London Southern Belle

the post that will never do that beautiful moment justice

Four days prior to my booked c-section date, handsome man ‘o mine and I excitedly attended our pre-operation consultation with the anaesthetist and midwife. I had been strangely calm leading up to this point and it wasn’t until the anaesthetist was discussing complications of the procedure and then quick glance over to my husband who had tears welling in eyes  that the calmness quickly  dissipated.  He was terrified for my sake and the realisation that I was to have a major operation to bring our twins into this world became a reality.  

The weekend following was one of constant reassurance that all would be fine even though within my being I was trembling. I did not sleep a wink the night before I was to go into hospital. I must have checked the hospital bags several times and clock watched three times as much. Our car journey to hospital that morning was a quiet one. Nervousness drowned out the radio sounds but there were times when tinges of excitement showed through faint smiles.

 

As we made our way to level 7, which in recent days has become a second home to us due to the many hospital visits for monitoring, I had forgotten how heavy my tummy felt carrying two babies and was already missing the roundness of it.  We were ushered into a side room where I changed into a hospital gown and a midwife struggled to pull up circulation tights onto my very swollen legs and feet. By this time I was holding back nervous tears but still managed to joke about how I cannot wait to have ankles once again.

The walk down the corridors to the operating theatre never seemed so short. There were literally a dozen bodies all with a particular job. I remember the soothing music I had brought in playing gently in the background. It gave me warm thoughts of my high school friend and college roommate Addie, who had mailed it along with several thoughtful baby items months prior. 

The next hour was a blur of lots of fears and an abundance of tears as the team could not administer the epidural into the correct place. With each failed attempt another local anaesthetic was given putting me into a panic with each prick. At one point I heard threats of putting me completely under for the delivery. I cried at the thought of not being awake for the birth of our children and with the gas and air mask gently pressed to my face I kept telling handsome man ‘o mine, ‘I have to make this work. I have to be awake for this.’

The anaesthetist walked around the operating table and made eye contact with me.  I remember seeing her gloves covered in blood from the anaesthetic attempts.

‘Lean forward and arch your back like a Halloween cat,’ she calmly demanded.                     

With a belly carrying what felt like large twins, I could not manage to lean forward nor could I arch my back. I tried and it wasn’t working well enough. I felt desperate.

Handsome man ‘o mine clenched my hands, his eyes pierced into mine. I could tell he desperately wanted the fear and pain I was feeling to disappear. He looked as desperate as I felt.

An hour later,  a second anaesthetist was called in. This time he was my angel. Within 10 minutes I was completely numb from the breasts down and the delivery of our babies would begin. I immediately felt at peace.

The room was buzzing with bodies as I focused on handsome man ‘o mine’s face. The moment was arriving. The moment I had waited for so long to experience. I immediately began to weep.

Twin one entered our world and man ‘o mine gleefully announced the arrival of an 8 lb gorgeous baby girl. She was raised high above the sheet for our eyes to see. Never in my life had I seen such a beautiful sight. Immediately, I loved her. She was whisked away to the opposite side of the room and looked over. All was well.

With flailing arms and legs, twin two arrived into our world as a more petite 6 lb 4 oz baby boy. His hands tiny, his voice loud. ‘It’s a boy,’ handsome man ‘o mine whispered. Our family, complete.  I did not know the extent of such love until that very moment. I could not wait to hold our babies.

The first time Evelyn was plopped on my bare skin my lips immediately touched her sweet head. I was instantly in love. I glanced over to handsome man ‘o mine who was cradling Addison for the first time and I could feel the tears making yet another appearance. I never thought I would see the day and knew I would fall in love with my husband all over again, seeing him as a father. The day that I and the man I love most actually did it – we were parents to two gorgeous children and they were all ours.

