The Artful Life

Fairytales in the Age of Facebook

I just received an email from someone with whom I spent a Nicholas Sparks-esque week, twenty years ago, on an island off the North Carolina coast. I’d forgotten, till now. Letters put time machines to shame.

I’ve always believed in fairytales more in theory than in practice. I’ve defended them to the (feinted/fainted) death, but when it comes down to it, I’m quite fond of my 401K, health insurance, and a man who can either hang my shelves (not the way it sounds, I’m a bibliophile), or take me out for a four-course meal and know which forks to use. I blame my parents for this. 

I’m the solid stock of ninth-generation Kentuckians and my paternal and maternal sides could not be more dissimilar. We’re talking Cessnas and country clubs vs. Trans-Ams and government cheese. So, I always had a sort of schizophrenic take on the romantic outcome of things. Meaning, oh yes, it would be lovely if love rode off into the sunset and saved the day, but in the meantime I’m going to save for the roof to be repaired and date the nice accountant down the street as I’ve no interest in staging my own personal version of Romeo and Juliet.

Life, per usual, had other plans.

Which is not to say I’m living a fairytale now (of either the Grimm or Disney variety). I’m divorced (my choice: twice, if you count the nearly child-bride six-month gambit), childless (not my choice: two miscarriages), and teaching myself how to Tetris the leavings of a 3 bedroom house into a 1 bedroom apartment (my choice: Nashville real estate is much cheaper than the California Riviera, but then again, Nashvegas isn’t Laguna Beach, so Cali, I’m back again). 

But. I have no regrets. I like myself. I like my life. I like my friends and my interests. I’m never bored. And it just so happens that I’ve recently met someone so like myself—if I’d gone to Hemingway camp growing up, could grow a dashing mustache and were, it must be said, quite a bit older—that we can only fall madly in love or rend one another limb from limb. Happily, the former seems to be winning out.

I received a friend request and an email tonight.

Via Facebook. How post-modern. It inquired as to whether or not I was the A.T. Buckley (referencing my former name which I changed, not in either marriage, but as a 30th b’day present to myself) who used to summer on Topsail Island?

Somewhere in the distant recesses of my brain, I recognized his name, but played coy.

“Remind me how we know one another?” I asked. After all, I could be wrong.

“That hurts my ego,” he typed back. “Think about it, it will come to you. Give you a hint…USMC.”

And then there was no more pretending. It all came rushing back with the vivid harpsichord clarity of a scene from a Nicholas Sparks movie, except I’m brunette (aren’t his female protaganists always blonde?) with an entirely inappropriate laugh, and he was a marine, four years my senior. 

It was two decades ago. I was in college, on summer break, vacationing with my family on an island off the coast of North Carolina. I met him—we’ll call him Jim—at the pool where we were staying. He and his buddies were stationed nearby. We hit it off and were soon bantering and flirting and staying out till all hours. My parents were appalled. My boyfriend back in Lexington was growing increasingly concerned. And he should have been—it was my first full taste of feminine power. 

I could do anything. Right?

I didn’t sleep with him, though I was sorely tempted. I was a “good girl,” and that wasn’t done. But he was my first taste of raw masculine power and it was all terribly romantic. And when it was time to leave, I’m afraid promises may have been made. Which I promptly forgot.

I went back to Lexington and, since I’ve always been a terrible liar, confessed my “fling” to my college boyfriend who forgave me. He’s now married with three children and lives, of all things, in North Carolina. I forgot about Jim and our week at the Carolina coast.

He, judging from tonight’s exchange, did not. I checked out his page on Facebook. It was brand new, no photos or text—a blank canvas on which he can become anyone he wants. I was the first “friend” he had in the digital world.

“How in the world did you think of me?” I asked.

“I’m moving to Kentucky. And you, to me, are Kentucky. I have few regrets, but top of my list is not going to UK.”

“Why?”

“Because you were there.”

