Chapter 31: Appearances

The restaurant was called Remy - a nod to an authentic French restaurant.  Nevermind that we were nowhere near France.  Nor land, for that matter.  We were on board a Disney cruise line, in the middle of the ocean.  And, the chef was exactly what you would imagine when casting a French chef: rudy cheeks, round belly, and mischievous eyes that sparkled against his accent. 

We decided on the full 8-course dinner.  Each course served on an actual silver platter.  The waitstaff would line up, circle around, then present each of us at the exact same moment.  Perfect choreography cueing a perfect, impressed response.  I think we actually cheered the first time.

Over three hours, we oohed and ahhed over the presentation: the drizzled sauces, the intricate cuts, the precisely plated entrees.  We savored the flavors and exotic tastes.

From the outside, it was exquisite.  A private room.  Wined and dined.  Surrounded by family.

But inside, I was crumbling.  A week before our vacation, news had surfaced and things had changed.  My marriage was falling apart, and I remember sitting in my black dress at the white-clothed table - in what should have been an unbelievably romantic experience and feeling nothing but emptiness.

Things are not always what they seem, are they?  Like the French restaurant.  Looking in, you could have been fooled into thinking it was real.  But really, it was just an imitation.  It was alluring and appealing from a distance.  Inside, strangely hollow.  

It was the strangest combination.  A full stomach paired with a broken heart.  

Chapter 30: Devils Punchbowl

The Oregon coast is more Wuthering Heights than MTV Spring Break.  It is stormy and rugged in a romantic kind of way.  Think galoshes and raincoats instead of flip-flops and sarongs.  So while most of the country followed the sun south, we drove straight west.  Over the Cascades, through the fertile valley, and into the windy, rocky edge of Oregon.

We visited lighthouses, got queasy on a fishing boat, giggled at sea lions, creeped by The Goonies house, and ate way too much clam chowder.  But my favorite part was seeing Devils Punchbowl: a giant rock formation whose waters swirl with the incoming tide, before emptying out into the ocean.

The path down to the beach (and bottom of the punchbowl) was inconspicuous.   Had the yellow, Do-Not-Cross tape not been strung across the entrance, we would have driven right past.  Do Not Cross?!  More like, Welcome, All who Dare to Enter.

Duke and Eloise raced down the path only to stop abruptly at the sidewalk’s tragic end.  A landslide of sorts had taken out the pathway - requiring only the truly committed to grab a rope and swing/slide down the rest of the way.

We took turns scaling down the cliff before scrambling across the barren beach, leaping over little inlets, the sand squishing beneath our feet.  Then, we stopped.  Not only were the sides of Devil’s Punchbowl made of rock, but so was the bottom.  And rock + water = algae.  It was like Trolls meets Dr. Seuss: the algae was a furry, neon green, with red/orange/brown worlds growing in between.  Fairy dust and moon craters.

We crawled across the slippery rock, before Duke insisted we go back, worried that the tide would suddenly burst in and we would be dragged out to sea.

A safe distance from the Punchbowl, we wandered around the tide pools.  Still slipping and leaping and exclaiming.  We saw sea urchins and alien-like-life-forms.  We got slapped by the spray of the waves and laughed at each other’s reactions.  The moment forever captured in my mind.

The sun faded into the horizon as slowly as the tide came rolling in, so we turned one last time toward the rising water in the punchbowl before trudging back.

It’s hard to say why this moment, more than any other, stands out from our trip.  Was it because it was so unexpected?  So new?  Was it because of the sense of urgency, knowing that we had a small sliver of time to see it?  Or because the world was filled with color and light and wonder.  Perhaps, it’s all of the above.   A mix of emotions and sights. 

Like punch: swirling and stirring around.  

Chapter 29: It's Summer Somewhere

You always want what you can’t have.  When it’s summer, you complain of the heat.  When it’s winter, you whine of the cold.  Inside, you get cabin fever.  Outside, you get, well, tired-of-being-outside.

Inevitably, there’s something you wish for.  And in Bend, in January, that something is warmth.  

