Five Minute Friday: Five Years Ago

On Fridays at Lisa Jo's place, she hosts a little tradition. She invites us to throw caution (editing, revising, and worrying) to the winds and just write. For five minutes flat. Today's prompt is "Five Years Ago." Ready? Here we go:


We were on our way home. I wrestled his car seat into the window seat, his pudgy 17-month old legs kicking against me in the Bjorn while I squeezed myself and a well-stocked diaper bag into the plane's cramped quarters. It was late, at least by a 1 year old's standards, and I was hoping my little boy would fall asleep.

He didn't.

Instead, we played a rousing ten rounds of "Toss the Pacifier." I lost all ten rounds and all six (yes SIX!) pacifiers somewhere in the recesses of the aircraft. When we dwindled down to paci #5, not knowing I'd actually mean it, I threatened, "Buddy, you throw your paci down one more time, and that means no more pacis for you. You're done. For good."

He threw it down.

And in a rare moment of parental follow-through, I brought the Pacifier Era to an end.

::


A bit of background I couldn't fit in my five minutes...

 We were on our way home to DC from Seattle where my sister Robin lived at the time. Robin's oldest girl was two years old, and her second little girl was only a few weeks old. My sister Michelle flew up from southern California with her youngest--then just shy of two years old--to meet us there for a bit of a girl's reunion. Caed was severely outnumbered.


What kills me is how five years can transform these little ones:


Into This:

::

Also, I'm no longer entertaining the delusion that I have enough discipline (and time) to commit to hosting a regular series around here. So I won't be bringing back Flashback Friday on a regular basis. That said, I just discovered that Mocha with Linda is hosting (much more reliably) a similar meme. So if you must have that Flashback Friday fix, head on over to her place.

Happy weekend, my friends!

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Flashback Friday: This Is It

Her name is Judy. His is Bob. We've talked only minutes and already I'm smitten. I see how in 25 years my eyes might twinkle the same way when I reminisce about how my children grew up skiing, about the August island hopping, the downeast eden only sails can show you.

I swirl red around the glass, listen as they list long the must go and must see of their charming little town. At least three times in these short hours, an old friend happens by and interrupts our table of seven. Bob and Judy put hands on our shoulders, my husband and I, explain we're considering a move. And each time, the friends rave about how long they've loved it here--whether for five or fifty years. They hope we will come, they all say. I feel certain they mean it.

We drive home the next day after the long tour of must go and must see, piles of glossy-paged enticements on my lap and by my feet. It all sounds amazing, perfect, idyllic, from the town to the job to the people. Finally alone, we give voice to our traded glances of the past two days. I try to block the hope bubbling, but it foams through my hands and down the glass like root beer zealous for air.

He sees it.

"Don't get me wrong," he starts. "I can see us happy here. I know I'd enjoy working with the group. And the kids would love it here. But..."

He trails off, searches for words to match the uneasy feeling.

"It's hard to articulate," he admits. "I just don't think this is it."

"I desperately want it to be. I want this to be it, but.." Now I trail off too. In the deep pit of stomach where anxiety crouches, dormant, I already know. One deep honest breath will bring to the top the reason why the highly rated schools and the picturesque harbor and the amazing library are not enough.

Everything on paper says "happily ever after." We could stretch roots deep in this coastal soil. He could be home every night for dinner. We could build the gourmet kitchen, buy the Viking stove, dip our first boat into the bay, all with space for guilt-easing generosity on-the-side.

But everything on paper burns. In the weeks that follow, we hold the paper against the smallest tugging of heart. And the flame licks, consumes all doubt. This isn't it.

But if this isn't it, what is?

It is a year later before I know. 

It is a year later, today in fact, before I understand that we are living what is. That three more years of residency--the low pay and long hours--is it. That moving to a smaller, older, quirkier house is it. That signing on to serve again where the only thing certain is deployment is it. That moving every few years, accumulating experiences instead of wealth, is it.

On paper, life reads anything but "happily ever after."

But I've discovered how little paper means, how quickly it burns in the wick of heart-led life. 

My heart and hope finally agree. Indeed, this is it.

