Fifteen years ago today was one of the happiest days of my life. I married Dwayne Henderson.
In February 1994, on the way back from a visit to my parents in Owasso, Dwayne stopped the car near a cove on Lake Eufaula. We sat and looked at the stars for a long time and then, Dwayne got down on one knee and proposed to me. After four years of dating, most of it long-distance, the time had come to move forward with our lives whether together or apart.
I chose together. I said "yes," a decision I have neither regretted nor questioned as the years have passed. As I look back on it now, I realize that God's fingerprints were all over it - from the mailbox key that didn't work, to the chance meeting at a desk, to the friendship that blossomed and grew, to the simple, effortless way we fell in love and stayed there.
On November 5, 1994, I walked down the aisle of East Cross United Methodist Church, the same aisle my mother walked down to meet my father 27 years earlier. I was nervous and scared, because the magnitude of the moment seized my heart and I realized that things would never be the same. Plus, I had stage fright, big time! When you dress all in white silk, chiffon, and pearls, everyone's going to turn and look at you and it can be overwhelming. But once I was at the end of the aisle with my man, the world and my cares melted away.
The rest of the story is simple. We settled into everyday life. We loved each other. We fought with each other. We made up. We moved. We bought our first house. We had a baby. Then another baby. We been poor, we've been comfortable. We've changed jobs and we've owned our own business. We made money, lost money, bought cars, sold cars. We moved again, this time to the house of our dreams. We made friends. We've lost some along the way. Loved ones died and we were sad. We've been angry, unreasonable, and out-of-sorts. Our children continue to grow and bring us great joy. We've been compassionate, generous, and kind. We've laughed until tears came out of our eyes. In short, life has happened, all around us.
But the one constant, the one thing I can count on, is that when I go to sleep at night, the person I love most in this world is right there beside me. Sometimes, our hands touch in the middle of the night and my heart says a simple prayer of thanks to God for the tremendous blessing of being able to love someone and knowing that person loves me in return. There is peace, comfort, and safety there - a notion that all is right in this world.
Dwayne, thank you for choosing me. Thank you for loving me. If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing.
God bless that key that wouldn't work - wherever it is!
What I love most about my husband is his kind heart, followed closely behind by his tremendous sense of humor.
My first exposure to Dwayne's sense of humor was Halloween 1989. He had dressed up as Leatherface of Texas Chainsaw Massacre fame (complete with chainsaw) for our dormitory's annual Halloween dance. I was supposed to be a pink bunny rabbit, but was battling a chronic sinus infection and decided to stay in. Dwayne noticed that several friends were missing, myself included, and decided to bring the "party" to us. He enlisted the help of our friends Steve and Holly (for camera work), knocked on the door and when the unsuspecting victim opened up, he kick-started the chainsaw. Steve snapped photos of the shocked and horrified residents for posterity's sake. We now have an album full of these photographs - human faces contorted in terror - which Dwayne thoroughly enjoys looking back through from time to time. I had heard him revving up the chainsaw down the hallway and knew better than to open up, therefore my shocked face is absent from the collection.
Dwayne's offbeat humor has gotten us through some pretty tight spots over the years. In 1999, I gave birth to our son, Jared. I was in full-blown labor when we got to the hospital because Dwayne did not believe my water had broken back at the house. It didn't "gush," as he put it. After pointing out to him that I had been through five pairs of underwear and a whole stack of washrags, he finally conceded that perhaps my water had, indeed, broken. While I was being admitted, the nurse who was starting my IV was not impressed by Dwayne's running jokes. After she left, I begged him to get rid of her because I knew he wasn't going to stop joking and I knew I wouldn't be able to watch Ms. Sourpuss roll her eyes all evening. He left the room to take care of the problem, and I never saw her again, thankfully.
