Where everything good in life exists, A state South of the Mason Dixon, Home of bourbon, horses and the greatest basketball you’ll ever see…
Center of the State, KY (48)

I love a finale. When the lights dim, the curtains pull, the actors gather stage front, the many pieces making up my world align with complete perfection. We’ve seen the costumes of velvet and lace, the sequins fly from the rafters above, and we’ve listened to the songs that transcend the typical expectations of average works of art to become anthems for entire generations. The battles have been won by the good side or even the bad, the unanswered questions have found some resolve, and the characters and story lines that destroy a once solid foundation eventually become the tales that surround a campfire, or rock our children to sleep at night. And even when the endings aren’t exactly as we would have wished, somehow the outcomes always seem to fit those particular circumstances.

Two finales were awaiting me. The first was tackling the very last state in this crazy series of mine. The other was the intangible, the leftovers if you will, of all that this journey created. Kentucky would be easy…fantastic even. The latter, until just days ago, I still couldn’t describe…

Before I began this adventure, I knew where I would finally cross the finish line. It could only be the place that nurtured me, taught me, listened to my very first tears and heard my very first giggles, because even as I move from city to city, state to state, Kentucky will be the only place I truly call home.

So I thought about how I could serve the fine people of the Bluegrass state, the people I have called my family, my friends, and my teachers for so many years. How could I meet the eyes, hold the hands, see the smiles of these people but feel the embrace of Kentucky at its very, very best…with the smells of the tobacco leaves drifting from the barns, the Thoroughbreds hanging their heads through the dark wooden fences that follow hills and valleys…up and down, up and down…but meet the people who bleed blue, live by their sweet tea, and yearn for April and October to come every year? And there it was, as bright as the cardinals in springtime. I would serve this community by hittin’ the roads…driving over lakes, ponds and creeks…passing through small towns and bigger ones, to meet my Kentuckians…collecting goods for the Harrison County Humane Society and the Harrison County Food Pantry. Because in order to serve this community, my community, I wanted to be a part of making it just a little bit easier for as many as possible.

For so long, I’d been trapped by my own ambitions…my need to accomplish something unlike anything else I’d ever experienced. Because of either my laziness… possibly my inability or fear in following through, so much of what I’d envisioned one day completing was lost along the sidelines of an already full life. With each day passing, those visions evaporated into a past of their own. With these “purposes” however, things had changed. I was able to jump through the self-inflicted hoops I’d created, easily and sometimes gracefully. Kentucky would be no different.

Traveling from community to community, I gathered cans of food that created hope, boxes of toys that brought smiles, bags of blankets that renewed my confidence in the fighting spirit of the human race. I’d crossed rivers to feel the love of sorority sisters who’d made college a dream, and I swung my arms around hometown friends and co-workers who’d made Kentucky the greatest state in the world for me. I met new role models, greeted those that lifted me from the ashes of who I’d once become, bid farewell to the so-called average Joes, who are really nothing short of extraordinary, making us feel as though we’ve each individually solved the equations necessary to live our days abundantly happy. Life, as I’d known it, was ripped from beneath me and I was floating…on the generosity, kindness, and goodness that was so apparent in the people with whom I’d crossed paths. With each doorbell rung, every knob turned, the greatest of Americans answered, willing to listen to the words of a simple girl from a small town in the south.

Then, on September 26th, with the help of a mom, a sister-in-law, a nephew, and a pick-up truck, we gathered the final pieces of this puzzle…the foods, the toys and the supplies I needed to finish. We watched as each pile stretched our arms as far as they could reach. Carrying the loads, we stacked them on the floor, then the tables, the chairs and couches, as the rooms closed together with the heaps growing together as each grouping joined another. The truck had been emptied and the bareness indicated the ending that had finally arrived. Only the stories remained. And as I stood at the edge of the truck, feeling my shoes sink into the uneven panels below, I took my last bow to the audience of trees and barking dogs in front of me, then raised the imaginary glass of champagne I was tipping to those who’d turned this dream into my reality.

The air was lighter than it had been in well over a year, and the wind felt almost cosmic, luring me into the sheer bliss of my current state of happy…the kind of happy that can’t be described by any words, only deep breaths, closed eyes, and a long embrace from someone you love.

My cheeks were red from the morning sun, my body was tired, exhausted from the thousands of miles of mountains and lakes I’d traveled toward, trees and clouds I’d flown above. The cast of emotions that had weighed so heavily on me for so many months had been shed, but new feelings of sadness and loss overshadowed my sense of relief. The day was nearly over, the adventure had already ended, and I sat, staring into the eyes of another undetermined future. But this time, it was different. It was exciting…it had already become a part of me…and I was just fine.

The grand finale, the culmination of 48 states as I alone had seen them, would be something different than that which I’d described earlier. In this story…the battles, the lingering uncertainties, the unsettling characters and scenarios following them, stem from one being…yours truly. I was hoping that this time in my life, this self-proclaimed, soul-searching journey would lead me to the mythical fountain of youth. And it’s not as though I was expecting to find the keys to my future wrapped in a polka dotted package topped with a perfectly knotted satin bow. To cinch my curiosities, to live a life that would fulfill my greatest fantasies would no doubt, prove difficult. But I’d never imagined it would be impossible. And though I’m not completely positive, I feel relatively confident in saying that with who I am, and with the kind of person I dream of one day becoming, my life will always continue to be a mystery to me, and most definitely, misunderstood by most who see it in its most real light.

My “48 States of Purpose” didn’t lead me to a desk job, a career in the tallest building around, a different university, or yet another city to find who I was or exactly what to do with my life. Some might consider this a loss, even a great defeat. And true, though my original hope of finding the recipe to my future wasn’t exactly in the final hand, it’s given me something I could have never thought possible…peace…a certainty that it’s all so very easy if we simply let it be. If we destroy the comfort of our guards, realize others aren’t always so wrong, but speak up when we know something isn’t right, then do the very best we can with whatever situation, our end will surely be met with content. And it’s with this peace and certainty that my days feel longer, fuller, and that the answers to the questions in life aren’t as distant as they at one time seemed.

I’ve learned not from a textbook or a technologically advanced computer, a projector or a power point presentation, but from the minutes and hours coursing through the days. I’ve learned the messages that matter, that work, and that survive from friend to husband, from daughter to soulmate, from decade to decade, from one century to the next, and the years that fall in between them all…

We should never be afraid to ask for help nor too tired to give it in return as with each extended hand, a friend becomes a family. And until we learn to trust the people around us, we’ll remain stagnant in our growth. Though often times the trust may seem premature, unwarranted even, at our most vulnerable we learn the true depths of one another, as well as ourselves.

I’ve decided it’s best to have our hearts broken over and over again. After all, there’s nothing like the first moments of new love, and most importantly it’s with this breaking that we find the strength to walk through the even tougher days ahead.

There are some things we can never be told. No matter how perfect the description, how reliable the source, there are some things we have to see for ourselves, feel in the deepest part of our bones. And once we’ve seen such a sight, we change…gladly, willingly, setting new terms for a new self.

I met me again. Somehow, with the classes, the jobs, the packing and unpacking, the phone calls bouncing off towers that span across a large majority of the southern portion of America, I’d lost some of me. And now I’d re-realized that I’m by no means perfect, but even with a countless number of mistakes and do-overs to my name, I’m also not all that bad either…

Sometimes I’m the life of the party, and other days I do well to hold an intelligent conversation that doesn’t invite the likes of Housewives Camille or NeNe into the mix. I now know for sure that I’m cut from a different cloth of women. My mother and grandmothers and the women who stood before them, hold within them a strength that other women envy, that lesser men fear…the kind of strength that calms the tumultuous, overcomes the harshness in simply being, and fights beautifully against illness, disease, aging and the unknown of the not-so-distant future.

I’m frustrated at a nation that hides behind their God to justify their ignorance, fear and hatred. And as they crown their judgement upon the foreheads of others, they fail to see the sins of their own, the error in their ways, and the giant-sized tumor of harm they carry and spread along whatever path they walk. I believe in a God, my God, who accepts, loves, sees us for who we truly are, encourages others to do just the same, and inspires us to give love often, unconditionally, and to the many with whom we’ll one day shake hands.