::

I know it's been forever since I've spoken of Flashback Friday, but on a whim, I'm bringing it back. Because this is a flashback, and today is Friday. So why not? Would you like to join me? I'll add a place to link below, and you're welcome to add something you've written long ago, or to write something fresh. Whatever suits you. If you decide to join in, grab the button code on the sidebar and link back here.

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Flashback Friday Update

Looking for Flashback Friday? Well, look no further. Okay, you might have to look a leeetle bit further. Just one click, I promise. My lovely friend Erin (as in Erin of Together for Good) offered to host the fun for a few months while I prepare for the big move and bask in my last couple months of Maine sunshine. (What? The sun really does shine here. The water might still be 40 degrees, but let's not get hung up on the meteorological details, mkay?)

And true to my vow to enjoy these last days on the Maine landscape, earlier this week, I blew off making dinner and took the kids to The Lobster Shack. Do you want to see some pictures? Of course you do.

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Flashback Friday: Man's Best Friend (Emphasis on Man's)

"Is Calli a boy or a girl dog?" Caed asked.

"She's a girl," I replied.

"Well, if she's a girl, then why does she follow Daddy around everywhere and like him the best, but not you?"

Good question, Son.

I think I can trace the shift in loyalty back to the point in time when Daddy allowed her to sleep on the bed. She was but a wee pup, the runt of the litter, and she couldn't bear the thought of spending the whole night on the floor beside our bed. It was just too far away by springer standards. So after she whimpered and whined for 20 minutes, your Daddy asked, "What can it hurt to let her up?"

Well, you know what they say. If you give a dog an inch, they'll take a mile. Or maybe just the spot on your pillow.

When you were first born, Calli made a habit of moving to my spot (my pillow!!) every time I got up to feed you. She'd hear you cry, wait a few minutes for me to vacate the premises and then plop herself down right on the sheet as if it was exactly where she belonged.

One night when I was particularly tired, I confess I slept through a solid five minutes of your cries. But Calli didn't.She heard the crying, waited the appropriate five minutes and then moved up to her rightful spot at the head of the bed--my pillow.

Only problem? I was still on it. Oh yes she did. That dog circled twice and laid down directly on my face.

Needless to say, I woke up. Quickly.

If you ask her about the situation, she'd probably concoct some excuse about how she was emulating Lassy. But, you know, instead of the typical Timmy's stuck in the well....she was trying to tell us Caed needs to eat! Yeah, nice try, girl.

The truth is, she only has eyes for Daddy. She just uses me to get to my pillow.

::

Your turn! It's an open theme today, so anything goes as long as it requires you to go back in time a bit. You can link up an old post, write a new story about an old memory, post embarrassing 80s pictures, you get the idea. Just be sure to link to your specific post and not just your blog.

Happy Friday!

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Flashback Friday: Our First Family Vacation

He was a year and four chins old when we took our first family vacation. He was as happy a baby as he was pudgy. And did I mention he was too cool for school?
I mean, how many toddlers do you know that can do such a spot on Dr. Evil impression?
And what's a vacation without naps in the hammock with Daddy?
Or, if you happen to be the oft-neglected dog, what's a vacation without a little game of surf and fetch?
And to top it all off, some of our best friends in the whole wide world joined us for the week-long beach hiatus. Even at 12 and 21 months, Caed and Max were inseparable.
(And yes, those are some serious cankles he's got going on.)

::

Your turn! Write a post (or unearth an old one) that takes us down memory lane, and then come on back here to link it up. Pretty please?
Oh, and just a heads up that we'll be taking a break from Flashback Friday next week, returning to regularly scheduled programming on April 30th.

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In case you are at all curious about Flashback Friday

Before I forget AGAIN, just a quick note about this week's Flashback Friday. Here are a few prompts to help you come up with a fantastic flashback:

• A memory involving spring
• Tales from spring break
• Family vacation
• Road trips

Start jogging your memory, and we'll see you back here Friday!

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Flashback Friday: Forgetful

Umm...soooo...apparently it is Friday today?
And from what I can gather, I usually host a little Flashback Friday series here on the old (increasingly neglected) blog. But alas, I didn't provide a theme for the week, nor did I write a flashback post.

