a disappointment--he didn't even give me a box of conversation hearts.) That year, Valentines fell on the weekend, and it happened to be the same weekend as Preference--a girl's choice dance.

All anticipation and excitement, I taped tons of Jolly Ranchers to Dave's door with a note that said I'd be a jolly rancher if he'd go with me. (The cheesiness was half the fun.) His reply? A bouquet of tiny, bright pink tea roses left on my doorstep with a heart that said "YES."

I have never had so much fun choosing a dress for a dance than I did that one. A friend of mine had a whole bunch of beautiful formals, and I borrowed them all and decided to wear her deep brown satin gown with a beautiful sweetheart neckline and a skirt that rustled. I searched until I found perfectly matching brown ballet flats and a sheer shawl to go over the top. That day, I did my hair all in curls and pulled my hair back, weaving a ribbon through it, then decided on a simple floating pearl necklace for jewelry. I had never been so excited for Valentine's Day.

He came to my apartment, right on time, wearing a black suit and carrying a bouquet of flowers--all red, with one yellow for friendship. Then he instructed me to turn around and close my eyes. He removed the light necklace from around my neck, and then I felt a new necklace take it's place. A cool, heavy weight that rested perfectly. Reaching up to touch it, my eyes fluttered open and I looked down to see the most exquisite pearl necklace--a real one.

Besides my chai necklace, this was the first piece of jewelry Dave had ever given me. Before an engagement ring. Before a wedding ring. A simple, heavy strand of pearls. Suddenly, I felt so perfectly like Anne of Green Gables, getting ready to be all grown up, with my strand of pearls. I wanted to throw my arms around Dave and tell him how much they meant to me--how much the fact that he had gotten them, for me, for Valentine's Day, meant to me. But I couldn't really say anything. I just gazed up at him and smiled.

He took my hand and walked me over to the couch. Reaching behind to grab my roommate's guitar, he started to pluck the strings, and then began to sing. An old, familiar country song. It surprised me, really, since it was the kind of song that I would've expected to come from my grandpa, or my father. I hadn't expected something as old fashioned and lilting as this, even if it did make me feel completely secure. Completely at home...

I'm gonna love you forever.
Forever and ever, amen.
As long as old men, sit and talk about the weather,
As long as old women, sit and talk about old men.
If you wonder how long I'll be faithful,
I'll be happy to tell you again--
I'm gonna love you, forever and ever,
forever and ever, amen.

Popular.

2009-03-28T13:54:00.003-04:00

My friend Christina, who keeps a fun blog herself, was sweet enough to give me this:

My first ever "award" given by a fellow blogger! If that's not the nicest thing anyone's ever given me, I don't know what is. And since I'm a sucker for recognition of any kind, I'll probably have it framed and put on my wall. *grin*

The award came with some rules, though, and they are these:

Rules, rules, rules... list 7 things that you love, and then pass the award on to 7 bloggers that you love! Be sure to tag them and let them know they have won. You can copy the picture of the award and paste it on your sideboard letting the whole world know...you are Kreativ!!

7 things I love?

1. Pioneer Woman's Prune Cake. (DANG.)
2. "Sunshine on my shoulders, makes me happy"
3. Southern bluebird (they are rare and, oh, so beautiful)
4. Getting comments on my blog (I am so pathetically addicted to them. You have no idea.)
5. My Wednesday nights OFF. (Ah, the joy of the $1.00 theater...)
6. Something to look forward to. (Currently, a cruise next month with my own little family and my parents.)
7. Old stuff. (Cemeteries, books, cities, and on and on and on.)

Now. I get to pick 7 people to award?? Goody. I choose:

The lovely Tess. (Practically perfect in every way. I adore her.)
The invincible Michelle. (Seriously--check out her vinyl.)
The inspiring Stephanie. (I want to be her when I grow up.)
The beautiful Erin. (One of those people who is so lovely and talented, you think, "Are you REAL???")
The incredible Emily. (Seriously the nicest woman on the planet.)
The brave Sarah. (Brave because she's going to beauty school. Oh my lands.)
And my sistah, Jen. (I don't know how I got so lucky to have her. Truly.)

Happy award, guys. Loving you and your blogs!!!

Day 111: Fields of Gold, Chapter 20

2009-03-27T22:18:00.003-04:00

Did you know that it's possible to walk, without ever touching the ground? It is. I know, because I positively floated up the stairs, into my apartment, and into my bedroom where I flopped on to my bed and whispered "He loves me." to the darkness and my sleeping roommate.

