26 Years . . .

In 1984, me, my mom and my three younger siblings pulled into the small mountain town of La Veta, Colorado and made it our home for a time. Little did I know that a pair of modest dark pink shorts would lead me to meet my future husband, Jimmy Valdez. He found a way to meet the new girl in town who preferred to don bright colors and didn't mind swinging a 4-foot-long dead snake through the air. What was he thinking? But that's how the big romance began: he liked the way I wore them shorts, and I liked the way his 501's wore him! 

We 'dated' briefly. I recall a double-date with my sister and her beau at the time to the drive-in movie for an Indiana Jones flick; the one with the monkey brains served from their heads. My glasses were broken and my two brothers sat atop the truck cab with their legs dangling in the windshield: I can't recall much about the rest of the show. Around my neck on a long silver chain rested Jimmy's class ring; it attended John Mall High School with me in Walsenburg, CO during the first month of 9th grade. I penned dozens of love poems to him and read them to my girlfriends. But, alas, we eventually parted ways. Long-distance romance and age difference too difficult to handle. While he continued on with college and football and his family and social life, I headed north to Alaska. And then on to a wee country called Israel where I beheld the Sea of Galilee by moonlight, experienced Jerusalem, and stayed and worked on a moshav by the Golan Heights. 

When I returned to America, I finished my high school years at Livingston High in Livingston, CA, living first with my Uncle Sonny & Aunt Edyne and then my Grandma Opal. Upon graduating, fear of the unknown led me to ditch a full-ride college scholarship to UC Santa Cruz and head to the one state where I still knew someone from my nomadic past: Colorado and Laurie Geiser, cousin to one Jimmy Valdez. I hadn't been in touch with him since leaving 4 years earlier, but who was sitting in the living room of the apartment Laur shared with her sister but my future husband? Even more handsome and quiet than before. And capable of tongue-tying me with just a look. I won't even try to describe what his longer-than-necessary handshake did to me. It would take a couple of months before we would bridge the chemistry between us and begin the dating process officially. But we did. The All-American boy and the rather odd gypsy-for-Jesus girl. 

There was nothing easy about those first years of marriage. We got it all backward. We rather grew up together. We didn't begin as best friends but instead eased into a partnership and friendship in between raising babies and learning just how very different we were. And our life as husband and wife didn't play out on some deserted island but in the midst of two large, loud and strong-willed families. There was no fairy tale. What there was we'll call good old-fashioned real life. Often hard and fast. Sometimes the effort to hang on was 80% - 20% in MY court; other times 10% - 90% in HIS court. That 50/50 thing is NOT a rule. When it seemed WE had our act together, actions on the periphery would reverberate in our world and knock us about. Just in my family alone there was enough beyond-the-pale, truly earth-shattering, uncomfortable-to-say-the-very-least 'stuff' to scare off a good man. It was at those times that my eyes would open wider to the true character of my Jimmy and humble me. And I'm quite confident that if you asked him, he would express the same sentiment. 

Reflecting upon 26 years together -- and Jimmy is the spouse who has had to remind the other of the date and actual anniversary year -- there are mornings where I wake up and look at my man and feel like we are two battered prizefighters the day after a championship match in which the outcome was a draw and we chose to surrender and share the heavy belt, each of us holding up one end high over our heads in the most Rocky-esque of ways. But we fought, and are fighting, the good fight. Not one against the other any longer but against the outside forces which would seek to come between us. THAT is our reward. Real life has not stopped in its barrage. But real life has also not stopped in the reaping of rewards. Rewards which emerge through surviving and thriving. A trio of children who giggle AT us and WITH us. A continued physical and emotional attraction, and a deep affection, between us as husband and wife. Both of us seeking Christ together in our imperfect human ways. It's a toss-up as to who makes the other laugh harder (though last night I think I earned the point). We feel incredibly comfortable with one another but still find ways to surprise. And the stable of nicknames Jimmy has trotted out for me over the span of 2 1/2+ decades reveal just how much he thinks of me. 