“Oh,” I said, nonplussed. “So what brings you there now?”

“New job. By the way, you’ve not changed a bit. And I read your writing too. I’d hoped you’d written about me…”

(At this point, I spat out at least 1/4 of a glass of perfectly good Chardonnay—sputtering, as one does, over the male ego.)

“…I remember you giving Jon L———— pointers on his poetry. He fancied himself a literary genius. We all agreed with you, to his dismay. He still pouts about that.”

I have absolutely no memory of Jon L. “Hmmm,” I say. “Hope you all are well.”

“Yes, thanks. And I’m glad you’re happy and doing what you like. You made an impact on us all out there at Topsail. Do you remember touring the base with us? We all still talk about that.”

“Oh. I do remember.”

“Good to catch up with you, ATB. Next time you’re in KY, look us up.”

What I remember of him is so little as to be inconsequential. But I remember: long-lashed hazel eyes, a generous nose, a wide, laughing mouth. Brown, muscled limbs. A fascination with most things. A tenderness. 

So perhaps I haven’t changed all that much as now, twenty years later, among the things I love about the man newly sharing my life is his long-lashed eyes, Italian nose, generous, laughing mouth. Brown, muscled limbs. His fascination and proficiency with most everything (my friends refer to him as my own personal James Bond). His tenderness. His unabashed romanticism. 

And I hope that if we’re separated—not by college or curfew, but by his job which may call him far away—that I’m burned as indelibly in his memory as I was in that of the Carolina marine of two decades ago so that our story doesn’t end. So that he doesn’t wait two decades. So if geography has its way with my guy, I hope he’s impatient—that he decides he’s more of a choose-your-own adventure kinda guy than by the book. And believes in taking fate into his own hands, making fairytales come true.

The Problem with Sympathy Cards

Four years ago, I became a mother. For eight weeks. You’d think I’d be over it by now, but each anniversary reminds me with fresh poignancy that I lost a child. That he or she would have been 7 months old, 19 months old, two and a half years old, three and a half. She would be starting preschool. He would be covered in construction paper and glue. She would be learning poems, maybe with a Southern inflection a little like mine. He would call my father, Daddy Biff; my stepmother, Eby; my mother, Grammy. She would be christened with one of my father’s infamous nicknames. He would have cousins. She would learn to be gentle with the dogs and horses. 

I’ve written of this before, yet the reemergence of grief with each anniversary astounds me. Perhaps because this was a child so very wanted. My ex-husband and I were elated to be pregnant. We’d had our first sonogram, seen the minuscule tot in utero and heard the heartbeat. And then on our next visit, nothing. We’d lost the baby. (What a silly, stupid euphemism.)

We’re not allowed to grieve miscarriages in our culture. Or at least not for very long. “It’s all for the best.” “It wouldn’t have survived anyway.” “You’re young, you can have another.” And my personal favorite, “It was God’s will.” You might as well add “It’s Mother Nature’s eugenics” to that list. It’s just about as callous. 

I happen to believe that suffering is not God’s will. That the God of my understanding is not a puppet master who willfully wreaks havoc and harm. I believe that we live in an imperfect world and are called to meet every bleak corner and each dark night with the twin flames of love and compassion. And that’s God. Love. Which is also to say that I don’t blame anyone or anything for the miscarriage. Unfathomable and unspeakable things happen every day to all manner of people—it’s the nature of the world in which we live. But I am allowing myself to be sad. As we all should have permission to have a sad day on the anniversary of something painful. 

I wrote a poem about this once:

The Problem with Sympathy Cards

No one will tell you the truth. The child
did not die. She is still inside you, clutched
around your core, stealing your blood, breathing
your breath. They will tell you It’s all for the best.
They will tell you She’d have died, anyway,
was not made for this world. Well, if not
for this world, than what world? They don’t tell you
it’s too late. You’ve already given yourself
over. You’ve already become a mother.
And that child will abide inside you
until your death—not her death. Yours.
The tiny tendrils of her leftover
cells, stemming some kind of tide, feeding
you back—keeping you both alive.