He's in love with me. He loves me. He's in love with me.

Meanwhile, he walked back down the stairs, across the grass, and did a somersault.

He loves me.

I slept restlessly and kept waking up. I wanted it to be tomorrow. I wanted it to be tomorrow, and the day after that and the day after that. I wanted to call him in the middle of the night and hear him say it again. I wanted him to repeat those words over and over and over, "I am in love with you."

I also learned that not only is it possible to walk without ever touching the ground, it's possible to feel beautiful every second of every day because the man of your dreams is in love with you. It's possible to smile first thing on a Saturday morning when you have to get up for work at 6:00 because of that. It's possible that flossing your teeth becomes fun because you're thinking of him.

I thought I had known love before, but this?! This was awesome.

The next night, Saturday night, we drove out to his parent's home to watch a movie I'd never seen. Shanghai Noon, actually. He told me it was hilarious. I don't remember a darn thing about it. I do remember, when it was over--we started to talk. And we really talked. We talked about our past--we talked about meeting on June 19th, 1999. We talked about the places we'd been since then, and the people we'd become. We talked about the two paths we'd been walking, which had been leading--ever so steadily--to this point. All this talk of our past led so very easily into our future. We didn't want different paths anymore. We wanted the same thing. So we decided that we were going to get married.

Thursday night he figured out he was crazy for me.
Friday night he realized that he was in love with me.
Saturday we decided that we were going to get married.

At this rate, we'd be married by Wednesday.

We left his parent's house and got in the car to drive home. It was pouring rain. As we drove, holding hands, neither of us quite knew what to say. It was going, and had gotten there, so fast, we didn't know what to do. So I asked him.

Me: "What do we do now?"
Dave: "Now? We chill."
Me: "We chill?"
Dave: "Yes. We don't go looking for rings. We don't set a date. We just get used to the idea. We chill."

I could do that. I could chill.

For maybe a week.

Day 110: Fields of Gold, Chapter 19

2009-03-26T21:10:00.003-04:00

I floated on a cloud that entire day, trying to wrap my mind around the note I'd found that morning. We'd only been dating three weeks. It seemed too soon. Too fast. And while I was unequivocally crazy for Dave, it took my breath away that things could really be changing this quickly, after so much time.

That night we drove 45 minutes up to his boss' house for a work party, followed by a movie. We entered the beautiful home, taking in details and drifting among his coworkers and their families. It was the first night I remember feeling, distinctly, like a couple in front of the whole world. Even when Dave was across the room, talking to other people, I was physically aware of where he was. I would raise my eyes from a game I was playing because I could feel his gaze from another table. It was effortless and easy, as simple as breathing, to fit my hand into his or rest my head on his arm as he leaned over to kiss the top of my head, without thinking.

I had always thought that being in love meant work--you worked at love because you loved that person. At least that had been the belief that prevailed in my first engagement. But this? This required no work at all. This was like coming home.

After the movie, we drove back to my apartment. We sat for a few minutes in his car, talking quietly, but also just being silent. Just being together. He leaned over to kiss me (which still made my hands tremble) and then, pulling away slightly and resting his forehead on mine, he said quietly, "I am in love with you." To which I could only whisper, "And I am so in love with you."

Effortless.

Day 109: Chapter 18

2009-03-24T22:31:00.003-04:00

We drove home from the park, and I was blissfully smiling to myself the whole time. As we pulled up to my apartment Dave said "So, we're dating." "Yes." "Okay."

But, we were DATING, with all that the word implies. This time was for keeps, and there was no going back. One way or the other, we couldn't go back to being just friends ever again. I could hardly believe it, and sometimes expected that I would wake up and find myself laying in bed in Switzerland.

But it wasn't a dream--we really were dating. And this guy--this best friend that I'd known for three years? He was turning out to be even more amazing than I could've imagined. He would stop by my work to say good morning, and send me little notes via e-mail while I worked on school assignments. We met up, every Tuesday, to walk to devotional together. While I would be sitting there, with one foot crossed up on my knee to take notes, he would reach over with a Bic pen and draw a little heart on my ankle. There were a million little things that made dating Dave different from just being friends with Dave, and I savored every single second.

