The Houses That Built Me

My family moved a lot when I was growing up. I lived in over 20 houses before I was 20. Explains my packing expertise. I've only lived in 3 different places since I officially left the family payroll after college. That was 14 years ago.

Wait. I've been out of college 14 years?! Well that just ruined my day.

Only 2 houses out of all those others count though. Just two. I'm sitting on the front porch of one right now. And I've written to you from the other. On a certain veranda my Daddy loved.

These two houses were where my families were created. Both the immediate and extended. And I'm about to lose them both.

Houses. Not families.

My siblings just panicked.

Or cheered.

I'll go with panicked.

My husband and I decided to put our house on the market after 7 wonderful years of living in it. We bought it just before we married. We came home to this house the day after our wedding and from our honeymoon. We spent all our firsts here. We brought the boys home from the hospital here.

I'll admit I'm a pretty sentimental person. The very thought of not waking up on Holland Drive brings me to tears. I love it so much. So many memories.

I learned to cook in this kitchen. There have been some spectacular dishes created in there. And some abominable disasters. I started my company in one of the front bedrooms. We've had some epic - and I don't use that term lightly - EPIC parties at this house.

And there's a certain spot on the living room floor where the varnish is nearly rubbed off the wood. That's the spot where I met with God during our journey through infertility. There have been some mighty, mighty "Come to Jesus" moments in that 3x3 section of heart of pine. If I could cut that wood out and take it with me I would. Like a prayer rug.

I will miss that spot the most. I fell in love with Jesus there.

But there is another house, too, where my larger family was built. And it's 4 hours south of here. On a street most people struggle to pronounce. Rubideaux Lane.

We moved into that house in 1992, just before my parents were married. We're The Brady Bunch of this generation. I won't bore you with the details. Just know it's complicated. And we love it that way.

On Rubideaux Lane, we melded together like steel. Unbreakable. For life.

It would be pointless to try and remember all the memories we created together in that house. They're immeasurable. But they are so sweet. Closing the door and walking across the bridge for the last time will be nearly impossible. It may take me a while. My fingers may need to be pried from the balustrade. Hunger strike, anyone?

My youngest little brother gave us all a framed photograph of the house and wrote on the back of the frame, "Where it all began...". And he's right. We all had other homes and other family dynamics before Rubideaux. But none were this. This one stuck. This is our family. And that is our house.

But it will become someone else's house soon. Both of these will. And it is my fervent prayer that these two houses will go on and do what they have proven to do best - build families.

It's the greatest gift a house can give. And I am a blessed woman to have received it twice.

Better Late Than Never

My dear, dear friend, Charla, is thisclose to delivering her second baby. A girl. This is very exciting.

But it got me thinking about my girlfriends and their babies. Those here already. Those arriving soon. Those still cooking. And those yet to be. They make me smile.

And tired.

Tired because we're a little older, us gals. We all started later than those before us. I think my grandmother was a teenager {She was from the Deep South, folks. That's how they rolled back then}. My mother was twenty.

I was 34. I know that's fairly young to an 80 year old. But trust me when I say, the spring in my step has nearly been sprung. Twins ain't for the aged. Believe me.

Why did we wait? Some of us, like me, had jobs we weren't ready to give up and new marriages we wanted to enjoy. And then of course, like all things in life, it didn't go exactly as we planned. Some of us didn't find our loves until we were in our 30's. Some well into our 30's.

We've all had amazing careers. We've worked in cool places and for outstanding people. We've traveled the country and the world. We've swam in and fished several of Earth's oceans, gulfs and bays. We've climbed mountains and hiked canyons. We've seen the sun rise over the Atlantic and set on the Pacific. We've seen our fair share of legendary artists. We've toured some of the world's most famous museums. We've cheered at major sporting events. Super Bowl? Check. The Masters? Check. Daytona 500? Check. We've met presidents and governors. Celebrities and true heroes. We've had a lot of wine. And beer. And rum. And vodka.

We've lived our lives fully. And now we're onto the greatest job we'll ever have. Witnesses to the miracle of birth. First steps. First words. First, well, everythings.

