When I Grow Up

You can do anything for a year. These are the words of my old college professor who exhorted, from experience, that you can stick anything out for that amount of time. So what's four months, or four weeks? A sinch? I'm having trouble with one day. I enjoy the stage of life we're at right now, but am antsy to do something. The worst part is, I'm not sure what that something may be, and therein lies the problem. I don't know that there is one thing I want to do. In fact, I am certain that there are a myriad of things I would enjoy doing or being – but alas, I've only got so much time. I can't go back to school to study journalism while I memorize my lines as the lead role in the upcoming community musical, Seven Brides For Seven Brothers. We've only got so much room in this one-bedroom apartment; I suppose I could clear out the washer and dryer and use that space for a potter's wheel and drying rack but I doubt our landlord would be so gung-ho over my keeping a kiln in the kitchen on account of the fact that a previous tenant caught the place on fire just five years ago. Plus, my dust-covered clothing would only inhibit my need-be immaculate work in my personal darkroom. And if the kitchen is full of clay equipment, where would my letterpress fit? Being that I'm most creative and productive in the evening hours, my bakery full of every sweet and delicious pastry you could imagine would suffer due to my lack of sleep and therefore lack of judgement whilst preparing the day's goodies at 4 a.m. I pass stores like Banana Republic and Ann Taylor and fantasize about having a career that requires me to wear fabulously professional clothing and pretty shoes, but that doesn't last long. The idea of doing someone else's work for the rest of my life is one of the most discouraging thoughts. (Thanks, Mom and Dad, entrepreneurs extraordinaire). My professional yard saling business could easily be run on the side to any other profession as it's seasonal and just two days a week. But then there's the issue of running the quaint little shop that holds the unique and fabulous yard sale finds... Those strength assessment tests you're forced to take in high school always told me that I should become a florist, which wouldn't be so bad except the test didn't take my allergies into consideration, and I don't think I would want to work in a profession so closely tied to funerals. We can't forget to schedule the year that I would dedicate to my rock and roll band tour – just the continental USA, to begin with. And the monthly food critic write ups of fabulous dishes at fantastic restaurants. There's the summer in Ocracoke, North Carolina to squeeze in, not to mention the majority of Europe which Ben and I plan on exploring while he writes and writes and I eat and eat, snapping an occasional photo for our coffee table book collaboration. Somewhere along the line I'd like to have a family, and I hear those take up some time. I'm certain that my up and coming film would only benefit from such diverse life experiences and inevitable connections that I'll have made along the way. At least I've got time before I begin working on my memoir, which is certain to be entertaining. (Ben has instructed me that usually the writer waits for certain individuals to pass on before revealing all the good juicy stuff, but don't worry, I'm taking notes along the way). Really, I don't think it's an issue of time. With enough motivation, the majority of these things could be accomplished (some after hours and hours of vocal training...), it's just that I do like to eat, and as much as Ben doesn't, he sees the necessity in it. So for a while, at least, I'll continue to march alongside (or a bit before), the millions of early riser, nine-to-fiver population and be grateful to be employed at all. But don't think I'm not weighing my options all the while.

Meet Rufus...

Ben got lots of great birthday mail over the weekend, including a sweet card from my maternal grandma, affectionately known as Rufus. She's one of those people that you'll never forget once you spend any amount of time with. Lately I've been toying with the idea of somehow celebrating some of the best people I know, and talking to her on the phone last week convinced me to do so. I called her up to thank her and catch up on her life in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. She was born and raised there, seen a lot of change. Since high school, her girlfriends have called her Rufus, a nickname they derived from Ruth. And when my mom was pregnant with my older sister, Rufus thought “Grandma” sounded too old, thus insisting on being called Rufus. Rightly so, because Rufus is unlike any grandmother that I've ever met. Just last summer she went jet-skiing with us.

There is a certain smell that takes me back to her Pompano homestead; a mixture of clementines, sweetness, baked goodies, and the smell of a kitchen late in the day when it's filled with the sun's last rays. Every now and again, in the early morning just after Ben's finished his coffee, there's a remnant of that nostalgic, comforting aroma and I cling to him in effort to take it all in.

The woman is amazing. She raised four fabulous children, giving each one the same pug nose and almond shaped eyes – my own mother being the second oldest and the spitting image of her. Rufus made all their clothes, polka dots being the preferred pattern. The excitement about said pattern is written all over their faces in family photos. My favorite story consists of Rufus chasing my Aunt Liz around the kitchen table in effort to punish her for her most recent creative and mischievous doing. In one quick, defensive swoop, Aunt Liz grabbed my mother, who was followed by my uncle, and the four ran around the kitchen table until Rufus was laughing so hard she had to dismiss herself to the restroom. Punishment successfully averted.

