Rocks In My Dryer

Poolside

My nerves are on edge when we arrive, if I'm being honest.  I tend to let our pathological inability to remember to bring enough beach towels convince me of my unfitness as a mother.  But the day is sunny and we are here now, and the swimming pool is no place for issues (at least, not for those of us on either side of puberty).

We do our ritual sunscreen coating; it's an exercise in futility, if the brown shoulders I rub are any indication.

The dull splish of hundred stray splashes almost drowns out the radio over the loudspeakers.  It's Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam (flashback!), and I sing along.  The ten year old notices, and it's clear he doesn't know whether to be embarrassed or impressed.

The eight year old wanders off to the snack bar, his dollar bill burning a hole in the Ziploc baggie in the beach bag.  He comes back sucking a giant blue Ring Pop.  His grin is satisfied, snaggle-toothed and, now, completely blue.  He shows me the slobbery mess and tells me that he'll buy me a real ring just like it, someday, when he's a famous soccer player.

The younger kids lure me into the water.  The heat index is well over 100, yet the water, impossibly, is 18 degrees.  I feel very old; the kids easily maneuver, completely relaxed, while my cold muscles fight off shock.

In one of those moments that can't be explained, the four year old suddenly finds her courage.  Yesterday she was in floaties, today she's doing back flips underwater.  She surfaces with a proud and watery grin.  She glows at my praise; she glows even more at her big brother's praise.

I climb back out and dry off, noticing that our (one) beach towel smells like a curious blend of fabric softener and chlorine.

The younger kids climb in and out, wearing a trail between the water, the snack bar, the bathrooms, and my lounge chair, where they visit often for my help in the arbitration of many diving-ring-related disputes. The ten year old engineers a game of Marco Polo with an impressively large crowd.  The eight year old masters the diving board, getting nervier with every jump. The youngest dashes over to the kiddie pool and smugly reminds her brothers they're too big to join her.  The oldest finds a lounge chair of his own, at a distance suitable for his twelve-ishness.  I smile at him, but only occasionally, and with low expectations.  He smiles back.  That's enough for me.

I sit and watch the four of them, wishing I had four sets of eyes--and an unlimited summer--to take it all in.

It's Like Being Married To a GPS System

...It was at this point that I reminded him that it’s a family vacation and not a CIA mission.  He laughed good-naturedly, but then he mumbled something about synchronizing our watches...  {read more at Parenting.com}

Why You Shouldn't Ask Your Big Brothers To Babysit Your Doll*

*No dolls were harmed in the taking of this picture, nor was any little sister even remotely insulted.  My daughter, who has never once in her life missed the opportunity to enjoy a good crisis, has recognized this an excellent opportunity for anguished visits with the Imaginary Doctor and dramatic vigils at the Imaginary Bedside. 

Works For Me: Strawberry Pie

Kristen is hosting a themed edition of Works-For-Me Wednesday today, and she's asking if we'd like to share a summer recipe.  Mine is for strawberry pie, and I will happily share the recipe, but I WILL NOT SHARE THE PIE.  If you don't believe me, ask the eight-year-old boy I tackled this afternoon when he approached my fridge.

I made this for a church picnic over the weekend; it makes two, which means I could take one to share and I could keep one at home for my family me.

So here it is, the pie which all other pies want to be when they grow up:

STRAWBERRY PIE

2 containers fresh strawberries, sliced and washed
2 pie shells (homemade, if you're fancy, store-bought if you're me)
17 oz Sprite or 7-Up
1 pkg strawberry Jell-o
1 1/2 cup sugar
5 tbsp cornstarch

Bake pie crust, set aside to cool.

In a sauce pan, bring Sprite, sugar and cornstarch to a bowl.  Cook over low heat until it thickens (5-10 minutes).

Remove pan from heat.  Stir in Jell-o until dissolved.  Mix in sliced strawberries.  Chill mixture in fridge for 20 minutes.

Remove from fridge and pour into two pie shells.  Cover with saran wrap and chill for at least three hours before serving.

For more great summer recipes, visit Kristen at We Are THAT Family!

Have I Mentioned That It's Hot?

While I’m normally pretty tolerant of hot weather, this summer is especially toasty. We’ve even made the national news in recent weeks as part of a “Heat Advisory”. That’s fancy meteorologist talk for “GET YOURSELF BACK INSIDE THE HOUSE...”   {read more at Parenting.com}

Morning Window and My Morning Voice :: The Run-A-Muck

Fast Food Fun :: Bakerella

Why God Doesn't Fully Explain Pain :: Desiring God (John Piper)
"Trust does not demand more than God has told us..."