With so many certainties, still there were the many questions that tiptoed behind me, sometimes nagging for an answer, an “absolute” that never seems to come to light.

Why is that so often we feel as though we should all have the same opinions, the same goals, the same pasts to truly value another? Isn’t it our differences that encourage us to ask questions, study ourselves, find just how we really feel, learn about others and eventually, ultimately, allow us to make progress toward a more understanding, tolerant future? Worrying about the way others live their lives benefits no one. Trying to change those into our ideal vision of perfection only forces distance between the two sides. But if instead we spent that time working as one, balancing the two extremes, we’d benefit in ways that transcend what we’ve come to know as our reality…rippling the waves of the past, allowing us to find solitude in the new. My way isn’t right, it’s just right for me.

I wonder, where is Heaven and will I ever curl the hair or paint the fingernails of a reluctant grandfather, suffering from a Cancer with a vengeance, but never willing to lose a day of laughter, a moment of peace…Will my life ever seem as easy, as exciting as my days as a child? And will the thoughts of Santa Claus, dancing sugarplums, Easter bunnies and leprechauns always seem a possibility in the back of my wild imagination? Will we ever understand that showing compassion should never be confused as a sign of weakness, as compassion is the foundation of anything truly perfect.

And for now, as my travels come to their conclusion, something much less meaningful but just as perplexing sat atop my list of “undecideds.” When I reminisce about this adventure far, far from now, what thoughts will crowd my memories?

I stumbled upon a song as I was moving along with the tide that took me through these great states. I later found that it was written and sung by Joni Mitchell. It’s one of those songs that makes you think for a second that someone’s paying attention…defying any sort of reasoning, the universe is seeking you out, trying to somehow, for some reason, whisper something in that tiny ear of yours.

My breath slowed, my smile quivered as I heard the words, “Tears and fears and feelin’ proud, to say I love you right out loud, dreams and circus crowds, I’ve looked at life that way. Oh but now, old friends, they’re acting strange, and they shake their heads and they tell me that I’ve changed. Well somethings lost, but somethings gained, in living everyday. Oh I looked at life from both sides now, from win and lose, and still somehow, it’s life’s illusions I recall. I really don’t know life…at all.”

So now I can’t help but question, exactly what would I recall about the roads widened, the greener pastures I’d only recently crossed? Would I remember these moments as they’d actually unfolded…the people as they’d spoken to me, the days of digging flower beds and walking past rooms of solid white…with heart monitors and charts determining the fates of boys and girls whose baseball caps fit too large, falling just below their brow, and yet they speak fluently of blood cells, sugar counts and transplants. Or would my truth be so influenced by the feelings, the material of my emotions unraveling at any given time? What at one moment seems to be the largest waste of time can one day prove to be from where we’ve learned our greatest lessons. The hardest, most difficult experiences may just lead us down roads full of new opportunities, great success, and give us happiness we never thought possible. As time goes on, I think we all learn that again and again, the cutest boys make for the biggest jerks, the loss of friends and family often allow us to appreciate those loved ones in ways we’d never considered, and our toughest critics tend to be our biggest fans.

Someone asked me the most extraordinarily ordinary question just before I began putting these words into place. A lovely woman; short, fluffy hair…her jacket buttoned nicely in the center…sitting just across the wooden table that separated us, spoke so eloquently, wondering, “Exactly how do you plan on going back to just being normal?” And though I’m not quite sure if I (or anyone else for that matter) have ever considered myself to be “normal,” I’m certain that I’ll never be the person I was before I started this stage in my life. So many people say this and I hate to sound like a big, fat cliche but it’s true, I can’t. I can no longer shade myself from the ugliness, swallow the anguish, go about my day-to-day routine, assuming that which doesn’t affect me, doesn’t hurt me. It’s time to stop the complaining, dry the tears and face the music. This world is full of bad people set with their own agendas, tragedies none of us can explain, and quite frankly, haunted by a system hurting more than it benefits. But in realizing this sadness, I’m able to understand something even more profound. These problems that we encounter today, tomorrow, and every other day can be changed by the most simplest of beings. Every day, every hour, each passing moment, we’re given the opportunity to help one another heal from the pasts that have overrun us, embrace the present that changes us, and look to a future where the baggage of our former selves no longer weighs us down, but rather provides the stepping stone allowing us to rise above the rest with a confidence only our hardships, persistence and commitment creates. I know we’re up to the challenge, that the good of our human race will defeat the bad, that the unfortunate circumstances will teach us the values of friendship, love and faith, and that society will find a way to exist with one another…understanding that our differences allow us to see all sides to every story, allow us to engage with one another learning about various cultures and traditions…helping our minds to grow, inspiring us to tolerate, even accept those who defy the norm we’ve all come to expect. Eventually, the rest of our world will have no choice but to follow…working to change ourselves for the better…working to change one another for a future. Perhaps I’m small-minded, maybe I’m naive, even possibly over simplifying an all-too-complicated world…but I’m positive we’re each put here for a purpose, and that all too often we ignore that purpose for what seems to be greener pastures, bigger houses and brighter cars. But if we finally recognize our potential in helping one another, we’ll part the seas of destruction, encourage the journey toward equality for all people in every land, and change the way we live life as we know it. The power of progress, our progress, is but a fingertip away, and that, in itself, is a beautiful thing…

To my husband, who sees my mirrored reflection just as I do, to my mother who created that vision in the beginning, and to Aston and Hattan, who make me smile longer and deeper with every story I tell, every moment that makes me…

To Lauren and Charlotte Anne who traveled the long way
To Crystle and John Russell who gathered the goods
And to all of you who gave…with a can of pineapples, a bag of kibble…I closed the book on my States, and opened a new book to some more unknown, but with oodles more learned

Lawrenceburg Public Library District, Lawrenceburg, IN (47)

Today wouldn’t be like the others. The reality of a small town is that with not too many to remember, you get just that-a group of people who knows everyone, their parents, their grandparents…the pasts they should know, the pasts they probably shouldn’t…and of course, everyone remembers the faces, young and old, familiar and curious, loud and subtle. So in this small town Indiana where everyone most certainly knows everyone else’s name, it was difficult for this library to know if the associates were forces with which to be reckoned. So I’d play myself, disguised as a random visitor; an annoying, overly obnoxious gal in need of some information. …from napkin folding to the trials of the Spanish Inquisition, from the curves of the Pieta to crossing the lines at Gettysburg I’d secretly determine just how fantastic (or not so much), this small town library was.

Pressing my hand against the knob, I swung the door behind me, greeted by a world of organized chaos. My mission had already begun, and with a smiling face in front of me, I was sure the day would end with an A+ from me.

Passing through doorways into the worlds of Maniac Magee, Elizabeth Bennet, Howard Stern and Little Boy Blue, people sat reading, pondering the statements in front of them…some rubbing their foreheads, others combing fingers through their hair. Children stretched their legs on the floor leaning against shelves behind them, focused, careful to keep crayons in the lines. The books stood tall, spun in circles, the magazines narrated the ridiculous trials of Kourtney, Khole, Kim and mother, Kris.

Requesting the works of such greats as Tolstoy, Hemingway and Nietzsche, I secretly thumbed through the pages of the latest disasters and most recent feats of Tori Spelling, wondering if she and Candy would ever truly reconcile, if she and Dean would beat the odds, make it through the long haul, and if she’d ever appreciate the undeniable artistry of the Madame Alexander dolls that haunted her as a child.

Tiptoeing up the stairs and slipping through hallways in a Mission: Impossible sort of way, the beat of “duh. duh. duh. duh duh duh” repeating over in over in my head, I flipped through card catalogues, perused the ol’ family tree, asked about computers, the internet, where I would find the recipe to the most perfect pecan pie my buds would ever entertain…anything that would convince everyone and anyone employed here believing I was completely clueless. And with the apparent lack of knowledge, but abundance of creative idiocy, I’m pretty sure I accomplished just that.