Dave was also, in every way, a gentleman. He walked me home, or called to make sure I'd gotten there safely. We kept curfew. We went on group dates--the most memorable being "sock puppet" night with his roommates. We were rarely alone. Compared to my only other serious relationship, this was pure, unmitigated bliss. The sound of his deep voice on the phone would pitch me backwards on to couch grinning. The sight of his 6'4" self walking through the bookstore to come see me at work made me forget how to form sentences. I have never been more utterly content.

I was also loving more time with his family--dinner up at his sister Carolynn's beautiful home, or hiking with Mike, Sarah, and Nicole. His parents were serving a mission out of the country, and his siblings were keeping a close eye on their brother, even from a distance.

One Thusday night in January, we went up to campus to see their production of "Crazy for You." Afterward, we walked down the hill toward my apartment and ended up on the brick walkway next to a stream. All by ourselves, we alternated between talking and dancing to a made up song that Dave sang. I could've stayed there under the stars all night.

The next morning, when I went to leave for work, I found a sign on my front door. It was his handwriting, with a paper moon, that said "Crazy for You."

This was significant.

When Dave had been dating the Russian girl, one of their big deal breakers had been this simple truth: he was not crazy for her. (His words.) He and I had talked about that, and I knew everything that the note implied.

The fact that he had acted on the impulse to make the note and come back to my apartment, after getting home very late anyway, made my heart beat fast. Was it possible? Could it really be? Was he beginning to be, at least a little, crazy for me?

Day 108: Fields of Gold, Chapter 107

2009-03-23T20:51:00.004-04:00

Pardon me while I ramble a moment.

Some of you have asked me what Dave has thought about the stuff I'm writing. It has been fun for me to meander through my memories, picking and choosing the ones I want to share. I've referenced back to journals I kept at the time in an attempt to remember how I felt about everything as it was happening. When I finish, I drag Dave over to my computer and make him read the latest entry. He reads it, and then he gets this look. This look says "That's not quite how I remember it."

I then tell him to get his own blog.

Really, though, to be fair--he didn't much like where I left off last night. Because he says that he and his roommate invited that girl *together* even if he was the one that called her. He also still doesn't understand how I thought that he was asking me on a date. ("Hm. Maybe because you asked me if I wanted to spend New Years Eve with you while we were cuddling. But I can see how that might be confusing to you." is what I think.) Anyway, for the record, he didn't think that he was asking her on a date. He also didn't think he was asking me on a date.

Are we clear? Okay, good. Carry on.

**
New Year's Eve was great fun, although I was confused by the addition of another girl to our double date. Was she the fifth wheel? Or was I? I figured I had prior claim and decided not to worry about it. (Let Dave worry about it--he'd invited her, right?)

Shortly after New Years, I moved into my new apartment at BYU and started school. My schedule was rigorous: oil painting, ballet, stained glass, German, and religion. I didn't know if I would be able to handle the mental strain of that course load, but I decided to give it a try. I'd also gotten a great new job working at the campus bookstore in their art framing department, which I was working to learn and loving. I was in a good place, and in a perpetually great mood.

One day, after work and between classes, I was browsing cards at the bookstore and I came across a card that said "Good friends, like good meat pies, are hard to find." And on the inside it said "Hello, my little meat pie." It cracked me up, and suddenly I just wanted to share it with Dave. I wanted him to stop stressing about dating me or not dating me, and just be my friend. So I bought it, with some candy, and dropped it off at his work on campus.

The next day, a Tuesday, he asked me to come over to his apartment to try out the new blender he'd gotten for Christmas from his oldest brother Gary and his wife Melissa. We were going to make smoothies. I put on my periwinkle coat and walked to his apartment where we spent the night eating and chatting. It was a great night. He offered to walk me home.

It was a crystal clear night, and very cold. We were close to my apartment when I asked, jokingly, what he'd been thinking about lately. He said quietly, "You mean besides you?" That response took me by surprise, and I didn't quite take him seriously. Suddenly, he reached out and took my hand, sending shivers up my arm, and pulled me across the street to a small park.

He told me that he'd been thinking about me and about dating until he was tired of thinking about me and dating. When I had showed up at his work with that card and that candy, it had just stressed him out even more. He told me that he'd decided that he didn't want to date me, but then talked to a church leader who kind of said "What have you got to lose?"

My stomach was tied in knots. I couldn't tell which way this conversation was going. He was holding my hand, so that was good--right? But then he was telling me about the turmoil in his heart, and I felt like I was pushing too hard or twisting his arm somehow. We walked around the park, re-crossed the street, and ended up on the metal and concrete stairs outside my apartment. We tried to tie up the loose ends, but we couldn't--we left them open.