I’d heard a program on NPR on the finding that women who had been pregnant (even if that pregnancy miscarried or was aborted) were protected from certain diseases through the magical alchemy of fetal cell microchimerism (via the remaining fetal cells including stem cells)…forever. Beautiful, I thought. Poetry, I thought. God is in the details after all.

Then I had another miscarriage—this one so early it would have gone undetected had I not had a intuition and gone to my doctor. Next I had a cancer scare. And then my great-grandmother died. And then my stepfather was killed in a plane crash. And then my husband and I lovingly decided to divorce. And then my maternal grandparents passed away. And God is still in the details. Life is uncertain for all of us, but I’m amazed by hope, joy and love on a daily basis. I’m excited by immense possibility, by creative collaboration with the Divine, and am blessed beyond measure by the love in my past, present and, I believe, future.  

I have been prodded and pricked, measured and analyzed and my doctors inform me I am just dandy and there’s no reason I can’t have a perfectly healthy baby at the time of my choosing. And so, as my natural bent is optimism, I chose to believe that my desire to be a mother wouldn’t have been placed within me unless there was a greater plan to fulfill it. In the meantime, I mother my friends. They, in turn, nurture me. I spend time in nature. I volunteer. I weep tears of outrage over social injustice, poverty, human trafficking, and genocide. I realize I’m a mere speck in the greater sweep of the globe. But I believe that every being is beloved; every soul precious and deserving of dignity and human rights. So I send mothering love, light and intention to my sisters and brothers around the world, do what little I can, and birth each day anew—whole, beautiful, and glittering with possibility.

And so today I will meet a dear friend, newly pregnant, for yoga. And then we will laugh over lunch and share our stories because that’s what friends do. And then I will work some, write some, and trust in the beautiful adventure that is life. That is Love. That is the Divine mystery in all of us.

In Praise of the Golden Mean

I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naive or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman. ~ Anais Nin

The man with whom I had my last relationship complimented me so seldom that one wondered if he were dead. (I often found myself thinking of Dorothy Parker’s quip on Coolidge.) And now that I’ve ventured out on a few tentative first dates, the pendulum has swung exuberantly—to the point where I’ve gently requested that an overly effusive suitor proffer no more than one compliment per hour, please. It’s funny how life is so often like that. We’re so much more powerful than we know—manifesting exactly what we say we want…whether it’s precisely what we need or not. Be careful what you wish for, indeed.

I seem to have a habit for attracting either stolidly stoic men or fawning sycophants and I’m thoroughly through with both. I have no wish to romance a stone, nor do I enjoy standing beneath a waterfall so gushing that I’ve no energy left to do anything more than remain upright. I suppose it’s because of my nature: I seem to attract extremes (much like Alaska or Indian food). And as I have little fondness for toadies (I don’t even like frogs), seem to settle down with indifferent stoics. The two most significant relationships of my thirties have been with men of this ilk and, I’m happy to report, there will be no more.

A man of my acquaintance once opined: “The way to keep a smart, sassy woman happy is to rev her up, then rein her in.” Now, despite this slightly misogynistic and oddly zoomorphic axiom, I do think the man has a bit of a point. Meaning, we all want to feel both stimulated and sated, adored and adoring, passionate yet stable. 

And so I write today in praise of the Happy Medium—a phrase which used to sound like treacle in my ears, but today rings with the dulcet tones of angels (or a very good jazz sax)—or, to take a page from Aristotelian philosophy, the Golden Mean. This theory (from Aristotle’s The Nicomachean Ethics) proposes that virtue is a point of moderation between two opposite vices—simple, yes, but devilishly complex to enact. For instance, bravery being the golden mean between rank cowardice and recklessness, or temperance over the polarities of self-control and sybaritic self-indulgence.

