Bastogne

Weʻre prepping for the 75th anniversary of the Battle of the Bulge at the embassy. There are a lot of commemoration events coming up both in Luxembourg and in Belgium. The U.S. is very well regarding here and the Luxembourg people still express gratitude and appreciation for Americaʻs role in liberating them from German occupation during World War II.

I traveled to Belgium twice this week - once to meet my consular colleagues at the embassy in Brussels, and once to visit various commemoration sites. By far the most haunting site was the Ardennes forest where the Battle of the Bulge was fought. A fog was present throughout the day - it never dissipated - and that added to the somber, melancholy feeling that I couldnʻt shake.

A foxhole in the foreground.

First Week in Immigrant Visas

This week I began my work in the Immigrant Visa (IV) section of the embassy. Although I haven't yet conducted any interviews at the window, and have been limited to "shadowing" my fellow officers and completing routine "desk" cases to become familiar with the software, I know I am going to love it.

Some of the work at the window is surprisingly similar to the Consular Report of Birth Abroad (CRBA) interviews I did in American Citizen Services (ACS), so at least I'm a little bit familiar with the expected outcomes and the questions necessary to arrive at an informed decision. This is in contrast to my first week in ACS, when I had no previous experience or knowledge from which to build a foundation.

The laws regarding immigration can be complicated, but that's part of the fun. It's like a puzzle, but with the ability to make judgments about how the pieces fit.

I can tell that the year ahead is going to be very rewarding. I like to work, and there's plenty of work to do. Santo Domingo is second only to Ciudad Juarez in Mexico in processing immigrant visas. Second in the world. The Dominican Republic is a nation of only 10.5 million people, but we process more immigrant visa applications than all of China (with a population of 1.37 BILLION, or 130 times larger). Yes, indeed, we stay busy. From what I can tell, we have a crackerjack team of professionals to get the job done. Usually, the section sees over 500 people every day. Crazy busy.

When I was in ACS and would ask my colleagues in IV what the work was like, there would always be a pause before they answered. They would carefully measure their words and say that I shouldn't expect the reasonable pace of ACS work. So I began to worry, to unconsciously dread moving to IV. But now that I have an idea of what the work is like, I'm really excited to get started. Maybe it's because I'm a consular-coned officer and this is what I'll be doing my entire career, but I'm genuinely looking forward to learning every aspect of the law, how to apply it, and all the nuances that make the work interesting.

I'll probably get "on the line" (i.e. begin interviewing) next week. Can't wait!

Six Months ... and a change coming

R and I recently celebrated our six-month anniversary at post so we're officially 1/4 of the way through our tour here in the DR. Time does go by very quickly - I'll be bidding on my second post in the next couple of months, which seems crazy-fast. There are many, many places we still want to visit in the next 18 months. We've done quite a lot already, including attending the Dominican equivalent of the World Series:

Where they served empanadas instead of hot dogs. Where they also serve the alcoholic beverage of your choice: Not fond of beer? Have a margarita!

And further adventure beckons nearly every weekend.

Some of the bigger adventures will have to wait, however, until R returns from an epic adventure that he's planning, beginning in March. He's going to hike all 2,100+ miles over five months of that incredible all-American experience, the Appalachian Trail.

To answer the questions that will immediately come to mind:

• Yes, I will miss him.
• Yes, I'm a little worried about his safety.
• Yes, I'll be able to connect with him frequently along the trail through the wonder that is technology (thanks, Al Gore!). I've made him promise to take millions of photos.
• Yes, I'm proud of him. I think he's incredible.
• Yes, he is a badass.

He's wanted to do this for over 40 years, so why not now? It's a perfect time.

After all these years, I still admire his incredible perseverance and will. How could I not? He's an amazing combination of hard work and loyalty, with a little devil-may-care whimsy thrown in. What an ideal partner for life's adventures. He deserves the opportunity to go out there and pursue a dream of his own.

Good times with my guy. Notice the coats? This photo was taken last year in DC....

Farewell, 2015

The last photo of 2015:

On the North Coast.

The first photo of 2016:

The entire family on New Year's Day.

Stopped briefly to take a photo while taking H and S to the airport. Santo Domingo skyline in the background.

It's been a wonderful year full of changes and challenges. We're settling in to life in the Dominican Republic and have many plans for exploring the island this year. If 2016 is even partially as rewarding as 2015 was, I'll be happy.

Happy New Year!

Goldilocks

R and I just spent a lot of time traveling to and from the U.S. for Thanksgiving. We had arranged to meet family in Seattle (where my brother lives), so we traveled 14 hours on Wednesday to get there and 14 hours on Saturday/Sunday to come home.