Soon after, I was wheeled into recovery; a small side room where I was monitored by our favourite midwife (who ironically shared our last name) while we basked in baby bliss. I was completely unaware of my pain or the fact that I had a catheter inserted and periodically was having my incision dressing changed by a complete stranger. I was incredibly content with a baby nestled on my left and again on my right. How blessed where we to have not one child, but two. That was the main thought running through my head.

We made phone calls to announce the news to grandparents,  sent texts to close friends and just enjoyed being a family of four for a couple of hours before being transferred to the maternity ward.  

I have always felt life is full of surprises, blessing and triumphs. And, while I know just in the short four weeks I have known Addison & Evelyn, mothering them has been my biggest challenge. A challenge I will forever try and perfect and ensure I am the best mother I can be.

Love has reached a brand new height in our lives and despite the large mountain we climbed – finally, we are at the top and it feels magnificent.

Baby Addie and Baby Evie - We love you more than words could ever express. We cannot wait to show you the world and our abundance of love. You bless us.

1987

I crave to be younger again. Not teenage youthful. You couldn't shell out enough money for me to experience my teenage years again. Yes, Billy Madison managed to get to live it again and become cool as well as get the girl in the end. Despite his Trans-Am and nostalgic 80's t-shirts. Yet, having been enlightened by Hollywood, I still say, no thanks. I mean young and fresh as in an age where you are attaining some independence and freedom, yet your mother is still a prerequisite. As I was walking around my local high street before my coffee date with Rach, for some peculiar reason, I reflected on my favourite childhood possessions. I had recollected memories of my purple and pink leotards that had matching legwarmers. Everyday after school (and watching The Mickey Mouse Club), I would put those on and grab my ribbon wand and head to the backyard. My father is a man of few words. However, the things that he did for me as a child, I will never ever forget. One being, running an extension chord for my purple boombox to my swing set so I could comprise dance routines to the Tiffany album in total costume. I was also a colossal fan of Debbie Gibson's Electric Youth and Three Dog Night (god knows why). My Glamour look alike neighbour, Lori Hallmark (weird and wonderful how some names you never put out of your mind), sold me her blue bike with seahorses on the fenders and a massive white banana seat. I appreciated that bike. Second-hand or not. To me it was the equivalent to a Delorean or Ferrari. Forget Barbie's pink sports car. I had a banana seat. Not to mention, sparkly jelly shoes to wear (and a leotard with legwarmers, don’t forget.) All the while, I rode my bike with the banana seat. Are you getting a visual? Life was good. Eventually, I was too grown up for the ribbon wand and nicked the latest trend of glitter wands. I was one fashionable princess until the day I tried to transform my banana seated bike into a unicorn with my wand and it shattered to a million pieces. My life has never been the same. I still look for glitter wands and unicorns on eBay to this day. I would still do it all over again. Forget "Thirty and flirty and thriving." I want to be eight.

Paris in my heart

Handsome man 'o mine and I met in 1996. I was only a teenager and completely in love with him despite the seven year gap between us in age. I grew up in Mississippi, USA where I spent most days perched on a wooden church bench minding my P's and Q's, responding with politness of, 'Yes Ma'am' and 'No thank you Ma'am'.  It was small town living for me and so much of the world, I wanted to see for myself.

Handsome man 'o mine was amazing and even though we lived in seperate countries he continued to make me feel special and deeply loved. I had never travelled abroad and had dreams of seeing the Eiffel Tower in Paris. The closest I ever came to that dream at the time were old photos my grandmother had taken on her journey there years before hand. I would gaze at her photos of delightful french-ness, my eyes glazing over in a dreamy coma. Handsome man 'o mine once made the promise,

'Someday, I will give you Paris.'

I found that sentence spoken so very romantic and for years would cling on to the hope and promise he made. Years passed and handsome man 'o mine and I eventually took a break after trying a distant relationship for three years. I never forgot about yearning to see Paris. Nor, did he.

