Austin Adventures: Part 4

My plan to fly to Austin and simply sit on Savannah's couch was being thwarted at every turn. My eldest daughter could not abide the idea that her mother not be engaged and enriched every moment of the blessed day.

"What would you like to do today?" Savannah asked.

As if she didn't already know.

I had been VERY clear.

"There's some sort of tulip farm not far from here," she said, moving to interrupt my locked gaze from her large television.

Darn it.

"That just popped up on my Facebook algorithm," I admitted, begrudgingly.

Apparently Facebook knew I was in Austin. And was also intent on enriching me.

I sighed. I guess picking a posy wouldn't kill me.

We broached the subject to my younger daughter, Sydney, who typically adores photographic opportunities. Turns out that, for Sydney, a forty-five minute drive wasn't worth the experience of frolicking in a field of flowers. By Wyoming County standards, forty-five minutes is a mere blink of an eye so I buckled up for this blossom-based adventure.

Texas does NOT disappoint. 

Drive to the middle of nowhere and you will, inevitably, find something.

A two-story tall shovel sculpture, for instance. I believe Sydney Linda arranged that particular excursion (And where was she now?).

Savannah and I finally came upon the tulip farm, yes, in the middle of nowhere and realized, immediately, that we had not done our research.

We didn't have time to explore the lovely barn packed with farm-related animatronics, fudge, backed goods, and gifts galore because we were racing to reach the miniature baby goat pens that stretched, a mile long, behind the barn.

Again...I tip my two-gallon hat to Texas. If it weren't for your three-digit summer temperatures, I'd happily embrace the notion of "Go west, middle-aged woman!" A cute little chain hooked each enclosure and anyone could go waltzing in to kick-back with the kids. Savannah and I danced right in.

Want to pick up a miniature baby goat? Go ahead! No snooty lecture or list of regulations required. 

Want to kiss and hug a miniature baby goat? Go for it! No animal rights group was picketing these pens...just families buying feed or bottles to nurse our happy little friends. The area was clean with ample shelter for each creature. A waterline ran the length of the pens. It wasn't fancy but SO MUCH FUN!

But we weren't done!

We had a MAP!

We had two complementary tickets to shoot apples out of an air-compression cannon but, in my excitement of blowing giant bubbles at the giant bubble blowing station we encountered on our way to the air-compression cannon BEFORE looking for the miniature Highland calf that we never actually found because we got waylaid by the racing pigs before contemplating zip-lining through a forest to land on in-ground trampolines the size of a basketball court, I lost one of the tickets. NO-OO-OO! I sacrificially gave the remaining ticket to my daughter and the young man, in charge of apple distribution, was so moved by my selfless gesture that he grandly gave me an extra apple! 

And Texas just trusted that we would just know how to operate this insane (but delightful) weapon that annihilated apples. Lock and load, baby!

We did finally make it to the tulip field. 

Beautiful.

We agonized over each choice as we filled our container.

I imagine that a tulip field in Holland would be like walking into an Impressionist painting. Walking into a tulip field in central Texas is like slipping under the cozy cover of a velvet painting depicting Elvis playing poker with a group of cheating dogs. "Savannah, climb on top of those wooden shoes (bigger than her car) so I can take your picture." 

"Do you think we should try over by the grand piano parked in the patch?" 

"No...that's a high traffic area. Let's try over by the windmill and the bicycles." 

"Are there more tulips over there?"

"At least we know there are a few pedals!"

Savannah and I were big fans of the tulip farm!

Austin Adventures: Part 3

Y'all know I'm a country girl. Dirt roads for miles. Up-rooted railroad tracks that run wild in both directions. Fields in which to frolic...woods to ramble...all there for the taking should I ever muster the energy to get off my couch. 

My daughters have both relocated to well-known metropolitan areas where one must drive to experience a centralized-pseudo-nature planted within the pastures of parking lots and pay-toll roads of the cities they currently inhabit. 

