#HAPPIEST BIRTHDAY FERN

[toplines]

"you're a good little girl."

happy birthday to my goldfish, @dqmeron <3

[reinekes-fox]

Interactive WIPs w Demo

FAQ

Grey Swan I - Birds of a Rose

The Divine Flock. Some call them crazy, some even dangerous. Some even say the cult is hiding dark secrets. But, in all your life you have yet to find one. After all you should know should there be any dark secrets: you are a member after all! A member, not only of the Divine Flock, but also of the Avis Academy, the best school the cult has. Your life is quiet and follows a strict routine, at least until two Strays from the outside, the normal, world are allowed in the normally so closed off grounds and as a newly appointed Wing it is your job to keep an eye on one of them. With their arrival some of those dark secrets may finally come to light…

You ARE not playing as a BIRD!!!

New demo https://dashingdon.com/play/wolv/grey-swan---birds-of-a-rose/mygame/

Old demo https://dashingdon.com/go/13119

Genre: Urban Fantasy, Dark Academia.

Moniker for MC: Wing MC.

Genderselectable MC: cis male or female, trans male or female. However due to growing up in a cult, MC wont know that trans is a thing/what it means, this is something MC can learn about. The same goes for sexual orientation: play as gay, bi, straight, aroace or ace, but be prepared for consequences.

Pick your level of devotion: be a devout follower of the teachings of the Divine Flock, reject it partly or wholly, or simply not care. All of it will have consequences.

Choose one of various school clubs, your volery, and get an unique storyline. Ranging from dance to school security, to managing your social media page.

Important people: Your flock, a group of younger pupils you were responsible for before the Strays arrived. You may not be their Wing on paper anymore, but you still hold a special place in their heart! They do miss you and are looking forward giving you a present on your birthday!

Your volery: whichever volery you joined, you are going to met pupils that are just as enthusiastic about your chosen interest as you are! Some more than others.

Your parents. It’s another question if the relationship between you is good, but important it surely is!

ROs: Fuchsia King

Chase Watson

Wing Droznik Juschka

Wing Astoria Rapace

-only for Peacocks: Marter

-only for Swans: Elrond/Estelle Falkenflug

-Vampire route: Sebastian Voss

-AMAB Raven RO: Marcel Rabenschlag

-Heron RO: Amelia Fern

Grey Swan II - Hawks and Doves

Unless otherwise stated you are playing as a normal human! Two legs, two arms, internal organs, hopefully a brain too. We will see how much of this organ stays intact after state propaganda, will we?

Someone once said that you were the most happiest youth in the world after the Great Heartbeat, that had shattered the old world. Earlier you would have agreed in a heartbeat, wearing the light green uniform of your state youth organisation. But now? When war has come to Avistrions shores and news reels show only destruction ?

Choose your gender, way of thinking and stance while growing up in a religious dictatorship on the giant island Avistrion. Be a devout follower of the Divine Flock, the only thing that survived the earthquake that devastated the earth. Or be the Vulture, trying to rip it to shreds, while wearing the badge of youth leadership… where will you be when war strikes your so closed off country? Which side will you be on when it ends? Will you even survive long enough to see the outcome?

Moniker for MC: Fugol MC.

ROs

Agon Falkenflug Adler/Weihe Habichtklau

Johanna/Nikola Arra

Grey Swan III - Wisteria Birds

Wisteria Birds (fantasy, drama, angst)! Currently on pause.

You are beautiful, trained in art and music. You are deadly, trained in the unique weapons that no one except you can use. You are dying. Kept alive by the very same thing that keeps you save from others abusing their power over you… You have no rights. But you can do whatever you want, even kill, without having to fear any consequences. You are the most pleasant death that anyone can wish for. You are an artwork. And all you are supposed to be is look pretty, show of your owners wealth. But oh, you could become so much more…

You play as a highly specialised trained entertainer… an Artwork, expensive companion to the rich and noble ones in Aklant, a country with rigid rules and unspoken laws, strict class divide and obsessed with anything that shows how rich they are… or at least let them appear rich. Artworks themselves are outside of this all, freed from all those social chains, but not seen as human… maybe its time to change that? Or leave the status quo as it is, up to you!

Moniker for MC: Artwork MC.

ROs:

Fauconniers, your potential buyers:

Chevalier Armand Sanson Alexandre Desrosier Others, you may work together with one or more of them? “Mouette” Sanglant du Verdier

You have been a Hound, the human companion of a vampire, for years.

Until you find yourself among the undead and masterless after a night where everything went wrong… leaving you with no other choice but to move back in with your parents.

ROs (will expand)

Theo Grimm

Agent Rosa Caleb

Marian Viorel

Citadel of dancing birds

Ghibli inspired! Mainly Howls moving castle.

You play someone from our world who ends up in another world! Since this is an aspect I greatly enjoyed in the book and was really sad they didnt include in the movie, there will be chances of jumping between the worlds (and of course becoming a magician too!).

ROs, some are locked into specific magic combinations:

Opera Job and changing into Animals: Santu Cajarin

Changing into Animals: Rosalind Eagledancer

In planning:

-Grey Swan VI - Fallen Dove

-Grey Swan - Birds of a broken mirror

Sth with magicians

Pet projects:

-Unwind Dystology IF

-sth inspired by my fav dojinshi series from like a decade ago

-sth inspired by stranger things and stephen king

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

"Not many. Less than 3% to be exact." There was pride in her voice and Bear knew that. She had worked incredibly hard to be taken seriously during training and even now as a member of Seal Team Three, working in the Middle East and Southwest Asia. Her skills were necessary for the survival of her team and herself. Plus putting damn near three years into the US Navy Sniper School made it very clear just how dangerous she was and could be. "Okay...umm...wow. I jus'...wow." Jake was in awe, right here in front of him was a woman who was both badass and hot as hell, and the best part? She didn't back down and made him work for every step. "That's seriously badass. Why haven't I heard about you or any of the others?" "Cause we're usually kept secret. If enemy states know that there are women on the teams, then we have targets on our backs. But I can tell you, because no one will believe you," Bear smirked before continuing, "And yeah, I know it's pretty badass. I worked hard for it. Just like you did for your two kills." And with a wink, she walked off, disappearing into the crowd near the bar, leaving Jake speechless.

What better to start off my 300 follower celebration, than with a moodboard which I've been affectionately calling a love letter to one of the most amazing fics I've had the pleasure of reading?

Yup, you guessed it, this is for the amazing @desert-fern for her birthday and showcases some of my favorite parts of A Gun Amongst Daggers, Fern's recently finished series.

This is my love letter to Jake and his Teddy, who we know and love as Bear. Their relationship is amazing, and I'm not just saying that because I want to be Bear when I grow up!

All the best to you, my lovely Fernie on today, what I hope is the happiest of birthdays! May your day be happy and bright (and not filled with too much homework), and that the next year is just as amazing as you are! All the best, and all of my love,

- XOXO Star

Want to request a Moodboard for me to make? Guidelines are here.

