To My Darling Husband on his Birthday

I love you with every beat of my heart, every cell of my body, and every sparkle of my soul. Thanks for the adventures. 
I love you. ~H

The Day We Accidentally Eloped

This past summer we took the kids to Montana for our annual summer visit. We visited the Madison County Courthouse in Virginia City where Dave and I were married in 1996, almost 18 years ago. (Sheesh! How did that happen??). As I recounted the tail of our nuptials for the kids I realized that it was a story worth sharing and documenting for the great grandkids. (Yes, I fully expect that the great grandkids will enjoy GG's blog!!).

Here's the story...

It was the summer of 1996. I was 20 and Dave was 26. We were planning to be married on the Madison River in Montana. We had planned an ultra groovy ceremony perfect for our river-side-dog-friendly-shoe-optional-locale. Our ceremony would be complete with bare feet, Enya, and an ivy covered trellis, hand made by Dave. It would be my dream wedding (and my husband-to-be conceded to my every whimsical desire. Thanks, Honey.). One detail that we both agreed upon was that we didn't want an officiator. We didn't feel the necessity for the state's permission in our unity. At least not in the ceremony of our unity. We agreed that we wanted to spend our lives together, and why did we need the blessing of the state to make it so? We felt that all we needed was our life long commitment to each other, the blessing of our families and a ceremony to be witnessed by our dearest friends and family. (Aside - Now, almost 20 years later - March 2014, in light of the recent denial of marriage equality by so many states, I am proud to have foregone the blessing of the state in my own ceremony.)

But back to June of '96 - So there we were planning our groovy ceremony, and we realized that even though we didn't want an officiator to be a part of our ceremony, we did want to come out of our "wedding" as legal husband and wife. We realized we would have to go to the Madison County Courthouse beforehand to get a marriage license, which we assumed was how you made a marriage legally binding. So about a week before our nuptials we made the 45 minute drive to Virginia City, adding to our "To Do in Town" list: file marriage license. We figured filing our marriage license would be as simple as getting a license for our dog: fill out an application, pay a fee, and file it with Bundy, the county clerk. You filed everything with Bundy in our tiny county: dog licenses, car registration, property tax, and, we figured, marriage licenses. So we arrived at the county clerk's window, wearing our usual errand running attire of the 90's: Levi's and hiking boots and told Bundy we were there to get our marriage license. We explained to her that we were planning a groovy wedding ceremony and we wouldn't have an officiator but that we wanted to be sure that we were legally married when it was all said and done. She tilted her head and looked at us through the readers on the tip of her nose, assessing whether or not we were serious. Once satisfied she said, "Ok. Then you two will need to go see Judge O'Malley." Great. We thanked her and inquired as to where we could find Judge O'Malley.

"I'll have her meet you upstairs in the courtroom. Did you bring a witness?" she asked as she glanced down at our matching flannels and hiking boots. We looked at each other.

"A witness for what?"

She smiled and said, "Never mind. I'll send someone up."

So up to the courtroom we went figuring that was where the applications for the marriage licenses would be found.

The courtroom of the second floor of the 150 year old, brick Virginia City Courthouse was empty and cold and slightly creepy with the 20 foot ceilings, heavy red velvet drapes and rows of wooden pews that had surely seen all varieties of atrocities since the 1860's. We sat in the front row and waited. Eventually, Judge O'Malley arrived wearing a long black robe. She was trailed by two women in business suits and sneakers. I recognized them from downstairs. Smiling, she said, "You two ready?"

We were slightly confused. Ready for what? To pay our fee? To sign our application? But we didn't want to seem like the ignorant, barely twenty-somethings that we were so we hopped up from our pew and said, "Yes, ma'am." We approached her where she stood in front of her heavy oak desk with the name plate that read Honorable MaryAnn O'Malley. She asked us to face each other while the other two women shuffled around and stood behind us. "You can join hands." We looked at each. Weird. But it wasn't until Judge MaryAnn O'Malley said,

"Welcome everyone. We are gathered here today..."

that we finally understood.

"...to witness the joining of these two people in matrimony. Do you, Dave, take Heather to be your lawfully wedded wife? To love and to cherish her, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?"

Holy $#@%! We were getting married!! Right then and there. In our Levi's and our hiking boots. At the Virginia City Courthouse. In Madison County, Montana. And we hadn't even planned it!! Honestly.

"I do."

"And do you, Heather, take Dave to be your lawfully wedded husband? To love and to cherish him, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?"

Holy $#@%!

"I do."

"Do you have a ring?"

"Uhhh." I took off the ring that Dave and I had chosen to symbolize our groovy commitment to each other and that I already wore on the ring finger of my left hand and gave it back to him. The ladies shuffled in their sneakers.

"Repeat after me. With this ring, I thee wed."

"With this ring, I thee wed." And he put it back on my finger.

Dave took off the ring that I had picked out for him and gave it back to me.

"Repeat after me. With this ring, I thee wed."

"With this ring, I thee wed." And I put his ring back on the ring finger of his left hand. I daresay, we both trembled a little.

"By the power vested in me by the state of Montana, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride."

Holy $#&%! We just got married!! We had just eloped!!! And we didn't even mean to. Our parents didn't even know!! Our siblings didn't know! Holy $#&%! We looked at each other and we could hardly contain ourselves. We laughed right out loud. Right there in the Honorable MaryAnn O'Malley's courtroom we laughed. And we kissed. And we laughed again. And we hugged. We were married. Just like that.

"Congratulations!" The two women said, clapping their hands.

"Congratulations," said MaryAnn O'Malley.