They were perfect, simply perfect; helpful, careful not to insult regardless of my stupidity, and they were interested…interested in something of which so many of us have lost sight-the history of who we are. Within these walls were read the stories of the triumphs and tragedies of the wars freeing some, imprisoning others…the stories of the men behind the podiums, the women burning their bras in protest and later the misconceptions surrounding who those mysterious creatures called women were. On the shelves sat the pages stained with notes of our history, its truths, its uncertainties and the “facts” about which we’re still not entirely sure.

So after a quick chat with those powers that be, a “Very nice to meet you,” and the click, click, click of my camera lens descending, I walked the steps to the car.

Shifting into drive, I pulled to a stop sign, and steered to the left, out of town, back home to Kentucky. I passed slanted parking spots and lamp posts plush with leafy greens framing the reds and purples blossoming from the center. And once again, I had fallen in love with small towns everywhere. Most certainly, ears get bigger and bigger, staying peeled for the news that inevitably affects the entire community. So while, the chitter chatter of inquiring minds sometimes seems unending, with it, comes something so much more powerful. Soon the talking fades, and what remains…the love, the support, the acceptance. And though I’m quite sure the opportunity to live in a small town will be just from my reach, I’m absolutely positive I couldn’t have wished for a better life growing up.

The ever changing that had become my norm; the unknown roads, the state flags with emblems of freedom, togetherness and so on sewn to their cloth, and the choppy accents and food cravings particular to regions north or south, east or west, would soon, be no longer. Windows down, hands feeling the air flow against my skin, the road opened as the states connected. This adventure was about to begin its final act. Kentucky was calling, and I was ready to pick up the phone.

Driving through the streets of Cincinnati, it was clear we’d just entered the “shady” section of town. Pete had become a pretty reliable source, but unfortunately I began to question his genuine nature as I sat outside some random brick building with no clue as to if I was where I’d originally intended. Generally, there’s some kind of a cute sign, funny font, maybe a picture with a couple of kids holding hands…something telling me I’m where I’m actually supposed to be. Clearly, a pointless benefit to the state of Ohio. Choosing a parking spot I hoped was somewhere in the near vicinity of the kitchen’s address, my only predicament was where we’d stash our loot before we left. My friend Kim had decided to cross state lines to satisfy her need to feed, so as she stood on as the lookout, I craftily crawled from the driver’s seat to the back carrying the problematic bags at hand. Flipping down the seat gave great access to the trunk and I shoved in the leather bundles…quick, sly, like a pro I tell ya’…with the minor exception of my booty shooting from the back to the front, my tennis shoes smacking the rear view mirror a time a or two which eventually embedded a print of my size 10s at the top of my windshield…I mean seriously, I was about as discreet as Charlie in somebody else’s Chocolate Factory.

Giving the locks a double click, we wandered toward the safest building in the near vicinity and subtly knocked on the door with the loudest amount of noise behind it, walking in to one of those industrial style kitchens you see on those food networks. Ovens were stacked on one another breathing hot through the tops, steel sinks were deep with dirtied pots and pans poking through the bubbling waters, and the wooden table set center doubled as a giant sized cutting board. From the refrigerator, waving my hand to separate the haze of frost sticking to the hair on my arms, we noticed the day was already beginning without us.

Loaves of bread piled high, covered in plastic with red twisty ties at the end and my hands heavy with butter, the grainy tops straightened as the greasy spread smothered every nook and cranny. Bricks of cheese fanned out across the table. And unwrapping package after package, their number seemed somewhat overwhelming, but the sound of the crashing blow of the sharp blade slicing surely through time and time again meant less work to be done, more mouths to be fed.

And then came the ham. No exaggeration here, something like 30,000 cans had been donated to this particular shelter, so it almost seemed inevitable that eventually the ham would become a part of the daily regimen. I’ve never seen ham quite like it before and to be quite honest, I’m not sure if it was ham or a ham component, or maybe a combination of more than one meat…I can’t be certain other than to say that it came in the form of a tall, aluminum can, and after opening the lid with a contraption attached to the side of a wooden table and giving the bottom of the container a swift pop, the “ham” fell onto the table below, perfectly resembling the can it had perviously called home.

Now I wouldn’t consider myself incredibly knowledgeable on that surrounding gourmet cuisine nor would I be someone particularly choosy when it comes to satisfying my palate, but I gotta say, tackling this ham was one of the greater battles of my life. For some reason there was this, I’m not sure even what to call it…gel maybe, that surrounded the ham. I don’t know if its purpose was to conserve the actual meat or maybe its flavor even…I honestly don’t know, but as I scrubbed the clumps of ham from beneath my fingernails, off my wrists and even an elbow here and there, by the end of the day, my hands had become oh-so-familiar with the canned meat and its many contributions to modern day cuisine.

Not too long after, with the smells of fried chicken wafting through the hallway collapsing against the glass covered windows, and the steam rising from the slightly wilted broccoli, both became the dinner bells for the people waiting outside. And as the door opened, the faces walked through; saddened by the children passing, hurting with hungry bellies full of air, hardened by the bitter days of cold, and nights of endless nothings, but grateful for the meal they were but minutes from receiving.

I must admit, watching some of the people walk through the line at times became more than somewhat frustrating. Their faces were smudged with thickened mud and day old food, their words weren’t discernible as the smell of booze drifted wherever they found themselves comfortable, and their clothing seemed more like rags with torn paper and tissues falling from the holed pockets. I wondered how they’d allowed themselves to become something so sad, so helpless, so insignificant.

And then I remembered that everyone has a story, and unfortunately those stories often create the unbearable circumstances in which we find ourselves at one time or another.
Time and time again I’ve been criticized for arguing a person’s history as the cause of a current state of being. While I understand the notion of present day living, the stories of our past inevitably find their way into our futures. They change the people with whom we surround ourselves, the partners we choose, and the good deeds we pay forward. They influence the way we’ll handle the problems inevitably coming our way and the lessons we teach our children and those others willing to listen. They’ll affect the steps we take in the right direction and sometimes the wrong, the way we’ll decide to conquer the world absorbing us, and ultimately, the legacy we’ll decide to leave behind.

In less than a minute our world can become something we’d never expected, and in the moments following we’re forced to make the decisions affecting a lifetime. Some of those choices are the right ones, and some of them will certainly be wrong. Either way, we’re forced to live with the consequences of the decisions that possibly determine a future.

So as I let my judgements disappear, serving spoonfuls of tuna salad and broccoli florets, I thought only of the line circling the dining room on a random Tuesday afternoon in the great state of Ohio. And I couldn’t help but think of just how terribly we’d failed one another. Too many, myself included, have allowed our greed, our unwillingness to help those less fortunate, and our refusal to accept the sad reality of so many existences, create a human race of lost souls, unaware of the greatness within, aimlessly moving through a past, a present, and that soon to come.

So as my servings grew just a bit in size, these people didn’t seem so different, the neighborhood-not so scary, and I realized that over the course of the year I had changed. The bulky petticoats almost too large for doorways, the herringbone patterned heels with black patent buckles, and the satin handbags with rounded handles of shiny gold metal were as beautiful as ever, but somehow, now, they seemed less glamorous, simply another piece in the puzzle of living. Now it was the people, the animals, the lives of so many helpless individuals who had completely overwhelmed me that became the most important. And with my priorities different than before, I was certain mine weren’t the only ones, and that each day, with the times changing, so were the people living them. And I’m hopeful that eventually, there will be far more of us behind the counter than at the tables, and that the food we serve be that of celebration not necessity, for it’s with this hope that great challenges be overcome, our wrongs be forgiven, and miracles be granted.

Thank you to Kim…someone who constantly gives, never expects to get, and always seems to make life feel as though it did when I was young…simply perfect.

Beyond everything else…beyond the road trips that have introduced me to mountains seemingly sewn into the sky…beyond the local flavors; deep dish pizzas drowning in red sauce and mushrooms…paper bags of fried dough glistening with cinnamon and sugar, and beyond the fun of it all; the marches where my feet met the ground hard, with a sureness of all the good to come, the fundraisers with toppled-over gift bags and only drops of champagne remaining in lipstick-stained glasses, it’s been about the people and the stories they carry with them. You see, these people have curled their hands around the animals whose faces are raised from the deepened cuts, watched as their weakened legs and torn paws attempt to keep up with their unfailing spirit. They’ve heard the heavy rains wash away the homes where childhoods have slowly faded into adolescence, and they’ve felt the earth tremble below, watching as solid grounds crumble with the lives they’ve stolen along the way.