[greenwallscapes]

Moss Wall with White Logo

Wishing the happiest of birthdays to our very own Moss Boss! We hope you have the best birthday ever, Lindsay! . . . #greenwallscapes #mosscompany #mossart #mosswalls #moss #preservedmoss #succulents #ferns #flowers #driedflowers #biophilicdesign #plantart #plantwall #livingwall #customart #homedecor #officedecor #hgtv #customdesign #interiordesign #walldecor #mossdesign #greenwall #ombre #mosslogo #logo #mosslettering #lettering

[jewelrywithme]

Wishing my nephew @bmrcr the happiest of birthdays! Noticed I don’t have any pictures with him. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . #jewelrywithme #myfamily #thesekidsaregettingold (at Fern Rock) https://www.instagram.com/p/CNFz2u8L5te/?igshid=1i5o4wm5vujjc

[alpinesquib]

In-depth character sheet

Decided to fill out this chacter sheet (by memesfrommenace) for Lucas!

(Read more if interested, it is pretty lengthy)

FULL NAME: Lucas Smith Marlin MEANING: Just an average name, with the last name being based on a fish because gotta link stuff to aquatic life to better fit splatoon NICKNAME: Lucas MEANING: His first name AGE APPEARANCE: 18 BIRTHDAY: 4th January ASTROLOGICAL SIGN: Capricorn SPECIES: Inkling GENDER: Male ALLERGIES: Smoke (not really an allergie but really irritates his lungs) SEXUAL PREFERENCE: Guys THEME SONG(S): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VLjE4FFYFSY

APPEARANCE

HAIR COLOR: Dark blue with purple tips HAIR STYLE AND LENGTH: Typical inkling boys hairstyle but with a curly tentacle as his fringe EYES COLOR: Green EYESIGHT: Relatively good HEIGHT: 5′5 WEIGHT: 139Ibs OUTFIT/CLOTHING STYLE: Casual ABNORMALITIES(TAIL): None DISTINGUISHING MARKS(SCARS,MOLES): None SELF CARE(MAKE UP): None FIRST IMPRESSION ON PEOPLE: Distant, noncaring SKIN COLOR: Cucasion BODY TYPE/BUILD: Slender with a little bit of muscle DEFAULT EXPRESSION: Disinterested POSTURE: Upright MEASUREMENTS(FEMALE ONLY): PIERCINGS: Two on each ear DESCRIBE THEIR VOICE: Jason Ritter (Dipper Pines)

RELATIONSHIPS

MOM: ??? HOW WELL DO THEY GET ALONG: Very distant, not the most exciting relationship with at least one phone call a month, but both still care for each other DAD: ??? HOW WELL DO THEY GET ALONG: Not the best, his father had plans which Lucas did not exactly follow SIBLINGS: None HOW WELL DO THEY GET ALONG: None CHILDREN: None HOW WELL DO THEY GET ALONG:None  OTHER FAMILY MEMBERS: None that he knows of PAST LOVER(S): None CURRENT LOVER: Justin REACTION TO MEETING SOMEONE NEW: a Bit of Confusion and alert ABILITY TO WORK WITH OTHERS: Very well, a good leader HOW SOCIABLE(LONER,ETC): Not very, can socialise but is not usually the one to go out of the way to start a conversation with someone new FRIENDS: Robin, Mint, Vivi, Vincent, Kat, Fern and in a way Lin PETS: None (unless you count plants) LEAST FAVORITE TYPE OF PERSON: A basshole PARENTAL TYPE(PROTECTIVE,ETC): All knowing AFFINITY WITH…: Rabbits FAVORITE PEOPLE:Funny people LEAST FAVORITE PEOPLE: Serious people

PERSONALITY

..WHEN YOU FIRST MEET THEM: Seem disinterested and withdrawn from everyone ..AS YOU KNOW THEM BETTER(AND THEY LIKE YOU): Will open up more, show emotion, maybe start smiling for real then putting on a fake smile ..AS YOU KNOW THEM BETTER(AND THEY DISLIKE YOU): will conintue to look disinteresed with a hint of annoyed, if continues threatens FAVORITE COLOR: Yellow FAVORITE FOOD: Pizza FAVORITE ANIMAL: Rabbits FAVORITE INSTRUMENT: Violin FAVORITE ELEMENT: Fire LEAST FAVORITE COLOR: LEAST FAVORITE FOOD: Hard sweets LEAST FAVORITE ANIMAL: Dogs LEAST FAVORITE INSTRUMENT: Saxophone LEAST FAVORITE ELEMENT: Air HOBBIES: Training, playing games, reading, relaxing with Justin and watching anime USUAL MOOD: Relaxed DRINK/SMOKE/DRUGS: No DARK VERSION OF SELF: Lack of emotion, disinterest for others and stomping the competiton brutally LIGHT VERSION OF SELF: Actually feels emotions a lot more and has an interest in the world around him HOW SERIOUS ARE THEY: Very CLASS IN AN RPG: Tactician BELIEVE IN GHOSTS: Yes (IN)DEPENDANT: Independent SOFT SPOT/VULNERABILITY: Justin OPINION ON SWEARING: A good way to vent DAREDEVIL VS CAUTIOUS: Cautious but has the plans od a daredevil MUSIC TYPE: Rock music MOVIE TYPE: Mystery BOOK TYPE: Murder mystery GAME TYPE: Action/Rpg COMFORTABLE TEMPERATURE: 17 SLEEPING PATTERN: Stays up somwhat late to wake up around 8-9 CLEANLINESS/NEATNESS: Organised but can let things get messy DESIRED PET: A rabbit HOW DO THEY PASS TIME: Playing games or watching tv BIGGEST SECRET: Him being gay HERO/WHO THEY LOOK UP TO: Captain Cuttlefish WHAT ANIMAL WOULD THEY BE: A rabbit FEARS: Being dumped, no longer being friends with Justin, death COMFORTS: Justin, plants, fresh air, warm blankets

HOW DO THEY ACT WHEN THEY ARE…

SAD: Will hide it and wait until he is alone to cry and let it out HAPPY: Lighten up and luagh a lot but also want to hide that ANGRY: No change in expression and extremely disappointed AFRAID: Will start to become more more irrational and attempt things without a plan LOVE SOMEONE: Become very attached and feel extremely happy when with them or thinking about them HATE SOMEONE: Will show signs of irritation but refrain himself from starting a fight with them WANT SOMETHING: Will become fascinated with it and try his best to work and achieve it CONFUSED: Look baffled but try his best not to let anyone see

HOW DO THEY REACT TO…

DANGER: Ready to fight back or protect another SOMEONE THEY HATE WHO HAS A CRUSH ON THEM: find them and immediately reject them PROPOSAL TO MARRY: Cry and cry and hug cthen cry some more DEATH OF LOVED ONE: If family, show some signs of saddness, if a friend, hide his pain and break down DIFFICULT GAME/MATH/ETC: Put it down and attempt it leter with help INJURY: Get it seen by a doctor fast SOMETHING IRRESISTABLY CUTE: tries to hide his blush and love for it LOSS OF HOURS OF WORK: Feel irritated but try to do what he can

HISTORY

BIOGRAPHY: Lucas is determined and clever inkling who thinks strategically most of the time and works to get better. He works hard training to be the best player he can be and secure himself a good job for the future, however he struggles with relationships, always feeling rather empty unless he’s around some people that he has manmaged to build trust with. He’s currently dating Justin, and when around him is happiest. Lucas also seems to hide his love for supernatural things and anime. FIRST APPEARANCE: 2016