And we'll be happier than we've ever been. We've worked hard, played hard.

I'm proud of us.

But mostly I'm just grateful for the amazing women I call my friends.

You rock, ladies. I love you.

And your Little Vultures.

The Proust Questionnaire

I love Vanity Fair magazine. It's one of only two magazines I have a subscription for. The other is Southern Living. If you live in the South, you are required to have a subscription to Southern Living. If you don't, your Southern card is subject to revocation.

That's bad, bad, bad. No one wants that.

But I subscribe to Vanity Fair by choice. I love reading the liberal rants of Wolcott, et al. The antitheist sermons of Hitchens. I like to know what the enemy is thinking. I read these articles for the same reason I watch MSNBC. It strengthens my personal views, which are almost always in complete opposition to theirs. When I understand their arguments, I understand mine better.

Maybe I'm weird like that.

But there are other great articles that aren't offensive, but rather informative. Or just plain interesting. It widens my world view a little.

My most favorite though is the Proust Questionnaire on the last page of every issue answered by various celebrities and people of culture. It's the first thing I look at after ripping off the plastic and perusing the cover. It's very exciting to see who's answered that month.

Good grief, I really am a nerd.

VanityFair.com has an interactive version of the Proust Questionnaire on their website. About a year ago, my girlfriends and I tried to answer the questions. I think only one of us actually finished it. It wasn't me.

The questions seem simple. Until you try and answer them yourself. Then you realize they are hard. They make you think. And I think I over-thought them last time.

So I am going to give this another shot. I'm just going to answer as quickly as possible without too much analyzing. Here we go:

1. What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Surrendering my will to God and being content

2. What is your greatest fear?
My children becoming ill

3. Which historical figure do you most identify with?
Jacob of the Old Testament

4. Which living person do you most admire?
President George H.W. Bush

5. What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
My incessant need to worry

6. What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Cynicism

7. What is your greatest extravagance?
Grocery shopping every day

8. On what occasion do you lie?
When I want to avoid hurting someone's feelings

9. What do you dislike most about your appearance?
My knees

10. When and where were you happiest?
The day I realized I would get to keep my babies forever

11. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
My ambition

12. If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?
That it would be a little more simple

13. What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Surviving these last 18 months

14. If you died and came back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?
The next American Idol

15. What is your most treasured possession?
My wedding rings

16. What do regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Depression and addiction

17. Who are your heroes in real life?
My parents and grandparents

18. What is it that you most dislike?
Licorice and asparagus

19. How would you like to die?
Ready

20. What is your motto?
Work it out

Whew! That was fun. Now it's your turn.

A Post About Nothing

I warned you when I started this blog that I would only post when I had something to say that I thought would be of interest.

Or I just needed to say. Whether it was interesting or not.

As you can tell from my lack of posts, I haven't been all that interesting. Christmas is a crazy, hectic time for us and it kicks off the day after Thanksgiving. So in all honesty, I haven't had the time nor the energy to do anything more than just get to January 1 with my sanity intact.

Such that it is.

So this is a post to say I'm still around. I plan to blog something riveting soon. But for now, I will post this. A post about nothing.

Answered Prayers

One of my dearest friends had some incredible news delivered today. An answer to a prayer that she has been offering for years. One that I and many others have been on our knees for, as well. It's the second blessing she's received in the last few months. Both of these answered prayers are changing the course of her future. Righting wrongs and giving fresh life to her.

Because they are so profound, because we've prayed for her and with her for so long, because we all believed that one day He'd do this, I couldn't help but shed tears of joy. And relief. And I sang songs of praise. At the top of my lungs.

It's the most affirming feeling in the world to know your will matches that of the Lord's. Nothing compares. That's the true sweet spot.

Naturally, I got to thinking about the answered prayers I've had in my life. My husband. My boys. My dad. All my men have come straight from Jesus. I'm not worthy. But I am grateful. And humbled.

There's an old saying that goes something along the lines of, "You can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family". Well, I beg to differ. I got to do just that. 17 years ago.

Having lost my biological father at the age of 4, I grew up without a dad of my own. I don't think I really missed having one though. Until my mother met Gene Langford. And I met my dad.

