Five days out . . . The BIG 6.0 is coming . . .
There's this light that follows him. Most of you probably don't see it, but I do. Every time he walks through the outside door, into the kitchen about 6:18 p.m. every evening, there's this light. Usually, before the door opens, I hear, "Hello sweetie." The second the door opens, light. He puts his trusty binder and thermos down on the counter and grabs me. Not a day since I've known him has it been any different.
While his mother lived with us, she beat me to the punch. "It's Leonard," she would say and the light would follow him to her. He did that every single day, too.
Now, the light is all mine, save a few kittens (namely Bonnie) that have secured his love and lap. Bear would be proud.
As a photographer, light is more important than location. Len's light is more important to me than our home and all the stuff that goes with it.
As long as I have the light, I'll know where I'm going.

She finally did it. She finally got married. And she did it in fine fashion along the cliffs of the Atlantic Ocean in the town of Bundoran, Ireland.
     Good things come to those who wait, they say. I will cling to this and realize that Grandma Hill is resting more comfortably now. There are certain orders to this world, and Mari defied them all. In fact, most people are doing thing back-asswards, and not giving it a second thought. Even I have done a few things in unconventional ways. All-in-all, it has always worked out fine in the end.  However, it's just so darn hard to let go of the customs, traditions and teachings of a woman who drilled them into your head for a lifetime.
    And then there are those two boys . . . another time.
    Regarding children, I've come to understand that my responsibilities have now ended. Nothing should be expected or warranted. There is no guarantee that they will remember the things I have taught, nor should I care at this point in time. They become responsible for their own lives. I have done my work, and now it's time to let go.
    And, now, I look at the beauty before my eyes. Congratulations baby girl! You finally got the family you so desperately wanted. The world is your oyster.

It's the morning of the last morning, of the last day, of the year that has changed my life and its trajectory. I watch through my dining room window as the sun peeps through the tall trees towering over the back lands. As most mornings, I stop for a second, admire its beauty, and walk on toward the coffee pot for my morning jolt. This morning, its reflection stops me.
It's been a fun year, a year of firsts, a year of statements as to how old I actually am and just what to expect from this day forward.
The list of 2017 (forgive me):
1. Italy for the second time was just as triumphant as it was the first. Include Sicily and its charm. Then Ireland for the second time. Costa Rica for the first. Keep travelin'. Keep those faraways coming.
2. Weddings upon weddings. Incredible clients, with no exceptions. I would have never stumbled upon these lives had I not had this dream of photography. You're never too old to let a new dream take hold of your life.
3. Opportunities to write for large outlets only whet my appetite for more assignments. I think I'm done with writing and then I write, I read, and I'm smitten all over again. Thanks AAA, BBC (more letters, please). Let the avalanche of pitches begin.
4. Challenges with children and the obligation to let them go. I must trust that I've done my best, done all I can, and allow them to live their lives - the good, the bad, the right, the wrong.
5. New challenges physically cause me to make changes mentally. You see, it's the mind that either gets in the way or catapults me. It will have to rise higher than ever for 2018.

I'm ready for a new year. That invisible line drawn between today and tomorrow has power, and I tend to do well with what I can't see. One thing I can see, a card I acquired at a conference in November that sits alongside my travel inspiration keepsakes on my desk. It reads, "Do hard things."
That's my first and only resolution. Do hard things. In doing that, I remain sharp and miracles happen. I don't think I could ask for anything more for 2018.

What a blessing each year becomes. I am so overpowered by God's grace each and every day that he allows me to breathe and inhale his wonderful world. Gratitude is a powerful tool. As we give it, it almost automatically returns to live inside of us. It approves us to be positive, to see the favorable, to be joyful rather than miserable, to throw off the complaints and see the positive, to accept moments as they come and be gentle . . . I think we all need more gentleness in our lives.

So from Seeing Southern to all, I wish you more gentleness in your 2018 moments, more positive thoughts, more productive exploits, more gratitude for whatever might befall you. And yes, more travel and more stories in this gift of another year.

P.S. I would be remiss if I left out THIS in my final words of 2017: GO DAWGS!