Savannah, fortunately,  landed in a nifty little neighborhood that has gated access to a small forested area buttressed by a slowly-flowing river. She and Lisa dubbed it "The Hundred Acre Woods" and enjoy it daily with their dogs. 

Despite its reference to the gentle children's story, "The Hundred Acre Wood" is fraught with danger and peril. Savannah has been attacked by red ants.  Sydney tested (and failed) the siren's call of an alluring rope swing coil dangling like a hypnotic pendulum over the gentle water. And...most terrifying...after a rare flood of the river...Savannah and Lisa came nose-to-extended-nostril with an out-of-place alligator. While Lyle, Lyle Crocodile (also a comfortable city dweller) could, quite plausibly, fit into this "Hundred Acre Wood" setting, my girls, fleet of foot, did not stick around to find out if their new neighbor could sing or not. 

So, imagine my delight when I am dragged to this den of danger and disaster almost every day of my visit.

To their credit, my children know that I am equal parts distractible ("Look! A butterfly!") and manipulable. Lisa assigned me the "important" task of getting a cute picture of their new foster dog, sweet Anne Bonny...left, neglected and abandoned to her own devices...pregnant and frightened...did not fare well on her first crossing of a sea of traffic. She lost an eye and crushed a rear leg for her efforts but saved her puppies.

Anne's four off-spring, treasures, all...found homes easily.

Poor Anne, a beaten and battered-down vessel, is having a tougher time. Her exterior, while not warm and cuddly, does tug, like an incessant wind on the foremast of your heart. Her interior, though? Unfathomable. Anne Bonny, not surprisingly, has trust issues. She is shy and easily startled. Despite her limited vision, she misses nothing and hovers, uncertain of her welcome, in the periphery. 

So...off I tromped...to the terror-filled "The Hundred Acre Wood"... for Anne.

And it was Anne who alerted us to yet another unusual inhabitant.

I've been on the look-out for an armadillo. Savannah would, occasionally, stop-short, alert to the underbrush...sensing its possible presence. "Look for small rabbit ears," my Wyoming-County-raised daughter advised quietly as I scanned the scene. "Does it have a call?" I whispered, ready to engage. "No...it just sort of rustles," she explained. 

Well, we heard a rustle.

"That's gotta be one big armadillo," I observed.

Anne was not having the idiocy of her people and began barking.

Sydney squinted through the briars and the bramble. "There's something over there. I think it's a cow."

I did my own concentrating. Wyoming County sports more cows than people. I backed up slowly. If Anne
could have, she would have clapped. "It's a bull."

The Mosiman women all backed up...slowly.

"He must have swam the river," Savannah said. I felt that reading his resume at this time was not relevant...unless it included that one of his strengths was working with others. We appreciated our surroundings at this moment as, unlike the open fields back home, we were buttressed, every few feet by trees. 

We soon left Ferdinand behind.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I remarked that things couldn't get much worse than that. "Well, there's always the possibility of a feral pig," Savannah mused, ignoring her sister's pointed glare, "If a bull could swim across the river..." 

I scanned the brush...immediately transported to some other well-loved children's classics like "Where the Red Fern Grows" and "Old Yeller." Sydney linked her arm in mine and said, "I doubt Wilbur would have the energy to get off the couch." 

Speaking of couch, it was time to get back to my natural habitat.

Populated with bulls, alligators, and ants, walking in "The Hundred Acre Woods" is no picnic. After this encounter, I was practically a basket-case.

 

My recent stay...deep in the heart (burn) of Texas

 I am a simple girl with simple tastes (The notable exception, of course, would be my highly-refined taste in men). So, imagine my delight as, when I was following a clearly-struggling-to-carry-my 80-pound-bag-through-the-door daughter into her Austin house, I was aromatically assaulted by the tantalizing smell of hot dog soup simmering on her stove. I was home. Transported to my childhood and Savannah's. 