After giving birth, I had fourth-degree tears and had to be stitched up. Unfortunately, someone on the medical team didn't count the sponges and one got sewn up inside. On the third day I was home from the hospital, I developed a smell that can best be described as fishy. I started taking five baths a day, trying to rid myself of the stench, to no avail. Jared was still in the neonatal intensive care unit, so we were driving back and forth to Tulsa every day twice a day. The smell was overwhelming - for me and for Dwayne - and particularly in an enclosed vehicle. One night, Mom and Dad came with us to the hospital, and the smell, if it was possible, was worse than it had ever been. I was beyond embarrassed. My Dad, proud of his grandson, was talking about how cute Jared was. He asked Dwayne when we were planning to have another baby. Without missing a beat, Dwayne said, "Whenever Ang stops stinking like a tuna fish factory." I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Dwayne's current favorite way to make me laugh is finding creative ways to write "toilet paper" on my running shopping list. He keeps hoping that I will see it in the middle of the grocery store and crack up laughing, but I'm far too quick for that. Some of my favorites from his TP substitute collection include: "bunghole papyrus," "asswipe," and "cornhole rollies."
When he isn't trying to be funny, Dwayne cracks me up anyway with some of his silly antics. A few years ago, Dwayne's riding lawn mower crapped out. He needed to get the yard mowed, because the grass was getting pretty tall, but it's too big to be push-mowed. He got out his push lawn mower, cranked it up, tethered it to his four-wheeler and pulled it around the yard. I came outside to put something in the trash can and nearly wet my pants laughing at him.
The best part of living with Dwayne is watching him with his kids. He has so much fun with them and they think of him as a walking, breathing jungle gym. Jared loves to wrestle with Daddy and Jade is Dwayne's shadow. Dwayne even taught her how to water trees this summer. He is indoctrinating both of our children to be good OSU Cowboys and has introduced them both to the finer points of Led Zepplin, Judas Priest, Ozzy Osbourne, and Deep Purple.
Tune in tomorrow for the final installment...
Twenty years ago, two weeks into the fall semester of 1989 at Oklahoma State University, I met the man who would become my husband. He was working as a desk clerk in the front lobby of our co-ed dormitory. He had auburn hair and was studying something that looked faintly like trigonometry. Not that I would know anything about trigonometry. I was lucky to make it through College Algebra and obviously did not seek further education on the subject, as I can barely balance my checkbook to this day.
I had made my way to the mailboxes seeking a tuition check my father had sent. I put my key into the lock several times, but each time I tried to turn it, the box would not open. Frustration setting in, I made my way to the front desk. There he sat. Love the hair color, I thought. Nice smile, I thought. Wow! He's a math genius, I thought.
I smiled back and asked if he could help me with my mail situation, as I could see the mailboxes were accessible just around a partition beside the desk. He said, "You know, taking someone's mail out the back side of the box is a federal offense." As my face fell, he asked me what room. "305," I replied. He went around the partition, took the mail out of the box, and handed it to me. I decided right then never to prosecute.
I learned much later that I had made an impression as well. He still, to this day, remembers what I was wearing, the way my hair looked, and the color of my eyes. He immediately looked in the card index to find out the names of the two women living in Room 305. Kristen or Angela.
The dormitory we lived in was populated by both the normal and the weird and unusual. Upon reflection, it was more weird than normal. There was Joseph, a biker dude who was rumored to be a devil worshipper; Rambo, a man in his 30s who was separated from his wife and had returned to college to escape the situation (and, he had a penchant for picking me up and carrying me around, which I never quite figured out); Senor Gomez, a strange little man with a Gomez Adams moustache (thus the name), who watched "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" repeatedly, while dressing up and dancing each time; a whole wing of lesbian chicks who swapped rooms; Peng, a horny Asian student who liked to wear flip-flops, eat food reeking of fish heads, and propositioning women in the stairwell; Richard, a 400-pound man who tried to buy me at the annual "servant sale," and thoughts of what he planned to do with me still make me shiver; Daniel, a slightly-off-balance savant who once literally gave the sweater off of his back for a clothing drive; and Mick, the Pizza Shuttle guy, who delivered pizzas to the dorm and apparently liked it so much, he took up residency in the lobby.
Through this mass of strange humanity, Dwayne and I were drawn to one another, if for nothing else because we were two of the least damaged. Dwayne was a gentleman, kind, quick-witted, and hilariously funny. We became good friends. I found him easy to talk to and fun to hang out with, something I had never experienced before with a man. There were no expectations, no foregone conclusions. He was graduating at the end of the semester and I was just starting my junior year. After the failure of a relationship just months before, the notion of being "just friends" with someone seemed safe and comfortable.