The first thing I realized upon exiting the SeaTac airport in Tacoma was that it was much colder than the Dominican Republic. The next thing I realized, very close on the heels of the first thing, was that I had not packed the appropriate clothing.

I don't know what I was thinking. I had looked up the weather forecast before we left Santo Domingo and knew it was going to be 50 degrees colder in Washington. And yet, I didn't bring a coat, and I don't know why. Denial? Senility?

The short (very short, for me) walk we took at Golden Gardens State Park reinforced what I had long suspected - I have an internal temperature comfort zone of about 10 degrees - between 69 and 79 degrees Fahrenheit. Sad, but true. The Dominican Republic is too hot, winter in the Pacific Northwest is too cold.

The view from Golden Gardens - beautiful, but freezing.

Nevertheless, we had a good time:

The Fremont Bridge Troll.

We 4 at Pike Place Market.

R and I headed back to the Dominican Republic via the red eye on Saturday night. On the flight from JFK to Santo Domingo, I struck up a conversation with the gentleman seated next to me. He was born in the Dominican Republic, but had lived for decades in the United States. He was returning to Santo Domingo to spend time with his 90-year-old mother. "I'm always happy to visit," he told me. "I like to spend time with my family. But I could never live there again - there's too much traffic, too much corruption."

Today at work, an elderly Dominican gentleman came to my window. He had just returned to the DR, too, and was seeking notary service (something we also do at the embassy). I talked to him a few minutes and he told me, "I worked a lot of years in the U.S., but I'm retired now. I have a little pension so I moved home so I can spend time with my family. The U.S. is too much."

The Goldilocks Dilemma extends the world over, apparently. Too hot, too cold, too much.

Snapshot

Back in the spring of this year, my cousin was in Virginia and paid a visit to me in Arlington. Through the course of an afternoon, we reconnected and reminisced about our childhoods and our parents. She had brought along a stack of old photos, and we talked and laughed while going through them.

You never think about a relative having slightly different memories and/or memorabilia than you do. It came as a surprise, therefore, when I pulled this photo from the pile, a photo that I'd never seen before:

That's my grandfather in the checked shirt, my mom in the white blouse and black skirt, and my dad standing to my mom's left. My uncle and aunt and older brother are in the lower left corner. As near as I can guess, the photo was taken in 1962 (my brother looks like he's about 3). Notice the photo on the far right wall? That's my dad when he was in the Army. I have no idea where it was taken, in which state, or in whose home. My grandpa would have been in his early 50s (holy crap, my age), my mom would have been 22 and my dad 25. 

I love this photo because it's an unposed moment caught in time. It's almost as if the viewer could step into the scene. I wonder what they were talking about - my aunt Judy seems to be saying something, my mother is on her way somewhere. My older brother is perpetually frozen looking at the camera, not knowing that over 50 years later his yet-to-be-born-sister would be wondering what he was thinking. There's a time warp for you. Discuss.

R thinks it's pointless to think this way, to wonder about things for which you can't ever possibly know the answer, but I think it's fascinating. It keeps things in perspective and makes me stop and consider. We're all guilty of seeing people as though they're one-dimensional, without substance or nuance, as if in a photograph. Many times we don't consider the potential inner struggle of strangers or friends or coworkers or family. We all know they exist, but we're completely engrossed in our own story, with our own three dimensional, fascinating lives, to pay attention to the depth that might lurk in others. We assume that that single glimpsed moment is the sum of their lives.

Of course it isn't true - for others or for us.

Sometimes it's helpful to have a reminder that there's always more to the story than what we see in a moment. No, I don't know specifically what my family was experiencing in the exact moment the 1962 photo was taken. But I know a little about the struggles, heartaches, and joys that were theirs - details that the photo can never show. And if I can draw the line between those two points - the image and the reality - surely I can understand that all people deserve a little compassion, a little understanding, a little forgiveness.