As children, my sister and I were carefully packed into the car along with the luggage and selected Christmas presents when it was still dark out. We slept for the better part of the fourteen hour drive from Tennessee to south Florida, keeping ourselves distracted with bubble letter drawings that said things like “I love you” or “Merry Christmas” that we would proudly present to Rufus and Papa amongst arrival. Our anticipation grew with the first sighting of Palm trees (which my older sister called Pampano trees for years). There was something magical about this far-away place that was warm at Christmas time. The driveway to their house felt at least two miles long. We would gather our drawings, throw on our shoes and push our faces against the window knowing that as we pulled up, that big wooden door would swing open and we'd hear a familiar “YoooWhooo!” They had a gigantic lawn with real grass and the largest ant population I'd ever encountered. There was a mysterious warehouse in the back that contained all sorts of goodies we didn't care much about back then. Rows and rows of things piled on top of one another, waiting for the day they'd be used again. Bicycles, type writers, tools, luggage bags and other things that set off my allergies. She's in a different house now, but the same greeting occurs with every visit. I drove by the old house last time I was down to find that the driveway and the warehouse had shrunk significantly.

There is a perpetual lemon iced pound cake in her kitchen and a brunswick stew in the refrigerator. She used to slip money in our pockets when we were done doing the dishes after a big family meal. Her coffee is made with a percolator every morning and she drinks out of rose china. She has a glass of wine every night and when I visit, we watch old movies. She brushes her teeth with baking soda, which I never understood when I was little. Each time I'm down, we set aside one morning to go see the sunrise at the beach. We share a delightful breakfast at a nearby cafe in the same booth next to a large open window. I flipped through her desk calendar once to see that every family member's birthday was clearly marked, with a reminder four days in advance to send a card. She is affectionately known as the family girl scout because when she travels, her suitcase is packed, days in advance, with outfits bagged and labeled according to their contents. Her medicine cabinet is the same. Her garage is no different. She knows exactly where everything is. My great-grandmother labeled all her belongings with a permanent marker and some masking tape with the name of the individual whom she wanted the item to go to once she passed on. Earlier this year Rufus gave me some fabulous old mason jars to take home. As I was unpacking them and filling them with my carefully selected items, I turned a lid over to find the words “All mason jars to Lily Anne” typed on a label and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

We talk a lot when I visit. I was down for a few days one winter when Ben and I had recently broken up. She had been all caught up on our drama and met me at the door to hold me tight as I returned from the porch after a long phone conversation. I told her what I'd told him, that I just needed some space and time to think, so please stop calling me. She continued to hold me tight but sighed and said “Oh! Poor boy!” She's that kind of wonderful. The kind that can hold you tight but tell you the hard stuff that you need to hear, but don't really want to hear. She's the first to cry with you and the first to laugh with you. And when she laughs, she laughs hard. She has one of those fabulous giggles that becomes silent as the intensity increases and her body just bobbles up and down, her eyes squinted. Her whit is quick and it's not unusual for the group of us to end up bent over, side aching, and dabbing our eyes for the tears that our laughter has brought as a result of any given dinner conversation. And she's honest, too. Sometimes brutally, but you know she means well when she tells you that the sweater you're wearing would look better on someone else. She's so full of wisdom and understanding, an obvious byproduct of years of experience. I feel blessed to have had twenty two years with this woman to know her as a grandma with a mean pound cake, but also as a intelligent, poised woman with a lot to learn from.

see those squinty eyes? and that's my mom- told you, spitting image.

We eat a lot, too. Rufus is one of the best cooks I know. One flip through her recipe binder, and you'll see notes scratched on every single one, improving the recipe with every trial. In addition to the cake and stew, a seven layer salad is always prepared before our visits. I recently learned that just after she was married, she approached her next door neighbor and asked if she would teach her how to cook, because she didn't know where to start. Now look at her.

Marriage. When I asked her one visit how she and Papa met, she giggled before elaborating. He was a handsome older gentleman from Massachusetts trying his hand at bar-tending in a warmer climate. As he was examining the cigarette selection in the nearby vending machine, she was examining him. My feisty, confident grandmother, who had never smoked a cigarette in her life, turned to her friends and said, “I think I need a smoke, ladies.” I can see her now, blonde bombshell strutting over in her stilettos, it wouldn't take much more than that. A year later, and they were married. Fifty years, four kids, and eight grandkids later, she had a lung removed due to cancer...