KNOWLEDGE

LANGUAGES: English, partial French SCHOOLING LEVEL: Year 13 FAVORITE SUBJECT (S): Mythology INTERESTED CAREERS: Professional turf player EXPERTISE: Mythology PUZZLES: Very good at them CHEMISTRY: S MATH: S ENGLISH: S GEOGRAPHY: A POLITICS/LAW: S ECONOMY/ACCOUNTING: S COOKING: B SEWING: B MECHANICS: S BOTANY (FLOWERS): B MYTHOLOGY: S DRAMATICS(ACTING,SINGING): A READING LEVEL: High (don’t know the actual levels) HOW GOOD ARE THEY AT PLANNING AHEAD: very good, alwasy planning for most things IMPULSIVE/STRATEGY: extremely strategic

ROMANCE

DO THEY TAKE INITIATIVE: Somewhat, prefers more a partnership where both work together HOW DO THEY ACT(SHY,ETC): Somwhat shy, but mostly happy GENTLEMAN/LADYLIKE VS KLUTZY: Very gentleman like GO SLOW VS JUMP INTO: Jump into PROTECTIVE: Somewhat protective ACT LIKE FRIENDS OR LOVERS: Act like lovers but occasionally do friend stuff WHAT KIND OF PRESENTS DO THEY BUY: Simple things like new jackets or cook a meal TYPE OF KISSER: Submissive DO THEY WANT KIDS: No but wouldn’t mind DO THEY WANT TO MARRY: Yes MAKE GOOD OR BAD DECISIONS: Good decisions ARE THEY ROMANTIC: Try to be but it comes off as dorky and cute HOW ARE THEY IN BED: SKIP GET JEALOUS EASY: Can sometimes but will control it and rationalise it quickly WIFE/HUBBY BEATER: Jesus no MARRY FOR MONEY: No FAVORITE POSITION: Kneeling at church to pray to God WHAT WOULD HAPPEN ON THEIR DREAM DATE: Just stay home and cuddle watching movies under a blanket OPINION ON SEX:

[bscale-media]

Happy Birthday

@brendonurie:  This is Cody.  He can be a true narcissist, so I am sure he’s loving this.  He’s also incredibly intelligent, looks stunning on the screen, and has a smile that can melt the sun.  His voice is soft and smooth and sometimes I just like to listen no matter what comes out of it.  He can make me crazy in a hundred ways, but I don’t want anything else.  I call him a lot of things, but mostly I call him mine.  Happiest of Birthdays to my boyfriend, Cody Fern!  You win, my number one!  I fucking love you!  @cbbfern

I actually wrote this before I left.   I do miss them.   I know you are still mad, but I don’t carry grudges.  There are some things you should be aware of, but I’m pretty sure you haven’t caught up to yet including the ones who still talked smack about you after they left the group.  One of them couldn’t wait for me to be gone from the start, and that should be obvious.  Don’t let yourself be taken advantage of by people who pretend to be on your side.  <3, C

[towerrange15-blog]

The Parable of the Cheeseball

I wasn’t planning on sharing another post before the holidays, but last night I felt like I wanted to share this story that happened last year. And so, here I am. I’m calling it The Parable of the Cheeseball. I’m sharing the following story with my friend, Fern’s, permission.

As many of you know, for many years, my family has made and delivered cheeseballs as gifts to neighbors/friends, etc, for the holidays. It’s become a tradition that I think will last forever. And it’s hilarious to see how excited some of the “regulars” on our list get as the holiday season approaches. Starting early December, I have to carefully and somewhat warily walk down some hallways at church afraid I might be accosted by the energetic souls wondering eagerly when the cheeseballs will be delivered this year. Haha.

We make between 50-85 cheeseballs every year. It’s fun. It’s messy. It’s tradition.

Last year, however, something unintentional happened with this cheeseball tradition.

There was a family at our church going through some tough things. We knew this family a little bit – our kids are in some of the same grades, and we interacted with them here and there at church and school events. Their mom, Fern, had just undergone a major and very invasive brain surgery and was at home beginning a very, very long recovery. She was in severe pain. She could barely get up and move out of bed due to lethargy and pain and risk of falling. Not only that, she could hardly eat because part of her jaw had been cut during the brain surgery and was healing, but she couldn’t open her mouth very far at all and could only eat really soft foods.

This sweet family had been in our prayers for weeks. One night close to Christmas, it was fairly late in the evening. Maybe 9-ish. Too late, really, to be considered appropriately polite to drop something off at anyone’s house. But we were in major cheeseball mode and all social norms had flown out the window in the face of cheeseball delivering.

Brian and the kids had one last cheeseball on their tray for delivery, and Brian called me and said “I think I’m going to take this up to Fern and her family.” We had never delivered a cheeseball to Fern and her family in years prior because we hadn’t known them previously. They didn’t even know we did this sort of thing. I suggested that it might be too late, but Brian insisted that he wanted to deliver this one last cheeseball.

So he and the boys drove up to Fern’s house and dropped off the cheeseball. And that was that. We didn’t think much more of it (other than me delivering a mildly grumpy look at Brian when he got home because I still felt like I was in the right and he was in the wrong, and sometimes just shooting someone a dirty look makes me feel better – amiright?? – even though I know that is the opposite of how one should behave during the holiday season).

The next day, a text message popped up on my phone. It was from Fern. And this is what it said:

   “Good morning, Melanie this is Fern. I just texted your husband and got your number and told him to thank you for the cheese ball and said there is a story behind it. A couple days before you guys brought it over I asked [my husband] to make me one and he told me that he was way too busy to make me one and that he didn’t have the time to go to the store to buy the stuff to make one, he wasn’t ignoring me he was just buy with having to go into work and taking care of the stuff that needed to be taken care of around the house and taking care of me. He didn’t want me falling cuz I was and falling and hitting things. I could barely open my mouth so I was soo craving a cheese ball.”

“His sister came over to help me while he was at work again I asked her if she could make me a cheeseball she told me she didn’t know how to make one. So I let it go. But it was still in the back of my mind. I knew I could eat one cuz I could microwave it to where I could eat it. Anyway I was in soo much pain last night and someone knocked on the door and it was your sons.”

“Who had exactly what I was wanting. They said Merry Christmas and [my son] said Merry Christmas back. He brought me the Christmas ball and I just cried. I saw who it was from and I quietly thanked Heavenly Father for the angel who probably listened to a prompting and brought what I was truly wanting. It’s the best gift. Your family are true angels!” 

And you guys, in that instant, I was humbled beyond words and brought to some serious tears. Humbled because I had been mildly irritated and a little too free with the dirty looks the night before when Brian and the boys wanted to deliver this “one last cheeseball” too late in the evening and humbled because it seemed that a tremendously loving God above was working through my little family to help someone in need even though we had no idea.

We didn’t know that Fern had been praying for a cheeseball, of all things. It certainly wasn’t hard for us to drop off the cheeseball that night. In fact, we didn’t think much of it. But that simple holiday tradition that led to the prompting Brian had to take that “one last cheeseball” meant something to Fern. In that instant, it was so, so much more than just a delivered cheeseball.

