Final four words: Amy, we need more!

The return to Stars Hollow is what we’ve waited for. Since it was announced, super fans and newbies alike have waited through what feels like a thousand silent Friday night dinners. Let’s face it, 2016 can pretty much suck it. If we didn’t have Lin-Manuel Miranda in our lives, we probably would not have survived at all. We were only able to get through the dark night of Nov. 8 because we knew a new day in Stars Hollow was coming. Now, here it is, and we have the last four words. But we need more.

More, I tell you! Amy Sherman Palladino, my spirit animal, give us more!

Several people have asked me what I think of the Gilmore Girls reboot. I’ve been ruminating on it since our family binge-watched it on Sunday. I was confident that it was in good hands with my bff, A.S.P. It’s her baby, and no one knows how to care for her baby like the momma, right?

Speaking of babies, how about those last four words, huh?

I mean, I’ve spent some time trying out different scenarios since before the reboot, and this one HAS entered my awareness before. I’ve also considered the possibility of a mom/daughter duo pregnancy a la Father Of The Bride II, and a Brady Girls Get Married double wedding sitch featuring a Lorelai/Luke and Rory/Jess combo (from our lips to God’s ears!)

So, was it satisfying? Yes and no. I thought it was a satisfying ending for Lorelai and Luke. I’m glad Mr. Hayden didn’t sneak in at the last second and “pull a Christopher.” That’s worse than “getting Totsied.” I’m even one of the few who actually likes Christopher. He gets Lorelai, and I believe he loves her, but it’s Luke, Luke, Luke. It’s Luke.

I liked the night before elopement of Luke and Lorelai. It was beautiful. I will admit to a good cry when Sam Phillips struck the first note of “Reflecting Light.” Oy. If you don’t get the significance of that, go back and watch the series, and think about your choices. Also, Kirk finally did something right. Bless you, Kirk.

However, a Stars Hollow where Kirk gets significantly more air time than Paris, Lane, and JESS is a Stars Hollow I need to confront. And, Michel was at this midnight elopement ceremony, but not Sookie? Not in my Stars Hollow. (And don’t go trying to explain stuff about the actors’ schedules and all that crap. Just shut your face and Copper Boom your attitude down a notch.)

*Big sigh*

Rory. Rory, we will never NOT love you, no matter what the interwebs try to tell us about your awkwardness, your privilege, and your bad choices. (I mean, ok. A quick side eye in your general direction for sleeping with a man affianced to another. Again.) We do understand that it’s Logan, though. We know that his gross family--and he--may have been butt-faced miscreants more than once, but whom among us could honestly say we could resist that delicious hunka Huntzberger? Anyone?

I’d like to call your attention to this next paragraph, as it is one of utmost importance:

Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess.  Jess.  Jess. Jess. Jess.  Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess.  Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. #alwaysacontender. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess.  Jess.  Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess.  Jess.  Jess. Jess. Jess.  Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess.  Jess.  Jess. Jess. Jess.  Jess. #ifeeltheearthmoveundermyfeet Jess. #amirightladies? Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess.  Jess.  Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess.  Jess.  Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess. Jess!

Whew! Now that I have that off my chest, let’s address a few things, in no particular order:
-I wasn’t sure about the extended steampunk scene with the Life and Death Brigade, but I’ve rarely seen A.S.P. without a top hat from the closet of the vampire Lestat, and she’s the Mommy, so she gets to say.
-What, except for that last song, which was genius, WAS that business about Stars Hollow: The Musical? Was it so we could love Sutton even more? Fine. We do. Now, Taylor, sit down and let me give you an extensive playlist of songs you’ll need for this musical. Go work on something at the Twickham House and let us handle this.
-Don’t sleep with Wookies, Rory. Especially when you have Logan (aka D.D.?) across the pond, apparently at your disposal.
-Lane, congrats on having a dad. But it took me a while to realize the pool boys fanning Rory and Lorelai were, in fact, not Steve and Quan. We needed more, like what Mrs. Kim thinks of Twitter and how Book of Mormon affected bible studies, even in 7^th Day Adventist circles.
-Not meeting Michel’s husband killed my soul.
-I really thought Rory would end up being the surrogate for the Gilmore/Danes reproduction heist.
-Paris and Doyle 4-evs. We just need to see it. Do their kids have names? What is upstairs? Madeline and Louise?
-Will there be more? What is Babette eating for breakfast these days, if not oatmeal? Who will handle the kitchen at the Dragonfly? Will Logan be involved with this child we assume is his? (My hand to God, Chewbacca can. not. have sired this child.) Will Jess be around?
-Emily Gilmore slays everything 100%.
-Go away, Paul. You don’t belong here. Rory would have dumped you sooner, but she didn’t. We don’t know why.
-Jess. Beautiful, smart, helpful Jess, peering in the window longingly after using your #biceps to help steer Rory back in the right direction. We collectively love you, Jess. We are so glad you lost that porn-stache they keep on you over at NBC.
-Writing the book is a perfect idea.

Amy, where you lead, we will follow.

In Omnia Paratus!

I remember

I remember things.

I can recall people and events, conversations and song lyrics. I remember what my brother wore on the first day of 6^th grade and the phone number of my best friend from elementary school (what’s up, 2925?!) It’s the details of things I remember, and the vestibular stuff—how it smelled, what songs were playing, how it felt. It makes for excellent stories and tender memories.

And so, I remember, on this day after summer solstice as time shrinks just a fraction and days begin to shorten, that on this day 30 years ago, I had my first kiss.

30 years. June 1986. The summer of Ferris Bueller and Top Gun and Jams and Howard Jones. It was a sweet kiss from a cute boy wearing a TransWorld t-shirt and smelling of April Fresh Downy. He was adorable and smart. I remember his phone number, still.

We were 14, so our romance, as it was, pretty much followed the vernacular of the times. He asked, “Will you go with me?”

I answered with an unequivocal, “Yes.” I did not bother to ask, “Where?”

That’s the thing about memories and time—just like after summer solstice, the days get shorter and there isn’t as much light. Last week, I was driving my daughter to the DMV to get her learner’s permit and NPR featured a story on the music of Finding Nemo. It was in preparation for the opening of Nemo’s sequel, Finding Dory. The sequel comes twelve years after we learned that Nemo was capable of navigating through the entire ocean to return safely where he belongs. Nemo was the first movie my daughter saw in a theater. She was three.

She drove us to the same theater to see Dory.

But I remember. I remember that tiny, fierce little one 13 summers ago, and I never dreamed the far away day would come when I would worry about her getting lost and navigating the entire ocean, even though I’ve always known I would search its depths endless times to find her.