In endeavoring to practice this philosophy in every area of my life, I’m becoming the poster child for moderation (not, you must understand, previously my strong suit). I sleep for eight hours a night (not five or ten). I exercise five hours a week (not zero or eleven). I write regularly, steadily (not zero pages or fifty). I suppose my inner child (and exuberant artist) are finally learning how to parent themselves.

It is in this gentle self-love and tender nurturing of oneself (particularly if one’s own parenting was a bit wonky on either side), that one finds authenticity as well as the freedom to truly love others. It is not in trying to be good, or perfect (a trap I escaped in my twenties), but in embracing the whole of one’s humanity, asking for Grace, and living out that grace step-by-step. No more the false dilemma of a stone or a waterfall! Through deeply entering into life—all of it!—and accepting the grace and guidance that is our birthright, we can dismantle walls stone-by-stone and tame the waterfalls simply by walking across them.

And then, perhaps on the other side, will stand a man who will not call me “sassy.” But will call me sweetheart.

Spring in the South: Daffodils, Music & Moon Pies.

I’m back in Nashville after a month in Orange County, and what a difference those four weeks have made! I left winter and returned to an embroidered spring. My lawn looks like a Doris Day movie set—all lacy pink and white dogwoods and frilly daffodils, complete with chirping robins in the trees and plump rabbits racing from shrub to shrub, my over-stimulated spaniel in hot pursuit. All that’s missing is a bevy of tow-headed children, Rock Hudson and a pinafore or two.

On Vagabonds and Vagaries

I’m by way of being a vagabond this month—an unrepentant gypsy moth garnering frequent flier miles and fairy tales. I awoke one morning and realized I hadn’t left Tennessee for four months (save the odd sojourn to visit my family in Lexington) and for me, to stay too long in one place is to render it invisible—unknowable. One learns by contrast, no? So I booked a flight to Southern California to meet with clients (a necessity) and reconnect with friends (a luxury). It’s amazing how I see my old home after seven months of living in Middle Tennessee—what seems new to me, what passé, what unutterably dear. I am reminded of my grandmother’s statement on dividing her time between Lexington and Naples, Florida: “When I’m in Lexington, I’m sure I love it best. When I’m in Naples, I’m sure it too is the most wonderful place on earth. (And both are true).” So, I feel I come by it honestly—this nomadic tendency of mine.

Digging Deep

I’ve been pondering gardening.  Lisa, the lady who helps me not kill things on my little half acre of Tennessee, has ruthlessly pruned and cut back my trees, shrubbery and ornamental grasses. Though her methods seem brutal, she assures me this will ensure they grow back healthier, stronger, blooming better and brighter than the year before. The metaphor is not lost on me.

These days it seems life’s sped up in hyperkinetic 3D—a frenetic frenzy; frantic soundtrack ceaselessly on loop. Everything seems to be happening faster and faster. Even the seasons seem affected—masses of butter yellow daffodils already dotting the yards, ignoring the calendar (and the fact that snow might seem more apropos).

Change seems the only constant since I transplanted myself from the sandy shores of Southern California to the rolling green hills of Middle Tennessee. The weeks and months have sped by, transforming my life into something I no longer recognize. At times I feel displaced—lopped off, dead-headed, pruned back to a slender shoot. And I suppose this is where trust comes in. Just as my trees trust in the mystical alchemy of sun and water (and the magical smelly potion Lisa pours around their roots) and the greening goodness of time, so must I trust that the process (see last month’s column on the Butterfly Effect) that brought me here will help me send roots deep into the soil.

To do my bit, I’m participating in my own pruning—severing connections that no longer serve me, abandoning habits that produce suffering instead of happiness. Instead I’m taking the time to build meaningful relationships, to reach out to the community, to nurture myself so that I may better nurture others—in essence, gardening my soul.