I guess I felt like I wanted to share that simple story to say that sometimes the things we do may not have an impact on us in the moment of doing/giving them, but we never know, we never, ever know, what impact those small and seemingly simple things may have on others.

A delivered cheeseball. A text to randomly check in on someone. A side hug in the hallway at church or the grocery store. A loaf of bread dropped off on a doorstep. Just simply noticing someone that you don’t normally interact with and starting up a conversation.

Never ignore a prompting to reach out to someone. Even if it’s late at night and you might get a dirty look from your mom. 🙂 Even if it comes in the middle of a crazy, chaotic holiday season. And even if it takes you a bit out of your comfort zone.

I’ve been on the receiving end of small acts of service more times than I can count, and I remember them all; each one has burned a lasting warmth into my heart that blossoms every time I think of the person or event. Because others have quite literally changed my life through service, it makes me want to be a better human, a more giving person who allows myself to be open to direction that I may not even be intentionally seeking at the time. And it makes me so very grateful for the tender mercies of a loving Heavenly Father who sees all even when we are limited in what we see and understand.

That’s what this holiday season is all about, really. Giving in the truest way we can from the very depths of our heart, even if that giving comes in the rather rustic form of a cheeseball wrapped in a cellophane bag delivered by a couple young kids who have no idea what that cheeseball really means (and incidentally, neither do their parents). 

That cheeseball last year was the start of a very sweet friendship between Fern and me. Come to find out, she also looooooooves no-bake cheesecake (clearly she’s good people, haha!). This is very valuable information for someone like me who wants nothing more than to show my love for people through food. Especially when there’s some trading involved! (Fern made this adorable tiara and wand for Cam’s birthday last year, and I paid in cheesecake…now thats my kind of a deal.)

And I suppose that’s about all I have to say about that. What I know is that the making and giving of cheeseballs has taken on a symbolism and meaning that will stay with me forever. 

Merry Christmas, friends.

I know we don’t all celebrate and believe the same things. But with all the tender feelings that fill my heart this time of year, I just want to say that I very sincerely wish you the love, happiness, and peace that you may desire and need this time of year and always. Nothing I do, not one single thing, would have any lasting value if it weren’t for my belief and unending reliance on my Savior, Jesus Christ. His birth, His life, His constant, unconditional love is truly the reason…and the path forward…for ALL the seasons I will ever pass through in this life. 

Thank you for allowing me a rather sentimental post today. I’m so grateful for you, my very favorite virtual friends near and far. I wish you the very happiest of holidays. 

Source: https://www.melskitchencafe.com/the-parable-of-the-cheeseball/

[damnfinecupocoffee]

Reprise - Chapter 1 (exr)

An Enjoltaire / JBM+R friendship fic for @williamvapespeare​, promised far too long ago for how long chapter 1 has taken me to write.

Rated T for now, higher rating in later chapters.

The cottage at the end of the lane seemed to sit outside the boundaries of normal life. Grantaire had spent more long, lazy days and warm, comfortable nights under starry skies in the garden of that cottage than he’d spent settled in any other place in the last few years and every moment he’d lived within the charming, private world his friends had built there had changed him in ways he couldn’t begin to explain. It made sense, he supposed, that it felt like home; Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta were the closest thing to family he had in left in France.

Four years ago, Grantaire walked away from Les Amis for his own sanity. He stayed in touched with everyone but Enjolras, the only person he couldn't bear to speak to, but with the passage of time friendships have grown thinner and time apart has grown longer. He's travelled, worked, and tried to find his place in the world.

He's always got a home at Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta's cottage in the French countryside, and heading there this time might just set Grantaire on the road to recovery he's always needed to walk.

READ ON AO3

Chapter 1 (of 10) (3,437 words)

The cottage at the end of the lane seemed to sit outside the boundaries of normal life. It was as though the long grass and wildflowers and hedgerows surrounding it kept time from moving within the old stone wall around it, the winding path down to the pastel door - too narrow and overgrown for anything larger than a bicycle - creating a threshold into the unfading warmth of the building’s embrace. Grantaire had spent more long, lazy days and warm, comfortable nights under starry skies in the garden of that cottage than he’d spent settled in any other place in the last few years and every moment he’d lived within the charming, private world his friends had built there had changed him in ways he couldn’t begin to explain. The night was muggy and silent save for the sound of his own footfall on the tarmac and the peaceful buzzing of summer insects drawn to the streetlights. Even the potholes were familiar as he navigated the quiet single lane roads of Auvers-Sur-Oise on the way to the closest place he had left to a permanent home. It made sense, he supposed, that it felt like home; Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta were the closest thing to family he had in left in France.

Years had passed since their small group had been whole but of all of Grantaire’s friends, the three of them were a constant he could always count on to welcome him back with open arms. Not to say that he didn’t miss every member of their old student society. From Courf’s good sense of humour to Combeferre’s deep and life-changing conversations, Jehan’s endless light, Bahorel - the best of drinking buddies - and Feuilly, who’d never once judged the way Grantaire used to be. Even Marius, who’s foolish love sickness that had once driven them all mad had by some miracle culminated in a beautiful wedding to an even more beautiful bride, the two of them had moving out of Paris years before anyone else.

And Enjolras, of course Enjolras.

After everything that had happened between them, after all the pain and the longing, after having to cut and run from the entire city for the sake of his own sanity, Grantaire still missed Enjolras. Even though he’d made himself believe over time that he’d made the right choice, the air had never been cleared. There was so much left unsaid that still stung to think about, weighed him down to carry around with him like a song unsung. He doubted he’d ever say it now.

It was already far past midnight, but Grantaire had a spare key nestled permanently into the coin pocket of his wallet and if the three of them were asleep when he arrived, they’d know he’d was there when they saw the guest room door closed in the morning. Joly had declared it Grantaire’s room over a year ago, a place to store some of the possessions he didn’t want to travel with and a place he could always hide away in when the world got too much to bear.

As it was tonight. As it had been for the last few months.

Grantaire had turned thirty three five weeks ago - he’d passed his birthday quietly, in nobody’s company but his own - and hadn’t seen his friends since two months before his thirty second birthday. Only now he was close did it really hit him what a stretch of time that was; how he’d watched the seasons change but not seen the relief on Joly’s face as winter ebbed away, or how the colour of the fallen leaves matched perfectly with Musichetta’s hair whilst she walked in the park, or heard Bossuet’s laughter as he stretched out like a cat in the late summer sun. Time was like that - every passing year that aged him brought more loneliness and misery. His chest physically ached with every step towards them, a longing for closeness to the people he cared most for that he’d never forgotten, but had tucked away in the back of his mind somewhere along the way.

The last year and a half had been a chaotic whirlwind of opportunities, inconveniences, successes and failures. Grantaire had set out across Europe chasing work, without any real idea of what he was doing: taking photographs and selling them to magazines and websites to make money with hopes of turning it somehow into a career, sleeping in bus stations and hostels when he couldn’t afford anything better. He’d mostly been alone at first. He’d made plenty of friends in passing, but friendships on the road were always fleeting. Ships passing in the night. He’d stayed a while for free in an artists colony, which were the happiest six weeks of all his travelling, surrounded by people that reminded him of his friends from back home. There his days were packed with laughter and philosophy and creativity, and the long nights spent drunk and high, and almost always in someone else’s company. But then he’d almost picked up a paintbrush again, and so he’d moved on quickly before he fell prey to the temptation. And then, of course, there’d been love. Or would-be love, he supposed. Eight whole months of trying to feel something that was never quite there with someone who was only nearly what he wanted. It was symptom of getting older, he supposed: a painful awareness of time that urged him to settled down, to do things the way he thought he was expected to, to ‘find’ himself. Find happiness.

