Kid Party

As perfect as these photos make last night's bedtime look, it wasn't so pretty in actual life. Daddy had gone back to work, the baby wasn't going down without a fight, and I was just trying to get the snack and pajamas part of the process under way. The toothache I've been drugging all week was making me more than a little grumpy. Truth be known, I was exhausted and mirthless before the final kid finally gave in.


So there is my disclaimer. Many times in this Facebook/blogosphere/online world, we don't see the truth of each other's lives. Who wants to admit they yelled until their throat hurt, as I often do? But it's life. It's the good, the bad and the ugly, and it's a blessing.


Hot cocoa, cinnamon grahams, apple slices, siblings. Reading books by flashlight. It's the stuff of childhood. It's a kid party on a Thursday night.

And while you might not see Colby right away in the photo below, he's there, on the right side of the frame, squinting into the flashlight he's shining into his own eye.

Happy weekend!

High School, Remembered

I'm feeling a blast from the past tonight. I spent some time this past weekend with about ten of my classmates from my graduating class. We were the class of '96 at Waterford High. And, it ended up being true, "We never had it all together, but together we had it all." I remember leading the committee on the class motto and not knowing if that really fit when we chose it. We were a competitive, female-heavy, oddball kind of class, and I knew some mushy quote just wasn't going to work. When this quote came up, I made peace with it, thinking, "Well, we do have all kinds in this class, we've got it all." And, fifteen years later, it's still true.

It was great to see some of those faces I used to see everyday. There were a ton of memories, and I was surprised by how much of it I had forgotten. My favorites were from Mr. Nowell's chemistry lab. He was an older teacher who truly liked us and had a penchant for saying hilarious things like "Baker, are you masticating latex derivatives?" (chewing gum) and "Stollar, quit jerking me around!"

Gosh, those were long days. When you're a teenager, the hours in class drag on forever. It seems you'll never grow up, you'll never get to call the shots. You'll forever be a subpar citizen, with chores and curfews and pimples.

But you do grow up. Those days help to prepare you for the other trials and tribulations you might face. And, for me, they weren't all bad. There were "big sisters" in volleyball who decorated my locker on big game days, a crew of boy friends who taught me the fine art of slingshot (that's us, above, showing a little leg after graduation), and parents who supported me in all kinds of ways.

So the class reunion was a good thing. And maybe it got me in the right frame of mind for the sad news I got today. A dear cousin of mine was killed in an occupational accident. He was the epitome of a good guy, and my memories of him during our high school days abound.

They say only the good die young, and if that's the case, it's a wonder he made it this far. I'm telling you, this was one of the truly phenomenal good-time guys. He had a heart of gold and a smile that made you believe he'd just gotten away with the wildest stunt, which was often true.

I don't think I can find a picture of him from those days, the way I remember him best. I just spent nearly an hour, to no avail, looking for a photo from the night we had a '70s dance at the school, where one of my best memories of him took place. That was a good night for me and my cousin-friend. He paid me a compliment that night that made a big difference in my life. It was a nod of confidence in the best way, and I can still appreciate the "aha!" moment it created for me, the way it clicked it my head that I was worthy and that I did have something to offer.

And those moments, at the age I was then, were and still are absolutely priceless. So, rest in peace, my friend. You'll always be among my memories and those of others from the worst of days, the best of days, that were "high school."

The Cowboy in Me

I am indeed aware that I haven't posted in nearly a week. It's hot, my laptop is on the fritz, I'm busy, blah, blah, blah. Mostly, I'm feeling quiet. Actually, I think I'm making myself feel quiet so I don't spout a whole bunch of negativity. It's cyclical for me, these times of introspection. I can't lie, and so I don't write. But I'm fine, really. I'm functioning. My motherhood is prime, my citizenship a bit subpar. But I'm in it to win it, and this, too, shall pass.

I have found myself reflecting on my days and days in the hot tomato and pepper patches of my youth. It is absolutely amazing to think of those endless hours in the heat, working like a dog for a sliver of what I make per hour now. Those days took discipline not easily found in young people. There were days of solidarity with my fellow workers and days of solitude, where I could only know myself.