In the southern foothills of the Appalachians, in a small hamlet in Georgia where neighbors were family and strangers were soon-to-be-friends, lived my family of three.
            Being raised as the adopted child of a middle-aged man and woman labeled to be of America’s Greatest Generation hinted at the trajectory of my character. Looking back, I had no idea that my future expectations were being constructed from my earliest days. And little did I know how much society would evolve, consuming those expectations and casting an entirely new set of realities in its wake. 
            From toddler days to the teenage stage, life was straightforward. Days started before the sun roused and ended as the sun disappeared. What happened in-between was a life of convention, dictated by seasons and responsibilities, as well as the convictions of a stalwart Southern Baptist woman. During the week, daddy would walk out the door, lunch box and thermos in hand, to work a day’s shift in town where he dyed thread at the textile mill. Mama remained at home, the proverbial housewife; however, to me, she worked harder than any man I knew. On Sunday, daddy donned his suit, mama, her best dress, and we’d pile into the Chevy Chevelle and join others at Bethlehem Baptist, the church closest to home. 
            In decision making, I was a non-entity as most children were to parents of this generation and geography; plans, even dinner choices, weren’t altered because of my wants. Mountain living was certainly challenging to those whose preferred spontaneity, but for my family and those closest to us, we knew no other way. Traditions of simplicity and legacy governed our daily walk, how families raised their children, the values they embraced, their attitudes, their morals and actions.
            Every decision and action was purposeful.
           The only exception to any routine arrived with the holidays, especially Christmas. It wasn’t that things were different; they were more intense. It was Sunday on steroids. The unannounced visits. The never-ending food. The daily church services. The family time. For us, the season had nothing to do with material gifts, but everything to do with flashes of homemade time. Ordinary life, inconveniences too, took back seat to spiritual and familial priorities. Year-after-year, I longed for the holiday season when schedules were broken and days, even meals, transformed from simple mashed potatoes to decadent sweet potato casserole coated with sugar and pecans.  
            The excitement was unmistakable: lingering longer with family without regard to distance or the time it took to get home; anticipating and indulging in Aunt Sophia’s homemade coconut cake, which she reserved only for Christmas; buying a dress from Golds Department Store, the only store-bought dress of the year, and wearing it proudly as I sang in the Christmas cantata; laying for hours in front of a roaring fire with daddy, enjoying its crackling and soon the popping of corn over the open flame; taking the scheduled and shrewd drive on Christmas eve to spot all the multi-colored lights throughout the city providing Santa enough time to drop my solitary gift under the tree.
            The season was a magnet, grabbing hold of the best of life and plopping it right in my lap.
           As the years passed and I grew older with a family of my own, as each year drew to its end, I awaited with childlike excitement the vitality of the season. Instead of that Christmas state of mind, exhaustion arrived. There were schedules to keep, presents to buy, meetings and parties to frequent, emails to send, babysitters to arrange, and houses to prepare. Where had my Christmas gone? Perhaps I had become complacent in the life my parents had created and I had lived, one that was centered on their traditions, values and circumstances. I expected the same familial experience, but I had not taken into account how deep I would have to dig to retain those patterns of life. Plus, I had discounted how society would change, how I would change.
            For the better part of twenty years, my parents had prepared me for life the only way they knew how, imparting in me values and traditions established by their parents nearly a century earlier. The circle of life, we call it now. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I fully understood the scope of what they had given me, the battle they waged with society to keep me sheltered within the confines of the age-old ways. They, like their parents, had no control over the evolution of the world, and they could have never imagined that, among other things, a small gadget held in the palm of your hand could hold and dominate your entire world.
          I somewhat blame my parents for instilling this grand expectation within me but ironically, eternally grateful they did. As each season unfolds, I return and embrace my parent’s memory, and intentionally recreate at least one moment. Whether it be taking that Christmas Eve drive, making Aunt Sophia’s coconut cake or finding the time to drop by a neighbor’s house and simply visit, I will not let those traditions slip away.
            In the end, we build the life we choose, and certainly, unforeseen circumstances cloud our greatest of expectations. Nevertheless, whether I have succeeded or failed to translate that life into the modern world in which I find myself, I consider those years as the touchstone of my character. 

Remember in TV ads long ago in the 70s when product-makers would tout their "unconditional money-back guarantee" for their product that might work three days after receiving it. As a kid, I remember hearing those jumbled words, not really understanding its significance. However, if old age has taught me one thing, it's the price of unconditional and how its longevity factor is much more valued than any monetary replacement.
     Yesterday, our cat died. Bear. I've known Bear as long as I've known my husband. In fact, Bear met me at the door before Len could get there. So, I guess I've know Bear the longest. My heart is broken. Len's heart is broken. Here's the way I look at this. Last week my ex-husband died. I didn't cry. I didn't mourn. He was a horrible man who treated his children and family as if we were trash. Not an unconditional fiber in his being. It was a very sad ending to life. 
     Today, I can't stop crying. I can't stop mourning. Bear was a companion who never judged or belittled or wandered; he simply loved his family the best way he could. And, he did. Until yesterday at 4:00 p.m. when he just couldn't handle it anymore.
    Damn cat.
    He's simply a cat.
    I mean, really. What we had to put up with!

