One Year in Eufaula

It's been a little over a year now since our family pulled up stakes in California and headed for the cotton fields of lower Alabama. We've survived tornado season and one of the hottest summers on record, even by Southern standards. We are used to the smell of the paper mill that blows into town from time to time; an aroma akin to a stale dirty diaper, and we are used to the pervasive lack of urgency that I suspect is not only a facet of life in the South, but of life in any small town.

Amelia is assimilating well to our new reality. She wears big bows in her ponytails and says things like, "Mommy, I have to tee-tee," and "Let's go over thay-er," or "Can I play with your hay-er?"She has friends with names like Sarah Elizabeth and Mary Helen and Colby Mac (double names are as popular as seersucker in the South- off the top of my head I can think of at least 3 people I know named Mary Frances). She's used to a simpler life now- one without freeways or department stores or amusement parks. Saturday afternoons mean swinging in the backyard or going over to the neighbor's house to say hello. This is the life that we wanted for her, and for ourselves.

Dave and I are adapting, but not necessarily assimilating. Beyond the big bows, seersucker suits and Sunday afternoon fried chicken buffets, there is another reality to life in the gentile south. It is the reality that stereotypes are made of. To some degree, any stereotype has a basis of truth, and this is what I have found here. For now, I'll just leave my commentary at that; I haven't lived in the South long enough to be an authority or to understand its rich history and complexity. We will never be true Southerners, but we are soaking in the life that our time here offers us. We have met people that we love and who love us and the slower pace affords us time to enjoy our children. This is all we need.

Naughty By Nature

One day last week, Dave and I officially earned our parenthood stripes. Amelia was up three times in the night (and up for good by 5:45am), kicked and screamed through her diaper change (NOT good for anyone involved), writhed and wailed while being dressed, asked for frosted mini wheats only to reject them minutes later in favor of mommy and daddy's granola. More screaming. All of this before 8am. Throughout the rest of the morning, she followed me from room to room, whining, "play in my playroom, mommy," and effectively eliminated any of my remaining personal space by lodging herself in between me and the changing table/kitchen counter/bathroom sink. When I settled in on the couch to feed Sadie, she tried to remove her from my lap, crying, "put Sadie down, pick Mia up!" Even my final reserve, Playdough, which I save for very special occasions, was a total bust. She mixed all the colors together and finally decided to eat it- not because it looked good, but because, of course, I had told her not to.

Though this was not a typical day for Amelia, it was not all together untypical, either. Especially lately. I don't talk to many people about my difficulties, but those who I have spoken to assure me that all of these things are a product of the terrible two's, that this is a stage every child goes through and that I shouldn't worry so much about her. But I worry. I worry that she will become the bratty pastor's kid that everyone whispers about. I worry that I'm not providing enough structure or discipline. I worry that I'm providing too much structure or discipline. I worry that our move across country has made her insecure and created her various misbehaviors. This stuff keeps me up at night.

This is our first performance as parents, and unfortunately we didn't get a dress rehearsal. And though Dave and I are doing the best we can, we are undoubtedly screwing up at least a few things as we try to raise her. My mother, who is very often my sounding board and my voice of reason, encouraged me on that difficult day to concentrate on all the things that we're doing right with Amelia. That helped because she really is a great little kid. She says please and thank-you (most of the time). She loves her baby sister and squeals with delight when she sees her. Every night she gets on her knees beside her bed and prays for her friends ("thank-you for Addison and help Michael to feel better..."). She loves to help out and is crazy about our special "mommy and Mia" trips to the Piggly Wiggly or Walmart. And last week when Dave took her to the park, while he was pushing her on the swing she exclaimed, completely unsolicited, "Daddy, you rock my socks." There's nothing better than that.

And so we push on. We endure her tantrums and savor her sweetness, knowing that every stage along the way will most likely have this duality. Something I tell friends who have had new babies is that there is no perfect stage. There are great things and difficult things about every stage, and it is important to appreciate it all because before you know it, they're not babies anymore. Even though there are days like last week and her 3rd birthday seems a million miles away, I am more in love with her now than ever.

Glory Days

After three months of sleep deprivation, countless hour long drives to the pediatrician's office and a tantrum prone two year old who was sure she was being replaced, our life as a family of four has finally settled into a manageable and wonderful routine of joyful chaos. We've cleared up Sadie's eczema, fattened her up so she can sleep through the night, and taken Amelia on lots of special trips to the library and swimming pool (sans Sadie, of course) to reassure her that she still has an important place in our family.