What I don’t remember is how it happened so suddenly that I’m the parent, when just a brief moment ago, I was the one listening to V-100 radio and the boy dedicated a song to me. It was Glory of Love by Peter Cetera. I remember. (Kids, dedicating a song to someone back in 1986 was tantamount to “liking” their posts on social media.)

We’ve lived a lifetime in 30 years. God only knows what our paths have uncovered, what our journeys have brought. We lost touch during college, but through the miracle of Facebook I’ve reconnected with that boy who changed my summer of 1986, and changed me. He is married to a lovely person who adores him. She suffers from an autoimmune disease and he is her primary caregiver. They seem happy together. It makes me glad.

Anne Lamott says, “Remember, you own what happened to you.” And I do own every bit of it, each thing that happened to me.

Because I remember.

Wild and wonderful: the best Virginia

Recently, my hometown newspaper, The Charleston Gazette-Mail, printed a letter to the editor from Iowa 5th grader, Zoe B., asking for information about West Virginia. Zoe’s class is studying the geography and history of the United States and she is seeking information about our great Mountain Mama. Here is what she wrote:

Editor:

Hi! My name is Zoey B. I am a fifth-grade student at Harlan Intermediate School, in Harlan, Iowa.
My class is studying the geography and history of the United States.
I am excited to learn more about your state of West Virginia. I would really appreciate it if you would send me pictures, postcards, information or souvenirs on your amazing state.
My teacher, Mrs. Newlin, would like a car license plate, if possible, for a school project.
I really appreciate your time and look forward to learning more about West Virginia! Thank you!!
Zoey B.
Mrs. Newlin’s S.S. Class
Harlan Intermediate School
1401 19th St.
Harlan, IA 51537

Well, Zoe B., I’m glad you asked.

Any internet search or old timey library book can give you adequate information about West Virginia. Start there. You will find that our state flower is the Rhododendron. That was decided in 1903, and students like you helped make that decision. The state bird is the cardinal. I remember those things from my civics classes. The state colors are gold and blue. Incidentally, every school I attended K-12 featured gold and blue, too. If you're really interested, I will sing you my school fight song.

There are a few different state songs, though when a West Virginian tells someone where she is from, the person always starts singing Take Me Home Country Roads by John Denver. It is a lovely song, but John Denver was from Roswell, New Mexico.

But there are several famous folks who hail from West Virginia. Former NFL wide receiver Randy Moss and former NBA point guard Jason Williams both went to my high school and were excellent athletes. Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates, Jr. and novelist Pearl S. Buck were both born in West Virginia. Your Wikipedia search will tell you Mrs. Buck was the first woman to win the Noble Prize for Literature, but, actually, she was the fourth. Still, the honor is one we are proud of, and happy to share with others.

You should know that there are important things that happened here, like West Virginia became a state on June 20, 1863, removing us forever from being lumped into Virginia. However, don’t be surprised when you talk about West Virginia (sometimes referred to by natives as The Best Virginia) to hear your otherwise seemingly erudite colleague say, “Oh, I have cousins in Roanoke!” Roanoke, of course, is in Virginia, about four hours south east of the Mountain State. But don’t worry: apparently, 153 years is not much time for some people to get used to change.

Certainly, you will find plenty of references to the coal mining industry. It has employed and sustained thousands of families for many years. It’s hard to talk about West Virginia without the images of miners sneaking into your awareness, their eyes looking at you from bituminous faces and dusty headlamps. My grandfather was a coal miner, but I never once saw in his face the hollow eyes I saw in the text book pictures of the miners on the page. He worked hard so that his family could eat. But who I saw was PaPa, who walked me to the ball field to watch games and always had chocolate ice cream in the freezer for me. He made the best homemade gravy you’ll ever taste, and played tireless games of hide and seek, pretending not to find me when I was in the same place every time.

Your search will surely reveal maps of creeks and rivers, that run through valleys and hollows (a West Virginian may call them “hollers.”) But it may not adequately express how you can sit on the creek bank with your bare feet immersed in the cool water that runs over rocks skipped a generation ago, or more. A map won’t convey the smell of mountain air, and the sounds of mountain life. The rumble of a coal truck rushing by becomes part of life’s soundtrack in the same way rippling water does.

Like any place teeming with community and family, life in West Virginia has, on the hilly landscape, ageless stories of hard-work and heartbreak, happiness and hazard. Neighbors know each other, mostly. I used to love to ride my bike around the block, passing along the way the homes of people who knew my name. I also passed my Maw Maw’s house, where her epic barbecue was made, and it still makes my mouth water to think of it. She always had strong coffee and stronger values, and Roman Meal and Tang.

Now that I have kids of my own, one of my favorite things about taking them to visit my mom is that the mountains are all around. Whether we’re on the front porch, or the back, the mountains are inescapable—they are everywhere. You will learn, in your research, that our state motto is Montani Semper Liberi, which means Mountaineers are always free.

I miss my home sometimes, and, even though I have a lovely, good, fulfilling life in the hills of Tennessee, it is the mountains that made me.

Just like on my mom’s front porch, they are inescapable.

Orange Is The New Green And Red

I found my Christmas cards the other day, in the bottom of a bag where I keep my hopes and dreams for becoming an organized person. They were addressed and ready to go. I went ahead and dropped them by the post office. It’s an election year, so I figure people will welcome wishes of good cheer, even if the wishes come months later than I meant for them to.

I love the holidays. I really do. There is a certain cheer—an ineffable magic—in the air that I can’t ignore. Children are excited, it’s scarf weather, and we get to enjoy all those delicious holiday beverages stirred all syrupy and sweet into red cups that may or may not be sending us straight to hell.

But, there is one thing about the holiday season that I can no longer stomach, and that is the Holiday Letter. Cards, I can handle, but those letters have to go.

They are long epistles on pretty paper depicting the Currier and Ives lives people want us to see.  They abound with stories of promotions, new houses, and accomplishments about how little Suzie made straight As (again) and Junior finally made the winning goal in the All Star regional soccer championship in Where-Do-They-Live-Again?, USA. And lest we forget that epic Memorial Day Family Reunion at Gulf Shores, they graciously include a 5x7 color photo of the entire clan emblazoned with “#blessed” across the bottom.

I vow every year to do an honest holiday letter:

Dear Everyone,

 I’m sorry this letter is 12 weeks late, but I couldn’t remember to get ink for the printer. We’ve had a decent year, but we were overdrawn in our checking account at least three times. The cat continues to pee on our bed, but we finally got a new vacuum (#doghair). The kids are fine. They are constantly on some type of screen and argue too much. They have donuts and Sprite for breakfast multiple times a week. Love, The Walkers

Maybe I’ll get to it next year. If I can remember to send them out.

