The last time I went to Panama City Beach was 30 years ago - several pounds, children, husband and family ago.
     Today marks a new relationship with this city.
     One of the hardest things for me is returning to a destination where I had ventured a lifetime ago. Seeing places with long-ago relationships walking through the door, old memories of people who have been removed from my life sitting beside me. Cringing at laughter that moved through the doors.
    Soon, I decided that rather than let the old take over the new, I had to rewrite the memories. Rewrite the places and my association with them.  It's not easy. There's a barrier you have to break, but it doesn't take long to knock it down. You simply have to bring your posse with you and infiltrate the setting with all your being. Eat it all. Soak up all the sun. See new places. Hear new laughter. Let these moments define this place.
     Panama City, you no longer belong to the past. You belong to me and my boys and my honey. Like the big trucks on the strip, we're taking back the land and we're doing it loudly!

I'm not sure what is holding their attention, but it must be spell-binding. After all, there's a wade pool involved and they are on the floor. How mundane could it be? 
    The boy is in Laos. He's accompanying Som to Som's school where he teaches English. Ty said during his last call that he will help Som, do whatever is needed and maybe, take a turn at teaching himself. I predict that is a story in the making.
     Go. Learn. Teach. Change the world. Change yourself.

I've never been a girly-girl and when I heard these words from Evelyn's mouth, I choked.
     "You are simply so lovely to look at," she said, sitting across from me at a crowded table filled with journalists and coffee drinkers in a Myrtle Beach bakery. "You are," she said humbly and earnestly as if she knew it was going to take some convincing on her part.
     Truly, I had no words. and those words, I'll never forget as long as I live.  At 59, I'm not exactly the me I would love to be, and with 60 on the horizon, I'm literally mortified. As I get older, I feel mortality creeping around the corner like a cat on the prowl. I wonder, "How in the world did I get here?"
     Getting here was probably the easy part; staying here might take a little work.
     I look in the mirror and see my mama. Although we share no DNA, I see the wisdom of her wrinkles, her concern for everything, her stoutness of character, her want for a world where good outweighs the bad, her adoration for her family, and her desire to live a good and long life. She was all of those things; I am all of those things, too.
     I'm glad I'm here. I made it to the double nickle plus four, and if God-willing, twice that. I think about what Evelyn said to me that day, and I realize that other people see us so differently than we see ourselves. Yes, some opinions are for the birds and should be kept silent and if not, ignored.  But for the majority of those with whom we share our time and table, their hugs and words and touch lift us higher. We must listen to those who applaud that which we might not even see, and when they suggest, "Fall in love," we do it. I have yet to do that, but I hope I can get there in the next 59 years.
    I hear Evelyn's words every now again as they drift through my mind. I'm as amazed this very moment as I was then. And this week, I met a new friend and she made me feel the reality of Evelyn's words. I had a make-over; again, it was a first. Through our mutual connection at the chamber, we had a little fun and formed an alliance that will take us far beyond her dining room filled with beauty.
     Feeling good about yourself is empowering. Women empowering other women is even more transformative.
     I doubt Evelyn realized the enormity of what she said. I am sure Kirsten didn't know the gift she gave that went beyond powders and gloss. It's about time we make each other feel extraordinary, and (I'm screaming at myself most of all) learn to listen to compliments and internalize them. Feel the weight of their goodness. Let those words confirm and transform us into the women we truly are.
     It's about time . . . we love ourselves.

 One thing I have discovered that aids me in writing, flowers of any kind. This week it was roses, two-for-one at Publix.
     I have a dozen white roses to the left of me, just outside my vision yet close enough that I can see a few petals. They have been there a week, so wilting and leaning is more prominent. Their lives are almost complete. All they have done it sit and be. And they have done it marvelously.
      Seems somewhat insignificant but their influence, massive.
      My life could be these roses. I'm mostly insignificant to the masses. I haven't done anything truly extraordinary. I haven't changed the world. No discoveries that I can acclaim. I'm only here for a short time. At the end, I will wilt and fade and stoop and lean. And, I hope I will have done my job. If it's nothing more than to sit and be, I hope I have done it well.
     A writer's life is solitary. The four walls actually do move in when you need them be balanced and calm. I keep relics of travel to inspire my words, family photos to remind me of faces I won't see again, tons of pens and pencils each with a power of its very own, post-its of reminders and stubs of what once was. I live for the future, and I memorize the past. Living in the present seems to be hardest part of all.
     Only another writer understands the writer's enigma. The quiet and seclusion are not only our necessities but also our demons. A paradox of sorts.
     Nevertheless, I will sit and be and let the words escape. And when those demons appear, I'll look to my left - to my roses - for inspiration and reassurance - that I'm right where I am supposed to be. 🌹