Puerto Rico, Day One

We arrived in Puerto Rico, dragging our two cats along with us. We had made arrangements at a pet-friendly hotel so we hurried through the car-rental paperwork and headed straight to the Vanderbilt Condado to let them out of their carriers. Unfortunately, we arrived at 1:30 and check-in wasn’t until 4:00, so we drove around and eventually found a park that we thought they might like. We parked and dodged through traffic to cross the street, jostling poor Calvin and Seamus along the way. Of course, we had only brought one harness and leash, so we were forced to keep Seamus confined while we sat on a bench, unzipped Calvin’s miniature prison cell and strapped him into the harness. We clipped the leash on and set him down. He was completely freaked out and cowered. We said soothingly, “Look, Calvin!  It’s a park! You’re in the fresh air! The ground isn’t moving! And bonus – there are chickens roaming about!” (This is actually true. There were indeed feral chickens roaming about the park in the middle of San Juan.) Calvin, however, was not impressed. Nor would he be moved – he just laid there, glancing anxiously about. We tried the same routine with Seamus who, if possible, showed even less enthusiasm than his brother. What could we do? We sat there a few more minutes feeling sorry for the felines and finally decided that we’d go back to the hotel and beg for mercy from the check-in staff. By that time it was nearly 3:00, so we figured luck might be on our side. The staff took one look at our grumpy expressions, took one whiff of the fear pheromones being exuded by the cats, and took pity on us. Our room was suddenly miraculously ready, and we hurried up to the 12th floor. R and I let the cats out of their carriers and immediately went out on to the balcony to look at the city view.

Calvin and Seamus immediately hid under the bed.

The Vanderbilt has a really nice piano bar that reminded me of 1940s movies – very elegantly appointed with leather and brass and tropical vegetation. Before dinner we enjoyed a drink there (R had an amazing rum from Guatemala, and I had the best mojito on the planet) while sitting by the window and gazing at the beautiful ocean view.

We had dinner in the hotel and then wandered outside into the evening. A Spanish children’s program was being projected onto a huge screen in a park-like setting right next to the hotel, and there were vendors selling food and ice cream, and lots of families enjoying the festive atmosphere. Spanish was floating in the air and drifting all around me, leaving contrails that I could almost see. I caught phrases here and there and snatches of conversation.

And suddenly the combination of the dark, deep ocean, the warmth of the sea breeze, the explosion of color in the flowers and buildings and clothing, together with the lyrical language around me made me catch my breath. I contrasted that moment to where I was a year ago, to where I was 10 years ago, 30 years ago. Life moves a fraction of an inch at a time and suddenly a year has gone by and you’re miles from where you were, both figuratively and literally. You don’t feel the change from one minute to the next. It doesn’t seem possible that it’s really you, little you from a small town in Wyoming, standing in a park in Puerto Rico on a summer evening listening to Spanish swirl around you.

But it is. It really is.

Now if only the cats would come out from under the bed. 

Fourth of July

For many years, we spent Independence Day in the best town in the world. On the 4th in Lander, two major considerations really make the town stand out. First, the city council waives the open container law for the day, which means that you can buy a bloody Mary from the Lander Bar and drink it while watching the parade at 10 o'clock in the morning, or you can leisurely sip a beer that was handed to you by the rowdy crowd celebrating their 10-year high school reunion on the back of a flatbed semi-trailer at that same parade.

But really, the most amazing thing on the 4th of July is that fireworks are legal in town, all day long. This is a picture of this year's celebration, but it's indicative of every other Independence Day celebration I've attended:

There are sporadic fireworks all day, but the big ones really start in earnest when the sun goes down and continue for two hours or more. (Photo credit: some random person on the Interwebs.)

That beautiful, crazy town.

This year for the holiday, R and I headed to New Jersey where his family has a little house on a lake. It's a pretty humble house, but the lake itself and the surrounding woodland are an amazing oasis in an otherwise hectic world - so peaceful and serene:

The view from the deck of the house.

R's family were all at the lake, including lots of cousins, so he was able to see quite a few people that he hadn't seen in decades. We heard shouts from children at neighboring docks, and the harmonized chorus of the cousins singing from the screened-in porch of the house next door. We sipped wine on the deck and breathed in the scent of the water and the trees. R and I went out in the canoe for a leisurely look at the surrounding forest, a peek at the dam at the far end of the lake, and a glimpse of the fish in the shadowy shallows. At dusk we saw flashes of fireflies in the dark places under the trees, and steady starlight in the dark places over our heads. The weather was cool and perfect.

The entire experience was absolutely nothing like the holiday in Lander.

But, you know, both equally express the sentiment of the day. Americans can be loud and boisterous in celebrating freedom. We can be quietly contemplative and grateful, too. Occasionally, we have moments of both in the space of minutes.

*******

It's a five hour drive to the lake, so we headed back to DC fairly early on Sunday. We checked Yelp for things to do along the way and decided to make a stop at Hershey Chocolate World. Decadent, I know. Mr. Hershey was a pretty impressive guy (endowing a school for orphans to the tune of 30% of Hershey's profits in perpetuity - the school now has billions in the endowment).