I walked into my quiet, dark apartment, leaned my back against the door, and slid to the ground. Throwing my arms around my knees, I buried my head and sobbed. I just didn't know how to think or feel. I had no idea why I was in love with a guy without even trying to love him, when it seemed so obvious that he just didn't feel the same way about me.
**

Friday night, he took me to see a John Schmidt concert at the Provo Tabernacle. After it was over, we drove to a nearby park. It was dark and cold, but--even though it was January--there was no snow on the ground. We got out of the car and played on the playground equipment for awhile when, suddenly, I tapped his arm and said "Tag! You're it!" I took off running across the park, dodging through huge trees in the light of the full moon. When I was nearly all the way across the park, I stopped to catch my breath and turned.

Dave was walking slowly toward me through the trees. The brilliant moonlight was met with a silver fog rising up from the ground. His eyes were focused intently on my face. Until the day that I die, I will never forget that moment in my mind. My heart started to race. I walked slowly up to meet him, laughing breathlessly.

He wrapped his arms around me. I said, "My heart is pounding" then, laying my head on his chest I said, "Your heart is pounding, too."

Looking up at his face, he looked down at me and softly said, "But I don't think it's for the same reason."

I had three years to imagine my perfect first kiss. I had envisioned them in every season. But, for me at least, none of my imaginings even came close to being quite as perfect as that one in a cold park on a January night.

We kissed. Then we laughed, and we hugged, and he said "That was a long time coming."

We both had lost time to make up for.

Day 107: Fields of Gold, Chapter 16

2009-03-22T22:42:00.002-04:00

So where did this leave us? Were we thinking about dating, or were we dating? I had no idea.

The next afternoon, the phone rang. I answered and heard Dave's deep voice on the other end, "Hi," he said. I could hear the smile in his voice, as well as a slight nervousness I'd never heard before. I grinned. "You want to try dating?" he teased "Alright. Will you go on a date with me this Friday?" I certainly would.

We went on our first real date in almost 3 years. I had forgotten so much about those few weeks when we'd dated the first time, but I found it all coming back in waves. How he liked for me to reach over and unlock his car door after I got in the car first. How we each had a side of the sky, and how I teased him that the stars were better on my side. The topics of conversation we liked to dwell on, and the views that we both savored. It was so easy and utterly uncomplicated. One night, as we sat with our arms wrapped around each other, he said "Why does this feel so normal?" I replied "Because it's right." At least, for me it was.

We spent time together and went on dates, but I could tell that Dave was still conflicted and uncommitted. I signed a contract on an apartment in Provo, only a few blocks from his apartment. I decided that if we were ever going to really date, there needed to be no more than a short walk involved. I wondered what was holding him back. I wondered what in the world his was thinking, most of the time. It was so much easier for me, since I could see so clearly where I wanted us to be--what I really thought we could be. I could tell he wasn't sure.

I could tell because, three years later, and the man had still never kissed me. I won't go into what that will do to a girl's self esteem. I knew him well enough by now to know that he wasn't going to do anything that implied he felt more than he did. He is true to himself, as well as honest with others. And unlike my impatient 19 year old self who just wanted a kiss before he left for Jerusalem, I found myself somewhat more content to wait. I knew that when, and if, he ever did kiss me--he would mean it.

But, then again, New Year's Eve was coming. New Year's Eve 2002-2003. I knew that things would change this year. They would go one way or the other, for better or for worse. I almost didn't want to know what he would choose. My choice was made.

He asked me what I was doing for New Years and we planned to go to First Night, this time in Provo. I didn't know, when he asked me if I wanted to spend New Year's Eve with him, that he would be inviting another girl along, too.

Day 106: Fields of Gold, Chapter 15

2009-03-21T20:26:00.004-04:00

"Actually, Dave, neither do I."

Cue momentary awkward silence.

"What I mean is," I fumbled "I've never understood why you didn't want to marry your best friend."

(My mind is racing. Oops. I think I said too much.)

But we begin to talk.

I wish, sometimes, that I had a recording of that conversation. It was the most important conversation of my life. I know that I was bold. I know that he looked bewildered and confused. I wish that I remembered, better, what he said. I tried to practice some patience, and not to let all the things I'd been wanting to say for 18 months--no, more like 3 years, come tumbling out. But there was just so much that I wanted to say, and I knew, deep down, that I would never be at peace unless I knew that he knew how I really felt. So I told him.