In 2003, we found each other again. Missing our relationship and more determined to make it work, I packed everything I owned into two suitcases and made the plunge to live in England with him. In 2003, we married and all was perfection. Our first wedding anniversary, I was presented with a shimmering envelope, with an uncertain thickness about it. Opening it with great anticipation, I wondered what he would surprise me with. Falling to my lap, were two flights to Paris. I could feel the tears building in my eyes.

I shall never forget seeing the Eiffel Tower for the first time. This small southern belle from Mississippi was on top of the world. He gave me Paris.

Never will I forget. It isn't just a memory in my mind. The moment still belongs in my heart.

Fears & Kitty Litter

There has always been a fear lurking amongst my ever so safe and cautious being-- A fear that haunts and chills my bones, robbing me of journeys and dazzling escapades. Controlling me like an insecure female seeking security through an abusive relationship. It entangles all my deep rooted strengths, causing me to falter and stumble. Tripping my soul seeking steps of patent leather and shiny ribbons tied in tiny bows. The force of its nature pulls and taunts me, tasting of playground dirt and dust. It is dark, numbing and dirty. As a child, it stopped me from climbing trees, hanging from monkey bars, diving into adventure, and riding my bicycle without the use of my anxious griping hands that longed for constant safekeeping. Perhaps it is lack of bravery - afraid of the unknown and reprecussions unforseen.

I grew up in a place that rested their refuge in the hands of a higher power. One that gives grace if you mind your P's and Q's, sit pretty one day a week on an oak bench praying silently and refraining from liquor and pre-marital sex. In abiding, you have a vision engraved in your mind. One that consists of paved streets of gold, joyous souls rejoicing and whispers of angel's wings. Yet, that envision of sanctuary could barely block the ghostly fear of death in my mind.

The passing of my grandfather was my first encounter with a loss of life. At the time, I was thirteen and had a full understanding of the situation. There was no need for an explanation given by a parent stating, "We will never see him again. He is a bright star in the heavens." Cancer had taken the man I loved dearly. I loathed that sickness. I was robbed of the man that called me, "Pepa's Girl" and allowed me to climb in his lap and dig for Trident gum in his shirt pocket, fully knowing I was too young to chew bubble gum and would swallow it whole within two minutes. He was the same man that introduced me to beef jerky, despite the vegetarian lifestyle I would eventually lead in my twenties. He kept our family together, insisting on big family Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings. And in an instant, those moments disappeared. He would be nothing more than a soulless body in an overpriced box with brass embellishments.

"Manda, I saw Pepa sleeping."

The thought of my grandfather lifeless sent a cold rush through my young body. I was appalled that my brother, five years younger than I, attended the open casket visitation. He didn't quite grasp how our Pepa had become a "glittery star" in the sky. I stayed home that evening.

My second loss occurred in my college years. She was and continues to be the definition of friendship. Until that day, death had ever been so incredibly real to me.

At the age of twenty-two, I landed a job as a local newspaper journalist turned assistant editor. Nothing thrilled me more than chasing police cars, fire trucks and ambulances in hopes of catching that signature photo for the front page accompanied by a thrilling article. I was a southern belle with a bite -posing paparazzi with a Canon EOS-1D. I was faced with sadness on more than one occasion while writing for the newspaper, witnessing families losing their homes to fire, interviewing parent-less children due to car accidents or murders, viewing the body of a raped and mangled twenty-six year old woman.

My journalism profession forced me to look at death head on. I eventually met Dillon who was associated with the state morgue, and gave me personal access to the forensic science scene. I pondered over this invitation for weeks, until finally I willingly agreed it was time to face my biggest fear in life.

"You must vow to not write this as front page news."

"Scouts honor."

The case was of a local man, momentarily ruled as suicide, however due to a schizophrenic son, others questioned the situation. Dillon was due to the state morgue for observation of the body and asked me to come along. I had no idea what I was in for, yet part of me really wanted to see the unseen. He swore me to secrecy of the current case and tossed a stack of crime scene photos in my lap. I froze. My hands were shaking and I nearly choked on my own gasp.