Those days were precious. Because I can still see my grandpa, the man of my life, leaning on the tractor and wheezing, plagued with so many breathing complications, but still right there joking with us in the heat. I can still remember the joy of lying in the TV room with the window air conditioner unit blasting, Matlock soapboxing on the TV in the background, on our fleeting lunch hour. I can still remember the feeling of the muscles in my arms, shoulders and back burning as I quickly and repetitively lifted two ten-pound baskets of tomatoes at a time from the rollers of the truck bed floor to the waiting hands of my male counterparts packing the night truck just as high and as tight as possible for those incredible height-of-the-harvest loads to Pittsburgh. I can both see and smell the oil of the basket wires and the green tomato plant residue on my fingers and palms.


Those were hot, sweaty, difficult, amazing days. And Lord, am I ever thankful to have been brought up that way. It was an active, respectful, passionate way to make a living, and I yearn for that in my work now. I long to find the purposefulness that I knew then, to work hard and to see the fruits of my labor, to believe I've earned what I sow.

A young cousin who remembers the atmosphere of those days but didn't have the privilege to live them as a teenager has been harping on me to share a story I wrote more than ten years ago. It's a 4,000-word magazine feature on our grandpa, and it's got legs. It's going to be published somewhere, someday.


As I'm preparing to finally do something about my dreams, to root out those elusive boot straps I talked about last week, to pull them as hard as I possibly can, I thought it might be fitting to share a couple grafs of that story, the "grandpa story." Here's a quick sketch of a man who was anything but, a tribute to one of the last great American cowboys.

A common man in appearance, Bernard's typical outift on a summer day would include a blue chambray work shirt, dark blue cotton workpants, dirt-caked boots and an ever-present package of Red Man peaking out of his breast pocket. His muddy brownish gray hair was usually tucked under a hat, and his skin remained brown year-round and had the appearance and feel of worn leather. Bernard was most often seen with an ornery look on his face, as if he were still processing the last joke spoken. He teased people mercilessly, especially those who he cared about most.

Bernard lived in only two different houses, which sat adjacent to each other, his entire life. His regular trips away from the farm included church, high school basketball games and the local feed store. Bernard was not a verbal messenger of any sort. His greatest gifts to others were simple and subtle. He was not a leader, a lecturer or an officeholder, yet throughout his life he somehow managed to impact hundreds in his community...

And so, tomorrow is a new, hot day. I'm going to channel Bernard, work hard and positively impact those around me.

I guess that's just the cowboy in me.

Five Years of Sweetness

I see a fire in this boy that tells me he's going to make positive changes. It's not an inferno or a flicker, but something in between. It's a slow, steady burn.

Today is Maxwell's fifth birthday. I still smile when I remember how hard I fought for a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean) during my pregnancy with him and how proud I was to actually do it. Shrek and I were told it would be optimal for our second babe to be born during the business day while all hands were on deck in case I had to go to a C-section. I was pushing by 3:30 or 4, but feeling awfully sick, tired and weak. Shrek got right in my face, and said, "Let's do this, baby. We gotta get this baby out!" At 4:59 p.m., right on time, Maxwell David came into the world, and we all cried.

Since then, I've learned that my firstborn boy can be incredibly sweet. He's also shown the "Shrek" side of himself, but if we keep him fed, juiced and well-rested, it can be managed. While he has always been very emotionally intelligent, it's just been within the past two months that he's also become extremely interested in numbers, letters and putting pencil to paper. Like a light switch flipped, our Max has gone from barely coloring to writing out his own, very neat birthday list, which he insists hang on our fridge with the "5" magnet from the Leapfrog set.

He's a friend to all. He has one speed, and it is not fast. Daddy says he wishes he could ever be as cool as Max, who saunters through life with natural blond highlights in the summer, a carefree look on his face and a "hockey smile" with only one front tooth.

He's crazy about Transformers, Power Rangers, Monster Trucks and.... baking. He's awesome with the baby and indifferent to what he wears. He's an amazing little man, and I am so enjoying watching him grow up.

Happy birthday, baby boy! You are a huge part of mommy's sunshine and one of her favorite reasons. I love you so much, it hurts.

The Mother Load

Please excuse my absence around here lately, but I have have been busy getting ready for a mammoth yard sale, among other things. I kid you not, in the past week, I have not only returned to work three days a week, but fed a newborn, gotten myself to the doctor for some antibiotics, survived a difficult neighborhood situation, managed my household, mothered four children, grown closer to my hubby and priced thirty totes of yard sale items. You read that right.

Thirty. Totes. 3-0.

And I'm not done yet.