And we all went back downstairs to sign our marriage license, pay our fee, and file it with Bundy.

Dave and Heather in front of the Madison County Courthouse in Virginia City, MT, June 24, 1996 - right after we got married without knowing it. Four years later to the day, our second son, Emerson, would be born. 

A visit to the courthouse in 2003.

A visit to the courthouse in 2013. 

Virginia City, MT 2013

 In our Levi's and hiking boots with the Honorable MaryAnn O'Malley in 2013. 

Sayulita

I know it's been about a hundred years since I updated my blog. To my utmost surprise, people are kind of upset about it! I'm receiving hate mail! Just kidding. It's more like stink mail..."When are you gonna update your blog?? It's been like 3 months!" I'm always surprised to hear that anyone reads my blog aside from Dave (And me. I have to admit I love to read my own blog. It can be a problem.) Anyway, here's an update:

Dave and I recently got back from a week in Sayulita...sans kids!! It was a first for us. We've left them over night; even two (maybe 3) nights. But never for a week. It was heaven. I only missed them a little (and really that's being generous). Does that mean I'm out of the running for "Mom of the Year"? Well, maybe it'll improve my standing in "Wife of the Year". Either way, it was lovely. 

Since we didn't have our kids with us, I was forced to take pictures of trees...

...and beers... 

...and cars...

...and fishermen...

...and flowers...

...and this little plane flying over the Sayulita surf...

...and other people's sun kissed babes...

...and other people's kids gettin' tubular at the Left.  You rocked that wave, Rory!!

This is a bad picture of us, but it's the only one I got of the two of us!

Of course, I still got lots of pics of Dave surfing the Left. 

We had an awesome time and were amazingly efficient with our week. Dave installed a sweet solar system at the Barefoot House (the meters are turning backwards!) and we were able to get his FM3 renewed in record time - phew! It was a great trip. And thanks to Aunt Hannie and the Miami Grandparents the kids had a great time, too!

The Day We Met - Part V

The Day We Met - Part I

The Day We Met - Part II

The Day We Met - Part III

The Day We Met - Part IV

Part V

The couple from Washington went on to Mario’s without me. And shortly thereafter, Dave loaded my pack into his dinghy (the other one at the dock had been his), and we went back to the sailboat called Morgenstern.

Morgenstern was docked at the Tijax Jungle Lodge just a quick dinghy ride from Hollymar. I had never been on a sailboat before, and it was all new to me. There were tiny little toilets with pump action flushers, a swaying stove that burned alcohol (I later learned it’s called a gimbaled stove), cozy geometric shaped cabins, and lots of places to bump your head. That first night aboard Morgenstern Dave gave me the quick tour, and then I headed into the jungle for a hot “dock” shower. The shower house was just a short ways from the dock, up a little path, but it really was in the jungle. There were huge cracks under the stalls and the plywood door, separating me from whatever lurked in the darkness of the jungle, was “locked” with a flimsy hook and eye. I remember feeling very vulnerable as I quickly washed a day’s worth of travel from my hair. I was anxious to get back to Morgenstern and to Dave where I couldn’t help but feel completely safe.

I got back to the boat (unscathed) and saw that Dave had whipped up some quesadillas and set out a bowl of chips and salsa. I had missed dinner and I was starving! After dinner we cozied into the aft cabin and watched Ace Ventura Pet Detective (one of our family’s favorites to this day). We talked a little that first night, but not much. I do remember that we exchanged ages. I was 19. He was 25. Deal blower? I thought maybe.

By the time I woke up the next morning he wasn’t onboard. I found him on the dock sanding a new cherry wood dinette table for Morgenstern. Oh my. Was he ever a vision. He had on a pair of cut-off jean shorts that looked like they had seen one too many days at sea, a bandana covering his hair (you know like they wear under a motorcycle helmet), and he was shirtless. Oh the glistening muscles. He saw me coming down the dock, and he turned off his sander. I could tell that he thought I was quite the vision myself. I had on a white tank top and my own cut-off jean shorts. (We loved our cut-offs in the 90’s didn’t we?) I had gone to bed the night before with wet hair and it was fabulously full of body. I felt pretty. It had been dark in the restaurant the night before and 12 volt lights on a sailboat aren’t much brighter. I think we were both pleasantly surprised by how attracted we were to each other. Of course, we didn’t discuss that until later…

To Be Continued...

The Day We Met - Part IV

The Day We Met - Part I
The Day We Met - Part II
The Day We Met - Part III

In case you haven't caught on yet, October is Love Story Month. Mary at Owlhaven hath put forth a challenge to write and share our love stories. I highly recommend participating. Quite fun to stroll down memory lane. I'm writing about the day that Dave and I met, from my perspective. Do start from the beginning. Links available above (in red).

Part IV

...deciding that I had had enough of my drunken compadre, I picked up my glass and headed for the table of the shoeless American.

“Mind if I share your table?” I asked as I approached the unoccupied end of his rather long table. He looked up from his book and motioned to a chair. We sat in relative darkness and silence for a few moments before he said, “So you’re trying to get to Casa Guatemala.” It was really a statement more than a question, and it struck me as an odd thing to say. Had it not been painfully obvious that I was trying to get to Casa Guatemala? Had he missed all the action during the last 20 minutes? In this tiny restaurant everyone had bore witness to my plight and subsequent failure to get a ride down the river. There was no way he could have missed it.

Yes, I explained, and I was having very little luck, although we both knew that he already knew that. But luckily, I told him, Holly had been kind enough to offer that I stay with her for the night. He nodded his approval.

Another moment of silence.

I asked where he was from.

Southern California. Newport Beach, he clarified.

