Delayed...

Today was mostly a bust. The weekend trip was over and that meant reluctantly packing all of my belongings. I managed a shower; I even washed my hair.  Now I'm rather glad I took the time to do that this morning.

With an early morning meeting at 7:30, Quinn drove us to the location shoot, a McDonalds on the outskirts of Seattle. Quinn and M talked up a quaint breakfast place only to find out that it is closed on Mondays.  Our only option was to eat where the commercials will be shot.  I reluctantly choked down a sausage burrito and had my fair share of coffee before getting back into Quinn's minivan for the drive to the pre-production meeting.

It was more sitting and waiting there.  People buzzed around a large conference room table and a stylist brought in wardrobe choices for the actors.  One by one the "talent" showed up.  The men talked color options and accessories -- a language that seemed quite foreign to most of them.  I sat away from the group on some couches against the window.  There were outlets there to charge my various devices, and I decided it would be best not to add my two cents to their conversation. M called me over to the big table for our shared lunch.  Actors filed in with wardrobe options and it was hard not to lend my own commentary.

The meeting wrapped up around 3:30 in the afternoon and it made the most sense to go to straight to the airport. There'd been a huge crash in Delta's reservation system that completely grounded flights for the airline for hours this morning.  I assumed (wrongly) that everything would be back in working order by the evening.  No such luck.

I have been waiting here ever since that afternoon drop-off.  It is nearly 8 hours later.  My flight ran late and had to be changed to a direct flight home.  Then, the direct flight got bumped from 9:30pm to a 12:20am departure.   The screen says we'll be boarding in 45 minutes; however, after 2 plane changes and 3 different gates, I won't believe it until I'm actually on a plane and taking off for the east coast.  I've spent much of the day counting my chickens and nothing has hatched.  I even had to fight to claim my original seat assignment.  

There are people all over, crowding any seats they can find, plugged into the walls to charge their devices, leaning against columns with tickets in hand. Waiting.  A child is wrapped up on his blanket, his head clearly on the nasty airport floor.  I keep telling myself if I manage to get through this without getting sick, it will be a miracle.  Airport germs are even more pervasive than hotel room germs to me.  We are a herd of various folk stranded together. But as the time ticks by, our resolve softens a bit, and we too end up on the floor, completely resigned to collapse.  You can only hold on so long.  

My husband, who was so adamant of my visit this weekend is now apologizing for the complications.  Like everything else, it is out of our hands.  We are left just waiting and hoping.

Back on the West Coast

Lana del Rey has a great song "West Coast" -- you can hear it here.  It was playing in my head on loop as the plane touched down in Seattle.  It's been almost 20 years since I've visited.  In 1997, I was a college kid visiting with my brother for a track and field event at UW. Most of my time was spent with him and David (our college buddy who lived here).

This time is different.  We are in downtown Seattle, and it has an entirely new vibe.

Our hotel balcony is a twelve foot by two foot iron rod perch across the street from the historic Cinerama.  They show movies in 70mm format. Suicide Squad is playing now, but I've got no interest in seeing that.  No interest at all.  Instead today will be filled with strolling across town to drink coffee and sample the local eats.  Everything here is "sustainably sourced" "locally grown" and "organic." These terms are not regulated.  My chewing gum could be sustainable. The marijuana (which is legal here) is locally grown. You get my point.

Later today, we'll head over to experience the underground parts of the city.  This tour allows visitors to see what the city looked like before the great fire that devastated this city in 1889.  Rudyard Kipling happened to pass through Seattle right around the time of the fire and described it as, "a horrible black smudge, as though a Hand had come down and wiped the place smooth." Touring the Seattle underground will be the one historic thing we have on our very loose agenda.  There will also be a visit to the aquarium for sure and I've found a little supper club for dinner and local music for tomorrow night.

This visit is admittedly too short, and our time as tourists is limited to just the weekend.  8am Monday morning we'll be heading to the location where M is directing his 4 commercial spots.  I'm going with him for the pre-production meeting and wardrobe fittings. He says I could spend Monday doing my own thing, but there is a certain reluctance in his voice that makes it impossible for me to entertain the thought of doing something alone.  He wants me to see what he does; I support that.

Since I'm still on east coast time, we have already ventured out early this morning. Like the majority of downtowns, weekends are not so busy for early Saturday breakfast.  Most places are either closed for the weekend or just not ready for us east coasters.  I grabbed a coconut milk latte and M had his signature chai tea. He hates coffee with a passion.

