53 Sympathy Cards

When my mother died unexpectedly-ish in August, 2008, I was a busy Atlantan running the lives of two children. Up in Chattanooga, Margaret had loved her life surrounded by treasures from a host of late relatives ("I'm sentimental", she often observed). When the day arrived for this pile to become all mine, it was more than a little overwhelming. With a tight deadline, I took the easy way out, jettisoning what seemed unneeded and shoving the rest into a 10' x 10' storage unit. I rolled down the door and headed back to Georgia to pick up my life where I left off, never looking over my shoulder at that crowded space. 

While time marched onwards, I routinely wrote a check every month, and the eventual stick of dynamite dispatching me to frozen-in-time storage came with an August, 2021 rent increase. Thirteen years of denial were over and, amidst this heap of my mother's earthly residue, I ran across a department store paper bag bearing Margaret's precise printing, "Nannie's Sympathy Cards - 1972". 

Nannie--my grandmother--was an elementary school teacher who made wondrous sugar cookies.  Nannie was also the first person in my world to die; I was crushed when she had a stroke and was gone. 

Reading 53 sympathy cards one Sunday evening was a miniature visit to a faraway world. 

The overture to a day gone by jumped out with handwriting. My grandmother's and parents' contemporaries of 1972 were accomplished cursive artisans, writing with flair in mostly blue ink. Pretty handwriting on envelopes mirrored the script alphabet lines that once traveled the walls of elementary school classrooms everywhere, back when cursive education was part of the deal. 

The cards themselves presented expressions of kindness in respectful tones. There were several senders who wrote about their regret in having missed the funeral, and more than a few thoughtfully enclosed a clipping of Nannie's newspaper obituary. 

In the formal department, there were many folks who signed cards with titles attached to their names ("Mr. and Mrs. Clyde Love", "Miss Knapper"). It was all quite gracious, reflecting a forgotten day when  familiarity with one another was a phenomenon that evolved across time in association. (It took 20 years for my mother to progress from calling our long-time next-door neighbor "Mrs. Balch" to an informal "Ruth", likely a world record). 

Sympathy cards in 1972 cost 15 or 25 cents, and the ones featuring glitter ran the price up to 35 cents. All the eight cent stamps featured Ike's reassuring soft smile. Whether sprinkled with glitter or not, the printed sentiments were thoughtful and kind, with all of them acknowledging loss and sorrow with encouraging comfort from God and the senders. The pain of losing a loved one was palpable and recognized in '72---celebrations of life would be a brand new idea waiting in the future. 

I sort of remember little bits about many of the senders through vague memories of my parents talking about them, and I know these people represented a constituency from many walks in life. But the common thread amongst them all was extraordinarily uniform grace, decency, and dignity. From the Cafeteria Lady at Nannie's school to our longtime housekeeper to more prosperous friends, there was no distinction found in decorum, benevolence, or even handwriting.

Lastly, the vast majority of these understated card senders have also departed across the decades, many of them, like Nannie, long gone. After all this time has passed, an opportunity to read the kind words they left behind is a privilege. 

~~~~~

Stepping back 49 years in the calendar for glimpses of old-fashioned mores was a surprisingly meaningful evening. Once upon a time, refinement was popular and pursued by many. Much like letter writing, it seems to have lost its appeal across time. 

Here in the 21st century, a text or email of sympathy gets the job done, and with limited effort. While the method of conveyance is efficient and the sentiments are no less sincere, I see how I fall short in going out of my way for others ("Putting yourself out", as Margaret would say). Presentations of kindness are still as lovely and significant today as they were in 1972, perhaps even more. 

Of course, I love the super convenience of my laptop and iPhone, and I happily testify they make life a cakewalk, opening windows on the world, serving up perpetual entertainment, and putting writing at my fingertips. All of which leave me convicted of not being an outstanding card sender and letter writer. I'm pretty sure this reflects an acquired laziness on my part. 

While we have gained tremendously more in an easy lifestyle over 49 years, I have a feeling some significant riches were gradually lost along the way.  Restrained familiarity suddenly seems like an excellent means of showing respect as we grow to know others in our orbit. And I can't help but wish for a reacquaintance with beautiful handwriting, cards in the mailbox, and the embrace of everyday civility with one and all. 

The Good Time We're Having

For a good stretch of years, Wednesday was the busiest day of the whole week, and there was but one big thought in my head as I made up my bed on those mornings: 

I'll be so glad when this day is over and I can be back here. 

Wednesdays went down like this: 

Rise at 5:30 to straighten up for our housekeeper Brenda who arrived at 8:00 to make sense of the place. In the midst of my cleaning efforts, there were two children to get up, feed, and dispatch for school. Every other week, Brandon Morning Mom duty meant scooting up the street for an extra early school arrival. 

A work day followed, then school pick-up, miniature homework launch, a drive with Brenda over to MARTA, children's church choir (with Choir Mom duty), and dinner with friends in the fellowship hall. The finale: get home, last chance at homework, baths x two, bedtime for all. It was certainly a day serving up a bonanza of conviviality,  but all I thought about was getting through it.

