Monday Memory: Fourth of July

1. Mt. Vernon, Illinois

We return to our roots each summer, to my parents' hometowns—my mother's city and my father's tiny village outside that city. My grandparents live across from the city park. On the Fourth, we cross the street and lie on the grass by the pond, where the fireworks zoom and explode over our heads. The grass is dry and the road so hot my mother says you could fry an egg on it.

2. Seneca Lake

We pile into our big sailboat, the K-boat, and head out to the middle of the lake. Lights from dozens of motorboats flicker around us, and soon we hear the first muffled BOOM of the fireworks at the American Legion. We comment on each one, sometimes applauding, sometimes yelling "Dud!" My mother and father begin singing, first patriotic songs and then our favorites: "I've Been Workin' on the Railroad," "Clementine," "Waltzing Matilda." The black water laps against the hull, a windless night.

3. The Legion

Geneva, New York. In high school I leave my parents to the quiet of the boat and join my friends and the rest of our city at the American Legion. It's a carnival, with games, rides, and food. Italian sausage with peppers and onions, chicken wings, cotton candy, popcorn. School's just been out two weeks, but it seems like forever since we've seen our friends. We know everyone. We spread our blankets on the grass and hold hands with our boyfriends, thinking that nothing in our lives could ever be sweeter than this moment.

4. The River

Camping at the Nolichucky River near Davy Crockett's birthplace in Limestone, Tennessee, we are dirty, young college students with absolutely no responsibilities, for the most part. A few of us have jobs waiting tables. We sleep in tents or beat-up vans in a cornfield by the river, swimming during the day and sitting by a fire at night. We shoot off fireworks at night, just the few we could afford. We have never known such freedom. In the morning, the hot sun soaks into our tents and we wake, thirsty and sweating already. The river flows lazily, brown and thick. We have no idea how our lives our about to change.

Tanks vs. chickens

5. Freedom Fest

Johnson City, Tennessee. Barefoot, we dance in the dusty grass to Brian and the Nightmares. At night we stand under the fireworks, listening to the local radio station play "Proud to Be an American," the fireworks timed in perfect synchronicity. Ashes fall. I have grown 10 years in one. Graduation from college brings a freedom I'm not sure I want yet.

6. Ames

We watch the fireworks from the lawn at university with our Iowa friends. Our kids tumble on the ground at our feet, chasing fireflies and eating the picnic we've brought with us. Little ones in red, white and blue on a hot night in the midwest. How did we get to this place, where life really, truly is as sweet as it gets?

7. Home

Back in Tennessee after eight years of sojourning, we are complete. We have our little traditions, adjusting year by year as the kids grow. It's a family holiday always, with brothers and cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents. There's no Seneca Lake, no fabulous fireworks display. We buy bottle rockets and tanks and eat burgers and pasta salad, home-made ice cream and watermelon. Are we are all thinking about being somewhere else, wondering if this is enough? Will our children have enough memories to carry them?



I like to think so.

Happy Independence Day. May it be filled with good food, fellowship, and fireworks.

Monday Memory: To College

We took our oldest son to college this past weekend (an event that will have its own blog post, as soon as I can do that without weeping), and of course Dr. H. and I got to talking about our own first weekend in college. He remembers his parents bringing him to college, but I don't think it ever crossed our minds that my parents would bring me to college. My 4th brother was a junior in the same college my freshman year, and my 3rd brother and his wife were dorm parents at the college (not in my dorm). I guess I had enough surrogate parents to suffice.

Apparently we did, however, take my 2nd brother to college. I remember this very vaguely. I must have been 5, Stephen 7, and Peter 14 when John began his freshman year. I'm not sure why my grandparents were there with us. What kinds of things were going on in our family then? Stephen and I were so little. We were perhaps still after-thoughts in this already formed family. Maybe they were all still getting used to us being around. And looking at this picture, I realized that my Granddad must have died just a few months after this, or at least within a year.

