Fall Photos in Bella Vista

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A Gift just as I begin to fall...

My brain was flittering all morning. I couldn't concentrate and having to re-do work because I wasn't focused. Then it came... the news that my subconscious was anxiously awaiting and keeping me off my game: the pathology report.

Let me back up, with as little detail as necessary: I had a D&C last week to "vacuum" my girly parts due to a biopsy that showed some pre-cancerous cells. We were hoping that the report would show that the biopsy was not anything to worry about right now; we were hoping that we'd get to be the couple who could get prepared for one more round of Invitro in a few months -- something that we've heard often has more success after a D&C; we were hoping that the news would be more positive than not.

So, I'm trying to work with little success when I hear my cell phone ring. I'm on the phone with a co-worker, so I didn't try to catch it, but then it happens: a voicemail from my DOCTOR. Not the nurse; the doctor. Now when has your doctor ever called with GOOD news?? Perhaps they need to get into the practice of that just so you don't know what it means when they call you before you speak with them.

But I digress. The doctor reminded me that after surgery he had noted that the what he took out was too fluffy. Evidently, "too fluffy" to a doctor is what a pathologist says is "as bad as it can be without being called cancerous," but they can't totally rule out that I'm not developing endometrial cancer. The C word is scary enough, but when you are about to turn 41, been through tons of fertility treatments and procedures, and holding out hope for one more year to try for a bio-child, there is a scarier H word: hysterectomy. Soon.

I process this all while sitting in my cubicle facing the rest of the office and realize I'm about to totally lose it. Escape. Gotta go. Boss out, I email his Blackberry, call my husband to come pick me up NOW, and I nearly ran out of the building for fresh air and sunshine: my cure-all. I won't dwell on the tears that flowed when I saw my husband or the painful conversation that followed. What I want to tell you about next is the gift I got once I got home.

As I've mentioned in another post, I NEED to be outside every day or I get nutso. And when I'm sad, I REALLY need to be outside. Luckily, today was cold but sunny and my back deck was the perfect spot to escape and soak up some of my personal medicine. I decided to grab my camera when little birds were jumping around the tree, but they flew off before I returned. Disappointed, but not without hope, I sat still in my chair enjoying the sunshine and colors of fall hoping to get a great shot of the birds when he came: the cardinal.

The cardinal is one of the regular visitors to my bird feeder but I never seem to have a camera when he comes by and he skitters off once I show up with one. But today was different. He landed on a tree not too far away and just looked at me. And he sat. And sat. And sat. I clicked. And clicked. And clicked. Then he jumped down a few branches closer. And sat. I clicked. My heart warmed. The photo was perfect!Watching me closely, he jumped to the tree by the bird feeder, peeked around a post at me and then quickly flew off, done with his modeling job for the day.

Next, I hear stomping in the leaves down by the creek and get to the edge of the deck in time to see a family of deer run up the opposite hill behind my home. I was so excited to catch a quick photo of one of them, although not too great (Can you see the deer in the bottom left corner?), and realized I was actually smiling and feeling better.

The gift.

The reminder:

The birds are cared for.

The animals are cared for.

God is still caring for me even when I feel defeated.

Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?....And who of you by being worried can add a single hour to his life?...But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you. Matthew 6: 26, 27, 30 NAS

Faith. I need to hold on to the faith that God's plan will become clear to us as Jeff and I walk down this unexpected path. Not easy.

For I know the plans that I have for you,' declares the LORD, 'plans for welfare and not for calamity to give you a future and a hope. Jeremiah 29:11

Please keep us in your prayers.

Fall in Northwest Arkansas

Fall has always been my favorite time of year, even though in North Texas, only one or two trees actually changed colors and that wasn't until Christmas time. My romance with fall likely has something to do with having a November birthday, but it is also because I love the rich jewel-tone colors that blanket the landscape, the crisp rustling of leaves under my feet, and of course, dressing up in costume for Halloween. This morning was clear and cold, promising more color changes before all the leaves fall. Witnessing a true Fall (and all four seasons for that matter) was one of my main motivators for agreeing to the move to NWA and I am finding it is all I had hoped for. I hope these photos will give you a little taste of fall as well. Now, go jump in some leaves!