The sense of pride which accompanies my anniversaries as the years pile on stems from the truth of marriage and not the dream. Marriage takes effort. Marriage is work. And like any job well done, there is satisfaction and pleasure to show for it. I've no wish to repeat anything. No request for a do-over. Whatever mistakes were made, and those won't be tallied on my finger and toes, it's how we reacted, revived and recovered. Jimmy and I could be a divorce statistic. We came close a few times. I'm glad we had the support and stubbornness to bounce back. Because most mornings, I wake up and gaze at my prizefighter . . . and I just wanna kiss him until he can't breathe!!!

Happy 26th Anniversary, my Jimmy-Jimmers-Jimbo. Your 'Dolly' loves you in ways she couldn't begin to understand, much less imagine, all those many years ago.

Thanks for rescuing me, my love.  I hope I've rescued you right back.

10 Things You May Not Know About (My) Life In Virginia

1) My mom instilled in me a love for actual physical mail.  Snail mail is what we call it now.  This card awaited me in the mailbox on Saturday morning.  SO well-timed and fitting to several situations milling about in my life right about now.  In this vein, I set a goal to send 3 pieces of personal mail a week to my people.  This past week, one of my mailings caused water to leak from someone's eyes.  (This was her husband's expression; she flat out stated on Facebook that I made her cry.)  Fist pump for me!

2)  I unearthed a bargain frame in mint condition for my free 16x20 enlargement from Shutterfly of the above photo.  When my eldest daughter's June wedding comes to mind, I can't help but smile at how utterly fantastic a shindig it was . . . even if I do say so myself.  My friends and my big sis and her husband rescued me from an endeavor which threatened to engulf me in it's final scope and execution.  And the sheer happiness of the bride and groom was reward enough to make even my 2nd degree burn worth the pain and grossness.  My three children, those delightful and challenging fruit of my womb, all came together under one celebratory and lit-up roof: my girls so thrilled to share space in the same city after two years, my son deeply happy to appreciate TWO brothers-in-law.  WHAT. A. DAY.  I miss my girls.  This pic hangs above the television in the bedroom my hubby and I share at our friend's beautiful home.  Whenever I look at it, I feel like the gang's all here.

3)  Because my son was injured on the job in Tennessee, his Navy plans were put on hold AND he was forced to make the trip to Virginia with his mama (he loves to yell out for me with a bit of a Southern lilt in his voice, "Ma-MA!) and dad.  With no friends and no job, collecting a bit of unemployment at an awfully young age, waiting for his knee and hip to heal enough to allow for the physical activity and freedom most young men crave and need, his main source of company -- outside of Hankie Mutt and Gracie Helen and the television -- is moi.  Not really the dream scenario for a boy fresh outta high school, on the cusp of young adulthood and all of the discovery therein!  But somewhere in all of that, we've managed to discover fun and repair a portion of the distance between us that wriggled it's way in last year.  I'm so-o-o good with that!  (Though he doesn't like the goofy black and white pic I included, it's here because I think he rather strongly resembles me in the shot.  Do you see it?)

4)  The phrase 'partners-in-crime' has taken on new meaning for me.  And, 'like father, like son.'  I could probably name a few others if I searched my brain, but why?  Methinks those two express it all.  Have you ever been teased in stereo?  I can't win!  There's no extra girl to tip the balance in my favor these days . . . and OH! are these men reveling in their power.  And the boy has taken his dad out for golf and dinner and a movie over the past couple of weeks.  Though the mom in me would prefer to see him save his meager bucks, there are worse ways to fritter away one's earnings.  In some ways, his injury was the best thing to happen to us.  ALL of us.  We're building memories.  When his inevitable departure from the nest becomes a reality, our brief but glorious days here will sustain us.  