R, in line for the production tour. (Here's a topic for you: We don't know the other people in this photo. Ever wonder how many other people's photos you're in? Discuss.)

Only four more weeks in the U.S. before we head out on our first adventure with the Foreign Service! It's really getting real, yo.

48 hours later

And now it's 48 hours after my second final exam in Spanish, in which I finally achieved the elusive benchmark of 3/3. A bit of an understatement to say that I'm relieved.

It's been a very challenging eight months. You know that Greek myth about Sisyphus perpetually rolling that damned rock uphill? That's what it felt like. Same thing, over and over, with no end in sight, and no way of telling if I was improving. An aggravating and humbling experience.

The upside? I can speak and read Spanish! (At least a little bit, any way!) Which makes all the effort worthwhile, of course.

A throwback photo from my trip to Ireland in 2012 with R, but the sentiment is certainly appropriate:

Belleza natural

A few weeks ago a friend and I hiked a short way through Great Falls Park:

Taking the advice of the park's website, we got to there around 9:00 a.m. - ahead of the crowds. In all, we hiked about five miles in the fresh air just 20 minutes from the city. It's so easy to isolate yourself in your day-to-day activities (read: Spanish studies), that you forget there's a whole other world out there. This little expedition allowed me to remind myself that the world includes much more than verb conjugations.

Home

And home sings me of sweet things ~ Karla Bonoff

It's said that the place is not important, that what really defines home is your family around you. Of course it's true. I especially like the idea that throughout our lives we are all relying on each other - we're all walking each other home, as Ram Dass says. But sometimes places can set a soul to vibrating, too. There are places in this world that I have felt that I belong, that I have felt at peace, that I have felt at home - a handful of places, to be sure, but the place is important, all the same. They include:

Libby, Montana. My parents, brother, sister and I lived in Libby twice during my childhood around the time I was eight and nine. I have memories of my mom going over homework with my foster-brother at the kitchen table, of hiding in the stairwell to watch The Wizard of Oz on television when I was supposed to be in bed, of Easter baskets hidden in the oven, of the Dairy Queen, Asa Wood Elementary School, and Libby Logger Days. My dad worked on a dam there, and my mom probably worked in a supermarket, but I'm a little fuzzy on the details. I was a kid and carefree.

Monterey, California. R and I met and married and started our lives together in Monterey and lived there twice. H attended kindergarten through second grade, L attended preschool. We explored the aquarium and the beach. I remember lying on the lawn and looking at the stars as a family. We visited the Carmel Mission and San Juan Bautista. The nucleus of of We4 really came to be during our time in Monterey.

Vancouver, Washington. After we came back from Bulgaria, I don't think we ever planned to leave Washington. We'd bought a house and the girls were happy in school. We planted lilacs in the yard and I went back to college. We made our own scouting troop with just H and L and me. We visited museums. My brother joined us for Christmas. H and L and R went skiing on Mt. Hood. Really, those were halcyon days.

There were lots of other places in between, both during my youth and during my married years - Idaho, Oregon, Washington, Missouri, Colorado, Texas, Germany, Maryland, Bulgaria. All of them had happy times and sad times. Times when we were disappointed or proud, sad or euphoric. Times that represented "home."

Because I grew up mostly in Wyoming, and because H and L spent a lot of their childhoods there, more than any other place Wyoming will always be home to me. The smell of the sage, the beauty of the mountains, the simplicity of the antelope on the plains. For the last 13 years we've spent all holidays there - the quiet moments of Christmas and the Thanksgivings with family and the Independence Days with parades and fireworks. We've been camping in the summer and braved South Pass in the winter. We've spent summer days under the gazebo on the back deck. We've marveled at our good fortune to have such a life - one that allows us to have our health, our jobs, each other, our happiness.

R is in Wyoming now, packing it all up, deciding what to sell, what to store, what to bring with us on our travels. There's a lot of nostalgia and not a little bit of second-guessing. We're selling the house, and that makes it so definite, so irretrievable, so bittersweet. Will we find another place in the world where we feel this sense of belonging, this sense of home? If we're lucky, we will.

One last memory of our house in Lander, though - our backyard in the summer:

Listen to Bonnie Raitt's song, Home.

And home sings me of sweet things

My life there has its own wings

Fly over the mountains

Though I'm standing still

A trip home

I traveled back to Wyoming and Utah in early May to attend H's graduation from the University of Utah. 