There's something about places I've visited before that motivates me to recall the last time I'd been there.  Seattle is no different.  While we sat in a quiet cafe eating our breakfast, I tried to retell a story to M about my last visit to this city, and I realized that I had lost so many of the details.

"It's sad how much life we lose when we don't have photos or journals to reference" I admitted.
"There is a richness to putting a place down in your own words that helps make that moment come back alive."

While he finished his Bloody Mary,  we traded stories about living in Tampa.  I struggled to impart a story of when I worked there; I realized I couldn't even construct a timeline of the events that strung together to land me my most favorite writing job. All of that time was nearly lost.

This is why I write. My writing isn't just talking about myself or commenting about the state of the world. I write to remember that moment.  Maybe not every last detail, but something to hold onto, to look back upon. Memories can be lost in a great fire and wipe our lives smooth. That may be palatable for some, but I want to remember.

Open for business

It's July and every day is hotter than I expect.  We just returned from a road trip up the coast to Virginia.  Twelve long hours in the car, maybe thirteen.  I chose to drive overnight rather than blanketed by the traffic filled roads and sunlight. It makes it easier on the kids to travel and sleep through much of it, though it is harder on those who have to drive in the wee hours of morning.

I've realized I don't have much work to come home to.  My other half has been off for much of the month. The work in his industry is scant through the summer and will pick up again in the fall.  I'll have no such luck.  My supportive and always helpful mentorish boss-like figure informed me this summer that enrollment was low. There will be no writing class to teach this fall.  My cohort at the writing center just informed me there is no position there in the fall for her either. It's as if the need for education has fallen off a very steep cliff.

There is, of course, the question to whether I even continue this quest to get my graduate degree and *gasp* my doctorate.  I'm not giving up just yet.  My grad school hired me to teach a yoga class once a week.  It's a bit of a haul for one class, but I took it graciously.  It's getting too lean around here for sure.  There is a rather large mortgage on this house that I feel some degree of responsibility to pay.  The hoops were tough to jump through to get this lavish homestead and I'm not giving up so easily.  I say that, and in the next breath, could tell you that I'm signed up for over three thousand dollars worth of classes for my fall graduate studies, so I must not be that worried. Obviously.

On top of all that, I've made the decision to travel to India this winter.  The grad program is sponsoring a pilgrimage with Gandhi's grandson as its lead.  I think I might be the first one to have applied for the opportunity.  There goes another big chunk of savings (though I did apply for a nominal scholarship today to help lower the costs).  I don't think I've made this announcement in any formal fashion to the rest of my loved ones.  I turn forty this year; it is simply the gift I plan on giving myself.  It is also a great excuse to narrow my thesis/final project for this graduate program.  I am sure there will be plenty of opportunities to fuse my love of yoga with this trip to India, and the cultural connections I've found through the curriculum during my studies.... or at least that is what I'm telling myself.

So it may be back to finding regular work for me, if nothing else than to perhaps fund all of my great academic studies for fall and winter.  I have my feelers out and I'm open to anything.

Tragic

There is so much to say that I don't even know where to begin.  Perhaps it can best be described as a downward slide in mood...a disillusionment that I wasn't aware could happen.

My ex got caught acting as the "Tooth Fairy" last week.  So not only has my daughter been recently affected by the misuse of a Twister Box, but she has also lost any faith that the Tooth Fairy is real.  She told her dad that her friends had told her the truth, but she had ideas of her own.  She's been with me the past week or so, and hasn't said a word about the discovery.

I find it sort of tragic.

Tragic was the word I was stretching for to begin this thought.  Tragic then became part of my weekend when I found a little girl (about my daughter's age) crying in the dark at the gym where I teach classes. It was easy to miss her, of course, as she sat in the back corner next to the water fountain.  The group exercise room was dark, and there was no one but her in sight.  I sat down with her on the floor amongst the weight stacks and asked her what was wrong. She told me that she had gotten in trouble for saying something bad. The full story was earnest enough, and I told her I understood why she'd be so upset about it.  Of course I asked about her parents too.... whom must also be at the gym somewhere.  No.  She explained that her mother had dropped her off.  I grew rather uncomfortable, as I couldn't imagine leaving my child that age at the gym by herself.  After much investigation, I found out the girl was twelve, and for some reason, there's a rule that a child can be 12 to workout on his or her own. This rule was obviously reinterpreted by one of the gym staff.  Twin girls of a single mother are basically living at my gym because the mom has no safe place for her daughters while she works.  So, at 8am I have two twelve-year-old girls that bound into the exercise room when I teach on Fridays.  One has already told me about being touched inappropriately by one of the member boys.  I'm obviously livid. I'm not sure "safe" is how you would describe a gym that hosts swim meets and basketball games, where any stranger can swoop up a lonely child and no one would notice.  Somehow that is "safer" than even leaving these two girls at home.  I'm working out a solution on that one, but there are no good answers.  It's more like a lateral thinking puzzle or trying to find the best of one's worst options.