“I’m from the central coast!” I reported, warming up to this fellow Californian. I had to find out more about him.

“Have you been in Guatemala long?” He told me he had been on a sailboat for the previous eight months and pointed into the darkness beyond the restaurant.

“That explains the no shoes,” I stated triumphantly.

“Not much use for shoes on a sailboat,” he retorted. He was growing on me.

Just then, Holly came over, “Oh good. You met Dave,” she said to me. He and I exchanged a little look. Dave, I thought. I love that name. I reached my hand across the table, “I’m Heather.” I sat back and listened to Dave and Holly having a conversation about a couple they both knew, each of whom owned their own sailboat. Eventually, this couple got married, and the time came for them to move onto one or the other of their boats. In the end they decided that since she was the more qualified sailor they would move onto her boat, and she would be the captain. Dave heartily supported this arrangement and mentioned that he thought more women should captain their own boats. Now he was really growing on me. The bell on the screen door jingled as a couple walked into the restaurant, and Holly excused herself to greet them.

Dave and I glanced at each other, and, suddenly, the distance between us seemed excessive. I scooted down a couple of seats towards him. He smiled, seeming to appreciate the gesture. After another moment of silence he asked out of nowhere,

“Do you cut hair?”

For a second, I considered lying and saying that I did. I recognized the crossroads we were standing at. Either, I cut hair and a door would open leading to some future encounter with this handsome, Southern California sailor, or I didn’t cut hair and that door would slam shut. Sadly, I’m a terribly liar, and I’m not much better with hair.

“I don’t,” I said. “I wish I did.”

I could almost hear the hinges creaking as the door started to shut.

But then he said, “That's OK. If you’ll cut my hair you can stay on my boat tonight, and I’ll take you to the orphanage in the morning.”

(Insert sound of door banging on the wall as it swings wide open.)

He explained to me that it really wasn’t safe to travel the river at night and that the Casa Guatemala was quite a ways down river. I studied his face for any signs of funny business. I saw nothing but sincerity, and I couldn’t help but trust him completely. He must have sensed my hesitation and said, “There’s an extra cabin on the boat. We just have to move some rigging out of it, and you can sleep there.” Now this was sounding fun. My own cabin? On a sailboat? With rigging? And a cute-as-can-be fellow American? I wondered if Holly would mind if I chose curtain number two.

I was considering my options when I noticed two figures moving in my direction. As my eyes focused in the darkness I recognized them to be the couple from Washington whom I had sat with on the bus ride from Morales. By heart sank just a little as I remembered my promise to share in the expense of a ride down river should they secure one.

“Hey! Thought that was you. We got a ride! And split three ways it’ll only be 30Q each.” They looked at me expectantly. Remember my offer to share in this expense was a solid, binding contract.

“Oh,” I tried to hide my disappointment. “Great.” I glanced at Dave who had leaned back in his chair and was pretending not to listen. He took a sip from his bottle.

“Wait a minute.” Holly walked up behind them, wiping her hands on a towel. In her restaurant everything was her business. “You guys are going to Mario’s. She’s going to the Casa Guatemala. Casa Guatemala’s clear across the river and down quite a ways. It’s way too far.”

“It’s not that far!” The drunken expatriate chimed in from his perch at the bar. Apparently, it was his business, too. “I been to the Casa Guatemala, and it’s just cross the river from Mario’s!”

“It’s not just across the river, Jerry!” Holly insisted, “It’s at least a 20 minute dinghy ride down river.”

“Nonsense!” He was starting to get a little steamed. “You could throw a rock to that orphanage from Mario’s!”

"We heard it wasn't that far. We thought the driver could drop us at Mario's and then take her to the orphanage." The couple from Washington had their sights on my 30Q, and they weren't going to let me off the hook that easily.

As the conversation continued, I became more and more embarrassed that such a hearty debate had ensued on my behalf. I could feel my cheeks turning a deep shade of crimson. Mercifully, with only candles lighting the little restaurant, I don't think anyone noticed. I was dumbfounded that these people, virtual strangers to me, all seemed to have such a vested interest in determining the outcome of my evening.

And I was panicked.

It seemed to be out of my control at this point, but I no longer wanted to get to the orphanage. I wanted to stay with Dave and spend the night amongst his rigging. The orphanage could wait until the morning. But after the desperation I had displayed in needing a ride down river and the promise I had made to the Washington couple, how could I renege? Imagine me saying, “Silly me. Did I say I needed to get to the orphanage? No, no. Never mind. You guys go ahead. I got a better offer.” Couldn't happen. Not without serious loss of face. I was in a bind. And it seemed that my fate was in the hands of either Jerry or Holly.

If it was determined that Jerry was right, and the orphanage was indeed close to Mario’s, I would be obligated to share a ride with the couple from Washington. If the consensus was that Holly was right, and the orphanage was too far from Mario’s, then I could, in good conscience, stay with Dave. I sat in agony as the debate continued on for another five minutes, until finally Holly said, “Let’s ask Dave. He’s sailed this river a dozen times. He knows.”

All eyes turned to him, including mine.

Until then, Dave had been perfectly quiet, sitting back in his chair, occasionally sipping his beer and waiting patiently as my fate was haphazardly passed around that restaurant like a bottle of Captain Morgan's. Yo Ho!

He leaned forward in his chair and placed his empty bottle on the table. He turned and looked at me. Our eyes met. I knew, in that moment, that he held the fate of my life in his hands. I got the sense that he knew it, too. And after what seemed like an eternity, he finally turned to Holly and said the sweetest words I have ever heard,

“It’s really…really far.”

And just like that my fate was sealed. Our fate was sealed.