The truth is, I haven’t been able to take a holiday letter seriously since our family Christmas dinner involved getting a pat down by a rather large corrections officer.

A few years back, my family gathered at the Tennessee Prison for Women. We weren’t there to do a Christmas meal for the inmates, or to participate in an act of holiday service. We were there to visit my sister. She was in the middle of a five-year sentence.

It turned out to be one of my favorite Christmas memories.

After our pat downs, signatures, and rule reviews, we stepped into a tiny room and a heavy door closed behind us. In front of us was an identical door, big and solid, waiting to be unlocked. For a long moment, we were left standing in between the outside and the inside, with only little windows to show us where we had come from, and a sliver of the room to where we were going. I remember thinking that must be exactly how it was for my sister—the constant awareness of being in a tiny space where all you can see is where you’ve been and only a sliver of where you are going, and not being 100% comfortable with either.

Eventually, there was a loud buzzing, then a series of clicks and tugs, metal on metal screeching, more buzzing, and the slow pull of the door sliding open. We stepped into the prison rec room and scanned it for my sister.

There she was, across the way and on the other side of yet another barrier, smiling, waving, excited to see us. But when they opened that door for her to finally come through, she was focused primarily on one person: her daughter. She quickly made her way over to my niece, picked her up and held her close. Soon, she was introducing her to the guards and the other inmates and their families. Prison doors and protocol seem to melt away when it comes to the business of proud mothers and their daughters. My sister may have made her share of mistakes, but she knew her sweet girl wasn’t one of them, and she was delighted.

The rest of our visit wasn’t unlike our usual family holiday gatherings. There was barbecue, even if it did come out of a vending machine. There were efforts to get my daughter and my niece to settle down, and quit climbing on furniture. Again, a typical family dinner. There was singing and loud laughter and stern looks from a guard. (And if you substitute a corrections officer uniform for a Cracker Barrel uniform, it felt like a regular Sunday.)

There was Uno and soda and story-telling and remembering. There were hugs, and a few tears, and finally, goodbye.

Each year, I think of that Christmas and how our family was able to be in that moment, even as the big, heavy door slammed behind us. I am struck by how my parents, in their sixties, are raising my sister’s child, and how, now that she is out of prison, gets to be part of her raising her, too. I’m struck by the fear that there are no guarantees, that the Currier and Ives moments of our lives are fleeting and imperfect.

It doesn’t sound good in a Christmas letter, but the truth is, we all just seem to be standing in that in between place of where we’ve come from and where we’re going, waiting for the door to slide open.

Farewell, Pat Conroy

Hey, out there.

That is how Pat Conroy began every blog. But last night, we lost our most affable writer, our wordsmith, our storyteller, our low country hero, whose narratives broke our hearts and told our truths in ways no one else could.

We gave Pat Conroy a lot of power. We allowed him into our core wounds, and let him use his pen to slay our dragons. His characters lived big, unwieldy, trauma-stricken lives in places where poetry was born, where God alone created beauty. If you finish one of his novels and don’t smell like a salt marsh during low tide, then you haven’t read it right.

I recently finished my first novel. The finishing was a powerful and moving feeling, but it was the writing it that proved what I could do. When I first got the idea for my novel, I sat in front of a blank screen typing and deleting pages of aimless words, paragraphs adrift in a story-less narrative. But somewhere along the way, I began to act as if I could write a story in the vein of Conroy’s prose. It is no secret that I hold him in highest regard, and that his prose has been my bible. I have learned much about my craft from him, and have been inspired to write what I was never sure I could. And, like other Conroy fans—who are legion—I find myself in the truth he is never afraid to speak.

Last fall, when I told Pat Conroy that he makes a cameo in my novel, and the protagonist asks him to join her at Fleet Landing in Charleston for a fish sandwich, he told me to send the manuscript to his editor. I haven’t yet. I will, but I haven’t. I regret that I will never be able to actually make good on that fish sandwich.

In my book, the main character explains that she loves Conroy’s writing, and in this thinly disguised fictional account, is reading The Prince of Tides, again:

I meandered to a bench by the rose garden and pulled out my worn copy of Pat Conroy’s The Prince of Tides. I had read and re-read the book many times since college and it was falling apart. I had recently duct taped part of the cover. Dog-eared pages marked sections that I had read over and over again, relating to protagonist Tom Wingo as he narrated the tumultuous history of woundedness that lead him to that inescapable encounter and conversion with Dr. Susan Lowenstein.

I loved to read new books—I had just finished one on the merits of whole-food nutrition— but I never tired of the ineffable beauty inherent in Conroy’s prose. I connected with it, somehow. I knew there was significance and value in hundreds of other literary giants, most of them more prolific and time-honored than Conroy. Literary types made careers of critiquing the works of bigger, more influential writers, but I found my muse in stories by a military brat whose move to South Carolina, and failed attempt at teaching, yielded stories of the human condition as experienced by a low country boy whose verbose yarns always moved something inside me.
– from The Water Birth

It is true. When I reread The Prince Of Tides or Beach Music (as I am wont to do every year or so) I find that I both make sense of my wounds and tenderness, and find the creative fire that lives in my belly, stories waiting to be told. Conroy’s stories do not skip over the pain of human existence; they do not lie to the reader about deep truth, profound sadness, or bottomless pain. But when the sun rises on them—when we see what beauty unfolds—we are awed by the power of his decent fountain pen and yellow legal pad.

In My Reading Life, Conroy perfectly explains the writer’s life:
Safety is a crime writers should never commit unless they are after tenure or praise. A novelist must wrestle with all mysteries and strangeness of life itself, and anyone who does not wish to accept that grand, bone-chilling commission should write book reviews, editorials, or health-insurance policies instead. The idea of a novel should stir your blood, and you should rise to it like a lion lifting up at the smell of impala. It should be instinctual, incurable, unanswerable, and a calling, not a choice...A novel is my fingerprint, my identity card, and the writing of novels is one of the few ways I have found to approach the alter of God and creation itself. You try to worship God by performing the singularly courageous and impossible favor of knowing yourself.

His writing helps us know ourselves, and more, it helped us to know him. It has been the great pleasure of my reading and writing life to have Pat Conroy as a teacher. If Thomas Wolfe ignited in Conroy the call to become the writer he was meant to be, then it was Conroy who did the same for me.

In the epilogue to The Prince of Tides, he says, “There are last things to say.”