I waited for Savannah to drag my luggage like a bloated body into my room, watching her collapse at the waist like her puppet strings had been cut, gasping for air like a landlocked guppy. I frowned as she then gingerly stood and stretched, her back making alarming cap-gun noises. "Have you taken a break from working out regularly?" I asked, watching her leverage one end of my bag up onto the bed before throwing her body weight up under the other side to raise it to mattress level. Success! "Can we eat now?" I inquired impatiently. Savannah nodded...so emotionally overwhelmed from having her mama visit that she was unable to formulate whole words. 

I sighed happily.

Savannah had made hot dog soup. Lisa had prepared pasta salad. 

There was string cheese in the fridge.

Fruit gummies in the pantry.

Miniature Peppermint Patties at-the-ready.

I was good for the duration of my time in Austin.

But, no...Mama needed to be taken out on the town. 

The stifling HOT town.

Again...simple girl. 

Golden Arches cheeseburger and fries girl.

But I was game...

First stop:  Aba Austin in the famed South Congress Avenue district. 

Worth it for the cooling stations alone. Silent misting fans provided a welcome respite from the torturous Texas sun. The busy restaurant welcomed us warmly and quickly accommodated my rapidly dramatic decline as I battled an external climate crisis and internal insecurities based on economic disparity discovered during our brief wait for a table...I didn't know that was such a thing as a shampoo scrub and that I needed it to detoxify my hair. Apparently a major selling point is that it expired twenty-four months after the first use but I was convinced, after discovering the very reasonable forty-five dollar price tag that, given time,  I could recreate the scrub using the black sea salt and basil in my own kitchen. The shampoo scrub really whetted my appetite so I was extra-eager to get to Aba Austin despite the fact that I wasn't sporting the $800-$3,000 cowboy boots everyone on South Congress Avenue was wearing while window-shopping. I would just have to hope no one noticed my orthopedic sandals. 

Oh! Thank goodness! Basil decorating my drink! I inconspicuously rubbed it in my hair before popping it in my mouth. My imagination was ignited by giant slices of raw radish chips and purple carrot swords that cut a current across a settled sea of hummus. Whipped feta? Yes, please! And more olives than you could shake a purple carrot stick at. 

For dessert, we ordered the Pistachio Panna Cotta. For a girl accustomed to the inevitable disappointment that is attached to the varying distribution levels of hot fudge atop her McDonald's sundae, it defies description. Lisa, trying to help, compared it to flan. I am not a flan fan. This is a cool, layered dessert...a confoundingly firm yet creamy base topped with citrus and nuts. A surprising array of tastes and textures that combine to lower your body temperature while heightening your senses.

Hours later, my digestive delight turned to despair as debilitating heart burn arrived, slipping beneath the bedsheets to join me for a sleepless night of crippling cramps.

Never again, I vowed in the morning, ashamed to meet my own gaze in the mirror. The only thing this girl would be chewing for the foreseeable future would be Tums tablets.

"What would you like for brunch, Mom?" Savannah asked an hour later as I faced yet another food-restricting failure, this time, roof-top, at Paperboy East. Only Texas would so-blatantly besmirch brisket in a breakfast hash. My limited Western New York exposure to brisket compels me to consume it in only its purest form. I went for the Ricotta toast...topped with basil (Yup, one swipe across my hair first), mint, curd, kiwi, berries and...crumble! "Toast" was not an accurate description for this bread-based breakfast bonanza. When I wasn't tunneling through my toast, I was sharing a UFO-shaped blueberry pancake made with brown butter and sea salt (tossed a few grains into the old mane) stealing some sauteed sweet onions from Savannah's hash.

The Texas blue laws curtailed my Sunday morning mimosa so I ordered a fun cocktail called a Spring Fling that I promptly renamed the Sour Patch Kids punch (after they scraped me off the ceiling). Fortunately, the glass came with a generously sugar-coated rim so I went into immediate survival mode and methodically pushed all the sugar up and into my drink. Perfect.

Until...hours later found me again with an uninvited guest to remain, steadfastly by my side, to wait out the long night. 