I walked in to a room similar to the others; clothing everywhere, building blocks, base balls and plastic buckets. But this time, unlike the rest, I would be the only person volunteering for just the day. Everyone seemed nice, but occupied with their own responsibilities; planning, arranging…changing the world and what it has to offer. There was one lady who stuck around more than a minute or two, helping me pick through the mounds of denim, cotton and corduroy. Her small stature matched the cut of her short, brown hair, and when she walked, it was steady but slower…almost to disguise the heavy weight of a past unacknowledged.

When you’re alone with someone, the constant sounds of another’s existence can be unusually daunting should those sounds of tooling about be all that’s breaking the silence of a room. And for someone like me, that supposed “calm” filling the room eventually tends to show itself in the form of a heavy mound of silence settling near the center of my chest. So it’s quite possible that a conversation or two (or ten) may help with the ever continuing notes of dead air tapping annoyingly, too abrasive to ignore. And it’s amazing just how quickly we might find ourselves turn the corner, making our way back to friendly territory should we decide to swallow the nerves and ask even the simplest of questions.

So after “Have you always lived in West Virginia,” the quiet began to distance itself from the small area we’d carved for ourselves. We bounced from politics…Democrats or Republicans, to charity work…Salvation Army and Goodwill, then to the everyday shoppers with whom she’d become acquainted. And then, I’m not sure exactly how it came about, but she started to tell me of her son. Several years ago, he and a friend had gotten together. In their quest for a fun night out, his friend suggested they stop at another’s house, a man with whom her son wasn’t familiar. With little else to do, he decided to tag along. When they arrived, they were met with the cries and screams of a woman pleading with her boyfriend, begging him to believe she was innocent against the infidelity of which she was being accused. Confused, scared, certain she was facing an impossible situation, she pointed to the two young men, and said, “It’s him. I had an affair with him.” Stunned with her reply, unsure of what to do next, the men stared as the woman’s boyfriend left the room, and as the men stood puzzled, he returned only minutes later with a gun in one hand and a vengeance flowing through the rest of him. He shot them both. No questions, no answers, no words at all.

I’d been near death before. I’d seen friends leave before their time, watched as grandmothers and grandfathers suffered needlessly which always seemed to create such a plethora of questions ignited from my simple second-grade mindset, wondering just why the hurt, hurt so terribly bad. But this time, nature wasn’t the enemy, as a life had been abruptly taken by the hands of another. And as I stood watching her tears fall, reliving those uncertain days once again, nothing I could say would make any part of her tragedy more bearable. So I listened. I listened as she told of her son as a young man. I listened as she explained when she heard of his passing, as she heard the courts rehash the he-saids and she-saids with whatever decisions being made awarding no one as winners, leaving behind only losers. I listened as she spoke about how she moves from day to day, hearing the expected, hearing “You never get over it,” just as I’ve heard from every mother who’s lost a child. And I watched as she stared into the distance still confused at the outcome, needing something to change, wanting to hold the hand of her son, brush the hair from his brow, watch him walk away safely, knowing he’ll return soon thereafter.

For over a hundred years the Salvation Army has been “Doing the most good” by finding ways to help people cope with their day to day lives. Sometimes, doing the most good means spending the days sorting through old clothes or serving food to those struggling to find their way. Other times it calls for long hours of cutting wood into narrow strips, angling the pieces, hammering straight lines, watching as a structure hangs and folds into the perfect home. And then sometimes, doing the most good has nothing to do with the actual task at hand. Sure, I folded, I hung, I sorted and I stacked as I’ve done quite a few times before. But today, my most good was listening to someone who needed to be heard. And with that, my day of service had proven to be a day of compassion.

Opening the door to leave, my gaze met hers as she stood behind the wooden desk in front of me. Once again, I said how sorry I was for her loss. And though her eyes swelled with sadness, she thanked me for my concern.

Driving from West Virginia back to Kentucky…over bridges, between trees with their golden leaves falling in front of me, I thought only of the woman and the son she’d lost years ago. When you’ve somehow managed to connect with a person at their most vulnerable, it’s amazing how your lives are forever intertwined. Each time I find myself weak, unsure, unsettled…I’ll recall the memories of my past, the everyday exchanges, the stories that have introduced me to a pain not too far from my own. As each tear is shed, it’s with that connection, that common place of sadness, that often enables us to see the future inevitably ahead of us. And though it may seem somewhat darker than before, we remember our past and from it, what we’ve learned…and undoubtedly, we will find the strength to go on.

Standing in front of the long mirror that stretched along the entire bathroom, combing my hand through my hair as the dryer worked my locks from straightened to something that slightly resembled waves, my phone rang. On the other end, RJ, then my boyfriend frantically asked, “Have you seen the news?” Annoyed with the interruption, certain that nothing so important could have happened from the following night to this morning, I answered with an abrupt, “No,” cutting him off as he began his next sentence. Then quickly, “Just turn on the news…A plane has crashed into one of the World Trade Center Towers.” Running toward the television, yelling at my roommate as I passed from one room to the next, we both stood staring at the screen as Katie Couric‘s words hit our chests like bullets with each piece of news that destroyed more buildings, took more lives and attacked the way of life we hold so closely. Each scene was more shocking than before, and that day, the people of this country, along with so many others held their phones more closely, allowed our mother’s shoulders to catch our tears, and sat lifelessly as we contemplated the future before us.

With the nine year anniversary of September 11th approaching, I wanted to serve those who’d in some way served this country. Anything surrounding veterans again caused some angst with the confidentiality clauses, so I decided to do the next best thing…spend some time with the people who’d witnessed the United States in all its glory and in such times of sadness for a much longer time than I. St. Barnabas is a community where those who’ve spent decade after decade becoming the “older and wiser” members of our society can retire to a life where they’re supported by compassionate and caring individuals, who help them age respectfully with poise and grace, all the while, growing, laughing and living.

I arrived before the Saturday morning game of Bingo commenced, just in time to help with the last minute arrangements. Pulling one table to the next, I scattered the oversized, numbered cards along the table tops, creating a setting for all. And as red and blue chips fell from my grasp, I stacked them neatly aside the cards while the men and women gathered outside the doors, anxiously peering through the windows nearly covering the wall in front of me. The Bingo games were a big hit at the home and the clients were always ready for a challenge.

With the crackling sounds of wheels folding frontwards, some more quickly than others, they rolled in, one by one, and as they made their way to the tables, their hands reached for the chips…in preparation for the big game. Their faces were the tables of contents to their days lived detailing each experience that changed them in some major way. The lines above their cheekbones showed the rich history of the smiles and laughter, while the crinkling foreheads told the stories of the tears and heartache. Pulling up a chair myself, I sat between two of the ladies, both with bright pink cheeks, heavy red lipstick and tightly wound curls…vintage American ladies at their finest.

The game had begun and big money was on the line, so winning not only secured the bragging rights, but some cold, hard cash as well. As the B-14s and I-53s were pulled from the pile, the men and women listened intently, awaiting the next call of the matching letters and numbers forming the perfect line. “Bingo” she yelled, raising her hand to make sure they’d heard her great accomplishment. And as we continued to play on (there can never be just one winner), I stood to walk around, making sure the cards were being covered. Walking from table to table, I looked over shoulders, pointing out the different boxes, and as the different squares were called, colors of red and blue filled the cards, while dollars and dimes were passed from chair to chair with every big win.

