Built To Last

In early summer Dad committed to do something that would clean up our homestead: He agreed to tear down the white garage that was part of the property when they bought it in 1978. We believe the garage was built right around 1955 - built to last, in fact. But in the more recent years the white garage has deteriorated. It no longer houses Dad's time and attention. His shop has moved to the farm. The cars are  now parked in the infamous Red Barn. The garage now held recyclables, trash cans, old tools and a few bird feeders hanging from the rafters. It had become an eyesore. It was time. 

We spent a few hours each week this spring cleaning it out, finding gems like the essay I blogged about, a lot of aluminum cans and really, just a lot of junk. In one day we aligned our tools, patience and manpower and brought the (finally empty) white garage to the ground. 

Please excuse my annoying voice while I held my nephew. 

That day I focused on taking out the old metal tracks of the overhead garage doors. After spending some time trying to remove a rafter from the line of sight to a bolt, I broke down and asked for help from my brother-in-law, Scott. He climbed up on the ladder. He finagled and he spent some time on it, too. For as poor of shape as the garage seemed to be, there were parts of the interior that were completely in tact. Then Scott said something that I jotted down in my phone as soon as I was relieved of ladder-holding duties. 

He commented as he worked about the trouble we were having getting the hardware out of the main beams of the building. Moments passed, he continued to work. 

"I guess on the day this garage was built the builder wasn't thinking about 

how tough it would be for us to tear it down, huh?"

I agreed with him; he was right. When someone is pouring their heart and soul - and sweat and money - into building something, under no circumstances do they think about the effort it will take someone else to tear it down. 

I wonder what it took Don C. Merchanthouse to build that white garage. Tools, time, organization, planning, labor, patience, money, lumber, hardware and more. 

And it took us a several hours of labor and horsepower to tear it to the ground, easy as that. A few strong forces combined and we had a burn pile that attracted all sorts of attention...but that is a blog for another day. 

As much as I hate to give her any more attention, here it goes...

For whatever reason I thought of Scott's quote when watching a Youtube version of Miley Cyrus' VMA's performance. I didn't even know the awards show was on until dozens of comments about the performance threw up all over my Facebook feed the next day. Sadly, I had to see for myself. 

Sad, indeed; I thought back to Scott's quote: 

"But I guess on the day this garage was built the builder wasn't thinking about 

how tough it would be for us to tear it down, huh?"

His thoughts can be directly correlated to the complete downfall of a kid with so much promise. What happened to her? The white garage analogy explains it well: Forces combined and the frame wasn't strong enough to support what was built. 

Think about the work that goes into building a family. You work hard to communicate your feelings and emotions (even the tough ones), to respect one another's opinions, even when you think a pizza without onions isn't worthy of being called a pizza at all. To put their needs and wants ahead of your own (this goes along with the pizza situation).  You work hard to raise a child to be a respectable, respectful, hard-working adult. Hopefully one that has the roots to desire to visit home but one that has wings strong enough that they don't live in your basement past a certain age.

The tools used in building a strong family bond - or relationship - are (not limited to) patience, kindness, work ethic, selflessness, humility, accountability and discipline. 

But like the old, yet steady, rafters in the white garage, a few strong forces combined can tear that bond to the ground. And today those forces are easily accessible and aplenty. And they aren't just accessible to Miley and every other star; you and I encounter each daily. 

Modern media
Electronics
Pride
Selfishness
Laziness
Entitlement

Each things that can take a really strong frame, like the promise of a well-guided child, and tear it to the ground. 

You see, I believe if Miley had those components - those rafters - in her life to stabilize her acquired fame, the downfall of her decentcy wouldn't have been so easily done by the few tools that were used: fame, money, pressure and lack of accountability. I understand this didn't happen overnight for her; it just became painfully public on Sunday. 

In your relationships with others - your responsibility as a parent, an uncle or a friend - are you focusing on the rafters? Are you thinking clearly about the forces that surround each of us that could lead us - or those dear to us - astray? 