It will take me a while to find the last things I need to say to such a champion of words. Perhaps I never will. I am grateful I had the chance to thank him for his work, his influence, and his vulnerability. He signed my copy of My Reading Life with To Kristi, for the love of story. And I do. I love the story.

Thank you, Pat, for every word.

Of Milk And Melons

Nothing says Mother’s Day like breastfeeding, and thanks to a University of North Texas student ad campaign supporting pro-breastfeeding in public, I get to discuss my favorite topic: breastfeeding in public!

The other day, I read an article about the assignment of junior graphic-art majors Jonathan Wenske and Kris Haro, which required them to design and ad campaign for a social issue or product, as though it were for a paying client.

Their campaign, “When Nurture Calls,” features images of three different mothers nursing their babies in public bathroom stalls. The ads include such catchy phrases as “Table for Two” and “Private Dining” and they ask the question, “Would You Eat Here?”

Well, OF COURSE you would not eat your lunch in a bathroom stall is the natural conclusion most of us draw from what I thought to be a clever ad campaign.

But, as usual, the issue of public breastfeeding raises the heckles of a surprisingly large population of folks who, in their feedback to Wenske and Haro, refer to breasts as “goodies” and “sex organs.”

Really, people? 

Can we get over vilifying mothers for using their breasts for their intended purpose?

Here is the answer:  No. We cannot. Not when women continue to be objectified and our body parts seen as commodities.

I get it— breasts are fascinating. They are big and mysterious and round and sexy. But their main function is to feed babies. Face it.

Yet, the pervading idea still exists that a woman’s breasts are better served up in an erotic way, where they can be ogled freely, without her cumbersome offspring suckling them. I mean, nothing ruins a good sexual fantasy like some hungry baby getting in the way of the object of your lust. Pesky progeny. Fellas, amiright?

Have you checked out a magazine aisle lately? They are besot with covers that seem, primarily, to be an advertisement for boobies. Airbrushed photos of Hollywood’s most luscious melons adorn the covers of practically every magazine. And that’s just the women’s magazines. The men’s mags are worse.

Does the word “Maxim” mean anything to you? A quick search of the magazine title immediately yields a library of images revealing so much skin it looks like a dermatology ad. Or possibly an orgy ad. It’s kind of hard to tell. Every single cover displays lots of boobage—several covers featured completely naked women. The Sports Illustrated swim suit cover, which is currently on display at a child’s eye-level at my Walgreen’s, depicts three supermodels, clad only in thongs and naked from the waist up.

Yeah. But they aren’t nursing babies, so, you know, no public outcry over the juicy doubles that jump out and smack you up side the head. I guess it’s only erogenous female breasts used to sell sex (or cologne, cars, make up, cheeseburgers) that we will tolerate in public. I mean, Carl’s Jr.and GoDaddy treat us to several minutes of soft porn every Super Bowl Sunday.

It’s a topic that continues to push my buttons, long after the last of my 11-year milk supply has dried up. But I still stand with any mother who wishes to feed her child without being accused of trotting out her “goodies” or “sex organs," when all she really aims to do is sooth, nurture and nourish her child.

I say, make yourself at home, Mother, whether you are in the lobby of your bank, the Target shoe department, or the Cracker Barrel. Most people will understand that you are feeding your child, not tempting other patrons with your milky, sore, tired breasts that you vaguely remember being second-trimester-perky.

There will still be those that stare at your chest, insulted by your brazen resolve to feed your baby. Don’t mind them. They’re just a handful of misguided haters.

And more than a handful is a waste.

(Un)Happy Feet

I really need to get my self-care on.

The thing that really tipped me off is that all these other women are gallivanting around with fresh pedicures and new sandals, and I’m over here shredding paper with my ignored-all-winter feet.

Not only that, but I have some real old lady problems starting to develop south of the ankle. I’m talking bunions, calluses and—God forbid—warts. I also noticed a rather pronounced pronation when I tried to wear fake Ugg boots, ended up seeing a podiatrist, and left with orthotics.

This morning I tried to take matters into my own hands and use a callous remover to shave a plantar wart off my foot. This wart has become my nemesis. It causes me serious stress, standing in the way of me and a glorious, new flip-flop debut with a nice pedicure.

So I decided to fix it. Only I went a little too far, and, well, let’s just say the result was a blood bath akin to the shower scene in Psycho. It seemed innocent enough, but this one, tiny area opened up and I thought God was punishing me with some sort of blood-plague for judging the other pretty-pedied women while all I can manage to pull off by the way of sandals are Keens and Birkenstocks. That’s fine for a while, but this hippie stuff can’t go on forever. Eventually, Momma’s gonna need a sexy heel without my Achilles heel—this damn wart—bringing me down.

I’ve been avoiding treating the wart because it seems like a lot of work. Per my doctor, I should brush this smelly compound solution on it every day and—wait for it—cover the whole thing with duct tape. All the time. Unless I’m in the shower.

Am I being punk’d? Duct tape? I can’t wear a sexy summer sandal if I’m going around looking like the Tin Man from the ankle down.

At least now, for some reason, decorative duct tape is a really big draw for girls’, ages 7—14, who like to spiff up their lockers, notebooks, backpacks, and other belongings. A quick search of my 7-year-old’s junk drawer yielded two different rolls of duct tape, which I aim to use in the coming days: a pink and black zebra print and the Minions from Despicable Me. These stylish finds have me happier than Pharrell Williams every time he turns on the radio.

I’m committed to working on this religiously until I hit the beach in roughly five weeks. If it doesn’t work, you can blame my podiatrist.

She’ll be the one confined to her office chair with Minion duct tape while Pharrell’s Happy plays on a continuous loop in the background.

Have Van, Will Travel

Last year, we were packing the car for a family vacation, when the kids expressed concern that they were cramped in the back seat.

By “expressed concern,” I actually mean complained loudly to me while their father was busy packing the trunk as though it were a 5000-piece Ravensburger puzzle.

“I don’t have any room!”

“Get your feet off my side!”

“Mommy! She’s touching me!”

“Do we have to hold the beach chairs in our laps?!”

“I just don’t get the fuss,” I lectured, as we packed the Ford Taurus to the max, shoving duffle bags in-between the three of them. They could barely buckle their seatbelts without giving one another crippling wedgies.

“We’ll be fine,” I said cheerily. “We’ll play the License Plate game. Just like when I was a kid.”

Then we drove a sedan twelve hours to the beach. And back.

I hadn’t even so much as shaken the sand out of the beach towels before I was test driving vans off the nearest car lot.

That is all a distant memory now because of The Van. The Van changed everything.