Little did I know that Dwayne's feelings extended well beyond friendship, but he didn't let me know that. He knew I was still hurt and I think he knew I needed some space. Secretly, I wanted more, too. But I was too afraid of losing his friendship to admit it. I needed it like I needed the air that I breathed.
We began dating in earnest in the summer of 1990, after he invited me to go waterskiing at the lake with him and his friends. I thought it was just the fact that I wore a polka-dotted bikini to the lake that made him plant a flying lip-lock on me when I got ready to leave, but there was more behind that kiss than just the appreciation of a teeny-weeny bikini.
Tune in for more later...
A few days ago, a Facebook friend posted a thought-provoking video about a college philosophy professor who spent each semester convincing impressionable young people that God does not exist. Each semester, during the last class, he would challenge anyone who still believed in God to stand up and prove his or her case. No one was brave enough to do so, until one semester a young man, who was clearly secure in his faith, stood up.
The professor said that if there was a God, He would prevent the piece of chalk in the professor's hand (which he was preparing to drop) from shattering upon hitting the floor. In semesters previous, the chalk had predictably shattered upon hitting the floor.
This semester was different, however. The professor raised his hand above his head and dropped the chalk. But, instead of hitting the floor, it fell into the cuff of his shirt, rolling down the arm, down the length of his body, and out of his pants leg, rolling - intact - toward the desks. The professor changed his mind about God's existence.
The friend suggested that I re-post the link on my own Facebook page to spread the word. I decided to go one better.
Here is an essay I wrote for our church anthology in December 2007, and yes, it happened exactly this way.
JESUS IS OUR HOUSEGUEST
When my mother came home on hospice in mid-January 2007, my family committed ourselves to making Mom's last days on earth as full and comfortable for her as possible.
During a family meeting, we decided that Dad would care for Mom during the day and each of the three kids, including me, would stay through the night, administer Mom's medications and tend to her needs. This arrangement wouldn't be easy because we planned to each continue working during the day, and although some sleep was promised during the night, it would be interrupted every two hours for the purposes of managing Mom's pain.
It was during one of those early-morning pain management sessions that a most extraordinary thing happened.
As I walked down the hallway to the living room, where Mom was resting in a hospital bed, I heard her talking. I stopped for a moment to see if I could determine to whom she was speaking. It wasn't Daddy - he was fast asleep in the bedroom. Was she praying? No, the conversation was too comfortable for prayer. I finally decided she was on the phone, because all I could hear was her side of the chat.
But when I approached, I discovered it wasn't a phone conversation.
"Mom, who are you talking to?"
"Jesus," she said, matter-of-factly.
"I'm so sorry," I replied. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"It's okay babe," she said. "He'll be back to talk. He's here right now."
Instinctively, I looked around. I didn't see Him, but rather felt Him. I felt warm, safe, and supported. I realized that, blessedly, we were not alone.
After I gave Mom her medicine, she wanted to talk. It would be the last lucid conversation we would share and I will cherish it in my heart forever.
As she began to tire, I held her soft hands in mine and I told her how much she meant to me and that I was truly blessed to have her as my mother. She told me that the blessing had been all hers from the day I was born to her.
Mom drifted off to sleep and I began to pray to the Lord, who had clearly taken up residency in our home. I thanked Him for my mother and her life. I asked him not to tarry. My mother's worn-out body was stretched out before me, and although I still believe in miracles, I knew the time had come. She was ready to go home.
A few weeks after Mom passed, I was telling Daddy about Mom's conversation with Jesus. Remarkably, he had a similar conversation with Mom. One afternoon, she told Daddy that Jesus was sitting on her bed.
There are very few things I understand or know about all that happened in the last days of my mother's life. This much I do know - though I did not see Him with my earthly eyes, Jesus was with my Mom to the very end and He was a very present comfort to me in a time of extreme need.
Whatever remaining doubts I may have harbored about Christ's existence vanished in January 2007, when I discovered Him as a houseguest in my parent's home.