Unlike the builder of the old white garage, I encourage you to think about what could tear down the things you're focusing so much time and energy to build up. Can you disconnect? Get to work? Listen more? Simplify?  Eliminate temptation? Be more supportive? Courageously speak your honest opinion?

Nows the time. You never know who needs certain strengths from you to continue to be strong or positive in their own life. As you build, consider the future. Make sure it's built to last. 

Because let's be serious. If that was your little sister on stage Sunday night, there is a really great chance there would be one less sibling at family Christmas this December. And no more teddy bears or foam fingers purchased in your household, ever. 

Ten Years and One Day

Ten years - and one day - ago my parents loaded up the Ford and moved me to Purdue on my 19th birthday. That day, I got a roommate named Krista with whom I became lifelong friends. Because of her, it was a year of change and excitement that I'll never forget. 

Ten days - and one day - ago I got another kind of roommate. 
A little less temporary.
A little more forever type of deal. 

I didn't know it ten years ago, but Krista would go on to teach me more about life skills than anything I saw on a powerpoint in Lilly Hall. In fact, many lessons that she taught me I think I can go on to apply to this new "roommate" I've (thankfully) acquired. 
I think. 
We're only eleven days into this deal and the honeymoon ended two days ago. 

I'll try, anyhow.

Roommate Lessons, Ten Years Later:

1. Accept Others' Passions and Time Involved: 
We all come from different backgrounds, different lifestyles and different ideas of fun. I never understood how Krista could spend entire weekends watching loud tractors pull weights on a county fair dirt track. Likewise, she never understood how at home I felt when I saw the green shavings of the N.A.I.L.E. and smelled final bloom. She didn't ask questions; I didn't either. We just went with it and assumed the other would be back to the dorm in time for class Monday morning. 

2. Choice In Music Is Important:
I can't imagine living with someone who didn't appreciate Merle or Waylon. Lucky for me, Krista basically had their lyrics memorized before she knew the Pledge of Allegiance. I know for a fact that other gals on our floor thought we were straight outta the hills of West Virginia.  Ten years later, Cody and I's second dance (yep, we had two) was Waylon's "Good Hearted Woman In Love With A Good Timin' Man". It's just us. Through the laughter of that dance, I knew my first roommate would be proud. 

3. Avoid Buffets:
Krista and I learned this one the hard way. We took full advantage of the all-you-can-eat buffets that Purdue's dining halls offered, especially after a late Saturday night. But buffets are sneaky. You spend less than an hour there, then work several hours trying to undo what you just did. And while they seem like a great idea at the time, they stick around to haunt. Where it counts. 

This is going to be a hard lesson to adhere to with Cody, as his former judging team students report that he consistently has a keen eye out for a good Pizza Hut buffet. I will try hard. But my diet tends to start the day after tomorrow. 

4. Telling The Truth:
Krista and I also learned this one the hard way. And this goes right along with the buffet idea. It takes a  special kind of roommate to try to console/lie to you when things don't go your way. 
Like jeans. 
And how they fit.  
I remember well asking Krista if my jeans looked too tight before I headed to my math class.  She (acted as though she) looked and told me they looked fine. They felt weird after seven straight buffet Sundays? 
I didn't make it to the top floor of the Class of '50 building before I heard the loudest RIIIPPPPP of my life. 
From then on, lesson learned. Honesty in the dorm room accounted double for humility in public. 

This can be tricky with a husband, and I'll leave it to his best - like, very best - judgement. 


5. Laundry: 
Sometimes it is best to do your own. My dear friend Krista thought she was helping me out by washing the sequined (dry clean only) top laying in the middle of our 3' x 3' dorm room. And looking back at photos, I guess she was. I never had the opportunity to wear that deal again. Thanks for trying to save my fashion reputation, K!

The night Cody and I got home from our honeymoon, I was trying to be a W.I.T. and threw a load of Cody's clothes into the washer. 
I used bleach. 
I learned. 
Story over. 