From the minute we traded in our former ride, we’ve been traveling in style. Nothing squeaks, squeals or leaks. When I drop the kids off at school, I feel like I’m rolling up in a limo—where everyone has space, and no one has to prop their legs up on a cooler from here to North Myrtle Beach. Sometimes, I try to flash the other mommies in nice vans a secret hand symbol, but they seem to think I'm flipping the bird. Again.

The Van is clean. Due to my strongly-worded speech to everyone who enters it, the outside of The Van remains white and shiny, and the inside—oh, the inside—is totally void of the errant French fries and Capri Sun stains that sullied the old car. I found a half-empty Sonic drink in a cup holder the other day and almost had to take a Xanax.

But the piece de resistance of The Van is something I thought I would never, ever succumb to: the DVD player.

That’s right, another screen for the kids to stare at. Yes, we went there. It has been featuring Disney's Frozen on a constant loop for weeks. But what do I care? I also bought 3 wireless headsets.

Don't judge.

Say what you want about it, but I’m telling you, on a recent holiday road trip, that DVD player was the only thing keeping me from impaling myself on a mile marker.

But somewhere between Lexington and Nashville, I popped Annie into that DVD player and things got quiet. I glanced in the rearview mirror to find all three kids crammed into the third-row seat, snuggled under the same blanket and watching together.

I guess being packed in tight with your siblings isn’t always such a hard knock life after all.

Who knew it would take the finale of How I Met Your Mother to get me back on blog duty?

But, kids, there is much to say, and this is where I get to have mine. (Also, I listed my blog on a bio for something over at a humor writers’ site and I don’t want the Erma Bombeck people there to think I’m resting on my laurels, lying around and watching sitcoms.)

But, seriously! What an ending, right?

I liked it. I found it a satisfying wrap for the gang at MacLaren’s.

Ted ends up with Robin. I saw this coming, even from episode one, and I rooted for it through all nine seasons, without sway. I’ll admit, when Cristin Milioti came along, especially when she sang La Vie en Rose while Ted listened just inches away, it was tempting to imagine she and Ted together forevs.

But, for Ted, it was always Robin. If I may borrow some language from that OTHER show that ran for a decade about a tight-knit group of New Yorkers who like to hang out at their favorite local watering hole, “She’s his lobster.”

Ten years ago, barely a year before Ted met Robin, we waited with bated breath to see if Ross would indeed end up with Rachel. And we all know what happened. She got off the plane.

So, why the kerfuffle over Ted and Robin?

I mean Ross was married and divorced three times before he and Rachel finally ceased “taking a break” forever and got together. And we celebrated.

Like HIMYM, Friends featured an adorable couple who we knew would survive the long haul. It featured a sex addict whose sad choices to have indiscriminant sex with hundreds of women was made “cute” because, well, again, the characters are fictional. Of course, there was Phoebe.  And, it featured a decade-long question mark over whether or not, in the end, the meant-to-be couple was truly meant-to-be. While Friends was moving on from the West Village, things were heating up on the Upper West Side for Teddy West Side and the gang.

In my world of sitcom happily-ever-afters, Ted and Robin are together. Yes, Ted loved the mother (who we now know as Tracy) and, honestly, we all did. She was awesome. And then (Thanks for keeping it real, Carter Bays and Craig Thomas!) she died.

Really, the idea that she died is no less believable than the idea that we could expect womanizing sex addict Barney Stinson to be able to sustain a faithful marriage without in-patient treatment and years of therapy. But the entire group would need to sober up to stage THAT intervention, wouldn’t they?

And let’s face it: the only reason we could even tolerate a character as foul as Barney is because Neil Patrick Harris is the most winsome individual ever to grace the planet and we forgive him instantly for his indiscretions. Anyone else (maybe even the way-less adorable Joey Tribbiani), we would knee in the crotch and hate forever. NPH makes Barney lovable.

He reeled us in one final time when he uttered those sweet, sweet words to his new daughter only moments after behaving like an ass in the waiting room. It’s the way of Barney. We allowed it for nine years. We have to let him keep being Barney. Even still, we can believe that he goes on to love his child and Suit Up while Manning Up.

In my romantic, love-never-gives-up heart, Ted and Robin were meant to be. I’ve always rooted for love for my favorite characters. Of course I love (and relate to) Lily and Marshall. I wanted Rachel with Ross. I wanted Loralai with Luke. I wanted Kurt with Blaine. I even wanted Joanie with Chachi. (I’ve been watching sitcoms for a long time.)

But people seem to feel duped that Ted ended up with Robin.

Um, haaaaaave you met Ted?

Ted has loved the mother without a trace of duplicity. He said of her, void of usual sitcom cheesy comedy:

 “If I hadn’t gone through Hell to get there, the lesson might not have been as clear. You see kids, right from the moment I met your mom, I knew I have to love this woman as much as I can for as long as I can and I can never stop loving her even for a second. I carried that lesson with me through every stupid fight we ever had, every 5 AM Christmas morning, every sleepy Sunday afternoon, through every speed bump, every pang of jealousy or boredom or uncertainty that came our way. I carried that lesson with me, and I carried it with me when she got sick. Even then in what can only be called the worst of times, all I could do was thank God, thank every God there is or ever was or will be and the whole universe and anyone else I could possibly thank that I saw that beautiful girl on that train platform and that I had the guts to stand up, walk over to her, tap her on the shoulder, open my mouth and speak.”

Ted kept believing in love and found it.

Even through heartbreak, in the end, the man who made it rain delivered a blue French horn to an apartment in Brooklyn.

Legendary.

 

The Really Awesome Mostly Decent Parents Guide to the Happiest Place on Earth

Well, the Walkers are going to Disney World!

According to the custom-made Disney trivia paper chain that hangs in our kitchen, we are just a few short chain links away from the happiest place on earth!

We’re all very excited. We’ve been preparing for a while, and getting all of us ready for a trip to the Family Capital of the Entire Free World—Orlando—is no easy task.

The way I see it, there are two main categories in planning a successful Disney visit:

1. Basic magic

2. Ultra magic

Basic Magic
Basic magic, commonly known as “you’re laughable as a parent” is for simpletons who barely care anything at all for their offspring. Basic magic may include a ticket to the parks (all four—only one park ticket kicks you down to “limited basic magic”) and a souvenir light-up Mickey lanyard (estimated cost: your dignity, which you left in Pluto Parking Lot when you realized all the other families arrived two hours ago for “extra magic hours.”) You will not be getting a Fast Pass for any ride. You certainly won’t get into the new Be Our Guest Restaurant for any reason, not even a counter service meal. Maybe, if you are extremely lucky, your kids won’t notice what a dolt you are and you can snag them a turkey leg over in Frontierland. If not, you may as well throw yourself off the top of Splash Mountain.