"Are you going to be able to handle this?"

"Yes, of course"

Dillon gave me a run through the events of the case and his thoughts on what happened. It was a two hour drive to the state morgue and I spent the entire journey collecting my thoughts, thumbing through the photos, memorizing every gruesome detail to rule of out the element of shock once I arrived.

We walked in the main room. Four tables made of concrete lie empty with towering lamps shining down. The room was damp and reeked of formaldehyde. My first thought was that I would never wear the sweater I had on at the time again. I imagined the pink threads soaking in the deathly scent. Dillon motioned for me to follow him around the corner and as I rounded it, he flung open an oversize silver door. My mouth dropped. There laid dozens of bodies on stretchers waiting for autopsies in an oversized refridgerated room. I don't know what I expected. Peaceful sleep-like bodies with folded hands perhaps. However, their expressions weren't peaceful. In fact, many looked horrified. Their bodies were stiff with rigor mortis, crooked limps frozen and unmoving, reaching for the heavens.

My stomach felt as if it were taking repeated punches of a strong fist. My swallows were hard, my sense of smell overcome. The body I examined through photos was wheeled out to the autopsy room. He was naked. His body was stiff. His arms were slightly tightening due to muscle stiffening after his death. The examiners worked on the body, moving each limp up and down with full force, as if pumping water from a well, to loosen the stiff limbs in order for it to lay flat. I could hear the crunching sounds of his arms as he was moved about. His scalp was lanced, the inside of his head exposed. Eventually everything was scooped out, until I could see the back of his eyelids. Tiny pieces of organs were snipped and placed in tiny clear bags for examining. The remainders were put in a large bucket lined with a garbage bag that was placed on the floor below the table. A t-shaped cut was precisely made on his chest then pried open with an oversized clamp and saw-like machine. More snipping of organs took place, and remains were thrown in the bucket below, nearly filling it to the brim.

His body had been completely hollowed. I stared intently at his face until it became mere shapes. I could almost see straight through him. I was searching for his soul and curious about his life. Where was his wife? What were his passions? Where would he spend eternity?

"What about his organs?"

Dillon glanced over at the body. The examiner then proceeded to pick up the large bag of the man’s organs from out of the bucket and placed it inside the vacant cadaver. A large container full of greyish dust and tiny rock particles were poured on the inside of his hollow body.

"What is that they are pouring in him?"

"It is the equivalent to kitty litter. It holds down the stench."

They then proceeded to pack the remaining empty space of his open body with newspaper. I was beyond disturbed. His body was sewn up with what resembled thick kite string. His mouth wired and glued shut as well as his eyelids.

By this time, I was surrounded by four autopsies being performed simultaneously. Mentally, I was not prepared to view the horrific accidents of all these victims. I watched examiners tear into Big Macs and fries in between autopsies. I witnessed the body of a man being stripped of his clothing and as his shoes were taken off, his feet were detached from his legs and still inside his shoes. Bone fragments and dirt crumbled to the floor. I examined an elderly man who died from a blow to the head by his own daughter. Greed and money brought him to his death.

I excused myself to the bathroom. I wanted to get away from the smell, wash my hands and breathe elsewhere. The hallway to the bathroom had a singed smell. A smell as if something had been burning. I glanced to my right and on the floor near the wall laid two objects fully wrapped in white cloth and heavy tape. I was almost afraid to ask. I ran to the bathroom, shut the door and locked it. The odour was captured in my nose and I covered my face with Kleenex, attempting to force the smell away.

"Dillon, what is in the hallway on the floor. It smells of burnt ashes."

"Those are two children under the ages of three. They were alone and in a fire early this morning in their home. We think their parents were away. We still have yet to find who the children belong to."

When I arrived home late that evening, I stripped down to nothing outside my apartment. There was no way I was bringing the clothes I wore to the morgue into my home. I showered for nearly an hour in hopes of washing away this experience that I felt would forever haunt me. Later, I cried myself sleep.

