Breakfast of Champions

I don't know who started it, probably my maternal grandmother considering her insatiable appetite for sweets at any time of the day, but cake & coffee (or chocolate milk in my decaffeinated days) has always been an acceptable breakfast. Pie is a decent substitute but there was always more cake than pie when I was growing up. Whenever our family gathered for a birthday (which seemed to happen about 3 times a year as the birthdays were unintentionally clustered into March, September and October), you could bet that everyone would finish the cake the morning after the party.

I think my husband was justifiably appalled by this when he married into the family, especially considering our family dies from diabetes and cardiovascular disease. You would think we would always have veggie omelettes and turkey bacon, but no...the sweet tooth gene is alive and well (and has been passed down yet again).

It has been awhile since I had cake & coffee for breakfast, but this is a special cake from some truly exceptional folks.

Yesterday afternoon, a group of families from our children's missions group at church gave us a going away party, complete with yummy food (I may have declared to Blue at one point, "THIS is dinner! Eat it or starve later!"), thoughtful gifts and delightful conversation. For 4 hours we gathered, shared a meal and swapped stories about our children, home ownership and how we came to be Moravians. The kids, being hearty Pennsylvanian stock (our own son could now pass for a native) played outside, although the wind chill had to be below freezing. And the littlest of our crew toddled around our feet or sat in laps while we chatted.

It was the warmest I've felt since the last days of summer.

When Neal was assigned to a National Guard post with no on-post housing and very few active duty families nearby, I...well...I had what my friend, Carrie, calls a complete come-apart. I came unglued, unhinged, consumed by the idea that I wasn't going to make any friends because we were going into a place where everyone had known each other for a hundred years and one new, transient face was never going to break through the ice.

And for about 6 months, I wasn't wrong.

But it had everything to do with my attitude.

I assumed these people would have no interest in me, so I had no interest in them. Consequently, they had no interest in me. But I was lonely and Blue was, too. We had gone from being completely immersed in Army life and engaging daily (sometimes multiple times a day) with our neighbors and friends as we passed each other on the street or chatted at the playground or met for coffee after our morning workout to a civilian suburban life where we would see 1 or 2 kids on bikes after school and a parent or 2 checking the mail before closing the garage door behind them.  In Kansas, we lived in barracks that had been renovated into spacious apartments so, we were, literally, on top of each other. We sometimes disagreed and there was occasional drama, but we had become a tribe, more than that...a family. We all cried when it was time to leave. We had become completely enmeshed in each other's lives.

And then we scattered...to Korea, Texas, Louisiana, Germany, Florida and Pennsylvania. It was devastating and I wanted to quit all of this. It was too hard, too emotionally draining. I can deal with finding a new dentist, new doctor, new school, new everything every 24 months. But finding new friends was too much to ask. I almost asked Neal if we could just be done.

But if I had, we would have never found our Pennsylvania family. And I can't imagine my life without these people in it. Not just our church family, but our neighbors and friends we've met along the way. I think about the night of my birthday last year when we gathered with neighbors in the backyard for a potluck dinner and to watch Captain Underpants (I let Blue pick my birthday movie. I'll know better for next year.) on the big screen. And driving a carload of kids to the Farm Show every January to see the chicks hatch in front of our eyes and the just-born calves struggle to their feet for the first time. And to drink our weight in PA Dairy Association milkshakes. And the epic pre-trick-or-treating party our neighbors throw every Halloween night. Last year they had 3 tables full of food and inflatable party decorations.

And I think about all of the mission work we've been able to participate in through the children's missions program at the church: decorating pumpkins and passing out valentines at the nursing home, crafting gifts for the Father's Day worship service, gathering and packing supplies to send to Soldiers deployed overseas, preparing the Lenten meal for a Wednesday night service. These children are learning from their parents and their church how to serve others and I feel lucky and blessed that we've been a part of that. What if I had given up after Kansas? Look at all we would have missed.

Palm Sunday. We had obviously temporarily lost our minds when we sat down with all of the kids between us. I mean...what could go wrong? 

This is just a few from the hoards of photos I have from the past 2 years...favorite teachers, city parades (PA loves a good parade), church services on the front lawn, trick-or-treating in the neighborhood and a little of what makes our church unique. And not a single person in these photos is in the military. They were just living their lives, going to church and soccer games and swim lessons. And then we showed up. Strangers. Gypsies. Temporary. They loved us anyway. 

They knew we couldn't stay. They loved us anyway.

They knew the goodbyes would be hard. They loved us anyway.

They didn't know our story, where we came from, what kind of friends we would be. They loved us anyway. 

They knew nothing about military families or what our lives are like. They loved us anyway. 