I'm blaming this week's floor-mopping frenzy for my Flashback Friday forgetfulness (and more specifically, a little too much exposure to Murphy's oil soap). I'm blaming my ridiculous indulgence in alliteration on my 10th grade English teacher.

So how about this. Let's just run with the theme of FORGETFULNESS. Write about a time when you forgot something or someone. Or write about an experience or person that was UNFORGETTABLE. Or write about whatever you please. Then come on back here and link up. Sound good?

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I Remember Sisters & Spring

I remember the posing tree, the one Uncle Bruce would use for staging, motioning to this side and that, chins up and smile.

I remember the accidental bursts of summer in late spring, when Mom would pull the hand-me-down clothes from the attic. How I clamored like a homesteader to try the ruffly sundress on first, staking my gingham claim.

I remember the sidewalks, the ones that scraped knees and etched grooves into the plastic of my Big Wheel.

I remember the mint growing next to the brick house, how it perfected the sun tea.

I remember the clothes line and the stiff feel of wind-blown terrycloth.

I remember the seedlings under the lights, the promise of a garden.

I remember feeling like the whole world revolved around whether we'd get a dessert--and whether it was carrot cake or brownies--or if we'd be allowed to stay up later. Just 15 minutes more?

I remember sisters and spring and climbing a tree so high that I swayed when the wind blew.
I remember wishing to be all grown up. But for the life of me, now, I can't remember why.

I'd love for you to join in with your own flashback. Share a memory, a story, a picture from your past and then paste the link to your post using the MckLinky form.

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Flashback Friday: Friendship

Last week while Dani and I were driving around town, she shouted, "You are my BEST BEST pwiend in da wor'd."

"Aw Hon," I replied. "You're my best, best girl."

"I not tawking to you, Mama."

"Well, who were you talking to?"

"To da o'der Dani. I say to her, 'You are my best best best pwiend, Dani giwl'."

"So I'm not your best friend?"

"Nope. You are my best Mommy."

I smiled. Her imaginary friend--the other Dani--may have scored top billing in the friend department. But I am her best Mommy. And you really can't top that.

::

This week's prompt is FRIENDSHIP; and clearly, my post was a bit of a stretch both in theme and in time frame. So please don't think twice if you want to link up a post that is off theme or that doesn't require you to cull through years of memory. Just join us by copying the permanent link to your post into the MckLinky form below. And if you have some time, please visit the other entries and comment generously.

Next week's theme: FREE FOR ALL / OPEN TOPIC

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Flashback Friday: With My Son

I fumbled through the diaper bag doubling as a purse, knowing it had to be in there somewhere. We'd just come straight from the doctor's office. It's not like there had been time to lose the prescription, not even for a harried, sleep-deprived wreck like me.

Oh, there it was. Crumbled underneath the pampers and extra socks. Yeah, I shook my head to no one in particular. Like having an extra pair of socks is even slightly necessary. It's not like he wears them anyway. That boy kicks a pair of socks off in 10 seconds flat.

Thinking about baby socks made me smile. Thinking about filling a prescription for my infant did not. When I arrived at the counter, I felt an urge to explain to the tech why I looked like hell, why I was carrying around 15 pounds more than usual, why I looked 20 weeks pregnant. And oh, I wanted to say, we're struggling with nursing. And I don't want to give up, but I do want to give up. And I'm so very exhausted.

But all that came out is, "Can I wait while you fill this?"

And then it was her turn to ask me questions. Things like...

"Have you been here before?"
"No? Well, do you have an insurance card?"
"What is your birth date?"
"Who is the prescription for?"

And that's when it happened. It rolled off my tongue, and I heard it for the very first time.

"It's for my son." I said.

My son.
I have a son?
I'm a Mom?
He's mine? My son?


Yes. Yes I do.
I have a son.
And he's mine.

I am a Mom.

I paid, shoved the medicine into the dark corners of the diaper bag, and turned toward the automatic doors.

They opened. And I started for home. With my son.

::

You're invited to join in!
1) The prompt this week was "All Grown Up", but you can write about whatever you'd like, as long as the subject matter takes us back in time at least a little bit.
2) Use the Mcklinky below to paste in the permanent link to your Flashback Friday post. (Make sure it's the link to your Flashback Friday post and not your home page).
3) Next week's prompt is FRIENDSHIP. And remember, I'd love your ideas for future prompts. Please leave me a comment or send me an email including your ideas. Thanks!