Grantaire rebelled against it as violently as he tried to conform to it, and in that constant internal tug of war he’d found himself more uncertain than ever. The smallest of disagreements blew out of control until the relationship he’d hung all his hopes on had worn thin like butter over too much bread. Like every time something went wrong in his life, Grantaire did what he did best: he ran.

This time, at least, he’d run back the way he came.

Tarmac gave way to gravel underfoot, and gravel became dirt as Grantaire found the turn to the lane, the sign for Bird’s Nest Cottage nearly entirely hidden in the ferns growing along the path. He made a mental note to cut them back for his friends as soon as he found the time. They wouldn’t ask him to but he liked to pull his weight when they let him stay and stored his belongings for free. He was utterly exhausted from the journey. He’d been met with delays and cancellations on almost every public transport service west of Stuttgart, and an already epic day of travelling had become sixteen hours of dull, slow-moving hell all the way from Prague back to France. His stomach was turning with hunger. The ache in his shoulders under the weight of his rucksack, stuffed with everything he’d taken with him on his travels, grew with each step but before long he could make out the squat building: the sloping clay tiles of the roof, the green shutters with paint peeling in a few too many places, the brick work hidden behind a curtain of ivy. A dim light in the kitchen window guided him in like a ship welcomed back to harbour after years at sea.

Grantaire paused on the doorstep to breathe in the warm night time air one last time before he stepped inside. He could hear someone moving around in the kitchen and the muted clattering of crockery and pans was as comforting as a lullaby, knowing he was home.

He imagined it was Bossuet clearing up long after dinner - perhaps Joly and Musichetta had fallen asleep leant against him on the sofa and he hadn’t wanted to move them. Or perhaps Joly had simply been home extremely late from his job at the tiny town’s doctor’s surgery, often held up after hours updating records or doing home visits because he didn’t have the heart to turn any patient down. Musichetta cooked most of the time, not because her boys couldn’t, but because she loved to do it. She was a great cook to boot. Grantaire’s mouth watered a little at the thought of her cooking, and as he knocked on the door - quietly, so as not to disturb anyone already asleep - he found himself hoping there were leftovers in their fridge that he could dig in to.

No answer. He frowned, pausing to listen again. The kitchen was suddenly quieter, but no one was coming to the door. Probably because of the late hour. No one expected a knock on the door at nearly one a.m. But if someone was up, there was a chance that- yes, the door was unlocked. Grantaire pushed it open and revelled in the silence as it swung back. Someone had oiled the hinge after years of creaking.

There it was. With it came all the memories. The front door opened straight into the sitting room, a crowded asymmetrical space that managed to look cosy with its terracotta tiled floor and piled up rugs, mismatched bookshelves and vintage furniture, lit by a few small lamps scattered throughout the space. The room was punctuated by a wooden column supporting the upper floor of the cottage. Grantaire remembered dancing around that column with Bossuet on a spontaneous karaoke night, Musichetta laughing so loud in one of the armchairs that she almost drowned out the music. Every corner of the room was filled with similar memories - enjoying the sunshine by the patio doors, quietly opening up to Joly sat on the staircase in the far corner, moving all the furniture to make room for a giant dining table on a weekend almost all of their friends had managed to make it for Sunday lunch. Grantaire’s despondent heart began to fill again as he reminisced, a smile curling at the corners of his lips; the cottage was already working its magic, threading him back together piece by piece, so gently that it didn’t hurt at all.

“...Grantaire..?”

That wasn’t Bossuet.

Or Joly, or Musichetta.

All the warmth flooded out of Grantaire’s tired body at once as he turned towards the sound, towards the kitchen doorway, towards something he definitely was not ready to deal with.

Enjolras.

There he was in all his golden-haired glory, red shirt hanging off his broad shoulders, bright eyes wide in the low light as he looked Grantaire up and down. In one hand he was holding a box of cereal, the other hand buried inside it.

He was as beautiful as the first day Grantaire had met him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Grantaire said, snappier than he probably should have been. The hair on the back of his neck prickled up. He was clutching one strap of his backpack, had been about to take it off, but with all his defenses suddenly sky high he found himself squeezing it until his knuckles turned white.

Enjolras looked a little taken aback, but recovered quickly. “I’m staying here,” he said. The cereal box rustled as he extracted his hand, empty.

That was a spanner in Grantaire’s plans. He drew in a sharp breath, mind racing for a solution. He couldn’t stay here with Enjolras. He couldn’t stay here with Enjolras.

“How...long for?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras answered, with enough hesitance that Grantaire heard ‘indefinitely’ in the subtext. “At least until Bastille Day. Possibly longer.”

It’d been so long since they last saw each other, last spoke, that Grantaire couldn’t even begin to guess at why Enjolras would be staying with friends for the foreseeable future, especially this far outside of Paris. He’d always known Enjolras as a part of Paris, as if he’d grown naturally from the cracks between its paving slabs like the flowers. He belonged there and Grantaire couldn’t imagine him spending too long outside city limits, lest he collapse from the separation. Of the friends he and Enjolras shared, Grantaire would have pinned him as staying with Combeferre, or Courfeyrac, or Feuilly before Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta.

But they didn’t know each other anymore.

Grantaire shifted on his feet. He had no idea what else to say, or what to do. There was definitely nowhere else he could stay this late at night - the town only had one guest house and he couldn’t show up there at one in the morning - and he was exhausted, aching, starving. His legs would likely give out beneath him if he tried to go anywhere else.

“I suppose you’re staying too,” Enjolras said, gesturing to his bag. His words were stilted. It was only be expected, the way they’d left off before. “They hadn’t said.”

“They didn’t know I was coming,” Grantaire rebuked quickly. “I have my own key. I can come and go as I please.”’

“Oh. I see.” This was strange. Enjolras had to be feeling it to. Nearly four years with no contact, they were basically strangers, and yet Grantaire couldn’t escape the surge of feelings creeping up his throat.

Studying him, he found Enjolras’ hair was a little shorter than he remembered, his cascading curls barely brushing his shoulders. His own was a little longer though, he supposed. Besides that he couldn’t see any change in Enjolras’ face, no lines to give away the passage of time like Grantaire was sporting at the corners of his eyes. He looked younger than his years, as he always had done; no older than twenty-three, although after all this time he had to be skirting his thirtieth birthday. Of course he’d be blessed with eternal youth. If anyone was, it’d be Enjolras.

Before Grantaire could think of anything else to say, there was a creak on the staircase. They turned in sync to look over at the corner of the room and found Joly hovering a few steps up, resting on his cane, robe wrapped around himself and pinned in place with an arm folded over his chest. He was barely awake.

“Hello stranger,” Joly said, tired smile breaking out on his face as he realised Grantaire was standing there. He made his way carefully down the last two steps. Grantaire couldn’t help grinning back, finally shedding his heavy pack off his back carelessly, as Joly approached and pulled him in a tight hug.