And one further blow was the news of a massive shooting this weekend in my hometown.  It was an act of rage against homosexuals, I guess. Though the more details that come to the surface about the shooter, it's harder to discern if it was a terrorist hate crime or just an enraged sociopath. Regardless, it has been named as the worst mass shooting ever in the United States.  That has added to the discord of this week.  I cancelled or subbed my Monday classes, and managed to make it through one class today.  I'm physically back on schedule, but mentally I'm somewhere else completely.

Twister

My parents rehab bank-owned properties for a living.  Basically they go in after the residents have left, assess the place, and then hire the subcontractors to do most of the work.  Some of it they do themselves.  Mom occasionally calls me with her leftover findings (like a gently used casserole dish or a high quality garden hose). This past week, my mother texted me inquiring about our family's board game collection.
"Chutes and Ladders?"
"Uno?"
"Twister?"

I recounted how one of our family friends brought over Twister a few months ago, and although I got roped into being the designated spinner, it was more fun than I expected from a plastic sheet and a cardboard spin wheel.

"Twister, for sure" I concluded.

When I saw her, she gave me the latest bag of goodies from her abandoned property.  This go round we were handed a spiral bound horse riding reference book, disposable K-Cup coffee pods and Twister for the kids. I thanked her for it and set it on the backseat of my car.

When my daughter got in the car that evening, she was excited about the book but more excited to own a new game for the nights we play as a family.  We do weekly game nights of Uno, Apples to Apples, Sorry and Monopoly (if we can manage not to get bored of it).  Twister would fit right in.

She picked up the box off the backseat and slid the lid off..... and then she gasped.  For in the Twister box was not the game at all.  It was rather, a collection of things that (perhaps) this couple did while they played Twister. It revealed to E her first images of pornography by way of a porno dvd cover. The front read something about "Underage Virgins" and showed some topless schoolgirl-looking whores.  The back, the side that was revealed to her before I snatched it away, was a collage of sexual acts: cock-sucking, doggie style, cum shots.  This was not suitable material. I secretly wished she had opened the box and seen the front cover instead....because topless sluts are only mildly disturbing in comparison.

By the time she had gasped and exclaimed "What is this? Who does this?" I had already wrestled it away from her.  Wrestled is a strong word. She gladly handed it to me, perhaps knowing this was not appropriate for her.

"I cannot unsee that" she exclaimed afterwards.

I was mortified.  Actually, it was a dash of that with a sad little bit of nervous laughing.  Explaining what porn is to a 10-year-old is challenging.  I rambled off something about people being into some interesting things to which others might find disgusting.  We were driving down the interstate joking about it in a forced effort to make light of a very awkward situation.  We (the adults) took a photo of the cover to send to my mom.

We texted her about how Twister had some questionable material in it.
"No way" she texted.
"Yes way" we texted back.

We sent her the cover photo and she was devastated. I think she was afraid I'd be upset or wouldn't want to talk to her.

 I couldn't be mad at my mom.  She's very careful about what she says and I perceive her as one of the most prim and proper thinking people.  I reminded her that we all understand she didn't purposely do anything.  I did rib her a little bit by saying, "it's a plastic sheet and a cardboard spinner. Didn't you feel the heft to this box?"

Needless to say, she won't be handing us any unopened boxes ever again.  E managed to sleep through the night despite such raunchy images dancing in her head.  She hasn't said a word about it since.  That's how I was as a young girl.  Let it go. Let it be.  Unfortunately that stuff will still visually leave an impression all too early on a young mind.  My heart sank a little knowing that had happened.

Fun Friday

I should be asleep by now. Fridays are the worst kind of busy for me --the kind where I get up and teach exercise classes from 8am until 11:30.  I call it "Fun Friday" but it's only that way when I go to bed at a decent hour and I haven't drank too much the night before.  A "Fun Thursday" could totally ruin my Friday, along with all of those early morning cardio queens that are looking to make a good calorie deficit before overindulging over the weekend.