The stories behind the pictures. That's one of the main reasons that I blog—so that my kids will know, to some extent, the stories behind the photos. And so that I'll remember these slices of life.

Do you have a Monday Memory? Leave a comment so I can check it out!

Monday Memory: Summer on the Lake

This has been a hot, hot summer so far. I don't think we've ever had a hotter one in the 10 years we've lived here. My daughter is now a year past the play-with-toys age and fully into the "what should I do?" age. I dislike labels, but she really is a 'tween, even though she'll be a real teen in a month.

I was thinking about what I did when I was that age during the long summer days. I don't really remember being bored, although I suppose I must have been at times. I am pretty sure my life consisted of four things: reading, lying out in the sun, talking on the phone, and playing in the lake.


When I was 14, 16, and 17, I got new playthings: baby nieces. Sometimes they lived near us, sometimes they didn't; but I loved to pass the time with those little girls. They are all grown now with babies of their own.


This is my first summer in perhaps my whole life not to visit my hometown in upstate New York in the summer. I think there might have been a couple of years when we lived in Iowa that I couldn't make it there. But now our house belongs to someone else. He kept our sail boat, and I hope he spends some hot summer afternoons catching a bit of wind on Seneca. I hope he invites some friends over for an evening bonfire and watches the big orange moon rise over the water.

It would be enough to make me weep, if I hadn't done all my weeping already.


Do you have a Monday Memory to share? Leave a link in the comments. I'd love to visit.

Monday Memory: Bubbles

We had rain today—lots of it. It was glorious. But nobody went out to play in it. Used to be that every time we had a rain after a long, dry spell, the kids would all run out and soak it in. We had a short rain Friday evening for the first time in two weeks, and Duncan did run out to play. But I could tell it wasn't as much fun for him all by himself, and he didn't stay out for long.

This is one of my favorite pictures of rain play. The kids spilled a bottle of bubbles and found that blowing bubbles in the rain is truly magical. I have this photo enlarged and framed in my kitchen. I love the curve of his neck and the wet hair plastered against his head and those sweet lips blowing bubbles.

And don't even get me started on rains back in Iowa, with Jesse puddle-jumping in his yellow rainboots.

Monday Memory: Little Sister, Little Brother

We have a screensaver on our kitchen computer that is a continuous slideshow of our life. Photos of the kids, friends, and family flash across the screen. Duncan is particularly fascinated with the old photos. He'll sit in the computer chair and comment on every one that passes by: "Aww, that's baby me." "Aww, look at that giant snowman that we made."

This one popped up today as I was getting breakfast ready for him, and we cracked up at his haircut. I can distinctly remember butchering his hair like that, and having to admit to someone at church, when she asked, "Did big sister give you a hair cut?" that um, no, it was his Mama. Hair cutting has never been one of my talents.

I love Laurel's hair in braids like that. She didn't let me "do" her hair very often. And that little nightie that she's wearing! When she started wearing that it came to her ankles, and I believe she wore that until it came up to mid-thigh years later.

But what I really love is the looks on both their faces. She loved being a big sister to a baby brother, and he adored her. Now at nearly 13 and 9.5, they get along really very well for the most part. Every now and then Laurel will even play Legos with Duncan. But mostly they do their own thing, Laurel entering into the world of teen interests and Duncan still thoroughly immersed in boyhood.

Take a journey through some of your pictures and see what memories you'll find there. If you write a Monday Memory post, please leave me a comment so I can visit!

Monday Memory: To War

(A repost from 2008, in honor of Memorial Day.)

In 1951 my parents drove from Illinois to California so that my father could go to war. My father had already fought in World War II not even 10 years before, leaving college to enter the army at age 18. Now my father was a college graduate, a husband, and a father, and he was off to Korea.