I know, in my heart, that these two amazing restaurants do not bear the entirety of the blame of my gastric distress. It is important to be accountable for one's choices and one's subsequent actions. Ultimately, everyone is responsible for their decisions and must bear the consequences. That is why the next blog will point to the other party who caused this traumatic pain:  Stay tuned for the role that Savannah and Lisa played in this stomach-turning saga.

What the Dickens! My evening at the theater

I would like to fancy myself a literary aficionado...a lady of letters...a "candide" countess of the classics. But I must confess, dearest friends, that I am a freud. In fact, when it comes to literature, I have no idea what I'm tolkein about.

So when I discovered that we'd be going to the theater to see a performance of "A Dickens Christmas Carol" in an auspicious Austin venue, I was understandably intimidated. Fortunately, I have an extensive background in the Muppet version and can quote most of the movie so I was hopeful that I wouldn't thoreau-ly embarrass my family by riding out on my short biblio-pony.

Thank you, Brian Henson, because most of Gonzo's narration is taken verbatim from Dickens! That blue-beaked bard saved my life!

I can say, with 100% authenticity, that Austin's ZACH theater's performance of "A Christmas Carol" is my second favorite version of the timeless classic...following, of course, The Muppets, but edging out that outdated version originally penned by Charles Dickens.

And it's not because they gave me a fancy foam light-up wand to wave around during the multiple audience interaction scenes.

And it's not because of the revolving circular stage in-set, a-la Hamilton...I do love a staged Lazy-Susan!

Speaking of stage theatrics, it's also not because of Marley-the-miser, rising, amid scream and smoke, chains a'rattling, before our eyes from his mausoleum...Lisa and I were terrified until our toes started  tapping to time to Marley's version of "The Man in the Mirror."

Wait. What?

This was a MUSICAL? With songs we KNEW?

Oh, yes.

Who would have ever predicted that Whitney's "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" could bring an audience to their knees as a wistfully, mournful ballad as Belle regretfully (but rightly) kicks Scrooge to the curb? And, following the predicted death of little Tiny Tina, one of Bob Cratchit's kids cranks out Beyonce's "Halo" with such heartbreaking soul that the Queen B herself would have bestowed a royal title upon the talented performer.

I was delighted!

I was in familiar territory. I knew this place. I was well-acquainted with these people and their problems. But this time...I was a part of the story and the solution. Poor Scrooge was never going to be redeemed without a wave of my magical wand. Tiny Tina would not live to see another Christmas without my voice added to the heavenly choir of adapted pop hits. To the naysayers who claimed that this adaptation lacked depth? Well...cue up "Shallow" and let's sing! I admit that I went to the theater with low expectations. I was wrong. It was great. And you didn't have to be a literary genius to recognize it.

 

I almost had a capy-tivating encounter

Long ago, when my girls were little, we encountered a little pop-up "zoo" in the middle of a desolate parking lot. My delighted little girls excitedly filled a metal cup with Fruit Loops and watched, dancing in place, as little monkeys used a pulley system to carry the cup to their enclosure. My family, for years, looked forward, each fall, to feeding the bears in Marineland... finally resorting to smuggling in apples as our conscience couldn't handle tossing mini-marshmallows into the toothless maws of these mammals. It wasn't that long ago that I myself wrestled an elephant for a jumbo marshmallow in my own village park.

In America, we have the sometimes-arrogant luxury of demanding five-star accommodations for every creature from caterpillar to cow. My experience in being a public school teacher as well as my more recent in-the-trenches education regarding elder care have done much to open my eyes to realistic expectations. Are they being fed consistently? Do they have access to clean water? Adequate shelter? Room to move? Routine medical care? I have been mortified, more than once, unfortunately, to have encountered children and senior citizens who were not provided these most basic of needs. I have also been greatly saddened by having witnessed children and senior citizens who have ONLY received these...the most basic of needs. 

Rule #1 in my classroom is "Life is not fair." Not every child... not every senior citizen...not every animal is going to receive the Cadillac of care. Life may not be fair...but it should be just. And "just" is basic needs:  food, water, shelter, medical care, and safety. Not everyone can afford a Cadillac. Sometimes a Corolla will do.