Though not tantrum-free, Amelia is much more secure in her role as an older sister. She now greets the baby each morning with the exclamation, "Ooooooh, Saaaaaadie (insert burgeoning southern accent here)" and a big, and increasingly gentle, kiss on the forehead. Sadie is now entering what Dave calls "The Golden Age of Baby." Our efforts at keeping her fed and diapered all these months have finally been rewarded with enormous, full body smiles; she's all dimples and gums and eyes. Her daddy and I are suckers for it.

Motherhood, as a vocation, is a whole lot harder than I ever thought it would be. It takes all of my heart and most of my energy. Probably the most challenging part of the whole deal is the lack of time that I have for myself. Sometimes, I just want to read a book without falling asleep before I get through the first page. Or watch "Ellen" uninterrupted. Or eat a dish of ice cream without having to share. And someday, I will again. But for now, I try to savor it because this life we are living is the life I always dreamed about. It's full, but it is fulfilling. These are our glory days.

The Real Slim Sadie

Welcome to our family, Sadie!

Actually, at 9lbs and 7 ounces, not so slim. Sarah Vassar Burgess arrived a little earlier than we expected on March 14, 2007. She is beautiful. To us, she looks like Amelia with dark hair, though we're not completely sure yet where that characteristic came from. We are overjoyed to finally have a new baby to fill up the crib and keep us awake at night again (it's not so bad).

One of the most precious moments of my life was the first time I saw Amelia after Sadie was born. We live an hour away from the hospital, so I hadn't seen her in two days and missed her terribly. Daddy sent her into the hospital room by herself while he stood outside the door. In her arms was a bouquet of flowers. Her little face lit up when she saw me and of course, I was in tears. From the door, I heard daddy say, "Give mommy the flowers..." At that, Amelia grabbed an enormous handful of petals from the bouquet and placed them in my hand. And her first thoughts on her new little sister: "I like Sadie. I want to hold Sadie." We are blessed.

Big Girl Bed

As Dave and I prepare to welcome a new baby into our family, our first baby, Amelia, has taken the first step away from her babyhood and into (gasp) what we call the "big girl bed." One "oh-my-gosh-what's-this-parenting-thing-really-all-about" moment that remains crystal clear in my memory took place at Amelia's two month old appointment at the pediatrician's office. A little girl, about two and a half, was sitting with her mother across the aisle from us in the lobby. As I listened to the mother lamenting on her cell phone, I gathered that the little girl was in the office because she had thrown herself out of her crib and on to the hard wood floor of her bedroom and had been acting pained and drowsy ever since. I remember looking at my serene little infant in her carrier on the floor beside me and wondering if we would ever get to that stage. Maybe my child will skip that stage, I thought to myself. Wouldn't that be nice.

Amelia's timing is impeccable, really. Three weeks before her world is about to get rocked to its foundation, our mischievous little girl decided that this would be a really good week to start throwing herself out of her crib. And when I say "throw," it's not a hyperbole in any way. Dave watched her on Monday as she lifted one leg over and then flung herself with all of her might out of her little prison. That was enough for us. Within hours, we had disassembled her crib, brought out her new bedding (I was prepared, knowing this moment was at hand) and had a heart to heart with our two year old about the benefits of a sleeping THROUGH THE NIGHT in a real bona fide bed. We read her a story, sang her a song and then said good night. Forty-five minutes of screaming and a little bribery later, she finally curled up with her stuffed Elmo and doggy and fell asleep. As parents, Dave and I have not had a prouder moment.

Sweet victory!

Whistling Dixie

January and February were the most homesick months that I've had here in Alabama. And I've struggled to put my finger on exactly why that is. The cockroaches are a fading memory. We have a beautiful new home. I've even met a few people I would consider friends. Yet, I've spent the past two months racking up phone bills and feeling like a little piece of my heart was missing.

It could've been the weather. Or maybe it's because my mom was here in December. But most likely, it's because the euphoria of living in Eufaula has been replaced by the reality of living here. And the realization that we're not going home again. We're not just passing through; we live here. We have Alabama driver's licenses and Alabama tags on our cars. When we return to California for a visit, we will inevitably be introduced as "friends from Alabama," a label I'm not yet fully comfortable with.