Ultra Magic
Ultra Magic is a tricky place to be. Often referred to as “Mickey’s fantastical, extraordinary, fantabulous, if-you-love-your-kids-you’ll-do-this magic,” Ultra Magic parents are savvy enough to stay on Disney Property and purchase the meal plan, which costs approximately what you spent on your wedding reception, if you had your reception at The Plaza, offered an open bar and invited Lindsay Lohan.

But do not be fooled: staying on site and having the meal plan is totally worth it. Nobody takes their kids to Disney only to make them eat Lunchables out of a cooler in the trunk of the minivan. Don’t be those parents; spring for the plan. A big perk is that, if you have food sensitivities, your chef will accommodate you, sometimes even coming to your table to visit and design your meal. That’s some Ultra Magic, right there.

One common mistake of Ultra Magic parents is assuming that they can get into a “character meal” less than a full millennium before the meal takes place. We made this very mistake when we tried to get five seats at Cinderella’s Royal Table three months before our trip. Our reservation specialist laughed out loud and we could actually HEAR her giant eye roll through the phone.

A similar experience happened when I tried to schedule an appointment for my daughter and two nieces at the—wait for it—Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique. I know, I know. But listen: this boutique is inside Cinderella’s castle, staffed by several “fairy godmothers.” I mean, if a gal is going to get gussied up for a special day, the castle is the place to do it!

But no can do, apparently, unless you actually ARE Cinderella. The guy on the phone gasped loudly, as though I’m the kind of parent who drives a school bus, drunk, to deliver drugs to children while running over puppies. He said, “Nooooooo ma’am. We are booked through the end of the year. I MAY, however, have an opening at the Downtown Disney location.” That was his magical way of saying, “There is an opening in steerage, riff raff. Too bad you didn’t call me while your little princess was still in utero. Parenting fail.”

Still, there are ways to score some Ultra Magic specials, which—let’s be honest—all of us would go to great lengths to do for our kids. Here is how to get a seat at a character meal:

They book 180 days early and that's no joke. Calibrate your cell phone to the U.S. Naval Observatory Master clock and begin calling exactly six months before your visit to Disney, even if you don’t know you’re going yet. Trust me. Do this. Also be prepared to offer your first born, a pocket-full of doubloons and a single hair from a virgin mermaid. Pray nightly under the glow of the second star to the right; pray on until morning.

Once your big table meal is squared away, you will have the opportunity to separate yourself from the rest of us crappy parents who neglected to get a reservation at Cinderella’s Royal Table while the jelly from our “it’s a girl” ultrasound was still cold.

You can rise above your meager Ultra (although still marginally basic) Magic status by almost killing yourself with ten thousand magic details. My favorite is Tinkerbell gifts (think mini-Christmas gifts left in your room while your kids sleep happily.) It’s a fun way to distribute sunglasses, headbands and t-shirts that the regular parents just pack, without a trace of magic. Charlatans!  Oh, and for God’s sake do NOT forget to see that Tinkerbell sprinkles magic pixie dust, which can be purchased at any corner Pixie Dust Shoppe in Neverland, in a trail from her treasures to the door or window. It’s enchanting for the kiddos, and the Disney staff just get a hoot out of how magical that stuff is to vacuum up!

Other advanced Ultra Magic parenting tips include:
-trading Disney pins with other guests and Disney staff. I have no idea what that means, but I think it’s like magic Pokémon cards.
-making sure to have an autograph book for all your child’s favorite characters to sign. Have your Sharpie ready. You don’t want to see what kind of black magic unfolds when the Evil Queen from Snow White has to wait while you uncap a pen.
-interactive scavenger hunts in the parks. Fun stuff!
-matching family t-shirts. Just do it. At least get monogrammed mouse ears. If you don’t, you obviously are cruel and hate your own children.
-keep in mind you might want to injure someone upon your return home, like, say, the server at O’Charleys who refuses to accept your Magic Your Way card for payment and doesn’t tell you to "have a magical day." Prepare yourself for re-immersion. It’s not such a magical feeling. You should purchase the $300457902358304670394850293850945.99 Photo Fun Pack to keep reminding you of all the fun you had.

I think there is even a tier of secret magic that gets you to the upper echelon of all that charms any Disney fan. People in this stratum get reservations at tables usually reserved for those with the last names Winfrey, Christ or Jolie-Pitt. Here, parents make reservations promptly on time (20 years prior to visit) and spend endless hours of fun being together, making the most magical of memories.

Wait a minute! Endless hours of fun? Magical memories? Being together? That sounds exactly like a Walker Family Vacation! What a relief! I’m thrilled to be going to Disney World—I won’t even pretend I’m not over the moon—and am extra happy to be there with grandparents, in-laws and cousins.

But I find it simply magical that whenever I am together with my little nest—the Walker 5—THAT is the happiest place on earth.

 

Hey, out there

Hey, out there,

As usual, I am approximately six weeks behind in getting another blog posted. It’s a chronic dilemma, and one for which I offer no excuses, except life is what it is and there you have it.

My salutation—hey, out there—has presented itself to me twice all ready today, and it is only 1:08 in the afternoon. I thought it was significant enough to mention. The first was a rather pithy Facebook repost of the common (though, frequently amusing and even helpful) grammar lessons people are fond of. The author of that piece cautioned writers against using the term “hey, out there,” noting that it is unprofessional and puts distance between writer and reader. Out where, the author wants to know? Bring readers in, she cautions, don’t keep them “out there.”

But the next time I came across “hey, out there” as a salutation was while I happily read over the website of Pat Conroy, who, if you don’t know by now, is my favorite author. I do that from time to time to find inspiration, or to avoid my own writing.  I was comforted to find that Pat, like me, has not been altogether prompt about new blog posts of his own. Of course, he has been working on his 10^th book, so that gives him a bit of an excuse. But the point I make here is that if “hey, out there” is good enough for Pat Conroy, it is certainly good enough for me.

I recently read an article in Psychology Today about writer’s block. Not surprisingly, it’s a form of perfectionism that cripples us with the threat of getting words down on paper that will never measure up to the way they are arranged in our heads. It’s a sad case of “A means Adequate, B means failure.”

I liken it to letting someone hold my newborn child. It’s a short list. Not just anyone gets to hold my baby. If you have a weird vibe, you look shifty, you are not a board certified pediatrician, or you don’t remind me in the slightest of Mother Teresa, you don’t get to hold my newborn.