The Childless Mother - A Memoir

By Julie Grau
original essay written August 2007


The couple ahead walks into the sanctuary. I capture a glimpse of the woman’s smile as she looks up at the man soothing the baby cradled in his strong arms. Pick, pick, pick. The scab splits wide open and I find myself unexpectedly nursing the injury as it oozes fresh juices. My mother always told me not to pick scabs. “It is best for wounds to heal correctly inside or you end up with a nasty mess brewing beneath the top layer,” she’d lecture as she applied band-aids to the latest dent on my shin. I’ve been trying to let this particular scab heal for a while now, but it continues to fester. What will it take to heal the wound of being a childless mother?

At least once a week I am forced to face the pain. There’s the curiosity of my students whose parents are mostly still in their twenties: “Why don’t you have kids?”; “Don’t you want kids?”; “Aren’t you too old to have kids?” My favorite came from a student who always tells it like it is: “If you have kids now they’ll be teased when they are in school because you’ll be old like a grandmother!” Then there’s the fact that in fast-growing McKinney, I meet new people all the time who invariably ask the question, “Do you have kids?” Hmm… how should I answer today? There’s the simple leave-this-topic-alone answer, “No.” But then again, there’s my usual funny answer, “Yes, if you count my husband and my dog.” Of course, there’s the serious answer, “No, we’ve been working on it for awhile now.” Or, the one I’d love to say, “It is none of your #@$* business!”
The responses to my childlessness often tell me a great deal about each person’s character:
· The well-meaning – “I have a cousin who got pregnant right after they adopted.”
· The optimist – “My sister had beautiful twins at 43.
· The faithful – “God has a plan for you.”
· The irksome – “My friend adopted the cutest little China doll. She’s fun to dress up.”
· The realist – “You are so lucky. You can travel a lot and sleep late!”
· The clueless – “Well, trying is the fun part!”

Most of these people have valid points: I don’t have dirty diapers to change, soccer games to attend, or nannies to pay; not to mention that I am about to turn 40 which would make me a 50 year old PTO member. My time is my own – shared only with a husband who loves me dearly and a dog that is happy with a tummy rub. Jeff and I can rent rated R movies without the concern of “little ears,” sleep until noon on Saturdays, and travel at the drop of a hat. I have the advantage of caring for children in the role of auntie, godmother, teacher, and playmate - reading happy books, playing with fun toys, seeing cute movies, and giving cranky kids back to their mother. I suspect this is why grandparents enjoy grandkids…all the fun and little of the work. And Lord, I do understand the work required from my years as a babysitter, a nanny, and even a day care director.

Yesterday, I played mom to the seven boy Bryn Mawr Street Gang. Why did they knock on my door? Maybe because I didn’t just tell their parents when they caused trouble, but I also learned their names, let them play in the sprinklers, talked about skateboarding, and let them pet Ginger. So in the bloodied-knee scooter incident, I was called on for band-aids and a phone to call home. Funny, since most of the kids were just as close to their doors as to mine. Perhaps I am more mothering than their mothers? Is it not better to be a universal mother than to just raise one or two? Even my old friend Kimberly’s three kids benefited from my mothering; Kimberly called after I left to tell me her kids wished I lived in San Antonio. Her oldest even came home from a trip I helped her pack for and insisted on doing her own laundry “the way Miss Julie taught me.” Hmm, that makes ten kids mothered in just two weeks.

As a teacher, I find that my classroom becomes a safe home for students. Tears? Anger? Frustration? Go see Mrs. Grau. Some students I barely know have begged for refuge in my room from their daily anxiety. So why seek me out when in need of mothering? Certainly not because I am easy on students: I demand hard work and expect personal responsibility for behavior - even behavior slightly beyond their control. I suspect mine is the only mothering some students ever really know since their young mothers struggle with revolving boyfriends, low-wage jobs, drug addictions, and various other woes of the low-socioeconomic population of McKinney.

Still, with all this mothering, I long to give my soul to a child of my own. I want a child as smart as my husband and as creative as me. A child who laughs easily, sings happily, and plays with abandon. We have tried it all to find this child, but God has not readied one for us yet. I keep playing an old movie in my head where a little angel is waiting while God is readying him for the right time on earth and the best family to meet his needs. Are we not right for someone yet? What else do we need to do? We’ve certainly done all we can to help God along: charts, temperatures, pills, shots, in-vitro, and everything in between. We’ve even been to various seminars on foreign adoption, domestic adoption, and fostering–to-adopt. Mom made a powerful statement as we discussed the possibility of becoming foster parents: “I think you’d be great at fostering, but I want to see you bring joy into your lives, not more heartache and pain.” I know she’s right. I recognize the signs that I’m not thoroughly healed from our lack of fertility to cope with bringing a child into our home only to have to return it to the parent that neglected or abused it. Forget picking a scab – that would be ripping it off and taking new skin! Besides, Jeff’s not ready to let go of the dream of having our own children. Am I? I can’t quit picturing the photo of our DNA matched up: those three perfect circles in a petri dish; those three blastocysts that I had hoped would grow into three beautiful souls; those three little angels that just weren’t ready for the world.