~~~~~

In the homestretch of of 2020, everywhere I turned--at work, with friends, in public, in passing--there was a spoken chorus with just one verse: 

"I'll be so glad when 2020 is over".  

And my thought, the same with every one:  Please don't wish time away.

I agree that 2020 was a year like no other in our lifetimes. Everything unfolded differently than expected, with a succession of events that hurt and affected so many--lives, fortunes, and feelings of well-being caught in wax and wane. While acknowledging and having profound respect for the depths of sorrow and the harshness that were 2020's theme, there are still some remarkable things that shouldn't be wished away. 

Through 365 days, in spite of all the bad, we had birthdays, made new friends, probably reconnected with some old friends, saw sunrises and sunsets, felt deep emotion for others we know or maybe don't know, and perhaps even slowed down enough to consider that life isn't the cake walk we often believe we are promised and/or owed. 

Life is hard, always bringing both joy and pain. However, somewhere in the mix is the opportunity to appreciate the here and now we are given, and especially the chance to still participate in the game, come what may. 

In the show Ted Lasso there's a line, "Every disadvantage has an advantage", and that's a comforting--and challenging--thought. With the luxury of hindsight, I find invaluable by-products for every hard time in my life--albeit while I struggle to find peace in the painful accompanying losses. I'm striving to be thankful, and to find the good in things that seem bad. 

~~~~~

With the passing of years, the wisdom of my late parents becomes more meaningful, and one of Margaret's pronouncements stands out in splendor of truth. When we reminisced about both significant and mundane times gone by, my mother would say these words, always like a brand new idea:

"We didn't know what a good time we were having."

And this is where I live every day. All those ATL Wednesdays blend with countless ordinary days, both in the deep and recent past. Whirlwind years with little children seemed happily endless. Flying great (or not) trips with friends was taken for granted, and just how the months fell into place. And here in the pre-2020 world, visiting with my wonderful pediatric friends in their offices was the best part of how life worked. 

The kids are grown and making their way in the world. Brenda is still my friend and I am the housekeeper. I work on the ground and not on jets anymore. Our dear friends are still around, with wonderful ones having been added along the way. And I will be so glad when life returns to its normal rhythm, complete with time spent side-by-side with others in the same place. 

Life has changed a thousand times over and, in the last year, the world has turned upside down in most every way. But I'm still here--along with you. 

May we all know the good times we are having, no matter what. 

Happy 2021--

ET

Good times and bum times, I've seen 'em all

And, my dear, I'm still here

Plush velvet sometimes

Sometimes just pretzels and beer, but I'm here

I've run the gamut, A to Z

Three cheers and dammit, C'est la vie

I got through all of last year, and I'm here

Lord knows, at least I was there, and I'm here

Look who's here, 

I'm still here

From "Follies", Stephen Sondheim - reference inspired by the late John Hardesty

2020

  

The Early Bird Lunch Club

The sign on the restaurant door says it opens for lunch each day at 11:00 a.m., but for the the over-age-75 regulars, a table awaits somewhere in the neighborhood of 10. Through the front door and to the right, there is a rather ordinary dining room containing tacitly reserved tables for these every day diners. If you are one of the early birds and not in your place by 10:30, you cause big worry for your fellow faithful and owe everyone an explanation when you return. (Doctors' appointments are excused). 

It's a Groundhog Day kind of place, where the only things that change in 24 hours' time are the typed daily specials for the menu, and the wardrobe of the folks whose paths only cross here at lunch, five days a week.