::

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Flashback Friday Theme

I think we're on a roll with Flashback Friday. Your contributions last week were fantastic. Let's keep the momentum going, shall we?

This week's prompt is ALL GROWN UP. You can take any direction you like with it, but here are a couple of ideas:

• The time it dawned on you that you were one of the grown ups
  
• The moment you first felt like a mother (or a father)
  
• A personal rite of passage

And as always, you don't have to stay on theme. The prompts are only meant to provide ideas, not to hem you in. So again, big haired, polka dotted pictures from the 80s are completely acceptable entries. Cough (Erin) Cough.

See you back here Friday!

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Flashback Friday: Musical Memory

"When memories mix with music, they can create an explosive concoction of emotions. They become a potion to transport us from faded to vivid, from far away to yesterday. "

And yes, I just quoted myself. Welcome to a new low on this blog. Anyway. Moving along...

After shuffling through some of my sharpest musical memories in preparation for this week's prompt, I concluded, not surprisingly, that most of the songs and memories can be tied back in some way to Larry. Like the time in high school when we broke up were "on a break", and he gave me a mixed tape with Sinead belting "Nothing Compares to You". Or the many times in college when were still on a break and I would tear up every time I heard Depeche Mode exhort me to "Enjoy the Silence". There are about a dozen like that, but I will spare you.

(Because seriously, I can only write so many times about this love saga before you want to say, "Gag me with a spoon.")

So today, I will instead take you with me to 1985, to florescent lighting and an orange carpeted balance beam towering three feet over a squishy old mat. To a boom box atop a roller cart, perched along the edge of the royal blue square where the 11 year old girls like me lined up for tumbling runs.

Whenever "Conga" came on, it didn't matter if we were in the middle of practicing compulsories. You simply couldn't hear that song and not modify your chassé just a little bit. We'd add extra head nods and hand waves. And when we were really living on the edge, we'd scrap the routine altogether and start dancing like crazies with cartwheels thrown in.

And in the interest of my pride, I'm not going to tell you how long it was before I realized the lyrics were not, "C'mon chickabody baby do that Conga." Chickabody. Seriously.

Your turn! To participate, simply add the link to your Flashback Friday post to the MckLinky below. You're welcome to go off theme or to use a post from your archives. The only requirement is that you take us back in time a bit!

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Flashback Friday: Surprised by Joy

I've always felt most at home in the ordinary moments, in the wallflower hours that shuffle past in anonymity. Today was no exception.

Larry left before I was really awake. I vaguely recollect that he kissed me goodbye as I nursed Caed. I remember smiling when he offered his pinky, hoping his son would hold on, to prevent him from walking out the door. Caed caught the finger with his fist and swung his father's arm in their first father-son handshake.

"I don't want to leave." he said.
I nodded that I knew.

I pulled on a sweatshirt, pulled up some sweatpants, tied my old running shoes, and called myself dressed. I guided Caed's tiny arms through the sleeves of a blue and red hoodie, and when I placed him in the stroller his head nearly disappeared amid the fleece.

I walked.
Among the eager leaves of early fall.
Past the squirrels playing in the old cemetery.
Pulled downhill by the stroller, eyes half closed to avert the sun's brazen morning stare, I walked.
Past the stop where tourists hurried and commuters trudged.
Onto the brick sidewalks, past the row houses and store fronts.
Block after block.
I walked.

We stopped to pick up the dry cleaning.
I pulled back the stroller shade to show the clerk, to tell her he was just four weeks while she oohed and ahhed.
He slept with sweet rise and fall of tiny ribs, the fresh air doing favor after favor for the both of us.

I walked.
If ever there was a time for coffee, this was it.
So I steered the stroller wheels directly into battle with the stoop of the coffee shop, my pride perhaps the only casualty. "They should make these places new mother accessible," I joked to the businessman trapped behind me on his way to a double shot. He didn't smile. I didn't care.

I don't even remember how I got out of there, with coffee in hand no less. But I did. And within a minute, we were perched by the fountain in the courtyard.