    I can have a white bed comforter. Yes, a beautiful, hotel-like, cushy-cottony comforter that will make our bedroom a beautiful place to relax. No worries of black hair being left on the foot of the bed or paw prints messing with its whiteness.
     And, I can put away the towels that I used to cover all upholstery where he stretched out every day. The pad at the bottom of our bed or the chair in my office where he spent most of his days don't have to be covered anymore. The upholstery can now breathe.
    Real flowers. I can have vases upon vases of real flowers on every table in the house. I don't have to put them 7 feet high in hopes that Bear won't climb and eat every last bloom. What do I buy first?
     I can open doors again! I don't have to race in from the car, quickly closing the outside door before I open the kitchen door just so Bear won't escape. He did that one time, and luckily I found him. If not, I would have been the one that was homeless. I can take my time, leaving a door open a millisecond longer than before.
     And, I won't have to say goodbye each time I leave the house or tell him when I'll return or to take care of Ty or to take a nap; I'll be right back. I can just walk out the door and be on my way.
    No more paw prints on my floors. Less mopping to erase his steps and the floors will thank me.
    No more litter box to clean. Can I get an Amen?
    During the night, no more cat chases to wake us. We never knew what he was chasing, but when he settled down, we figured he caught it. Oh, and no more sweeps of the house after Len and I laid down. He always laid down with us and then immediately got up to check the house. Again, crazy cat in that nothing was every there. He just made noise.
    I don't have to share my sweet peas with Bear anymore. I can keep them all to myself.
    And don't get me started about the water. Leaving the water running in Len's sink for him to drink - he was insistent that it be running so he could get water. Never mind that he had a water bowl in the kitchen. It was never good enough.
     What a nosey ghost. I couldn't go anywhere in the house with him following me. Now, I can do anything, all by myself.

Life is strange in that we think we know what we want. And when we have it, we want the complete opposite.
     I look over my left shoulder to the chair that Bear occupied for close to eight years. It's empty. I can't read my work to him. No more meows for approval or a head tuck for disapproval.  And when its time for a break, I'll not have a partner to accompany me to the kitchen for a cup of coffee or a guy to help me harass the outside cats through the glass door. And no one who races me to the bathroom. And no one to tell "good morning" or "let's go to bed."
     And this is where the unconditional comes in. He was that. Bear defined that. For no matter what we needed - a head kiss or a cold nose on my arm - he always showed us that he was there. Even when I told him how annoying he was, he didn't care; he simply remained Bear. He had the longevity factor. Until the very end.
    Lessons from a cat, I suppose. Constant. Remaining. Loving. Caring. Unconditional.
    He leaves all those lessons behind and a family that became whole because he was there.
    Who needs a white comforter and flowers? Not me.
   

     Today, the door shuts on my past. For Mari, Logan and Ty, that door shuts, too.
    For decades, our lives have felt somewhat like that of Linus from the Peanuts cartoon, with a dark cloud looming overhead, shrouding us in darkness, following wherever we go. Our clouds, filled with very few good thoughts, bulge with deep-rooted remembrances that shower us with pain. Only the four of us felt the burden of the cloud and running away became our only refuge.
     I suspect that to some, we created the dilemma and were the ones responsible for a demise of a family. Unless you heard the screams and saw the tears, I guess believing the finger-pointing was easier. Why is it we always believe easy and convenient and loud?
     Today, literally, the screams will be silenced, the showers, turned off, the hurt, buried. However, within our hearts and minds, well, that is another story. Some days, it's easy to forget because right now is so good. And others, voices bounce back-and-forth in my brain and won't shut off. It's hard to leave the past behind when it invades the present. But for the sake of tomorrow, we have to let go and push it off, cling to our strengths and know, the past and it's circumstances must never define us.
     Today, we let go. Mari, Logan, Ty - we must let go. Never again do we run or hide. It can't hurt us anymore.
    

I think writing is a family thing. My mama was a reader for sure, but I never thought of her as a writer. However, I could spot her writing a mile away - arched characters, stiff, solemn. I never knew my grandmother and I never heard my mama talk about her mother very much, only in quick anecdotes regarding her upbringing.
    Going through boxes of photos and chests of keepsakes, I unearth three treasures. One, a short story called "The Bridge," written in my mother's handwriting. The faded yellow paper held together by a rusted paper clip held the aroma of yesterday. Almost 8 pages of carefully crafted single spaced story line, complete with dialogue and a moral. I don't know if this is original or if she copied it from her memory or a newspaper or magazine she found. Scriptural in tone, I'm fairly certain it was her Southern Baptist mantra landing on paper. For the two boys that found themselves in a situation that was the result of driving too fast around mountain curves would be the exact type of story I can see my mother sharing. Mortal lives ending in death but saved by their Heavenly Father. That was mama.
     Remember those Blue Horse writing pads, the one with the visage of a horse covering the front on top of just enough advertising to make a young one question its coolness? Evidently, my grandmother, Mattie, wrote her life story in these writing pads. Each pad held one month; each page, one day. I found two months worth of memories, one dated January 1, 1945.
     It begins "Bad wind this morning with rain. All gone back to their work. Rather lonely. Opportunities for 1944 are gone. I start on the new yr."
     The entries are always one page, never more. Most of the time, the second line reads "Done my work." And the last line, a Bible verse that sums up the day.
     On January 1, 1945, she ends with this: "Phil.3:13-14 comes to my mind. 'Brethren, I count not my self to have comprehended but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forth unto those things which are before. I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.' "
   I would have like to have known my grandmother Mattie Logan. She is brief, to the point, not mincing words and never holding her heartache or joy back. 
    A lesson, I suppose, here. Begin the day by finishing your work first and end your day in leaning toward God"s grace. It'll make what follows much easier.
    Thanks Mattie. I feel writing inspiration oozing from your words. There's work to be done. Time to get started. There are stories to be told.
    