God, this was what he needed. The dread of seeing Enjolras out of the blue seeped from his body as Joly’s arms enveloped him. He buried his face into his shoulder, wishing he could hide there forever.

“Missed you,” he mumbled into the fabric of Joly’s robe, returning the hug with equal vigour. “It’s been too long.”

“Far too long, my friend. We’ve missed you too. All of us. So, so much.”

Grantaire was distantly aware of Enjolras still stood beside them but he refused to care. This was what he’d come for. If his heart was still beating a little too fast, if he was a little dizzy at their closeness, he’d keep that close and let no one else know.

“Are you just passing through? Or staying a while?” Joly asked once Grantaire finally released him. “Chetta’s asleep but she’ll be made up to see you in the morning. Bossuet’s out until Friday but if you stay, he’ll be over the moon, I’m sure.”

He gave Grantaire a look, too. It was a look filled with silent questions: is everything okay? Do you need anything? Do you need to talk? Only Joly could see through him so easily, but Grantaire schooled his own expression and hoped his easy smile would keep his friend content for the time being.

“I don’t know. Seems you’ve got a full house already,” he shrugged, glancing over at Enjolras.

Enjolras was already staring right at him. Meeting his eyes caught Grantaire off guard and threatened to unnerve him all over again. They were so very blue, and striking against his porcelain complexion; Grantaire knew that already, but he’d shoved the knowledge somewhere deep down inside. They were also…vulnerable, almost. Or at least less guarded than Grantaire remembered.

“There are two beds in the guest room,” Enjolras suggested honestly. “I don’t mind-”

“Or Chetta’s office,” Joly said quickly. Not for the first time, Grantaire was extremely thankful Joly understood him so well. “You can take the pull out, it’s pretty comfortable. And private.”

Enjolras looked slightly put out to be cut off, but he didn’t say anything. Grantaire breathed a silent sigh of relief - the thought of sharing a room with Enjolras struck an unwarranted amount of fear into him.

“That’d be fine, thank you,” Grantaire said. He was already thinking of where else he could go once the morning rolled around - perhaps the guest house in the town, or he could suck it up and move somewhere else entirely. He didn’t have to stay with Joly and the others - not if Enjolras was already taking up their hospitality. He’d overload them and he’d hate himself if he became a burden. Not on the people who cared the most for him.

He climbed the stairs quietly after Joly, Enjolras remaining thankfully downstairs. Grantaire was sure he didn’t stop to take a breath until they were in Musichetta’s office and Joly had showed him how to fold out the spare bed.

“How are you doing really?” Joly asked, a gentle hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “I’m sorry about...I would have warned you, if I’d known you were coming.”

Grantaire leaned into the touch. “I’m alright.” I have to be. “I promise.” He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “You know what I’m like, last minute decisions and all that. I’ll find somewhere else to stay tomorrow.”

Silent for a long moment, Joly just squeezed his shoulder harder.

“You don’t have to, you know. You’re always welcome here.”

“I don’t want to be a bother-”

“R.”

When he looked up, Joly was staring at him firmly. He trembled a little under the scrutiny - not pity, but real, genuine care and love that even Grantaire couldn’t deny was real. He couldn’t meet Joly’s eyes for long before he had to look away.

“Just that this was...seeing him is-” Fumbling over his words, Grantaire fell silent and rubbed his hands over his face.

How could he put into words how it felt to see the man he’d considered the love of his life after four long years purposefully as far away from him as he could be? After he’d fled from him before the infatuation killed him? How many nights had he spent crying on Joly’s shoulder over his unrequited feelings for Enjolras and his desperate loneliness and the resolute feeling of life not being worth living? And now - now Grantaire would have to explain that despite all that, everything he’d put his friends through and after no more than ten minutes of strained conversation, he still felt the same way he always did. His heart was fluttering. He was light-headed. He thought that he might cry, although the exhaustion may have played a part in that particular pitfall.

He desperately wanted to tell Joly he was sorry, but words failed him.

“I know,” Joly said, patting his shoulder before he let his arm drop back to his side. “Get some sleep, okay? We can talk it out tomorrow.”

Grantaire nodded and tried to swallow the lump in his throat with little success.

Biffing Joly goodnight and stripped down to his underwear and t-shirt, too tired to even dig out his toothbrush. The sofa bed was comfortable enough; he probably would have managed to sleep in a bus stop if he’d had to, he was that worn out. Yet laying there, staring up at the ceiling with a million thoughts turning inside his over-tired brain, Grantaire started to worry he wasn’t going to get to sleep at all.

Especially not when he heard Enjolras coming quietly upstairs and slipping quietly into the guest room. (My room, he thought. The one with the bed he’d come to think of as his own, and now Enjolras was sleeping in it. In the place where he slept.)

He’d get through this, just like everything else. Tomorrow was another day, he told himself, and he would handle it because he had to. He could handle anything where there was no other choice.

Or he’d just run away again. That decision could be made later.

Grantaire fell asleep around three a.m already knowing Enjolras would haunt his dreams, as he had done every night all those years ago, wondering if Enjolras ever dreamt about him too.

[moleasia4-blog]

The Parable of the Cheeseball

I wasn’t planning on sharing another post before the holidays, but last night I felt like I wanted to share this story that happened last year. And so, here I am. I’m calling it The Parable of the Cheeseball. I’m sharing the following story with my friend, Fern’s, permission.

As many of you know, for many years, my family has made and delivered cheeseballs as gifts to neighbors/friends, etc, for the holidays. It’s become a tradition that I think will last forever. And it’s hilarious to see how excited some of the “regulars” on our list get as the holiday season approaches. Starting early December, I have to carefully and somewhat warily walk down some hallways at church afraid I might be accosted by the energetic souls wondering eagerly when the cheeseballs will be delivered this year. Haha.

We make between 50-85 cheeseballs every year. It’s fun. It’s messy. It’s tradition.

Last year, however, something unintentional happened with this cheeseball tradition.

There was a family at our church going through some tough things. We knew this family a little bit – our kids are in some of the same grades, and we interacted with them here and there at church and school events. Their mom, Fern, had just undergone a major and very invasive brain surgery and was at home beginning a very, very long recovery. She was in severe pain. She could barely get up and move out of bed due to lethargy and pain and risk of falling. Not only that, she could hardly eat because part of her jaw had been cut during the brain surgery and was healing, but she couldn’t open her mouth very far at all and could only eat really soft foods.

This sweet family had been in our prayers for weeks. One night close to Christmas, it was fairly late in the evening. Maybe 9-ish. Too late, really, to be considered appropriately polite to drop something off at anyone’s house. But we were in major cheeseball mode and all social norms had flown out the window in the face of cheeseball delivering.

Brian and the kids had one last cheeseball on their tray for delivery, and Brian called me and said “I think I’m going to take this up to Fern and her family.” We had never delivered a cheeseball to Fern and her family in years prior because we hadn’t known them previously. They didn’t even know we did this sort of thing. I suggested that it might be too late, but Brian insisted that he wanted to deliver this one last cheeseball.