And as the game ended and the winners left more accomplished than when they’d arrived, I collected the cards and colored chips, and then holding the cups with the jingle jangle of coins rattling in my hands, I walked down the long, narrow hallway. As I glanced behind me, there sat the lady who wasn’t able to remember the rules of the game. Confused she sat, with each number being called, trying to grasp the concept, depending on the friends beside her, helping her find the memories that made her understand. And another woman was making her way back to her room, where from the walls hung the photographs that told her stories…the stories that made her stare longingly into the distance as she recalled the moments with her husband, the moments so full of joy that life was left needing little more. Most importantly though, it was easy to see that her story, be it achingly sad or incredibly uplifting, reminded me that living just as you are, day to day, laugh to laugh…is sometimes the best way to move on.

Before I left Tennessee, there was one more stop I had to make. While I wasn’t able to work with the soldiers who’d served our nation, I wanted to honor the memory of someone who’d given so much to me. I’d chosen a single red rose from a florist nearby and I wanted to lay it on some unknown soldier who’d now be remembered by yet another as she continued her days here in this world.

Driving through the city of Chattanooga, I finally saw the lines that had kept my eyes wandering for several blocks. These lines are unlike any you’ll ever see, as they represent the lives of the men and women, fathers and grandfathers, mothers and grandmothers, who’ve given their lives for this country. From the distance the gravestones seemed small, almost resembling dominoes, positioned perfectly aside one another but sadly, too many to count. Pulling through the gates it was hard to feel as if my existence was as important as the brave souls surrounding me, and yet I stand here still today, while their lives had already come to an end.

Moving past each stone, they stood peacefully, strongly, just like the people for whom they were made. Looking just beyond me, the leaves of a tree sang gently to those laying below them. And as I looked to the right, etched on a gravestone, serving the U.S. Army in the second world war, the name A. Argyle Campbell. And I know I’m stretching here, but on this particular day it just felt unusually eerie that this name had found me so quickly. Similar to that of my niece, Campbell Anne Arnold, the initials were the same just backwards, but also, the surname was one we’d carried from North Carolina years and years ago (I said it was a stretch but I still loved the memory and the way I would always remember it).

I didn’t know him. I’d never seen his family, his children…wasn’t sure if he’d even been a father, but his name wouldn’t leave my mind. And I couldn’t help but think of Campbell Anne over and over, and how this man, with whom she shared a name, had so selflessly helped create a nation where she would have the opportunity to grow.

You see, despite my feelings on this war or any other, with time I’ve realized that the people lying before me had given their lives so that I would be able to live mine, had traded their dreams for the hope of mine being realized. And so with the scarlet petals brushing against my arm, I laid the rose to the ground, atop the grave of A. Argyle Campbell and stepped back, in awe of the stemmed beauty sitting easily against the white stone.

The circumstances in which so many of these soldiers had found themselves leaving this world had indeed been tragic, but finding the courage to protect the people and beliefs of a nation, they could now rest peacefully. The gunshots were silenced, the heavy vests and coats were no longer a burden, and the visions of newfound friends making their way to the great beyond had finally disappeared. The only memories remaining were those we read about in our magazines and history books detailing the great fights of the people who have already defined our future.

Before I began this reflection, I once again watched moments from that fateful day, and as the clouds of black smoke rose from the buildings that were our greatest symbols of freedom and growth, and ashes fell from the beautifully lit blue sky, my heart sank as the most stunning skyline provided the backdrop to the most horrific terrorist attacks on American soil. As panic struck and the people ran from flying debris, falling bodies and mounds of scraps and residue, that day and the memories surrounding it opened a wound that had been sealed years ago.

September 11th, 2001 changed the people of this country…individually, and who we are as one whole. This day, forever plagued with tragedy, changed the way other nations view us and our policies…and the way we view ourselves and those who represent us. With time, the hate must subside as we focus on bettering our nation, honoring the lives of our people lost. And while I’ll never forget the tears shed on that day and the days that continue to follow after, for the future September 11th’s, I’ll now be reminded of this year…the people I met, the time they shared, and the laughter that continues to inspire me today.

Well the countdown is on, and the 48 state journey I’ve been making across the lower U.S. is quickly approaching its end. But before I even began this adventure I knew where I would finally cross the finish line. It could only be the place that nurtured me, taught me, listened to my very first tears and heard my very first laughs,
because even as I move from city to city, state to state, Kentucky will be the only place I truly call my home.

So I thought about how I could serve the fine people of the Bluegrass state, the people I have called my family, my friends, and my teachers for so many years. How could I meet the eyes, hold the hands, see the smiles of these people but feel the embrace of Kentucky at its very, very best…with the smells of the tobacco leaves drifting from the barns, the Thoroughbreds hanging their heads through the dark wooden fences that follow hills and valleys…up and down, up and down…but meet the people who bleed blue, live by their sweet tea, and yearn for April and October to come every year? And there it was, as bright as the cardinals in springtime. I would serve this community by hittin’ the roads…driving over lakes, ponds and creeks…passing through small towns and bigger ones, to meet all of you…collecting goods for the Harrison County Humane Society and the Harrison County Food Pantry. Because in order to serve this community, my community, I wanted to be a part of making it just a little bit better for as many as possible.

And so to each of you as you consider this request. Remember the middle school dances where we found new boyfriends and girlfriends and learned “Electric Slide”s and “Roger Rabbit”s. Think of the baseball games where we cheered from the hilltop as boys became men and ladies fell in love for the very first time. And don’t forget the subtle waves and friendly winks as we circled round and round the “Square” flirting with crushes, laughing about sorority initiations, declaring that indeed “When I dip, you dip, we dip.” And to those I met later, remember as we nervously carried our televisions and suitcases up the stairs of Forrer Hall, hoping to wave a hand at the girl who would one day stand beside us as we said our “I dos” to the loves of our lives. Think of the Bid Day events with the colors that would bridge the distance between the ages, connecting sisters with sisters, mothers with daughters, and friends with soul mates. And to everyone I’ve met along the way, be you from Kentucky or elsewhere, please think kindly on the people only a place like small town Kentucky can create…the kind of people who knock on your doors holding a dish of just-out-of-the oven corn pudding when your mom has said her last goodbye, or your grandfather has made his final appearance here in this world…the kind of people who still carol during the holidays, pull up a chair to chat with old friends at Potluck Dinners and Ice Cream Socials…and the kind of people who could spend hours and hours on family farms watching the sun paint in numbers across the sky, and the stars slowly begin their nightly performance.

So please, open your hearts and your pantries and give back to this small community. I’ll make this last journey, drive the distance to see each and every one of you should you have me. I’ll wake up with you in the mornings, be with you as you say your prayers at night, to meet you at your homes, your place of business, your churches, schools and doctor’s offices. This is the end to what has proven to be my most adventurous dream thus far, and I would love for each and every one of you to be a part of it.

So down to the nitty gritty. After contacting both organizations, I’ve found just what they need to make their facilities a little more complete…

Harrison County Humane Society
Old towels
Old blankets
Old sheets
Bleach
Laundry detergent
Kitty litter
Puppy food
Kitten food
Canned food for dogs and cats, puppies and kittens
A variety of toys for either cats or dogs (squeaky toys, bones, catnip, etc.)

Harrison County Food Pantry
Peanut butter
Jelly
Crackers
Cereal
Boxed potatoes
Canned meats
Pudding
Jello
Canned pasta (Ravioli, etc.)

I’ll be traveling around Kentucky beginning Wednesday, September 20th through Saturday, September 25th with a goal of meeting at least 100 of you. I’ve divided my days as follows:

Monday, September 20 Mount Sterling
Wednesday, September 22 Louisville
Thursday, September 23 Central Kentucky (Lexington, Paris, Winchester, etc.)
Friday, September 24 Northern Kentucky (Maysville, Ft. Thomas, etc.)
Wednesday, September 22-Saturday, September 25 Cynthiana (ANYTIME)

But if you don’t see your town or city, NO WORRIES! My locations simply provide you with an in-the-neighborhood idea…I’m more than willing to visit any surrounding areas!

1) Email me at anne@48sop.com to let me know your name and the address where you’d like me to pick up your donation
*If you’re from Cynthiana, I also need the date that works best for you. If you have a specific time, let me know that as well
*If you’d rather me gather the items while you’re away from home, no problem…just leave the items at your door
2) I’ll send you an email confirming my visit
And P.S…If you love Kentucky but don’t live here, or have moved away from all that’s good in life, you’re more than welcome to donate to the the two organizations through my Paypal account using the email address, anne@48sop.com

So again, I ask you to help me finish this quest with the greatest of memories helping those who need us most. I can’t wait to see you ALL!