For the record, I've already written over 750 words today.  Damn that 750words.com that S got me hooked on using!! As you write, it gathers metrics about your typing speed, your word choice, and then spits out all sorts of data.  My fastest 750 words (which means typing basically every shallow thought that comes to mind) was 12 minutes.  I know because the website told me.  I became an addict in January of beating my statistics and it's ultimately been the demise of this blog.  My internal excuse is always --  Screw the blog; I've already written 750 words today.  I'm trying to break myself of that.

It's been a hell of a week, and I mean that in both good and bad ways.

I have begun yet another job.  A thoughtful grad school cohort offered me a yoga class on campus. Thursday afternoons I make the drive down to the college for an hour of gentle yoga. Today was the first of what I hope are many Thursdays to come, maybe even more classes on this campus.  It's a great facility, the best a private college could offer.  It's a sweet deal too-- the school pays more than twice what my other workout facility pays per class. Regardless, I'm not there to make money.  No one teaches exercise/yoga classes for the money.  I'm happy if I break even. I'm even happy when I don't.

Mom visited the new house again this week.  She has been very eager to help me get things organized. I can't refuse her as she's got more energy and more organizational skills than a whole girl scout troop.  This week was for tackling my "office."  I've been blessed with some extra room in this house that I could actually call my own.  I'm channeling my inner Eudora Welty here.  Actually, as much as I'd like to pretend like I'm a genuine writer, I will also equally pretend to be the practicing meditator and yogini as well.  Let's just say that it is a room meant for many purposes, but right now it's only proven to house my wireless printer in a sweet little closet space.  The rest of the office (up until today) was a complete disaster "catch all" area.  Mom and I spent the entire afternoon sorting through boxes of paperwork: investments, taxes, yoga sequences, Body Pump choreography, graduate papers and syllabi.  I bought 2 large packages of hanging folders. She brought half a dozen plastic crates for filing.  By the end of the day, we had sorted through the mess and packed most everything into my very functional office closet (the one that houses the wireless printer).  

Beyond the work, the home, there is of course, the latest dramatic shift in my ex-husband's life that I have to deal with.  The kids let on that he was dating someone new (which was why he asked me to have them on his designated evening).  Her name is Susan. She has grown kids that are in college. She works for an office supply company.  She had given them some radically cool mechanical pencils.  I started putting all of these little details together and realized my ex is dating the lady we bought our house from. I called to confirm this discovery. Yes. Drama.

I don't know if it's on purpose or not. I don't know how exactly they met.  I just know that we are suing her for not disclosing damage to the house, and I let him know that he should kindly lean in on their date and inform her that there will be legal fees she needs to pay (along with fixing our floor that she so creatively covered with a rug she just so happened to leave behind for us).  I'd love for them to be in a relationship long enough that our paths cross as they did with the last one. I'll have a chat with her.

There are other things too, this week.  Stories for another time. I've said too much already.

New

I am immersed in "new" at the moment.  After finalizing the paperwork on the new house in March, the wait until moving day was driving everyone nuts.  While I was packing up and deconstructing everyone's rooms, it was difficult not to feel a little sentimental.  It hit me hardest as I took my son's bed apart; it's the wooden twin-sized kind that is held together with large hex screws. Something about sitting on the floor of his room, surrounded by boxes, reminded me of when I had put the bed together.

A year and a half ago, I had brought over furniture from my ex-husband's home. I remember that even though the thought of putting that bed together was exhausting,  I was relieved to have a place for my son to sleep when he was with me.  I sat on that floor just thankful that I was out from underneath the stress of trying to make that relationship work.

The cabin was a place of my own.  When we first moved in, the kids and I lit little sage sticks and "blessed" all of the windows and doors.  None of us knew what we were doing, but it felt ceremonious-- what child doesn't like to carry around a half-lit sage stick?

It was a dump for sure, that place. But it was very convenient place to live for the children and for me. The cabin was even suitable for the dog.  She had a fenced in area all of her own that I let become a little too much of a doggie litter box.  The yard was sizable, unlike the countless stamped out communities with zero lot lines. I took decent care of it until my big surgery last year.  Then it all went the way of weeds and dirt mounds.... and to be honest, I could never get the lawnmower to restart.  From then on, everything went to hell.  