I consider myself quite lucky as far as experiences are concerned. Despite my youth, I have had the chance to experience several incredible career opportunities. By doing so, I learned an obscene amount about the corporate world, people in general and most importantly, it forced me to examine the life I lead. The life I once in fact followed instead of led. You see, I have only truly discovered my own being within the last couple of years. This experience in itself has given me endless opportunities. It has taken me nearly four years to find a place in the back of my mind to store my experience of facing death. But, I conquered it. Death no longer defeats my soul nor does it keep me from living life to the fullest.

Security is mostly a superstition.
It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men
as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright
exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.
-Helen Keller

Nipple Piggies & My Broken Heart

Yesterday evening, I sat alone in my usual oversized velour chair in the local coffee shop surrounded by unfamiliarity, yet the murmuring conversations of strangers made me feel included.

Directly to the left of me sat a tall, slender mother with a fur collared sweater and distinguished English accent. She downed a shot of espresso while listening to her daughter discuss life questions such as, "how many people survived the Tsunami disaster, Mum?" The child was barely eight from the looks of her and she possessed a face that was innocently fresh. Her hair was tied neatly in a pony tail with shimmering strands of golden brown cascading over her shoulders. Her black boots which were well worn and toe scuffed, hugged her tiny calves. She enjoyed a frothy latte topped with chocolate dust and retrieved a straw once she reached the bottom of her cup. Slurps echoed throughout the inviting cafe. Her mother glanced up momentarily then continued to scan the pile of papers lying beneath her, neatly stapled in the corners.

"I broke up with Louis today," the eight year old says with a sigh. Her mother is unresponsive. "Mummy, this is very important," she exclaimed as her face drops and she stares blankly at her half eaten double fudge brownie. Her eyes are then drawn to the crumbs on her St Andrews school uniform blouse. She brushes them off quickly and wipes the corners of her delicate mouth.

A Willie Nelson song kicks in drowning out any background noise I was once intriguingly hooked to. The murmurs become conversing lips of silenced sound. I despise Willie Nelson. My parents continuously played his cassette tapes on many fourteen hour family vacations via vehicle, thus causing me to never fully appreciate the talents of the bandana and braided hair wearing hippy turned folk singer.

That fallen expression of the broken hearted coffee shop child conversing relationships with her mother reminded me of my first heartache. While I realize it was a few feelings short of that endearing term of emotion called love, it still does not cancel out the compelling feeling of rejection. The numbness of heartache and what I thought was true.

I was a third grader desperately trying to fit in. I found myself consumed with reading Beverly Cleary books, merely because it was "the thing to do." I was the quiet girl that sat in the front of the class, partly because my teacher, Mrs. Suggs, was extremely nurturing and I enjoyed being close to her. And in part, because my mother probably requested I sat near the front so I would pay attention instead of sketching in the margins of my notebooks.

My boyfriend for most of the school year was a devout Boy Scout and star of the gold pee wee football team. Despite my clumsiness as a pee wee cheerleader, he still publicly held my hand after the games and flashed smiles from the sidelines. This was an everyday Friday afternoon reoccurrence, until…

Puberty began to settle in and the boys in my class traded in their favourite Saturday cartoons and Garbage Pail Kids trading cards to watch young breasts bounce during gym class. My friends were rapidly growing. I was a late bloomer. No, it was worse than that. For the next three years I was a no bloomer. My friends discussed bras, the use of tampons, giggled over a weekend game they played called, "spin the bottle" and wore Love's Baby Soft perfume.  It was all a bit much for me. I still secretly liked playing with my Barbie dolls.

"Kiss me Kate", her infamous "nipple piggies" and my boyscout boyfriend were spotted unsteadily standing in the middle of the local skating rink sucking face. He had never kissed me! I had not ever been kissed. That thought in it self was worse than actually being dumped. Everyone knew why he liked her. Let's just say her training bra was not overflowing with Kleenex and Debbie Gibson's "Only in My Dreams" didn't coincidently played over the skating rink speakers.