I sipped with one hand, swayed and played the stroller like a bow against the brick. Back and forth, a soothing rhythm.

And then I stopped, sat, leaned in, listened to his sleepy whimpers, heard him sigh and grunt.

And I cried.

I cried so hard my shoulders shook.

It was a wallflower day, just another row of ordinary moments.
I never saw any of it coming.

I didn't expect the tears or the panic, the swells of emotion that left me scratching my previously level-head. I didn't expect the love that burrowed so deep so fast, or the peace that misted over me when he slept in the crook of my arm.

But on that wallflower day, in that ordinary moment, it was the joy. Yes, it was the joy that surprised me most of all.

::

Now it's your turn.
1) The prompt this week was SURPRISE, but you can write about whatever suits your fancy, as long as the subject is in the rear view mirror.
2) Use the Mcklinky below to paste in the permanent link to your Flashback Friday post. (Make sure it's the link to your Flashback Friday post and not your home page).
3) Next week's prompt is MUSICAL MEMORY, the idea being to write about a song and what memory it takes you back to. Also, if you have a suggestion for a future prompt, please leave it in the comments or send me an email. Would love to hear your ideas!

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It's No Surprise, But Actually It Is

A few of you have asked about the Flashback Friday prompt for this week. Apparently in the abundance of enthusiasm that characterized last week's effort, I forgot to pick a prompt.

So I picked one of Rebekah's suggestions, and I would have told you sooner, but I wanted it to be a SURPRISE. Oh there I go again. I must remind myself that it isn't a witty play on words if it requires bountiful explanation.

ANYWAY. This Friday's theme is SURPRISE. Write about a time you felt surprised, good or bad. Or don't. You don't have to stay on theme. The only reason for the prompt is to give you an idea to work with if you're stuck. If you're not stuck, write about whatever the heck you want. Surprise us.

See you back here on Friday!

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Flashback Friday: First Job & A Mixed Bag

I was barely ten years old when my I pedaled my way into the newspaper business, delivering door to door headlines. My older sister and I shared an afternoon route, which made it nice when it was time to collect from the crazy old man who thought we were solely responsible for the unconscionable price hikes on the Dayton Daily News. But not so nice when we had to split the chocolate bunny that the sweet old lady gave us for Christmas.

And no, I'm not mixed up on this. I think she must have stocked up on them in a price-slashing-after-Easter sale. And no, it didn't bother me that the chocolate was at least eight months old. I was 10. And it was free chocolate.

On Sundays, when the papers weighed more than we did, Dad would wake us up before dawn, drive us down the street to pick up our share of the comics and coupons, and we'd load up the Radio Flyer and make our way through the neighborhood. And almost every Sunday, my sister would barf. Usually right before we started the route. She wasn't much of a morning person.

My parents used to threaten to take away the paper route. Seriously. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? Like, be more responsible with your things, kid, or I'll make you get a job to pay for that!

But no. Not me. I was already a bit of a workaholic in the fifth grade. By the time I reached junior high, I had saved and scrimped enough to buy those super cool Ocean Pacific shorts at Elder Beerman. And oh, I had a Field Day in those shorts. Literally. I had a Field Day, at school. You know, where you did all kinds of fun outdoor games and McDonalds supplied the Orange Drink in those bright yellow barrels with the little white taps? Yeah, that kind of Field Day.

So there you have it. My first job.

::

I feel like I ought to let you know that I wasn't feeling the Flashback Friday enthusiasm this week. (As if you couldn't tell.) In fact, I typed out my little spiel in about 15 minutes last night, and just as I typed "there you have it," we lost power. I thought I'd lost the whole thing, and I didn't care, which is a pretty clear indication that my heart wasn't in it.

Last night I laid in bed listening to God's storm crew power washing the house. I jumped up twice in the dark hours, ran to the window to see if the swing set was still right side up. I noticed the grill turned 180 degrees, hanging on for dear life by the gas line. I shivered, debated whether to bring both kids into our bed to keep them warm. I ran to their rooms, lowered my cheek to hear them breathing, repositioned kicked-off covers.