So he and the boys drove up to Fern’s house and dropped off the cheeseball. And that was that. We didn’t think much more of it (other than me delivering a mildly grumpy look at Brian when he got home because I still felt like I was in the right and he was in the wrong, and sometimes just shooting someone a dirty look makes me feel better – amiright?? – even though I know that is the opposite of how one should behave during the holiday season).

The next day, a text message popped up on my phone. It was from Fern. And this is what it said:

   “Good morning, Melanie this is Fern. I just texted your husband and got your number and told him to thank you for the cheese ball and said there is a story behind it. A couple days before you guys brought it over I asked [my husband] to make me one and he told me that he was way too busy to make me one and that he didn’t have the time to go to the store to buy the stuff to make one, he wasn’t ignoring me he was just buy with having to go into work and taking care of the stuff that needed to be taken care of around the house and taking care of me. He didn’t want me falling cuz I was and falling and hitting things. I could barely open my mouth so I was soo craving a cheese ball.”

“His sister came over to help me while he was at work again I asked her if she could make me a cheeseball she told me she didn’t know how to make one. So I let it go. But it was still in the back of my mind. I knew I could eat one cuz I could microwave it to where I could eat it. Anyway I was in soo much pain last night and someone knocked on the door and it was your sons.”

“Who had exactly what I was wanting. They said Merry Christmas and [my son] said Merry Christmas back. He brought me the Christmas ball and I just cried. I saw who it was from and I quietly thanked Heavenly Father for the angel who probably listened to a prompting and brought what I was truly wanting. It’s the best gift. Your family are true angels!” 

And you guys, in that instant, I was humbled beyond words and brought to some serious tears. Humbled because I had been mildly irritated and a little too free with the dirty looks the night before when Brian and the boys wanted to deliver this “one last cheeseball” too late in the evening and humbled because it seemed that a tremendously loving God above was working through my little family to help someone in need even though we had no idea.

We didn’t know that Fern had been praying for a cheeseball, of all things. It certainly wasn’t hard for us to drop off the cheeseball that night. In fact, we didn’t think much of it. But that simple holiday tradition that led to the prompting Brian had to take that “one last cheeseball” meant something to Fern. In that instant, it was so, so much more than just a delivered cheeseball.

I guess I felt like I wanted to share that simple story to say that sometimes the things we do may not have an impact on us in the moment of doing/giving them, but we never know, we never, ever know, what impact those small and seemingly simple things may have on others.

A delivered cheeseball. A text to randomly check in on someone. A side hug in the hallway at church or the grocery store. A loaf of bread dropped off on a doorstep. Just simply noticing someone that you don’t normally interact with and starting up a conversation.

Never ignore a prompting to reach out to someone. Even if it’s late at night and you might get a dirty look from your mom. 🙂 Even if it comes in the middle of a crazy, chaotic holiday season. And even if it takes you a bit out of your comfort zone.

I’ve been on the receiving end of small acts of service more times than I can count, and I remember them all; each one has burned a lasting warmth into my heart that blossoms every time I think of the person or event. Because others have quite literally changed my life through service, it makes me want to be a better human, a more giving person who allows myself to be open to direction that I may not even be intentionally seeking at the time. And it makes me so very grateful for the tender mercies of a loving Heavenly Father who sees all even when we are limited in what we see and understand.

That’s what this holiday season is all about, really. Giving in the truest way we can from the very depths of our heart, even if that giving comes in the rather rustic form of a cheeseball wrapped in a cellophane bag delivered by a couple young kids who have no idea what that cheeseball really means (and incidentally, neither do their parents). 

That cheeseball last year was the start of a very sweet friendship between Fern and me. Come to find out, she also looooooooves no-bake cheesecake (clearly she’s good people, haha!). This is very valuable information for someone like me who wants nothing more than to show my love for people through food. Especially when there’s some trading involved! (Fern made this adorable tiara and wand for Cam’s birthday last year, and I paid in cheesecake…now thats my kind of a deal.)

And I suppose that’s about all I have to say about that. What I know is that the making and giving of cheeseballs has taken on a symbolism and meaning that will stay with me forever. 

Merry Christmas, friends.

I know we don’t all celebrate and believe the same things. But with all the tender feelings that fill my heart this time of year, I just want to say that I very sincerely wish you the love, happiness, and peace that you may desire and need this time of year and always. Nothing I do, not one single thing, would have any lasting value if it weren’t for my belief and unending reliance on my Savior, Jesus Christ. His birth, His life, His constant, unconditional love is truly the reason…and the path forward…for ALL the seasons I will ever pass through in this life. 

Thank you for allowing me a rather sentimental post today. I’m so grateful for you, my very favorite virtual friends near and far. I wish you the very happiest of holidays. 

Source: https://www.melskitchencafe.com/the-parable-of-the-cheeseball/

[doriscahill]

On my Birthday

Yesterday was my birthday, I was greeted with a yellow balloon, chocolate hazelnut  cake and torch candle. Literally, a jumbo sparkler. Dangerous and disallowed in much of American, what a joy. A ten second pyrotechnic show just for me..

Birthday’s are a big deal in Georgia, even more so than America, you can not escape it. Overt glitz, broad smiles and excessive hugs. Over 200 well wishes on face-book and flooded inboxes; a wave of love from one end of the world to the other.  

My colleagues/friends did something for me over the top, something making this 57th birthday, a favorite. 

This is for real.

I thought I had requested “please do not go out of your way”  and “its not a day of my best memories”. 

No to Georgians means yes unless it is three no’s. It’s been a month of friends asking, “what are you plans? We must celebrate!!” Those who work side by side with me for years would know I mostly skip work on my birthday, seeking a peaceful day.  

When young this day meant a party and gifts we could not have nor always afford. If we had cake it was often shared with my cousins  also, celebrating their birthday. There were so many of us.  The shared cake would have a sculpted rose on top, pinkish-red made of  buttercream icing; yet no guarantee that single rose  would be yours to eat.   It would be days of anticipation and then disappointment, few parties;  no gifts. A did treasure a birthstone ring gifted to me by mom, unfortunately it was stolen  when my house was robbed a few years ago. I  held in my drawer for 40 years. 

Not to be a downer, but there were 3 birthdays in 57 years that brought me special feeling. My 12th, 21st and 50th. 

On my 12th birthday, I begged my dad daily, for at least 6 months,  to buy me a 10 speed bike on my birthday. A bike he could ill afford making $4-$6 dollars an hour. I became privy to this info when working a summer job at the factory. I  peaked at his pay records when the office was at lunch.  On my special day we went to the bike store to pick one out, choosing a deep maroon. He negotiated so hard, it was embarrassing, he refused to pay the sales tax and insisted on a good warranty, about $110, a weeks pay.  

That maroon bike changed me, I felt free; wind in my long ponied brown hair; peddling, switching gears uphill, then gliding hands-free downhill,  water bottle and basket attached. Visiting places: CandleWood Lake, Nanny’s, St Gregory’s School/Church, and Jimmies market.  I raced it with friends skinning my knees and participated in 26 mile charity ride with a good girl friend passing the old Fair Grounds.

One day I left my bike on the grass in our front  yard. I was late for  dinner again and had not placed it back in the garage. The next time I looked for it, it was gone, stolen. It took me four years to save money to buy my own bike. I was severely scolded.