Really, it doesn't matter if you're 19 or 29 - living with someone new can teach you a lot about yourself, and them - all while testing your boundaries. But embrace it. 
You learn. 
You adjust. 
You grow. 
Unfortunately sometimes, even in the waistline. 

Let us go back to roommate lesson #3. 

Gone Honeymoonin'

We got married Saturday, so Jean's Boots is taking a week off!

                   

Check back next week. 

As always, thanks for reading!

Jean

Dear Jeany

Dear Jeany,  

Sometimes friends have a painfully hard time being outright honest with you. Some of us just don't have it in us. And when I say "in us", I mean that it's especially tough for me because I lack both a tongue and voice box. But it has always been my presence, not my words, that have gotten you through the last 28 (quite close to 29, but who is counting?) years. 

I have watched you grow. 

And while I'm only a silent bystander, as an old tree that you've begged your Dad not to chop down, I have watched your family take over this farm and make it what it is today. I have watched you every single year, moving generations of cattle in and out of "my" pasture; perhaps I'm a bit protective of the land I keep watch over every day. 

You've changed a lot in twenty years - - you've changed even more in the last five. 

But your change has allowed me to observe a few things, and as an old constant in your life, I've taken several of notes over the years. Things I've never had the opportunity to say. Until now. 

My hope in writing this letter to you, in the most pivotal week of your entire life, is that you'll pass it on. To others. To friends. To your daughter or son. Maybe even to strangers. 

I've waited a long time to write this letter to you. And, the letter actually beings now...

Dear Jeany, 

At 8: I know it isn't funny now, but "Thunder Thighs" - as your family so affectionally calls you - is actually a term of endearment. They're just not really good at thinking through family jokes. While we're on that subject: You were not adopted. 

At 12: If I could tell you anything right now, it would be this: Everything is going to be okay. You aren't the most beautiful girl at school, but who is? You don't see this now, but everyone in your class (and one above and one below) is completely awkward. I'm serious. One day you'll look back at that volleyball photo and realize that there were more grids on your team mates' teeth than there were on the volleyball net in the background. It's okay: Orthodontics pay off.  

At 16: I lost you. You're busy with the things you believe to be important in your life. And maybe right now they are. But do not forget that in this life, no matter the age, people matter the most. 
Go have lunch with the Original and your Granddad. Trust me. 
Take the time to talk to that painfully shy guy in your small engines class. Trust me. 
And by the way, don't spend anymore time day dreaming about long-term plans with that kid from Northeastern. Trust me. 
Your life hasn't even started.

At 20: LISTEN TO ME!! Pay attention in that InDesign class. You'll need it later. Don't pay any mind to the guy who quit calling you back last week after several dates, all of which you thought went well. One day you'll you call him the "long waste of time" while he sits around with his buddies and references you as the "one who got away" - Trust me, You win. 

At 24: There are so many things I want to tell you right now! But your visits are few and far between. So, let's start here:


I know that you're in a pile of debt after buying a house on your own. You can afford it. You learn to adjust your budget. You don't need those two dresses you are dying to buy from Kohl's....trust me. You have no where to wear them, anyhow. 

You worry that you left Washington, DC long before you should have. You probably did. But that move afforded you opportunities you wouldn't have had otherwise. You are exactly where you need to be. Trust me. 

Do not waste your time at the Melaleuca party. Do not buy $199 in Thirty-One products - the "free" gift is NOT worth it. In fact, it's still sitting in your spare bedroom closet wrapped in plastic. But make sure you show up to every party Uncle Steve throws in the office. You won't meet "him" there, but those nights will build you.


Most importantly, a few things I want to tell you as you search for a husband. 
#1: DO NOT SEARCH FOR A HUSBAND, YOU WHACKO. 
Because, #2: As you read this, you should know that in less than 4 days days you'll marry the man that you've prayed for.

Yes, I'm serious. 
Breathe in. 
Now, out. 
He does exist. 
And he does show up. 
In a place 1,150 miles from home. 

I'll tell you this: You will meet "him" and you will have no idea that he is the one. And that is the best part of your story; your story with him. The relationship builds over a short time but it moves like wildfire. I guess that is a perk of slowing down at 28. You know exactly who you are and what you want. 