"Prosciutto, please, " I request of the lady behind the deli counter at Publix. 
     We have been home a little over a month from our Italian journey, and its alchemy has not left me. Having visited over a decade ago, I went into this trip knowing full-well the hold of the country and its people. Well, it happened again, and I find myself wanting to sell everything I own and plant my roots on the Italian hillside, this time on a cliff in Sicily.
    But that's a story for later.
    This moment belongs to the lady behind the counter. Every single time I stop at the deli counter I return to my life some 10 years ago when I didn't have a place to lay my head or a job to earn my keep. As people do when they are desperate, they reach for the longest branch that is closest to them. For me, I would transform into a "professional shopper" and evaluate my experience at the establishment of their choosing. They chose Publix; I chose spicy turkey.
     After all, they would reimburse you for your purchase and give you $10 for your honest and insightful account of your experience. I figured free food plus $10 bucks. Food and fuel for the week. I could do this.
     Well, I did it one time. It was enough to dropkick my butt into reaching a little farther and dreaming a little bigger. It also taught me that I had to and could do whatever in order to get to the next chapter. I like to think Publix played a role in my renaissance. Sort of.
     Today, I stand here and order fancy bacon with a diamond on my hand and a Coach on my shoulder. But, I remember. Every single time. Of being alone and scared and ordering spicy turkey from the kindest woman on the planet who didn't know I was taking notes.

Running late, my normal these days, I found myself in Robert's funeral procession traveling from the funeral home some 10 miles to Center Hill Baptist Church near Rosebud.
     It was about 10:30 a.m. and blue lights blocked the intersection. Walton County Sheriff Deputies sat quietly, stopping traffic from all sides. I knew it had to be a funeral this time of day. People paused in respect, a Southern practice that always makes me proud to be a Southerner, and, a little teary-eyed no matter who it might be. I didn't expect it to be Robert's procession. I waited, looking at my watch realizing I was getting later by the second, but it didn't matter anymore. They surely wouldn't start without Robert.
     I observed each car go by - the hearse, the family, the friends - and then finally, I was allowed to fall in behind. On this very road, about 40 years ago, I traveled to meet Robert, his wife Josephine, his family - Renee, Rodney, Lance and Kelly - for the very first time.
    As a sophomore at Truettt-McConnell College, I was selected by the Southern Baptist Convention as a summer missionary to Massachusetts. My stranger-side-kick and myself infiltrated the Catholic world of New England, working during the summer in backyard Bible schools, leading church services, ministering to young people who were basically the same age we were. It was life-changing. Service and ministry seeped into my skin, and I decided to do it again - just not so far away. So during my second summer at the University of Georgia, I interviewed with Center Hill Baptist Church for a youth ministry position. They liked me. They invited me. They kept me. For two years.
     The first year, I commuted from Athens with the occasional spend-the-night with a church member. The second year, I had to have a home. They made sure of it. So Robert and Josephine - with four children of their own - turned their living room into Judy's bedroom and that was that.
   Today, as I sat in the packed sanctuary, I heard Rodney, his eldest son, speak of his father's character. I glanced at Josephine. She was nodding her head in agreement. So were Renee, Lance and Kelly. Unconsciously, I'm doing the same thing. A quiet man, his convictions - his love - his service to mankind was palpable.
     I struggled to remember the small details of life with the McCarts, but I do remember how I didn't feel like a stranger. When the car pulled under the car port to unload groceries (and, man, were there a lot of groceries), we all helped. It was an event. Evenings around the dinner table included everyone with tales of the day and usually, lots of laughter. I hated squash, but Josephine cooked it just right - paper thin and fried, and I caved. The sweet tea was addictive, but not as addictive as that strawberry cake. I can still taste it.
     Being a Ford man, I understood why Robert loved my little red and white Mustang so much, but not as much as he loved Renee's. Anything I asked him to do for the youth group, he did it with joy. Anything. He loved the outdoors, and he loved to laugh. I remembered that hearty laugh. His children had it, too. I suspect, they still do.
     Even after they converted my bedroom back into a living room, it was still home.  And when I would return to the church for visits over the years, Robert and Josephine were the first faces I searched for. They were the first people I grabbed.
     It's incredible how, even though years have passed, the depth of love I have for this family has never wavered. Time has been the greatest divider but not the conqueror. Just like that, I'm back and it's summertime at Center Hill. The youth group is preparing for some big event, gathering in the parking lot underneath the big oak tree. I'm eating squash and strawberry cake. I'm sitting in the house on the hill where a family took me in and gave me exactly what I needed - love.
     Part of that scenario goes home today, but the legacy of Robert remains. He leaves a very important lesson with me - when you think you are full, and there's just not room for anyone or anything else, there's always an opportunity to change a living room into a bedroom.
     Having a place to lay your head is life-changing. Just ask me.