Free Paper Dolls :: Patty Reed Designs

On Writing :: Boundless
by Andree Seu, writer of my most favorite podcast in the whole wide iTunes

Why My Cat Could Inspire the Republican Party :: This Ain't New York

Judging Pop Culture As If We're Immune To Its Woes :: Stuff Christians Like

Bee-Yoo-tiful

We had three perfectly restful days at Ree's Lodge.  Over the course of our time together, we ate entirely too much food and got way too little sleep. We managed to analyze what is wrong with the State Of Marriage In America, which era of Saturday Night Live was best, what might possibly happen in Iran, and why on earth we wore those clothes in the 1980's.  Sophie, Melanie and I feel so recharged and pampered and well-fed that we briefly considered refusing to leave.  But that would just be bad manners, so we sadly packed up and left yesterday afternoon.

Here are a few of snapshots of all the lovelies:

[First, a disclaimer: Compared to Ree's photos, mine look like they were taken with a cheap camera and by a bad photographer.  Probably because I have a cheap camera and I'm a bad photographer.]

Below, the back deck.  This is where we stood to sing rousing verses of show tunes from the musical Oklahoma.  (Not really.  Okay, really.  But only once):

I'm not sure, but I think this pantry may hold the key to world peace:

Even dirty laundry smells good in here:

The view from the room where I slept:

I would like to report that the reason this guacamole is halfway gone is that I had been sharing it evenly and diplomatically with everyone else and NOT AT ALL because I shoveled half the plate into my mouth so vigorously that my skin has a green tint to it today: 

A scrumptious dinner:

And (*sigh*) cinnamon rolls for breakfast, lightly flavored with coffee:

Signing off now, to go shop for some elastic-waist pants.  

In Which I "Work Some Cattle"

Melanie, Sophie and I met up with Ree at her family's ranch on Monday for a girls' getaway.  Guess how I got to start my day this morning?

Not bad at all.  That strange glow in the air is a phenomenon they call "sunrise", perhaps you've heard of it?  I'm pretty sure the last time I was up this early I was timing labor contractions.  But starting my day with that view is almost enough to turn me into a morning person.  I even hummed a few bars of "Oh What a Beautiful Mornin'".  I had to hum; I was too sleepy to remember any of the words.

Our little adventure started yesterday morning, when we headed out of my city toward Ree's ranch, her meticulous directions clutched in my hand.  I have a poor track record with maps (ask Hubs about the Unfortunate Memphis Incident Of 2006), but I figured that surely three college-educated women with a working knowledge of Google Maps could find Ree's place. 

We meandered our way through the prettiest patch of Oklahoma I've ever seen--tall trees, rolling hills, winding roads.  Then, very suddenly, we crested a ridge, only to find that the curves and hills behind us abruptly opened right up into the wide-open, flat, treeless ranch land ahead.  "Girls," I whispered, feeling every bit like Ma Ingalls, "I think we found the prairie."

(I appreciate the beauty of expansive prairie land, especially the giant sky, but--at the same time--I'm strangely unnerved by it, as well.  I feel a little "exposed".  Perhaps it's a function of growing up in the cozy hillls of Arkansas.  Perhaps I am psychologically unable to function without a silhouette of a Target in the horizon.  Perhaps I'm just one endless parade of neuroses.)

Ree had mentioned that we'd turn off the main highway and drive "a bit" before we reached the Lodge.  So we were picturing, I don't know, maybe a long driveway.

We turned off the main highway, and we drove.  And we drove and we drove.  And we drove some more.  Everywhere, as far as we could see, was beautiful, wide-open, gently rolling prairie.  Hardly a tree in site.  Just grass.  And cows.  And an endless amount of blue sky.  We were speechless (a rare occurrence) at the vastness and beauty of it.  A horse (a horse!), taller than my car, stepped out on the road in front of us, then slowly he sauntered off.  Melanie pointed out our next turn, and so I flipped on my turn signal.  MY TURN SIGNAL.  You know, just in case that one truck we saw 15 miles ago needed to know what we were doing.  Suddenly and painfully aware of the "city girl" labels stamped on our foreheads, we started giggling.  Then laughing.  Then snorting.  We were laughing so hard I had to pull the car over.  Delirium had set in.  (It's prairie madness, I'm sure.  Just like the original pioneers, except with an air-conditioned Honda).