One final thought in this letter to you: Slow down. I don't see you much anymore because you're so "busy" - but busy is what you make it. Life happens when people are too busy to enjoy it. And remember that if something is important to you, you make time for it. 

For instance, you took an hour out of your day last week to have some stranger lady scrub your face in a dark room. Not necessary. 

Enjoy these days. Enjoy the people. Visit old friends. Live your life.

Friends forever,

The Growing Tree

Stroke Material

I threw my Escapé (French for Escape, remember?) into park next to the mailbox and opened the back hatch. The blue Rubbermaid tub was nearly all I could handle. I grabbed both ends and lugged the deal across the patio and barely got it to the brick before I lost all control of the disorganized mess. 

A film strip floated like a feather to the ground from the impact of the near-fumble. 

It was time to sort through photos for the reception slideshow for our wedding. Can I just say, between the cleaning out of the red barn and the tree trimming leading to the poison ivy marathon and the invitation list organization, sorting through photos was the thing I dreaded the most. 

Not because I have a painful past or had some birthmark at a young age that scarred my self image or even the time it entailed. I dreaded it because every time I break open that dusty Rubbermaid I get this feeling that I have a tennis ball lodged in my throat and my eyes begin to develop a strange mist. It's weird. 

I sat down in a porch rocker, took a deep breath and tugged the tub to my side. Less than two weeks: it was go time. 

The old screen door flew open and Dad's cracked Mason work boots punched down the brick steps. He had a bowl of boiled peanuts and a to-do list in his hands. He stopped at the base of the steps and studied what I was doing, cracking open a peanut with his teeth. 

I didn't want to look up, but I did.

"What's all this, Jeany?" he asked, sucking the water out of the shell and spitting it into Momma's prized flower beds. "Stroke Material?"

His two words struck me: Stroke Material. He need not explain himself. 

"Yep," I responded trying to take it lightly. "That is exactly what this stuff is."

"What are you doing with it now?" Dad inquired. 

"I'm trying to find content for our wedding slideshow. So far I've found 18 photos of Laura, 8 of Luke and 1 of me. But two corners are torn off and I look like a paraplegic," I said, studying the 1987 photo. 

Dad just kind of laughed. He knew I wasn't joking. The third child is lucky to have a birth certificate accounted for, let alone any visual proof that she ever existed prior to 6th-grade graduation. Dad climbed into his Ford and started the diesel engine. Within thirty seconds he had gone to the farm. 

I sat back in my chair and thought about the brief interaction. It made my stomach hurt and my lips smile at the same time. That Dad...

So what is Stroke Material?

As completely sick as it sounds, Dad is convinced he's going to, one day, suffer a stroke. He told us this about 4 years ago. If you know Dad, you recognize that he only operates on two speeds: Fast and Faster. He doesn't slow down. He doesn't take vacations. His golf course is  maintained with a bush hog and and somedays the longest amount of time he sits still is when he's feeding hay at the farthest farm. 

When Dad first revealed this revelation to us, he asked that we bring every old photograph we could find to the hospital or nursing home to keep him company. Every. Single. Photo. we could dig up. We agreed to the Stroke Material.

Last Christmas I heeded this advice and asked (the way incredible) Nate Logston to digitalize every home movie we had on file. I figured if my Daddy was going to have this break down, the last place I wanted to be was at CVS trying to transfer files for the grumpy old man. 

But he got me thinking. When it comes down to it, in his final days, my Dad knows how he wants to spend his time: Reflecting. Remembering. Reliving moments in time through photos. He chooses that.

Think about this. If you prepared yourself for final days, what would your Stroke Material be?

If I were to judge those around me, I'm convinced Cody would love nothing more than having decades of past issues of the Angus Journal to leaf through and Luke would invest his time reviewing historic registration papers and bloodlines. Momma would ambitiously look through cookbooks and plan a meal if she had the ability.

So where does that leave you? What is your Stroke Material? The things that would occupy your days and bring purpose to hours that pass like months. 