The couple from Washington went on to Mario’s without me. And shortly thereafter, Dave loaded my pack into his dinghy (the other one at the dock had been his), and we went back to the sailboat called Morgenstern.

To Be Continued...

The Day We Met - Part III

The Day We Met - Part I
The Day We Met - Part II

For those of you newcomers: I'm joining a fellow blogger in posting my love story. If you haven't read Parts I and II you can click on the above words (Yes, the red ones. Those are direct links. Go ahead...click on them.) But, don't cheat. You really must read this story from the beginning.

It was a little after 4PM when we pulled away from Morales, leaving behind a cloud of dust and a half dozen slightly stunned Mayan vendors. The rest of the drive would take 2-2.5 hours. I glanced at my watch calculating. It would be 6 or 6:30 when we arrived. I knew from our last trip to Fronteras that the water taxis didn’t run after dark. Casa Guatemala is situated on the Rio Dulce, 30 minutes down river from Fronteras and is only accessible via water taxi. It would be tight, but where there is a will there is a way, I thought to myself.

The remainder of the trek was uneventful. I sat next to a young couple, travelers like myself, from Washington state. At one point they asked me if I had been to Fronteras, and if I knew of a good place to stay. Always eager to share helpful hints with fellow travelers, I told them that yes I had been there and the Posada Ricki was clean and cheap. They exchanged a concerned glance. That was the one place they had been warned not to stay. Didn’t I know it was a brothel? That was disappointing news, and it made me wonder exactly who Ricki was. They asked me if I had heard of Mario’s. I hadn’t stayed there, but I knew that is was a hotel on the banks of the Rio Dulce with a restaurant that was known for great burgers. They were uncertain of their plans, but I told them that if they ended up going to Mario’s, I’d be glad to share in the expense of a water taxi, since I was going downriver, too. (Sidenote – Travelers like to do this…band together to share in the expense of anything and everything from hiring a taxi, to sharing accommodations, to sharing a guide for a certain adventure. This is done for the common goal of saving a few bucks and often makes affordable certain activities and luxuries that would otherwise be out of budget. And when you’re on a budget of less than $10 a day, a few bucks is a big deal. So my offer to share a water taxi was a solid, binding contract.) Later, we got into a discussion about what we thought we might like to do with our lives. I don’t remember what I said, but I do remember that as our conversation was winding down they agreed that they could imagine me living on a farm with braids and lots of kids. I suspected they weren’t too far off the mark.

As we neared Fronteras and the Rio Dulce, the air became thick with smoke and the sky turned a sickening brownish mauve color. The gentleman in front of us explained that it was the burn season when the farmers cleared their land in preparation for planting. The smoke burned my lungs and eyes and blocked out the sun. I hoped that it wouldn’t be that thick at the orphanage.
As our bus pulled to a stop near the bottom of the Rio Dulce Bridge I assessed the daylight situation. It was just past sunset, but there was still light in the sky (although dim with all the smoke). There was still a little time. I hurried to the restaurant/bar called Hollymar that was situated on the banks of the Rio Dulce, where I remembered that I could arrange for a water taxi. I glanced across the street at the Posada Ricki with a slight frown. Outside the door to the restaurant I set down my pack and considered my appearance. I had a feeling I would need to use the power of feminine persuasion in order to secure a ride to the orphanage at this late hour. As a single white female, traveling in a Central American country, I had learned to dress down on “travel days”. It was safer and really more efficient not to stand out when using the public transportation system. The less cat calls and long stares I received the smoother my day would go. Subsequently, I wasn’t exactly dressed to impress. I had on a loose pair of khaki shorts, a loose fitting softball t-shirt, my hiking boots, and a sweatshirt with one crusty sleeve that seemed to hang longer than the other. My hair was in a saggy, dusty ponytail, and I was sweaty and smelly from a day of stressful travel. I wasn’t exactly the clandestine image of feminine beauty. I quickly retied my ponytail, shed my crusty sweatshirt and tucked in my t-shirt. That would have to do. Daylight was fading faster than I expected. Armed with as much feminine charm as I could muster I walked into that bar overflowing with confidence. I was determined to get to Casa Guatemala by bed time. I would not be spending another night at the Posada Ricki.

Even though the Hollymar restaurant and bar was nothing more than a 30' x 30' hut on stilts, with wood planked floors and no walls, it had a certain charm to it. Owned by an expatriate American woman named Holly, it attracted all types of interesting characters. It was not uncommon to find travelers, locals, and expatriate retirees, off their sailboats, sharing drinks and good times in this tiny little bar on the Rio Dulce. On the night that I strolled in, there was a typical mix of folks enjoying the casual atmosphere and good company. I looked around the room and considered my options. Holly, as usual, was at the bar dispensing drinks and lending a patient ear to a retired sailor who, it appeared to me, had had one too many. I assumed that one of the dinghies pulled up to the restaurant’s small dock was likely his, which made him a potential ride down the river. Seated next to him was a young Guatemalan fellow who I recognized to be a water taxi driver. Ellen and I had jokingly referred to him as Rico Suave, as it seemed that he thought quite highly of himself and had been rather flirty when we had met him before. On this night, I thought I might use that to my advantage. Seated near the water’s edge was a couple enjoying a quiet meal. They didn’t strike me as having much potential in aiding me on my downriver quest. Across the room, sitting alone at a rather large table, was a young American man with no shoes on. He was trying to read with a flash light perched in one hand and there were several empty beer bottles beside his empty plate. I didn’t know quite what to make of him. I could tell right away he wasn’t a traveler like me. He seemed too clean and the book he was reading was a hard back copy of Tom Clancy’s Debt of Honor. Travelers don’t read hard backs. We carry everything we own in our packs, and hard backs are way too heavy to make the cut. The no shoes thing was throwing me, too. Where could he have come from with no shoes? Either way I decided he was far too good looking to try and take advantage of. I did not count him as a potential ride down the river. So I fixed my sights on the two gentlemen at the bar with targets on their backs. I felt nearly certain that between the two of them I would be able to charm my way to a ride down the river.