I sipped a strange cocktail of worry and thanks, of fear and reassurance. I tossed and turned.

This morning we woke to sunlight, to clean siding, to shimmering pavement.
We also woke to no power, no warmth, and no coffee.

I carry this mixed bag around, sometimes wishing I could just put it down for a few hours, sometimes clutching it for the dear life it is. Is it possible to be grumpy and grateful? To be anxious and calm? To be hot-headed and collected? I think it is. And I think I am.

::

If you survived my disconnected rambling, I'd still love for you to link up here for Flashback Friday. Grab the FF button on the sidebar, include it somewhere in your post, and include a permanent link to your post here. See? Easy peasey.

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Flashback Friday: How I Met Your Father

I was the new girl in a very small high school. A shy bookish sophomore.
He was the life of the party, the soccer-star senior who had allegedly already dated half of the girls in school. (In his defense, it was indeed a very small school.)

He took the seat in front of me during study hall.

A few minutes into my trigonometry homework, a folded paper appeared on my desk and I swear my heart popped a wheely right into my throat.

To say I was socially awkward would be kind. I did okay making new girl friends. But boys? They terrified me. Much to my father's delight, I'm sure.

I opened the college ruled paper to find an innocent enough question. "Are you going to the game on Friday?"

I somehow shook the answer "yes" onto the paper and handed it back.

He followed up, "What are you doing after the game?"

If I wasn't writing it down, I'm sure I would have stammered. "I don't know."

"Do you want to go out after the game?" he prodded.

Before I could say "Yes!", or "No way!", or "Is this a joke?", Mr. H caught me note-handed.

Apparently I wasn't very stealthy with the whole note-passing thing. In my defense, I hadn't exactly had much practice.

But the boy knew precisely what to do.

He grabbed the note, crumbled it up, and put it in his mouth.

Mr. H played along. "Well then, I expect you to chew and swallow it. You can sit down when you're done."

Now I suppose I should have swooned at the thought that a big bad senior saved my honor with the consumption of our contraband correspondence. But I was too freaked out to swoon.

After class, when he asked again, I told him to call and ask my Dad. (Oh yes, I did.) I had just passed my 15th birthday, and I figured my parents would hold fast to their rule of no single dating until 16. (Oh yes, they did.)

When I came home that evening, I told my dad a boy might call. And I made sure he planned to say no.

I just couldn't understand why a popular, good looking guy would waste time on a goody-two-shoes brainy girl like me. And to be honest, I hadn't ruled out the idea that he only asked me out on a dare. Or that he had just run out of girls to date. And neither scenario boded well for my fragile little heart.

He called that night.
My dad said no.
He offered my dad chocolates.
My dad said he didn't like chocolates. He was more of a hamburger guy.
He offered him a hamburger.
Tempting, my dad said, but still no.
(Way to stay strong, Dad.)

And that, my dear children, is how my father met your father.

The boy didn't give up. He kept asking. And though I was determined not to get my heart broken, thankfully, the boy out-determined me. He broke my heart a dozen different ways, and I fell forever in love with him before my sweet sixteen.

Six and a half years after that fateful study hall, I married that boy.
And between the two of us, we kept every note we ever passed. Well, except for that very first note of course. The one that he, uh, (how do I put this delicately?) passed twice.

::

It's your turn! Today's prompt is SCHOOL DAYS, but as always, you don't have to stick with the theme. Just post a picture, share a memory, or tell a story that takes us back in time, and then link up here. Remember to use the permanent link to your post, and if you'd be so kind, include a link back here in your post. (You can copy the button code on the sidebar and paste it in for an easy way to link right back to Flashback Friday.)

Next week's prompt: FIRST JOB

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Flashback Friday: Love (in the time of Typhoid)

I headed straight to her cabin after I hung up the phone, but Kristin wasn't there. She had probably escaped to civilization with the other counselors for our one day off. I thought maybe if I could say it out loud, it would sound crazy, and I could return to my senses. But I never had the chance.

Instead, I wandered up the mountain, further from my senses, fingers fidgeting inside my pleated pockets, Sierra Nevada soil stowing away in the tread of my knock-off Birkenstocks.