I left DC very early on a Saturday morning and, by a whisker, made my connection to Denver in Charlotte (by a stroke of extreme fortune the arrival gate of my flight from National and the departure gate for my flight to Denver were literally right next to each other - and good thing, too, as all other passengers for Denver had already boarded by the time I got off the DC plane). I spent a leisurely hour in Denver and then boarded the puddle-jumper to Riverton, where R met me at the airport. We met my Dad for lunch and then headed to Lander.

I love Lander. It's the perfect home town: quiet, laid-back, beautiful, with friendly people. Each morning during my visit R and I got up and walked four or five miles so that I could breathe in that Brigadoon-like place. I don't know when I'll get back there again, and it was great to wander around all of my favorite places one more time. On one of the walks we met a woman with a camera, just leaning against the side of her truck waiting for the blue herons who had nested in nearby trees to take flight. R and I stood for a moment watching the birds from afar before continuing our walk. I tucked that little memory away, though, and bring it out from time to time to remember what a special place Lander is.

At different times over the next five days I met friends for brunch, lunch, dinner, and drinks. I started to refer to the visit as my Great Lander Eating Tour. It was so great to be home, even for a little while.

On Wednesday, R and I signed the paperwork to sell our house - a bittersweet moment. I love the house, the street it's on, the backyard, and the memories we made there. But of course we can't keep it. And the sale of the house, probably more than anything, marks the end of an era for me.

We traveled through snow over South Pass to get to Salt Lake on Thursday. H arrived around the same time, her boyfriend flew in a little later, and we picked up L at the airport later still. My sister and H's boyfriend's parents joined us for the graduation ceremony the next day.

The family after the graduation ceremony.

H and her boyfriend.

Cliched, yes, but I can't believe that H is old enough to have a doctorate and be out there living her own life. She and L have accomplished so much already - and R and I are proud of them. But beyond academic success, they're just really nice people. I like to talk to them and hear their opinions and thoughts. I like being around them and feel privileged to be able to be part of their lives.

I took the red-eye back to DC on Saturday night and returned to Spanish studies. The respite was wonderful while it lasted.

Groundhog Day

Update on the ol' español (my test results are in):

Although I improved on my last exam, I have been extended for six more weeks of Spanish. It probably sounds like I'm making lemonade out of lemons, but I'm really happy to have some extra time with the language. I want to be really good, not just barely making the mark, and six more weeks will get me there.

Also, just to remind me what it's all about, I picked up these today:

Spanish is just one step on my way to serving the U.S. abroad, so bring it on!

Cherry blossoms

The Washington DC Cherry Blossom Festival took place this weekend and a friend and I decided to check it out (who knows if I'll ever be back in DC this time of year again?). The crowds were overwhelming - throngs of thousands. But I do believe the blossoms were worth it!

The Washington Monument!

The Jefferson Memorial!

Martin Luther King!

MLK - really, an inspiration.

And this image of the Washington Monument was lingering in my camera - I took it just about a month ago.  

We had a really great time, even if we were tripping over the crowds. We had lunch downtown and then afternoon coffee late in the day before I headed home on the metro for an hour of deciphering a Spanish text before dropping into bed.

I really feel fortunate that opportunities like this are so readily available. Life is good, and I'm grateful for every moment.

Day Three - Be careful What You Ask For

Post by R

If you read my blog entry immediately preceding this one, you'll know that I was anxious to get away from the mid-eighties temperatures I experienced in the south. Today started out warm and sunny, and before noon the RAV-4's thermometer displayed 81 degrees. I had the air conditioner on for most of the morning and mid-afternoon. It was sunny and calm for a while, but that changed. As I made my way through Missouri the clouds came back, the wind picked up ferociously, and the temperature kept dropping. An intense downpour in western Missouri slowed traffic to a crawl for a while, and also prompted me to replace the windshield wipers. 

When I arrived in Kansas City, it was the beginning of Rush hour and I-70 was packed. I had intended to take I-70 to Denver, as I had done in the past, but the nagging voice on my GPS told me that the quickest way to Lander was to head North to Nebraska and I-80. I willingly obeyed the GPS. I'd never taken that route from Kansas City to Lincoln, NE, so a new and different experience won the day. Soon after I crossed the Nebraska border I noticed that the thermometer displayed a low for the day of 38 degrees. That's quite a change over the course of a few hours. I opened my duffel and pulled out my jacket and wool hat. No more wishing I had brought shorts along. I was happy though, since I didn't have to use the air conditioner in the car. Santo Domingo is going to be an adjustment for me.