"And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire, and after the fire a still small voice." - I Kings 19:12
"So humble yourselves under the mighty power of God, and in his good time He will honor you. Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about what happens to you." - I Peter 5:6-7
I recently came across a book entitled, "What I Know Now - Letters to My Younger Self" by Ellyn Spragins. In it, women from all walks of life - celebrities, cancer survivors, mothers, businesswomen, and regular "Joannas" like me write letters to their younger selves. Sometimes irreverent, often hilarious, but always poignant, the letters represent the collective wisdom that only comes with maturity. It's the quintessential in hindsight.
Of course, I felt compelled to write a letter to myself at once. I was sure that there were plenty of golden nuggets to share with my 13-year-old fresh-faced self. Yes, that's her above, dressed in lace and frills. Hey, it was the 1980s! She is beautiful, isn't she? Would you be surprised to know that she did not think so? When she would look in the mirror, all she saw was her flaws and imperfections. What a silly girl!
Here's the letter:
Dear Angela -
Please put down the Noxema and get those hot rollers out of your hair! This is your 40-year-old self and we need to talk. The most important thing I need to tell you is this: you are beautiful. Gorgeous, in fact! Stop worrying about what everyone else thinks and be comfortable in your own skin. You don't need to compare yourself to anyone else, because you are enough.
Cherish every moment with your mother. She will be gone much sooner than you planned. I know she annoys you sometimes. She's your mother - that's her job.
When you are 19, a person you have entrusted with your heart will break it. You will be terribly sad, you will cry yourself to sleep, and you will ask yourself why you bother going on. Don't entertain those thoughts. You do not need a man to make yourself complete. This experience will teach you that. A few years later, you will meet your husband. He will start out as a dear friend and you will fall in love with him slowly, over time. There will be a day when you are so lost in him that you will wonder where he begins and you end.
All of your dreams will come true, dear Angela. You will graduate from college. You will be a writer. You will have two beautiful children. You will do work that you are passionate about. Your life, at moments, will seem charmed.
There will be people in your life who will disappoint you. Shake them off like the dust on your shoe. Beware of people who are two-faced and fake. There will be many on your journey, but the good Lord has given you discernment. Don't remain "friends" with people who are not deserving of the title.
Be yourself, dear Angela. Dance. Sing. Write. Love.
See you soon!
Your 40-year-old self
Today marks the eight-year anniversary of the worst terrorist attack on United States soil. Like many Americans, I will remember the terrible things that happened on this day in United States history, and I will be reminded that in an instant, in the blink of an eye, everything can change.
I remember very well where I was on September 11, 2001 when I came to understand that our nation was under attack by terrorists. Dwayne and I were living in a rural housing addition in Owasso, Oklahoma - a home that was on the flight pattern for Tulsa International Airport. Jared was two years old and Dwayne and I were trying to become pregnant. I was working at a private university at the time and Jared would commute with me each morning to the campus child care center.
I was running late that morning and the traffic, as usual, was heavy. A few minutes after the first plane hit the towers, Dwayne called me on my cell phone. I was at the intersection of 76th Street North and 129th East Avenue. He said a commuter plane had hit the World Trade Center in New York City. I tuned the car radio to a Tulsa news station that broadcast its programming live on the radio. The newscasters were speaking to eyewitnesses who saw the plane hit the building. And then, as I prepared to turn off of 76th Street North onto Highway 169 to head in to Tulsa, I heard one of the newscasters, shaken, report that a second plane had hit the other tower, and I knew - in the blink of an eye - that this was not a mistake, not a commuter plane accident, but something far more coordinated and insidious.
By the time I dropped Jared off at the daycare center, the Pentagon had been hit by an airplane. The newscasters reported that the nation's air traffic system had been shut down. There would be no more take-offs or landings for several days and all planes that were in the air were being forced to land. Later, we all learned about the one airplane that was still in the air, hijacked and headed for an unknown target, probably the U.S. Capitol Building or the White House. This plane never made its target because its brave occupants overtook the hijackers and crashed the plane in a rural area of Pennsylvania.
By the time the two towers fell, I was numb. The magnitude of what had been unfolding was just too much for me to wrap my mind around. I continued to work throughout the day, but I cannot recall anything I did or what I accomplished. My mind was literally miles away.
That evening after dinner, Dwayne, Jared and I took a walk around our neighborhood and it was surreal not hearing the jets taking off and landing at the airport. The stillness, given all that had happened that day, was equal parts comforting and unnerving. Somewhere inside of myself, I recognized that nothing would ever be the same again.