We see this illustrated in multiple ways in the natural world—from the anecdotal to the scientific: My mother sweet talks her orchids. Dr. Emoto writes words of encouragement on vials of water (visit www.masaru-emoto.net to read more about his amazing work). Both bloom under the love energetically sent their way. Words of affirmation and encouragement are powerful tools. One may bless or curse not only one’s Cymbidium or distilled water beneath a microscope, but also one’s own life and the lives of those with whom we come in contact.

I tend my own garden best when I speak words of love and blessing to myself and to others on my path. Sitting in silent meditation, living with positive intention, complimenting strangers, listening with compassion to a friend, visiting a nursing home and holding a gnarled hand—these are sun and water to our collective souls. In a time when so much is uncertain and public diatribe seems to have replaced public discourse (a polemic that will burn both houses to the ground), it seems to me not only the “nice” thing to do, but an essential principle of great urgency.

As my friend, Eden, a Shamanic Energy Medicine practitioner and author, says: “Everything, e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g, you think, say to yourself, and focus on manifests in some way, shape or form. Our world is absolutely, positively, a direct reflection of this.”

Honesty

There’s an honesty to planting,
in saying to seeds,
here’s what I want from you:
grow.

Grow until your heads touch
the tallest slat on the tumbledown wall
and then bud. Break open your heads
and flower, and when that’s done,
fruit.

In return, I will give you
meal, minerals, the dung of cloven
animals. I will take measure
of your soil and add what you need,
take what I
should.

In January, I will hang you
with leftover fir,
grind trees
to place at your
feet.

I’ll pluck snails from your leaves,
sluggish brown bodies loathe
to part from your
succulence.

I will water you in a slow warm
stream, the garden hose wrapped
at my feet, a gently coiled cobra
who will not
strike.

On Tart Warmers and the Twilight Zone

My last column found me flying back to Nashville from a three-week sojourn to Southern California, ready to take on the rehabilitation of “Sybil” (my ferociously charming but electrical-impulse impaired newly acquired home). And I knew that it would take a village (and time, and perhaps the death of a very rich, very distant uncle), but I was game. And my risk has found its reward: the house is Sibyl no longer. I shall have to find a new name, appropriately celebratory of her nowgracefully wired synapses; something direly lovely like Isabella or Cecilia because, gawd is she gorgeous!

It’s been quite a month…involving not only the rehabilitation of the house formerly-known-as-Sybil, but also trekking Radnor Lake and Percy Warner Park in all their autumnal glory, dining at lovely spots like the Red Pony and Park Café, taking in the Avett Brothers at Bridgestone Arena, attending various dinner parties, and then there was the time I was driving to Franklin to go antiquing and kept hearing thuds and thumps. No alert lights illumed the dashboard and I couldn’t see or imagine anything that would cause these sounds so I started to imagine that someone was trapped in the trunk and couldn’t get out. Then, after I’d worked myself into a Twilight-Zone-worthy tizzy, I came into a clearing, looked over to my right and there, in a wide swath of green, were hundreds of people dressed in gray (as many cannons as men)—a reenactment of the historic Battle of Franklin, all for the sesquicentennial of the Civil War. Darlin’, I said to myself, you’re not in Newport Beach anymore!

The most fun for me has been seeing the molten summer simmer and cool into the broad, bright gold and crimson arcs of fall. After almost a decade and a half in Southern California, I’ve missed these autumnal swoops and whoops of Mother Nature. So sign me up! I’ll turn back my clock with the best of them; retire my sundresses, invest in cashmere and wool slacks. Roar and rise and beguile me with all your meteorological signs; I’m ready, Tennessee—bring it on!

Although, I reserve the right to retract the above as lately everyone’s been telling me to gear up for “the worst winter ever.” I’m assuming they mean the worst winter ever for Nashville not, say, the Antarctic. Still, despite the dire predictions and Apocalyptic warnings of wind-chill factors this flip side of the inferno, I’m loving the (hell) out of fall and jazzed about a possible white Christmas. Do you think Whole Foods sells Snuggies? Or tart warmers? On a recent drive home from a little town north of Nashville, I saw a sign advertising “Electric Candle & Tart Warmers.” And while I’m not sure what those are, I’m pretty sure I need one for Christmas. (Mom, are you reading this?)