It's been a while since I've been here. The first four months of 2017 have been non-stop - and we're not complaining. We've been to Key West (a family visit and all the Key Lime Pie we could stand), Mobile (our first Mardi Gras), Branson (connecting with the entire southern United States and fellow travel writers) and now, Italy (a once--in-a-lifetime pilgrimage to home) is next week! In between all these destinations and stories, there have been weddings, a commercial shoot, grandchildren birthdays, deadlines and the never ending effort to have a water heater installed. We haven't succeeded at that just yet; we fear, we'll be greeted one morning by the proverbial cold shower - and not for the reason you might think!
    I can't remember the last time I said, "I"m bored. I don't have anything to do." I like being busy, staying committed, being on task. Productive. However, there are moments when just chilling can be good for the soul. In fact, when I try, it's hard to simply live in the moment, inhale and exhale, and clear my mind. Never in my wildest dream would I have thought downtime would be hard. This achievement falls in the category of "must do."
     I'm learning how to come up for air, even if its only for five minutes a day. Clear my head, walk away from the computer, the edits, the words. Leave everything in its place; for sure, all will be there when I return.
    And on the other side of the coin, I am thankful for work, for growth, for purpose. I never want to stop learning. Mama always said, "There's always something you don't know." Man, was she right. I intend on tripping over what I don't know and making it mine.
     May we all learn how to inhale and exhale during this magnificent life and value the moments when we must come up for air.
   

You leave your mark wherever you go. You wonder how many come behind you and really look at your offering (whether a dollar bill at No Name Pub or a promise on the porch) and consider your contribution to the daily grind. I hope that I have added a meager semblance of good to the flow, with very few ruffled feathers, and when the world sleeps at night, people and animals rest assured they have a friend and a caretaker.
As the sun rises along Ramrod Key this Friday morning, I see the universe's contribution and mark upon my day, a projection of hope and light. Hope is a dynamic proposition that much like that of Robert Frost, offers many roads that diverge and it's up to me to make a choice, a good choice. The language I choose. The platform I raise. The character I disclose. Where will I do the most good? What is right for me? Where will my hope lead me? Can I get out of the box that I've created - and my surroundings expect - and fly?
I choose to fly. At this point in my life, flying is the only mark that makes sense. But keep in mind, flying is mighty hard. Tough. Exhausting. Ruthless. Rewarding. I will definitely leave the adventure to those with younger joints and figure out how to contribute in a manner fitting a pub in the middle of nowhere with no name. A mark that fits me.
After all, this life - this choice - this direction - is the only one I have which will lead me home.
Leave the best mark you can.

     I have loved you since the mid-1980s when I saw you drive across the big screen with Paul Reiser and some actress in some movie. He drove while "she" (whoever she was) rode in the passenger seat of that cobalt blue rag top, hair blowing wildly, and delight radiating from both faces. For the life of me, I can't remember the movie, but I remember that car.
     "I want that car," I uttered.I promised myself that very second, that at some point in my life, I would own a convertible Saab and my hair would do that, too. And, I would be happy.
     In December of 2007, my mama, Ty and I sat in the showroom at Loganville Ford, contemplating my financial suicide which included a used fire red convertible Saab 9/3 that by all accounts, I could not afford even on my best day. I had no home, no vehicle, no money, and I had only landed a job two weeks earlier; my divorce from crazy had been finalized two months before, and now, the crazy in me was asking my 95-year-old mama to co-sign with me on a car.
     I had penned this very point on my six-month goal list back in October when Cheri and I sat outside a Lawrenceville Starbucks. Maybe not a Saab, but a vehicle of my very own.  Then, I saw you.
     "You just don't understand. I have to have this car." I finally convinced my mama, my son, and the salesman of this life-altering event. The salesman chuckled as he told me how absurd the situation was. "I don't care how good her credit is, she's 95." And then he laughed more. He disappeared, as all auto salesmen do, to the back and remained behind closed doors for what seemed like an eternity.
     Then, he appeared and walked toward us, head bowed, papers in hand. "I can't explain it," he said, looking bewildered. "We'll put her name first. Give me a couple hundred down. We might just make it work." I'm not sure who was shocked the most, the salesman or me.
     Since that evening when I drove you home from the dealership, I have loved you, cared for you, washed you and protected you. You were the first miracle that I needed to rebound from a long, dark past. Years later, I still tell the Miracle Saab story.  'If I could get that car, I could get anything.' My beautiful red turbo jet ushered me quickly into a future that I couldn't see coming. You squeezed the excitement out of me when I needed it the most, and when days were just drab, I'd push a button, and the sky would open up. Your canvas roof folded back, and the wind would sweep away all the negative thoughts. I felt fearless. You gave me that.
    You warmed my buns on cold mornings. And that endless display of buttons - I could mute, change, fold, open, skip - the accessories alone freaked me out! Your cracked leather seats cradled and cushioned me on the long drives home from my Decatur job. You gave Silas shotgun seating as we'd swing through the drive-thru at Brewsters, begging for his ice cream topped with a doggy treat. You were always the topic of conversation with your Swedish backwards design. I convinced people that different is stylish. Not to say you were perfect, for you left me on the side of many roads; Wilson's Towing was on speed-dial. You cradled my sobs when I needed space to let the frustration escape. You raced down city streets, expressways and finally down a country road and landed me on Len's doorstep. What a life you lived. What a life you allowed me to live.
     Today, you are leaving. You will be another's jet and hope. I would never leave you behind at a  dealership, so I'm sending you off with love to the local Make a Wish foundation. Seems like the perfect landing strip for a jet with super powers who gave life to a lady who had crashed and needed refueling.
    As I watched you go down the driveway for the last time, I crumbled to the gravel and cried. Then, the sunburst broke through the trees. You came into my life when I needed a jolt of "get going, life won't wait." You gave responsibility and purpose and happiness. Yes, you're just a car, but then, Jesus was just a man.

