don’t blink: ten years and counting.

it’s daunting to feel how slow time passes when you count your breaths.  breathe in, breathe out.  two seconds. three seconds.  one minute, then four.  hours become snail trails on a dewy sidewalk.  time stands still.  

it’s much like when you’re taking a road trip, and the clock is aching, laughing at your insistency and sense of urgency.  the metal cage can only move so fast. 

and then you blink.  and days have passed. weeks.  and you’re on the way home, and it only feels like seconds.  but years have flown by.  

a few days ago I was sitting on a bar stool in a dirty Irish pub drinking stout and discussing Europe with a curious, olive eyed stranger.  yesterday I married him in a small German village.  and a few hours ago I gave birth to a bright soul whose quest for intelligence is never hindered.  she stares back at me with those same olive eyes.  

I look up, and realize it’s been 10 years.  ten years since we officially began our life together, although it’s been lifetimes before that.  

it’s been a few seconds since our actual anniversary, and now we are celebrating our life together in the best way we know how.  for the next 10 days we will traverse Croatia: the cities, the coastline, and the islands that create such fame for this Adriatic beauty.  we will drink and eat all the things.  and we will breathe through this one second alone we have together.  

I just keep reminding myself… don’t blink. another ten years will pass us by before I know it. #howeilovemysomm #wemadeit10years  

nashville news: a weekend steeped in history

we touched down in Nashville late one night, midweek, the sun shimmering it’s reflection on the winding Cumberland as we pressed into the country music capital.

venturing into the hipsteric East End, we located our quaint Airbnb on Calvin Avenue and settled in for the night, planning an early rise to explore the Nashville Genealogy and Heritage Records at the public library.

the sun shaded and birds quiet, we awoke with chicory coffee and bacon, and faced the north winds into downtown. we scoured through search after search for ascendants of Cindarilla (Davis) Coalson, and after three hours had located census records, family trees, and possible linkages to immigrant lines in Virginia.

our eyes were then tired and crossed and our minds giddy with exhaustion, so we headed downstairs to the art gallery, where our hearts then hung heavy for the Holocaust Violins on exhibit from the Weinstein Foundation.

a refreshing lunch of succulent smoked pork dripping in vinegar based sauce coupled with bourbon cocktails was devoured at historic Puckett’s Grocery. then we piled into a trolley bus and toured around the frigid city, complete with slants of low country humor, while our bellies rested from the indulgence.

that night we feasted on Gatlin brothers classic music at the Ryman Auditorium, the sweet sounds of harmony rising up to meet us in the pews. peace and music and memories filled our souls, the notes of Dolly and Vince and Conway and Skaggs gliding through the air. exhausted, we fell into bed and dreamed of blue econoline vans and eight track tapes.

(photo credit: djemils)

the national archives welcomed our clan with fervor. stacks of rustled pages lay before us, inviting us into a hazy disarray of typewritten pages of deeds and marriage records and land sales.

rain fell at a steady pace, wetting our heads and cleansing our minds, our ancestral ties solidified. hailing from Virginia, Cindarilla did have her prince, y’all. his name was Charlie Coalson and he fought for the confederacy during the war.

later we entertained Mockingbird Bistro and all its deliciousness. my cafeteria tray shimmered in food glory as we sipped Nero d’avola in requested real wine glasses instead of the trendy plastic put before us. after milkshakes and Rice Krispie treats and cocktails in plastic bags, we drenched ourselves in drag queens and karaoke.

Bellemeade Plantation was not far from our little east end cottage… so we trekked the fifteen miles to southwest Nashville to tour the grounds and smell the air and taste the all wines made on property.

museums beckoned us with their chorus of sweetness, relaying our hunger for fried green tomatoes and Tennessee whiskey.  Dad parlayed the history of the automobile at marathon, as we entered in to a dreamy, sleepy haze.

one last pitstop on music row and we ended our trip secluded indoors with wine and movies and much needed sleep… and while history may have let us down, historical records proved us right… family is a stronger bond than any flippant friendship. much love to my sisters, my father, and those who proceeded before us. what a blessed life we all have.