Old photographs?

Love letters from someone you tried to forget?

Pure music?

Hemingway who seemed to-far-out, anyhow?

Home videos?

MASH reruns?

Cookbook collections?

Maybe even your favorite quotes and verses that got you through the impossible?

I think mine will be the box of Chrysalis letters still stored at Momma and Dad's. Letters to a naive 16-year-old from folks I never even had the grand opportunity to meet. Letters of promise and hope and love. 

My hope is that you never have to decide on Stroke Material. I hope your days are filled with life and ambition and forward thinking to the life ahead.

But if you had the opportunity to pick your very best Stroke Material what would it be? Let someone know. And enjoy those things now, rather than when it is too late. 

While you take care of that, I'm going to be busy changing all the "1982" on Laura's photos to "1988" to meet this deadline we call "Wedding Day" - - -  I won't tell if you don't. 

W.I.T.

Since it's just you and I this morning, can I make a confession? 
Don't worry, I've not robbed a bank or lied on my license about my weight (more than 15 lbs.), but it's something I think about every once in a while.

W.I.T.: Wife In Training.
17ish days from today I'll be a wife and I have to tell you, I don't know if I'm cut out for this wife deal. 
I'm serious. 
Do I have it in me?

I look around at the wives I know and quite frankly, I get tired. 
Like, just ate at Cracker Barrel after church, tired. 

Since it's just us and we have a few minutes, can I ask a few questions?

How does a wife like Ann have the confidence and faith to tell her husband, "OK, let's do this" then take a leap of faith and start a business out of their newlywed apartment? Like, some days the greatest leap of faith I take is putting a dry-clean only blouse in with my delicates and then I worry myself to death for 8 hours that I've thrown $30 down the drain. But huge faith in business decisions: How do I get there? 

And sometimes I forget to feed Dixie. And she never says much so it tends to go unnoticed. Then around 1:47 a.m. I wake up to the eery feeling of someone looking at me and I open my eyes to see the white tip of a tail going 100 mph in the dark. I just don't think I'll get the same response if I forget to feed Cody? How long can a grown man go with out feeding? Please advise. 

How do wives like Marlene adjust to a husband who travels the continental fifty regularly, Facebooking every photo and  every new adventure? How does she not pack a bag, quit her job and hit the wide open trail with him? How does a wife learn to proudly promote and watch? And just what does she pack for healthy road snacks? Teach me. 

I have gone months without thinking about cleaning my shower. Does this change with a husband? How do you mask the gag? How does one get past the dried up toothpaste on the side of the sink? Where does one buy the right type of shaving cream? I'm so scared there are not enough rubber gloves in the world. 

I really like my alone time. Sometimes I even invite girlfriends to keep me company. Can wives still do this? Will Wannabeez miss Chey, Laramie, Em and I? What if they don't? Do wives still get invited to girls' night? Please say yes. Lie to me. 

How do Teresa and Julie feed two families nightly (NIGHTLY) and any guests that show up? I don't have it in me, the organized gene. Or the meal planning gene. There have been weeks when I've been to Meijer for dinner ingredients more times than I've washed my hair. How do you get that preparation gene? How do you say, "You'll eat it and you'll like it" without actually saying that aloud?

When Katie and I want to take our annual gypsy trip, do we need signed permission slips now? Recognizing the men we both chose, I'd guess no, but I have a really hard time wrapping my head around a signature and an insurance waiver to go see the wild west in a rental car and series of cheap motels. 

I look around at these wives who have this deal mastered and I kind of want to puke and eat  a half gallon of ice-cream at the same time. I have confidence in myself and my ability to make Cody laugh and allow him to love me (the real, sometimes moody, need-me-time, where is my phone charger? My fat jeans don't even fit!!! me) completely and truly. 

But then I think one thing goes wrong - like I forget to register his favorite stock or I scorch he heck out of his favorite shirt - and I will have failed in everything that my Momma has ever tried to teach me. 

Confession: I don't even know how to make gravy. 