That he was my best friend.
That I loved how comfortable we were together, and how happy he made me.
That I liked so many things about him.
That I was different than the 19 year old girl he had met at e.f.y. years before--that I had grown up and gotten better, in so many ways.
That I thought we should give dating a chance.

It was a long talk. What was apparent to both of us was that, eventually, one of us would get married and our friendship would have to end, and neither of us liked that idea. Neither of us wanted this best friend thing to be over.

He said he would think about it.

**
I walked inside my parents home around 11:00 that night. My mom was sitting in a chair in front of the computer playing spider solitaire. I guess she was waiting for me to come home. I walked in, leaned against the wall, sighed, and said "I'm not sure what that was. I don't even know how to explain what that was. But whatever it was? It was big."

She just looked up at me and grinned.

Day 105: Fields of Gold, Chapter 14

2009-03-20T21:36:00.002-04:00

I'd been home for three short weeks. Thanksgiving had come and gone, and I had been home long enough to be homesick for Switzerland--especially Christmas time in Switzerland.

On the first Sunday in December, there is a Christmas devotional at our church headquarters in Salt Lake City. One of Dave's older sisters, Teresa, had tickets for Dave and his siblings to attend, and he invited me to come along.

I pondered what to wear that night and decided on a nice deep aqua crossover top with the chai necklace he'd given me from Jerusalem. I pulled on my gray three quarter length coat from Los Angeles and a cashmere scarf that my parents had given me, and waited for him to pick me up. I had no idea if this counted as a date because, well, he had asked me to come and he was driving 30 minutes to pick me up. Did that count? We picked up Mike and Sarah, then drove to Salt Lake and met up with his sisters Teresa and Nicole. All of us sat together in the Conference Center, basking in the gorgeous Christmas music and message, and I just enjoyed being with his family. (Dave has the coolest family, who have the ability to make you feel fabulously at home, and several of them I knew from e.f.y. years before. I wanted to be part of that family. You'll see why.)

When the devotional was over, we decided to pile in one car and drive up to Teresa's apartment for super-yummy dessert. But there was one problem--there wasn't quite enough room, so someone would have to sit on someone's lap. Dave's sister-in-law Sarah (who *always* has my back) said happily "I think Becca has to sit on Dave's lap!" (I could've hugged her.) As I crammed into the car and perched myself as lightly as I could on Dave's lap and we all laughed and joked, I decided this was going to be my best Christmas season EVER. (See what I mean? Cool family.)

**

A few hours later, it was just Dave and I in the car as he drove me home. It had been such a beautiful relaxed night, and I was already sad that it was coming to an end. Then, he casually said, "Yeah, my roommates don't understand why we're not dating..."

My heart hammered in my chest and I could hear the sound of rushing in my ears. Was this my opening? Was this my chance to say something? On my mission, I had *promised* myself that I would not pursue Dave, or any guy. That I was worthy of being pursued, by jingo. I wasn't going to be the one that brought up dating first. But did that casual introduction count as him bringing it up????

In that split second, I made my decision...

"My roommates don't understand why we're not dating..."
"Actually, Dave, neither do I."

Day 104: Fields of Gold, Chapter 13

2009-03-18T22:04:00.004-04:00

He had a date. But--on the plus side--it was a girl's choice dance. I could hope there was nothing there--at least on his side So, it would have to wait one more day. (The suspense was killing me.)

Sunday afternoon, I brushed through my hair, put on a gray sweater with a black skirt and black shoes, and a sheer lip gloss. I looked in the mirror and realized how un-American I looked. I wished I looked even more...changed. I hoped that Dave would be able to see how different I was, on the inside.

I drove over to his apartment, holding the address on a post-it note on my hand. I parked and walked up the cold metal stairs and down the dimly lit hallway until I was standing in front of his door. The butterflies were back, and they were feeling more like bats. I knocked.

The door opened a slight crack and Dave slipped through, closing the door quickly behind him. He wrapped his arms around me, as I stood up on my tiptoes to give him a good hug. I had forgotten how tall he was. We hugged for a minute, tightly, and I laughed nervously.