Retired college professor Gene holds down the first table. A confirmed bachelor, Gene is the picture of urbane preciseness and a fount of knowledge about all sorts of topics. His specialist subject (with me) is how English grammar has gone into the gutter (we totally agree), and he is known to favor a Panama shirt every now and then. He lives alone and, at departure time, his waitress magically appears with styrofoam and plastic bearing his evening meal. 

The snowy haired and primly dressed Mrs. Evans sits two tables over. She is a reserved and reasonably spry 91 year old widow who offers a polite hello and a goodbye to her fellow diners, and is quiet-ish between the two. Mrs. Evans usually reports she is "just fine" as she sits alone at the same four-top, always facing the window a few feet in front of her. 

Occupying a far table towards the outside wall is Howard. The others often whisper Howard has never gotten over his wife's death 10 years ago, and now travels through life with a perpetual dark cloud over his white-haired head. He stops by all the other tables as he arrives to say hello and share whatever is his current dilemma. After eating, Howard bids a farewell to everyone as he passes back through, with solutions for solving his latest problem thrown from every table like pitches from the mound at Yankee Stadium. He sports a big gold chain around his neck and a large gold belt buckle, which make him appear somewhat jaunty and maybe a little more lost. 

One table over from the window is the only married couple I have ever seen in the early-lunch crowd, a retired minister from a small conservative church and his wife. Together they inject a beatific and subdued presence into the dining room, with their table almost altar-like. They are prayerful and perpetually poised, with an understated word for everyone that comes close to being a blessing. 

And the rowdiest one in the whole place holds court over in the corner by the window, my 92 year old aunt. In decided contrast to the preacher and his wife next door, she is hopelessly irreverent and chatty, with not one worry in the world about the others appreciating it or not. She was an English teacher in the local junior high, and is as free-wheeling as one can be in her 90s. From time to time, a former student drops by, and it's always a big deal. She gleefully recalls otherwise forgettable things about each one, a rousing laugh is shared, and her day is made. 

The only reason I ever came to know that this room of early-eaters exists is because my aunt invited me to lunch. While my work schedule features a noon lunch time, we agreed that every now and then I would juggle my endeavors so she and I could dine together at 11:00. And so I arrive precisely at 11, always to find her polishing off her meal. I have become accustomed to seeing her at work on the remnants of her favorites, Spaghetti and Pinto Beans (with an onion slice), or "Men-noot Steak" (some call it Minute Steak), while I wait for my lunch. 

Before the room fills up with various others and outsiders, the early diners catch up on the scoop, with news about weather, health, and the perils of Howard telegraphed from table to table with amazing efficiency. Since I am such a random visitor, my aunt is more than happy to provide almost-not-loud updates on the travails of everyone else whilst she cuts up her onion.

As she marches onwards to a staggering array of other topics, from world history to what happened yesterday in London's stock market, I often look around and wonder what these folks' lives are like beyond dwelling here on their private table islands in a little sea of coincidental friends.

~~~~~

My objective when I wrote this seven years ago was to acknowledge this unassuming little society and the arms-length companionship they enjoyed for a number of years, once upon a time. 

In 2013, this group was in its heyday. Since then, one by one, they have all drifted away, save for (I think) the preacher and his wife. First Mrs. Evans died, then Howard was moved by his niece to assisted living north of Atlanta where my aunt reported he was miserable. Gene died after going down the slippery slope of chronic bad health. My aunt gradually lost her independence--but remained irreverent and informed--right up to her last day in 96 years. 