My parents speak of this time with great fondness. They'd been married just a few years, and their lives were wrapped up in James, as we all are with out first child. It was a great adventure to drive across the country, to visit the Mojave Desert and the Continental Divide, to touch the Pacific Ocean. My mother was sending her husband off to war. It is what women did.

My mother and James flew back to Illinois when my father shipped out, and my father was in Korea for a year.




Here is a picture that my mother sent to him in Korea, near the end of his tour. James is wearing an outfit my father sent that was purchased during R&R in Japan.

My father is 85 years old now, my mother 83, and James will be 60 in July. In the evenings when my parents tell stories, though, they remember every detail: the rickety hotels, the sound of the ocean, the sifting of sand between their fingers.

Monday Memory: Scout

People keep asking me, "Are you so sad/scared/freaked out that Jesse is graduating?" and I keep answering no. But the truth is, it is getting harder and harder as the date gets closer. This week I am faced with the task of putting together a photo album of his scouting career in preparation for his Eagle Scout ceremony in just 3 weeks. This means I have to sort through dozens of photos—like those above—from 11 years of Scouting, from Tiger Cub in 1st grade to now, as an Eagle Scout. And of course that means watching my firstborn transition, over and over again, from a six-year-old to a 17-year-old.

So, yeah. I am feeling a little melancholy these days. But mostly just really, really proud.

*Sigh.*

Monday Memory: Easter Dresses

I wish I'd done what my sister-in-law did. She saved every one of her daughter's Easter dresses, and this past year, she made a quilt using material from all those dresses. It always seemed silly to me to save dresses when I could pass them on to friends, but now I'm regretting that I don't have a stack of sweet dresses and pretty white shoes. I loved the one she wore in the photo above, when she was about four.

At 12, my girl still loves picking out her Easter dress each year, except she's not so little anymore. Somehow she went from a little girl's size 10-12 last Easter to shopping in the Juniors department this year. Her dress is a size 3. Her shoes are a size 8, bigger than mine, and they're not cute little Mary Janes. No folded-over lacy socks or white hat for my girl either.

I'm glad she's growing up; I really am. But I wish I had a few more years for those sweet little dresses—and I wish I'd saved every one of them. What a sweet quilt that would have been.

Monday Memory: Rings

Our 21st anniversary is coming up in a few days, and for some reason I had this picture stuck in my head when I thought about a Monday Memory. Randy's holding my ring, and our rings, in their utter simplicity, are one of those things I love so much about us.

We decided to get married, 21 and 1/2 years ago. We needed wedding rings, but of course we didn't have any money. So we went to a local store called Brendle's, which is pretty much like Sears. A step up from Walmart, you might say. I wanted a simple gold band; he wanted a slender white-gold one. Our rings cost $19.99 each. And that was all there was to it.

It wasn't until much later that I learned that people—real people that I actually know—spend thousands of dollars on wedding rings. And that made me love my $20 ring even more.

I still have my ring, although for our 10th anniversary, Randy bought me an anniversary band. Just a tiny bit fancier, but still simple. Like us. And I wouldn't trade it for the biggest rock on earth.

Well, unless my fingers get too fat and I have to cut the ring off. It could happen.

So tell me: how much did you spend on your wedding ring? Just kidding! I really don't want to know. I just hope it looks as right on your finger on your 21st anniversary as mine does.

Monday Memory: Honeymoon Cabin

This coming weekend, Dr. H. and I are going away for our anniversary to a little cabin in the mountains. We could go someplace fancier. We could fly somewhere or explore a new city or get a big room in a nice hotel. But that's just not us. We started this journey 21 years ago in a cabin in the mountains, and we're suckers for tradition.

A lot has changed since the day I snapped that picture of Dr. H. at Roan Mountain, TN, on our honeymoon 21 years ago. We look different. We think differently. We have kids, pets, furniture that isn't from the Salvation Army, a real dining room table. Two computers. Our own house. Shelves of books. A bunch of degrees. Twenty-one years ago we thought we had all the friends we'd ever need or want. We never imagined a world with new people who have added tremendous dimensions to our lives, who have filled in hollow places and smoothed out rough spots along the way.