I remember when I drove through St. Louis in the past that the I-80 route "highlights" some of the more decrepit parts of the city. It began on the Illinois side of the river, where an enormous corpse of a once great factory stood with it's brick smokestacks, completely vacant and desolate from decades of abandon. You could still see the "Armour" painted on one stack, so I'm guessing it was once a meat processing/packing facility. After crossing the mighty Mississippi (on an incongruously beautiful bridge), the traveler is treated to several miles of utter urban blight. Homes and factories that were beautifully built of brick over 100 years ago were vacant and windowless. Proud, optimistic, and skilled people built those buildings at one time, but their time has passed.  I'm thinking that the spiritual, and perhaps in some cases, biological descendants of those people now live in Wentzville, a beautiful and thriving town on the western fringe of the St. Louis. I stopped there for lunch and fuel and couldn't help notice the stark contrast. A tale of two cities so to speak.

In many cities, young people have moved in and revived the old sections. Gentrification. It's sort of an arrogant term, but you can't argue with the results. I'm sure that is happening in some parts of St. Louis, but not the parts I could see.

The rural areas and farms in all of the states I have been through are always beautiful, and always a breath of fresh air. Perhaps instead of encroaching on farmland when building the next suburb, we should focus on building/rebuilding in our already established cities. Kind of like Europe - and Portland, Oregon! Oh well, time to get off of my soap box.

Day Two

Post by R

Day two was productive, but included a change of plans. The farther south I drove the more it seemed that spring had sprung.  Blossoms and new green leaves could be seen everywhere. However, I had to start using the air conditioning, as the temperature soared to the mid 80's and stayed there most of the day. I suppose I'd better get used to it since the average daily temperature in the Dominican Republic is in the mid-80's all year, but I'm not quite ready for it and do not have the appropriate clothing with me. So, instead of a southern trajectory taking me through parts of Oklahoma and Texas (I-40), I made a course correction halfway through the day and decided to head North to St. Louis and then head west on I-70. I'm just not ready for summer yet.

The first thing I noticed when I started driving yesterday was how swollen the rivers were. I'd heard from a fellow traveler the night before that the route I would be taking was inundated the day before with rain. The Appalachians really are stunning, filled with hills, forests, farms, creeks and rivers. I saw a lot of signs alerting me to civil war battlefields and museums, both on day one and day two. You get the feeling that the rural south has still not forgotten it, and won't anytime soon. I couldn't help but think that most of those hill-country farmers who served as soldiers in the confederacy never owned any slaves. They fought to preserve the lifestyle of those "flatlander" plantation barons, while never having reaped any of the riches from that oppressive and immoral system of slavery. It's no wonder that West Virginia (hill country, of course) seceded from the mother state. They wanted nothing to do with the southern rebellion, as the northerners were inclined to call it.

Tennessee was a nice drive. You know you are driving through the south when just about every interstate exit has a Cracker Barrel restaurant. I've never been to one, but I understand that their specialty is southern "comfort food". At least the billboard ads lead me to think that. I'm trying to lose a pound or two, so I'll probably continue to my perfect streak of non-attendance. I also noticed lots of billboards in Tennessee advertising stores where you could stock up on legal moonshine, sold in what look like mason jars. It must be a trendy thing. I know there is much more to Tennessee than comfort food and moonshine, but those two things seem to be popular, at least to people passing through on the highway.

Nashville was where I had to make the decision whether to head North or South, so I said hello to the Nashville skyline, said adios a few minutes later, and headed to Kentucky, on roads I'd never travelled before. While driving through Paducah, KY, I noticed the sign for the National Quilt Museum in Paducah, KY. I remember J's memorable notes on her visit there back in August.

I was hoping to get to the Mississippi River yesterday, but I stopped in Marion, Illinois. That was probably a good thing since the sky was growing dark. I thought it was due to the sun setting, but it was much darker than normal. The motel clerk said it was because of a large weather system that could potentially produce tornados, and it was located between me and my next waypoint (St. Louis). 

BTW, southern Illinois is beautiful. When I thought of Illinois my mind always pictured the Chicago area, since I've travelled through so many times on I-80. Now my mind has been recalibrated.

We'll see what the next leg of my journey brings. Hopefully some pictures, if the sky still isn't still dull and grey.