So I remain a childless mother. Can I find peace in this existence? Can I give this pained heart back to God and move on? The truth is that I love to mother kids and give them back. Sometimes I even prefer it that way. I delight in being the willing listener, the wisdom giver, and even the mischief maker to my friends’ children. Can I relish in helping them grow without having to pay the bills? I take pleasure in getting a new group of students and helping them discover their potential. Can I savor the time spent helping them blossom during the time that I have them? Could it be that God wants me to heal and prepare for my own child by accepting my current assignment as universal mother? Am I willing to be the stitcher of wounds, the healer of hearts, and the grower of knowledge for the children of other mothers? I’m not sure I’ve healed enough to have the answers. The scab remains tender – only recently formed. But here’s what I do know: I love having kids in my life. To that end, my heart responds, “Let the mothering begin.”

Footnote, fall 2008: I "retired" for awhile from teaching due to my move to Arkansas and am waiting for a sign as to my next path towards mothering.

Tanyard Creek

My husband will attest that if I go too many days without seeing the outdoors, getting some sun on my face, or at least driving with the windows down, I get very cranky. On this particular Friday,
I had been in the house for days unpacking boxes and getting stir CRAZY so I ran to the car with my camera to escape to the first park I could fine. Now, being new to the NWA area has its advanteges -- mostly that everything is new territory to discover! A few decades of hiking and camping in Texas leaves for few unexplored areas, so it is nice to be surprised by breathtaking views again. Tanyard Creek fit the bill on this "must escape" day and answered my unspoken need-- to be filled with awe for the beauty of God's creation.

Our New Home

We are excited to report that we finally found a house in Arkansas and are moving out of the condo this Friday. Our McKinney home has not sold, but the company will buy it on October 1 so we aren't too worried about that. We haven't been back to Texas for more than a whirlwind trip of fixing up and moving some more stuff, but hope to make it to church on our next visit. We are moving to an area in NW Arkansas called Bella Vista that used to be a retirement village, but has grown into a great place for families to live. It has 7 private lakes with great fishing, 9 golf courses, 5 country clubs, a gun range, and a few other amenities that we get with our $24.00 a month POA dues (no, that is not a typo -- gotta love Arkansas). We opted to downsize just a little to allow me to find a less demanding job this fall so we didn't get on the lake, just around the corner from it. Our across the street neighbors have lakeview/lake access, so we plan to invest in a lot of wine to cultivate those friendships. :-) However, we have a great wooded lot with common property behind us so we have lots of trees that will change in the fall and a great deck to enjoy the nature view. You can learn more about the great area at http://www.beautifulbellavista.com/ and make plans to come and see us!

My Life in the Personals - A Memoir

a.k.a "How I Met My Husband"
by Julie Driver Grau
original essay written September 2007

The year was 1986. As high school journalism students, we spent a lot of time reading Dallas periodicals. One weekly rag we read faithfully was the Dallas Observer with then-journalist Laura Miller’s thought provoking anti-Dallas articles, the latest listings of the Dallas music scene in the up-and-coming Deep Ellum, Joe Bob Briggs’ horror movie reviews, and my personal favorite, the mysterious Personal Ads. If someone was such a “great catch” as all the ads seemed to indicate, why would they need to advertise for love? With great interest, Shannon, Robbin, Sue, and I would read the ads and dare each other to answer. When a contest was held to win a gift certificate to a local restaurant by writing an ad, we took the bull by the horns and talked Shannon into composing something witty and charming with our input. As luck would have it, she won the contest, but I got to read and answer all the responses.

Now-a-days, Personals consist of computers and chat rooms; in 1986, it was all by handwritten letters and photographs with the anticipation of a response back by “snail mail.” A lot can be learned just by how much care someone takes in choosing stationary, printing vs. cursive, postmarks from out of area locations, and of course the tell-tale “Mail from Hunstville Prison” stamp that was on the outside of several responses. Young men 18-22 told tales of looking for love, promising days of wine and roses, and proving they had excellent physiques in shirtless photos. I was hooked.