So, yes, I was a bit uncomfortable walking into an Austin shopping plaza aquarium last week. This was not the snooty, specialty zoos with their gourmet kitchens, in-house veterinary care, nail/claw/talon salons and their now-booming ka-zillion dollar revenue of animal experiences where you take out a second mortgage on your house to spend five minutes with your dream penguin only to be ruthlessly ripped apart after falling hopelessly in love. Nature can be cruel. I can't imagine anyone being stupid enough to fall for that gimmick.

Your senses come alive the moment you enter the facility. Punched in the face with the pungent odor of a thousand defecating animals, you are immediately rendered, blissfully, nose-blind. You are first greeted by the Madagascar black-and-white-ruffled lemurs. Apparently, of the 10,000 remaining on the planet, 9,999 are housed in a shopping plaza aquarium in Austin. And ruffled is right. Their piercing screams communicated just how happy they were to see us. They are the world's largest pollinator (that also explained the aroma) and they boast TWO tongues...neither of which would stop wagging indignantly at us. "Look, Mom," Savannah said, pointing at a sign, "You can schedule an animal experience with a lemur." I shook my head, no, suspecting that this experience would have something to do with a lemur ripping my face off of my body.

I was much more comfortable feeding the prehistorically large fish, letting sting rays vacu-hose food pellets off my palm, and inviting spindly-legged shrimp to race up and down my arm. Turns out the "Keep six inches above the water" rule was more of a suggestion as everyone was shoulder-deep in each exhibit but no one was going hungry in this environment.  The tanks lacked decor (NOT a basic need) but were not horrifyingly dirty. The eels...reason enough to NEVER venture into the ocean...were thriving. I happily hit the trifecta in the giant koi tank...coaxing fish, ducks, and a turtle over to my offering. "Careful, he bites," warned my neighbor, a blonde eight-year-old with the life experience of a gnat. I hope the camera didn't catch me tapping the turtle on the head with my cup to get him to release my finger.

Now it was time to decide with whom to spend my animal encounter. The sloth seemed like a good idea except he was a bit pricey (for a shopping plaza aquarium in Austin) and he was, shockingly, asleep. The two little penguins were molting...shivering together by their enclosure door. They had, like Savannah, apparently acclimated to the triple-digit-Texas temperatures and did not appreciate the 70 degree day. So the Capybara it was. We handed over our tokens. Received an hour's worth of instructions and then waited breathlessly as the keeper entered the enclosure to see if the Capybara was up for visitors. I was transported, back in time, to the Roman Colosseum, nervously awaiting the life-or-death decision based on the unpredictable whims of the emperor. Unfortunately, it was not to be:  It was four-webbed-toes down (each boasting their one hoof-like claw), dismissing our desire for a date with destiny. It was probably for the best. I
couldn't remember all the directions. We considered the wallabies but I had just watched a video of a man and his dog getting beaten up by a kangaroo so I was a little jumpy about that possible interaction. The red ruffled lemurs seemed pretty nice but, according to staff, they were on a break. I don't know how I missed the cigarettes and cocktails in their cage. And then, suddenly, without solicitation or warning, we were being briskly escorted back to the entrance so that we could have a feeding encounter with the Madagascar black-and-white-ruffled lemurs.

I'm pretty sure I can out-scream a Madagascar black-and-white-ruffled lemur if the situation were warranted. I reluctantly handed over my tokens and thought, longingly, of the peacefully unreceptive Capybara. I watched a small black paw punch the mail slot of his metal cage open. The staff member placed some ripe raspberries in my palm. I swear the little lemur tapped a forefinger against his wrist, impatiently indicating that time was a-wasting. I ventured warily closer...close enough for one small hand to explode out of the slot to grip mine, pulling my open palm towards him while the other paw moved with lightning speed to make that raspberry disappear with the slick slight of hand maneuver used by seasoned magicians. I was given another raspberry (Thank you?) and the little lemur stuffed his snout through the narrow opening. But I'd learned my lesson with the turtle. We would be handling this exchange like Olympic runners passing the torch or an illicit drug exchange like the ones I suspect occurred daily behind a little shopping plaza in Austin. 