These were both taken around age 19. How do you ignore that, right?

And when did we stop looking glamorous on a daily basis?

Papa was an Irishman with the red hair and the short temper to prove it. His scratchy, strong voice always greeted us with a “Hi-ya” and for years a little snappy white dog he called Mister adorned his lap and clung to his side. And then there were his eyebrows; corse, salt and pepper decorations that took up one-fourth of his forehead. He studied fashion design and just recently we've been able to recover some of his beautiful illustrations. There's a whole wall in our kitchen bare and neglected, just waiting for the prints to be framed. I'm the only one of eight grandkids with the red hair. Once when we were reminiscing about Papa, Rufus' face became soft and content and she looked at me the way moms and grandmothers look at you when they become sentimental and said, “You have his eyes .” I love that. Here's to hoping I don't inherit his eyebrows.

The year I was born, Papa began to show signs of dementia. One of my first memories of Papa consists of him holding a large snake around his shoulders at the zoo. I told Rufus this once and she giggled, remembering that as one of the first red flags that something must be wrong... The Alzheimer's got worse, making the house harder to find after a walk, and continued until even his own son became a stranger to him. It was hard to watch, but even harder to understand at a young age. The next fifteen years were difficult ones as the family struggled to care for and love this man in the best way possible. Life has been full of ups and downs, trials and celebrations. She is one of the strongest women I know, and she's candid about her mistakes, but always concludes with a thankful heart full of appreciation for the grace she's received. I wanna be just like her when I grow up.

She still lives in West Palm Beach and shares dinners with my Aunt Liz and her little boy Sterling on a weekly basis. They venture up to Tennessee a couple times a year (pound cake in-tow), and we share good laughs among the rolling hills of the south. We'll be heading down to Florida for Christmas this year, for the first time in a long time. The trip and the driveway are shorter, but the times still as sweet and even more cherished.

Needless to say, she's taught me quite a bit. Just last visit I learned that it's possible to over-beat a cake batter. Egg shells are good for your plants -- who knew? Don't wear stilettos, she says, you'll pay for it when you're sixty. Don't smoke cigarettes, you'll pay for it when you're seventy. You can't take too many vitamins. Bubble baths are an appropriate way to end any day. We've been given a lot of grace, so we should give it to others. One can never be too organized. Laughing and crying and then laughing again in the same conversation is completely acceptable and sometimes necessary. We are so blessed. Fiesta ware is virtually indestructible. Dear friends are hard to find, but once you find them, you do all that's in your might to keep them close. You can never own too many pairs of long underwear. And when in doubt, choose the polka dots.

this photo was taken at our breakfast cafe just after the sunrise one morning.

To top off my tribute, I've included the coveted pound cake recipe. Yes, the very one. But don't expect it to come out like Rufus' on the first try... She's had some practice.

Rufus' Pound Cake

1 lb Butter, Soft

6 Eggs

2 C sugar

1 Can Condensed Milk

3 C Cake flour

Beat softened butter and sugar. Add eggs one at a time, beating well. Beat in condensed milk. Add flour 1 cup at a time. Pour in well greased and floured bundt pan or angel food pan. Bake 325 degrees 1 hour or more.

Mix approx. 3 cups (or more) of confectioners sugar and 3 to 4 Tablespoons key lime or lemon juice in blender or mixer and drizzle over cake once cooled.

Birthday Ben

Sunday was Benny Boo's 23rd birthday. It took everything within me to believe him when he said a family dinner is all that he wanted. The fact that I wasn't squirming with surprises and secrets killed me. The more people I get to celebrate with on my birthday, the better. (Ben and Rose threw me quite the birthday-kidnap surprise last February and it was fabulous). We had birthday waffles for breakfast and then celebrated in style with a take-and-bake pizza for dinner- Ben's favorite from Mama MiMi's - and a "Tasty Cake" baked by his sweet mother. Ben's mom is fantastic in the kitchen and the poor woman gave birth (23 years ago) to a boy who has the most bland taste buds in the world. She could make just about anything, and he requests a Tasty Cake - yellow cake with a layer of peanut butter, topped with chocolate and then chilled. The very same Tasty Cake that he requested for his groom's cake just nine months ago. The same cake that he set down in reaction to the white wedding cake that was shoved up his nose... and the same cake that was snatched up within seconds of his attending to his frosted face, thus, leaving the poor groom without even a bite of his own Tasty Cake on his wedding day. But alas, now there is an entire Tasty Cake in our refrigerator and a content twenty-three year old in our living room.