So it is with my writing—especially my novel. For a while, only two people other than me were privy to the inner workings of my novel, and one of them had to listen to me read it aloud, lest I decide suddenly that I had changed my mind. This is an excellent way to practice perfectionism, but a terrible way to finish a novel. When that happens, the idea remains in my head, never risking the mess of words tumbling out onto blank pages, filling margins with tales and tragedies and salvation for characters I’ve come to know and love.

But slowly, gradually, I’ve widened the circle to include a few other trusted readers whose appearance on my short list is by invitation only. Some of the select few were randomly chosen; others were there from the first paragraph, which everyone knows is the hardest one to get on paper.

I’m trying to take the centuries-old advice from Phillip Sydney, whose Elizabethan sonnets are considered, after Shakespeare’s, to be the best sonnets of his age. In Astrophel and Stella, Sydney says,

“Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
"Fool!" said my muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write.” 

I’m guessing he spent a minute or two hesitating to share them, wondering if the damn Bard would cool his ink well long enough for someone else to get a sonnet or two out there.

“Hey, out there,” I’ll bet he said to his waiting public, “have a read.” But before he did that, he had to do the one thing that writers absolutely have to do to call ourselves writers.

He had to write.

 

Uganda: Part 1

So, how was it?

It’s hard to believe it has already been three weeks since I participated in a mission trip to Uganda, Africa with my husband, daughter and several others.

 

It seemed like such a long preparation for this 12-day trip. We had to prepare for the commitment to go, the money to get us there, and arrangements for the kids too young to accompany us. And the packing—dear Lord, the packing! The preparations started over a year ago.

But now that we’re all safely home and resuming something like a typical schedule, our kind and wonderful friends and families want to know about the trip. Oh, how I want to tell them! I want to share, with each one who asks, how the mission came about, how it affected me and how I want to stay involved.

But I find that I’m still processing it myself.

I really, truly appreciate the genuine interest in the mission trip. In fact, if you haven’t heard about it yet, please ask me! But if I hesitate slightly before answering, it’s not that I don’t want to share about it; it’s that I DO.  Sometimes I even find myself searching for the words to say, and it is a rare and highly uncommon thing to find me at a loss for words.

 

But the truth is that in the seconds following the inevitable question from folks—“So? How was it?”—I feel myself transported to the late-June Ugandan landscape and wondering exactly what and how much to share.

 

How can I convey the sights, smells and scenery of this east African country, the Pearl of Africa? I’ll bet no one expects to hear how everything smelled vaguely of diesel fuel, body odor and earth for 10 days, and coming home to Tide with Downey wasn’t quite as April-fresh as I’d imagined. I miss Uganda.

 

Can I create for someone the pleasure of the nearly 50 individuals that took ten days to become friends, and how these Nashvillians (not to mention a few Indianans, Californians and Mississippians) have already scheduled a mid-August get-together, because, frankly, there is an understanding among us now that we value and want to share over and over.

 

Further, can I relay how an entire team of Americans and Ugandans—a bit timid on that first night after an exhausting 8,000 mile journey, and the hard work that went into preparing it—were clinging to each other that last Friday at Good Samaritan school, not wanting to say goodbye to new and beloved friends?

 

Do I share about the translators, helpers, leaders, and servants who gave of their time and selves to accommodate we “mzungus”?

 

How do I express the freedom in worship I witnessed as my Ugandan brothers and sisters stood, hands raised in devotion, thanking and praising God?

Surely they should know how grateful we were for Ms. Rebecca, who fed us so well—two meals a day, in addition to feeding over a thousand children and adults. Her meals were produced from a “kitchen” without water and electricity, her giant pots simmering over a wood fire and her small army of helpers smiling our way, bringing our daily bread and constant lessons in gratitude and appreciation.

Is there a way to explain the feelings of excitement, joy and even guilt at the unprecedented welcome we received when we reached a point along the rural dirt road and had to walk the rest of the way into to village while throngs of children sang us into their lives? Maybe they want to know about the wide smiles and warm hugs of the thousands who touched me that day—literally, physically touched me— saying, “Welcome! You are welcome!”

How do I tell them that I’m still processing the moment I heard that my friend Sarah had saved the life a 10-day old baby whose mother died delivering him?

What about a day or two later when the severely malnourished boy was brought to the clinic, 8-years old and weighing only 18 pounds, and our medical team sought long-term, permanent help for him, continuing even now to monitor his progress?

How about the 11-year old epileptic that came to Raise the Roof Academy telling of how no other school would take him because of his health issues, but left, not only as a Raise the Roof student, but as the sponsored child of one our own medical workers?

How do I explain the 87 sixth grade children that filed into my VBS craft class one hot Tuesday morning, every single one of them without shoes, feet shuffling among tiny cloud-puffs of red African dirt?

How do I convey that, at least three times a day, a new batch of Ugandan children came into that room, eager and happy about what we were doing, and from then on, as I walked among the children outside, they ran up to me, palms raised, shouting, “High five! High five!”

Do I tell them of the morning I sat among the children at breakfast and held out my hand for my usual “high five” and a kindergarten-aged child placed his only slice of bread in my hand without hesitation or thought, and how I choked up so badly that I couldn’t speak for several minutes, instead pulling the child onto my lap and watching that generous little heart laugh with his classmates?

I want to give details of how we met our precious sponsored child, Bankiya Madda, and how her family received us with a moving and graceful hospitality. They fed us a veritable feast, giving us a place of honor in their home and gifting us with a kindness we could barely process.

Will I think to tell them that Madda’s favorite color is orange, that she is bright and beautiful and quite shy? Should I include how cute it is when she answers in the affirmative with a slight raise of her eyebrows when she gives a soft, “Yes”?

Can I talk about my daughter? Is it okay to tell them how she jumped off that bus immediately and threw herself into those children with all she had? I want to tell them how, when Madda had a fever, my Julia scooped her up and marched her to the clinic announcing, “This child needs to be seen!”

I want share with them the fear and concern I had about Madda getting home that afternoon with a fever, because she walks miles to school every day.

And what of the mothers? Do I tell people of the lump that forms in my throat every time I think of those dark-skinned, beautiful, hard-scrabble mothers going to any length—even in the most difficult of circumstances—to see that their children have a better life? The chance at an education? Enough to eat?

I think they will want to hear about the old African man that stopped my husband on the first day and with a leathery, aged hand, pulled him close and said, “Thank you for loving Africa.”

What about how my husband was as fulfilled and content with his work as I’ve seen him in over a year?

Then, what about the funny stuff? We could tell endless, hilarious tales about drowned lizards, the chicken dance, the chicken GIFTS, mzungus taking care of babies and the great balloon stampede of 2013.