I had fun.

Not virtuous fun like when 10 percent of your overpriced fancy drink purchase goes to charity.

More like tawdry fun...like when you stumble into a somewhat seedy but reasonably safe bar whose already cheap drinks are now half off. 

I observed fresh shavings being laid down. I saw an employee chase down and rescue an errant gecko. Animals were fed. The water was passably clean, especially by Michigan standards. The inhabitants were given breaks and space if they weren't in the mood for an interactive experience. This wasn't a deluxe organic dog food in the refrigerator enterprise...this was a sack of Old Roy slung over your shoulder. Most of us have been there so we don't judge.

At least, out loud.

I feel a little dirty saying it...but, I had a blast. 

And, maybe, the next time I go, Caesar Augustus Capybarus will vote four-webbed-toes up.

If a tree is recognized by its fruit (Matthew 12:33), what happens if you are a tree that produces nuts?

 Forgive my whining as I am acutely aware that I am abundantly blessed...I communicate with my daughters via text, phone, and/or Facetime practically EVERY day. Sydney and I exchange Instagram reels with the speed and on-theme accuracy of dueling Western outlaws. But not being physically with them for long periods of time can feel emotionally crippling. I haven't been with my girls since the summer. I know. I can hear my military moms out there laughing hysterically. But how do I confess, when each day was packed with meaningful, memorable activities, that my very favorite moment of this past visit was when, one by one, each girl slid into my quiet bedroom as I took a quick break to rest...snuggling in on both sides of me...succumbing to sleep as I lay there...enraptured by their synchronized breaths...transported back in time by the ancient drumbeats of their hearts? These two incredible women...independent, resourceful, strong, kind...once harbored within me. Each exit, I reflected, as I refrained from movement so as not to wake them, was painful but necessary for growth. My daughters...shield and shelter...reside permanently in my mind, my memory, my heart, and my soul.

Being a mom is a huge part of my identity.

I am the daughter of the King. I am Brad Mosiman's wife. I am Savannah and Sydney's mother. I am my mother's daughter and advocate. I am a teacher. A writer.

Cities, I have discovered, have identities as well. New York's skyline, sadly notable for its missing Twin Towers, is renowned for the Empire State Building. Chicago has the Sear's Tower. Boston boasts the John Hancock Tower, and, of course, Fenway Park's famed Citgo sign. Your eyes cannot help but scan a city's skyscape...seeking the familiar...the comforting...a beacon...a grounding force.

Austin has the Owl.

The Frost Bank Tower sits comfortably upon its perch, nestled within the city of Austin. More wry than wise, the story surrounding this structure pleases me as one of sardonic comeuppance. Architectual audacity. Its designer simply not giving a hoot...swooping in silently to stamp its unblinking identity over Austin. 

My family surprised me with an afternoon and evening of unrestricted "bird"-watching as we enjoyed warm beverages and holiday cocktails while roasting s'mores on a decorated rooftop neighboring the Owl. The rented cabana provided privacy and invited us to linger comfortably as I watched, entranced, as the sky became the constantly-changing painted backdrop for this architectual piece of art...manipulating the mood by curtaining with clouds and leveraging the light. What a range of feelings...foreboding, suspicious, mysterious, anticipatory, watchful, protective, predatory...all at a safe distance, surrounded by my family...my beacons...my grounding force. 

Identity is an interesting term. A fly-over definition speaks more of the individual:  behavior, personality, character traits. But a deep-dive may reveal more: What draws others to you? What are the features on your cityscape that invites (or repels) attention? What parts of your personality act as a lightning rod or a guiding lighthouse? Are you a cozy bungalow? A dilapidated duplex? A haunted house? A split-level or skid row? What message is printed on your "Welcome" mat? When someone knocks...do you remain silent or do you call out, "Who's there?"