  

5)  Until I'm able to facilitate an actual visit to the island country of New Zealand, where mountains, coasts, plains and rain forest all manage to coexist in incredibly gorgeous harmony, I've enjoyed testing the fruit of its fertile soil on an almost nightly basis.  To be fair to California, Oregon, Washington, South America and Italy, I've also sampled their vineyard offerings.  Unlike Tennessee, where grocery stores are still pushing the idea, food stores here sell quite decent -- sometimes impressive -- selections of reds, whites and sparklers.  Coffee for the morning; vino for the evenings; and herbal teas in between.  My beverage routine.  Water intake is implied.  

 

6)  Searching for a new-to-us home after 10 years of deeply rooted living on good ol' Marilyn Court in Murfreesboro has me compulsively flipping between the HGTV and DIY networks.  Any programming covering subjects as varied as buying and selling to renovation has me practically entranced. Two shows feature folks who apply their talents and passion to rundown houses in their hometowns in an effort to bring life, beauty and function back to neighborhoods, one address and new owner at a time.  They're my faves.  Especially the husband and wife team of Joanna "Jo-Jo" and Chip Gaines.  Besides their obvious knack for knowing how to transform a house into an incredible home, the chemistry and cuteness between them is infectious: I simply can't get enough!  When the homeowners make a decision and then, in the final minutes of the show, reap the rewards of their choices, I often cry with joy for them. And contemplate the joy I'll experience when we are once again settled and spreading our roots into the land and community where we will be planted.  Never have I felt such a deep yearning for a home.  And with MY history, that's saying something!

 7)  I'm in love.  With a house.  And I'm trying desperately NOT to be.  But it seems that I can't help myself.  Circa 1991.  Great bones.  Fantastic open floor plan.  Fabulous outdoor living spaces.  2 acres of well-appointed flora and fauna.  A pool!  Oh, and did I happen to mention that it's a fixer upper?!  THAT wasn't in our plans.  And there's yet our home of a decade which needs to draw the next right owner to its door, much the way it did us. (Maybe my brother-in-law needs to call someone or send them an e-mail?  That's how we found our corner of suburban heaven in Murfreesboro.)  Even my husband and son say that every time we walk into that airy great room with it's stone wall and solid wood mantle over the double fireplace they feel the familiarity of the place.  It puts a smile on their faces.  All I can do is hope we are the buyers meant to snatch it up at a bargain bank repo price . . . In the meantime, I visit every week.  And there's a Pinterest file filled with ideas and plans for an evolving 2-year renovation plan to return this gem-in-the-rough on Three Bridges Road to it's former glory.  What's wrong with dreaming?

 

8)  While I continue to enjoy my cold brew coffee each and every day (except when I forget to start a new batch before my previous batch empties), I can't say that there's a truly nifty coffee shop here in our neck of the woods in the surrounding area of Richmond.  Though there's a strong possibility of discovery within Richmond -- Zachary and I have yet to venture there -- I doubt the chances of finding a primo java joint will improve when we move into our country place.  'Just Love Coffee' really fit my whole bean needs and creative beverage cravings in the 'Boro.  And 'JoZoara's' offered a tasty cold brew soy latte that satisfied!  On my list of "things I'll miss about my Tennessee life," it appears the perfect cuppa joe ranks right up there.  Anyone need a Christmas List suggestion?  (hint, hint)

9)  The family mutts seem to have suffered absolutely no ill effects from their out-of-state move.  Perhaps their early experiences with homelessness and transplanting (Hankie Mutt) and long-distance travel as a tender pup (Gracie Helen) primed the dynamic canine duo for their adventure.  Whatever the reason, they play hard, eat heartily and sleep better than any of the humans in the house!

 

10)  There are those days when I so painfully miss my Tennessee life, especially my homies, my beloved folks, both friends and family, that I focus sharply on the small things.  The taken-for-granted things.  The everyday things.  The thrift shop refurbish buys.  The daily workings of the human digestive system.  The seasonal changes of the unknown flowers in this yard here.  And I remember the promises and plans of my Holy Father, which never return void.  

Out of Practice . . .