It was during this walk that I decided I did not want to bring another child into a world like this. I don't know if I verbalized this thought to Dwayne or not, but our efforts to get pregnant came to a screeching halt. It was more than I could bear to think of something like this happening to my children. And yet, much later, I realized that there is really very little I can do to prevent these things from happening. All I can do is pray, have faith in God, and hope for the best.
I still wonder about the thousands of innocent people who lost their lives that day. I wonder if anyone on those airplanes or in the World Trade Center or the Pentagon had arguments with their children or spouses that morning. I wonder if someone forgot to say "I love you" to a cherished family member that morning as they left their house for work. I wonder if someone left a project half-finished in a garage the night before. I wonder if someone put food in a crockpot that morning before they left for work, planning for dinner with family later that night.
And in wondering all of this, I am reminded that the blessings of life are often found in the quiet, mundane moments that few of us consider significant. The simple act of hugging someone you love tightly each morning before you part ways may not seem important at the time, but if you knew you would never see that person again, would it?
Yesterday, a colleague was talking about a story she heard at a seminar recently. The individual who related the story had a teenaged son. For his 16th birthday, they bought him a Jeep, which he totalled a few days later. When the parents confronted their son about the accident, they also spoke to him about his poor grades and how disappointed they were with him in general. The storyteller told the group that after the conversation, the son went upstairs to his room. A few minutes later, they heard a gunshot. Their son had committed suicide. The storyteller told the people assembled for the meeting that, in retrospect, the grades and the car were just "mouse poop" - insignificant when compared to the loss of their child.
Our tiny planet's most precious asset and resource isn't diamonds. It isn't gold. It is human life. Each person has value. Every person has potential. The Bible says that God knows each of us intimately. He knew us when we were "knit together" in our mother's wombs. He knows the exact number of hairs on our heads.
I think that is why I was so affected by September 11, 2001. The idea that so many people died on that day - for nothing more than an extremist's very narrow interpretation of a prophet's words - hurts my heart. I wonder what the world would have been like if each of those 2,900-plus precious lives had been able to live to their full potential?
Last week, while bathing my four-year-old firecracker, Jaderbug, she informs me that she wants to be "a rock star" when she grows up. This is the unfortunate by-product of the replacement of the batteries in her pink Barbie "buitar" (guitar), which was a birthday gift from her Aunt Kim.
Jade has spoken of being (in no particular order): (1) a ballerina; (2) a dancer; (3) a princess; and now, a rock star, when she grows up. Of the potential careers she has dreamed of, the only one that seems viable is the latter, as she has a beautiful singing voice and is nearly always in tune.
Ballerina and dancer are out, Baby Girl. You're too klutzy and accident-prone for that line of work.
And, I'm sorry to report that princess is not in your future, either, Precious. Unless you happen to move to Europe and marry into it, and Mommy would miss you so much, you'd have to let me and Daddy move into the palace.
Dwayne is notorious for snapping photos of all of us and Jade has grown to be quite shy whenever the camera comes out. I wanted to get some video of Jaderbug playing her buitar and singing, so I told her that if she wanted to be a rock star, she'd need to learn how to make music videos. Here's what I captured...
Jaderbug, The Rock Star.
Summertime gatherings at the Henderson household almost always include hamburgers and hotdogs off of the charcoal grill. And I have a recipe for hamburgers that is so good (and easy!) that it's almost sinful.
I'd like to say that I came up with this recipe, but that wouldn't be true. The recipe belongs to my Grandpa Remke (Big Papaw), who passed away in July 2003. Grandpa Remke was proud of his grilled hamburgers and rightly so. When he made them, there usually weren't any leftovers. Everyone in our family loved them.
The smell of one of these hamburgers evokes memories of my girlhood spent running up and down Limestone Road in Bartlesville, enjoying my grandmother's beautiful flower garden, and good times spent with my father's family.
When Dwayne and I began dating, he would regularly join our family for these summertime gatherings and all the way home, he would comment on how good the hamburgers were. Finally, one summer, I asked Grandpa how he made his hamburgers and he showed me. I'm so glad I asked, because even though Grandpa is gone, his hamburger recipe lives on.