So please excuse the mess in my home, my head and my heart. Most of those totes are of baby girl, toddler girl, little girl and big girl clothes. My girl's clothes. I do not deny that some of those totes were very hard to sift through. I've said it before and I'll say it again. My baby girl, my first baby and only girl, taught me how to truly give of myself. To become a mother, I had to give of myself in so many ways, so many times, ALL the time. And those clothes were all worn on that little creature, who grew and grew and who now stands just less than a foot shorter than me at the tender age of seven.

It's almost too much.


This week has been a week of growth. I've truly experienced that feeling that mothers of older children tell me all the time. "You'll miss this." "I still yearn for my children in baby form." "They grow so fast! Enjoy these baby days."

I'll even go so far as to say I had several of those "Sunrise, Sunset" moments where I stood at the table touching those clothes, remembering pictures and days, and watching my now half-grown Lilith fly through the back door in her impatient, sassy way and just blinking, blinking, blinking at her in amazement. That firstborn, much-loved babe grew up. She won't stop!

I'm keeping a big old box of clothes for me, and I'm yearning to take my girl on a special outing soon. Just us. I want to remember to be less hard on her, to not expect too much of her, to let her be as self-centered and needy as she wants. Because it won't be long until she thinks a day out with mom is subpar to time with friends. She won't be so free in her expressions of love. She has grown so much in seven years, and I can't even imagine what seven more will do.


I know those of you who are mothers are understanding this raw, real place I'm coming from. And, like a feather in your cap, please take this away tonight: They are right. It's true. You're gonna miss this. Keep surviving and thriving in your mommy caps. Get through the day to day, the nights paying bills, wiping fevered brows. Drink it up. And don't just save the memories. Swim around in them as often as you can.

And, if you're local and especially if you have a little girl or are expecting a baby soon (four totes of maternity!), check out the mother of a sale Thursday and Friday on Main in Waterford.

And, if you see that I need one, please pass me a tissue while you shop.

Everyday Magic

Last week was rough. Really rough. The four walls of my house were exerting such internal pressure that I nearly lost my mind. The weather was terrible. The kids were kids. It was maddening.

And, somehow, we made it through. My Lily is so smart and active. She constantly needs an ear, a project, a place to go. This is really hard for a mom of four-year-old, nearly two-year-old and six-week-old boys to handle because it takes so much energy to constantly be "on" for a curious, demanding seven-year-old girl. By Thursday of last week, the tensions between the two of us were intense. In the hour and a half between her getting home after school and her daddy getting home from work, I promised her we'd either go somewhere or... or... or conduct the Roberts Family Olympics!

Somehow, my tired mind came up with a plan. There would be games, medals, point values and even a medal ceremony! I was, in fact, so convincing that it would be fun that she threw out Plan A and decided, definitely, that we'd do Plan B.

And so it was. It only took about two hours and major hot-potato-like finagling of two baby boys, but the elder four family members competed valiantly in Yahtzee, Hi-Ho Cherry-O and Memory. We had a blast and crowned a gold medalist in Lily. No surprise there. She is as good at games as her daddy. Somehow, I at least managed to beat him and won silver. Daddy and Max duked it out for bronze, which ended up going to daddy, while Max was awarded a "platinum" medal. (Is that good? I came up with it in the heat of the moment...)

If Colby were a better photographer, I would be sharing with you the four of us arranged on levels around the armchair, pledging our allegiance to the flag while listening to the first rendition of "The Star-Spangled Banner" that Google could blare from my laptop. It was classic.

Did I mention I also completed four recipes with my little man Max last week? A dear friend, knowing his love of all things kitchen, brought him Kids Cooking: A Very Slightly Messy Manual, which comes complete with a four-piece colorful measuring spoon set. Talk about the perfect gift! So I, his "assistant," aided him in making the green cake with the blue icing (his own recipe), the Berry Banana Smoothie, the Homemade (green, per Max) Lemonade and, finally, the Homemade Applesauce. Max tells us when he grows up he will be a chef. ... and a motorcycle driver. Look out, Cake Boss.


And Colby grew a bit. He has accepted the fact that binkies are now only for sleeping times. Seemingly overnight, his pants turned into capris. And he has expanded his vocabulary, with Daddy's help, enough to churn out his very first sentence and phrase: "Wow. Look at that!" (Wo, loo dat!)


Luke is filling out too. He had his first bottle of Mommy's milk Monday night and thanked us for filling his belly by sleeping six hours straight that night! I'm waiting patiently on that first real smile, which I believe I'll see any day now. This is the closest he has come so far....