I still love to bike and have  proudly keep my 1978-9 Peugeot.  Newport, RI.

On my 21st birthday I was taken to the Pocono Mountains. I remember this birthday well. I was gifted the most dainty earrings; gold hearts with the smallest pearl. I was to join another  family and remember sharing the news with my parents, who were surprisingly pleased. My view of my parents changed  post college; their predilections no longer bemuse.  Unallowable behavior became encouraged.   

This family was different than mine; children and parents ate together most meals, played charades and board games for hours. A consolidated unit that operated in unison.  We hiked to the forest and took pictures at the falls. Crossing a foot bridge,me,  dreadfully fearing heights, my hand was tightly held by my host. We visited the local museum and bowled. Always in a group of many, valuing time together, creating memories.  Time was made to teach me how to  juggle 3 balls. I remember feeling free, walking in nature, welcomed.  On my special day  my once small frame adorn a beloved dress: just above the knee, light fabric that bounced, and pale yellow with black polka-dots accented with a black patent leather belt.  I do not recall a birthday cake, only the smiles of those few day. 

The earring, the mate it lost. 

Then birthday’s became a time for my children and their birthdays. A promise with my husband agreeing to not to fuss with my birthday, but give our girls birthdays and make new memories for. To not gift me on my day, but surprise me on other days with kindness.  My happiest gift to him on his birthday was the surprise birth of my youngest daughter who arrived a week early. He, missing his first day of work for his new job, me sleeping through a night of labor. Only to wake and be taken to the hospital.  Most nights I sleep like a rock. 

Each birthday for my girls starting from the first year I was out of control; friends, clowns, cakes, barbecues, balloons, pool, painting and gym; all themed parties. My funniest party for our eldest daughter was at age 13. We  decorated the basement family room with black lights and streamers for a night dance at the house. She asked me to hold the spin the bottle pillow dice.  Nothing changes, except she asked. My funniest memory of my youngest daughter is the year we had the fake birthday party, her birthday falls at summers end and the prior year attendance was low, families tend to take vacation,  so we moved her party up to June :-) and opened the pool. Her idea, no one  would know. 

I lost my father in my 50th year. IA month after passing, my husband Andy asked to take me into Boston for dinner with friends; a date. We had a gift certificate for Capital Grill. $200 and would make a night of it. I grimace but agree; Capital Grill is a premier steak house in the BackBay neighborhood of Boston. I spent  many years working on Newbury, Bolyston Street and Commonwealth Ave. The gift certificate was from our lawyer who failed to pay our es-crowed real estate taxes from  our house closing. Andrew asked me not to check  closing documents because I catch too many errors and tend to be stubborn for correction. We still laugh over this. 

Andy knew it would make me happy surrounding me with memories. We drive in. He hates driving into Boston and specifically parking, anyone would. We park the car nearby,  at a meter near my old office (on Newbury St and adjacent to the Mass Pike). Hoping the car would not be vandalized or towed, we take turns filling it during our meal. Now, one can pay parking remotely with an App. While working, my car was stolen twice plus 6 break-ins and two tows, the parking tickets were, lets say alot.  Today, most young workers take the commuter rail; it now extends to my surburb. The new station opened the day after I stopped commuting, sigh. 

Meeting our close friends, we ordered on the right side of the menu, and the chat was pleasant, but strain of dad’s death overwhelmed me. I ponder why am I out on my birthday. At the meals end, a chocolate birthday cake with candles is placed on the table, and all sang the birthday song, I could not stop crying.  I felt loved. I got to eat the rose.  We return to the car; thankfully intact. 

Back to Georgia.  Last year I had milk  poisoning so we can skip past that birthday (click and read  No Milk for You!) 

At my site, I have a new co-worker and they  mention an ancient monastery. Located in the Village of Uraveli; it dates 1100 A.D. or so and is under renovation. He exclaims “It is majestic.” Continues, thinking “and it is great potential for tourism as the road leading to there has a mineral spring. Healing waters.” He and  my other co-worker families come from this village. And he purchased land near the spring, hoping to develop it. 

Having ate my cake with the crazy candle.  He was again talking about the property and the monastery. He had not seen it, since a young boy. I blurt “let’s go there, today!, that would be the best gift” Some intense discussion in Georgian commenced. Mostly answering the questions, when and should we. Its decide to leave at 4 pm.  It would be  us, three , our driver and my guest; a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer. I am pumped, an unplanned road trip.  

Timeliness is rare in Georgia, around 4;30 pm we set out; five packed in a small SUV, estimated travel 45 minutes; one way. We take the main round south and turn at the Potato World Sign, the road begins to wind as we ascend. We pass another Potato World Sign in the Village Mushki, this has a famous craft woman and her school and museum. We discuss how old she is. We gaze out at the potato fields. 

We enter Uraveli Village and each colleague  points out there grandparents home on the adjacent hillsides.  We crane from our windows, to see  their homes, as they point and describe where to look. The Uraveli river flows along the road to the monastery. We follow it. My coworker says it will become cool soon and darker.  The pavement road ends abruptly and turns to dirt; uneven, potholed, riddle with river rock and deep puddles; the ride becomes increasingly bumpy. You can see the topography change in the aerial google map view and the “red” pin where we are heading. Note the dropped pin is after the fact. 

Rough, the road continues to narrow and loose gravel turns to larger river rock. We are all giggling; only feet away from water’s edge. My co-workers point out river side picnic spots, soviet posts and the City water supply facility. We stop roadside; stretch and drink the from the mineral water fountain, take pictures of the undeveloped land lot, noting is boundaries and abandoned horse stable.  We continue on.  Road sections are damage from spring floods; we swerve to avoid muddied pools. We come to a fork in the road and more giggling;  there is ongoing debate ( in Georgian): how much further and which way and the monastery is not in site yet. Georgian banter continues; “where, when, when?, soon? how far?, close?” 

Unsure, we choose to go left.  The forest canopy now filters the light. We hear thunder, then see lightening strike the mountain. Again we all ask “how many kilometers?”. The ferns and wetland flowers are in bloom, we ascend up the increasingly rocky worn road. We come to a  river crossing; so far all crossings were on aged bridges, but not this crossing; only river.   Giggles turn to cackles, we cross a narrow section; reinforced with poured cement on rocks and  fast moving water. I assume the  wood plank, leaned on nearby rocks is for those on foot :-).

Again, our happy group discusses how much further is our ascent. Latest discussion, we had agreed on 2 kilometers. It seemed closer to 10. My colleague comforts the group stating “it always seems longer going”  and in the same breath “I was last hear as a boy”. We arrive, but the rain comes. All are welcomed  by the head priest and his very large German Shepard. There are workers busy building. We stay only a short time, walking the complex taking pictures. Women need to cover their heads to enter the monastery. Darn we forgot our veils and could not go in to see the ornate paintings. 

I take a short walk. Alone, on top this  mountain, next to this most ancient building of prayer,  Folding my hands, looking towards the sky and in private I thank G-d for this life and one more birthday. 

We descend and it does seem shorter, but certainly as narrow and rocky. I video taped the river crossing (please click). 

 Here are a few more pictures. The hand holding the clover is a fellow Peace Corps volunteer. 

Thanks for listening and following this Blog. Doe