On the Road Again

Post by R

Wow, that was interesting and awesome 5+ months!  It was great to be with J in Arlington and attend the Foreign Service Institute.  I had 14 weeks of Spanish instruction and six weeks of the Basic Consular Course. It was intense for a while; I was doing three to four hours of Spanish homework every day for the first 8 weeks, but it eased up a little and I now have a good foundation in Spanish.  Not fluent for sure, but a very good start.  The consular course was great, and it might lead to a family-hire job overseas.  Even if I don't end up working in a consular job I'll have a MUCH greater understanding and appreciation for what J will be doing on a daily basis for the next however many years.  That alone is invaluable.  The occasional weekend excursions to museums and events was really nice too.  To enjoy "big city" offerings in Wyoming required major logistical preparation.  In Crystal City it was a 10 minute Metro ride, and we could walk from our apartment to the train without even going outside to the street. 

I'm writing this somewhere in Southwest Virginia near the Tennessee border.  It was grey and wet, so no photos today - hopefully on my next post.  I'm on my way back to sell the house and have our worldly belongings packed and shipped to either long-term storage or the Dominican Republic.  Most will go to storage, but some will go to the DR.  It took about an hour of driving to escape the hustle and bustle of the increasingly growing Washington DC metropolitan area, but by the time I was on I-81 South heading to the Shenandoah valley I could tell that I was back in the America I'm more familiar with, having lived in Wyoming for the past 12+ years.  Forests, farms, small towns, etc. replaced the urban landscape.

Having lived in both urban and rural settings, I've come to the conclusion that I can be happy in either.  They both have their advantages and disadvantages, and you always want what you don't have.  If you live in  a built-up city, a long weekend in the mountains is a nice getaway.  If you live in a small town in Wyoming a long weekend in the heart of Denver or SLC is a nice getaway.  Go figure.

As long as I have J to experience it with, I'll be happy anywhere.

And love and thought and joy

Post by J

Last night, R and I watched St. Vincent, a movie with Melissa McCarthy and Bill Murray. In it, Melissa's son attends a Catholic school and is given the assignment of finding and writing about a "living saint."

I was fascinated by this idea, and started to think of all the people I know who might qualify, bringing them to mind one by one. And one by one discarding them as possibilities. Wait - that sounds harsh. I know I have many, many really good people in my life. But to measure up to sainthood?

And now it's the next day and I'm still thinking about potential candidates. I just can't seem to come up with a single person who measures up to my narrow, internal, very personal definition of a living saint. The only person I can think of is no longer living.

My mom had a difficult life. She was born into a dysfunctional family; her father was an alcoholic who died at age 54 and her mother was a classic enabler. She married my dad when she was just 18 and had three children by the time she was 23. She struggled to find her way in the world.

She wasn't perfect and she made a lot of mistakes. She had a rough time when she and my dad were divorced and she made some bad decisions. She drank too much when I was in high school.

She didn't read to me. She didn't take me to museums. She didn't teach me to sew.

But.

She loved people and people loved her. She genuinely cared about others. She was compassionate and she was kind. She was funny and she was silly and told the same stupid jokes over and over. She baked amazing cookies and even more amazing loaves of bread.

Maybe it's just because she was my mother and I have the advantage of hindsight but, in retrospect, she did so many things right. For better or worse she shaped who I am today.

She taught me to work hard, but to enjoy life. She taught me that it's okay to fail.

She believed in me and encouraged nearly every hare-brained idea that I ever had ... after I explained why it was important to me. I knew that if everything in my life went south I would still have a place to fall and that she would take me in.

She suffered, but she rose above it. She had the kind of faith that, if heaven had contributed just 1% of the solution, she would have brought the other 99% to solve the world's problems. She was that sincere and that devout.

And with all of her contradictions and all of her faults, she was the most holy person I think I will ever know. She was truly a living saint for me.

My mother passed away exactly 12 years ago today at the age of 63. I will always miss her.

She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble care, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
And love, and thought, and joy.

The Sparrow's Nest

William Wordsworth

Snow Day

Post by J

Today in Washington, D.C., our nation's capital, the federal government closed down and locked its doors tight against a snowstorm. The announcement came around 10:00 last night, due in large part, I think, to the prediction that we were to get - gasp - six to ten inches of that fluffy, marshmallowy, beautifully-serene-if-you-don't-have-to-drive-in-it, snow that kids with impending history tests only dream of.

Oh, yeah.

I grew up in Wyoming. As a kid I loved Snow Days - unexpected free time to laze around in my pajamas, read books, watch soap operas for which I didn't understand the melodramatic plot, eat cereal for lunch and consume a mid-afternoon snack of hot chocolate and toast, and just revel in getting a windfall of time to just do nothing. So important were these rare occurrences that they warranted capitalization.  Snow Day. It was almost like I felt guilty for taking pleasure in doing nothing, but it was a delicious guilty feeling, let me tell you.