Tornadoes and NASCAR obsession aside, Alabama is not altogether a bad place to live. People welcome you into their community and treat you like family. We've received more covered dishes and baby gifts than we know what to do with. Plus, there is a lack of pretense with most people that I find refreshing; people generally say what they mean and mean what they say. There's a lot to appreciate about this place and I'm really trying to open my heart and mind to the potential of being here a while. But I have to let go of a few things first.

I never ever considered my life in California to be glamorous in the least, but as I pull my car into the parking lot of Young's Bait and Tackle for my drink every morning on the way to school, I realize that it was a pretty cushy existence. What it really comes down to for me is learning to appreciate wherever I am, because it's likely I'll miss it when I'm no longer there. Someday, in the distant future, when I'm once again living in the big city, I'm sure I'll mourn the Bait and Tackle shop on Lakeside Drive that would order cases of Power Bars just for me; I'll shed a few tears over Howell's Paint Store that would meet me outside at my car with my order and still operates on a customer tab. And undoubtedly, the piece of my heart that is missing right now will be filled in with lots of new friends- new people to love. Maybe Alabama isn't so bad after all.

Thankful

Our first Thanksgiving in Eufaula was a wonderful day. We invited a few people over who were in similar situation to us and ate ourselves silly. I must admit, however, that I didn't cook. The oven in our rental home is broken; it takes almost an hour to cook a frozen pizza. Thus, we ordered a 12 pound turkey and all the fixings from one of our local grocery stores, the Winn Dixie.

Later in the evening, after our company had left, we walked down to a new friend's home to share in their annual Thanksgiving tradition: a low country boil. Basically, a low country boil consists of sausage, potatoes, shrimp, and ears of corn all boiled together in an enormous pot in the backyard. We talked, sat by the bonfire and made new friends.

Here are a few photos from the day.

I had fun setting the table!Our guests: Robert and Lynn Murphy; Van Smith

Amelia enjoying the turkey

We told her to smile and this is what we got...:)Happy girl!

First Sunday in Eufaula

A man from our new church took these photos of Dave's first Sunday at First Presbyterian Church of Eufaula

The Processional (people don't like to sit in the first five rows)

Dave speaks passionately about the Reformation

A full church!

A bagpipe concert in the garden after church

Amelia playing in the garden

Half Full or Half Empty?

Five Things I Love About Eufaula So Far:
1. Sweater weather
2. Chocolate covered pecans (delivered by the pound)
3. The choir director and his wife who washed our windows in the dark before we arrived.
4. The "Playground of Dreams"
5. Sonic drive-through


Five Things I Hate About Eufaula So Far:
1. Roaches the size of my big toe
2. Men who sit shirtless on their front porch in 50 degree weather
3. No pumpkin patches
4. Cars with special "camoflauge" paint jobs (we've seen several)
5. Corporal punishment is alive and well in Eufaula City Schools

Sweet Home Alabama

The many months of our discernment process has finally birthed a decision: the Burgess family is heading to Eufaula, Alabama. Eufaula is a town of about 14,000 people and is located directly across the Chatahoochee River from Georgia. The nearest bookstore is 50 miles away, as is the nearest movie theater, obstetrician or shopping mall. Having lived the majority of my life in the urban paradise that is Southern California, I have been questioned as to whether this move to small town America is something I'm really ready for. I guess ignorance is bliss at this point. But I think I am ready for it. I'm ready for a little bit of quiet; for a place where stores close at noon on Saturday and don't open again until Monday; for a place where the hardware store still operates on a customer tab. For where I am in my life, this slower pace appeals to me.

Roots

About a month ago, as we were preparing to place our home on the market, Dave and I spent an afternoon re-landscaping the planter of our backyard patio. During the busy year, we had sort of let it overgrow in some areas and wither in others. It was a ratty mess of dying Queen Anne's Lace and leafless fruit trees. It was so bad, we decided to rip it all out and start over. So, we went to Lowe's and bought some hearty flowers that would thrive in the Saharan-like composition of our soil and in the unrelenting sunlight that the placement of our patio affords. It's a tough life for plants back there.

As we got down to the business of tearing out the mostly dehydrated plants, we hit a bit of a snag with the fruit trees. While most of the other plants came easily out of the dry soil, the fruit trees, our near death, stick-figure fruit trees, refused to be uprooted. We pulled, we cajoled, we took a spade and dug at their bases, only to find that while they looked as if their numbers were up, their roots had taken hold deep in the soil base. They had almost literally become a part of the property. So, we left them. And watered like crazy. A month later, our nearly departed fruit trees are experiencing a renaissance. They have leaves and lemon buds and are growing like hungry infants. We are so glad that their roots defied our expectations.