In light of the recent event, I thought it appropriate to share with you twenty-three of my favorite things about birthday Ben. (the following are in no certain order).

1. His mad guitar skills

2. His mad writing skills

3. His undying commitment

4. He's super strong when I'm super weak

5. His ability to reason in stressful situations

6. The way I fit just right in his arms, and just right under his chin

7. He smokes a pipe

8. He remembers crazy facts

9. The way he quizzes me every time a song by the following comes on the radio: The Rolling Stones, The Doors, Led Zeppelin, Jack White.

10. His story telling - sound effects included.

11. He loves me more than I ever thought possible

12. His affinity for all things flannel

13. His new affection for sweet tea

14. His leadership

15. His collection of vinyl records

16. The way our dinners together often become lecture series.

17. His mad dance moves

18. His big brown eyes

19. His brown turtle fur toboggan

20. He's a fisherman

21. He's good at building fires

22. He uses a typewriter

23. He's gunna grow old with me.

You make me feel all warm inside.

Some things are too good to keep to yourself. Please accept this, my some-what public apology, for keeping one of the best cold-weather treats to myself for the last 22 years. You may squirm at the description of the following, but please, don't knock it til you try it. It's a warm, delicious, calorie-filled comfort snack that no home should be without this season and I'm pretty sure my dad invented it. Of course, I thought my mom wrote the lullaby she sang to me at night for a good 18 years before I heard some other kid singing it at college. That was painful. Regardless... all you need to warm your bones and add a little extra insulation is a handful of Graham crackers, butter and hot chocolate. The butter is to be spread on the cracker, the cracker to be dipped in the cocoa. But be warned, this dipping requires some practice. Lingering too long will result in a broken cracker - for this reason, may I suggest that a spoon be kept on hand for the beginners. I've just finished my first graham-hot cocoa delight of the fall, and assure you there will be more to come. Some complementary tasty-treat activities that pair well with the delicacy include, but are not limited to: Letter writing, old movie watching, Etsy shopping.

Holly Hocking Hilltops

My Tuesday is like most people's Saturdays. My 'work week' starts on Thursday and ends Monday, which I guess makes my Monday like most people's Fridays, which is especially bizarre. Thankfully, Ben has Tuesday's off too. Tuesday is right in the middle of his two busiest days, though, so he actually has things to accomplish while simultaneously trying to keep me entertained... I will admit that yesterday, in a moment of weakness, I had a pouty moment in which I vocally envied regular people's Saturday's off with their husbands and the ability to participate in shared activity. I tried to suck it up and headed to the grocery store (which I should never do in a grumpy state. I'm not a good shopper even when I'm in a good mood. But trying to meander your way around those indecisive people and the unnecessary extra cardboard stands that make the most available products that much more available to you - I just don't have the patience for it). Regardless, I came home to find a carelessly forgotten pair of boots on the front step. I kicked them out of the way and entered the first door. Up the stairs and I had to dodge a water bottle followed by a folded scarf and a pocket knife. I could hear one of our favorite driving songs through the second wooden door, and just as I was trying to solve this creative puzzle, I opened the door to find a condensed trail of long johns, gloves, my jacket, a granola bar, my camera, a burnt CD entitled "Fall Road Trip," all leading to my grinning husband. This was going to be good.

Road trips happen to be one of our spontaneous strengths. Ben has been my go-to road trip accomplice for the last five years and accompanied me to see the sunrise on the beach at least three times during college when I just needed to get out. The road-trips were never planned, but given only two hours (at most) notice -- enough time to make the appropriate road-trip music, get some coffee, and drive the eight hours through the night until we pull up to the coast, tired, groggy, irritable and looking for the nearest gas station for another round of coffee and chocolate covered donuts. We'd watch the sunrise (if it wasn't too cloudy), and turn right around, heading back for TN. These photos are from the first adventure (freshman year), during which I only allowed myself the documentation of two disposable cameras. And yes, that blonde bombshell is now my husband.

So, needless to say, I was quite excited to see the CD - there are few things I appreciate more than an appropriate soundtrack. I had enough time to put up the groceries and grab my things (including my 35mm camera, for old times sake), before Ben lead me out the door and down the road. I grabbed a sweet tea at a Sonic on the way, and was set. We headed for Logan, Ohio, on recommendation of our friend Charity, for some hiking and leaf-looking. The drive to Hocking Hills (which Ben called Holly Hock all day), was just as good as the hike. We admired the hills and the colors to the sounds of Sufjan Stevans, Innocence Mission, Fionn Regan, Simon and Garfunkel, and of course some Jack White - even Ben's good friend Griffin Kelp. It was perfect. We're so enjoying this new stage of life in Columbus - but it was beyond refreshing to get out and remember what nature is. We rounded hilltops and drove the curvy road to Hocking Hills past little streets named things like Black Jack and past open fields where corn stalks recently stood.