But we forged ahead, meeting up with Ree at the Lodge.  She showed up bearing a giant dish full of this--between that and the unhealthy amount of chips and salsa I've eaten in the last 24 hours, Sophie and Melanie may have to roll me home.  We spent a quiet afternoon and evening with Ree, laughing and talking and generally discussing The State Of the World (and sighing some sad sighs over this).  When we parted last night, she let us know she'd be picking us up at the crack o' dawn this morning to work some cattle.  I thought that perhaps "work some cattle" might be ranch-speak for "sit on the deck and read a good book with my feet propped up". 

In fact, "work some cattle" is ranch-speak for "work some cattle".  Marlboro Man kindly offered to saddle up some horses for us.  As tempting as it was to climb up on a horse for my very first time in front of a bunch of professional cowboys, I decided to ride in the car with Ree and Sophie (though Melanie, feeling the need to represent the state of Texas well, gave it a very honorable effort).

Here is the point in this post where I would like to describe to you the morning's events, but my questionable grasp of ranching terminology makes a it a little difficult to communicate.  So instead, I'll just tell you that we watched a whole bunch of very strong cowboys do this:

Mostly, we just tried (successfully) to stay out of the way, and we tried (unsuccessfully) not to ask too many questions.  Our best source of information was Ree's oldest daughter, who is remarkably well-informed about various and sundry ranch-related issues.  When we found ourselves standing in a pen with several newly-branded-and-vaccinated (and understandably cranky) calves, Ree's daughter quietly advised us that "if they run at you, just wave your arms."

If they run at me?

Alrighty.  I'll be sure to remember that while I'm dropping to the ground and crying in terror.

It was only shortly thereafter that one calf, especially frustrated by the morning's events, seemed to zero in on Sophie, Melanie and me as the source of all his problems.  Is it my imagination, or is he giving us a dirty look?

I thought about telling him to wipe that scowl off his face, but then Ree's daughter told me he weighs three times what I do, so I changed my mind.

Now I'm at the end of this remarkable day (not really at the end, but when you're up at 4:45 a.m., mid-afternoon feels like the end of the day).  My feet are propped up on a comfy couch in the Lodge, and I'm looking out over an incredible view.  Ree is headed back up this way in a little while to cook for us (oh yes, please!)

Do you think my family would notice if I decided to stay here just a little longer, like, maybe a year or two?

(Ree, Melanie, me and Sophie)

Conspiracy

...Why did I say that?  Is this really an epidemic of such proportions that mothers of every generation find it worthy of mention?  Are there really ambulance drivers squealing into the pool parking lots all over this nation to pick up little Teddy because he jumped in the water before his corn dog was fully digested?... {read more at Parenting.com} 

Closeted

I can't help it, I clean closets in June.  Don't be impressed:  In July I'll go back to be being sloppy.  But in June, I get obsessed with organizing and purging my closets within an inch of their atrocious lives.  Maybe I'm inspired by the hearty season of growth I see outdoors.  Maybe I'm inspired by the concussion I received from the glue gun that fell off my daughter's closet shelf onto my skull.

Whatever the reason, I'm a closet-cleaning freak right now.  The biggest one in our house is my daughter's.  Because it's the largest, it's become, as you might expect, a sort of black hole, holding all the stuff for which we don't have another place.  Tackling it has been an enormous job.  I'm not through with it yet, because there's so much in there to see and touch and sort through and remember.

For example, we have my grandfather's stamp collection, which has remained unopened since the last time he worked on it, forty years ago.  I keep thinking we should get it out and catalog it--it was one of my goals for this summer, actually.  I have a lovely mental image going, in which we open it to find that it contains the Holy Grail of stamps, something that would have Sotheby's calling us to set up an auction.  And I would agree, and then I'd hang up the phone, and then I'd turn to find The Stamp in the hands of my four-year-old daughter, just as she licked it and stuck it on the front of her Strawberry Shortcake coloring book.  And so the stamp collection stays on the top shelf:

Here is a basket shaped like the state of Arkansas.  No home should be without one.  I have kept it for 15 years, because you never know when you might have critical need of something like this (grafitti courtesy of a pen-wielding toddler a few years back):

Next stop is a white plastic basket on a middle shelf.  A couple of years ago I got on a pincushion kick.  I made up a little pattern, and they were adorable and easy.  So I sewed a few.  And then I sewed a few more.  And I kept tossing them into a basket in this Black Hole closet, and lo and behold, look what I have:

That's 48 pincushions, my friends.  FORTY-EIGHT.  Every time my husband looks in there he shakes his head and says it's a little bit like that part in Close Encounters where the people went crazy and got obsessed with recreating Devil's Mountain out of mashed potatoes.  I haven't been visiting aliens, of course, but clearly I have been visiting too many craft blogs.