They do say, "when one door closes, another opens." AND they also say, "be careful what you wish for."
In this honest-to-God, not-as-easy-as-it-looks, NO-you-can't-make-millions-with--travel-writing, NO-you-can't-travel-the-world-for-free, travel writer's world, I'm giddy this morning. Although many out there tell you how easy it is, it's not. It's tough. It's competitive. It's ruthless.
With that said, I freakin' love it! ❤️
Len and I chose to give it our all about five years ago. We're a package deal! Team player and all. And just now, we're finding ourselves reaping the result of our hard work, proving that never giving up is always the best course of action. We closed a couple of doors in the past few months, and wildly enough, windows are flying open. This morning, in my INBOX, a long-sought-after contract! Delta Sky. Can this be real? On my face, a smile.

Don't give up folks. I say that loudly enough that it reverberates within my four writing walls. I'm so thankful. I'm so grateful, especially to those who have helped along the way and to those who believe in Seeing Southern.
Gotta go write! 😍

      It's the day after Thanksgiving, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring - especially Judy and Len. On this day, the house is a little cabin tucked away in the North Georgia mountains, with only a vague view of neighboring structures and a few vehicles in sight. And by creatures, we mean animals and the occasional blast of the house phone which we never answer yet still rings incessantly.
     No creatures equals quiet, which is a very good thing.
      As you can tell, we have discovered - or should I say re-discovered - the Polaroid camera and the art of shaking (like a Polariod picture!) Everything instantaneous. Who knew that would be such a thing thirty years down the road. It's the little things which make us grateful. 
    But that's only the beginning . . . teeth. Again, not so significant for those which have but for those of us gummers out there, it's a chance to live again. It's kind of cool not to second-guess a smile.
    We're relatively healthy. We're not the Chrissy Tiegen-John Legend look-a likes, but we'll give them a run for daily joy!
     Len and I get to travel together and see the world arm-in-arm, crutch-in-crutch, boot-in-boot, to tell stories and capture images. I get to see Len's face as he experiences the Acropolis for the first time. And, experiencing it together, reaching out for his hand and holding on, tells me all I need to know about this moment and the many more to come.
    Our children are moving forward with their lives, and we are thankful. Although, for the most part, we have faded in the background, we give thanks that they are living the life they choose.
    Possum Hollow is in full swing. My dream. Uncle Ivet's dream. Soon, in these very mountains where we are now, our little cabin will sit with a welcome placard reading, "Welcome to Judy + Len's Dream."
     We are thankful for Bailey + Cody, Kelly + Joe, Renee + Michael, Mandy + Jason, Leah + Rich, Dani + Andrew, Joanne + Tommy, Claudia + Casey, Emily + Jay, Meagen + Ricky and Chelsea + Austin. We are honored and thankful that you are part of our 2018 story.
     There are more things of which we are grateful, but these are the biggies. I hope that the changes that will happen in 2019 will be moments of gratitude when I write this a year from now. I pray that each day I will voice my gratitude for even the most insignificant things in my life so that I will realize how truly lucky I am. I yearn for more courage and a louder voice in my life.
     So as we watch our fire and count our blessings, we're making our third pot of coffee and reaching for our vanishing pack of Oreos (okay, the healthy thing is being thrown out the window this morning).  We're also dabbling in a little portrait photography before the rains begins and then heading toward the Old Sautee Store. Why? Because it's there - and that's the only reason you need!