I approached the bar and Holly recognized me right away. Ellen and I had befriended her on our previous trip to Fronteras, and I was thankful to have an immediate alliance with somebody. I explained to her my situation, that I was volunteering at the Casa Guatemala, and I was slightly desperate to get there as soon as possible. She immediately motioned to Rico Suave saying, “He can take you.” Wow! That was too easy! But my excitement was short lived as he explained to me in Spanish that his little boat was out of gas. Well, surely we could get some gas somewhere in town. I offered to pay for his gas if he would take me to the orphanage. His eyes lit up, and I could tell he wanted nothing more than to be my knight in shining armor. He heartily agreed, and we grabbed a gas can from his boat before heading next door to where the gas man lived. Rico knocked on the door and gave me a cheesy grin. He was probably no more than sixteen or seventeen, and he wore his black hair to his shoulders and neatly slicked behind his ears. We heard a baby crying inside and a second later a young woman answered the door. Rico held up the gas can, and she quickly shook her head, no. She explained that they were out of gas, and her husband was gone to Morales on business until the morning. No problem, I thought. Surely that’s not the only place in town to get gas. But as we headed back to Hollymar, Rico explained to me that there was no where else to get gas until the morning. I don’t know who was more disappointed. Having exhausted plan A, I quickly shifted my sights to my next victim. Surely, the retired expatriate with the dinghy couldn’t say no to a darling, stranded, fellow American.

It was quite dark by the time we reentered the restaurant, and I wondered why Holly hadn’t turned on the lights. Then I remembered that in this little town (like many others in Guatemala) electricity was made by a generator which was shut down every evening at 7PM. I wasted no time and sat down at the bar right beside my new target. Rico and I explained to Holly about the gas dilemma, and I quickly inquired about the two dinghies on the dock. She told me that one of them belonged to the gentleman seated next to me. I feigned surprise, and, batting my lashes, I turned to face him. I pleaded my case wondering if he might help a stranded lady with a ride down the river in his dinghy? He lifted his glass into the air and said rather loudly, “I can’t give ya a ride, but I can sure as hell buy ya a drink!” The syllables of his words smeared together, and the stench of his breath made me think I was probably better off. I politely refused his offer. I couldn’t believe that my best efforts of flirting and schmoozing had failed me. I had gotten myself out of many a predicament in Central America with that exact approach. I was rather shocked and starting to feel slightly sickened at the thought of spending another night at the Posada Ricki. Holly must have read my mind because she brought over a glass of water and told me not to worry. I was welcome to spend the night at her house that night, and then I could catch a taxi to the orphanage in the morning. What a relief! That sounded superb. I didn’t have to spend the night at the Posada, and I would still be able to save $6 on lodging. I thanked her profusely, and deciding that I had had enough of my drunken compadre, I picked up my glass and headed for the table of the shoeless American.

To be continued...

As always...please consider joining us in posting your own love story. Let me know if you do because I love, love, love to read a good love story.

~Cheers

The Day We Met - Part II

*If you didn't read Part I of The Day We Met you can scroll down a few posts to find it. You can't miss it...big red heart.

We were about a block away when I saw a bus leaving the terminal. I looked at my watch. Eleven O’clock on the nose. Could that be my bus to Fronteras? For a second I thought to hail a cab and chase it down. But what if it wasn’t? I would feel like a fool chasing down and stopping the wrong bus. I decided to remain calm. Surely that wasn’t the bus I was supposed to be on. And even if it was, there was always another bus. Always.

When I got to the terminal the young girl at the ticket window informed me that the nonstop bus to Fronteras had just left, and, no, there wasn’t another one leaving today. There would be another one leaving tomorrow at 11AM she offered helpfully. Great, I thought. If I hadn’t spent 8 minutes on the sidewalk repairing my pack I would have made that bus. Again I thought to myself, "What bad luck." Seeing the disappointment or perhaps the hopelessness in my face, the girl looked back at her schedule. There would be a bus leaving at 1PM for Morales where I could transfer to Fronteras. It was a longer ride with more stops on an older bus, but I took it, gladly. I smiled gratefully as I handed over my 21 quetzales ($2.10) and received my receipt and a transfer ticket for the second leg.

I picked a sunny seat in a window of the terminal to wait out my 2 hours. I noticed my Austrian friend boarding a bus to Tikal and with a quick wave he was gone. I killed some time reading, bought a tamale for less than a dollar, and wrote a postcard. I didn’t have a stamp and to this day I still have that unsent postcard. I also spent some time perfecting the repair job on my pack. I still had quite a ways to go and I couldn’t bare a repeat of the sidewalk scene.

We pulled out of the terminal at exactly 1PM (they were, apparently, very serious about punctuality at this station) and headed in the direction of Morales. We hadn’t left the city limits when we made our first of what would be many stops along the way. I started out with a seat to myself but the bus quickly filled, and I found myself next to a pretty girl of 16 or 17. She was a student at the University in Guatemala City and was on her way home to Morales for the weekend. We talked quite a bit about our families and the differences in our respective cultures. I remember trying to explain Santa Claus to her. I don’t think she ever quite understood. After about 3 hours she told me we were almost there. Yeah!

