MEREDITH Mainte-NANCE FRYE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am quite the hypocrite, aren't I?

The Dreamer and the Realist

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

God and Uncle Sam Have Senses of Humor

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

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

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

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

Oh well. More time to feather my nest.

Why Half and Half Makes Me Feel Whole

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

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

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

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

Clay County, Life's Bounty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When in Rome...

Before I left for my trip I went shopping. A lot. But among the new outfits, scarves and comfy Tory Burch flats, I bought the basics: Shampoo, Conditioner and Body Wash. I wasn't out of those items when I left, but I replaced them with smaller, travel-size versions to make it easier to transport. One day, I'll open up a bottle of Biolage Color Care and be taken right back to my two weeks in Italy. I like that.

I have debated whether to spare you the details of the travel, leaving just the one-liner that encompasses the whole trip... the sentence we said to one another over and over and over again while there: "I'm so happy."

But I digress. I can't help it. Read further if you like. For you history buffs not interested in my playful lease on this part of my life, you can stop after this paragraph: We saw The Vatican, The Sistine Chapel, Michaelangelo's David, The Cathedrals of Rome, Siena, and Florence, The Trevi Fountain and The Spanish Steps. We spent time exploring Tuscany, shopping in Cortona, and we visited a vineyard in Montepulciano. Justin and I hiked the Cinque Terre Trail (in one day!) and we swam in the Meditteranean Sea. But that's not what I'm writing about.

Words can do a lot to describe what we experienced. But they can't do it justice by any means. I wanted to walk in the door on Sunday at 9 pm, fresh off the plane with memories recent, and begin to hammer out my entry. But jet lag and the need to refresh myself for the impending daily routines won out. Truthfully, I have had more fun reliving the moments, and recapping them to friends. I've been unable to get through a description of our time together without shedding a few tears. It was magical. It was perfect. I could not have asked for more.

Before I left, I wrote about Justin's heart. I read back over that entry this morning and realized it was a far cry from doing his character any justice. I realize the self-indulgence that bloggers possess. For some reason, we think others want to hear what we have to say. I don't care what you take from me, my opinions and my way of thinking. But I hope you get to know my husband. I hope you get him like I do when this is all over. I hope you have that honor.

That fateful Saturday in September (seems like so long ago), I was dressed in my aforementioned knit dress and Ms. Samuels' bracelets. I was calm after landing in Rome. I had been much more nervous during my connection in Detroit... that feeling of the unknown. The stress of travel ahead. But in Rome, I exhaled. I stood in line at the wrong baggage claim for over 10 minutes- waiting, watching, to never see my bag come around the corner. I wasn't hurried like I thought I would be. I was just at peace. When I made it to my bag, I headed toward the swinging doors that protected baggage claim from the outside world. As the doors swung open I saw the partition- much like something they would have between adoring fans and celebrities at a red carpet event. Everyone was watching anxiously to see their loved ones. And there, as the doors swung back, I saw him standing, just to the right. Clad in a blue polo, khakis and tennis shoes, his hair was short and his face was more toned than I could remember. He was the most handsome man I had ever seen. I ran to his side and we embraced, my 66-pound rolling suitcase knocking into my hip. We couldn't let go for at least a minute. Tears came between our kisses even as we were giving them. He had 3 gerbera daisies in his hand. LOVE.

I was dying for someone to capture this. But the short distance between the door and where he was standing didn't allow for much time to hand the camera over and I am sure it was the furthest thing from his mind at the time. Immediately, we had an overwhelming feeling of picking up right where we left off in April. The six months between our goodbye and hello seemed to disappear. We felt the instant connection that had bonded us to one another over seven years ago. The attraction, the sense of humor, the respect and love. I was the happiest I have ever been.