Twenty-one years ago we thought about how we could buy groceries on $25/week and what band we would be going to see play in the upcoming week. We dreamed about having a family and picked out names. We took long, barefoot walks on the cracked sidewalks of the Tree Streets. We waited for our friends to pop in the front door of our big old house, which we rented for $175/month. When it rained, we pulled back the braided rug and put buckets under the drips.

A lot has changed. We loved each other a little then, in the whole scheme of things, although we thought it was a lot. How could we possibly have known how immeasurably, wildly strong our love would grow in 21 years?

We are here, in the place we always wanted to be. And returning to the simplicity of a quiet cabin in the mountains is the perfect way to remember, appreciate, and celebrate.

(But I sure do miss Dr. H's mullet.)

Monday Memory: Frozen Ponds

For the first time in the 10 years that we've lived here, many of the ponds have been frozen—or at least had a thin layer of ice on top. When I was growing up in upstate New York, ponds provided hours and hours of entertainment. I learned to skate at two, first with skates with four blades, then with two-bladed skates, and finally to pretty white single-blade skates. I can remember my brothers, parents, and neighborhood kids shoveling snow in paths across the ice until the whole pond was cleared and ready for hockey. Stephen and I skated around the edges during the maniacal hockey games, always prepared to dodge a misdirected puck. On those ponds I learned to skate around and around, backwards, stop, and even do a few ungraceful spins that felt very professional.

When I was in sixth grade, the research station to which the ponds were attached put a ban on ice skating. About that same time our city opened its first indoor skating rink, so all skating moved to the rec center as I moved into the teen years. Something magical was lost. Cold, moonlit nights. Saturday afternoon hockey games. Paths cut through the snow.

My senior year in high school, my boyfriend and I and another couple decided that New Year's Eve was the perfect time for skating on the old ponds. We spent a couple of hours that night skating around and around, laughing and watching the winter stars. The smell of clean snow and scrape of blade against ice. The pure quiet of a winter night.

I've only been skating a few times since then, on public rinks under fluorescent lights. It's one of those memories I hold onto, hoping that some time I might find an old farm pond for a midnight skate.

Monday Memory: Mur

I was thinking today about my grandmother. We called her Murry, or Mur, and I have no idea why. I was the sixth grandchild, so I didn't have any say in the matter. We called my grandfather Pa. I was only eleven when Pa died, and I don't remember him well. Mostly I remember him just like in the photo above, sitting in a recliner with the newspaper. He was a quiet, tired man.

But I remember Mur well. We visited every summer of my childhood, spending a couple of weeks reconnecting with the dozens upon dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins who still lived in Mt. Vernon and Dix, Illinois. She had a wonderful sense of humor, dry and witty. She made big home-cooked meals. She had the soft southern accent that comes from growing up in Southern Illinois. She said "warsh" and smelled like the most wonderful powder. We pulled taffy and sat on the front porch, watching the fireflies on a hot July night in the midwest. We spit watermelon seeds and salted fat tomatoes that cousin Clint brought over in his garden basket. We took car rides and bought ice cream cones for Jeannie, her little dog. People called her "Helen," and I was glad my middle name was hers.

Yesterday was her birthday, and she would have been 117 years old. I can't quite wrap my mind around that, yet my own mother is now 82 years old. Mur died 25 years ago, when I was a freshman in college. I remember getting that phone call early on a February morning, and sobbing on the cold metal stairs. I loved my grandmother. I didn't know her the way my older brothers did, who knew her when she was younger and when we lived just an hour away. But I knew she was glad to have me, the granddaughter after a long chain of grandsons. She bought me my first pink dress, that hangs in my closet still (my own daughter wore it for her first Sunday in church, age 9 days), and her china, edged in pink roses, graces my table each Christmas day.