The truth is I admire the ones around me who have blazed the trail far ahead. Thank you for burning biscuits and leaving the gates open and throwing away the most comfortable pair of underwear he has ever owned. 

But please help. Leave your "Wife In Training" advice in the comments below. 

Sincerely concerned, 

Jean
W.I.T.
T-17 days

Nick and Erin

In June I was lucky enough to be a very small part of Nick and Erin's rural Indiana wedding. They took a gamble on the weather and came out on top; it was a perfect summer day created just for these two. Of all the groups I've worked with, their (huge!) wedding party was the most unforgettable. 

From the gorgeous bride to the funny, relaxed groom, the day was beautiful in every sense of the word. I'm quite thankful that they included me.

Here are just a few photos from the day on the bride's family farm - 

I told you they were fun. 

Nick and Erin, I wish you a lifetime of happiness!

Stairway to Heaven

I'm just going to lay it out there, because he doesn't read my blog:

Dad, I am sorry that I  threw away your bright red leg brace. Momma told me it was OK. 

Now, moving on...

Exactly ONE MONTH from the time you read this, I'll be be wide awake, chatting with my beautiful big sis, pacing the floor of the bedroom in which I first discovered the Growing Tree while texting my brother. 

Ah, our wedding day. 

Please let me look better in 2013 than I did in 2008. 

Last night I went to Momma and Dad's to attempt to store away a few things in the attic so when we do wedding hair, make-up and photos in the homestead we won't fret about the K-Mart box of old jeans and flannel shirts marked "To-Be-Hemmed 2010" in the back corner of the room. 

I'll admit it: we have stuff. 

So Momma and I flipped a coin and she ended up in the attic where she had to put things "in their place" (i.e. the place "stuff" goes to die), and I was responsible for the heavy lifting up the ladder to her tiny arms. 

We actually did pretty well. I sent 21 framed seasonal prints up the "stairway to Heaven" (once things go up, they never come down) along with 2 Rubbermaid tubs and some odds and ends. 

Like a giant bag of holiday teddybears that the grandkids may, or may not, someday enjoy and a box full of flashlights and leather gloves Dad had ordered for customers one year that never got distributed: stamped 1993. 

"We'll use 'em" - Even if the batteries have corroded every single usable piece. 

After an hour Momma reported from the third floor that she was tired and hot in the ancient attic and wanted to do just one more round:

The Purge. 

No sweeter words have been spoken to this gal (except "Lindsay, Will you marry me?") in a long, long time. 

"Great idea!" I shouted up. "Send down 8 things for the trash barrel!"

I heard scuffling. 

I was darn near slapped in the face by a rubber gorilla mask that had melted into itself. She really didn't tell me it was coming. 

I heard more "Awwwwwwwwwwwws" than the law should allow. 

I had to call up once to make sure Momma hadn't passed out. 

Ten seconds later: "FIRE WAY, JEAN!"

Next thing I know my so-not-athletic mother was winging things at me that I hadn't seen or thought of in twenty years. One near-miss later and I raised my voice. "MOM! Slow down! I don't need a broken nose, I need 8 things handed down to me!"

The scuffles stopped and I felt just a little bit awful about speaking to Momma like that.

Until she threw down her 8 things. 

3 pairs of unmendable  gloves due to squirrel habitation. 

4 napkins that had never been used (unless you're a mouse?):

"Awww, I forgot about these! Do you want to see one with out the squirrel marks?"

1 plastic Easter egg with a 20-year-old Hershey kiss seeping from the bottom. 

1 mobile leg brace Dad had to wear during his knee surgery - have you the read the blog about my father being caged within the hospital walls?

1 craft project that I entered into the mini  4-H show:

(You're welcome for not competing against your kids.)

A skeleton ring from a late-80's kindergarten class Halloween party. This was stored in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles crayon box. She just didn't have it in her to toss the whole box.

And finally....

"Jean! I found this  bag and was going to toss it, but then I looked inside..."

I asked Momma, "Oh geez.....is it still breathing?"