"New" always feels good, whether it be a relationship or a job or a car. The problem becomes when you stop appreciating all of the things you liked about the thing when it was "new."  I am very conscientious about what "new" is like in the moment because I don't want to lose that feeling.....inevitably we always do.  This house, I'm sure, will feel "new" for quite some time to come; there have been little discoveries each day from the built-in lazy susan in the kitchen to the customizable closet systems in each room.  One day it will all be less shiny, less of the "exactly what I wanted."  It's in those moments that I go back in my mind's eye to what it felt like "new."  I think we have that in relationships too, if we can muster it.  My parents have been married for nearly fifty years, yet my father is very quick to say that he sees my mom as she was as a teenager.  In his mind's eye, she is "new" or perhaps he just recalls what he appreciated about her then.  It's important to keep that stuff alive somehow.  Our nature is to acquire and then want something more. Really, it's okay to just enjoy the now and what it brings.

"New"is now - an adjustment in reality.  A bigger house. More things to break and fix.  More space to fill.  It won't always feel that way, but I'll make a conscious effort to remember what this is like right now... and it's amazing.

Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels

Lately, every day is the same internal pep talk. I tell myself- Tomorrow I am going to eat healthy, exercise, etc. I certainly believe I'm going to make a valiant effort that day to make all the right choices, but inevitably, I end up back at square one. In previous relationships, it was easier. There was a system that had been in place pretty much from the start which included lots of time at the gym and also plenty of following that up with good eating. There were cheat days, yes, but not every day, and certainly not every meal. Times have changed.  Although I am much happier now, my "happiness" also manifests itself physically.  I'm wearing the evidence. So, I've decided to try my hand at food prepping -- getting a lot of the sous chef chores out of the way for the week-- cutting, steaming, baking, and making all of the mess at once.  If there are healthy options on hand, I'm excited to eat them, especially if I went through all of the trouble to prep them in the first place. Since I've fallen so hard off the nutrition wagon, I'm truly determined to get back on again.  

With list in hand, I headed to Publix to restock our fridge. I loaded up with items from the produce section: spinach, cauliflower, broccoli, squash, bananas, strawberries. I also grabbed a rotisserie chicken. I know it's probably not the best choice, but I was able to portion the chicken out so that we would have some quick "go to" chicken for meals tomorrow.   The broccoli and spaghetti squash has been steamed.  I sliced and diced the strawberries and oven roasted some sprouts.  As for dinner, I am making flank stead that is rolled with spinach, cheese, mushrooms and onions.  If I'm feeling like recreating this morning's mess, I may steam the cauliflower and cut up some apple.  It  feels like more work than it's worth.  

Regardless, I hope the prep work not only keeps me motivated to eat right, but it also encourages me to stick with cardio this week. I haven't worked out since Friday, and I keep on making excuses for everything -- papers to grade, books to read, mortgage paperwork to submit.  However, once ONE thing falls in place, usually the others are lining up to follow suit. Yes, I will say it ....."nothing tastes as good as skinny feels," and as awful as that sounds, it sure is the truth. 

Rent, Lease, or Buying the Gimmick

Lender approval letter in hand, we set forth on our househunt adventure in the suburban landscape we call home.  There are so many parameters to keep in mind.  Must have a pool.  Must have at least 4 bedrooms.  Must have a separate office space somehow detached or in it's own portion of the house that does not readily disturb the family, or more accurately, does not disturb the West Coast time zone worker bee that is furiously crafting through the night.  Must have a large lot.  Must be within a 15 mile radius from ex-husband.  Must.... well, you get the idea.

We received our letter on Friday, and by the evening, I was tired of the lender attempting to hook me up with some realtor that he was interviewing on our behalf. We had already missed out on a lakeside home that I was dying to see from the inside and was now under contract.  I took matters into my own hands and called the first well-seasoned one on the roster.  His name is Dan.  He answered his phone and listened intently to my very under-rehearsed: "Uh, hi.... I am looking for a realtor who is interesting in helping us buy a house and I noticed you uh, help buyers as well as sellers."  After sending him our wishlist, along with a few possible addresses for him to magically "gain access," we crossed our fingers hoping he might actually call back.