I don’t recall the young men I met in the early days – more of the thrill of the chase. I was mostly correspondence romances with one or two meetings in public places and most were not interested in someone still in high school. Although I was young enough to date without ads, the ads provided an element of mystery and, perhaps, a little danger that was hard to resist. Being the person whose ad was answered put the control in your hands -- and what young woman doesn’t love a little coy control?

Fast forward to 1993. Out of college three years, I found meeting relationship worthy men in Dallas to be at best, challenging. Working as a social worker made my circle of friends mostly women and the church singles group consisted mostly of older divorcees. Working for Big Brothers and Sisters had me interviewing great guy after great guy, but Big Brothers were off-limits. So I began a quest to meet these big-hearted knights on white horses who obviously existed somewhere in Dallas; but how? It was after reading a Robert Wilonsky music review over a cup of coffee at Café Society, that I rediscovered the thrill of years prior… the Personal Ads!

As a brainstorm to write an ad, I quickly wrote out “The List” that would become the guide by which I would determine which bites to keep and which to throw back.

The List – August 1993
sociable, makes friends easily, likes parties, willing to dance, can play piano or guitar, can carry a tune, enjoys outdoors and camping, is not a hunter, enjoys traveling, appreciates antiques, has a sense of humor, smart and educated, independent but not hard-headed, loves kids, has a variety of interests/hobbies, appreciates all kinds of music, enjoys poetry/prose, enjoys theater/musicals, likes good coffee or tea, can be sentimental and romantic, cries, is a hard worker but makes time to play, has blue eyes, likes cats and other animals, is adventurous, parents are still married, playful and fun, keeps promises, enjoys cuddling, can iron and wash his own clothes, can cook, believes in the commitment of marriage (if divorced, she left him), moderate drinker, respectful of women, good communicator, good listener, Christian or has good morals, goal-oriented, honest, sensitive, accepting, laid back, older than me, financially secure, not into risky get rich quick things, knows how to tinker on cars, has a nice family, didn’t have it easy but didn’t have a disaster of childhood, thinks I have a pretty singing voice, likes me as I am, supportive of my interests and talents, likes movies, thoughtful, sends flowers, can compromise, can admit he’s wrong, loves me very much, and won’t be around me ALL the time.

So, how could I put all that in a 50-word ad?
Woman Seeking Man
Passionate Soul
Energetic, creative, voluptuous
auburn haired, blue-eyed, SWF age 26
Enjoys music, antiques, camping,
coffee, and a good laugh.
Seeking honest, sensitive, passionate,
educated SWM 24-34, over 5’10”.

The truth of the matter is if you cast a big enough net, you will catch some fish. You might even get one worth keeping. Evidently my net was enormous. I had 75 responses to my first ad the first week. 900 numbers started replacing letter writing, but I was fortunate to get a little of both. I recall thinking that someone needed to teach guys how to leave voice mails – drunk, gravelly, whiny, nasally, or lewd responses were immediately deleted. 40 down. 35 to go. Well, at least until week number two and 100 more responses.

My first date was with Stan. I learned from him that first meetings should not be for dinner dates. Especially not Dave & Busters. Restaurants leave too much time for conversation if you have nothing to say and Dave & Busters included extra time like a game of pool. Luckily, I had developed a “get away” plan with a friend who would call me at a specified time on my cell phone (one of the original enormous ones that looked more like a security officer’s walky-talky) allowing me to leave for an emergency if things weren’t going so well. Stan couldn’t look me in the eye or hold a conversation. The few things he said were some variation on how pretty I was which made think he was very weird. As it turned out, he was a nice guy. He was sincerely worried about my friend’s fake emergency and insisted on walking me out to my car since it was after dark After we said goodbye, he went towards his car only to return to mine with a small bouquet of flowers. Stan was the only guy I ever used that on because it made me feel so bad. The social worker in me decided that even weird guys deserved to be treated with kindness.

After that date, Dallas hangouts such as Chumley’s, Rick’s, Whole Foods Café, The Balcony Club, Café Society, Lakewood Bar and Grill, Café Brazil, and Club Dada served as backdrops to my pursuit. I drank a lot of coffee and martinis meeting accountants, musicians, ranchers, electricians, bankers, photographers, teachers, and others in a pre-cursor to the now popular speed dating. Over a 30-minute drink, it seemed frighteningly easy to determine who was too old, too creepy, too clingy, too hairy, too controlling, and too shallow. Somehow, I managed to narrow them all down to two.