The truth is, any time I visited, I was always a welcome guest parachuting from the outside world into their miniature universe. I often wondered what it would be like for them to abandon their solo tables and, for once, trade shouting across the room for sitting together. (I am pretty sure this thought never, ever crossed their minds). I consider myself fortunate to have seen in them how contextual fellowship can come along at any age, bringing with it value and significance. 

It's now clear that I got glimpses of these folks living out their last days, and it was nice to occasionally see quiet little chapters of their stories unfolding on a weekday around 10:30. Every time I drive by that restaurant, they all appear in my mind, and I wonder if Gene, Mrs. Evans, Howard, the preacher and his wife, and my aunt have been replaced by a brand new generation of early bird diners. One day I might just juggle my schedule and drop in at 11:00 to find out. 

Then be not coy, but use your time,
   And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
   You may forever tarry. 
                                                                                                              Robert Herrick      

Delayed Riches

Of all the folks who ever graduated from the University of Tennessee, the trophy for being the most clueless about the future goes to me. Armed with a BS in education and teaching ambivalence, on the day after commencement I impulsively moved to Atlanta. it seemed like a decent enough idea, moving to a big and busy nearby city where I had snagged a Tower Place job and a tiny apartment. Moving momentum had a zingy adult flair, but it wasn't long at all until I was wandering alone in the Buckhead wilderness.

~~~~~

During my UT senior year, I had a little job at what was then the happening athletic club. Work featured a revolving door of Knoxville royalty, including a stratospheric mix of former Vol football players. And one of them happened to be the nicest man in town (and possibly the world). His name is George and, somewhere in our mundane chit chat, I mentioned I had not one worthy idea about post-graduation plans.

Without hesitation, George served up advice: "You need to go be a Delta flight attendant. They work hard, but they have a lot of fun." My worldliness was woefully limited, but even I knew that flight attendant jobs were hard to come by. With nothing to lose, I headed to the Knoxville Delta Ticket Office for an application.

George had more advice: "Where it asks if you know anyone who works for Delta, write in Paco on the ramp in Memphis". I did, and with limited hopes, I mailed it to Atlanta. 

As quickly as my application went to Virginia Avenue, a thanks-but-no-thanks form letter came right back. I remember very clearly standing at the Morrill Hall mailboxes and tossing the letter in the trash can.

~~~~~

I was a sad lost soul in a hot Atlanta summer with exactly two friends. There was Pam, a kind and (I thought) worldly 27-year-old co-worker who graciously took it upon herself to show me the Buckhead ropes, and Richard, my upstairs neighbor, an affable divorced guy who had his son every other weekend and spent the rest of his time drinking.

My work world was populated by a smattering of well-heeled Buckhead, of a brand new language and culture to me. They were a pleasant and fascinating lot, and I loved learning their gentile ways and about how elite professionals move about in life. That particular summer, their busy social and philanthropic lives made me feel even lonelier than I was already. 

When September rolled around, ATL's shiny newness had worn off and I found myself in the depths of loneliness, bewildered about what I could do to fix things. On the Wednesday of an exceptionally despairing week, I arrived home to a ringing phone. On the other end was my mother who had opened a letter from Delta Air Lines forwarded from my UT address: I had a flight attendant interview that Friday at 8:30 a.m. 

My interviewer was a kind, older Southern gentleman who might well have been around since the Deland Dusters and Mr. C. E. Woolman. As he read through my paper application in his hands, he gushed about his affinity for the Tennessee Vols, asking me if I was acquainted with old so-n-so at UT (I can't recall who it was, but I did know him--lucky break). 

Suddenly, something on the pages caught his eye and he stopped: "Say, you know Paco on the ramp in Memphis--well, that is great, just great!" I smiled vaguely and mentioned Paco is a great friend of a great friend as my interviewer opened his desk drawer and pulled out a little slip of paper, the golden ticket downtown for a visit with the Delta pre-employment psychiatrist, the legendary Dr. Janos. 

And so, just like that, in what was a true miracle, I was lifted from the abyss of a seemingly hopeless, lackluster solitary life in Atlanta and headed for Delta--which opened the doors of the world for decidedly un-well traveled me. It was a true miracle. While this is but a small anecdote, I have called upon its message countless times over the years: 

Just when things seem dark and impossible, God can dazzlingly throw down a really great life ring from heaven and rescue the perishing. 