Stepping back, he smiled at me with his happiest, lopsided smile, and my knees felt weak. I tried to pull myself together enough to form coherent words. He had some people visiting inside, and they would be a few minutes more--would I come in and meet them, and his roommates? Taking me softly by the elbow, he opened his door and directed me to the couch. After introductions, I tried, desperately, to make polite conversation with complete strangers while all I wanted to do was turn to my right and look at this guy. I wanted to reach out and make sure he was real. I had to remind myself, repeatedly, that we were JUST FRIENDS.

After his company left, he asked me if I wanted to go on a walk. Oh, did I ever. We walked toward some fields at a nearby elementary school, talking the whole time. We had so much catching up to do, but all the things I wanted to talk about were irrelevant and obsolete. So we talked about my mission, mostly. We arrived at the fields, at the base of snow cover mountains and stood gazing silently at them. The ability to be silent with Dave was one of the things I liked the most about him.

He was standing behind me, and--without speaking--he just slipped his arms around me. (There were those weak knees again.) It was a good thing he was behind me, because I'm sure I couldn't have hidden my smile to save my life. Why did that small thing, mean so much?!

In my mind, I could see a huge chasm in front of me. Dave and I were standing on one side--the side where I was in love with him, and he wasn't in love with me. On the other side, we were happily in love with each other. And I had no idea how to bridge that gap. My mind raced, trying to see a way over.

But the rest of me was happy to stay there, in his embrace--looking at the mountains--as long as he'd let me.

Day 103: Fields of Gold, Chapter 12

2009-03-17T16:48:00.002-04:00

What were the chances that, somehow, Dave would turn around and see me as The One for Him? Maybe Europe had worked it's magic. Maybe I'd have a Sabrina-like effect on him, once he saw me again after 18 months. Maybe.

I found myself living at the edge of the Black Forest. Every morning I woke up and watched the fall colors change on a vineyard hugging the hillside next the black pine trees. The clouds seemed to be suspended from the sky, rather than a part of it, and the sunsets were golden and purple. Germany was my newest, and last, mission adventure. With one week left to go, I checked my mailbox again. (Can you see a pattern here?) Inside, was a birthday card from Dave. It included his current phone number, and an "I can't wait to see you and give you a huge hug" sentiment. The butterflies in my stomach were multiplying by the day.

I'll never forget sitting on that airplane as it rose slowly into the endless blue sky. The pilot dipped the plane steeply to one side, and I could see the trains, buildings, lakes, and mountains falling away from us. There were my beloved Alps. There was my lake--a still mirror. Above all, down there, were all the people I had come to love in 18 months. Dear friends. People I would never forget, who had permanently altered the shape of my soul. They were out of my hands now. I turned to the missionary next to me, Elder Wright from my hometown, who was returning after his two year mission. I asked him "Do things ever hurt just as much as you think they will?" His quiet response, "No. Sometimes they hurt a lot more."

Home. Home is a wonderful, and frightening, place to be after a long absence. I had been living in Europe on September 11th, 2001, and much had changed since I left. My country was different than I remembered it, and I found the changes to be jarring. I thought of Dave and wondered what else would've changed. Would he still be my best friend?

I called him my second day home. My hands shook as I picked up my parent's gray cordless phone and dialed the number. He picked up, and I felt a thousand emotions at the sound of his voice. I was in love with him, and he didn't know it. I'd fallen in love with him from thousands of miles away, and wasn't sure how to hide that. I wanted to see him. I needed to see him. Unfortunately, he had a date.

Day 102: Fields of Gold, Chapter 11

2009-03-16T15:07:00.003-04:00

A world apart, time was marching forward, and while Dave was busy smooching Moscow, writing his honor's thesis, and getting ready to graduate, I was catching trains, waking up to heart rendingly gorgeous sunrises over Die Saentis, and trying my best not to think about the inconvenient fact that I was in love with my best friend in the world.

With six months left, I got a letter from my mom who noted, near the end, that she had talked to Dave's mom. It had been awhile since I had heard from him, so it seemed unavoidable to me that the next sentence would tell me of his imminent engagement to Moscow and emigration to the wastelands of Russia. I braced myself inwardly, fuming. How could he do this to me?! You'd think he would've at least written me himself. But, wait... "Apparently he and his girlfriend broke up recently and he's been having a hard time..."

Clutching the letter, I sat down on the steps, and--of all things--I cried. The selfish me was giddy that the Russian frau had been given the boot. Nothing could've made me happier. But the unselfish part of me hurt for my friend. I hurt that he was hurting. I wished that falling in love, and being in love, were simpler. At that moment, if being with Moscow was the thing that he wanted most and would've made him happiest, I would've wished for it and given them both my blessing.