My sister had no idea how she'd sent me spinning with the news. He was my high school boyfriend, my high school best friend. But we'd called it quits a year ago, just days before my graduation speech. She must have figured I was over him by now. Really, I had figured I was over him by now.

I had figured wrong. Because after news like that, you could put a bonnet on my red head, puffed sleeves on my shoulders, and call me Anne Shirley. (And I don't mean the breaking-a-tablet-over-Gilbert's-head Anne Shirley. I mean the oh-I've-been-dreadfully-wrong-and-I've-loved-you-all-along-Gil! Anne Shirley.)

My Gilbert had succumbed to typhoid fever on a medical missions trip to Bangladesh. My sister assured me he was okay. Better than okay, really. She said he returned more mature and full of purpose. She even offered the approval I'd always hoped for back when we were dating. "He's a really great guy. Are you guys totally 'over' or is there something there? Because he's been asking how you are."

I walked, one thought in front of another until I was years ahead of myself, until the sun slid behind the sugar pines.

::

Six weeks later I woke to my 19th birthday, an invisible sophomore transfer student lost in a university of thousands. The few I'd met thus far knew me as the flannel and bead-clad girl that came from California. I liked that label, but still I struggled to answer the question that came with it. Why trade sunny skies and beaches for icy winds and corn fields?

I walked downstairs, stared at Box 427, pleaded with it to prove I was known and possibly loved.

It answered me with a slip, a 1/10th of a millimeter sliver of hope. I traded the slip at the window for a package with my name on it.

I saw his unmistakable cursive J, my name in his handwriting, and my heart launched four floors high. So when I made it back up to my dorm room, package in trembling hands, my heart was already there waiting.

I opened the card first. His words were friendly, full of good wishes for a happy birthday and a year of growth. He told me again to "dare to dream". (He was always telling me that.)

And then I opened his gift.

And maybe I read between the pearls. Maybe he didn't mean to say it wasn't over. But when I felt the bracelet smooth and cool across my fingers, slid it to my wrist, it was like trying on a possibility I'd long dismissed as a fairy tale. Like this dream of mine--that my first love might be my true love--could be real, if I dared.


I draped those Bengali pearls around my wrist this morning.

I can barely believe it's been seventeen years.

::

In case you're wondering, yes, that's a picture of the card he gave me. And yes, we have no less than six comprehensive years of correspondence stored away, starting from the first high school note we passed. (Well, not the very first note. He had to eat the first one to save my honor. But that's another story for another Flashback Friday.)

So now it's your turn! Just copy the permalink to your post into MckLinky, and leave a comment to let me know you've joined the Flashback Friday party. The theme this week is LOVE (mainly because I wanted an excuse to be a total sap on the old blog). But you're also welcome to write about any topic you choose, just as long as you take us back in time a bit.

Next week's theme: SCHOOL DAYS

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Flashback Friday: Siblings

My mom tells me this photo was captured during one of our traditional Christmas plays. The matching dresses do smack of Christmas Eve attire. But I've got to be honest. I just don't see Miss Piggy stooping to the role of barn pig.
That said, I do like the idea of a red head in the nativity. It's about time people of hair color got some face time at the manger. (As you can see, Raggedy Ann and I were pretty tight. We red heads have to stick together.)

My little brother isn't pictured, and my guess is that's because he was (a) not born yet, or (b) being forced to play the role of baby Jesus in the grand finale. (Mom, do you know? I have no idea how old we really are in these pictures.)

And also, because I'm slightly obsessed with tying everything back to MY CHILDREN, I need to point out that this is the first picture I've seen of myself that reminds me very much of my Caed. Not so much in the face, but in the facial expression. It's the coolest thing to finally see a piece of me in my son--the one who has been his Daddy's doppleganger since day one.

Now it's your turn!
1) The prompt this week was SIBLINGS, but you can write about whatever suits your fancy, so long as the subject is in the rear view mirror.
2) Use the Mcklinky below to paste in the permanent link to your Flashback Friday post. (Make sure it's the link to your Flashback Friday post and not your home page).
3) Next week's prompt is LOVE (sweet love). I know, totally original, huh. Whatever. It will be Valentine's weekend. Who am I to fight that kind of current?