Isn't it the way it always happens. You on your way to one place when you find yourself in another. That is me. Today. July 19, 2016. Len and I are heading to Maryville, Tennessee, to report on a Rock City barn being painted. On our way, I see signs. The signs begin to jog my memory. No, it can't be. It is.

Crazy thing is, I never knew where in the world it was until today.
The 10 Commandments scripted on the side of a mountain in mammoth white letters was a yearly visual. Big enough that anyone could see and understand. Of course, we'd have to climb the mountain and read each commandment for the billionth time. I am not one to keep my feelings to myself. I whined and complained just like every other ten year old around me. After all, they hadn't changed since last summer when we visited. I knew what they said and it was hot. The crowds were huge (just like the letters). Finally, we would finish reading and stroll to the gift shop - which is always the last stop for any Southern attraction.
Then, after a day of hopping in and out of the car, we'd find a little motel. By little, I mean one room, two beds. I was the odd man out. I got the sofa, but worse than sleeping on the sofa was sleeping on the sofa while listening to a freight train barreling through the room. That would be my Uncle Ivet. All 250 pounds jiggling to his own beat. It didn't take long to figure out how to fix this. I put my 10-year-old brain to work and solved my problem.
The only place that would separate me from the rattling, the bathroom.After everyone was asleep, I'd grab a pillow, a blanket and hop in the tub. It seemed like the perfect idea except for the half-dozen bathroom visits Ivet made during the night. I kept my eyes closed, but even the pillow couldn't suffocate the sound.
And today, on my journey to somewhere else, I remembered those trips with the four people I loved most in the world. I climbed up the white wash staircase and thought of mama and daddy. "Don't go too far away," she would say. "Stop whining, Judy. Be respectful." I couldn't believe this is where I stood almost 45 years ago. I cried as I do often these days.
"Look at me, mama. I'm here on my own and I'm not whining one bit."

I blame it on Datha. Her post on Facebook:

It has been a good week, one where all those hours sitting in solitude before a computer screen praying the perfect words erupt from my fingers do so - and by deadline - , come full circle. I see them published, whether online or in print. Sometimes this is months down the road, even a year has gone by since I pushed the key "send." This is happening more and more lately (a very good thing), and each time is as magical as the last. My words and Len's photographs help to introduce people to a unique destination, change vacation itineraries for people I've never met, encourage men and women to look beyond their own community for enrichment, document the lives of people most will never meet but have a significant influence in the world. I love what we do. Travel and writing about it has made me so much richer, and it has nothing to do with money.

Now, back to Datha . . . I read her post while at an intersection in the back of a long line of cars that wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. And poof, the tears just flowed. My teacher. Some pretty fabulous things. How in the world did I get so lucky? Then, I realized this. It was because I was a teacher of some of the most outstanding people on the planet, because I challenged myself to be better than yesterday, because I dared to dream a little bit bigger than normal, because I really didn't want to take no for an answer, and because I let God direct me through all of it. Pick me up through all of it. Provide me with patience through all of it. I cried a little more.

I sat in the rear of the line of cars for almost 5 minutes. I cried for almost 5 minutes. I wiped my face as I began to move. Thank you Lord. Thank you for it all. Now, what's next?