To make Grandpa Remke's hamburgers, you will need: 2 pounds of ground beef (73% fat), 1 small white onion (minced), and 1 bottle hickory-flavored barbecue sauce. Place the beef, the minced onion and approximately 5 tablespoons of the barbecue sauce in a large bowl. Mix all well with your hands, until onions and sauce are well incorporated in the beef. You do not want to put too much barbecue sauce in the mix or the burgers will fall apart on the grill. If the hamburger meat is too saucy, add more beef and onions and mix well.
Form into hamburgers and salt and pepper on each side of the patty. Grill on a charcoal grill until done. Allow to rest briefly so that the juices distribute evenly in the meat. Place cheese on the burgers, if you wish. Place burger on a white, wheat, or sesame bun. Add dill pickles, tomatoes, red onion, and lettuce. Condiments can include mustard, mayonnaise, ketchup, or more barbecue sauce.
We like our burgers with potato chips, baked beans, potato salad, or pasta salad. The recipe will make 6 to 8 hamburger patties, depending on how generous you make your patties. You can easily double or triple the recipe. Be aware that due to the high fat content of the beef, the burgers do shrink up, but the fat is absolutely critical for a juicy hamburger.
Our neighbors love these hamburgers, and in fact, the teenaged son of one neighbor talks about these burgers throughout the year. In fact, when he left here Friday night, he left with a doggie bag including two hamburgers to enjoy later.
Thank you, Grandpa Remke, for the recipe and for all of the wonderful memories I have of you. I love you!
Claremore's annual Independence Day fireworks display took place last night, and the Henderson's enjoyed an unusually temperate evening in the company of family, good neighbors, and friends.
When Dwayne and I purchased our home in May 2002, we hadn't the foggiest notion that from our front yard, we would have one of the most advantageous views of the annual fireworks display staged from nearby Claremore Lake. With the exception of two years - one when the city did not have a fireworks display because of budget constraints, and one when the Henderson family enjoyed Independence Day while on vacation in St. Louis, Missouri - our family has hosted a very simple "come who may" celebration on our front lawn, complete with hamburgers, hot dogs, and all the trimmings. And like all holidays where hot weather is the rule, ice cream is requisite.
Each year, I worry that no one will show up to our little fete. Each year, I lament the heat and the mosquitoes. Each year, I wonder how many of my tax dollars will have been blown up in 30 minutes and if there might be a better way to expend those funds.
And each year, in spite of my doubts, I have the best time. The sheer joy on the faces of those who show up - and each year I am surprised by the numbers who come out to celebrate - combined with my own "ooh-ing and aah-ing" over a display that each year turns out to be more beautiful and lovely than the year before, makes for an evening that becomes ever more precious to me.
And each year, while watching the "rockets red glare," I think about freedom and what it means to me. I think about the fact that there are people on God's good earth who have never known the deliciously liberating taste of freedom. And I remember, if only for a fleeting moment, that at the same time the ultra-conservative and the ultra-liberal are raiding our free airwaves with their messages of divisiveness and discord, on this day, we gather together proudly as Americans, enjoying the simplest of pleasures and thanking God that we live in nation where the choices are vast and the opportunities are still far better than anyplace else in the world.
So, as you finish off those fireworks this evening, or you watch an organized display in your city or town (if you haven't already), remember these thoughts on freedom and give thanks to God that you live in a nation where democracy is the order of the day:
"None who have always been free can understand the terrible fascinating power of the hope of freedom to those who are not free." - Pearl S. Buck, "What America Means To Me," 1943
"Freedom is not a gift received from a State or a leader but a possession to be won every day by the effort of each and the union of all." - Albert Camus, "Bread and Freedom," 1957
"The only freedom which deserves the name is that of pursuing our own good in our own way, so long as we do not attempt to deprive others of theirs, or impede their efforts to obtain it." - John Stuart Mill, "On Liberty," 1859
"When I found I had crossed that line [to freedom], I looked at my hands to see if I was the same person. There was such a glory over every thing; the sun came like gold through the trees, and over the fields, and I felt like I was in Heaven." - Harriet Tubman
America: it's not perfect, but it's still better than any other choice we have.