Louis Sullivan was an American architect and pioneer of city skyscrapers. One of his collaborative works, the Prudential Building, remains a jewel in the crown of the Buffalo skyline. He is quoted as saying that a "building's identity resided in the ornament." I know that he probably meant windows and such...oh my goodness! Gargoyles! But, as it's the holiday season, I immediately related the quote to a Christmas tree. The tree, alone, does not identify as a Christmas tree. It is when the shiny bulbs, the twinkling lights, and the star rests upon lofty boughs and nestle into branches that the tree transforms..."becomes." The ornaments of a structure are the residents whose lives and stories then reside within the stories of the structure. My ornaments:  Brad Mosiman, Savannah, Sydney, Lisa, Douglas, my mom, my dear friends, my students, people kind enough to read my words, and my Star and Savior, guiding it all...transforming me into the kind of tree I was meant to be.

Just a reminder, to me, to begin this new year by not asking "Who am I?" but "Whose am I?"

Thank you, God for decorating my life with the most spectacular ornaments imaginable. 

Learning to lighten up when I travel

How I envy the fluent flyers...those who are able to effortlessly navigate airport terminals without flinching in fear; or, like me, attempting, desperately, not to engage their flight or fight response.  

That I am separated from my daughters by time and distance is bad enough...but that my most efficient means of reaching them is to dart, from crowded gate to gate, like a frightened rabbit racing across a war-torn no-man's-land, is embarrassing. I feel weak...vulnerable...and exposed. 

But, as an odd sort of comfort, these feelings are similar to seasickness.

Poseidon and I do not play. Over the years, I have thrown everything I have at him...from Saltine crackers to ginger to bracelets. My eye is on the horizon but my stomach  is in hell. And, in a last ditch effort, as I lay in the fetal position in the bow of the boat, an empty vessel that has purged my very soul to the sea, my only thought is that, as unbelievable as it seems in the moment, as soon as my feet hit land, I will immediately feel better.

As soon as I exit that airport...I will immediately feel better.

Having wrestled my two bulging suitcases, laden with horseradish, Poly-O string cheese, venison and Christmas presents, from baggage claim, I wrangled my way out to a mild Texas evening. 

Finally. I inhaled deeply, appreciating the luxury.

I called Savannah, who was surprised that I was alone. "Sydney, Doug, and Lisa went in to help you," she said as she drove the obligatory laps around the airport. Lisa found me first...I abandoned my luggage and raced fearlessly down the sidewalk to her and then...Sydney. My heart and arms were full. Only Douglas had the good sense to retrieve the bags.

It had been a long day but SO WORTH IT!

"I know you're tired," Savannah said as we all stuffed ourselves into Lisa's car. I was handed a water and a fistful of chocolate, "but do you think you're up for a little adventure before going home?" 

Let's just say that I am now completely spoiled when it comes to being picked up from the airport as we drove through the Peppermint Parkway. 

What a day! First I had to pass through the seven levels of hell that is airport travel:  Rudeness. Impatience. Bad manners. Narcissism. Poor customer service. Aggressiveness. Marginalization. Then I searched through a sea of kiosks and stores for a head-ache remedy sold by an actual human being before finally walking out the doors of the Austin International Airport. 

Safe in our little car, I had a front row seat to a spectacular holiday light show. Festive music, dazzling lights, and animated characters filled our slow, mile-long drive of delight as I peeked out the moon roof, doing a reverse-Santa maneuver. We sang. We wassailed. We waved to the Grinch and a roller skating snowflake. It was magical.

It was like I had stepped off a battered ship after a storm. The events of my long day blurred...becoming more tale than trauma. The waves gentled...the sea had calmed. The churning was over. 

As we left the Peppermint Parkway, I reflected that, like the lights, our moments and memories are strung together in a similar fashion. Occasionally, there are moments of darkness. There are also flashes of intermittent brilliance. But mostly there is a long, steady illumination...dependable and comforting. And, if sometimes you lose your way...it will help guide you home.