I reached into my pocket for my transfer ticket and leaned forward to show it to the fellow riding shotgun. In Guatemala, most buses, especially longer distance buses, have a “navigator” who rides shotgun. He serves as the driver’s right hand man. He handles the public relations on the bus. He’s the guy who loads and unloads all of the luggage. He stops traffic so the driver can parallel park on a busy city street. He runs into a restaurant to see if their restroom is functioning and available to his passengers. Then he’ll return to tell everyone that yes the restroom is available, and for an additional quetzal you can purchase toilet paper from the clerk. He makes sure everyone is back on the bus before the driver takes off again. He lets you know when your stop is coming up. And he handles transfers.

So I tapped him on the shoulder and gave him my transfer slip. He looked at it and furrowed his brow slightly. That made me nervous. He held up one finger and said, “Momento”. He turned to consult with the driver who obviously did not like to be interrupted with such nonsense. They had a brief, curt conversation that I didn't quite catch, ending with the driver giving an irritated wave of his hand. What did it all mean? Obviously, something was amiss. The navigator leaned back in my direction and tried to explain that we might not be able to make it in time to catch my transfer. My stomach did a somersault, and I thought of Ellen back in Antigua. Maybe I should have stayed. This day was going from bad to worse. I could hardly imagine being stranded overnight in a strange town all by myself. The sound of a blaring horn brought me back from the depths of self pity. Who was honking and at what?

I looked up to see that we were coming into an odd clearing in the center of town where several other buses were parked at strange angles to the streets. There were Mayan vendors holding up their wares to the windows of the buses trying to entice the seated passengers. I noticed one of the buses starting to pull away and it looked like our driver was intent on getting his spot as we were approaching the back of the departing bus with alarming speed. Again a horn blared. This time I realized where the sound was coming from. Our driver laid into his horn spewing three long irritated blasts. By now the vendors, and anyone else in the nearby vicinity, were staring at us with considerable concern, and still we barreled towards the rear end of this bus. Our driver slowed a little, shouted something to our navigator, and motioned to him with that same irritated hand gesture. With my transfer ticket still in hand our brave navigator leapt from the moving bus and raced ahead toward the bus that was still trying to make a clean get away. Our driver gave two more lengthy blasts at the same time our navigator was shouting and banging with his hand along the length of the bus ahead of us. I watched in complete confusion as the bus stopped with a lurch and our navigator sprinted the rest of the distance to its now open doors. Panting, he climbed up the first step and leaned in towards the alarmed driver. I saw him hold up my ticket and point back to our bus as he explained himself. Suddenly, I realized what was going on. They had stopped that bus so that I could get on it. That was the bus to Fronteras. The raucous to which I had just bore witness had been for my sake. I was stunned. And rather embarrassed. Our navigator hurried back and ushered me off the bus. With swift precision he extracted my tattered pack from the underbelly of our bus and quickly headed across the clearing. I was amazed that he remembered which pack was mine and which bin it was in having packed it away three hours earlier. As we hurried toward the waiting bus I glanced back at our driver and said, “Gracias.” I’m sure he couldn’t hear me, but he nodded his head and gave a little wave. And, with that, I was on my way.

To be Continued....

Please consider joining us in posting your own love story. It's October after all - Love Story Month!

P.S. Jodi ~ When you read this (and I know you will) you should consider yourself "tagged". In other words, time to update your blog, Baby! We miss you! Now, I certainly do not expect you to fill us in on the going-ons of the whole year. Just start with today. (You can always fill in the gaps later). I would love, love, love to see some recent pics of the kiddos and to hear what's going on with you. Hugs, Heather

Speaking of Love

Last week my dear friend and fellow blogger, Tina (Musings from a Mudpie Mom), asked me to post the story of how I met my husband. Then, Mary at Owlhaven, put out an offer on her blog to join in posting our love stories. It has been on my heart to post about the day Dave and I met, and so I thought I would post some of that story tonight. It is rather lengthy, but I like to think it's a pretty fun read. Enjoy.

The Day We Met

Part I

I woke with a start at 6:45 AM to the distinct thought, “Today is the day.” Although I had planned to stay in Antigua one more night and travel to Guatemala City with my friends the next day, I knew that I would be leaving for Casa Guatemala a day early. I rolled out of bed and dressed quietly not to wake Ellen. I would have liked to have showered and washed my hair not knowing when I would have access to hot water again, but that would have to wait. I had a lot to do if I was going to make it to Fronteras before nightfall.

I headed for the town square breathing in the beauty and quiet of Antigua one last time. Only a few people were out to share the cobblestone streets with me. I passed our favorite little restaurant with the fountain and the corner where I always bought platanos maduros from the lady who wore the beautiful huipile. I felt an overwhelming sadness that I still can’t quite explain. Maybe it had to do with leaving Antigua, a town that I had instantly adored and felt very at home in. Ellen and I had stayed there on three different occasions over the previous month, using it as our home base as we traveled through Guatemala. We would usually spend a couple of days, always staying at the same Casa de Huespuedes (Guest House) with hot water and do it yourself laundry facilities on the roof. We would treat ourselves to one nice lunch while we were there. I wish I could remember the name of the restaurant. (Since I originally put these memories on paper, I have returned to Antigua and I know that the restaurant I speak of is Cafe Condessa.) Or maybe I was sad because I knew that after almost three months of traveling with Ellen in Central America we would be going our separate ways that day, and I would be alone in Guatemala for the first time.