Rex was the “older man” at 35. He had an 11-year-old son, a home in Highland Park, money to burn, dark Italian looks, and a body reminiscence of Adonis. The chemistry in Momo’s was undeniable. Our kiss that night in the parking lot was combustible and I had to fight all urges to turn the date into a scene out of “About Last Night”. Several dates followed and just days after Rex and I flamed our sparks, I met Sam.

Sam was the last guy I would meet from my ad because he traveled for work, although our coffee date had been set up for two weeks. My intent was to meet at Café Society for a quick hello and return to Rex’s lair for the evening. Sam was Rex’s complete opposite: tall, skinny, pale blonde, with bright blue eyes and barely two nickels to rub together. He was an archaeologist working on a dig in East Texas. Sam and I also clicked immediately, but the fact that I did have a few morals left to prevent me from seriously dating two guys at once, our romance moved a bit more slowly.

In the midst of all this romance, I was on a job hunt. The Dallas Observer was seeking a “Romance Director” so I typed up an introduction letter that read like a personal ad and attached my resume. Two weeks later, I was working in downtown Dallas helping single Dallasites write their own ads and handing out advice on how to make people fall in love via the personals. As Romance Director, I not only entered and edited ads, I became the “Dear Abby” of the Personals world. People called me for advice on how to handle responding to ads, where to meet people for coffee, and how to turn their uglier truths into prettier versions so the reader might fall in love with them sight unseen. Every week, I kept at least 4 ads of my own in the paper to “test the market” with different wording. Not surprisingly, ads for the 20-30 set faired better than those for older women and ads with themes and highly descriptive adjectives pulled more calls than “just the facts”. I became quite adept at using descriptive adjectives such as passionate, energetic, active and writing ads along themes like sports, Shakespeare, or jungle animals. Words such as curvaceous, entrepreneur, just-looking and other euphemisms hid sins such as fat, jobless, and desperate.

I held weekly events at area bars and restaurants that were in need of extra promotion. These events served as places for singles to mingle, but their entry to the event consisted of placing an ad. In an unfair play, women could place free ads while men paid for their ads. With the stigma of 900 numbers in these days, men were more likely to call the 900-number to answer ads so the paper needed a lot of women-seeking-men ads to make a profit. In fact, our most profitable ads were Men-seeking-Men so I held many events at gay bars. Interestingly enough, my ads were a big hit in the women seeking women column and I actually entertained meeting a few of the women who responded to my test ads, but some stones are best left unturned.

I didn’t meet any of the guys that called my test ads because I was now seriously dating Sam. Our slow-and-steady friendship turned into a serious romance which was peppered by his trips out of town. Rex and I developed a friendship that was always smoldering with possibilities, but I was truly in love with Sam and avoided being alone with Rex in private places. Only after Sam had moved to Minnesota and left me in Dallas pondering my 6-month relationship to a poor, traveling archaeologist did Rex and I revisit our chemistry. And alas, that was the end of Sam. It was also the end of my life as a Romance Director at the Dallas Observer. 75 hours a week of other people’s relationship searches had exhausted me. I had done all the work, met all the numbers, and held all the parties, but as several Romance Directors before me, I was let go right before I was eligible for a bonus.

A new rag was getting started called The Met and they were taking on the Dallas Observer with full force. With some animosity towards their rival paper, I jumped on board as a consultant to their newly formed Personals Ads. This led to a job at the paper handling marketing events for the Personals and eventually to the title of “Luv Doctor.” Luv Doctor. What a joke. By the time I held that title I was pretty much soured on love. Rex had moved away and I had a few other Personals dating experiences that had left me both frustrated and heartbroken. Too many jerks and liars. Too many frogs kissed. The prince was not coming. I was fishing in a pond of scum. Besides, “the list” was ridiculous. I would have told my personal ad writers that no one out there would be able to match up to a list of 58 characteristics. Get real. So I decided I might as well throw out all my ideals and just have fun while I was young – well, at least while I was 29.

Woman Seeking Fun
About to turn 30 and tired of the
Dallas dating scene. Looking
for someone to run around town
just for fun and friendship.
One night or many. 25 – 35,
over 5’8”, goatee a plus.

My anonymous voice mail was equally vague: “Tell me why I should make the effort to call you back.” On October 16, 1997 I got an intriguing response: “Hi, my name is Jeff. I have a goatee and you should call me back because I’m the one.” On October 17th we met at The Balcony Club, a throwback to a few other first dates, meeting there was my way of putting some old memories behind me. Funny enough, from that day forward it would be the place I first met my husband.