Carefully wrapped inside this bag is a bowl my dad bought as a gift for his mother 30 years ago, from a little antique shop in Connecticut.  The shop owner told him it was 700 years old, from Persia; who knows if that was accurate, but certainly it was very old and very beautiful.  After my grandmother died, my dad gave it to me, and I hung it proudly in my house.  But do you know what happens when you hang a 700-year-old Persian plate in a house that contains three little boys under the age of five?  You get this:

No, it can't be glued back together.  It's not like any other plate I've ever seen before (being, you know, a medieval artifact and all), and it won't hold glue like a typical plate.  So it sits in this closet, carefully wrapped up, until the day I can properly locate a Thirteenth-Century-Persian-Plate Fixer.  Know anyone?

Here's the last thing I'll show you (and my apologies for all the randomness; I'm hoping the public shame will prompt me to throw something away, finally):

(Incidentally, if you were a Southern bride between 1990 and 2000 then I suspect you know exactly where that box came from--anyone want to take a stab?)

That box stores what is left of my cassette tape collection from high school.  We don't even own a cassette player anymore; there is no need for me to keep this box.

And yet.

How can I possibly throw away this...

and this...

and (this is getting embarrassing) this...

and this...

(That tape was a very important part of my emotional 1987 experience, helping me to process profound crises such as the Cold War and geometry.)

That's why I'm overwhelmed--every time I sit down to tackle this closet project, I find myself facing hard decisions about valuable Persian artifacts and bad '80's pop music.  It makes me frustrated and exhausted and, strangely, inclined to tease my bangs.

Thoughts

I stepped out into my front yard, greeted by a blast of hot air and the dull roar of the cicadas.  Squinting into the glare of the evening sun, I noticed a strange shape atop my brick mailbox.  Closer inspection revealed this to be an eight-year-old boy, my eight-year-old boy, in fact, his legs crossed and his chin in his hands.  He sat atop the mailbox, deep in thought, eyes loosely focused on something I could not see. 

I wandered slowly over to him, and I leaned against his perch.  I didn't say anything, not for a while; he had thoughts to think, and it's a good thing to listen with contentment to what a child isn't saying.  After a few minutes, though, the curiosity got the better of me, as my mother's heart wondered what heavy load had driven my boy into such a reverie.

"So," I said.  "It looks like you're thinkin' things."

He paused.  "Yes, ma'am."

"Wanna tell me about it?"

He paused again, as if to wonder whether his mother was ready for thoughts of such magnitude.  Evidently, I passed muster.

"Sharks," he said, looking straight ahead.  "I'm thinking about sharks."

"Oh," I said.  "And what are you thinking about sharks?"

He raised his head and looked at me, in an of-course sort of way, and he grinned.  "I'm thinkin' about catchin' 'em."

Well, of course.

I grinned in return and I rubbed his sweaty head; but not too hard, in case I interrupt the fine thoughts inside.  Sensing his need for more silence, I slipped back toward my house, but not before I turned to look at him.  His chin had dropped back into his hands, his eyes refocused on the asphalt street in front of him, the street down which surely, surely, any moment, a shark might swim.  Never mind that it's 600 miles to the nearest ocean.  When you're eight, it doesn't really matter.

Where the Wind Comes Sweepin' Down the Plains

I didn't grow up in Oklahoma, so unlike my own children, I didn't have the benefit of years of Oklahoma history in school.  It's a shame, really, because the interesting lore and culture of my adopted state endears it to me more and more all the time. 

I mean, there are 306 million people living in the United States, but only three-and-a-half million of us get to live in a state that actually inspired a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.  Not to mention a Tom Cruise/Nicole Kidman movie.  (I loved that movie.  It came out in 1992, before I was a married woman and before Tom was a couch-jumper.  And let me tell you that it was very pleasant sitting a dark theater, watching a close-up shot of Tom whispering "Marry me, Shannon."  "Okay," I whispered back.)

When Hubs first told me we'd be having a romantic anniversary getaway a few miles outside of Guthrie, Oklahoma, I was skeptical.  "What's in Guthrie?" I asked.

A lot, it turns out.  It was the original state capital of Oklahoma, and it was the headquarters of the famous Land Run of 1889.  This picturesque little town is home to a huge historic district, meticulously maintained and restored.  During our trip, Hubs and I spent an afternoon taking in the history.