Suddenly, she got tender. I knew it was a treasure to her, so I had to treat as a treasure, too. I climbed up the ladder to see the fragile IGA bag. Little pieces of the bag flaked away as I grabbed it. 

Inside: 

The Barbie Bride. Her hair is ratted (but big, which I do appreciate) and her gown reeks of melted Dollar General soap and Pepto-bismol. Sounds about right. 

I didn't argue with Momma about keeping the 1990 bride; it is because of this bride that we found her again, after all. 

Now, if she isn't in August 13th trash run, we may need to have a another come to Jesus meeting about the "stairway to Heaven" - and who knows?? We may get crazy and toss the melted crayons in the crayon box, too. 

Why I Don't Do Drugs

Monday morning at 6:10 Cody and I loaded into my Escapé (that's French for Escape) and headed to the hospital where I was having a procedure done.
Nothing to worry about. 
Seriously. 
I'm healthy as an ox but have a throat like a chicken. It's genetic. 

By 6:50 AM they had me on a gurney and were giving me oxygen. Then, they told me they were giving me something that may make me sleepy. 

Understatement of the year. 

The following is just a brief glimpse of the hours that followed, as told by Cody Sankey, my patient, kind fiancé. I've cut his stories down to about half, for the sake of my reputation. Of all that is to follow, there is only one moment that I remember: the elves. 

When they wheeled me back to my room the first thing I announced to the floor was that I wanted an elephant ear. No, I needed an elephant ear. Fried, sugary, fair food goodness: not too far off from reality. Cody lied to me and told me we would get one when we left. I believed him. Thirty seconds later I forgot my own request. 

"You know what I gotta do when I get home?" I asked Cody, serious Lindsay snapping right to it. 
"What Linds?"
"I gotta cut Dixie's tail off. Right off!" I announced, finger scissors cutting across the air. 
"Linds, I don't think you need to cut Dixie's tail off. She's too old for that now."
"Well, Cody," I talked to him as though I was a real veterinarian, putting my hands in front of me to convince. "That's an awfully big decision for such a little dog to make, so I'm making it for her." 

Dixie, I'm sorry. But, I really do get annoyed when your tail knocks over my wine on the coffee table. 

Then, according to Cody, the tears came. And note, there are few things I dislike more than dramatic girls.
Big, loud, sobbing tears - out of no where. 
"Elves! There are elves in my watch!" I screamed. And I sincerely remember this part; I remember looking down at my wrist where my 10th birthday present once rested - a Mickey Mouse watch with a red leather band. But in the face, where Mickey once was, were 1,000 tiny little elves and they were screaming to get out! 

They scared me...and I scared everyone one around.
Cody jumped up to console me and the nurses rushed to my side; I begged them to get the elves out of my watch. They grabbed both wrists and proved to me that I didn't even have on a watch. But I could see it - and the elves! - plain as day. 

Some time passed and a drive home from town took place as well as a McDonald's run. Those are details for neither here or there...
Wedding is still on even after another meltdown because McDonald's didn't have pineapple mango smoothies. Thank goodness that Cody has the patience of his father. 

Thirty minutes later and Cody was cleaning the McSmoothie off of my chin and escorting me out of the Escapé and into my house. Two eager, happy pups met us at the door. Rather than greeting them as cheerfully as they greeted me, like a hawk I reached down and try to yank poor Dixie's  tail right out of her body. 
I don't know why; I'm just glad she's even my friend today.
That's the beauty of a pup like Dixie; no matter the day, she is always going to love me more than I love myself. 

And if it's the hours when her owner is all hopped up on "Truth Serum" - as the doctor labeled it, due to it's ability to make all patients speak only the truth - those are some miserable hours for a little black mutt. 

Cody got me back to my bedroom and took off my shoes. For another forty-five minutes he consoled me and answered questions he didn't know the answers to. He watched me to make sure I didn't choke on my tongue or a coat hanger. 

Birdie and Dixie came back to visit. 