These are the things I remember: the way her nylons sagged at the ankles, her brown shoes. The way she put on lipstick when the doorbell rang. How she said, "It's your time" when it was my turn to play in a game. How soft she was, and how much she loved us.

Monday Memory: 2009, a Retrospective

You know what? I'm glad this past year is over. It was a hard year in many respects.

A year ago tomorrow, Dee Ann died of leukemia that she didn't even know she had. She was a distant cousin of mine and a friend from college. To say "friend from college" sounds trivial, but when you go to a very small private college, the word "friend" carries great strength and shared memories. And just a month later, another college classmate took his own life. There was such an outpouring of weeping and grief for this man, who always yelled a friendly greeting across campus and made people laugh. And sometime in between Dee Ann and Mike, Randy's biological dad passed away. I don't know the date. It was a quiet passing sometime in the winter. Randy traveled to Illinois for the funeral. They weren't close; Randy had been raised by his adopted father. But another leaving feels lonely and sad.

Lonely and sad. I would be lying if I said I weren't lonely and sad because of a long-time friendship that has fallen apart this past year. And I, I who have taken such pride (yes, I said pride) in my longstanding habit of not holding grudges, am nurturing a grudge. I am seeking more earnestly than ever an understanding of the concept of forgiveness. Forgive and forget, forgive and forget: for perhaps the first time in my life, I watch the two in an enigmatic dance and ponder joining.

This fallen friendship has made me cautious. Because one of my faults is that I failed to read between the lines—to grasp the hidden meaning of actions or non-actions—I find myself, well, questioning my relationships with other people. What signs am I not following? Did I miss an important signal in her body language? Are they talking about me?

Aaah, what a tangled web. My greatest desire this year, I think, has been for honest communication. Gotta problem with me? Please. Tell me now. I can't bear the suspense, and I probably don't understand the rules to your game. I need the directions, spelled out clearly and sensibly.

Honest communication. This spring some of our friends went through a trial of tremendous proportions. We cried with them, prayed for them, ached for them, and cheered for them. And loved them, nonstop and without conditions. Someday, I know, my writer friend will put it all in words.

Tangled webs. Late this summer we had to navigate through a tangled web of lies and manipulation, spun by someone who was supposed to be a role model. My husband is a kind, gentle man who has tremendous tolerance, even for fools. But this foolish man sent us into a tailspin that swallowed our time and energy. Cleaning up after him was exhausting, and yet there is a certain joy that comes with saying good riddance to such toxicity. A palpable freedom when the sore spot is gone. Still, those weeks were draining, and our hearts were heavy at seeing mean-spiritedness in action.

Heavy hearts. This August my parents sold their house in upstate New York, where I grew up. Though I did most of my grieving the year before, it was still hard, so hard, to say goodbye to this house. After the kids and I visited as we have every summer for years, this year, after weeping, I took a deep breath and drove away.

Those were the hard things. Those were the things that contributed to my spending this past year feeling slightly out of sorts, sort of not myself. Learning grown-up lessons and facing my own frailties.

But there was good, too. My family is strong and healthy. We laugh a lot and take joy in each other and the good, fresh mountain air and a home complete with much, much more than we need. My firstborn turned 16, finished his Eagle Scout project, went to Philmont Scout Ranch and hiked 75 miles, and got his driver's license. And applied for colleges. Randy and I celebrated our 20-year anniversary in a blissful getaway weekend with an amazing hike. And a hot tub.

We got to spend a weekend in the mountains with some dear, dear friends of ours. My parents moved just a mile down the road, and I can see their precious faces every single day. My sweet friend had a long-awaited baby boy. I got to go to my 25-year high school reunion and reconnect with friends I haven't seen in nearly that long. One of the best parts of the reunion was meeting again as adults and finding that some of the people I most related to are ones that I barely knew in high school. And that my best friend from high school was still my best friend from high school.