The imminence of our move across country has led, subconsciously or not, to another kind of pulling up of roots. In the past month, especially, I am aware that I have begun the process of mentally tugging a bit at the different friendships and other relationships in my life as I prepare to leave. Inevitably, some are going to wither and fade away, while others have unexpectedly developed roots so deep that they have become a part our family for a lifetime.

Moving is always traumatic and I know that the coming months will hold many tears and even more uncertainty. Though, I must admit, in many ways I am kind of looking forward to starting fresh and replanting. Whether it be in the rich red earth of Alabama or in the sandy soil of St. Louis, the landscape of our new garden will undoubtedly be different than the one we have here. But we know our "fruit trees" will always be where we left them and hopefully, those roots will only continue to deepen.

The Edge of Reason

Dave and I made a decision tonight about our already sizzling social life: we either have people over to our house or we hire a babysitter when we go out. At eighteen months, the toddler stage has done us in; we're finished with social outings where we linger over cocktails, appetizers and conversation with adults. For a while, at least.

This decision comes on the heels of several attempts at having dinner at the homes of friends who are almost, but not quite yet parents themselves. The latest attempt left me covered in vomit (twice) and feeling like an annoying friend, a bad mom and a terrible conversationalist. Upon our hasty departure just after the vomit and right before dinner was about to be served, I said to our host, "Thanks for everything and I hope that we didn't scare you!"

To which she replied, "Too late."

Subconciously, I was hoping that she would say it was alright; that the chaos we had brought to her house that evening was endearing, not annoying; that we were still fun to be around. The reality is that if one is not a parent yet, the energy and curiousity of someone else's eighteen month old is cute...for about an hour.

In Amelia's toddlerhood, Dave and I are getting jumped in to the business of being parents. We are learning more and more about the epic struggle between what we want and we need versus what she wants and she needs. The two are opposing forces looking for compromise: to work or not to work, to go out or to stay at home, to keep your sanity or watch an episode of Barney. What I'm finding is that more often it is not a compromise at all, but a choice. And she wins everytime. It doesn't feel like sacrifice, though, and that's because she's not someone else's eighteen month old. She's mine and this is her time.

Dance and the World Will Dance With You!

...Or maybe you'll just be that weirdo that everybody else watches. I love it! This is a pure and unadulterated good time. Sometimes I wish I was this guy. I stole this from my friend Melodie. Enjoy!

"Mr. Orange"

I don't know why it didn't occur to me to post this before. A wonderful old friend was killed in a head-on collision almost one month ago. This horrible accident has given me pause for several reasons, one of which I wrote about a few posts back. Another is that he leaves behind a wife, Bridget and a 3-year-old daughter, Kaitlyn. Those of us who are married and those of us who have children can especially empathize with the overwhelming emotional and financial responsibility of having to continue on without their spouse. For that reason, a fund has been set up in his daughter's name. Steve Ambriz gave an incredible amount to a community that he loved, and now the community has the opportunity to give back to his family. You may or may not have known Steve, but if you are able and feel inclined, donations can be made at the following website:

www.kaitlynfund.org

Or can be sent directly to:
Kaitlyn Ambriz Scholarship Fund
1940 N. Tustin Avenue
Suite #103
Orange, CA 92865


Please say a prayer for Steve's family...

Nine to Five: The Reality

As I said before, reality has set in. In a big way. While my nature tempts me to base my assessment of stay-at-home motherhood on this week alone, I am aware that this, like anything new, will take time and patience and a few prayers. That having been said, here is a typical day-in-the-life thus far:

8:15- Dave leaves for work; I panic as I consider the eight or so hours that stretch infinitely before me until he comes home again.
8:30- Amelia and I go to aerobics; the instructor sings along to pretty much every song. As if getting my desperately out- of- shape booty kicked all over the San Marcos Community Center wasn't bad enough.
10:30- Call Dave to ask if he knows where the pool key went; engage in witty banter with his secretary.
11:00-Water the plants in the backyard and spray Amelia with the hose (she loves it).
11:15- Make up another excuse to call Dave (i.e.- What time is the graduation party on Saturday?); apologize to his secretary for calling again; engage in more witty banter.
12:00- Make Amelia Macaroni N'Cheese for lunch. And peaches, from a can.
12:30- Put Amelia down for a nap. Pick up the living room. Do the dishes. Start the laundry; get sidetracked by The Jonbenet Ramsey E! True Hollywood Story. Correction: not just sidetracked, engrossed...
1:30- Dave calls; asks what I'm doing. I confess.
2:30- Amelia wakes up. We go to Sam's Club to pick up pictures; I buy a diet coke; peruse the aisles for things I don't need.
3:30- Call Dave again (his secretary leaves at 3) and ask him what time he is going to be home so I can plan dinner.
4:00- I make dinner; Amelia trashes the living room.
4:30- Take a "walk" around the block; I walk, Amelia runs. We visit the tot lot. She sees a dog, chases it, yelling, "woof" "woof!"
4:45- Pick up the living room.
5:00- Dave FINALLY arrives home. We eat dinner; Amelia throws half of her food on to the floor.
6:00- I pick up the living room; Amelia trashes it; I pick up the living room; Amelia trashes it; I give up.
6:30- Give Amelia a bath; put her in her pajamas; brush her teeth; read her "Guess How Much I Love You" and tear up at the sweet ending.
7:00- Put Amelia to bed.
7:10- Pick up the living room. Victory!
10:00- Fall asleep watching a re-run of The Daily Show.

It's not glamorous and I didn't expect that it would be, but it's FAR from the fanatasy I had envisioned. The first week wasn't, anyway. When all is said and done; when Amelia is fast asleep in her crib and the living room is finally picked up for the night, I know that staying home is the best decision that we could make for our family. I'll grow into it. And lest I become an irritation to my husband and a thorn in the side of his secretary, I'll learn how to not only be at home with Amelia, but how to be at peace at just being with Amelia. That's where the fantasy began in the first place.

Nine to Five: The Fantasy

I am in the midst of a career change. Last Wednesday, I packed up the rest of my files, said good-bye to my colleagues and moved all my "teacher stuff" into storage. Indefinitely. Usually, the end of a school year is liberating; this year it has been frightening. Now an entire week into it, I have experienced the full spectrum of emotions and in this short time developed a more complete respect for the vocation of a stay-at-home mom.

This was a particularly difficult year for me professionally and I spent a good deal of it romanticizing the idea of staying home. In my mind I weighed the options: being with my sweet little girl or combatting hormonal defiance. The choice seemed easy. I would learn to cook gourmet delicacies, have dinner ready at six every evening, and keep the house spotless. I would have time to read all the books I've ever wanted to read and I would also take up a new hobby like quilting or gardening. I would never again serve Amelia Spaghetti-O' s or frozen fishsticks or canned apricots; instead I would prepare everything from scratch. We would go to the park everyday and do lots of fun crafts like fingerpainting and hand turkeys. In the evening, I would take care of a little light ironing and still have the time and energy for a glass of wine and a game of Backgammon or Scrabble with my husband. It would be a domestic utopia.

And then reality set in...

My Cup Runneth Over...

Because of the recent untimely death of an old friend, many of my thoughts have centered upon what it means to live life and to live it abundantly. I've spent the the past few days pouring over newspaper articles and blogs, reading tributes to his service in the community and anecdotes about his passion for family and friends. At his funeral on Wednesday, I was moved beyond words to see the number of lives that he touched and am honored to be one of them. When tragedies such as this occur in our midst, life assumes a certain poignancy, a richness, that reminds me to more fully live in the here and now; to not let a single moment escape.

A minute ago, Dave swung open the bedroom door and chuckling to himself, repeated in great length a joke he had just heard. Momentarily annoyed by the disruption, I remembered what I was writing about and tried to put myself fully in that moment, not because the joke was particularly funny (it was an "I guess you had to be there" kind of joke), but because I love that my husband wants to share the silly (and sometimes lame) things of life with me.

Ultimately, I realize that life is made up of a million little moments of which I have just experienced. I'm an expert in how to live fully in the profound moments of my life; I know what's expected of me in that regard. It's the small things; the little moments that I tend to brush aside and minimalize. Those are the moments that I need to cherish the most.

So Big!

Yesterday as Amelia was running from one end of the living room to the other in hasty pursuit of her stuffed dog, I saw something new in her; something I hadn't allowed myself to see before. My "baby" was no longer a baby at all, but a full-fledged, bona fide little girl.