 

 

I have an unhealthy obsession with historical markers.  My idea of a dream vacation is to stop at every single one of them:

We stopped at an old drugstore that had been turned into a museum.  It was an interesting look at the  pharmaceutical history of the late 19th and early 20th centuries.  Half the remedies in there included "cocaine" and "heroin" as ingredients.  No wonder Aunt Eller was so moody. (I also saw with my very own eyes a particular piece of turn-of-the-century medical equipment that is horribly seared into my brain for all eternity.  I'll spare you the details, but let's just say we should all thank our lucky stars not to have been constipated in 1903.)

Parts of the original brick sidewalks and streets could be seen throughout the district.  Together with the old buildings, it was hard not to let the imagination run wild.

I turned to Hubs.  "Do you realize there might have been a gunfight RIGHT HERE?  Somebody might have been shot to death RIGHT HERE." 

Hey look, another historical marker, and this is a good one:

Hubs turned to me.  "Do you realize Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman staked their claim RIGHT HERE?"

Cheeky. 

Write It Down

Recently a new parent asked me for my best parenting advice.

Hmmm, let’s see...Don’t neglect your marriage. Laugh with your kids. Invest in stain-resistant carpet. Many tidbits come to mind, but the one I’m most inclined to share is simple: write it down. Write down the funny things, the little things. You think you’ll remember them, but take it from a mother with a houseful of kids (and a bad memory) -- you won’t... {read more at Parenting.com} 

The Day I Met My Son

I confess, I have a weakness for birth stories.  I could read them or watch them all day long.  They don't have to be dramatic or sensational--frankly, the essence of the most "routine" birth experience is dramatic enough on its own.  One minute, the baby's on the inside.  The next, he's on the outside.  Just like that.  It's staggering, really.

I've been offered an opportunity to team up with BlogHer and The Discovery Channel to tell a birth story of my own, as part Discovery Health's Baby Week next week (June 14-19).  They'll be airing shows such as "Twins By Surprise" and "Birth Beyond Belief", and I will watch, because I cannot turn away from these shows.

I've been thinking a lot about the subject of birth stories lately--my first one happened almost exactly twelve years ago.  It was mystical and life-changing, but not because of any specific drama.  I didn't give birth in a helicopter, and no surprise twins made a sudden appearance.  It was wonderful and ordinary and it turned my world upside down.

My due date was still almost two weeks away.  Hubs and I went out for an evening of especially spicy Mexican food, and afterwards, we escaped the June heat by walking through the mall.  After a few minutes of walking I experienced something so extraordinary I can still remember the exact spot where I was (right in front of the yogurt bar, and it smelled like cold strawberries).  A rush of euphoria washed over me--I'd never felt anything like it before.  The powerful sense of well-being actually stopped me, mid-step, as I felt such certainty that good things were coming very soon.  I think, in retrospect, it must've been my body readying itself for labor with an adrenaline rush.  I'd need it.

I went to bed later, and after a few hours, I awoke with a colossal case of heartburn.  Darn Mexican food, I thought, wincing.  I didn't know they made heartburn like that, and I staggered to the bathroom for some Tums.  I managed to fall back into a fitful sleep.

A few more hours passed, and a curious sensation woke me up:  there was trickling.

Trickling?  I woke up Hubs.  "Either I've wet the bed, or my water broke," I told him, hoping for the latter.  The contractions that started only a few minutes later solved that mystery.  It was painful, right from the start, and I knew I'd need to steady myself emotionally.  I waddled to the nursery, because I thought some quiet rest in the baby's newly-assembled rocking chair would give me the time of breathing and prayer I surely needed.  I sat down gingerly.  I looked around the room, its pale lavendar walls soothing me.  I pushed back in the chair to begin rocking; as the chair glided forward, the, um, "floodgates" opened.

Let's just say it wasn't a trickle anymore.

"My water definitely broke," I shouted as a crushing contraction punched me in my belly.  "Let's go."
 
(I completely understand why some women prefer to labor at home as long as possible, in the peace of a familiar environment.  But it was my first baby.  I suddenly felt very unprepared for the physical ordeal ahead.  And as my thoughts quickly shifted into crisis mode, I could only think, "Things hurt. Go where the doctors are."  Ma Ingalls I am not.)

Hubs threw the bags in the car, and I followed him to the garage.  I paused at the door just long enough to take in the significance of the moment.  I wasn't just welcoming a new baby, I was ushering in an entirely new life phase.  I'd be a mother, for as long as I lived.  The house I was leaving suddenly seemed very quiet, almost as if it, too, were steadying itself in the significance of the moment.