It wasn't a bad year; but it was a year heavy with outside clutter and aching, and I'm glad to see it go. This year there will be more hikes, more board games, more quiet evenings at home, more laughter, and much, much less drama. This year our oldest will graduate and go to college. My daughter will grow as tall as I am. My youngest will lose his babyish "r" and "w" sounds. This year when the dogwoods and redbuds are flowering, we'll drive my parents up to the mountains, because they'll only be a minute down the road.

This year—I know, I can feel it—the joys will be far more memorable than the sadnesses. It's a brand new decade, after all.

Monday Memory: First Christmases

We're going into a new stage in our life as parents. Only our youngest, who will be 9 on Christmas Day, is getting any toys for Christmas. In just a few more years, we'll be a toyless home. That sounds terribly sad. I miss buying American Girl outfits already, just a year after I lamented the outrageous cost of them.

But this post is about first Christmases, when sheer delight reigned supreme on all sides.

Jesse was 9 months old at his first Christmas. We lived in Oxford, Ohio. Randy was finishing his master's degree at Miami University, and I was working as an editor for the headquarters of an international business association. This was taken at Randy's parents' house in Indiana, about an hour from where we lived.

Laurel was four months old for her first Christmas, and Jesse is about 4 1/2. We lived in Ames, Iowa, where Randy was working on his PhD at Iowa State University. At this particular time I was taking a break from working on my master's degree and just being a stay-at-home mama. I did end up finishing the next year.

This is really Duncan's second Christmas since he was born on Christmas Day, but being born and whisked off to the NICU isn't nearly as much fun as eating your first cake. This is my precious Christmas gift on his first birthday. We've been in this house in Tennessee since I was about 3 months pregnant with Duncan, so he has always been here, in this house, with his Daddy as a professor at UT and his mama at home.

It's a good place to be.

Monday Memory: Christmas Cards

One of my projects for today is to start sending out Christmas cards. For many years now I've done the photo cards along with a short Christmas letter. I always include my blog address, because, really, our lives are an open book. If people are really interested in what is happening in SmallWorld, they can read my blog, visit me on Facebook, send me an email, pick up the phone, or even visit.

How can a year be summed up in one measly letter? There's always too much between the lines that's left out and makes one's life seem like event upon event, rather than a carpet of joys and disappointments, daily thankfulness and occasional apathy. Big struggles. Little victories. Why do we sum a year up in awards won and trips taken?

I am guilty. My Christmas cards this year are short and to the point: a photo of each person with 4 bullet points summing up a whole person in 10 words or less. Boy Scouts, Cub Scouts, American Heritage Girls. Hiking Philmont, climbing trees, dancing. I designed the cards in about 15 minutes on Shutterfly.

Still, though, in spite of the superficiality of Christmas cards, I am happy to send them, and happy to receive them. I think about each person as I address the envelope, remembering them from different parts of my life. Childhood friends, college friends, Ohio and Iowa friends, distant family, Tennessee friends. I love getting picture cards in the mail, marveling over how the children have grown over the course of a year. As have mine. Pondering the passage of time and frightened a bit at the rapidity with which this season of life progresses.

The card above is from Christmast of 2000, probably the only year I've ever sent cards after Christmas. I was waiting for Duncan to be born, so that I could send out Christmas cards and a birth announcement in one fell swoop. I never imagined he would actually be born on Christmas Day and then spend almost a week in the NICU. How do you say, in a Christmas card, that you just went through one of the most terrifying experiences in your life? Instead, you write the birth date, his weight (10 lbs--wow!), and that he is the best Christmas present ever.

Someday, perhaps, I'll be like my 88-year-old Uncle Max. I received an email from him last week saying, "Hello Everyone: A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ONE AND ALL. I'm doing emails rather than cards so hope this reaches all of you. Love you Max."

Until then, I'll be addressing envelopes and running to the post office for more stamps. At least this year, anyway.