This morning, as I write from the warm haven of my non-Sybil home, rain is pouring down in an almost biblical deluge. I’m already rethinking my day and my phone is ringing nonstop with people delaying or rescheduling appointments. I never before understood in such a personal way the tremendous power of the weather in creating commiseration (co-misery) and communal bonding. So while, after 13 years in California, I’m still wary of winter (and my dog refuses to get his feet wet, so this should be interesting), I’m embracing the concept of seasons—of living in tune with the vernal and autumnal way of things, equinoxes and eclipses, harvest and dearth, deluge and drought.

And, as I’m embracing a rather grownup-sounding birthday in a few scant weeks, I’m reflecting on the larger concept of seasons: My “spring,” if you will, a wild reed growing up amidst deep, deep roots in Central Kentucky. My summer—quite literally—a long time basking in the sun of Southern California and now I’ve been transplanted to Middle Tennessee, certainly well before my autumn, but those thoughts do occur to one. Particularly since I’ve just ended a relationship, one that I’d thought might lead to starting a family of my own. I seem to have a diabolical (though unwitting) habit of ending things at season’s end, or, more accurately, on holidays: one lovely long term relationship petered out on Valentine’s Day (I do hate feeling a fraud), my marriage arrived at its bittersweet conclusion one 4^th of July weekend, and now this most recent relationship ended on, of all things, Halloween.

So who knows where this road will lead, but for now, I’m embracing the seasons, welcoming change in all its forms…and not accepting dates on major holidays!

This column originally appeared in Williamson Social Magazine. 

Plumbing the Depths, or My House is Sibyl.

So I’ve gone and done it. Moved clear across the country to the (if local pundits can be believed) “Third Coast.” And there’s no turning back (at least not without substantial losses and possibly a lawsuit) as I bought a house—a charming red brick Cape Cod Colonial on nearly half an acre—with a regrettably Sibyl-esque tendency to reveal split personalities (arguably better than a split level, I suppose) as I continue to explore her recesses.

Her most momentous reveal to date is a badly integrated electrical system. Her wiring, in every sense of the word, is off. The cadre of professionals I have probing her depths inform me in stentorian tones that she’ll require a complete rewire. A what? I gaped. As in, they patiently explain, ripping open her facades, digging deep within her walls and finding maybe more that needs to be brought to the surface and mended, if not downright exorcised. And that it will be in excess of $25,000. And that it could take up to six (uninhabitable) months to perform this delicate operation. After hearing that, I finally understood the Victorian fondness for fainting couches. Think I could find one on Craigslist?

Today’s discovery is that poor Sibyl is the structural equivalent of a hemophiliac—her veins severely compromised; her plumbing split at every seam. I am in the process of relaying this choice tidbit via a long-distance call to my boyfriend in Calfornia when he interrupts my recounting of Sibyl’s dire prognosis (with his characteristic and occasionally annoying logic): “But wasn’t this disclosed before you bought it?”

“No,” I said. “It was not.”

“And the home inspector?” my ever-rational love queried.

“Nope,” I replied.

“Have you consulted an attorney?”

“Yes,” I glumly replied. Glum, because I know the proper procedure, but am loathe to drag my poor darling Sibyl through the mud.

“Love,” he says, “it’s an old house. And they lied to you. Sue ‘em.”

And so I gather my facts and figures (he is, as usual, right), compile my list of expert witnesses, all the while feeling as if I’m somehow disputing my adoption of poor Sybil. But still I proceed—after all, without the injection of a little blood money, however will I be able to get her all the help she needs?