That feeling stayed with me until I left his side last weekend. We spent the first week with family- amongst food and drink and love and laughter (an abundance of all those things). To try to summarize the moments we all shared together would be impossible. I could never recap the memories from that week with our parents and brothers. We traveled Rome, attended happy hour in front of the Pantheon, made friends with our wait staff, and relished in our tourist attitude. We rode the double decker bus and saw the sights like true Americans. We spent four days in a Tuscan villa that became our home away from home. We were hosted, fed, loved and nurtured by Italy. Life was so good.

During the day we were pulled in all directions. A family of 9 means 9 opinions, 9 ideas (at least!) and 9 ways to get there. But we managed. All prior personalities were left at the door- in honor of our most important guest and his newfound, albeit temporary, "freedom." At night, we ate some of the best food any of us had ever tasted. Some nights, we ate at the villa, thanks to Mom's home-away-from-home-cooking. Most meals were shared together outdoors, including those at the villa, where we ate and drank underneath the vine-covered trellis.

The family left on the second Sunday and we cried. I cried because I hurt for them not getting to experience him any more than they did. I felt so blessed to be the one who had that honor. After our goodbyes we hopped on a four-hour trainride to Cinque Terre where we would spend the next 6 days... alone.

When we arrived in Vernazza, the 2nd-most northern town on the Cinque Terre Trail, we were speechless. We were situated in the most pristine and lively of the five towns, a point I had not missed when doing my research for our lodging. We literally felt like we had rolled our heavy suitcases right into Heaven. Our quaint little room looked right out over the Mediterranean Sea. The air was so cool that night that I wasn't sure I could move from the balcony to do all the things on our "to-do list" (shower, nap, get ready, drink, eat). It was here that we began uttering the words, "I'm soooo happy."

That night and the next day, we explored our little town. It didn't take long to walk through the main cobblestone street and scope out the shops that I would frequent over and over again later in the trip, contemplating souvenirs. But it was that quaintness that had us feeling like we owned the town by the time we left. We felt like locals.

On Tuesday, our 2nd full day there, we had planned out a route that would take us on the roughly 7-mile hike along the entire Cinque Terre Trail. We hiked from our town (Vernazza) down to the most southern (Riomagiorre), ferried back up to the most northern (Monterosso) and then hiked the trail between Monterosso and our home for the week. The terrain is extremely rugged, with manmade, rocky steps most of the way. By the time we arrived back in Vernazza around sunset, we felt victorious. We threw off our hiking clothes, bought two beers from the hotel bar and jumped into the turquoise water of our port.

Wednesday was my most favorite day. We put on swimsuits and took a train back up to Monterosso, where the best beaches awaited. We rented the two beach chairs furthest from the public and sunned, swam and snorkled in the clear blue waters of the ocean. Their beaches don't have shells, but rather rocks. I taught Justin about "sea glass," a phenomenon I had only read about, and we went on a day-long treasure hunt to find the best and most beautiful. We made memories I will never forget that day. The time was peaceful and playful and the moments ahead only got better.

The next day was overcast and we were debating how to spend it. We ended up in a few shops, but napped and relaxed most of the day. Every single night was spent the same way- drinks around 7 and dinner between 8 and 9. We always spent the evenings wrapped in conversation with one another.

It was Friday evening, our last night there that we had our best talk. We had made a last-minute decision to head up to Portofino earlier that day. It rained on us and the shops were closed when we arrived. Justin and I shared hotdog and egg pizzas while the rain poured down in front of Gucci, Prada and Emilio Pucci. When we got back to Vernazzza that night, I had every intention to shower and change into a nice dress for our last night in the Cinque Terre. But good conversation turned great and I realized that after sitting down for a drink as we waltzed back into town, my biggest fan was sitting in front of me and didn't care if I got my 138-dollars-worth out of that Anthroplogie dress I had been planning to wear. We ordered drink after drink, there at the Blue Marlin, where we had shared a breakfast of eggs (the only eggs in town) most mornings. We told stories of childhood, ones I know we'd both heard before. But somehow, they all sounded new and different.

That's how the whole trip went. The experiences were new and different. But the feeling was the same. Good, wholesome, comfortable love. That's what I got. That's what he gives me every second of every day of every year.