Surely everyone will enjoy the story of how, on July the 4^th in a tiny, little village, hours down a dusty African road, nearly 50 Americans stood among a group of loving Ugandans, hands over hearts, and belted out our national anthem.

Uganda was all these things and many more.

Mostly what I’ve been saying when someone asks me about the mission is, “Oh, wow. It was awesome.” But now you all know what I’m really thinking. You know that in the split second before I respond, a thousand meaningful, heart-breaking, uplifting stories flash in my mind.

So if you ask me about Uganda, and I pause ever so slightly, please know that I’m searching for the right words to tell you about my trip. Maybe I’ll try to be brief. Maybe I’ll pull you into an hour-long synopsis and show you pictures. More than likely, I’ll continue with a series of other blog posts about it in the coming weeks.

But maybe, just maybe, I’ll come up with just the right words, and you’ll understand what I mean when I give you a faraway look and say, “Oh, wow. It was awesome."

And y’all, it really was.

 

 

___________________________________________________________________________________

If you aren’t familiar with Raise the Roof, the organization we went to support, please read about them here and consider getting involved: www.raisetheroofinc.org.

 

Of hills, hillbillies and home

Do people even know anything about West Virginia?

When you tell people you’re headed to a family reunion in the Mountain State, they either start singing John Denver’s Take Me Home, Country Roads (like we’ve never heard that before) or they tell you they have people down in Roanoke, which is fantastic, except that Roanoke, being in the Commonwealth of Virginia, is in a whole other state. It’s been that way since June of 1863. Look it up. (BTdubs, happy 150^th birthday, Mountain Mama!)

Granted, there have been many attempts—some, quite successful—to exploit and poke fun at West Virginians. The most recent was the short-lived MTV reality show, Buckwild which featured Charleston-area teens engaged in various activities in their rural areas. Naturally, it perpetuated negative stereotypes of West Virginians, essentially doing for them what Jersey Shore and Here Comes Honey Boo Boo did for the casts of their shows: it paid them to be obnoxious caricatures of their worst selves and duped them into mistaking infamy for fame.

Not that there aren’t plenty of mountaineers who are like that for free.

Last weekend, during a visit to my home, I had such a run-in. I was in the parking lot of the local Kroger and happened to be wearing my Downton Abbey t-shirt that says, “Free Bates.”(If you watch Downton, you know what that’s about. If you don’t, why are you still reading this? You should be ordering seasons 1-3 at pbs.org this minute.)

As I neared the store entrance, a bearded woodsman in the passenger seat of a mud-covered pickup truck stopped me. I solemnly swear this is how it went down:

Bearded Woodsman: Hi. (He made it sound a tiny bit creepy.)

Me (smiling): Hey.

BW: What’s that shirt say? “Free” what?

Me: Free Bates.

BW: *crickets chirping*

Getting the feeling that he might not be altogether familiar with Masterpiece Classics or the Crawleys, I offered a quick explanation.

Me: Bates is a fictional character on a television show I like.

BW (with a sly grin): Oh. That’s cool. I thought it said “Free Bites.”

Um, you wish, Grizzly Adams. You wish.

That trip home was epic for me. I got to attend a family reunion AND the Belle Town Fair! I finished it off with a little visit to the Dairy Winkle, the site of some pretty awesome onion rings and an enviable West Virginia-style English dog.

Not to brag, but back in the day, I participated in the Belle Town Fair Parade as a Belle Bulldog Majorette. So, as you might imagine, I was quite thrilled to realize that my visit coincided with such an extravaganza. Even if I did forget my baton. And if majorettes haven’t existed in 20 years.

Still, I was ready for the parade!

I may have romanticized it a little, but really, it was not the spectacle I remembered. I was happy, however, to overhear my mother refer to me as “The Shizzle” when she proudly recounted to my children my stint as co-captain of the squad.

(And, as you can see in the picture below, I [front left] was indeed rocking the boots and baton at the Belle Town Fair parade, circa 1979. And check out those lovely WV hills behind me.)

We walked from my mom’s house to the parade, visited the fair and meandered back home. My husband loved the small town-ness of it, and it’s true—it did feel very River City Iowa, very Music Man. I half-expected Mrs. Eulalie Mackecknie Shinn to sneak up onto the podium at the coronation of Miss Belle.

We were taken by the mayor, whose approach to politics seemed to be genuine and earnest, and at times even funny and politically incorrect without him even knowing or caring.

We also liked the lady who didn’t have enough cash to make change when we paid for our hot dogs and simply told us to “come back and pay later.” We did.

I enjoyed that comfort of being raised in a place where 23 years after I moved to another city, people recognize me, saying, “Oh, honey, you look exactly like you did as a girl!” and “Those kids have to belong to you, girl, they are your spitting image!” Some people I didn’t even recognize called me by name.

But it was the Nelson Family Reunion that took me there. The Nelsons—my mom’s side—gathered for a long-overdue family reunion at Point Lick Park, the Campbell’s Creek site where my Aunt Pat used to take me, before I was old enough to have memories. But my soul remembers, and because of that, Aunt Pat was there, too.

I reconnected with a cousin I hadn’t seen in years, whom I always thought seemed older than I was. Turns out, she’s only two years older than me, and just as funny!

It didn’t take long for some of the old family stories to be retold. We heard the hilarious story of how Uncle Tykes reacted to a man on the moon, and recounted the times when my Paw Paw’s sisters would gather to make fudge in Aunt Dell’s tiny kitchen, the sound of a stirring spoon, heavy across the bottom of a cast iron skillet.

I heard, for what seemed the first time, of cousin Buster who lied at age 16 so he could join the service and went on to become a POW in WWII.  I must have heard of Buster and his story dozens of times, but it wasn’t until someone showed me his picture and I saw his sister wearing a POW pin with the piece of a retired flag on her blouse that it connected somehow. In his picture, he was young, beautiful and mischievous. His eyes, that same blue I’ve recognized in other Nelsons, shone behind a freckle-faced, dimpled grin.

We remembered the Nelsons who had gone on to their own reunion, the ones whose lives were harder than ours, and who were back together again just the way they always liked to be; the way we were that evening at the park.

There were no stereotypes around that table—just a group of good, honest, loving family members lucky enough to know the unique life of hard-working West Virginians.

I watched my kids playing ball and running around with their cousins in that valley, in the shadow of those great, green hills, the way I had as a child, and my mom had before that. I kept taking pictures of the children as they played, and found myself adjusting the zoom to include the mountains around us, as though I wanted to give my pictures a context.

Those mountains, it turns out, are always a part of my picture.