They don't know if we'll ever be back. (We will.) They loved us anyway. 

Whenever I meet a new military spouse, I tell him/her, "You will get out of it exactly what you put into it." That's true for most things in life. But taking the time to engage with your community and its culture can seem like an unnecessary burden when you are always the new family. What's the point? And it's easy to assume that they are thinking the same thing. But what if they aren't? What if you enrich each other's lives; you help them to understand the sacrifices that a military family makes and they help you to understand what makes their community so vibrant and distinct? What if you are looking for a church and end up finding a family? It is often said that it takes a village and we must not be afraid to ask our neighbors and our friends to be our village when we have moved so far from family. Every military spouse knows that finding your tribe when you live on post or on base happens fairly easily and quickly. But finding them in a civilian setting feels overwhelming and pointless. I'm here to tell you it can happen and that it's worth trying. 

And to everyone who has taken us in, shared a meal with us, come over for a chat or welcomed us into their circle, thank you. Thank you for loving us anyway. It is, by far, the best way to support military families. And it makes us want to continue doing what we're doing. Even though we have to say good-bye, we are grateful for every memory and the chance that when we meet again, it is as friends instead of strangers. Until next time....

Lucky 13 and the Last Surviving CD

How did you and Neal meet?

It's hard to answer that without sounding like a total nutcase. Um...a coworker gave me a photo of him, deployed to Iraq, in which I could only see how straight and white his teeth were and, based on that, we began a string of emails that resulted in him inviting me to spend his R&R with him in London, England? Yeah...that sounds like a completely lucid answer from a responsible adult.

The picture that started it all. 

My first email to Neal began with me thanking him profusely for being brave enough to go to war and briefly mentioned my love for Jimmy Buffett and peel-and-eat shrimp and I may have quoted a little Rupert Holmes, just for funsies. For some unknown reason, he decided to reply to that. 

Blue and I are so glad he did. 

We emailed from October until the end of November when, out of nowhere, Neal invited me on his week-long R&R to London in April. I don't remember much about the rest of that day, but I do vaguely recall stumbling into my co-worker's office (the one who started the whole thing) and declaring, "YOUR BOY JUST INVITED ME TO SPEND A WEEK WITH HIM IN ENGLAND!" 

At that point, I decided I should move out of my ex-fiance's house. 

So, I did what any good almost-but-not-quite-daughter-in-law would do: I made Thanksgiving dinner for my almost-but-not-quite-in-laws and as soon as they pulled out of the driveway, I started packing boxes. I was completely moved out a couple of days later. And I never looked back. I walked away from one man who never could quite decide if he wanted to marry me and toward one who wanted to fly me halfway across the world just so we could meet. 

But first, the Soldier had no clothes. No civilian clothes, that is. He asked, in probably the most casual way possible, if I could swing by his house where his mom was living and pack him a bag. Well, sure. I mean...it's the least I could do for someone who had just bought me a plane ticket to England. And so, on one uncharacteristically warm day in March, I rang the doorbell and met his mom. 

And then I packed his underwear. 

You really get to know a person when you pack his underwear....while his mom looks on. 

I grabbed an array of jeans and sweaters, as it had not quite warmed up in the U.K. yet, either. And then, on the advice of my sister (who lived for several years in Scotland when her daughters were infants), I packed his Adidas soccer shoes - because apparently the only people who walk around in running shoes are Americans. Europeans and the English wear their Nikes to the gym and their "trainers" everywhere else. Neal's soccer shoes looked like "trainers" to me. So, I threw them in the bag, gave the mom the most normal hug I could muster after a fairly awkward introduction and headed home to pack my own bags. 

The U.S. Customs agents find it very hard to believe that someone would fly around the world to meet someone for the first time and bring his luggage to him. Just a heads up in case you want to try this at home. You will need a better story than "I have been emailing this guy at war and he wants to meet so we're going to London and those are a week's worth of henleys plus some soccer shoes that we are going to pass off as trainers."  Had I been anyone but a white girl in my 20's with pole-swinger hair, I'm sure I would have been detained. 

But I wasn't and on April 1st (April Fool's - which caused unnecessary concern for my mother) I stepped up to the baggage carousel in the Heathrow Airport and hugged my future husband. We collected our bags, hailed a taxi and took our first picture together; a selfie, proving that even in 2005 we were cutting edge, even if we hide it extremely well. 