Lots of L.O.V.E! anne

The Community Market, Opelika, AL (43)

The shelves were lined accordingly. The freezers were in place just as you would have expected…just as at any small town market, and the registers were near the doors perfect for easy maneuvering to the car. Bottles of water and fruit juices, and cans of soft drinks spread from one end of the shelf to the next, and organic baby foods and Gerber Graduates Lil’ Entrees covered the metal platforms. Everything was in order just as it should be. Only this wasn’t just a market. This was a market that serves to families in need of a little reinforcement from those willing to help in one way or another. And clearly, with the over 900,000 pounds of food they distributed to almost 7,000 people last year, this market, The Community Market, is serving their community beautifully. And today, hopefully I would be doing so as well.

Is it just me or is everything better when it’s miniature? Mini muffins, miniature golf, miniature sized toilets (I once saw these in a daycare center-talk about wantin’ to give going to the bathroom a shot…these were about the cutest things I had ever seen)…but despite the undeniable urge to skid from one end of the stock room to the other with one foot on the base of the tiny cart and one on the floor, I stayed focused…grabbing pound after pound of 100 calorie packs, Cheerios and Rice Chex, and my basket filled over and over as I moved from room to room watching my cart slowly become empty once again.

After stacking just about everything you could imagine from tiny cups of chunky applesauce to Duncan Hines cake mixes; chocolates, yellows and so on, and then stacking one can perfectly atop another, I’d walk back around to a shelf of utter chaos. And with my personality, you would have thought I would have gotten that “Walking on the kitchen floor after just mopping it” feeling. But I didn’t. In fact, the current state of messiness which I’d cleaned only minutes earlier couldn’t have been more satisfying. The cans with labels upside down and plastic bags turned over this way and that made it undeniably clear that my time had been put to good use, even if it was shown only in the form of cluttered shelves. And after stocking and restocking for hours, the shelves that once were scattered with different types of boxes and containers had become connected with the unending food that filled in every hole, every empty space from before.

Looking around, preparing to make my exit for the day, a tiny, African-American girl, maybe two or three years old, stood closely to her mother. Unusually sure of herself for such a young girl, and wearing a short sleeve shirt with Winnie the Pooh jumping from the center of her chest, she held a box of Quaker Instant Oatmeal more tightly than many children hold their most prized possession from Christmas morning. “Come on Momma” she begged, almost as if she worried someone was planning to snatch the box from her grasp at any given moment. As our eyes met, I could tell she’d already seen a world I’d most likely never know. And yet as she bounced from tile to tile she seemed as happy as any other child I’d met along the way, but with more courage than I quite possibly carry with me today.

Generally for me, a long drive pretty much compares to some kind of torture method complete with whips, stones and an assortment of carving knives. Moving to Dallas, the U-Haul (appropriately coined U-Hell) eventually completely broke down after RJ and I cheered the truck along as it climbed its last hill spewing out smoke and some kind of green junk from the hood. We, along with the pugs sat stranded at a Tennessee truck stop for hours waiting on the light at the end of the tunnel which proved to be a mechanic who explained that the truck was “messed up.” Oh really, I thought…people we’ve got the next Al Einstein on our hands. Then there was the trip home just after moving to Atlanta, when I got stuck on top of a mountain between Knoxville, TN and London, KY where I had to climb the seemingly cotton covered hill to a hotel where I watched the green disappear as the snow fell almost as quickly as the tears shed from my reddened eyes.

But anyhow, this time my travel had proven to be a blessing in disguise. Gazing into the yellow-lined pavement for miles and miles, feeling the inconsistencies of the road I was following…every bump, each piece of tire shed by travelers before me, I thought of the young girl, as I think of her now.

My mom says rather frequently that in any given circumstance, there’s something amazing about the situation in which we find ourselves, even if at that very moment you find yourself pleading to make the moments disappear. For years I’ve often doubted her unsupported wisdom, questioning this bold, but somewhat naive statement I continuously find myself considering. But today, as I drove across state lines something changed for me, and the puzzle pieces fell together as they never had before. I kept thinking over and over about what good could come from families unable to provide the food needed to nourish their young. And then something just clicked and I realized that indeed, as always, my mom was right again. Because these families weren’t facing these times alone. They had found the right places and the right people to nourish their bodies, their minds, and their souls. And their circumstances allowed them to see with what so many of us struggle to find every day…the goodness in the people around them.

Nothing had changed within the four corners that create my small world, and yet the wild flowers held more petals, the branches reaching from the trees waved as if to welcome me home, then bid me adieu, and the sounds echoing below seemed almost endearing…because I now truly understood that each and every road holds its wonders closely, allowing only those who are really looking to see them in their greatest glory.

Big Thought, Dallas, TX (42)

Well there I was, deep in the heart of Texas once again. Driving on Highway 183 reminded me of the many times I’d picked up parents, friends and a husband from DFW, and while I’d lived in Dallas for several years, the city felt as though it never had before. The billboards were less familiar, and there seemed to be more signs sending me from Irving toward Oak Lawn. The skyline was taller than I’d remembered, with more buildings against a clearer background, probably because it had been so long since I’d seen it last. But more than anything, for the first time in a long time, I almost felt like an outsider, like a visitor or a tourist. My home away from home now existed only in the memories I’d collected, and surprisingly, I was unbelievably saddened by this new revelation. From the moment I’d arrived in Dallas just over four years ago, I was immediately ready to move back to the Bluegrass State, but sometime during those four years, the yellow rose of Texas had made its way into my heart. So yet another wonderful day was inevitably upon us, and I was ready to once again become acquainted with the Lone Star State that can only be…Texas.

My time in Dallas would be spent at Big Thought, an organization created just over twenty years ago “to make imagination a part of everyday learning.” Fighting against a slew of statistics, including those stating that 85,000 students from ages 5-13 receive no supervision following their school day, Big Thought has been instrumental in creating the programs designed to help young people express themselves creatively. Too often, the value of arts education is underestimated, but time and time again, numerous studies have detailed the importance of the arts, and how it stimulates the brain, encourages independence and increases a child’s sense of self-confidence.

Case in point, as I was being shown around the office, meeting the various men and women working hard to change the course of a young child’s life, a man walked by us, nodded his head, and gave a quick, “Hello.” I later found that this boy, anxious to make a statement, tell his side of the story, used graffiti to tell of his escapades. Eventually, being caught in the act and dealing with the consequences, it was quickly determined that his colorful hobby wasn’t the sign of an unruly teenager or a boy raging against the so-called “machine” of our society, but rather was a way for him to escape from the mundane that absorbed his existence. His art provided the opportunity, the chance to become a part of something extraordinary, something freeing, something good. And currently, his passion and his talent were helping the children at Big Thought, molding their skills and encouraging them to share their voices in the right way, with the flip of a wrist and a much sharper eye.

With the economy, or lack thereof, as always, funding for the arts has slimmed. So I spent most of the day working on their “5 Best” segment which had somewhat fallen by the wayside in these desperate times. Big Thought includes the feature on their website so kids and parents alike can easily find the “5 Best” whatevers sweeping through North Texas; “The 5 Best museums to visit this weekend,” “The 5 Best videos on YouTube,” “The 5 Best foods to take on a picnic” and so on.

Typing www. more times than I’d ever thought possible, I scrolled from page to page, taking walks through neighborhoods that had slowly become a part of my home and tasting cups of frozen custard smothered in caramel sauce, chocolate chips and rainbow-colored sprinkles. Escorted from store to store, I was reintroduced to the people who had become a part of my family. I devoured baskets full of chips and queso, and sipped on frozen margaritas as we sat on the patios in West Village listening to the bands and the jukeboxes sounding from the neighborhood bars. I felt the vibration beneath our seats and the breeze creeping in through the rickety windows as we soared through Uptown on the McKinney Avenue Trolley. And pulling the handle to stop at the Nasher Sculpture Center, I stood face to face with Picasso as he molded one square inch of color to fit the curious eyes and silent mouths, creating an entirely new way of viewing, understanding and fighting for the greatness of art.