Monday Memory: PMA

Once upon a time, I was a swimmer.

We were a magnificent bunch of swimmers on our girls' swim team, absolutely crazy about each other and about our coach. We were strong, thin, muscular, and full of laughter. Although we were in a sport that largely emphasized the individual's effort, we defined teamwork.

I have no idea if we won many meets in the six years ( two years on junior varsity and then 4 on varsity) I was on swim team . I remember we always lost against Victor and that Canandaigua's pool was always so warm that we couldn't help but slow down into a dream-like swim. But I don't think we ever really cared about winning meets. Our coach had instilled in us a strong determination to do our personal best and to have PMA: positive mental attitude. We were the Pink Panthers (our school mascot was the panther), and "PPs have PMA" became our mantra.

(We all had our nickname and a favorite saying on the back of our t-shirts.)

She was a great coach, who was also one of our school's guidance counselors. I don't know whatever became of her. She was kind and quiet and inspired that group of 25 or so girls to support each other, do our best, and have fun. She's one of those few teachers I'd like to find someday, just to say: You made a difference.

Hey, Nancy Read? Your PMA stuck.

Monday Memory: Moving Day

I almost let this anniversary slip by, but this morning I realized that 10 years ago last week, we packed up our little family in a very big moving van and headed into our new life. I think in many ways we thought of it as "our real life."

For 10 years we'd been working toward this life. I'd already graduated from college when Dr. H. and I got married. He had dropped out but then returned to finish his last two years the fall after we were married. And then the next 8 years consisted of three years in Ohio for his master's degree (and a baby boy) and five years in Iowa for his PhD and my master's degree (and a baby girl).

It's not that we didn't relish those years of our life; we did. But we always knew that we were pushing on toward something else. We had a goal. Until he received the call from the University of Tennessee 10 years ago, we were caught between the world of kid and adult. Those last couple of years in Iowa, we were trying to step over the line into full adulthood, but it took a job to really get us there.

That moving van somehow solidified our new status. That thing was huge! And movers—compliments of our new employer—came to our house, labeled our boxes, and drove the van down to Tennessee. We made that 17-hour stretch one last time, with Randy in his little Toyota and me, the kids, and my teenaged niece in our brand new mini-van.

We arrived in Knoxville on a hot July day, and I'm pretty sure we bent down and kissed the ground. We were home. We were overwhelmed with gratefulness that God opened up these doors for us.

Neither of us grew up in Tennessee, but we met in college in upper East TN and fell in love with this beautiful place and its people, well, and with each other. For us, there were no greener pastures than East Tennessee.

Our little family has grown a bit since then. Jesse's as tall as Dr. H. now, and my girl and her little brother are rapidly catching up to me. A lot happens in 10 years, but our sense of wonder and delight in being here has never changed. I am still thankful every single day that God directed our path here, where I can look out my front window and see a long stretch of mountains, and breathe freely.

Monday Memory: Treasures in the Pages

Having left hers at church, Laurel needed a Bible to take to camp with her this week. She needed a lightweight one to carry in a backpack, so I found one of my old Bibles on a shelf. This was the NIV I carried through college and through the first ten years of my married life. I kept lots of stuff in the pages. Last night I shook all the papers out before I gave her the Bible, and right before bedtime I sifted through these lovely treasures.

I found a note from my college friend Lindsay. I don't know why she wrote it. Maybe when my grandmother died my freshman year, or perhaps some other time when she knew I was down. It says, "I love you! 'Cast your cares on the Lord and He will sustain you; He will never let the righteous fall.' Psalm 55: 22." I am blessed to have such people in my life.

I found a note from my mom, with the salutation, "Sweet Paperdoll." That was always my favorite nickname that she had for me.

I found a note that fluttered like a ghost. I knew what the green sheet of paper was before I opened it. How many times had I read this letter from my college friend Dee Ann? Somehow I had forgotten all about it, and now that she's gone, I will treasure it even more. I remember well the confident curls of her cursive.