Eventually, I got a letter from him--telling me of his breakup, and his feelings about it. He had decided to stay on at his current job after his graduation that summer. This news made me cautiously blissful. I had mere months of my mission left, and it appeared that Dave would be graduated from college, working full time, and romantically available.

Now all I needed him to do was experience a massive change of heart. What were the chances??

Day 101: Fields of Gold, Chapter 10

2009-03-15T11:48:00.002-04:00

I walked into my apartment, sat down at my desk, and opened the envelope.

Inside were three letters, two cassette tapes, and an extra envelope.

Inside the envelope were pressed flowers from Southern Utah--the colors still vibrant. He sent them, because he thought I would like them. (I did.)

On the two cassette tapes was new music for me to listen to, since he figured I would be tired of the music I had. (I was.)

Nervously, I opened each letter in the order it had been written. The first was light-hearted, and talked about how things had been going since he broke up with Mary. He mentioned going to his family reunion at Panguitch Lake, where he'd gathered me the flowers in a meadow next to the church. I set the letter aside with relief. No new girlfriend, yet. The second letter talked about getting into school, and that he was living in the Russian House to perfect his Russian skills. Second letter down, with no girl news, and one letter to go. So far, so good.

The third letter was short--just an explanation about why he hadn't sent the letters and package earlier. He told me that he'd met a cool girl, from Russia, and they'd been hanging out. Scrawled next to that, quickly, was the note "We're dating now. Cool, huh?"

"Not cool" I thought "Not cool at all." Visions of hot, slender, European women appeared in my head and mocked me. "Maybe she has bad teeth...or really big feet." I thought. But that didn't console me. He was going to go and fall in love with a gorgeous Russian. I just knew it.

I fumed inwardly. I'd been asking for a sign, and I'd gotten a great package that also had news of a (hot) Russian girlfriend. WHAT KIND OF SIGN WAS THIS?!

Day 100: Fields of Gold, Chapter 9

2009-03-13T22:10:00.003-04:00

My first morning in Switzerland, I woke up at 5:00. Too excited and anxious to sleep. I got out of my (insanely comfortable) bed with it's down comforter and crossed over to the window. Quietly, I opened the windows wide. The sun was just rising, and hundreds of songbirds were singing in the nearby woods. I could smell the earthy tones of wildflowers and trees on the slight, cool June breeze. Then, from the city of Zurich below, morning church bells began to ring.

Be still my beating heart--I was living in The Sound of Music.

Rarely does a place live up to your expectations of it. I can say, without hesitation, that Switzerland lived up to mine. In every way. Surpassed many of them. I found myself, later that same day, pulling my suitcase down a narrow Swiss street behind my "trainer"--the friend that would mentor me and show me how to be a missionary.

Now, I know that most of my friends who read this blog aren't Latter-day Saints. I know that you have had run-ins with the Mormon missionaries in the rain. Or peeping through your windows. (You know who you are.) We've talked about this, and I've laughed and cringed with you. But let me tell you--it was just as hard for me, as it sometimes is for you.

One of the things that we did a lot of (a LOT) was trying to talk to people on the street. In German. Or Swiss German. Or English. Any number of languages, really. I am not a shy person, and I've spoken to strangers all my life. But it was unbelievably difficult for me to approach people on the street and talk to them about my religion. Some days, I would stand frozen in place, crying great tears, because I *wanted* to tell people about this faith that I have and that I love. I wanted to talk to them, and tell them how happy it makes me, and that I want them to be happy, too. But there were days when I just couldn't, and that tortured me. They rushed past me, and I stood rooted to the spot.

When I had taken all I could of failure, we would go and knock on doors to try and talk to people. We did this, sometimes, for 12 hours at a go. For months and months at a time. In the rain, snow, and sunshine. People threw forks at us. People answered the door naked. (Why??) People yelled at us, cursed us, and called us words that I, thankfully, had never come across in my dictionary. Other people, though, would let us in. We would sit, and we would talk to them. Sometimes we would share a message. Often, I would feel that I just needed to express that God was aware of them, and loved them. When that happened, I was perfectly happy.

And let me tell you, the highlight of my life as a missionary was coming home after doing 12 hours of street contacting or knocking on doors to open my mailbox. There was always a hope that there would be a letter from my family. An even more distant, but delightful, hope was a letter from Dave.