And while I still believe my first boyfriend is probably as clueless now and he was then, thinking (as my friend, Michael comically put it) "the G-spot is somewhere near the Crab Nebula." One thing was for certain. Looks mattered. And while I am fabulously blessed with more than enough to fill my bra these days (thanks mom), I cannot help to ponder on how the juvenile events in those times that seemed to be life ending actually make me laugh now.

In the end I came out on top. Richer in more ways than one. As for Miss Nipple Piggies? She dropped a few grand on implants. Cha-ching!

Stuff that in your bra, Miss Nipple Piggie.

Travel Overload

Ok, not complete travel overload but certainly no travelling for this gal until I catch up on my winks, have one heck 'ova pedicure and finish the huge pile of laundry handsome man o' mine and I have accumulated.

My parents made their way to the UK and the reunion was ever so sweet. And, it has been spectacular since that moment. Showing my parents my new life has been exciting. Even more so to see their faces light up when experiencing something new. My father has never been one to show excitement -- that is no longer the case. He took more photographs during his journey than I have during the entire time I have lived in England. On yesterday as our train left London in the distance, I glanced over to my father to see him waving goodbye to the city while smiling. It is my favorite memory of him thus far.

Paris. was. spectacular. No matter how many times I visit Paris, I fall in love with it all over again each time. And, to give my parents Paris was beautiful. Our rooms overlooking the Eiffel tower were picture perfect and breathtaking. I shall never forget checking on my parents as they settled into their boutique hotel room. "How is the view, Mom?" I asked as I opened the french windows wide. And there it stood --the Eiffel tower, standing tall as ever -- such a glorious sight that tears rolled down my mother's face. Finally, at the age of 50, she was given Paris.

I have stories to share and photographs to upload all in due course! After they leave early tomorrow morning all shall be revealed!

Turtles on a Fencepost

The summer months in Mississippi contained steamy thick air that nearly choked my starving inhales. Children played in the streets with barefeet and the backyards were full of laughing spirited children wading in warm waters. The smell of chlorine and fluorescent plastic floaties tickled my nose. Families grilled outside, played neighbourhood baseball and collected fireflies.

Oxford is the home of the Ole Miss Rebels and John Grisham, author and inspirer to many. It is also the town in which I spent many summers as a camp counsellor in my teenage years, hiking what seemed to be mountains and entertaining children through song at a place we called "Sound of Music Hill." The hills were alive at sunset as we gathered on blankets after the several mile climb to watch the sun set over the horizon. The sky's tint was a magnificent colourful collection of confectionery delightful enough to partake. I felt small on that hill. The universe engulfing my body, trees towering, winds whispering, clouds and sky protecting. Every experience atop that elevation was humbling. It was a reminder just how insignificant my problems were in the grand scheme of life. Those three months out of my year, my soul escaped my own body that once imprisoned my true passions. I allowed myself to become vulnerable and possess no apprehension of fear or rejection. I learned it was okay to shed tears when I hurt or loved.

Upon my first encounter with Caroline I sensed a special spirit about her. There I stood, shuffling my Doc Martin boots in the dirt, (as I did when I felt a bit out of place), flare jeans, white ribbed tanktop, baseball cap and strawberry flavoured chapstick in my pocket. It was my third summer as a counsellor and my attempts to find an actual summer job didn't quite turn out as planned. Caroline was dressed in a t-length Audrey Hepburn style dress, tiny pearl earrings and necklace to match. Her hair was tied back with a matching silk scarf. The only thing missing were black cat eye sunglasses and Rodeo Drive.

My immediate thought was, "Oh dear, she is one of those girls- A prissy, lipstick wearing counsellor," as my eyes rolled to the very back of my head. The last thing a female wants to do during the summer months in Mississippi is wear a full on face of makeup.