I hurried across the square and turned onto a side street, relieved to see that the door was open to the lavanderia where I had dropped my laundry the day before. No matter where you have your laundry done in Guatemala it always looks the same when you get it back. It’ll be folded nicely in a squatty rectangular stack and bundled neatly in a clear plastic garbage bag with a knot on top. I paid the young woman 15 quetzales (about $1.50) and headed to the pharmacy. I needed some supplies. I planned on staying at the Casa Guatemala orphanage for a month. When I had visited two weeks prior, intent on volunteering, they had offered me a paid position teaching English and Physical Education. I couldn’t have been more excited! Not only would I get to love on all those darling children, so starved for attention and affection, but they were going to pay me to do it. At this point in my trip I was rather low on funds. In fact, I think I was down to $80 which was another good reason to leave Antigua a day early. I would save $6 on lodging if I could get to the orphanage before bed time.

On my way back, I took a detour stopping to pick up some Dunkin’ Donuts (although I could hardly afford them) to share with my friends back at the guest house. For the previous week or so, Ellen and I had been traveling with a Canadian couple, Sarah and Aaron, and their friend, Glen, from the East Coast. Ellen and Glen had quickly become a hot item and I have to admit I did feel a bit like a fifth wheel. We had all planned on taking a night tour of the local volcano, responsible for so many of Antigua’s tremors, but that was just another $6 I needed to save. They were all headed to Guatemala City the next day and then going their separate ways. Ellen would be taking the bus to meet her brother in Mexico City. Glen was flying home to be with his mom who had breast cancer. And Sarah and Aaron were heading south to Honduras to visit the Mayan ruins at Copan.

I told my friends of my plan to leave Antigua early over a breakfast of donuts and canned peaches. We had become rather close (traveling in a foreign country can do that to perfect strangers), and they were disappointed that we wouldn’t have one last day together. I almost let them talk me into staying. It did seem to make so much more sense. I had been looking forward to the night hike, and traveling into the city alone was not the safest thing for a 19 year old strawberry blonde to do. But I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I had to leave that day. Ellen asked when I’d be leaving, and I told her as soon as I was packed. We shared a tearful hug. Even now, over ten years later, I get a little choked up.

Ellen walked me to the bus station, and I couldn’t hold back my tears. I cried the whole way. I felt slightly ridiculous. I handed my backpack up to the guy packing the roof of the bus and climbed into the seat two back from the front and across from the driver. You never want to be in the very front of the bus (in Guatemala you never know when banditos might board your bus), but you also want to be near enough to the driver that you can find out where the heck you are. Ellen climbed in after me and sat patting my hand while I wiped tear after tear away with the sleeve of the sweatshirt I had tied around my waist. Again she pleaded with me to stay and again I seriously considered it. Six dollars was no big deal. It was just money. I would be paid at the end of my first week at the orphanage. I could make my $80 last until then. Meals and lodging would be covered. Why was I in such a rush? Going to Guatemala City alone was reason enough to wait until the next day. I tried to convince myself, but I absolutely couldn’t shake the voice that kept saying, “Today is the day. You have to go today even though it doesn’t make sense.”

So I went. I left Ellen wiping her tears at the bus station, and I cried the whole 45 minute ride to Guatemala City. The woman next to me surely thought someone had died, and noticing my soggy sweatshirt, lent me her hanky. I always feel a little weird about using someone else’s hanky, but I politely wiped my tears and forced a smile as I handed it back. I decided I would have to pull myself together by the time we arrived at the bus terminal in Guatemala City.

I knew that my next bus left at either 11 AM or 12 PM from a terminal about 5 blocks from where our driver had stopped. It was about 10:45 so I knew I would have to hurry to make it by 11, just in case. I got off the bus feeling slightly drained from my emotional out pouring but encouraged that I was headed in the right direction. As I reached up to receive my backpack that was being past down from atop the bus, the whole pack separated from the frame and landed with a thud in my arms. I looked up at the bus driver and squinted as sun streamed through the naked metal frame in his hands. He looked as surprised as I felt, and, for a second, I just stood there thinking, “That didn’t just happen. What bad luck. I don’t have time to fix it.” This pack had functioned flawlessly as I had traveled all over Mexico and Central America for the previous 4 months. Of course, it had also functioned flawlessly for my parents 20 years earlier as they hoofed it all over Europe. I should have been expecting it to give out at some point, but I was dumbstruck. And at a cool 60 pounds I couldn’t exactly carry it on my hip for 5 long city blocks. Glancing at my watch, I quickly retrieved my frame and set up a repair station on the sidewalk. I fished out my clothesline and roughly affixed the pack onto it’s metal exoskeleton. As I heaved the newly repaired pack onto my back I couldn't help but smile to myself as I admired the sturdiness of my handiwork. The Austrian traveler who had stopped to see if I needed a hand (I didn’t) was impressed, too. Although I didn’t need his help, I was glad when he said he was going to the same station as me, and, together, we set out at a hurried pace down the street.

We were about a block away when I saw a bus leaving the terminal. I looked at my watch. Eleven O’clock on the nose. Could that be my bus to Fronteras? For a second I thought to hail a cab and chase it down. But what if it wasn’t? I would feel like a fool chasing down and stopping the wrong bus. I decided to remain calm. Surely that wasn’t the bus I was supposed to be on. And even if it was, there was always another bus. Always.

To be Continued....


P.S. I would love for all of you to join us in posting your own love story. Let me know if you do so I can be sure to read yours.

After all...LOVE makes the world go 'round.

Love Languages

So Cole's off to Science Camp, Dave's back to Montana, and I'm back to lovin' on my blog. We had a lovely weekend. Great to have some quality time with Dave, marked by a rather intense
heart-to-heart* on Sunday. Amazing the clarity that comes from spending two weeks apart, and apparently, there were some things we needed to iron out.