It's more than writer's block.  More like life block.  No, no, that's not quite right.  And maybe that's the point.  NOTHING is quite right at the moment.  Not that it's wrong, exactly.  Things are upended.  There.  I think that's what I mean to say here.  Think of a shiny metal trash can.  Turned over.  Maybe pushed or knocked over?  It's lid rolled away, somewhere down the long driveway.  Contents spilling out.  Scattered in a colorful array of textures and odors across the pavement.  I'm trying to gather those contents and return them to their proper place.  But wind and rain and heat have had their way with the spill . . . I can't get every little thing back . . . I've had to watch as much that was familiar has washed away.  Blown away.  Melted into new unrecognizable forms.  And yet there's plenty left to round up and toss back in that shiny metal can.  

And now I'm sitting here.  Hunched.  Leaning to the left (please don't read any politics into that; I'm literally leaning).  Rolling my internal eyes whilst squinting my actual brown eyes (I am the quintessential brown-eyed girl, after all).  Thinking that comparing my recent life events to the contents of a trash can isn't the best metaphor.  Good!  Grief!  In my defense, I'm rather out of practice with my blogging.  I still compose endlessly within my head . . . but I have the attention span of a hyperactive dog and difficulty sitting in one place for too long.  Not to mention that I've been rather mentally lazy. 

But even with the poor choice of an example, 'upended' and 'scattered' and 'unrecognizable' fit the bill.  

It's all been a bit of a blur.  Weddings.  Funerals.  Bridal showers.  Bachelorette party: complete with bed bugs, hot tub and Jacqueline's dangerously deceptive cocktail masquerading as harmless juice.  Out-of-town guests creating a very full house.  A serious second-degree burn which adrenaline shoved to the sidelines until it screamed for attention.  And enough dancing to warrant kicking off the shoes.

Oh, and travel.  By air.  Thwarted more than once by tornadoes in Colorado as opposed to Tennessee for a refreshing change.  (The indignant complaints by disgruntled travelers who somehow thought United Airlines caused the bad weather simply to vex their customers both amused and bothered me.)  By automobile.  With a straight face, I tell you that the roads to and from Richmond, Virginia, harbor some of the cleanest rest stops in the country.  I ought to know, considering that I had to park, pee and stretch almost every 9+ hours there AND the 9+ hours back.  (I develop travel narcolepsy when driving long distances; coffee truly aids in keeping me alert; coffee is also a serious diuretic for me; hence a vicious circle: energy drinks make me nauseous -- no need to suggest.)

With my husband now gainfully employed since the end of March and living in Virginia, life in Middle Tennessee has seemed a half-life.  We are headed toward the second phase of our married lives: empty nesters.  The youngest made it through high school and has the diploma to prove it.  The eldest now sports pretty impressive bling on her left ring finger, proclaiming to the world entire her new marital state.  The middle baby will head to Hawaii next spring with her Army husband.  The cat moved out of our house and into the newlyweds' apartment.  The Hankie Mutt, yet a kitchen counter grazer, and the wild and wooly Gracie Helen deaf pup, continue their nice-when-a-dog-can-get-it-gig with me as their caretaker.  (Quitting mothering cold turkey could be dangerous to my health!)  We've cleared several major life hurdles within the space of TWO months.  And now I'm expected to just pack up my home, say a fine howdy-do to my Murfreesboro beloved, sell the house and move even further east.  Easy enough, right?  Eh.  Not so much.  I'm tired just thinking about it.  From just writing a few words about it.

 
I feel like the odd man out.  Used to be that didn't bother me so much.  Or maybe I just thought it didn't.  No.  I didn't mind.  Now, though yet the 'odd man,' I don't wanna be out!  My husband fills his days with work at the new job, studying online and waiting for me.  And meanwhile, my children are pursuing adulthood and enjoying their newfound freedoms.  My sweet friends lead full lives, and though I add to that fullness, their settled lives move steadily onward, absorbing significant life changes into the familiar folds of their homes, their churches, their families, their spouses.  I'm not fully here nor am I yet fully there.  I continue to be fascinated by how much rocking one life can take and yet still be rocked.