While in many ways I now see I was kind of the unprepared master of my own summer disaster a long time ago, this tale popped back up in my head while considering all the uncertainty facing the Class of 2020. Right now, Facebook is a wonderful kaleidoscope of graduating loved ones, many of whom we have known since their childhoods, and assorted others we have happily collected along the way. 

Tonight at 7:00 p.m. we were supposed to be in Furman University's Paladin Stadium, part of the excited congregation gathered to honor Annabelle, her friends, and classmates as they receive their degrees. (And she was set to be sitting next to 1/3 of her Northside Methodist Preschool Carpool #18, which really really brings things full circle). The weather prediction is sunny but cool, and it's easy to predict how much I would cry. 

Like so many in Classes of 2020 all over the place, instead of commencement festivities today, we will eagerly await the deferred ceremony, and look forward to seeing the glorious array of delayed celebratory pictures from all the ones we love. 

I have every confidence that, even in an uncertain world, God still has a trick or two up His sleeve for these students, all of whom have so very much more going on than I ever did as I left UT. 

I am thankful for all the gifts Furman University has given Annabelle. And I am perpetually thankful for my always-friend George up in Knoxville and the very best advice he ever gave anyone, for old so-n-so at UT, and, of course, for the mysterious Paco on the ramp in Memphis. 

Through the Back Gate

In early 2016, the answer to the question, "Annabelle, do you know where you are going to college?"

At the sophomore parents meeting held early in the fall of 2013, the upper school head had but one fervent message: 

GO VISIT COLLEGES TODAY, TOMORROW, ANY WAKING HOUR. 

DO IT NOW. 

TIME IS NOT YOUR FRIEND.

It was a stunning call to action, and I had the highest intentions about answering the bell. As promised, time did slip away, and when that sneaky senior year arrived, Annabelle was not well traveled when it came to colleges. With the clock ticking loudly in the background, we scrambled out the door on miniature world tours to schools--big, small, and in between. And we still came up way short in college visits.

When 2016 began, Annabelle’s college future was a big unknown. Furman University dwelled somewhere-ish on the radar screen—but when they found her and eventually presented attractive incentives, a trip to Accepted Students Day became a dandy idea. 

My knowledge of Furman consisted of our dear friend Sande sharing how much her then-junior son loved his life on the beautiful campus of a university known for being academically challenging and building lifelong friendships. Accepted Student Annabelle was neutral on the subject, so we were both pretty much blank slates ready to be dazzled as we drove up I-85 to South Carolina and asked Siri to show us the way from the interstate to FU. 

While many friends had breathlessly detailed Greenville’s vibrant greatness, Siri led us through an intriguing corridor of used car lots, payday loan places, and secondhand appliance stores. But soon a right and then a left revealed the promise of good things to come--a set of brick pillars with a subtle Furman University reference. Siri told us we had arrived. 

While we had anticipated a moment like seeing Disney’s Magic Kingdom for the first time, we saw athletic practice fields, nondescript parking lots, and what looked like the underpinnings of a promising campus. Stopping to regroup, Annabelle announced we must pretend this had never occurred and start all over again. Out we went between the pillars through which we had just passed. 