"We gotta get Birdie's tail off, too!" I announced. 
"No, Linds, Bird's tail came off when she was just a baby. All she as left is a nub."
Apparently I got more serious than anyone should ever get when discussing this. I cut Cody a look, "Well you get me a pair of channel locks and I bet I can get that nub off! Just get me the channel locks!" I demanded.

+ 1 for creative use of tools 
- 100 for even thinking in a drugged state that poor old Bird's tail needed removed, too. 

In the best interest of all parties involved, Cody escorted both pups to the front of the house and turned on ESPN so they could chase baseballs across the screen. Not always the best fun, but far better than a home tail removal demonstration. 

Cody came back to my room to find me on my phone.  I had called brother Luke (or he called me? Details quite fuzzy) and invited him down for Dixie's tail cutting, as though I was inviting him to a pitch-in or something. Immediately my phone was confiscated and not released again until around 8:00 PM Monday night. 

Over the span of time I removed classic livestock prints off of my walls because I "hated the Grand Canyon" (never been there, would love to go) and even let Cody know I'd meet him in Alaska for our honeymoon because I was going to ride a donkey up there. 

Even the Truth Serum can't cover up the fact that I love the scenic route to anywhere. 

"Donkey rides aren't so bad," I told Cody. "Mary and Joseph rode a donkey places."
"Yeah Linds, they did," Cody responded, exhausted after dealing with a 3-year-old since 7:00 AM. 
"But now people haul donkeys in trailers. Wait. Maybe they hauled baby Jesus in a stock trailer, Cody?"
"I don't know, Linds, I think you should probably call it quits for a while, all this thinking," he tried to convince/beg me. 
I paid no mind. 
"It would be like showing up to a stock show with baby Jesus in your trailer!!" I screamed, elated at the thought! I sat right up in bed. 
"Do you know Jesus?" I asked Cody, dead serious.
"Yeah, I know Jesus," he replied.
"He's a pretty goooooooooood guy," a drew it out as I laid back down in bed. 

Cody took my glasses off of me and pulled the sheet up. He realized little Dixie had snuck back into the room and had crawled under my bed; the thumping of her tail gave her away. So Cody got down on his hands and knees and begged Dixie to come out; he did not trust her sleeping alone with me in the same room - even in broad daylight. 

Dixie reveled herself then pranced down the hallway. The noise awoke the sleeping, high-as-a-kite bear. 

"What are you doing in here?!" I yelled at Cody. 
"Just making sure you're OK, Linds" he calmly replied. 
"Well," I said, full of ungratefulness and very as-a-matter-of-factly, "I think you're creepy watching me like this!"
Cody was so, so patient. "I just want to make sure you're OK, Linds, just go to sleep."
Since the age of two, telling me to sleep rarely works; I popped up out of bed:
"Whatdya think I'm gonna do, blow this place up?!!?" I threw my arms to the heavens. 

WHAM!!

Cody recalls that my head hit the pillow like a ton of bricks. Eyes shut. Mouth open. Snoring within seconds. 

He checked on me every thirty minutes but said I didn't move for three hours. 
Almost an entire day of my life completely unaccounted for in my memory due to a few CCs of Truth Serum. 

It made me realize why in 28 years I've never touched a drug, or was never invited to the parties where that kind of stuff took place. Maybe everyone knew I'd be the idiot talking about elves in my watch and hauling baby Jesus around in a stock trailer. 

Long story longer, it's like a really good thing for me that Cody is locked into this "forever" deal. At least he knows what he's getting into? It was like a small marriage counseling session wrapped up......into 12 hours.

Lesson for the day: 

Let this be a reminder. 

Eric & Erin

It's been a while since I ran around chasing a girl in a white dress who was anxiously awaiting a man in a black tux. 

This spring I've been fortunate to photograph two weddings and enjoyed both days so much. In May Eric married Erin in southern Indiana. I was in awe of the detail these two put into decorating and planning the rest of their lives together. Every single glimpse was personal and country chic! Ah, I was so at home. 

Here are just a few from their beautiful day - 

Congratulations to the Padgetts!