Once we reached the hospital, things continued to proceed by the book.  Like many first-time birthers, I was completely unprepared for the magnitude of the pain.  I remember thinking, in the throes of the worst of it, that my body hurt so badly that even the air around me seemed to hurt too.

The nurse offered me an epidural, and I nearly tackled her with my enthusiastic acceptance.  Unfortunately, the anesthesiologist would still take a little while to reach my room--the longest wait in all eternity, I was sure.  My kind husband leaned down to whisper encouragement and to ask me what I needed.  I reach out, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him closer.  "I want an epidural," I said, through clinched teeth, "if you have to give it to me." 

My husband realized that when a normally well-mannered Southern woman grabs your shirts and growls things at you, she probably means business.   

After the blessed, blessed pain relief (should we name the baby after the anesthesiologist? I wondered), it was more textbook labor.  There was waiting and breathing.  Pushing and resting.  Machines beeped, nurses bustled--it seemed like such an average day.  And yet with each ticking minute, I found myself closer to the surreal truth:  I was about to meet my baby.  Shouldn't the world just stop, just for a minute?

There was an eternity of pushing.  My husband was so steady at my shoulder, and my mother stood in a far corner with a video camera, enjoying the moment while kindly trying hard not to intrude. 

More pushing.  I was so tired.  I just wanted to see him, to hold him--to take my little family back to my waiting house and try to take it all in.  Would it ever end?

And then, "There's a head!  He has a lot of hair."

I was finally, suddenly awash in happy adrenaline.  One more push, and then?

There he was.

The doctor plopped him on my belly as he furiously rubbed him.  I suspect the room must have been a hum of noise, but I couldn't hear a thing.  Something pounded in my heart and head, as I looked at that tiny little person, all warm and pink and messy and beautiful.

My son.

Events of the last several months played instantly in my mind like a slide show.  I remembered losing our first baby, and the painful months of waiting and trying that followed.  I remembered the morning sickness, the awful back pains.  I remembered the breathtaking pain of only a few hours before. 

He was worth it.  Absolutely, utterly worth it.  I would do it all again and again, in a heartbeat, for this boy, the little squirmy bundle curled on my belly. 

It was twelve years ago next week, and the power of that moment stays with me as clearly as if it were yesterday.  But now I've known him for twelve years, and I've seen him laugh and grow and play and struggle and fight and learn and try and fail and try again.  The tiny, squirmy bundle is now almost taller than me. 

Today, more than ever, a million times over, he's been worth it.

Romancin'

Last week Hubs and I celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary, and he surprised me with a weekend getaway of such perfection that all future weekend getaways will surely develop inferiority complexes. 

"We're going to a place called Aaron's Gate," he told me, "a few miles outside of Guthrie, Oklahoma."

(I am not a native Oklahoman.  I had never heard of Guthrie.  It's such an interesting and picturesque town that I'll have to wait and give it a post all its own, very soon.)

Hubs and I have stayed in some lovely places during our years together, but this place takes the cake.  Photos, of course, won't do it justice, but I'll do my best.

We headed in the general direction of Guthrie, Oklahoma, turning off the interstate to drive on about ten miles of this:

(I love roads like that, don't you?)

When we had officially reached The Middle Of Nowhere, we pulled up to the front gates:

I know--charming, isn't it?  Here's a close-up:

Once inside the gates, we wound through the woods:

...and we pulled up to our unassuming little cabin:

When we got out, we immediately noticed the quiet.  No traffic, no people, no sounds at all--just the birds, the wind, and the crickets.

We opened the door to the cabin, and this is what we found:

(Behind this armoire was the giant television and DVD library.  We watched a lot of movies, including the very excellent HBO series on John Adams.  Because, you know, nothing says "romance" like a bunch of men in wigs and tights declaring their independence from the King of England):

A hot tub in the screened-in porch.  My fingers are permanently pruned from all the soaking: 

They left us our dinner and the next day's breakfast in the fridge.  By this point, I was so smitten with the place that I half expected little mythical woodland creatures to show up and prepare the food for us: 

("WHY ARE YOU TAKING PICTURES OF A CHICKEN LAMP?" Hubs asked at this point.  Fair question.)

The weekend was perfect, and I have found my new favorite little spot.  We agreed that if someone couldn't relax in this quaint spot, then they just couldn't relax. 

Last picture, I promise, on our way back out of the gates as we left:

See?  Perfect.