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.

Chapter 24: Drive

They say that kids thrive with structure; that they relax in the stability.  And while I think it’s good to live in a daily rhythm, I also love what happens when we break the pattern and let life carry us wherever it will.

One weekend in October we did just that.  We pushed aside our to-do list and filled up our gas tank.  We had only two goals in mind: to pick pumpkins and fill our bellies at Alamo Spring Cafe.  But on a whim, we took a detour and turned before the pumpkin patch into the LBJ Ranch.  We’ve lived in Austin for over fourteen years and have never set foot on the property.  Something about always having an itinerary, made it difficult to stop.  But not today.  Today, we were explorers of the casual variety. Like loitering teens at the mall, we would stop if something caught our eye and shuffle by if it was boring.

The first stop was the one-room school house where Johnson started school.  The kids were giddy to find the wishing well out front and the outhouse, well, out back.

Then we drove for what seemed like miles through the ranch – over cattle guards and past grazing herds.  We laughed at Duke screaming shrill and panicked as we stopped the car by one particular cow.  He demanded that we roll up the window because it was “going to get” him.  And then we stopped laughing because we realized that he was legitimately scared.  (Clearly, Eloise stole all the animal-loving genetics.)

Later, we parked the car and joined the herd of tourists milling about the retired Air Force One plane.  Then we wandered around the terminal, watching videos form LBJ’s childhood and taking pictures behind the Presidential podium.

I was struck by the idea of how many people described Johnson as “driven” and “a natural leader” even as a child.  I wondered how much of a person’s personality is predisposed and how much can be altered.  Are we are truest selves when we’re young and unfiltered? 

As we drove away from the ranch and towards our agenda, I kept rolling around the idea of self and stories.  I wonder what people will say about me, and you, when we’re gone?  What descriptions will they use?  And will it even matter?

But then we pulled into Vogel Orchard and I left the idea lingering in the car.  We had more pressing matters at hand, like hunting down the perfect pumpkin.  One with a great personality.

Chapter 23: Lessons

I forget sometimes what the world looks like when you’re four: where everything looms large and Dads looks like superheroes.  Sometimes I get so focused on my own world that I forget to see others orbiting around me.

This fall, Duke’s world took a major shift as he went from a publicly funded daycare to a privately run Montessori.  It was a change in setting, expectations, and personalities.  It was like starting a new job – without a job description.  I couldn’t help but be excited as I still remember my days in Montessori.  But Duke was anything but eager, especially on the coattails of summer.

The first day was tolerable, but the second day was devastating.  He gave us the silent treatment the entire car ride home.  Then, as soon as we walked in the door, he broke.  Sobbing, he told us how he didn’t like school.  How he didn’t know how to swing.  How the teachers didn’t push him. How all the other kids knew how… Except him.  My heart ached.

It was hard to see him in so much turmoil.  My knee-jerk reaction was to be upset with the teachers.  How dare they not push him on the swing?  Don’t they know he’s only four? And new? And sensitive?!  Fortunately, I’m not a single parent and my better, more-reasonable, half calmly announced “Then, we’ll have to learn!  Tomorrow, the first thing we’ll do after school is go to the playground and I’ll teach you how to swing.”

And that’s just what we did.  The next afternoon we marched straight to the swings.  Eloise was showing off.  Duke was getting frustrated.   And Chris was patiently explaining the physics of leg-pumping.

The moment was filled with metaphors.

Being a parent is probably the most demanding job I’ve ever had.  There are layers of responsibilities and heaps of frustration.  It’s heart-breaking to watch your child struggle and not do anything about it.  And while fixing the situation would be easier, it wouldn’t be fulfilling.

There’s this video that I show my students about how struggle makes you stronger.  We talk about conflict and how it makes a better story.  And while learning to swing might seem silly to most people, to a four-year-old, it means everything. 

When we picked up Duke the next day after school, he was beaming.  Anxiously, we asked how it went on the swings. He said that he went so high, he touched the leaves. 

At that moment, Chris became my superhero.  (It’s a perspective that Duke and I both share about him.)

Chapter 22: Life's a Beach

I have this thing for camping.  I really, REALLY like it.  In fact, I kind of glorify it.  But like childbirth, I’ve forgotten the not-so-pleasant parts and only remember the glowing ones.  I feel the same way about beaches.  So I thought there would be no better way to celebrate my birthday and Easter than with the ones I love, doing what I love, in a place that I love.  It would be our first Family Campout!  I imagined running slow motion, holding hands, splashing into the waves.  I daydreamed about watching the sun melt over the gulf while the campfire cracked.  And laughing.  Lots of laughing.

It took a full day to pack and prep, and another day to drive.  By the time we actually arrived to Padre Island National Seashore, our car and our nerves were about to burst.  The anticipation had been killing us.  Everything was exciting:  “Look a seagull!”  “Wow, the smell of salt water!”  “Kids, isn’t this FUN?!!”

We scoffed at the “4-wheel drive only” sign, changed the suspension’s setting to Sand, and plowed through the tire tracks looking for the perfect place to pitch our tent. 

I use the word “pitch” very loosely.  Because in our inexperience, we hadn’t accounted for the hurricane-like-gusts that Never. Died. Down.  It was like trying to drape a table cloth in a wind tunnel.  The only things not whipping violently were the items we threw in the tent or left in the car.  This, of course, also posed a problem for the campfire.  Chris spent  hours trying to dig a hole deep enough to block the wind – and even then it was more meowing than roaring. 

It was hard not to be disappointed.  This was not how I imagined it!  I hadn’t planned on the seaweed drifts, rotting and squishy.  Or the layer of dampness on every square inch of fabric.  Or trying to fall asleep to the pounding of the waves. 

But I also hadn’t prepared for the sunrise.  Or the floating feeling of peace.

We woke up Easter morning groggy, hair-matted, wind-beaten.  And worn out.  The kids smashed confetti-filled cascarones on each other’s heads and then Chris waded out with them, helping them high-jump over the waves.

I was overwhelmed with emotion.  I had been so focused on wanting the Hollywood version that I had forgotten about the Here-and-Now version.  The messy, raw, and beautiful version.

Weeks after we returned, I would still find grains of sand.  I would roll my eyes.  Then smile. And laugh.