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Flashback Friday: This Just In

Thank you all so much for joining in with me for our very first Flashback Friday. Seriously, you guys put the retro in retrospect. I really enjoyed hosting, particularly since people actually came to my party. (It's not as fun to host when no one shows up. Ask me how I know.)

So, not only are we going to make this a weekly series going forward, but I've got a new button to prove it.

<table style="width:auto;"><tr><td><a href="http://mainelymyles.blogspot.com/search/label/Flashback%20Friday"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYupmf7_Q8ZiIfd77fP7r5XajRGO7Kwt-JMUvwFmQ3jtoXKHHb-fJCrto3S1r-0IPUGb5brz3m41q1hmsILQVfHZ8QN21Ccmz6Oz_W9fyyGcEs3v8sYl31hXkO8N-yeIgNVkYtciZQgLg/s200/sc005184a801.jpg " /></a></td></tr><tr><td style="font-family:arial,sans-serif; font-size:11px; text-align:right"></td></tr></table>

The little boy on the bike is my dad. And this is quite possibly one of my favorite photos ever. Plus it's super old (like my dad), so you know, it fits perfectly with the flash-as-in-way-way-back theme.

I will provide a theme or prompt for each week, as long as you all agree not to be dissuaded from participation by my limiting or cheesey prompt. Remember, regardless of what the theme is, you can write about anything that takes you back a bit in time. And if you aren't in the mood to write, a few pictures with snarky captions will serve just as perfectly.

The theme for this coming Flashback Friday is SIBLINGS.
So please come back on Friday ready to link up!

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Flashback Friday: Baby Steps

One moment I'm sweeping up the last of the dirt we'll ever track in, marveling at how the old house expanded as we emptied a decade of ourselves onto an 18-wheeler. The next moment, I'm unbuckling my baby in a driveway nine states away. I'm explaining to my two year old that this is the new house we've talked so much about. This is where we live.

But I suspect neither of us believe it. I unpack the sheets and make the beds, half wondering whether we will wake up tomorrow under the shadow of the old familiar oak and recount the bizarre dream we had about bubble wrap and sleeping bags.

But this is real. As real as the two hour back-up on the GW bridge and the blowout diaper at the Walt Whitman Plaza. This is where we live.

Our new neighbors across and beside say things like "welcome" and "what brings you to Maine?" One remarks that the daughter squirming in my arms, fat faced and five months, could live here for the rest of her life and still be considered "from away." We laugh as he reveals he's in that very boat. We all try on the label, and I'm not a bit surprised at how well it fits.

I divide my stares between the box of dishes and the window. I scan the streets for strollers, plotting how I'll coincidentally check the mailbox at the first sighting of a neighborhood mother. I call my sister, then my mother. "I love this house," I say. "But I don't know where to start."

::

So where's the parade? I wonder. Parking seemed too easy. Are we in the right place? Caed hides behind a tree and giggles. His daddy chases. I stay with Dani's stroller to keep her rolling back and forth. She stretches and squirms and fades.

The parade might have lasted five minutes. Six minutes tops. I'm a mess. I completely lost it when the high school band marched by in patriotic harmony. This is our town. We live here now. I brush off hopeful tears, trying to hide my crazy lady look from the strangers who surround me.

::

Every stride, every lifting forward of the foot feels the same. Legs swing in the same cadence whether off a cliff or down a familiar path. It's why, when we drove forever away from our first home, it seemed like we were just running out to get milk. One ginger, wobbling, ordinary step after another, and there we were, dangling over the heights of our new life.

We take baby steps into brand new places. And before we know it, we've made it home.

Caed-2 1/2 yrs, Sheridan- 5 months

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I realize I'm kicking this series off on the serious side, but please don't let my pining melancholic voice dissuade you from posting pictures of yourselves with big hair and a mono-brow.

So, here's the deal:
1) Enter the permalink to your specific Flashback Friday post (as opposed to your main blog address).
2) You can link up an old post or write a new one. You can post pictures, share a short memory, a funny story or a tearjerker. You can get reflective or creative or jiggy with it. The only requirement is that you take us back in time a little bit.
3) Within your post, try to include a link back here so your readers can discover the joy that is and will be Flashback Friday.

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