I thought it would be important fun to deed a day, It’s Summer Somewhere.  So that’s just what we did.  For one day, we ignored the 20-something degrees and snowy outside and imagined an 80-something degrees and beachy inside.

We made sand castles and put on shorts.  We had a picnic in front of the the TV, playing a one hour loop of a green, grassy park.  We swam at the (indoor) pool and had a bubble-gum-blowing contest.  We grilled burgers and toasted with pina coladas.

It was a perfect cocktail of Fourth of July and Tropical Vacation.  Summer and silliness.  Sweet and salty.

Viktor Frankl said, “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”  He’s right.  Sometimes you can’t change your circumstances.  You can’t wish the cold away.  But, you can change your attitude.  And pretend.

Chapter 28: Outside

I admit, moving from Central Texas to Central Oregon was a bit drastic.  We moved from a town of 2 million, to one of 80,000.  From a major metropolis to a mountain town.  From two seasons to four. 

Sometimes, I long for the familiarity I once knew.  For foods and faces that I was used to.  And places where I knew my way.

But then I have new experience, and it knocks me off my feet.   

We had heard rumors of people heading to the forest to cut their own Christmas trees.  After a quick search online, we found the rumors to be true.  And better.  For a little bit of money and a whole lot of time, you could do exactly that.

Loading up the truck with a saw, step ladder, and measuring tape, we stopped at the neighborhood market for an overpriced ball of twine, and drove west towards the mountains.

We all held our own expectations for the hunt.  Chris imagined an off-roading adventure over ungroomed forest roads and far away from civilization.  The kids wished for a snow-filled wonderland – tromping through powder and dropping down into snow-angels.  I wanted to not-get-lost.  Or injured.  Or angry.  And we all wanted the “perfect” tree.

Somehow, we all got what we wanted.  We started in the snow, then headed to a very Off-Road road, before finally parking in a place in between.  It was uncanny how similar it was to the Christmas Vacation movie – with whining kids and an overzealous Clark/Chris.

Everyone was arguing over which tree was the Best tree.  Or when it would be lunchtime.  And dramatically asking for help trying to get over/under fallen pine trees.

By the time we half-agreed/half-defaulted on one, we realized we had left the saw.  In the truck.  A good 300 yards up the road.  Defeated, I shuffled back to retrieve it.

Maybe it was because I was hungry.  Or tired.  But finding myself alone in the forest suddenly overwhelmed me.  The tall pines creaking in the wind.  My footsteps crunching underneath.  The silence blanketing.  Peace hushing.

I was reminded that all is well.  My heart brimmed with gratitude – not because the moment was perfect, but precisely because it wasn’t.  

When we got home (five hours and frazzled later), we noticed the tree was a teeny bit too tall.  By, ahem, four feet.  We sawed it down, dragged it in, and admired our prize: all scrawny and Charlie Brown Christmassy.  To most it must look pathetic, but to us, it’s priceless.

Sometimes you have to step away or step out, to really take notice – whether it’s removing yourself from a situation or moving halfway across the world.  Worn-in routines and rutted traditions are comforting.  

But, only in the disruption can you see things with fresh eyes.    You realize what really matters: Relationships.  Love.  And time spent together.

Chapter 27: Horse Crazy

I’m not sure when Eloise’s obsession with horses began. Maybe it was when she was a toddler and we put her on a pony at Kiddie Acres. Or after watching Black Beauty dozens of times.

Regardless of the start, by the time she turned seven, she was hooked. She devoured anything on the subject – from movies, to books, to photos. She begged us weekly, if not daily, for her very own horse. She rattled on and on about how she wanted to live on a ranch and ride all day.

We could have easily squelched her dream and laughed at the outrageousness of the idea. Neither Chris nor I are horse people.

But we didn’t. We did quite the opposite. We embraced it. Encouraged it. Supported her. We threw her a horse Birthday party. We arranged for a horseback-riding lesson. And in a swelling crescendo of love, we signed her up for Horse Camp.

You would have thought that she had died and gone to heaven. Everything was pure magic. The setting was more idyllic than a Western movie. It was sweeping views and bluebird skies. The majestic mountains in the background and a worn-out barn in the foreground.