By November of 1997, computer personals started to compete with 900 numbers. The Met personals had a good run, but with my encouragement, that was the end of the personals and my job. And somehow it seemed a fitting end. I met a man who had everything I had been looking for just as I quit looking for him. I had found in the personals what every other ad placer wanted from the personals adventure: the relationship of my dreams.

Even an old fisherman will admit sometimes it isn’t the bait you use, but the fact that you actually put a pole in the water.


-30-

First Days in Arkansas

Day One

Sweat beaded up on my forehead making my hair damp and curly. The heat of Texas was already sweltering on June 9, 2008 reminding me that I’ve always hated Texas summers and I wouldn’t be here for another one. I thought I’d cry more leaving my mother standing in front of my house, but the knowledge that a new adventure lay ahead made it a little easier to drive away. Jeff and I had the chance to renew our relationship with a fresh adventure: Arkansas.

Texas turned into Oklahoma with little transition other than the shocking red sand that makes the lakes look more like strong tea than water. Ginger entertained herself by chasing sunlight spots around the dash board and sticking her nose out the window. It was the middle of Eastern Oklahoma when the wind shifted bringing in a cooling breeze. The fields opened up with sprinklings of yellow flowers and rows of newly forming corn. The air smelled sweet and clean and the long rays of the end of the day cast a brightness on the ground that made everything seem clearer, more vibrant, more surreal. This was the change I was looking for… a little peace.

We hit the Arkansas Ozarks at dusk – both beautiful and terrifying as we cruised over tall bridges and hills in the blue haze of evening. I was anxious to get to our new “home”…well, as home as a condo could be for now and was excited when I pulled into the driveway. Then I opened the door. Towers, and I mean TOWERS of boxes lined every wall and the apartment smelled like a cardboard factory. So this is what 216 boxes looks like. I was so overwhelmed I just sat in a chair and looking at a magazine and trying to figure out just how quickly we could get into a house of our own. It would have to be soon. This was not the peace I was hoping for. This was more like purgatory... the place in between… the weigh station… the spot we had to sit in waiting for the doors to our new life to open wide. Hmmm… I wonder where they packed the key.

Day Two

Not only did the movers not unpack the right kitchen boxes, they probably unpacked the boxes that I would never have unpacked! I went into the kitchen today to make lunch to find they had filled the drawers with junk instead of with the forks, knives, and spoons as I requested and all my nice plates and bowls were still in a three foot tall box for me to unwrap. Ugh. This is getting to be really annoying. I even lost my soup bowl for about 10 minutes among all the clutter on the counter! Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel like sorting things out, but not today. Today it was just overwhelming again so I went driving to check out a few areas I had hoped would have homes we would like. Funny thing about Arkansas: imagine driving along winding two-lane roads with rolling hills and tall trees on each side. You turn into a neighborhood with street names like Hilltop and Sunset where you can experience panoramic views of the lake that take your breath away. Just beyond the trees are homes and with high expectations you see one, two, three mobile homes, the plumber’s crack of a man walking into the door of his shack with two broken down donkeys on the side, and the modest home that you saw on Realtor.com. Oh, and about 2 acres up the road is a half a million dollar home with a Hummer in the driveway and tall security gates. Well, so much for the neighborhood welcoming committee. At that point, I decided it was time for the comfort of Andy’s Custard Choco-Rocko and the lovely view of the golf course pond from my couch at the condo. Hopefully, tomorrow’s neighborhood seeking will bring more luck.

Jeff and I came to an agreement tonight that we wanted to make some changes in our life that buying a larger, more expensive home wouldn’t help us do. Sure, we can afford a house on the lake, but do we want to be slaves to a house payment and then never home to enjoy it? We’d like a little slower pace of life and time to enjoy it. If we buy a little away from the lake, but close enough to get there, we may actually be able to afford for me to stay home and start our family. At age 40, that dream is getting a little more time-sensitive, so if we are going to make this type of life change, the time is now.


Day Three

Morning on a golf course is really peaceful. The birds sing at least four different tunes and the mist of morning hangs heavy making the green lawn look lush and bright. The lawn maintenance man adds to the Zen of the morning by raking the sand pit nearby with a swishing sound. I’ve opened the window near by bed and sit here typing smelling the cool, crisp morning air and feel calmer and more relaxed about this move. If every morning can start like this then I’d be very happy. Hmmm. I think it is time for my morning nap.