We just fit. From the beginning. And one night, driving home from dinner, from the backseat, I blurted out the question. Would he be my dad. And there was a deafening silence. And I started to shrink with humiliation into the leather seat, wishing it would swallow me whole. And then a sob caught in his throat and I realized he wasn't mortified, he was crying. The ugly cry. And I laughed.

So inappropriate, I know. But I was nervous. Give me a break.

I don't ever remember praying for a father. But I think God knew my heart and answered that unspoken prayer. He always knows better, doesn't He? Even when we don't have a clue.

It'll be a month tomorrow since Daddy passed. Feels like yesterday. And like a lifetime ago. How is that possible? For something to feel so immediate, yet so distant.

If you have the answer, email me. Seriously.

The Langford clan is gathering tomorrow at the farm for the Thanksgiving weekend. More importantly we'll be fulfilling Daddy's final wish. He will forever be here. At his favorite place on Earth.

And it struck me how appropriate it is for us to say our final goodbyes during a period of thanksgiving. Because I am so incredibly thankful for him.

And for answered prayers. Even those we never even knew to ask for.

Because He Said So

I am writing this from my Daddy's veranda. I don't think it's technically a true veranda, but it's what he called it. So a veranda it is. Because he said so.

He's gone. From the veranda, but not our hearts. I miss him so much. But the veranda is comforting. He loved it out here. Overlooking the brick terrace and what's left of the moat.

It's not a real moat, mind you. It's a retention pond that runs in front of the house. But since you have to cross a bridge that spans the retention pond in order to get to the front door, he called it a moat. So a moat it is. Because he said so.

He did that a lot. Called things by names he preferred. He didn't like other people's rules. He made up his own. He was strong willed and fearless. Cut his own path. Did things his way. Never took no for an answer. I want to be like him in those ways.

But most of all, I want to love my family like he loved us. Full out. All in. 110%. He knew how to be a family man. He knew how to love us. Perfectly. And I loved him for it.

We're a big immediate family, us Langfords. I have 4 siblings. 3 sisters-in-law. 8 nieces and nephews. 2 grandparents. 2 aunts. 3 uncles. 5 cousins. That's a lot of immediate.

Especially in one house. At the same time.

And we all love to talk. LOUDLY. But when you're competing against 3 dozen or so people, you've got to speak up. And we do. Shyness isn't a family trait.

These last 2 days have been gut-wrenching. We're all stunned and incredibly sad. But there are things to do. Arrangements to be arranged, decisions to be decided upon, lists to keep track of, phones to answer and people to hug.

And there's a lot of activity. People are whirling. And bumping into one another. And talking over each other. The house is busting at the seams. It's thumping with energy. And grief. And laughter.

We tell the same stories. Over and over and over again. "Remember that time..."? And we cut each other off with eyes rolling and finish the sentence with "when we..." or "when Dad...". And then we all laugh like we've just heard the story for the first time. Because it's still funny.

And will be again in about 3 hours when we retell it. That's what we do.

And we look at the 1.5 million pictures our dad stockpiled. The man never threw anything away. Ever.

I really wish he had. Some of my past looks are quite unfortunate. I'd rather not relive them.

But I thank God for those pictures. Bad hair and all. And the stories that never get old. And the incessant teasing we do of each other. For the house busting at the seams. And the energy. And the deafening noise. For the stress that comes with planning a memorial for your dad. One that you want to be perfect because you only have one shot. And you don't want to miss something, regret anything.

Because he wouldn't. He'd know exactly what to do. Because he would do what he wanted and it would be perfect.

Because he said so.

The Tidal Wave of Reality

Have you bought the new Zac Brown Band album? If not, stop reading and go here. Now.

You’re welcome.

My favorite song on the CD is “Knee Deep”. It’s a duet with Jimmy Buffett. I am a confessed Parrothead. A conservative, Republican Parrothead. {gasp!} And I know of others just like me. {double gasp!} Jimmy loves us anyway.

How do I know? He’s a liberal. And everyone knows liberals are the most tolerant human beings on Earth and love everybody.