In a nutshell, we need to remember to speak each other's love languages. Have you read that book? The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman? I just picked me up a copy yesterday (even though I was familiar with the basic concepts). Now, when I say "we" I mean me. Apparently, even though I feel like I'm screaming from the mountain tops how much I love and adore my husband, to him I may as well be saying, "Wah wah wah wah wah wah." I simply have not been speaking his love language. And we've been here before. And he's taught me his language before. But, gradually, over time I slip back into speaking my native tongue, and he feels neglected and unloved. This is always devastating and shocking news to me, because anyone who knows me, even a little bit, knows that I love my husband more than anything on God's Green Earth. I'm surprised that I can even share this on my blog, 'cause here's the deal. I'm not a perfect mom. Yeah, yeah, yeah...who is?, you say. But I really thought that I would be and it comes as a bit of a shock to me that I'm not. I make mistakes everyday in my mothering career, but I honestly thought (and took comfort in knowing) that at least I'm a kick ass wife (Am I allowed to use mild profanity on my blog? They say it in Shrek, you know...).

So, to hear, from the perfect mouth of the person I love the most, that he doesn't feel loved...well, let's just say the words "BIG, FAT, FAILURE" come to mind, which, on Sunday, was almost more than I could bear. Now, please do not feel sorry for me. I have an excellent marriage, and this type of break down and the subsequent growth that spurs from it, is what makes it so. Besides, as they say, making up is always fun.

In summary, I know Dave knows that I love him more than anything. And I know that I'm a kick ass wife. But, I also know that my native love language is often lost on him. Therefore, I am very excited to hone my language skills so that I can more fully express my love for my husband in a way that he can understand. Amen.

I hope I haven't bared my soul too egregiously for anyone. But lately, I'm all about being honest. Painfully honest. What other option is there, really?

*I call it a heart-to-heart because in the end I like to think we grew from it. (Plus I'm a cup half full kinda girl). However, I do recognize that most people would simply call it a lovers' quarrel (and even that's being mild).

**Sweetie, I hope you don't mind that I shared so many gory details of our weekend, but I know that you're all about being honest, too.

P.S. I love you. hee hee

A Love Note for Me

Waiting in my inbox this morning:

Everything I am doing up here reminds me of us and how perfect we are as a couple. Mostly I think about the future, when the kids are older and the house is quiet. I think about being able to spend time together just the two of us here. I feel like this cabin is our 5th child. It is a part of us, only this time I am the one going through "labor". In my own way I am building memories that we have not had yet. Every piece of siding and every floorboard that goes in gets me one step closer to getting back to you and starting to enjoy those memories. I am sorry that I am away from you. I miss your smile and your touch. I miss your company and your support.
Please give the kids each one extra back scratch for me tonight and tell them that it is from Dad, I will make it up to you when I get home...
DS

I miss you...

My sweet love,

It's very late and I can't sleep. Our bed feels very big and empty without you. I keep the pillows piled up on your side so it seems like you're there. Then when one of the kids comes in to cuddle on my side, I'm squished in the middle like always.

Thanks for all your hard work on the cabin. It's coming along beautifully. I can't wait to fall asleep in your arms listening to the river.

I hope you'll be able to come home on Friday. We miss you too much on the weekends.

A few of the things I miss the most:

*your smell
*the sound of your footsteps on the wood floor
*your help with the kids at bedtime
*your warm skin
*listening to you work
*watching Grey's Anatomy
*cuddling

I love you with all that I am. Every cell of my body, every beat of my heart, and every sparkle of my soul.

Come home to me, my love.

~H

A year ago today...

I've been mentally writing this post since the beginning of December, but I'm only just now sitting down to type it all out. A year ago, on December 6, 2006 the kids and I flew to Guatemala to foster Soleil until her adoption was complete and we could bring her home. It was a very exciting and uncertain time for our family. Leaving Dave and going to live in a third world country with four kids, for an undetermined length of time, was somewhat nerve wracking. I took comfort in that I knew Antigua well, and I felt very comfortable there. The house we rented was in a community with other fostering families and was very safe with a locked gate and a 24 hour security guard. We spent two amazing months there and I am so very thankful for the time we spent in Soli's beautiful Guatemala. In early December of last year, as we approached the one year anniversary of leaving for Guatemala, I found myself reliving some of the emotions I had felt the year before. I found myself "nesting" as I had done to get ready for our time away. I was anxious to get dentist appointments complete and Christmas shopping done. I was lying awake at night making mental lists of what needed to be done the next day. And I found myself distancing myself from Dave, I suppose, in an attempt to protect myself from the impending separation (or the memory of it). It was intriguing to have the opportunity to examine these emotions as they came up and link them to the happenings of a year ago. It was like having a window into my own psyche and my own human nature, of which the view is usually obscured (at least from my perspective). I didn't realize that I had been holding Dave at an arm's length last year. I remember that we seemed to be out of sync before I left, but I figured it just had to do with the stress and busyness of the time. But in reality what I had been doing was shutting him out of my life as I prepared to survive without him. So interesting... Anyway, once I became aware that I was pushing him away, as I had the year before, I was able to let my guard down and let him back into my life. And I am so very relieved that we won't be leaving him again this year. Being apart for those two months (we haven't spent more than 10 consecutive days apart since the day we met 12 years ago) made us stronger, both as a couple and individually. A year ago today the kids and I were in Guatemala and Dave was home alone. I'm so happy that we'll all be sleeping under one roof tonight. Thanks for checking in. ~Heather