My “5 Best” had not only shed light on the Big D and all it had to offer, but a stroll down memory lane had once again sparked my imagination…the imagination inspired solely by the nature of great art and all that it requires. The arts don’t just teach us to open our minds to the possibility of something larger, something only we can imagine, but they teach us to be inquisitive, to pay attention to the details relevant to the works we’re creating, and they show us that if we can achieve as artists, we can achieve at anything. Committing every bit of our true selves, no part denied, our anger can inspire
self-portraits of popsicle sticks and the pain can create castles of soda cans and coat hangers. Learning to succumb to the raw emotion that overwhelms us all, the arts teach us to live beautifully, appreciating the simple things that make life so grand…a child’s teddy bear with pulled eyes and hanging threads, cotton-soft pajamas with high necks and covered feet, and the luck of finding the one, reddened tulip that somehow made an appearance in a field full of fallen trees and stabbing thistles. Art, in any form, proves that the life we’re living is worthy of existence.

As the elevator doors opened and I made my way out of the office building, the Texas sun made a path ending at the tips of my toes, with my eyes tearing as the instant rush of heat clouded my sunglasses. I began to drive down Oak Lawn, a road only minutes from the property we still own in Dallas. As I’ve mentioned before, the thought of moving to Texas…leaving my mom, family and friends…at one point left me absolutely devastated. And to boot, I’d never dreamed of living in a place like Dallas…New York, surrounded by the great movement of the city, North Carolina, dosing to the sounds of ocean waves and blowing sand…possibly those I could have managed. But Texas, no…it just wouldn’t work.

Yet after meeting new friends, Texas friends…who love the W. and squeal at the thought of Big Tex, State Fair Corny Dogs, Turkey Legs and Fried Butter…and reconnecting with old ones…Kentucky ones who still maintain that Christian Laettner is the worst thing to ever happen to college basketball, chatting with the Billys, Lillys, Kates and Tods, keeping up with the ten lanes of traffic and the High Five on an everyday basis, and realizing that indeed everything is bigger in Texas, this town of over 6 million created a new way of life for me. And though I still insist they’re not really a part of the south (sorry ladies), there’s something unique and quite exciting about this fare state. While I’m not exactly sure just where their greatness lies, perhaps it’s mostly with the endearing people who’d made me feel welcome here, despite the black cloud of homesick that sometimes hovered over me.

So as I boarded the plane back to Georgia, I realized I was different than when I’d arrived only the day earlier. Oh I still felt as strongly about educating children on the value of arts than I ever had, possibly even more to be honest. But I left Dallas with the kind of appreciation I described above, with more appreciation than I’d ever imagined. And for the very first time, though a part of my past, Dallas really felt like a home to me…maybe not like the farm lands of Kentucky, but definitely a place where I could live again, play again, laugh again, with many more smiles and lots more big thoughts.

Note: To Jill-Beth who truly made me think. To Victoria and Brittany who make every memory worth remembering, and to Ashley, who I miss more and more every day

LGBT Pride March, New York, NY (41)

Hopping off the subway in my navy blue flats topped with a generous satin bow, I climbed the stairs to the streets of the city. With one foot at the top, my hand still on the railing, I could already see the magnificence that only a Cirque-du-Soleil style production can bring you…well that, and New York City Pride. And though the sun caused my eyes to squint uncontrollably, the sparkle of the glitter and the streamers thrown from lamp post to stair well were impossible to miss. As the Dykes on Bikes soared by, with their motors rarin’ and their leather jackets, bandannas, and black boots disappearing in the distance, I wasn’t sure exactly what to expect on this Sunday afternoon. Someone once asked me why I loved New York so much. Well despite the obvious…the midnight runs to pizza joints on every street corner, the courage to pair silk blouses and red-bottomed shoes with cutoff jeans, the theatre that leaves you breathless, speechless, feeling whole and new, and the
all-encompassing energy of this short, 6-mile island…it’s because of just this…anything that has happened, can happen, or will happen, happens first in this chosen city. And for this “Purpose” that would be more apparent than ever before.

So some of my volunteer experiences have been quite a bit more difficult to arrange than others. With young kids, training sessions, confidentiality concerns, and so on, I completely understand the need to perform background checks, interviewing and whatever other techniques necessary to weed out the common criminals of society. Unfortunately, with my only spending a day in each state, I’ve not been able to work with some of the organizations that have truly spoken to me, at least not in the way I would have really wanted. Every place I’ve served has been phenomenal, but a couple of organizations haven’t made the cut due to the various reasons listed above. But in New York, I was certain there would be no snags in my plan. I would be working with the LGBT Pride March, and that was that. Though unfortunately at first, not everyone agreed, mainly, the organizers of the event. But I am not anything if not persistent, and after the emails, applications, phone calls, oh you know, the usual borderline stalking, my wish was granted. And though I couldn’t be responsible for any of the larger jobs (unable to make the training-wahwahwah), I was in…official…free tee shirt and all.

The tent standing at 36th and 5th was waiting for me as I made my way toward the hundreds of people taping, cutting, hanging and registering, and let the powers that be know that I’d arrived. While there wasn’t too much to do, I was introduced to a lovely man who right away made me feel important. He was in charge of the table organizing the media inquiries. And after guiding newspapers, magazines, networks, and even Bethenny Frankel’s publicity team in the right direction, there wasn’t a tremendous amount of work left to be done. So we were quickly assigned to manage the placement of the infamous podium from which the proverbial ribbon would be cut.

In order to do that, we had to make our way into the streets of the city. That meant moving through the barriers blocking the rest of the public from the course of the parade. Here I was, in the middle of 5th Avenue, trying to arrange a small podium to pull the trigger on this event. It didn’t take me long, and I soon found myself to be in the most perfect position I would have ever thought possible. And as the NYPD walked around patrolling the area, my pink tee shirt was the ticket to a front row show. And all I can say is it.was.amazing! Moving through men wearing luxurious wedding dresses accompanied by their beautifully coiffed four-legged friends, and drag queens with silver bobs, shimmering yellow gowns and high heels that rival Sarah Jessica herself, the screams of pride, friendship and love bounced from one building to the next. To my left stood Governor Paterson, and though his representation of New York state was imminent, it was the lady who stood to my right, Judy Shepard, who’d undeniably become the star of the show. Judy’s son, Matthew, was killed in Wyoming back in 1998 because he was an openly gay man, and his death has since brought much attention to hate crime legislation.

I remembered reading about Matthew when I was in high school and shortly after, there was a movie based on his murder, shown on television. Since that time, I’ve researched the life of this young man, and though it wasn’t perfect, at only 21 years of age he was standing on the edge of greatness, ready to jump at any moment, ready to take on the world. But in less than a week, his life was destroyed, ripped from his grasp, leaving behind family, friends and a slew of unanswered questions. I always seem to do this when I’m confronted with something horrific, something unbelievable. I read every article, watch whatever interviews I can find, I guess trying to make sense of whatever situation presents itself. But unfortunately some things, this being one of them, can in no way ever be rationalized.

And I’m not sure how to explain this without seeming cold or disconnected, but more than the memory of Matthew even, at that moment I could only think of his mother and the heartache she must continue to experience daily. I wondered if she’d collapsed to the floor when she learned that her son had been been tied to a fence, tortured, and left to die. Had the doctors told her that when he’d arrived his face was covered in blood, his skull had been fractured, and the beatings had been so severe that the damage to his brainstem made it difficult for his body to regulate his heart rate and body temperature? And as she stood over his almost unrecognizable body, just after midnight on October 12, minutes before his chest raised for the very last time, did she think about his younger days…the first time he said, “Mom” and “Dad,” the first steps his took, or as he first learned to read stumbling over words like “run” or “animal.” And in the end I mostly just wondered how anyone, regardless of their religious beliefs, despite their political affiliations, could defend such cruelty, such hatred, such evil.