One November afternoon I was walking home for lunch, and I was thinking about Dave. I hadn't heard from him in a few months, and he had been on my mind a lot that week. The last that I'd heard, he had broken up with Mary. I wondered what he could be up to now. I didn't want to wonder. I didn't want to waste precious time as a missionary focused on this guy. I was irritated with him for being in my mind so much, and irritated with myself for not being able to shake him. Suddenly, almost out of no where, I realized I was in love with him. Smack dab IN LOVE. How terribly, awfully inconvenient. I bowed my head as I walked and asked God, with all the faith I could muster, to either help me forget Dave or send me a sign.

Arriving home, I opened the mailbox.

Inside was a package from Dave. The first, and only, that I received my entire mission.

Day 99: Fields of Gold, Chapter 8

2009-03-12T21:15:00.002-04:00

In small-town Utah, when your mission call comes in that distinctive white envelope, the post office will call you first thing in the morning and tell you to come and get it. I had been hoping and hoping that my call would come, but--for some reason--I had given up on it coming for that week. They sent calls out on Tuesday from Salt Lake, so it would've made the 50 mile south migration by Wednesday or Thursday, I figured. When Thursday came and went with no call, I put on my patience and geared up for another week of waiting.

I worked, those days, at the Missionary Training Center at 5:00 in the morning. I went about my work that day, and then--as I went to check out--was greeted by one of my friends in the office, holding a hand written note: Your mom says to call home. Your call is there.

I collapsed into a chair. It was there. The decision was made. And my honest to goodness first thought was "Please not Nebraska, Please not Nebraska, Please not Nebraska."

Unlike people who are more righteous than me, who always say that they'll go "Wherever the Lord wants to send me", I had never been hesitant in expressing that I hoped to serve OUTSIDE the United States. I spoke German, so I dreamed of Europe, but would've been happy with any crazy destination. Thailand sounded awesome. Maybe Fiji. Chile, South Africa, Mexico, Brazil, Taiwan, Japan--so many places had crossed my mind. Now, it seemed obvious that I would be sent to the Arizona, Phoenix Mission or the Ohio, Columbus Mission. Not that there was anything wrong with that...for other people.

I drove slowly to my mom's office, where she had the envelope. I took my time. Now that fate was decided, I was a little hesitant to meet it. Arriving there, she had it propped against a south facing window, hoping to see something--anything--of the contents. It had been arranged that my whole family would meet at home at 6:30 that night, where I would open my call. (Whole family excluding my younger brother that was serving a mission in Washington state.) I stared at the envelope and talked to my mom. She finally said "Aren't you even going to hold it???"

I crossed over and picked it up. It was light. Too light to contain papers for visa applications. My heart plunged. I flipped it over and started wiggling the flap, trying to peek inside. I saw "Provo, Utah on Wednesday"... this meant that I was going to the Provo, Utah Missionary Training Center and not the training center in Brazil or England. My mom told me not to open it, and I shooed her off. "I'm not. I'm just..." I counted two lines up and saw "w i t z". Witz. Witz. And it dawned on me, slowly--like a glorious sunrise. Switzerland.

Without another thought, I tore open the envelope and extracted the letter. I had to know if I was right. I had to see the words for myself. There it was--I had been called to serve for 18 months as a missionary, assigned to serve in the Switzerland, Zurich Mission. I would be speaking German. I was to report 11 weeks from that date.

In those moments, reading that letter, I don't think my feet were touching the ground. I had dreamed of every place on the planet, but even I had not considered Switzerland. No one went to Switzerland. I did not dream, then, of the incredible challenges that I would face. I could not have comprehended the enormous task in front of me, or how it would shape my life forever.

For the next 11 weeks, I bought shirts and skirts and pantyhose. I brushed up on my German, and learned all that I could about Switzerland. I put my whole life, like a puzzle, into a big blue suitcase.

On the night before I left, Dave came to my house. We sat in my room, and we talked for hours and hours. He sat in a rocking chair, and I sat at his feet. We talked about school, his family, and his girlfriend Mary, and how things were going between them. I watched him as he spoke and I wondered where he would be, in 18 months. He would graduate college while I was gone. I asked him to write to me, and he said that he would. I promised to write him back.

As we shook hands goodbye (I was already set-apart as a missionary, so no hugs) and I watched him walk away to his car, I wondered if I would ever see him again. I wondered if he would care if I didn't.