As a mother of a girl, you always think your little spit-fire will be just beyond your fingertips. You'll always hear her Jeep barreling up the stone-graveled driveway. You'll be able to call her for an impromptu coffee and Starbucks, and she'll drop everything and be there in five minutes flat and order the most expensive thing on the menu. You'll be able to see her at the end of your workday, and you'll drop into each others arms. You'll split a gut laughing at her brothers, our laughter at the boy's expense. You'll hear she and her friends in the next room, plotting and planning, and you wish you could be in the middle of what they were cooking up.
Then, there's that moment in the airport when you realize this is it. I'm putting my little girl on a plane, and God, please let her come back soon.
It's been almost four years, and the touch in-between has only been one. I have learned many things during the interim. Some good, some not so good. And as always, a mother has a few things to say. And on your 31st birthday, here's lookin' at you kid . . .
1. Never lose your childlike innocence.
2. Remember your brothers back home and those epic gorilla squeezes.
3. The glass will always be half-full.
4. Teach Caitlin and Noah the importance of family, especially that quirky Southern-Italian family from America.
5. Be impromptu. Serendipitous. Great traits for little girls.
6. Every now and then, put yourself first. It makes the others happy in the end.
7. Leave the past there.
8. Take responsibility for everything in your life.
9. Grandma Hill would be tickled pink spoiling Caitlin and Noah. Kind of like bringing her leftovers home to Silas - never!
10. Pray. It solves everything.

It's the first time I've been back to the Caribbean in double-digit years; it's the first time for Len.
Today, we find ourselves gazing out into the Caribbean Sea, moving a mere 40 mph, but what seemed more like 110 mph. We're in the local bus, they call it. I call it a mini-van - an 8-person mini van converted to hold 14 people.
We jumped on mid-way through the St. George's downtown route. We got the only two remaining seats and those two seats were jump-seats. Len in the front, me in the back, we squeezed in with only the bump-bump-bump of the blaring rap music filling the spaces. When we came to a stop, if the woman in the back wanted to get off, everyone else had to get out of the van so that she could get out of the only side-sliding door. Then, we'd file back in, taking up the same seat as before. Children on parents laps, men carrying metal frames, women carrying plastic bags full of fruit from the market.
Once we reached the downtown area, roads narrowed to single lane spaces. Sharp hairpin turns were only made worse by the steep "San Francisco" like streets. It was Saturday morning - market day - and people were crowding into every empty space, and the 'buses' were dodging them as best they could. It was amazing the melodies created by a van's horn.
More fun facts: The bus's crew is two - the driver and the attendant (watcher, money collector, door closer, signaler). The bus does not leave the downtown terminal unless there are 14 people inside. You will not get off at the same place you get on. If you miss your stop (that would be us), they are kind to let you stay on until they circle back around and they don't charge you extra. They do drive on the left side of the road. Fare is $1.25 for the trip. Best deal on the island.
If you want to be part of the populous of the 110,000 of Grenada, take the local bus. Be a traveler, not a tourist; be immersed in the community. Experience a cheap thrill and feel oddly excited at the tingle of the ride as you fold up your jump seat and hop off for the short walk to the hotel.

Hobo Kitty (lower left) had a litter of kittens almost two months ago. About three weeks later, this little one (right) showed up right along side of her. Since we're in the country and all kind of critters are around, we thought that maybe the others didn't make it. We named the little one Bo, and mama kitty's name, well, we shortened to Ho. Yes, we're bad.
A week later, a jet black one with white socks appeared.
And just yesterday, two more appeared. Both looked to have had bad hair days since birth.
This morning, little Bo's screams led us to the front porch where his hind leg had become tangled in the yarn which Ty left as a toy. Len scooped him up amidst the screams and tantrums (Bo, not Len), and brought him into the house for the first time to operate. Once free from string, Bo took to us nicely, even slept a little while I fretted that in a few moments, I would have to let go. 
I let go and he's back with the three others that have long scampered back underneath the chest on the porch. Bo did look back. In my mind, he said, "Thanks. Let's do the holding part again. It really wasn't so bad." Then, he slipped quietly underneath the chest with the others.
Kind of like mama's do - they let you play at will. They pray that if you get in trouble, there will be someone to scoop you up, fix the boo-boo, and then let you be on your way once more. Soon, you'll  begin to trust those who have been kind to you. You'll remember them fondly and understand where you can live without fear. Open your eyes to all the possibilities and the people in your world. But you'll never forget that mama that made you do and go and be what you never dreamed possible.
"Thanks, mama. Let's do the holding part again, soon."