The one thing I am enjoying is my interactions with poor Sybil’s caretakers. I recently had the delight of hearing an electrician (with the improbably delightful moniker of Dicky Moon) string together such fantastic words and phrases as: “My daddy liked to have kicked me in the butt,” “finagle,” and “yonder” all in one long, delicately crafted Joycean sentence. I could barely understand him, but could have listened to him for days. The poet-elect(rician) of Clarksville, TN.

Despite these occasional gems, my friends in California don’t understand why I don’t throw in the towel—fix Sibyl up, sell her as fast as I can, and hie myself back to the Golden State. And, this past month being what it was (delayed and broken furniture courtesy of the worst movers ever, and now Sibyl’s meltdown and a pending lawsuit), I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sorely tempted to do just that. But, I feel I owe it to Sibyl (and to myself) to see this thing through. And I’d miss too much the Dicky Moons of this world, and my lovely neighbors and gardener, and my rekindled friendship with my childhood best pal who now lives down the road—and I haven’t been to a show at the Ryman yet, and I want to walk Radnor Lake in its autumnal splendor, and see downtown Franklin all lit up with Christmas lights.

So for now, I fly back and forth—one foot in Southern California, another in Middle Tennessee—all the while chatting with electricians, plumbers, attorneys and my wonderful gardener, neighbors and friends, trying to make some headway in this debacle. It takes a village to be sure. I’m flying back to BNA in two days and we’ll see how Sibyl is feeling. Hopefully a little more sensible and ready to cooperate—or, at the very least, ready for her operation.

This column originally appeared in Williamson Social Magazine. 

Camp Chairs & Coffee and the Odd Country Song

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times… —Charles Dickens

Dickens was ostensibly writing about 18th century England and France but he may well have meant 21st century Tennessee given the month I’ve had.

It all started out well enough. I booked the movers, decided to cancel my flight and drive cross country with my ex-boyfriend to see whether we should remove that prefix, and had going-away galas with friends. And then there’re the few benefits to moving: finding things like a birthday card from a grandmother, a dried rose from a beau’s bouquet, and all that dog hair one’s housekeeper has been sweeping under the sofa.

And in that spirit, I overlooked the fact that the movers insisted I dump two crystal decanters’ worth of good Kentucky bourbon down the drain, and the fact that their packing fee was $1750 over estimate. Paltry in the grand scheme of things, said I.

I wrote the last check, the moving truck drove away, then the ex and I drove across the country and had a smashing time (accompanied by my dog, Murphy, who’s thrilled I’m now back with C-he always preferred him to me). Then we arrived in Music City to a house which was now mine.and to no furniture.

We made due with camp chairs, camp coffee, a bed which I needed to purchase anyway and various other improvisations-all while assuming the truck would arrive any day (the moving company was full of stories). However, after a while (namely 21 days), it became apparent to us that the truck had most likely traveled via the Bermuda Triangle.

Then everything started falling apart: the plumbing, wiring, appliances-even the doorknobs. One morning we awoke to find the bedroom doorknob stripped-spinning on its axis like a lonely little planet while the boyfriend pried the window open and went in search of a key. I began to feel as if we were unwittingly starring in a remake of “The Money Pit.” Did I mention my new/old house was built in 1940?

And so, like a horse heading back to the stable, I began my daily trips to Home Depot. I now know the greeters there by name and may have indeed invited Al to Thanksgiving. I don’t recall exactly as the paint fumes were overwhelming that day.

I did make a point to periodically escape the chaos for some fabulous dining and great live music. You’ve not experienced an evening till you’ve seen a British guy on a Southern stage singing “Long Cool Woman in Black Dress” while strumming a ukulele, accompanied by other award-winning songwriters.

And it might just be in the water here. Just this morning, I made up a country song while making breakfast, “Burnt Toast and Bacon” (the song, not the breakfast which was delightful), and now the boyfriend can’t quit singing it. The painters are highly amused and even Murphy keeps cocking his head as if he’s most impressed.