He brought me back to our room at The Waldorf, which was quite a change of scenery for this Hampton Inn girl. Coupled with the fact that I mistook his Pathfinder for an Infinity in a picture he had sent over Christmas, I came to believe that the Army was a lucrative career choice. And that maybe I was just a little bit out of my league. But what was the harm in seeing a wee bit of the Mother Land before heading back? (As it turns out, he had a lot of Hilton points and The Waldorf is owned by Hilton. And when he had used as many consecutive points as he could there, we moved across town to the Hilton Hyde Park for the rest of the time. So, no...the Army is not the way to make your millions.)

On the first day, we slept. A lot. We slept in the same bed, but only because they had given us a room with 2 twin beds anchored to the same headboard.

Had I not already been well-versed in the way it is across the pond, I would have thought he was gearing up for some shady shiz, but I knew this wasn't an uncommon practice since the hotel rooms are so small. That's not to say he was disappointed by this development but even to this day, he will not admit to anything other than honorable intentions. I think he might be a little bit scared of my mom.

We did make it out to hear the Choral Evensong at St. Paul's Cathedral that evening.

And then Mom called...presumably to make sure I wasn't on the run from a rapist or a serial killer. Neal left the room so I could talk to Mom in private and I assured her that there were 2 beds and he had opened every door for me. If he was going to tie me up and kill me, it hadn't happened yet and maybe I would at least get to see London first.

The next 7 days flew by in a blur of laughter, stories and more than a little bit of wine. We learned you can uncork a bottle of red using only a hotel teaspoon and if you get drunk and miss the party bus that you booked a month in advance, perhaps it was meant to be.

Drunken debauchery after we missed the party bus. We were there 2 hours early. I don't know what happened. 

Corkscrews are for less resourceful folk. 

But we also stayed busy sightseeing in a city that invited us to explore. 

The gardens of Windsor are breathtaking. Although the public bathrooms are in a tractor trailer. I have a hard time picturing the Queen Mum squatting in one of these.

Paddleboating in Hyde Park on a day when it had threatened to either rain, snow, or both all day. We threw caution to the wind, handed over our money and huddled to stay warm. 

Second row seats at The Producers, in London's theater district. 

A 3-hour drive to Stonehenge, followed by a stop in Bath (where I bought fancy soap and got unexpectedly licked).

First row seats to The Lion King and another chance to practice our selfie game. 

A walking tour where we learned about the bubonic plague  and all the dead people under our feet, as well as the St. Bride Institute, which is the inspiration behind the first wedding cake design. 

Watching The Ring 2 at a swank movie theater in the Notting Hill neighborhood. We almost didn't find the place, but when we did, we were rewarded with a fully stocked bar in the back and reclining chairs. Copious amounts of alcohol is the only way I survived that movie. 

 And we found Madame Tussaud's because...well...why the hell not? 

A nighttime pub crawl and a chance to hear all about Jack the Ripper. 

A daytime pub crawl and a chance to rest our feet...because I was the only one wearing nonsensible shoes. (As Neal unpacked his bags, he looked up and asked, "Why on earth did you bring my indoor soccer shoes?" He wore his Nikes all week and I suffered in Skechers.)

We strolled through gardens (and I rocked a Kangol hat like impersonating Samuel L. Jackson was my job)...

rode the Underground everywhere,

ate a lot of pub food (except for this one time when Neal wanted to introduce me to Indian food and I drank an entire pitcher of water with my 1-star curry),

and walked a lot, at different times of the day, so we could really experience the city.

On our last evening together, we took a dinner cruise down the Thames River while reviewing the list of things we wanted to know more about from each other.

But I already knew everything I needed to know. After 7 straight days with someone, it's either going to work out or it's not.

This was going to work. I just had to survive saying goodbye at the airport.

The night before we headed our separate ways, Neal handed me a mix CD. It included all of the  background music from our week in London; "Neal's favorites" that he played on his laptop whenever we were in the hotel room. Kylie Minogue, Luther Vandross, Rascal Flatts, George Michael and, of course, a little Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. I brought it home and those songs sustained me until August, when Neal returned home from Iraq. The music he chose reminded me of our first kiss, of our first night together, of falling in love; hard and fast and, hopefully, forever.

I found that CD last week while I was Konmari'ing the entertainment center. It was buried in a CD case that I had shoved to the back of a cabinet. I took it out, swiped it across my sweatshirt and stuck it in my car CD player. The first notes of Fall Into Me by Emerson Drive lifted me up and dropped me right back in The Waldorf Hotel. It was like falling in love all over again. I kept that CD. I got rid of 47 others, but I kept that one. And it lives in my car. It is the last surviving CD and I hope I always have a way to play it.

It has been 13 years, almost to this very moment, that I first laid down on the twin bed next to the man of my dreams. It's hard to beat a week-long first date, but he manages to make each year better than the last. I am, as Alison Krauss sings on my CD, The Lucky One.