So, I'll try to chronicle a few tid-bits in the coming month as I pack it all up and load the wagons.  Perhaps that will smooth out a few of the bumps in the road ahead.  And quell the roiling of emotions within me.  I'm ALL for the 'hellos' to be had upon being reunited with my love . . . but like a majority of folks out there, I'm not big on 'goodbyes!'

Letter To Home

Dear House:

I remember laying eyes on you for the first time.

Peering through the windows.

Impressed with the spacious kitchen;

And the enormous old elm tree.

And I thought, "Maybe this is the place for us . . . "

Ten years later, it turns out you far surpassed that 'maybe.'

And in our present circumstances, as we set about giving you a facelift,

I'm kind of thinking you've suffered a bit at our hands.

And beneath our feet.

You allowed my family and friends access to every square inch of you.

A tiny tornado took care of the aged backyard elm.

I was every bit as saddened as you.

As a place of light and sun and fun . . .

. . . the kitchen has reigned supreme as THE gathering place.

Thank you for the countless hours I've spent in it with my favorite peeps.
So-o-o much coffee and cooking and cracking up.

It's taken a good beating for all it's provided to humans and animals alike.

Lately, more of an emphasis on ANIMALS.

As you would expect, we LIVED out many a moment in your living room.

MANY-Y-Y a moment!

And the pockets of pretty have brought me comfort.

Though parking CARS in your garage has been problematic,

fitting a 4-piece band in proved a cinch!

You EARNED your mortgage payment here, my friend!

I'm fairly confident you're a Denver fan.

(At least you dress like you are.)

It was gracious of you to allow my husband to wreak havoc on the walls.

The walls of his music man cave, that is.

And you've reminded me about this fan more times than I care to recall!

SORRY!

At least I exercised good judgement here . . . 

I didn't allow REAL darts in Zachary's room.

You're welcome!

I'm never lost inside your familiar halls.

And though I've been the reluctant lady of my suburban castle,

my respect and affection for your functionality has grown with every year.

Even your wear and tear is rather pretty.

You've aged naturally.

For more than 3,650 nights, you've pushed back the shadows.

Sparrows, starlings, chickadees, wrens, cardinals and jays.

They brag to their friends of the buffet on Marilyn Court.

I promise to address this neglect.

A-a-a-a-and, this is my next 'warm day' project.

Really it is.

I bought the stripping head for my drill last week!

I've tried to maintain air quality for you.

The duct cleaner will be here next month.

Hang in there!

Without you to turn to for comfort and solitude,

my family and I would not have healed nearly as well as we have.

As you know, 

in 20 days I'll celebrate my 25th wedding anniversary.

I love my husband for myriad little things.

And it is the same with you, dear family home.

You are a colorful sort.

Behind your doors, precious lives and their artifacts are stored.

Each and every thing has a place to stay.

And often you wait patiently for me to recollect exactly WHERE those places are.

(Fortunately, in this case, you didn't have to wait . . . 

weren't you just a tiny bit impressed?)

After a decade, you still surprise me with new perspectives.

You provided me with a lovely playground!

(I realize the dogs have sullied it to a degree.)

I'm painfully aware of my undone TO-DO project list.

Perhaps I'll let the bench and bricks find new homes?

Would you prefer that?

I'm listening to you.

  You have witnesses.

Really, what I'm trying to say . . . 

(and saying rather clumsily)

. . . is that if we DO have to find another family for you:

I hope they will enjoy your every nook and cranny.

Right down to the last crumb and dust mote.

I pray they will take the time . . . 

. . . to stop and admire the hydrangeas.

 And to peek across the fence to meet their wonderful neighbors.

But until then, I'll just keep on inching forward.

Touching up that which is already so very beautiful and blessed.

And I won't rest . . . 

(okay, I WILL rest, but not perpetually)

. . . until I wrestle every last FIX-IT to the carpet!

Because each time the western sky displays day's surrender to night,

I'm reminded of how very much you have loved on us.

And how very much I LOVE YOU.

Ever So Sincerely,

You're Reluctant Suburbanite

(Whose life is presently as sideways as this photo!)

XOXOXO