As luck would have it (as it statistically does happen) the first house we saw was the one we wanted.  Lucky Realtor Dan is more like it.  He didn't have to do much more than answer his phone for this sale. This lovely 5 bedroom, 5 bathroom house touts a separate office space with a private entrance, and it is exactly what we need.  Of course, there are many hoops to jump through, and from what I understand, these hoops may create varying other challenges that are more like flaming hoops over major cliffs, or hoops that, as I jump through them, might send me to another dimension on the hunt for some lost piece of paperwork that will keep me from getting the house.

That same weekend, we eagerly put an offer on this beauty.  Not too high. Not too low-bally. And with very little squabbling, it ended up being "just right."

 Of course, we then moved into the stage of gathering documentation for our lender.  I have learned through this experience to not trust that when this mortgage guy says he's available day or night and truly understands that "here's my personal phone number" still means he has no intention to answer... even when I'm calling with a quick but frantic question.  I can't bring myself to type some of the nicknames we've now tagged him with.  One final snippet came through today, and we were so excited to resubmit the entire list of conditionals to underwriting.
1:30pm: I scanned the doc & sent to lender.
1:45: I emailed the lender.
3:30: I called the lender.
5:00: I texted the lender.
No response.

Having a closing date tentatively set for the end of the month and no final answer on our loan makes for a very frantic last half of March.  Crossing fingers that it all works out.

Flying Under the Radar..

I've been a little off the radar when it comes to my blog.  It's not for the lack of writing.  In fact, I have been writing most days on a separate website called 750words.  My good friend revealed this one to me, as her collegiate writing professor uses it as part of the creative writing regimen.  I'm only on my 30 day trial right now, and soon I'll have to pay for writing my 750words a day?  What I do like about it is the stat tracking -- how long did it take today? how many words did I manage. what was my overall mood based on the word choice? how many breaks did I take?  It can be quite specific.  The difference is that I've been paying more attention to quantity than quality, and truly you wouldn't want to read the drivel I've written about my every day life on that site.  It is, and will forever be, a private blathering of nothingness.  Posts here should be meaningful (although this one is still waiting to prove itself).

There's actually nothing off the radar about life.  I'm knee deep in mortgage lending paperwork and awaiting a response from a lender to commence the house hunting process. Oh, the joys of home buying and all that it entails is around the corner.  I am eager to move from the little cottage in the woods I've rented since 2014, but I am also wary of what we'll be getting into.  Right now, my landlord is a phone call away and the "magic fixer" of all the problems one might face with a 60 year old home.  Soon, the problems will be ours to manage, and that's a scary proposition.

New

....2016....
It's 43 degrees in North Carolina as I sit perched in a rather chilly barstool on the porch of the log cabin my father-in-law pieced together by hand.  Even the stool that props me up in this New Year was made by him.  It's a good old hometown labour of love up here in the Carolinas.  We are just a mountainside drive away from my husband's family's first cabin and a couple more miles away from another property they own.  Down the mountain from this house are three well-fed llamas that Grandpa D (what the kids lovingly call him) rescued.  The llamas produce a soft fleece that Grandma C sends westward to have woven into blankets and rugs.  My children both received one made especially for them as part of their Christmas.  Speaking of which, this trip rounds out our third Christmas celebration -- one at home, one with my parents, and this one.

Our new favorite way to travel with children is with them sedated.  Well, not really.  However, we do wait until late in the evening to depart for long trips and drive through the night so that we arrive in the morning with at least most of day ahead of us.  We arrived in North Carolina at 6:30 in the morning.  The kids immediate recalled how, in summer, they checked the chicken coop for eggs. Lo and behold, there were a few to bring upstairs. Then, they headed down the drive to feed Smackers, Chief, and Fernando (the llama trifecta).  

We had lunches in their small little town with the locals.  We ate dinner one night at E and L's favorite pizza buffet which boasts video games and tickets for prizes for them to select after they've drained me of all of my cash.  We took a drive through the mountains to go hiking along the same trail to Huckleberry Bald, the site of our wedding last May.  While we were there, the kids transformed a broken christmas tree into a fort to stay warm in the thrashing wind.  We even visited an underground lake that was discovered in the early 1900s by a 13-year-old boy.  Nowadays, they do boat tours there, but it was once the site of a prohibition watering hole. This trip was capped off with a visit to the local cinema to watch Star Wars and ending the night with a drive to Brasstown where they host the annual possum drop (in place of the celebratory NYE- glass ball).
You can read all about it here

All in all this has been a good ole' country holiday, but I'm ready to get back to suburban living, my new 2016 budget, and a sense of regular life at home.