So, all in all, maybe it wasn't a bad week. In fact, it sounds pretty fantastic now. These are the days that we remember, I hope. The ones that pushed us to craft entire contests out of thin air to keep the peace. The ones that remind us that life happens all the time, not just when it's the weekend, or when the laundry and dishes are done or when we're on vacation. There is magic in every day. Sometimes it just might be hard to see.

Tonight, dear friends mourn the loss of a son, who was also a brother, a grandson, a nephew, a cousin, a friend. I pray for their peace. I continue to create my own.

Because you never know when you might be making a memory you'll cherish for a lifetime.

The Blessing of a Girlfriend

Today is my best girlfriend's birthday. Happy Birthday, baby girl!

I am thankful that 31 years ago a four-pound preemie made her early entrance into this world. I'm thankful she was a fighter and did well and grew up to play saxophone with me in the band. Saxes are sexy!

I'm so thankful for all the inside jokes. Take the bull by the horns!

I'm happy for so many memories of drinks shared around campfires at Lake Tweet. For that one blessed year that we lived together at 36 Morris Avenue and the funny times we spent on the roof.

I'm so glad to know the blessing of a best girlfriend.

For all the times we've had, the discussions we've shared, the times we've saved each other from ourselves and all that is yet to come: happy birthday, sweetheart. I love you! I am elated your day has been so happy.

January just might be a good month for a birthday after all...

Ugly Sweaters on Beautiful People

Ah, Christmas Eve Eve. How I love thee.

I have always loved this day. It's such anticipation, such joy. The last-minute details, the making of memories and, this year, an ugly Christmas sweater party with good friends and family!


I made one last mad (kid-free!) dash around town this afternoon: nine stops in about three and a half hours. The OB says all is well, I'll "be miserable until it's over." But I'm OK. This baby is active and seemingly everywhere. Don't ask me how, but somehow he makes me feel like I can't breathe and that I'm going to pee my pants in the same second. But yesterday morning, around 5:30 a.m., as Colby made his siren wail for a sippy cup of milk and I looked over to see Dave had gone to work already and I was, indeed, the runner, I had a moment. A moment where I imagined not only Colby wailing, but maybe this babe too. And it hit me: soon my life will be ruled by the sleeplessness, the milk needs, the guttural truth of it all! (I have since decided we are getting a dorm fridge for my bedroom. If any of you have one laying around, please get in touch with me!)

Alas, I'm off topic. Basically, what I want to say is this: Christmas, I am ready for you. Come for me.... Second, I have a new skeleton key so that the Roberts can get back to a proper birthday party tradition for Baby Jesus tomorrow night! And third, I know of several families mourning the loss of loved ones. To all of you, may God bless you. May He hold you in the palm of His hand.

I am going into the magic now. I hope to see you, and your ugly sweaters, in the mist.


May you be blessed, may you hear Santa upon your rooftop and may you believe in the magic that is Christmas. Now quit reading this, get off the Internet and make some memories! Andddd...... GO!

More Than an Heirloom To Me

My mom and Randy: first cousins always after 30 years apart.

Many of you know how much I value and cherish my family. I am quite certain that I would not be the person I am without the family I have. They are the color in my life and the people with whom I know I'll wish I spent more time with while in my final hours.

This past weekend, there was something of a Christmas miracle in my mom's family. One of her first cousins, Randy, has been pretty much lost to us in California for the past thirty years. He hadn't even seen his parents, my great aunt and uncle, for more than 22 years. In fact, he told me there was a period of 15 years when he didn't even talk to his mom! How does a story like that end?

Well, for him, it ended--or is it began?--like this.

It's been years of struggle with many different evils for Randy. In the recent past, he's been triumphing over these demons, getting back in touch with his parents and debating as to whether or not he could make that trip back home. A stranger overheard his lament, told Randy she had frequent flier miles built up and that they were his for the taking. She wanted him to go "home," if only for a visit.

And so, on Friday, after 22 years, my aunt and uncle welcomed their firstborn and only son back home. On Sunday, he met our extended family, many of whom he'd never laid eyes on before. He prayed, ate, unwrapped gifts and listened to old family stories with us. And we welcomed him with incredulity and open arms.

He also got to enjoy a "concert" from the Strahler family singers. Our last song was Amy Grant's "Heirlooms." And, I, at 8 months pregnant, knew I'd get choked up. I struggled the whole way through and am proud to say I missed only the last line.

"My precious family is more than an heirloom to me."

And now, photos of my own very immediate precious family, and of the Christmas activity we've been up to in just the past week!