And shortly thereafter, we located Furman's real front entrance, gates that are a prelude to the magnificent fountain, the long tree-lined mall, the lush green lawns laden with criss-crossing brick paths leading to an array of understated and lovely buildings. Like magic, one glimpse of this splendor and it was like our first campus entry had never happened at all. 

~~~~~

Here is the Reader's Digest version of the Furman beginning: 

• Accepted Students Day - I loved the university - Annabelle thought it was ok
• Freshman Orientation - I loved everything - Annabelle didn’t like much of anything.
• Move-in Day - Annabelle met all her best friends for the next four years and loved everything 

And these four years full of exceeded expectations have flown by, each semester more fun and better than the last. While college days are never perfectly perfect, Annabelle’s glide through Furman has kept me anchored in perpetual thankfulness for great opportunities, friends, professors, travel, and significant experiences that have been served up on a silver platter. Courtesy of social media magic, I have had a front row seat to (almost) all of the above, and have heard enough to be familiar with the big players. 

And so when 2020 began, it was with a mixture of joy and sadness the countdown to the launch from Furman began. Annabelle was eagerly anticipating the landmark events that were left in her college career (and what she would wear to each). Knowing their college time together was precious, she, her roommates, and friends were dedicated to making memories in marvelous ways while studying hard and making post-graduate plans. 

In early March, Annabelle went off to Scotland for her final spring break and, by the time she returned, the whole world had flipped over into something brand new. Just like that, with a hasty and unceremonious campus exodus, senior year was all but over. There were no real goodbyes with friends, neighbors, professors, or the Furman Police who had grown pretty fond of writing parking tickets for Annabelle. Winding up back here on my sofa attending disembodied Zoom classes in isolation was a very weird way to end wonderful college years. 

~~~~~

The long-anticipated graduation day, Saturday, May 9th, is almost here. I expect it might be an unusual time of considering what the day might have been for Furman Class of 2020 and their families. I imagine this is the same for the many other Classes of 2020 all across the country missing their end-of-school-year commencement ceremonies. It seems very strange to sit here and say Annabelle is a college graduate without the official spring confirmation, benediction, parties, tears, pictures, and hugs. 

In 2016, we were unaware and I was totally unprepared for the big Furman surprise that snuck up on us, and the last days of this senior year were just as sneaky and startling. Somehow it feels like Annabelle ended up leaving Furman through the back gate, kind of like the first day we were ever there. 

The university has promised a traditional Furman graduation ceremony in the fall which I hope will present the opportunity for one last official trip through the front gate to see all of those 2016 Freshman Move-In Day friends walk down the tree-lined mall together. 

I really hope that, just like these last four Furman years, fall commencement far exceeds expectations and makes spring's abrupt campus departure feel like it never happened at all. 

Tell me now

Once upon a time, Wednesday was the greatest day of the week. Early in the morning the sound of Brenda coming through the back door was magical. Brenda was a wonderful friend, and it was an extra super bonus that she spent her day making sense of everything in our house. Before she got started setting things to right as only she could, we had our customary meet-up in the kitchen for an ATL current events review. Brenda held the bar high for staying informed--she knew everything of interest going on in every part of Atlanta--so we covered all variety of local news items. And she and I always went over the AJC obituaries. 

Brenda and I held the daily collection of death notices in the same high reverential regard. The two of us shared sorrow about the notably sad and tragic ones, and veneration for individuals who had led long and meaningful lives and/or just seemed nice. 

No matter if the departed was young, old, or somewhere in-between, we particularly appreciated detailed obituaries (with pictures) that gave us real insight into the person's life and what he or she had meant to family, friends and community. We routinely paid homage to these people and, conversely, we were dismayed by brief write-ups that provided only the basics without giving us the privilege of knowing the deceased at all. And we always wanted to know them. 

Brenda's special interests were the survivor roster (she frequently knew of someone on the list) and funeral details; I always longed to know what caused this individual to be taken, the piece that explained it all. I'd like to think that early every Wednesday we honored lots and lots of souls there in the kitchen, always agreeing that life mostly ends too soon.

~~~~~

While wonderful Wednesdays with Brenda have come and gone, I'm still committed to the obituaries. Just the other day, my friend Paige sent me a magnificent one honoring a 94-year-old Atlanta lady. Prior to her death, this woman had penned her own lovely chronicle of an abundantly blessed life, and the accompanying picture featured her pretty image with lipstick and pearls.  

But she saved the best for last. After her buoyant account of a long journey filled with family, faith, friends and world travel, this lady helpfully served up a list titled, "What the Lord has done in my life that shows His goodness". Numbered precisely from one to ten, she tells of being blessed with godly parents, a college education, a long, happy marriage to a wonderful husband, five children who brought joy, "extremely good health", and she was able to stay in her own "comfortable and pleasant home through widowhood". 

Back in the Brenda days, this lovely piece would have merited pride of place in our morning visit, and we certainly would have been filled with admiration. Reading this in 2019, I thought the exact same thing I would have back then:

I sure do wish I'd known this person

So I have a special request: 
In order to avoid angst and regret down the road, I have decided that it is incumbent on everyone alive in my orbit to just go ahead and share their list of God's goodness in their life with me in the here and now. Where you have been, what you have done, who is special in your life and what is extraordinary about your life--the welcome mat for your story is out. I would really appreciate knowing all this stuff in the present, and I stand ready to be inspired. 

Also, as another small favor, if you have something not going so well, I want to hear about that, too. Burden-sharing is such a great thing--yes, I would really like to know. 
Thank you in advance for indulging me just this once. 