Even with our obvious outward differences, she greeted me with a pleasant smile and we were best friends from that point on. We shared a love for comfortable bedding, in which we brought our Tommy Hilfiger duvets and designer throw pillows for our bunk beds. It annoyed the senior counsellors and we loved it. We shared clothes, deodorant, secrets, and tears. Caroline was the type of person that would not only brake for turtles while driving, she would come to a complete stop, get out of her car and place the turtle on the opposite side of the road. Oftentimes, she would take the turtle back to camp and vibrantly paint Bible verses or lovely quotes on its shell and free it in the wilderness in hopes of inspiring someone else.

"People are like turtles on a fence post. We didn't get here by ourselves," she would say. In her eyes, making a difference in one person life, made living worth while.

Leaving camp that summer was difficult. Caroline and I were going our separate ways for she had a scholarship at DSU on the swim team. I had yet another year of junior college to survive. Plans to attend university together as well as share an apartment within the next year quickly diminished. My months beforehand were seemingly hectic. The red blinking light on my answering machine constantly reminded me of the saved messages of requests to "come see me this weekend." I never made the time. Now, I wish I had.

It was the weekend of the thirteenth of September, nineteen ninety-eight. The phone rang before I was greeted by the sun that morning and I was in a half state of consciousness. My body was still. My breathing stopped. I listened quietly. Something in me just knew the world wasn't quite right. I then heard my mother downstairs call for my father in the next room. Her voice was concerned, shrill and devastated. It was the same voice I heard as a child when my brother or I fell off of our bicycle and she screamed in horror, fearful of broken bones. I leaped out of bed, flung the door open and stumbled down the staircase to find my father holding my mother. Their embrace detached once I entered the room.

"Who was it Daddy?"

"Caroline. It's Caroline."

"Where is she?" My body shivered. My voice could barely escape my mouth.

"I'm so sorry baby girl. She is gone. She and her roommate were driving home from the MSU and Memphis football game. She fell asleep as she was driving."

My knees hit the floor. I wailed like a newborn entering the world. The weight of my sorrowful body could not even be picked up by my own father. His attempts to lift me were unbearable, until he finally joined me on the floor holding my quivering body.

The funeral is a vague memory. The only colour I remember that day were the roses on her casket. I bought a black dress. Never wore it again. And once I arrived at my college dormroom, I stood staring blankly at my blinking answering machine full of messages left by Caroline prior to her death, pleading for me to visit.

Now it is all gone, including her laugher, which I miss more than anything. Despite my city craving impulses to disappear from the southland, there are certain memories that I am forever thankful for attaining within my consciousness. Recollections of events that were so incredibly charming and currently vivid, a mere mention of these moments take me back, allowing me to experience every detail and sense it all over again. While this memory brings sadness, my life was impacted and for it I am a better person.

I've realised that because of people like Caroline Elise, my life sits on a fencepost, allowing my spirit to soar a bit higher. I certainly didn't get here all by myself. Here is to hoping Caroline's turtles will brave the Atlantic Ocean and find me someday.

A very rich life

This past weekend, handsome man of mine and I helped my mother in-law clear out her mother's three bedroom home. Several months ago, Nan had several strokes and was placed into care and has not been able to return to her home since. We all knew this huge task would need to be done sooner or later and eventually a date to hand over the keys to Nan's home was set. For tomorrow. Naturally, procrastination got the better of us all and we did not tackle the task until the weekend before. Probably not the best of ideas, if I do say so myself.

I am a "get in there and get it done" type of person. I pack, move and set up a home as if I have lived there for several years and it only takes me a day to accomplish this. No tea breaks, no chat, no excuses. Such a task is over-organised and finished with time to spare. It's how I work. It drives most insane, but it is what I do. It must be done this way, or I would be a mess otherwise. To me organisation and time management means less stress and a smooth transition. Unfortunately for me, not all see it this way.