The Roberts Family, 12/19/10


Lily and Max with their first Christmas gifts of the season.


My little man Colby looking so spiffy in his vest and tie.


Lily and Max with their homemade Froot Loop sprinkles, which were intended as teacher gifts. (Max ate his the next day....)


The four-year-old Rutter cousins, after their hilariously enjoyable preschool program.


Our beautiful Lily and Julia after their school Christmas program during which Lily was selected to play the triangle and Julia, the xylophone.


Me, momma-to-be-again, at 8 months pregnant. I am still chugging along!

Sounds of the Season

I'm not afraid -- at all -- to admit that I already have about a month, or even six weeks, of Christmas music in my system. That's right, folks. I think I heard my first strains of my absolute favorite Christmas album -- "Home for Christmas" by Amy Grant -- in the last couple days of September.

I've said it for years and I'll say it again: I love too many Christmas albums to listen to them only a month. It's usually two months for me, but this year, it's three. Now, I can't take the hard-core holiday stuff yet, but the Godly stuff? The beautiful ballads that remind me of singing with my family at church on Christmas Eve? You better believe it!

I really love Christmas, and it isn't because of the presents. For me, it truly is about Christ and family and how each of us has that chance, every year, to stand outside in the crisp, cold, fresh air on Christmas Eve and to realize we really are just a small speck of humanity in a big world on a blessed night. I love the way concessions are made for people to be with family, to be away from work (hopefully) and to be a child again, if only for awhile.

So I think that's part of my love affair with holiday music. My memories seduce me time and time again, and I relish the fact that I'm given the privilege to help to make those special memories now for my children.


I remember the 8-track in the old Chevrolet Impala we had as kids blaring All that I want is to know that you love me and this will be my finest Christmastime and, funny enough, on the same mix, Feliz Navidad, próspero año y felicidad / I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart on the way home from selecting the year's live Christmas tree.


There's the memory of stifling giggles with my sister when I was ten or so and singing at church, What child is this, who laid to rest? Where ox and ass are feeding...


There are the years of music with my dad, who bought every single "Very Special Christmas" album and blared it throughout the season. These albums kept me exposed to Christmas music from all genres, be the artist Sheryl Crow, Tevin Campbell or Run DMC. It was December 24th on Hollis Avenue in the dark / When I see a man chillin' with his dog in the park / I approached very slowly with my heart full of fear / Looked at his dog, oh my God, an ill reindeer....


There are also the memories of Kenny and Dolly's classics greeting my siblings and I as we descended the stairs on Christmas mornings in junior high and high school. Christmas without you / White Christmas and I'm blue / Like fireworks with no fuse / Christmas without you....


Just today I listened to the Chipmunks Christmas twice with Max and Colby. And let's not forget the Muppets. These are the fibers of my childhood Christmas memories.


I try not to be a stick in the mud. I am always looking for new holiday music to love. Last year, it was Sugarland and this year, just as soon as I get a chance, I'm buying the Indigo Girls new holiday CD.


I'm in the mood and in the spirit; there's no doubt about it. 


I guess the Christmas song that sums it up best for me right now is Amy Grant's "Grown-Up Christmas List." (It's been done by many artists, but I gotta go with Amy...)


No more lives torn apart / That wars would never start / That time would heal all hearts / And everyone would have a friend / And right would always win / And love would never end / This is my grown-up Christmas list....


This really is my grown-up Christmas list: that we all know the blessings that have been bestowed upon us, that we treat each other with respect and dignity, that we always have the courage to do the right thing and that the world we leave our children is better than the one we've known. 


A very early merry Christmas to you and yours!

The Baby of the Family

I've been really busy lately. I've been organizing clothes, shoes, toys, papers and all kinds of random items in my house. It's been about a week of spurts of focused activity, and the place is looking amazing. I'm happy to be free of clutter!

I've also been really busy trying to cherish my kids, to worry less about money and more about the woman they'll remember as their mother when they are adults. And I've been trying to savor my baby, Colby Levi. The baby outside of my womb, the one who will only have had 20 months to be "the baby of the family," as opposed to the 31 months and 35 months his older siblings had.

This is a big deal. I really think it is, even though Colby is so unaware. It will be natural to him to defer to his younger brother at such an early age, to settle for dad instead of mom because she has that crying thing to take care of, to become more independent than other kids, especially those who will get to be "the baby of the family" forever. While he may be a little rushed into growing up, I believe it's going to make him a better, stronger, more sensitive human being. He'll be enviably intuitive, and he'll know he's a part of the world instead of the center of the world.