~~~~~

The first text I received early on my birthday this year was from Brenda herself. It's been over ten years since we have enjoyed kitchen fellowship, but we still love each other as we did back then. Of course, life will always be devoid of that special Wednesday morning zing that accompanied her wisdom and insights about Atlanta goings-on. But, most especially, I miss our sharing the lives of the countless people we wish we had known. 

From the archives

Annabelle and Brenda 

July 19, 2006

Changing places

A long time ago, we had a two year flirtation with life way, way outside the Atlanta perimeter in the northern suburbs. The route from Chattanooga to our house was an elaborate blend of I-75, I-285, and Georgia 400, plus eight miles. So on William's first Thanksgiving, Don drove up to Tennessee to collect my parents for the holiday. We had a wonderful two day visit, but Margaret and Emery were elated when the time came for them to head home. As the car reversed out of our North Fulton County driveway, my mother reached into her purse for her house keys and clutched them for the entire 2 ½ hour journey back to her favorite place on earth.

~~~~~

On the other hand, each and every time I visited Chattanooga over the course of 20+ years, the ending was always the same—shot like a cannon right back down I-75, home to good old Atlanta. I did love seeing and spending time with my parents, it's just that I could never work out how and why anyone would ever want to live in that corner of Tennessee while such excitement was available down the road in the beckoning Georgia capitol. And my thought while in Chattanooga was ever the same:

“Living here must be so dreary”

Atlanta was home--full of friends, energy, sophistication, and Delta—all of which I adore with my whole heart. Riding around our neighborhood every day offered up a perfectly perfect architectural showcase with matching landscaping. We had lovely friends from church, school and sports, great neighbors, as well as a glorious array of Publix, Target, and Chick-fil-a options within five miles of home. (Lest it should rain, several feature covered parking). Without a doubt, it was a wonderful ATL life.

~~~~~

But a wonderful life can and does serve up extraordinary change, and it was only after both Margaret and Emery were long gone did we move to their most beloved city. I do remember exactly where I was for the Damascus Road moment when I considered for the first time ever that the city where I had enduring zero interest in living might offer the best opportunity for us to thrive in changing times. My parents would have been beyond ecstatic, and no one was more surprised than I was to land in Tennessee.

Perpetually missing ATL life and loved ones has been just part of the deal, but it is balanced with a Tennessee existence that continues in meaningfulness. We have a home we love in a beautiful little town, and I find myself surrounded by lovely friends, neighbors, and work colleagues. Chattanooga gave William and Annabelle quality teen years that profoundly shaped their moving onwards into college and the world beyond. And now they have both found that affinity for big-city vibrancy, just as I did. But the road to there runs right through here.

Today marks an unbelievable ten years since we moved to Chattanooga. We haven't replaced anyone or anything from our old lives, we've just increased the richness by adding in new people and places. I go back to ATL to luxuriate in the familiar and marvel at all the new. While the Publix, Target, and Chick-fil-a offerings around Chattanooga are sadly limited in compare, there are other tremendous amenities here that even out the score. 

I can reflect on a decade where almost every day has been filled with bountiful learning in what I have found to be a beautiful, peaceful and decidedly far-from-dreary place. I am thankful for it all, most particularly for everyone we love--here, there, and everywhere. I wouldn't change anything.