You climb and climb, but do you ever get anywhere.
     Meet Bob. He's a climber. He's also one of a multitude of cats that confuses Jack, the beast. That's Jack in the background, eating dinner. Everyday when I take my late afternoon walk to feed our multitude  of animals, the cats walk with me. They tease the horses, running along the ground, zig-zagging underneath the feet of the 2,000 pound monsters. Would they really do that if they knew the possibilities? But, everyday, they move in the same fashion, hoping for what, I'm not sure. But, I would be willing to bet, it's fun.
     I make my rounds, always in the same order. First the horses, mainly because I don't want to be chided by Lolly (Jack's companion) for being late. And yes, she stomps her right foot and screams at me for making her wait. She starts screaming when she hears the back door open. Being scolded by a horse doesn't quite sit well with me. Feed, water and hay, as the routine goes.
     Then, the dogs. My twelve-year-old man Silas is turning gray these days, and  like me, old age is bringing arthritis, achy joints and deaf ears. Still, he manages to secure the one bright sunny grassy spot in the yard, plops down and rolls with joy. That's my boy. Cody, the younger, is full of energy and runs at Silas when he sees the food coming, almost saying, "You can't have any." They play for about a second and retreat to their own corners to munch on kibble. Both rescues, the boys are always excited to see me, and for that, they deserve gold for dinner.
     Cats are last because, well, they just are. "I feel the earth move under my feet" is more than just a song lyric by Carly Simon. They eat, we sit, and then we fellowship. Every night. 
      Routine is good. Expectations are good. These guys count on me to be there every day at the same time, and they know I'll be there. They climb, bark, snort, stomp, zig-zag and they do it over and over, day after day. And do they get anywhere different? Not really. But it's the showing up, the doing and the contentment from doing their perfect little thing that keeps them moving forward until the next time they climb, bark, snort, and zig-zag.
     So although Bob never gets anywhere in his climb, he still climbs, simply for the joy. I write for the joy of recording my life in words. I photograph, not because you pay me, but because I find  joy in capturing moments and doing something I thought I could never do. I make dinner, wash clothes and run errands, not for the joy it brings me (newsflash) but for the joy it brings you.
     So keep climbing. Keep showing up. Even though it might be a drab routine day after day, try to find the joy and then think on it. Be grateful that there are horses, cats, dogs to feed. Be inspired to see dogs do cartwheels simply because you show up!
    

See those HORRIBLE brown spots on my face? A product of being 20 and stupid. To those of you my age, remember laying out in the sun, slathering on baby oil, and dare I say it, a stick of butter. Stupid takes on an entirely new meaning now, am I right?
     Yes, we did that. I'd turn a lovely brown, but it took some work. Taking more hours to turn golden than it took my friends, I'd lay out in my back yard, turning randomly (I was a lay-on-your-back girl because I had big boobs), turning bright red almost immediately. Red came before brown.
     And I was a bored sun bather. I hated it, but because everyone did it, I did it. I wanted to be pretty, because everyone knows that everyone looks better (and smaller) with a tan.
    I grew older and tanning beds took the place of my lawn chair. They were quick. In and out. Nice and brown. I liked that. Then, I became bored of that, too.
    Kids plus jobs plus no me-time put an end to my relationship with the sun, real or man-made.
    However, it has left it's mark.
    Brown spots all over, but the only ones that make my skin crawl are those on my face. Two weeks ago, I (with a push from Len) decided to fix this. After all, I have a new set of beautiful teeth; I need a face to frame them. After a consultation (checking for melanomas and other skin issues) at Georgia Skin Cancer and Aesthetic Dermatology, I called back for an appointment. It's not a cheap procedure (three to do the trick), but it definitely wasn't as much as I had imagined. After a quick first treatment (15 minutes), my face was on fire, and it stayed that way for about three hours. Then, I was fine. Well, then the brown spots became brown boulders on my face, much like Skittles-pox but less tasty! They have to get worse before they get better. Why don't I just engrave that on my forehead for this is the story of everything I've ever gone through. 
    I keep thinking this; next time I look at my photograph, I'll see me and not brown spots.
    It's been two weeks, and the brown crusty spots have all but disappeared. Some color remains underneath, thus the need for additional treatments. It's amazing how much better I feel about me. Who knew brown spots could hold so much power?
     This is also my birthday month, and I've made myself a promise for this 59th year. I will learn to love me. I will believe that I'm important and worthy and good. I will treat myself with the respect that I deserve, not because of anything I've done, but because of whose I am. I will take care of my well-being in such a way that as my aging body challenges me, I can hit back . . . hard. I will listen to my husband and my son (NOT to those whose opinions really don't matter) who tell me of my worth and my capacity to do great things. And those great things must start inside me.
     Teeth ✔️
     Brown spots on face ✔️
     Next,a healthy body and lifestyle . . . 😱
     I think that scares me most of all.