The park was beautiful, and I have a feeling we hit it at just the right time. It was brisk, but beautiful weather and the leaves were falling as we walked. Ben enjoyed his pipe and took notes on a matchbook while I snapped photos all day in efforts to remember how perfect it all was. We stopped at a "pumpkin patch" on the way home - already picked pumpkins with a big jar out front to drop your money in, guarded by a lazy farm dog - and dropped by another park just down the road to encounter my first ever milkweed.

The whole day was just what we needed, and didn't even know it till it was over. I am so thankful for my husband's tender spirit and self sacrifice. So let this be your exhortation to get out and enjoy the colors before they all disappear for another year. May I also suggest a custom soundtrack - I have taken the liberty of suggesting some of my favorites below to help get you started.

and the film...

my favorite one.

a taste of my autumn tunes this year. each have been window-down, rolling hill-driving approved.

1. Grey or Blue by Jaymay

2. Strawberry Swing by Coldplay

3. Song for You by Alexi Murdoch

4. Hold you in my arms by Ray LaMontagne

5. Heavenly Day by Patty Griffin

6. Lay Lady Lay by Bob

7. J'en Connais by Carla Bruni

8. Swept Away by The Avett Brothers

9. The Underwood Typewriter by Fionn Regan

10. Never Be by Kelley McRae

11. Please Read the Letter by Robert Plant and Allison Krauss

12. Come on! Feel the Illinoise! by Sufjan Stevens

13. Vio Spilum Endalaust by Sigur Ros

14. Sweetness and Light by Bill Mallonee

15. Any and all of Nick Drake

New Website

Check out the new website! It offers a little more class and professionalism than this little ol thang... I had my first wedding with BCR Studios last Saturday at the beautiful Anthenaeum downtown, Columbus - I was a second-shooter with Evan who has done some beautiful work with BCR. We have another one this weekend at a winery that I'm super excited about!

Ben is in full swing of grad school and pretty exhausted at the end of the day, but enjoying it and doing really well. Our little life in Columbus is coming together really well and we feel very blessed. Now we wait for the cold to set it... Oh dear.

09.06.09

Rose Rogers, one of my dearest friends, married 2Lt. Andrew Corbett over Labor Day weekend. The whole weekend was an absolute blast as the wedding party - which consisted of her three sisters, Andrew's sister, and Claire and myself - took care of last minute details. Of which there were few, because Rose has been working so diligently all summer long in preparation for this big day. There were so many unique, handmade things that added such a personal artistic touch to the wedding. Rose made the save-the-dates, the invites, the programs, the aisle runner monogram, name cards, menus, the favors, centerpieces, the bridesmaid's jewelry and clutches, her own jewelry and hair piece, and even be-dazzled her shoes. Check out her Etsy site which offers some of these great accessories [ roserogers.etsy.com ]

The ceremony and reception was held at the historic Union Station in downtown Nashville, TN. The ceremony was beautiful with friends of the couple singing, playing the piano, and reading scripture. A quick "lemonade hour" was enjoyed by the guests out on the patio, despite the tornado warning (ironic right...?!) while the staff of Union Station transformed the ceremony site into the most elegant reception site I've ever seen. (Unfortunately, I was too busy having the time of my life to get many shots of the reception decor). We danced the night away to the tunes of Radio Daze - the same Nashville-based band that made my own reception so much fun.

Rose was a great bride- so stunning and she seemed to enjoy every minute of the day. Claire and I have never had so much fun. There wasn't one dull moment the whole weekend and we were so sad to leave. Thanks, Rose, for letting us be part of your big day - everything was perfect!

Rose added this fabulous touch to the front of the dress -

Bride's Shoes - she added the pearls to the tips

BM's Shoes- HELLO! Right?!

Union Station was an old Train Station - one of the main stops in the South.

And look! The main stops just happen to be the cities the three of us came from! Meant to be.

Some of the BM's clutches -made by the Bride herself.

The Bridal Suite overlooked the ceremony site, so needless to say, there was peeking all day.

Check that hair piece. And the earrings. And the birdcage vail, and the ring. Mad talent.

The color in the next few are much more striking pre-blogger...

Love this cake shot -

The sweet married couples - all within eighteen months. This was the first of the three weddings that all the boys were able to grace us with their presence!

Love you Rose and Andrew - wish you the most happiness in the years to come!