I found my first boyfriend's obituary, and the finality of his death hits all over again. And his age: 23. And I found the note from his mother, thanking me for traveling from Tennessee to New York for his funeral. As if I could have not been there.

I found a letter from my future mother-in-law, encouraging me after Bryan's death. What was really sweet about that letter is that Randy and I were no longer dating when she wrote it. But she said she always knew—or hoped—we'd get back together.

I found a poem from Randy after we did, indeed, get back together. A snippet from that:

"Two people met in the faraway hills of Tennessee
that learn to call each other home
And find that life without a home
is like no life at all."

I found a poem that my father wrote for me, called "Little Girl." A snippet from that:

"You weren't all that impressive
when you first arrived, you know;
Just another little pink baby,
open-mouthed and squinty-eyed.
Brothers would just as soon have a dog.
'Druther, maybe;
dogs are smarter than sisters and train better too…
Mom and I decided to keep you anyway,
At least for awhile.
Any new pet's nice to have in late winter,
helps with cabin fever.
It was dogwood season when you really joined the race—
dogwoods by the window,
white crosses and pink
blowin' in the wind,
blowin' laughter in the wind,
blowin' beauty in the wind.
My Sarah in the wind,
Sarah in the dogwood wind.

My heart is full of treasures,
little girl,
full of treasure pictures,
row on row,
year on year,
treasured treasure pictures in my heart...."

It goes on for another page, and I can't even ever get throught the first stanza without weeping. I am blessed, so blessed, by this man who is my father.

And I found the poem my father wrote for my mother on their 50th anniversary, called "Always Twenty-One." That one I can't even read. At all. Especially with my parents (who celebrated 60 years last August) 800 miles away. But I have it here if you want to read a beautiful love poem.

I found a few other things, too: a letter from my college best friend when I graduated and left, a note from my uncle after my Great-Aunt Flossie died at age 104, a postcard from Randy when he went to Venezuela, and a note from him titled, "Happy Hopefully Pregnant."

I think it is entirely appropriate that, tucked inside the Word that has always sustained me, were words from people who have loved me, touched me, forgiven me, given me unspeakable joy, and blessed me immeasurably.

Monday Memory: Roan Mountain

We spent this past weekend with some of our oldest and dearest friends at Roan Mountain, in upper East Tennessee. Roan Mountain holds many memories for us. We've hiked and camped there numerous times, spent our honeymoon there, and enjoyed several weekends with friends in the cabins at the state park. But this memory is from a hike about 13 years ago.

At the time, Randy, Jesse and I lived in Ames, Iowa. Once or twice a year, we drove the 17 hours down to Tennessee to spend a week with friends and family in Johnson City, where we'd gone to college. Usually these trips involved an excursion to Roan Mountain.

This was actually in December, so we were happy to have our Iowa parkas to wear. Jesse was just three and a half, and I didn't know it quite yet, but I was a few weeks pregnant with Laurel in this photo. That's our friend Suzie in the photo with us on top.

So much has changed since then in nearly every aspect of our lives. We were happy then, but now our cup truly does overflow. We have been abundantly blessed with children, friendships, health, family, a dream job, and a beautiful place to live. And so much more.


Same rock, 13 years later. Who knew how good life could be?

Your turn. Do you have a Monday Memory to share? Post it on your blog and sign Mr. Linky below with a direct link to that post. It's okay if you don't post on Monday! So dig down deep into your memories and get started!

It's Monday Memory Day!

Tody is Monday Memory day! Last week I was hoping for 2 participants, and I got three! One of my faithful participants is in the hospital this week with a kidney infection and pneumonia and in her last trimester with #4, so she is excused—and covered in our prayers.

I'll be writing my own memory later today. And I'll be waiting for yours… Thanks to my 3 participants last week!