When I think back to this time a year ago, I remember a quiet infant who couldn't sit up or feed herself. I remember my tidy house and 2 naps a day worth of free time. Now, at 16 months, she is independent and alive; she's found her voice and she knows how to use it. One of Amelia's new found joys is to remove all the pots and pans from the cupboard and bang on them with a wooden spoon. She loves to dance- with or without music, and when I say to her, "Do you want Mommy to read you a story?," she brings me Little Quack or The Touch Me Book and plops herself down on my lap. She also does a stunning rendition of "Head-Shoulder-Knees and Toes," though she generally leaves out the shoulders and knees part. My household is a noisy, toy-strewn, joyous mess. At least until 7pm when she goes to bed.

The baby days are a fading memory. While I miss certain things of her infancy, Amelia-the-toddler is pretty much the best thing since diet coke in a Styrofoam cup. She is a bright and innocent life and through her, I get to see the world as new all over again.

Planting Season

I have a hard time keeping exciting news to myself. Dave knows this about me and thus, when we decided to "wait" for a while to tell everyone we were pregnant with our second child, he knew it wouldn't take long for me to spill the beans. Subconciously, I thought Dave was out to ruin my fun; I wanted to shout it from the rooftops immediately. Miscarriage was something that happened to other people, not to me. I was a victim of my own reproductive arrogance.

Later that night, a friend who just happened to also be pregnant, just happened to call and I can't remember how we got on the topic, but of course it came up somehow and naturally I had to tell her. By the time I reached my seventh week, I had told a handful of friends (only the ones that asked, of course), a lady at Amelia's gym, the principal of my school, my sister, my mom, my brother and someone in the checkout line of the grocery store. And then I started bleeding.

To make a short story even shorter, I am no longer pregnant. It's funny; I haven't had any trouble keeping this to myself. I haven't been able to bring myself to call even the friends with whom I had originally shared I was pregnant. Though, I did see the lady at Amelia's gym on Saturday and when she asked me how I was feeling, I had to fess up. I think I have begun to develop some perspective on the situation, and with that perspective, a bit of a paradigm shift.

I think this whole thing has made me realize that I have an unhealthy confidence in my own ability to control any situation in my life. If I want a new shirt for work, I go to Old Navy and buy one. If I want another child, well, then by golly, of course I'm going to get what I want. While this is obviously a false analogy, in the past few days I have begun to see that I have a sense of entitlement that I'm not wholly comfortable with. The relative comfort I have enjoyed for the past few years has caused me to forget that this world we live in can be a brutal, unjust place. And this rediscovered epiphany reminded me of something else I had forgotten: grace. All the beauty of my life, every joy, each moment of happiness is a product of grace. Nothing is a promise or a guarantee. Therefore every blessing is just that, a blessing; a gift- not something I deserve.

Amelia, my very independant 15 month old, in a rare moment of submission, let me sing her to sleep last night as she nuzzled on my chest. That's my grace. That's the most tangible way I can think to describe it. I have always worried a lot about losing what I have; about my plans not going the way that I want them to; about letting an unforeseen tragedy destroy my faith. But, strangely, because of this hole in my heart, I have found some new hope in this not-at-all-new-philosophy. May it take root and grow.

The Fragrance of Suburbia

It was a glorious day. Saturday afternoon. No school for a week. On a walk with my daughter. The birds were chirping, the sun was shining and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The air still maintained a mid-February chill, but it was tinged with a promise of warmer weather. You could smell it. Almost taste it. The aroma was pervasive throughout my short walk around our condominium complex. I liked it; it was clean and fresh, almost like perfume. It reminded me of the overwhelming fragrance of jasmine that accompanied springtime in my old neighborhood. But this definitely wasn't jasmine. Nor any other flower I had ever experienced. I chalked it up to some kind of scrub brush or lavender or other foreign plant indigenous to the hills surrounding our house.

On the walk back towards home, it dawned on me. It was Saturday in the suburbs: laundry day. What I smelled in the air that was not an exotic plant or the promise of spring. It was the aroma of laundry detergent, expelled from two hundred vents in two hundred garages, that saturated the neighborhood.

When Dave and I tell some of the older members of our congregation where we live, we often hear, "I used to hunt bobcats up in those hills" or "That whole area was all chicken farms in my day." I used to vehemently begrudge new developments and cookie-cutter houses and gated communities... until we moved here. Now, I am so thankful for our little postage stamp of property. However, I can't help but wonder what a Saturday afternoon walk in mid-February would have smelled like back then.