And so here he is, my Colby Levi, in photos tonight.

Hiding behind the coat rack and in the disarray as Mommy sorts.
Spinning some tunes on a record player just like Mommy used to have!
Borrowing Daddy's rad shoes.
And catching some zzz's while Baby Neptune reruns, again.

I Want to Grow Old With You

I realized today that I haven't yet written a whole lot about my amazing family and how blessed I am just to have been born into it. A good place to start would be with my sister.

With only 22 months between us, my big sis and I have shared so much. It's hard to even begin the story of us, to do it any justice at all. I suppose I should regale you with stories, memories or inside jokes. We've gotten ourselves into so many binds, and, God knows, we have had some fun!

When we were about 7 and 9, we filled some of those big pong-pong balloons with water and tried to carry them up the stairs to our dormer bedroom. Both of them burst on new carpet, and we had the grand idea of sucking up all the water with our mom's Electrolux. In high school, we dressed as Elvira and a farmer for a costume party and were the talk of the night when we arrived as the only revelers in costume. I once wrote a note berating her for not letting me tag along with her and her boyfriend to dance at Davlin Lake that made her cry so hard and so dramatically that it woke my parents in the middle of the night, but left me fast asleep in my bed.

While on our way to JJ's Pizza to "hang out" after a high school basketball game, my sister took a right turn too sharply and tore off the side of my parents' sedan. We can still laugh until we cry when we think of me walking down the sidewalk that night, my long hair free under a "doo-rag," to look for the side runner we'd lost in the mishap. Some random guy on the basketball court yelled, "Hey buddy! You a guy or a girl?...... Your piece is in the yard!"

We then made it through college together, suffered without each other while working in different cities in our early careers and grew closer than I ever thought possible. Our similarities were most evident after we both married redheads a mere ten weeks apart, bought houses five lots apart on the main street of our hometown, bought nearly identical dark green Honda vans and then proceeded to have three sets of children: my daughter born four months before hers, then her son born four months before mine and finally--a twist!--her second daughter born four months before my second son.

Having her as a fellow mother warrior has been unbelievable. Our kids are incredibly close. Kim and I are known for throwing theme parties for them at the drop of a hat, for swapping kids in identical vans to keep them happy, for marathon shopping trips that we've considered successful only because we've sprung ourselves and our six kids out of our houses.

We've often had fits of giggles, many times uncontrollably and inappropriately. We've fought, but not much. We've been there for every birth, every major milestone. We choose to hang out together because we're friends by choice. My sister is beautiful, kind, funny and, inherently, good. I knew I couldn't do her justice. And I haven't.

But my sister is one of my reasons. She is a blessing a million times over. I couldn't have picked a better sister had I tried. I'm not letting go of her. Ever.

You're stuck with me, sis, and there will be no end. I want to grow old with you.

Home Tweet Home

Hi sugarpies. I'm feeling a little sour tonight (hormones from hell), so I'm going completely off me to a better subject: LAKE TWEET!

Let me tell you a story.

Lake Tweet is a man-made lake--some might call it a pond, but I won't--in Ohio's beautiful Washington County. It's on land that once belonged to my grandfather and many of his descendants before him. It's now owned by my youngest uncle, who is a mere five years my senior. Thank you, uncle, for letting us play so long and so loud at your lake!

The lake was dug in 1966--again, disputed, but I'm sticking to 1966--by my grandpa and his brothers. Notably, his brother Francis, who was called Tweet. Shortly after the lake was completed, Tweet died. In tribute, it became Lake Tweet.

I honestly can't guess at how many nights I've spent at this sacred place. I've laid on my back on the dock and watched falling stars. I've floated many an afternoon away with good friends and good family. I've hiked, played volleyball, had deep discussions and tender moments around a million campfires. I've even rolled in the pine needles a few times, if you must know.

Lake Tweet has become a very special place for many people. My own children now run the land like it's Disney World nearly every weekend. We adults sit around and celebrate life at all hours. It is more than just a place; it's a feeling, a mood and a salve. It cures what ails me.

It's also the place where I feel closest to Bernard, my grandpa, who, for the first 20 years of my life, was the man of my life. Detailing my relationship with him and the impact he had on my life is way beyond the scope of this post.

But I see you, Bernard, and celebrate your legacy. Every weekend at Lake Tweet.