For a moment, I’d forgotten I was serving the great city of New York and then, suddenly I was hit with the force of reality, and this is where I remind you of my previous statement affirming that I couldn’t be responsible for any of the larger jobs. All of a sudden, coming from behind me, I hear a man yelling, “Grab those balloons!” Now I’m assuming he’s confused me with his committee members but I wasn’t there to argue, and this was beyond any part of my colorful imagination.

Before I knew it there I was walking down 5th Avenue in New York City, on a Sunday afternoon, holding one of the strings that lead to the multitude of colored balloons hovering above. And as we held them down, then let them fly free, then gathered our strings once again, they resembled a rainbow, in more ways than one. The finest, most glorious rainbows show themselves at the end of a storm, when the lightning has subsided, the rain has disappeared. They’re nature’s way of saying that for a short while, a peaceful tranquility surrounds us. This rainbow of color was doing just that. The protests of hate, and the laws preventing them from truly feeling a part of our society, were but a distant memory, and on this day, these people weren’t simply contributing to one culture, but rather were a people with a culture of their own.

So we marched as one; some of us rallying for the equal treatment of all, others bringing awareness to those suffering from HIV/AIDS, and some marched simply to share their pride with one another…to show they’re proud of who they are, comfortable with the decisions they’ve made, happy with the life they’re living.

Led by a man in a cherry colored jumpsuit, complete with fishnet stockings and a 60‘s style pink-wigged hairdo dancin’ to the oldies, as we made our way down 5th Avenue, my mind wasn’t on Tiffany, Oscar, Christian or even Mr. Blahnik. But rather, as we passed church ministers and priests offering water, my focus was solely on the footsteps, words and smiles of the people closely bound around me. So much in fact, that as I looked around, my brain seemed to be processing the scene in slow motion. The cheers were muffled, the children sitting atop their father’s shoulders touched the palms of their hands together…back and forth they clapped, again, and then again. The trees swayed as the wind moved us past, and it touched each of us as we watched sons grab the hands of one mother then the other, and I was certain that though the family dynamic was different from my own, love and all it entails was flowing from every ounce of their being. And more clearly than I’d ever seen before, shades of our human rainbow, where men and women of all colors, representing different cities, states and countries throughout the lands of all nations, gathered with flags, boas, costumes and the brightest and best of the city to celebrate the challenged, the beaten, the courageous, and those with more strength than ever imaginable. The spirit of these people enlightened me, their acceptance encouraged my belief in the good of humanity, and their commitment to live beyond the judgement should be a lesson to us all.

We spent a few extra days in the city, jumping from platform to platform, rediscovering villages, shops and the rejuvenated persons we all found ourselves to be. During that time we saw the show, American Idiot. Based on the songs of Green Day, the reviews had been phenomenal, leaving theatregoers on the edge of their seats, dancing down aisles, laughing, crying, snapping and even singing along. I must say, the reviews, be they extraordinary don’t begin to do this performance justice.

During one song, a character describes his existence by sadly explaining, “I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known. I don’t know where it goes, but it’s home to me and I walk alone.” I can really relate to these lyrics in a somewhat different way than I believe they were originally intended, but with truly great art usually being left to the interpretation of its audience, these words tell the story of me in a way I at one point would have never really admitted. You see, I’m one of those people who often disagrees with the majority, sympathizes with the weak, and fights for what doesn’t necessarily help me, but rather, for what I find to be right, honorable, and good. Often times I find myself alone, at the end of a very long branch, but comfortable with and confident in the choices I’ve made. Where I differ from the young man in the song is at which point he claims “My shadow’s the only one that walks beside me.” Because, not to contradict my earlier statements, as I do walk alone with many of my thoughts, opinions and beliefs differing from the people by whom I’m surrounded. But, walking beside me, my husband embraces our differences, my mother encourages them, and the rest of my family and friends listen as they learn the most real and intricate details of who I truly am. And on this day there were not hundreds, but thousands of others walking beside me as well, reveling in the differences that connected us all.

Note: To my Mom and dear RJ, who made this trip, and every other one, the best days of my life

The Caring Closet, Newark, NJ (40)

Our stop in Jersey was sure to be short lived, with hopefully no run-ins with Snookie, Jwoww, or The Situation. And while I’ve heard their housewives are quite extraordinary (yes, I watch way, way too much Reality TV), I gotta be honest, New Jersey (well this part anyhow) left something to be desired. But with our one and only stop being at this fine organization, the day was certain to be fast moving.

So I’m pretty sure no one had visited this clothing closet in quite a while. As the associate opened the door, piles of shorts, shoes, shirts and jackets fell toward us, and the look on our faces was definitely one of those photo worthy shots. The floor was covered with yellows, blues, black and greens, and scattered along the wooden shelves were children’s accessories, men’s sweatshirts and tons of women’s cardigans. The organization of this small room was lacking to put it mildly, in fact, I’m kind of surprised that cow from The Wizard of Oz didn’t fly by. But we were incredibly excited about this undertaking as we were certain our contributions would be much appreciated.

After grasping the total picture of the space, we’d decided on a game plan that pretty much required starting from ground zero. And with the shelves completely empty, we began our quest, tiptoeing through flannels and taffetas, tripping over boots and laundry baskets. Laughing at the red patent and black leather that reminded me of my 80s heyday, we crossed arms behind arms and folded sweaters again and again. We pulled jeans from underneath wooden slats and grabbed jackets that had fallen to the floor. We smoothed the clothing hanging from bars to what seemed like the top of the ceiling, and as I slid the hangers from left to right, the clothing donned the labels of my childhood; Espirit, Guess, and The Limited. And I thought about my tee shirt pulled to one side with a red scrunchie wrapped around the short ball of cotton near my waistline, and my obsession with tight rolled jeans that forced me to arrive to school early so my friends could help me wrap the denim around my ankle and up my leg.

Grabbing this piece and that, the tiles below began to show their faces as the shelves above were stacked full of clothing, folded neatly, and separated into sizes from small to big, large to larger. What was hanging flowed easily covering the back side of the wall. And the shoes were lined nicely on the floor, in no particular order, with the leftovers piled high in the baskets packed against the wall.

And that was just it. I wish there was more for me to describe, more for me to explain, but what I’ve said was all she wrote…literally. With time, and time, our piles slowly disappeared. The walls of shelves resembled that of a catalogue, and as we put on the finishing touches of our just-like-new shopping haven, I wondered about the people who would choose the green dress with the giant buttons down the middle. Who would pick the brown, leather sandals with the small heel and large buckles? Would they wear these pieces out to dinner, to pick up their child from school, or a job interview for a position they were dying to fulfill? And who would take these pieces, outcast by their original owners, and turn them into something precious, valued and beautiful once again? Would this clothing help them begin a new life, or simply make the old one better? I envisioned each person holding their pieces, staring at themselves in the full length mirror hanging beside us, pleased with how they felt against their skin.

As we looked behind us, the picture was perfection. Not because it was actually perfect, but because we had done it, all ourselves, and it was finished, ripe for the pickin’ for whomever found it helpful. We flicked the switch and the room darkened.

Although I love clothing for its inherent values; its beauty, and ability to show your personal sense of style and grace, perhaps it’s their dependability that has really captured my heart. As I’ve moved from state to state, skipped from job to job, many days I’ll pick through the pieces in my closet, remembering them at their finest moments, and think about the many places they’ve taken me; to the Broadway Shows from which I’ve left dancing and singing through Times Square, and to the Goodbye Party that announced my departure from the great state of Kentucky…to the bar where the chairs were made of saddles and encouraged hobnobbing with Million Dollar Cowboys, and to the dinners where the conversations have forced me to question the beliefs and opinions I’ve held so very close, the beliefs and opinions that have made me…me. The clothing that makes my closet come alive has been with me during the best times of my life, and during some of the sadder moments as well, but all times that have proven to be more memorable than the rest.

I’m not sure who’ll use this closet as their own, but hopefully, whatever dress they choose, whatever shoes become a new addition to their family, will make their boring day a tad more exciting, take them on long walks underneath bright skies, and help them to feel confident with their new threads, and their new lease on life.