But one cannot live on bread (burnt or not) alone, so whenever I feel overwhelmed about my lack of furniture or my current residence in “The Money Pit,” I do what one does when one’s home’s wiring and plumbing are fried and the world is generally proceeding south of soil. I take the dog for a walk around the lake where we commune with geese and other winged things unconcerned with paltry things like plumbing.

The countryside of Middle Tennessee is enchanting. I cherish my ambles and drives-breathing in the trees, lakes and streams. Speaking of trees, I’m pretty much charmed to the teeth that my tree trimmer (née arborist) is named Rhett.

That’s the other thing (besides the natural beauty) that has made this “the best of times” in the face of all the major and minor catastrophes-the people of Middle Tennessee. I’ve had the pleasure of working with some of the loveliest people I’ve ever met. On my worst day, in the thick of it all, I had my heart moved to the breaking point by their kindness-and surreptitiously dabbed at my eyes more times than I care to admit.

Oh furnace man, oh plumber, oh AT&T gentleman—I am humbled and honored by your stories. Thank you for sharing them with me. I needed this Southern shift—the world is good after all, Mr. Dickens, I believe it.

This column, in slightly altered format, originally appeared in Williamson Social Magazine.

Due South: A Love Letter

Dear Middle Tennessee,

Is it too soon for me to tell you I love you? I know we’ve only recently been spending time together, but there’s something about you that makes me want to jump right in with reckless, passionate abandon. And I’m not talking about a fling-I want more. I’ve fallen madly, head over heels, butterflies in my stomach in love, and want to make an honest town of you. That’s right, I’m talking real commitment: the packing boxes and signature on a dotted line kind of love.

You see, I’ve had a darling of a time with you these past few weeks-traversed four of your counties and countless towns, explored your lovely terrain inside out. Not for me the toe in the water approach, I want you body and soul. My Kentucky family’s a bit surprised, but we do have their approval-as my darling Daddy wrote me this morning: “Is my California girl really going to become my Southern girl?”

Dad, the answer is an emphatic yes. And I know they’ll want to visit us often—y’all have much in common. This may seem sudden to you but, I have to say—from rusticating down on a girlfriend’s family farm in Lynnville (complete with an ancient poodle, hundreds of acres, scores of horses, swarms of wild turkey, deer and chiggers, and a soirée in which I met the neighbors, including a lovelorn lady who may or may not be a witch) to strolling the enchanting metro-Mayberry of historic downtown Franklin to evenings out in Nashville proper—I’ve simply been in heaven with you (either that or inhabiting the pages of the novel love-child of Jane Austen and William Faulkner).

As you well know, there’s nothing like riding a tractor through your lush and lovely fields, watching the sun dim then blossom over hills hemmed by a nimbus of fog; nothing like strolling through your gloaming, down the twilight path to Hidden Lake, fireflies flashing to either side, cicadas calling down the sun. Nothing like the smells that come back to me, emotive as flags from a half-remembered distant land, icons from a Southern childhood-the sharp green of an evening after a hard rain, the thick mud of a pond lying stagnant in the sun, the sweet sweat of horses in from the fields.

I feel so alive when I’m with you, Middle Tennessee. Almost as if California’s a distant dream and I’ve come sharply and suddenly awake in a present I want more than anything else. With you. I have to end things with California first (though, I must admit, I won’t be giving her up entirely), so I do have to leave for a bit but I’ll miss you while I’m away.

I’ll miss your hills and fields and lovely charming people; will miss falling asleep in a hammock, under a sky sharp with stars and heat lightning (you’re so exciting, so unpredictable!) after a nightcap of fine wine, the cork pulled out with a Swiss Army knife. But don’t worry, M.T. (my new nickname for you, Darlin’), I’ll be back soon-I bought a house!

Much love,
Kate

This column, in slightly altered format, originally appeared in Williamson Social Magazine.