The case took wings as though it was as light as a feather. Flying through the air, daddy swerved the car to dodge the light blue bullet. It landed with a thump, rolling a couple of times before landing in the grass. "Stop," I screamed at daddy. "Let's get it." Knowing that you never pass by anything of worth, daddy pulled over onto the shoulder as we watched the car that once carried the case snug on its roof disappear into the horizon. It never slowed down; never paused. In my little girl mind, it was fate; the case was meant to be mine.
I bolted from the car as mama and daddy followed. I picked it up as if it were glass, taking care not to disturb what was inside. I held it tightly to my chest. I couldn't wait to open the latches to see what treasure was inside. For a split second, I felt sympathy for the lady who, around sunset, would discover she no longer had a traveling case and what was inside would be forever gone. That second passed, for now, whatever it was, was mine.
Mama grabbed it from me. "Get back in the car," she said.
I was devastated. I not only wanted, but I needed to see what was inside.
I sulked all the way to our cabin in Hiawassee. I pouted the entire night. Not once did mama open the case, or even offer to let me open it. It was a weekend of ignoring the case. I was mortified.
Sunday night, we loaded the car and traveled back home. The little blue case was shoved into the trunk, right beside my suitcase. "Open me. Open me." I couldn't stand it.
Before we went to bed that night, mama called me into her room and there it sat. On her bed. Top open. "Come look."
Inside was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Pastel pink. Chiffon. Ruffles. A long-flowing nightgown which I immediately held to my chest; it even had a little jacket. It whispered of a lady. In a pouch, lipsticks and powder, and even a mirror. I touched everything. I felt the softness between my fingers. All I had ever know was cotton; chiffon only lived in the movies.
That was the last time I saw its contents. The case was emptied and placed in the garage among things that were no longer needed. There it sat - on top of the pile - for the rest of my days.
Today, the case rests on top of other oddly shaped, nostalgic suitcases in my hallway. Every time I pass by, I remember the day it came into my life. The excitement that was born. The beauty and mystery it brought. I keep it as a reminder to keep that same childlike wonder inside me every single day. Granted, that's a stretch some days; but others, just seeing those silver latches makes me smile. I call it my "ten year old Grace Kelly moment." It was then I realized that suitcases + travel = chiffon. Who can deny that rationalization?

It's beginning to be the daily "special" on the menu. Yogurt, with a side of stress.

This week - it's this. You know how you're told to stand up for yourself, be bold, be brave, never let anyone run over you (I did that once and then called it divorce.) Stand up for what you believe in, never be a dish-rag. At least that's what More, Vogue, Bazaar, even AARP magazines preach. It's time for women to be strong. Never leave anyone - your friends, your boss, your family - guessing where you stand. I watch the reverence of Sheryl Sandberg, the grit of Tina Fey, the grace of Governor Nikki Haley and I understand what I must do. Then, I do it.

Taking the high road, the bold stand is hard (understatement of the year!). Making a bold stand - has always been a struggle for me, and when it comes to the moment where I speak up or press "send", it takes everything in me to go against the status quo. I call it the Southern Guilt syndrome which isn't a diagnosis, but more a way of life for some Southern women who were raised (yes, raised) by strong, stalwart, non-forgiving, bull-headed Southern mothers. I am lucky enough to be one of the some.

Days like today, I HATE this guilt that which looms just over my left shoulder. Like the freaky angel and horny devil, one on either side, the guilt never goes away. Sometimes the angel (common sense) wins; other times, the devil (Southern guilt and stupidity). Today, I simply have too much to do, so I'm kicking the stupidity to the curb.

As our photography business grows, our travels increase, the chores pile up, and my dreams keep intensifying, I am going to sit back, take a deep breath and chew the stuffing out of this stress/guilt/angel/devil. I got this because I want this. So go away. I've got to keep moving.

Be bold. Stand up for yourself. Destroy those demons for breakfast. You got this.

Five years ago, I hugged my daughter and said good-bye in the middle of Hartsfield-Jackson airport in Atlanta and truly believed that would be the last time I would see her; that is, until I grabbed her in the darkness in the parking area in Donegal Town, Ireland, on a cold and windy night in February.

Years and distance make a difference; they toughen the heart. Never would I recommend it to anyone, but as the young ones tell you, "the world has changed" and living next door to granny just isn't the norm. I think about all the moments she took away from me; not intentionally I'm sure, but simply to follow her dreams and her life's road. That is what me as a mama should want, but that's so damn hard to accept. Mamas and daddy's should want that butterfly effect; grow up, spread your wings, fly away.

Be careful what you wish for. For when they do exactly what you have preached for them to do during those years of childhood and adolescence, don't whimper about the outcome (my loud whimper). Accept that those wings are carrying them exactly where they should be and trust they will carry them back home.

It's easy to say now; a few months ago, not at all. I credit my change of heart to one thing: proximity. I get it why mama and daddy insisted on family reunions, getting together with aunts and uncles Sunday's after church, making a visit during Christmas, even popping up at Uncle Ivet's for no reason at all. Southern family's understand that if you can see faces, hear jokes, eat food, hug necks, distance just evaporates. I got to squeeze cheeks and hug necks; I am renewed and that has made all the difference. All that complaining I did as a child, well, mama, I'm sorry.

After our visit with Mary, Phelim and our grandchildren, we hope for more visits. We pray for more visits. After all, Caitlin needs a gramps and granny around when mama and daddy just won't give in. Next time, I - or you for that matter - whimper about visiting family, going to that annual family reunion, gathering at the lake in the summer, remember that that family, that reunion, that lake might not always be there. That absence will change you the course of your life. You will miss it.