I left him on Sunday with less tears than I had thought possible and far less than what my silly heart had dreaded leading up to it. I left him with a sense of security, of memory and wonder. I wonder what the Lord has in store for us. I wonder what He'll surprise us with next. I know for sure we weren't expecting any of this.

And now that I am home, I realize I won't need the smell of a familiar shampoo after all. The memories are so real I can almost touch them. I pray they never fade, not even a little. I want to revisit them from time to time. I want to travel back to the place where everything was just right, just for a moment. In less than four months, I will have that chance again. No, we're not planning another trip (it will be a long time before we can afford to).

He will be home. And every day with him is like a vacation.

Flying Solo for a Moment More

The time is here. The time I have waited for. Tomorrow I leave on the most exciting journey I have ever taken. I am headed to Italy to see the love of my life. He'll be waiting for me at baggage claim in the Fiumicino Airport. Rome bound. Love is right around the corner. Though it's been here all along.

God is so good. He knows me so well. I wanted a baby. Justin said if we weren't pregnant before he left for Iraq he would take me to Europe on his R&R. He made good on his promise. God did too. He has promised me the desires of my heart. But I feel so undeserving. To both of them.

Let me tell you about my husband. Let me tell you about his life. If you read my blog at all, then you know how it all started with us. But that's just the last seven years. Before that, he had already developed his character into will and determination, into loyalty and a kind heart. All things from which I would eventually learn. His example was noticeable from the very beginning. The silent leader. No one even knows it's him until all of a sudden everyone's following him. He doesn't shout from the rooftops that he's up front. He's just there. And you can't help but go with him.

He'll kill me for saying these things. He's too humble for this.

He didn't have to join the Army. As a matter of fact they tried to turn him away. Too old, too injured, too many traffic violations. But he kept up the fight. He knew from the moment he learned to walk that he had to learn to fly.

I didn't want him to go Active. I was never going to tell him that. I wanted to support him, but I had prayed and knew in my heart of hearts that the life wasn't meant for us. An opportunity came from above. No pun intended. And we took it. He would go on to serve in the Kentucky Army National Guard and become a Chief Warrant Officer. He started flight school the month we were married and I had a stand-in groom at our wedding rehearsal because he was learning to fly a blackhawk. We spent our first year of marriage at Fort Rucker and then moved to Lexington. Bought a house. Started new jobs. Chinook flight school. Fixed-wing flight school. On our five-year anniversary we will have spent three of them together. Our fifth anniversary will be our second together (the only other one was our first).

In October of last year he had been home about a month from his latest flight school, which had separated us for five months. He came home from work one day and said, "We need to talk." I remember where I was standing making dinner in our little kitchen (our kitchen is so small that there's really only one place to stand). I knew the moment he said it. I said, "You're deploying." I fought back tears as he told me the options. One unit would leave in April. One in August. One in November. I said, "I hope you go in April." He was floored. I don't think he was expecting that response. My reasoning? "Let's get this over with." And then we prayed. We prayed for days, for weeks, for a month. Until it was official.

Now here we are. No baby, no puppy (that was another bargaining chip he's since forgotten). I am two days away from seeing his handsome face, standing there in Rome, waiting for me at baggage claim. Praying he fulfilled my only request of handing a stranger his camera to capture the moment.

God is so good. Everybody thinks our time together will be good because we've been apart so long. Everybody thinks that's why our relationship is solid and grounded in one another's long distance love. But that's not it. It's good because it's right and real and honest. It's good because if a question is worth asking to the other, then it's worth saying yes to. It's good because God gave us this undying, fortunate, wholesome love. And for that I am grateful to Him and to him.

Thank you Justin for the man that you are. I'll see you Saturday. I'll be wearing a black knit dress and Ms. Samuels ivory bracelets (I feel prettiest when jewelry makes noise). And I expect to see you smiling, sans camera and with arms open wide.

Ciao,