Duh.

Alright, back to my favorite song. I’ve had it on repeat for close to a week now. I just love it. It’s so carefree and takes me back to that boat, in that harbor, in that Pass, in those islands. My favorite place.

And there’s a lot going on in my world right now. Some really big, life-altering things and some small, inconsequential things. But the really big things make the small things seem larger than they really are. And so everything seems big.

Does that make sense? I’d be surprised if it does, frankly. Making sense isn’t my specialty these days.

But I just put that song on and for the 3 minutes and 23 seconds that it’s playing, I forget all that stuff. So hitting repeat 10 times gives me over half an hour of forgetfulness.

I love repeat. Thank you, Apple.

But I screwed up the other day and allowed myself to think about something other than how I could talk The Hubs into moving to my favorite place permanently.

I was listening to the lyrics too closely. And I realized something not all that profound, but eye-opening all the same. To me at least.

Here are the lyrics:

Gonna put the world away for a minute/Pretend I don't live in it/Sunshine gonna wash my blues away/Had sweet love but I lost it/Got too close so I fought it/Now I'm lost in the world tryin to find me a better way 



Wishin' I was/Knee Deep in the water somewhere/got the blue sky, breeze and it don't seem fair/the only worry in the world/is the tide gonna reach my chair/Sunrise, there's a fire in the sky/never been so happy/never felt so high/and I think I might have found me my own kind of paradise



Wrote a note, said "Be back in a minute"/Bought a boat and I sailed off in it/Don't think anybodies gonna miss me anyway/Mind on a permanent vacation/The ocean is my only medication/Wishin' my condition aint ever gonna go away 



Now I'm knee deep in the water somewhere/Got the blue sky breeze blowin'/wind thru my hair/Only worry in the world/is the tide gonna reach my chair/Sunrise, there's a fire in the sky/never been so happy/never felt so high/and I think I might have found me my own kind of paradise



This champagne shore watchin' over me/It's a sweet sweet life livin' by the salty sea/One day you can be as lost as me/Change your geography and maybe you might be 



Knee deep in the water somewhere/got the blue sky breeze blowin' wind thru my hair/only worry in the world/is the tide gonna reach my chair/Sunrise, there's a fire in the sky/never been so happy/never felt so high/and I think I might have found me my own kind of paradise 



Come on in/the waters nice/find yourself a little slice/grab a backpack/otherwise you'll never know until you try/when you lose yourself you find a key to paradise

And here’s what hit me.

I will never, ever, ever, NOT have a care in the world. Whether the tide hits my chair will never be my only worry. Ever. Because I’m a mom.

All at once, this thought makes me want to jump for joy and cry in utter despair.

It is my greatest privilege to be a mom. I thank God every day for the blessing of my little men. I am in awe of them. I always will be.

But in that moment I realized I will be worrying about those two boys even when they're grown men. Even when I’m floating around on clouds with my wings on and no doubt annoying Jesus with my suggestions on how to fix whatever trouble my boys find themselves in.

My point is, I can’t imagine a time in the future when I will ever again be able to lay back, breathe the salty air in deeply, sip my Painkiller and let the ocean drown my worries.

If you let yourself think about that too long and too hard, you’ll take to your bed and refuse to leave. It’s depressing.

Of course they’re worth it. The little vultures. Without question. So don’t start with the “You wanted them…” speech. I did. Do. Always.

I’m just saying there are things about becoming a parent you don’t consider or even realize until you are one.Most of them are so incredibly delicious you can barely stand it.

Others come fully loaded with reality.

Like the fact that the tide will more than likely reach not only my chair, but also our beach towels, the kids’ dry clothes, the sandcastle-making toys, and our snacks.

So consider yourself warned if you are thinking about having children. You will still have vacations, drink rum drinks in the sun and bury your toes in the sand. But you’ll never do it without wondering (and worrying) if your precocious son has introduced his forehead to the corner of the baseboards or if your other son’s colon has decided to try and digest his small intestine (yes, this has happened).

I really have to stop thinking. I can even ruin my favorite song when I do it.

Someone bring me a Painkiller and hit repeat.