She loved every. Single. Second.



The night before her last day of Horse Camp, Eloise whispered, “I’m sad,” before giant tears dropped to her bedspread. She sobbed that she didn’t want Horse Camp to end.

It was like she knew that the dream was ending – and no matter how much she wished it to not-end, she couldn’t. The clock would strike midnight, and the fairy dust would settle.

I think that’s what makes such moments even sweeter. Because they don’t last. The experience ends, and you’re left with only the memory. The imagery and feelings snuggled in tight.

Chapter 26: Texas

I assumed that I would always be a Texan. I married a Texan. We made our life among the ancient oak trees and raised our kids among the bluebonnets. We had become accustomed to the culture of BBQ, cowboy boots, big trucks, and even bigger egos. It was our home.

At least until June.
And then, it became our past.

The weeks leading up to The Move were pure chaos. We spent months getting our condo fixed up, only to sell it in one day. We juggled craigslist buyers, boxes, and good-byes – all while maintaining the routine of school, work, and life.

Our dear friends threw a Texas-themed going away party. It would be our final hurrah.

A thunderstorm raged as we trekked through the city to their house. Roads were flooding. Wipers sloshing. Then, as soon as we pulled into their driveway, the rain suddenly stopped. It was as if some other force was orchestrating the entire event.

Once inside, we sipped on margaritas, while outside, the kids captured frogs. We smiled over fajitas and filled each other in on the latest news/gossip/plans.

It was as it always had been. Sharing meals. Memories.







The night was perfect. We danced on the lawn, then took way-too-many pictures of the bright, burning sunset. We laughed/cried. And laughed/cried some more.

There were promises of visiting. And good, compelling intentions. But there, lingering, was the space in between. The knowledge that things would be different. And that the chapter, This Chapter, was closing.

You know that trite, almost tart, saying “Better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all”? Well, it’s true. Spot on. I will always cherish the time we had in Austin. All the firsts. And all the lasts. I have no doubt that we are the people we are today because of the experiences, relationships, and seasons that shaped us.

Texas is no longer our home. But I love telling people that it’s where we’re from.

Chapter 25: The First Step

I have an affinity for lists.  I love writing things down – and especially crossing things off.  One of my favorite lists is my bucket list.  Each year, I scribble down new goals.  Some are strong and substantial.  Others, trivial.  But, one item that never left my list was to run a half-marathon.

I’m not sure why I wrote it in the first place.  I am not a runner.  I love the idea of running, but not the practice of it.  I ran my first 5K two years ago and felt like I had accomplished an Ironman.  Afterwards, friends asked if I wanted to run the Austin marathon with them and I laughed.  Me?!  I think I’d rather get a root canal.  Or ten.

And then my non-running, noncompetitive friend, Jeanette, finished the half.  Mind you, she hated it.  But she was so glad for the experience, saying, “It reminded me that I can do hard things.”  

I was sold.  I signed up and paid the fee.  

It’s funny how sometimes all it takes is another person to go before you to assure you that everything will be okay.  To breathe deep in the certainty that if she/he/they did __________, then I can do __________.

I started training nine months before the race.  My schedule revolved around my jogs and I found myself focused like I had never been before.  I would speed home from school during the weekdays and wake early on the weekends.  I contended with the weather and my mood (one was almost always foul).  But still, I pushed on.

Then it was February.  Valentine’s weekend.  My sister, Laurie, drove down I-35 to run with me.  And I was so grateful to not be alone.

We started together.  Side by side.  Then I slowed down and urged her to go ahead.  Somewhere around mile three, my body got into a rhythm.  My breathing syncopated to my feet-pounding and heart-beating.  My mind floated between thoughts and awareness.  

By mile ten, my muscles started to weaken and I was moved my sheer will power.  And then, I crossed the finish line.  I wandered down the tunnel, legs numb, eyes wet.  I couldn’t believe I did it!  I still can’t believe that I did it.

Jeanette was right.  We can do hard things.  

It begins with the first step.