I've made it to 59.
     Some days, I wasn't so sure I'd see this day come. Who knew aches and pains know exactly when to rear their ugly heads? Right on time. I feel you every single day. This old age stuff isn't for the weak!
     What a year that was, and all I can say, is how thankful I am to be living and loving.
     Nevertheless, I feel God's grace as I remember the year gone by.

      * All the brides and grooms and love we got to capture. What joy!
      * Ireland, oh my heart beats for you.
      * Mari married Phelim, and I got to watch (and cry).
      * The Carrick-a-Rede bridge tested me. I can do what I think I can't.
      * There is such a thing as racing toilets.
      * Assignments nabbed with the big boys!
      * Marinating book . . .
      * Achilles Heel or Hell, you are my weakness. Thank God for only two feet.
      * Costa Rica restored life to me by way of my teeth, proving that when you do your homework and take a risk, chances are it will work out.
      * Osa Peninsula - there's something there that I can't quite put my finger on. I'll see you again.
      * Canada + Montreal + Quebec = thanks for the memories and the passport stamp!
      * Ty's and Logan's lives are on track. And Billy, I'm so glad you're here.
      * Sunday School with Jimmy Carter. Inspiring.
      * I climbed the Acropolis!
    
There's so much more in this life I want to accomplish, so much more I want to see. And, I get to do it all with the man I love more than life itself. Of all my blessings, you, my dear, are the greatest. You lift me up, you accept my dreams, you question my emotions (as do I), you believe in me.
     So as we begin this last year of this tough - but memorable - decade, let's walk it as triumphantly as the Beatles walked Abbey Road. That's right, I compared Two Coots to the Beatles!
    
    

We are home. We are renewed. ✔️
Now all the fun comes of unpacking and washing and putting things back in their proper places so that the next time we travel, we don't panic that we can't find our headphones (Len?).
My taste of coffee this morning is definitely not the Nespresso we had become accustomed to during the last few days; however, it is damn good. There are parts of home I always miss and a fresh cup of coffee anytime I want one is one of those things. ☕
I save receipts, place stubs of attractions and places we have gone in a box for safekeeping; I wonder who will ever look back at these besides me and Len. I keep them anyway as a document of our adventures. I remember the smells of yesterday, definitely not what I'm experiencing this morning. Last night in the airport, I said to Len, "Remember that quiet of a few hours ago?" We both laughed. Quiet is a memory.
So now, we kick ass at what we do until the next time we hop a plane. We grab our cameras and document life's experiences, not only ours but other people who have just as powerful a dream as we do. We make decisions, we change directions, we evaluate our responsibilities, and if all those are good, we move forward; if not, we chuck them and start over.
Tomorrow, I get a new washing machine delivered. Oddly, that brings me lots of joy since I will no longer have a freight train moving through my laundry room. So the piles of laundry I'm building will baptize the new machine.
I love this quote: "Quit your job. But a ticket Get a tan. Fall in love. Never return."
One day, in the not so distant future, I'll be writing this follow-up note from a distant land, and I will have done just that. Until then, I'll keep buying tickets.
Thank you Sofia Bournatzi and International Food Wine and Travel Writers Association for making our trip to Greece unforgettable and transforming.

#twocootsgogreek #seeingsouthern #seeingsouthernphotography #wego #twocootstravel

I'm writing about my adventure to the Osa. Going through photos, I see my beach shot. I forget this - that there is a luxury in having two feet, attached to two legs, attached to a body, all served up with a brain that's meant for moving. Look, I'm walking.
    Not today; it's the second time in six years I've donned a cast. First, on my left foot; now on my right. "That Achilles heel." Thank you Lord, I only have two feet.
    It's not until there's a blip in the natural order of things that you realize just how much it sucks to be dependent on others for everything, how solitary life can be. I suppose a wake-up call is useful. Gratitude for the little things - like that cup of coffee, walking down or up two stairs, going to the bathroom, escaping quiet.
    Then, your phone dies and you spend an entire day on the alien land line with ATT and Apple support. Another lesson in the universe: be careful what you ask for.

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.