As an adult, prior to joining the Foreign Service, I worked in Wyoming for 12+ years. For nine of those twelve years, I drove to a community college in Riverton for work - a distance of 25 miles (just as an aside, it took precisely 25 minutes to drive those 25 miles because, other than antelope, there wasn't much traffic on the road). While the annual average snowfall in any given city in the U.S. is 25 inches, the average in my hometown of Lander is 101. During the last twelve years, I had a Snow Day exactly - drum roll, please - once. And I think that was because it was a heavy spring snow that broke power lines.

The reason for the lack of Snow Days, of course, is that Wyoming and its people know a thing or two about snow. They are the stalwart type who know that if they stop because of snow nothing will get done. Wyoming is full of ranchers who have animals that depend on them; if they don't feed the animals because of a snow storm, the animals starve. Not only is this inhumane, it seriously impacts their investment and their bottom-line. This is a mentality that started with the pioneers over 175 years ago, and anyone in Wyoming will tell you it's hard to buck tradition.

Don't get me wrong. I love Wyoming. I love tradition. I love self-reliance and the idea of a "by-your-bootstraps" kind of society. But, oh, I love a Snow Day, too.

What makes today's Snow Day in Washington, D.C. particularly lovely is the simmering knowledge that once I get to the Dominican Republic, I am guaranteed to get exactly zero Snow Days. Cry me a river, I know. But there's something nostalgic about an unexpected free day, something that reminds me of home, and my childhood, and warmth against the storm. I can't help but love that.

Overnight in D.C. we received a disappointing total of about three inches. Wyomingites would scoff, and justifiably so. But I enjoyed about an hour of cozy laziness looking out the window at the bright blue sky. And then, as an adult, I realized I had obligations to fulfill. What did I do with my free day? Studied Spanish, of course.

A Love Letter To My Book Club

Post by J

Dear Literary Spirits,

Back in high school my choir sang No Man Is an Island:

No man is an island

No man stands alone

Each man's joy is joy to me

Each man's grief is my own

We need one another

So I will defend

Each man as my brother

Each man as my friend

I liked singing the song, but didn't really think its message pertained to me. If anything I probably thought the lyrics were a bit idealistic, being the cynical 17-year-old that I was. Shortly after high school, my then-boyfriend broke up with me and I remember defiantly telling my mother that I didn't need him anyway and that I didn't need anyone to help me. I even quoted Simon and Garfunkel: "I am a rock. I am an island." To which my very wise mother replied, "You are full of crap."

Of course, she was right. We need people - friends - to help us find the meaning in our lives, to help us find our way.  Sometimes a friend comes ready-made in the shape of a sister who is there for you all of your life. Sometimes you're lucky enough to find a friend whom you marry. And sometimes you're fortunate enough to stumble into a group of remarkable individuals that accept you, embrace your quirkiness, encourage your dreams, bolster your ego, and act as a sounding board for the thoughts in your head.

I am enormously blessed to have all of these types of friends in my life.

I've had friends over the years. I'm old enough to have had many friends. But can I just say here for the record that the relationship that I have with the women of my book club (I'm looking at you, Anne, Carol, Cory, Cora Lee, Sally and Stacey) is a precious and rare gift.

It began back in 2010 when I went in search of a little camaraderie, a little connection, and a chance to talk about a book I wanted to read.  What I found was so much more than that. And the book quickly became optional.

At first we were five and then six and then seven. We'd meet every four or six weeks - ostensibly to talk about a book we'd read. In reality, we'd talk about everything in our lives - sometimes we'd talk about everything but the book.

We talked about life. And death. And life after death.

We talked about our children and our parents.

We were supportive, and were supported.

Now I'm on the other side of the country and will soon be in a different country altogether. I've been busy building this new life and haven't been able to connect with my friends like I used to. But last weekend, they Skyped me in so I could again be a part of the conversation (okay, the book was mainly pictures and took about 20 minutes to "read," but still). Isolated in a new world as I am, I can't describe how much it means to me to know that my friends are still there and that I can still be a part of this amazing group of women that I admire, respect, trust, and love.

So a toast to you, my dear book club, my dear friends, on this, the eve of our 5th anniversary. May we have many more good times and excellent conversations.

And I'm not kidding when I say that we'd better be meeting on the beach in the Dominican Republic in about a year from now (for while no man is an island, each man's joy can include spending time on one). The mimosas are on me.

My besties (as the kids say), last summer.