The Henderson Family planned to get out of town for Spring Break 2009. Then Jaderbug broke her leg in an unfortunate trampoline accident on March 8, 2009, so vacationing in March was out of the question. We decided instead to go in May, after school was out.
Jared has been asking for years to go to the beach on vacation and we discussed a variety of places where we could go to enjoy the beach. We have some neighbors who own a condo on the beach in Alabama, so I called to find out where they would recommend that we stay. Little did I know that they let friends and neighbors use their place (they also rent it out!) and we were soon hooked up with a place to stay in Orange Beach, Alabama.
Because we were so ready to be someplace other than Oklahoma, we decided to leave Memorial Day Weekend. The week before we left was nutty. My father had surgery to repair a torn rotator cuff mere days before and had been staying with us up until Monday of that week, when he was given the green light to resume his normal routine at home by himself. Jade's graduation to Pre-Kindergarten was Thursday night, and Jared's graduation from fourth grade was Friday morning. The last day of school was Friday and Jared was sad that he was leaving his elementary school permanently. He was in tears by the time I picked him up from school Friday afternoon.
In the spare moments I could find that week, I packed, shopped, and got the van ready for our trip. And had a mammogram. Nothing like smashing your boobs before subjecting them to swimsuit season!
On Friday evening at dinner, I began questioning the sanity of our plan to leave the day after school was out. What had I been thinking? I stayed up well past midnight finishing up the final details...and I needed to be up at 4:30 a.m. to help Dwayne get it all packed in the van. I also prepared fruit for breakfast on the road and sandwiches for lunch. By 6:30 a.m., we were locked and loaded - sleepy kids in the car, tunes on the iPod, and a host of movies for the DVD. We were finally headed out of town. We stopped briefly on the Muskogee Turnpike to eat a light breakfast and then continued on into Arkansas.
We stopped for lunch outside of Pine Bluff, Arkansas at a park where the kids could play and run off some steam. Then we continued on into Louisiana with its bayous, oxbow lakes, and colorful scenery. We came out at Tallulah and got onto I-30, headed towards Vicksburg and Jackson, Mississippi. At Jackson, we headed south to Hattiesburg, stopping there for dinner at what turned out to be a really good Thai restaurant.
As night fell, we made our way into Mobile, Alabama with storms blowing in off of the Gulf of Mexico. Soon afterwards, we turned south, headed towards Gulf Shores and Orange Beach. I was driving during this leg of the journey and ran over a dog in a town north of Foley.
Yes, I killed the dog. I hit him with both tires, so at least it was quick and painless. The accident was unavoidable. It was either us or the dog. I picked the dog.
It was 10:30 p.m. by the time we got to the condo, but what an oasis after the 13-hour car trip we had just endured. It was beautifully decorated and well-appointed. I expected nothing less, as my neighbor has exceedingly good taste. We were on the 8th floor of the building and the ocean stretched out for miles and miles. Dwayne opened up the doors to the balcony and I felt my stress melt away in the sea mist.
We spent six glorious days in Orange Beach, alternately playing in the white sand, swimming in the ocean, and swimming in the pools at the condo. We chased crabs at night, hunted sea shells, ate fresh seafood, and reconnected as a family. At night, Dwayne and I would sit on the balcony, enjoying adult beverages, uninterrupted conversation, and simple things like holding hands.
On the way out of town, Jared told Dwayne that he had gotten his first kiss in the swimming pool from a little girl who literally chased him all over the pool on Wednesday and Thursday. They had some uninterrupted "guy time" in the front seat to talk about the mysteries and intricacies of women, and I did my best to tune it out, because all I wanted to do was go back to Orange Beach and hunt down the little hussy!
We stopped briefly in Natchez, Mississippi to get a gander at the Antebellum homes. If you've never been there, you must go. The homes are gorgeous! They reek of southern charm and hospitality. I can just see southern belles sitting on wicker chairs in their frilly party dresses on the front porches sipping iced tea or mint juleps, back in the day when men were debonair and chivalrous and women were ladies in the true sense of the word.
After a brief overnight stay in Texas, we were home on Saturday, rejuvenated if not a little tired from the drive home.
If you'd like more information about the condo we stayed at, please email me. I'd be happy to share the details.