Stepping in her home is like stepping back in time. Nothing has changed since she moved in over fifty years ago. The wallpaper, retro and peeling. No shiny counter-tops and stainless steel appliances. Yet, it was full of character, full of life, despite the stillness. And while I was anxious to get  the "job" done, I realised something.

This was not my grandmother's home.

I would not be able to bring myself to throw out my family's belongings. I would not be able to do it. I know this truth. I had to sympathise with what handsome man of mine was going through. I sat back while he and his mother read through old letters written to his grandmother by his grandfather while he was away at war. I listened while they laughed at family photos, tried to figure out why there were so many keys lying around the house, read diary entries of how my husband's grandfather went shooting with Princess Anne and reminisced about presents given long ago that still exist on untouched bookshelves. It was a grieving process for them. The memory of a home that my mother in-law grew up in, my husband lived in the first year of his life, and a home they continued to build memories in for years to come. I had to respect that and therefore set my lack of control and organsation tactics aside and never once thought about how long it may take to finish this task.

Throwing out someone else's belongings is a difficult task. Rummaging through bird watching books, 1935 Singer Sewing Machines, bundles of yarn and knitting needles, bulky mixing bowls, dusty boxes of puzzles and war paraphernalia. I moved them carefully, asking family members, "keep or throw?" and sadly most things were thrown away. The thought of my belongings, everything that represented me, being tossed into a rain filled skip pulled on my heart strings. Halfway through the process my mother in-law and I stood in the front porch staring at the large skip filled to the brim with Nan's "things." Our eyes glazed over, rain pouring, my mother in-law says, "Over 50 years of life in this home and absolutely nothing to show for it....."  It was such a sad statement to hear, but was it accurate?

I couldn't help but reflect on how material items do not represent people. Or at least they shouldn't. Handsome man of mine's grandmother is a kind woman. She has a sense of humor. Judging by the amount of trophies we threw out, she was a fantastic dancer. She knitted; not scarves with missed stitches, but beautiful jumpers (Brit speak for sweaters) and dresses with tiny patterns. She made clothes for handsome man of mine's action men figures. Half finished ones were found and they reeked with love, effort and time. She loved her family and while she did not own nice things, she was content with her life and what she had. I adore that quality. And with those little discoveries, richness was revealed in big ways. She did in fact live a very rich life.

Sleigh bells ring

When it comes to Christmas, I'm still just a child at heart. Tinsel, coloured tree lights, Frosty the Snowman and the smell of Christmas cookies baking in the oven immediately transport me back to Christmas circa 1985. Ours was typical of most families; on Christmas Eve we would all hop in to mom's Volvo and drive around the local community and gaze at houses lit with Christmas lights. Comments made by my interior designer mother of "ooh, our house decorations are much nicer" would be heard throughout the evening. She always made our home perfect for the holidays. I would be the only girl from school with department store-like trees in my home, thanks to my mother and her her impecable taste. Once we arrived home my brother and I would beg mom and dad to allow us to open one present under the tree. My husband is gradually warming to this ritual. The big day meant an early rise for opening presents, posing for candids, games of Yatzee, pouty lips because Santa forgot the batteries for our gadgets and a post-lunch with my father asleep in front of the TV watching SEC football, still clutching a Christmas cookie. Later that evening, we gathered at the local church to take part in the Christmas play which we practiced for months in advance.

As I am older and live over 3,000+ miles away from these magical experiences I am able to look back and appreciate the organisation and hard work that went into it. And while I know of the long lines my mother stood in so that I could have the newest Cabbage Patch Kid doll, I look forward to experiencing that magic all over again once we have a child of our own. We all moan that we'll never get everything done - presents to buy, wrap & send; food to prepare; parties to go to (dresses to attempt to squeeze into), but we know it's all worth it.

27 days until Christmas. Happy Shopping! Happy Families!Happy Celebrations!