Familiar Face

Sam and Alec were best buds.
If you're a two and three year old, being best buds involves lots of chasing and squealing and knee slapping at jokes that involve a cow and a cookie and no punch line whatsoever.
It means striking Buzz Lightyear poses, side by side. "To Infinity...and Beyond!"
It means hanging tough together on your first days of preschool, when the French teacher keeps talking at you and you have no idea what she's saying.

Alec was the American friend Madame Charbonnier wrote about in Sam's hilarious report card from Toute Petite Section (English translation) : Samuel speaks neither French nor English. He likes to play alone or with the American friend in our class and is not interested in our proposed activities. Perhaps when he gets bigger he will like to work with a group of children.

Just in case you haven't read the book, Sam had a much better year after that.

Sadly for us, though, Alec and his family moved back to the States a year and a half before we did. He and Sam were too young to keep up with each other. No letters, no photos sent across the miles. Alec's family moved all over the place. Denver, then Washington state, and finally to Australia!

This summer we heard rumors that Alec was moving to South Carolina. After three moves in eight years, Alec's family bought a house down the road. Alec and Sam would go to the same middle school!

Alec's mom and I wanted to get the boys together before school started, so that they'd each have an instant friend, but life was hectic and it didn't happen. "We'll try to have Alec over next weekend," I told Sam on the way to his first day of school. "Or maybe you'll see him in the halls. I can just see it now, the two of you running across the PE field, meeting in the middle with a high five, then striking the Buzz Lightyear pose, just for old time's sake."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Hate to break it to you, Mom," he said. "but that's not going to happen."

Truth is, I didn't think it would either. After all, 1000 kids go to Sam's school, and Alec would be a grade ahead anyway. The halls were separate, and even if they did run into each other, it's not like they'd recognize each other after eight years apart.

Guess what!

On day one, Sam found Alec in the mass of kids crowded by the back carpool line!
"Are you Alec?" he asked.
"Uh, yeah. Who are you?"
"I'm Sam, from France. We were best friends."
"Sam! We played Buzz Lightyear together!"

Later, I asked Sam how he recognized Alec in the crowd.
Sam shrugged his shoulders. "I guess we spent so much time together when we were little that his face was still in my brain. You know, he was important, so he stayed in there. Plus, I spent all day looking for him. I knew he was there somewhere and I just wanted to find him. If I hadn't been looking I might not have seen him. But I wanted to, so I did."

For the rest of the week, Sam and Alec hung out together at the carpool line. And for the rest of the week, Sam's explanation hung out in my head.

What was it that mesmerized me so?
I think it rang a familiar soul bell that's been tinkling in the back of my brain: the idea that if we're made in God's image and are children of God, we should be able to recognize the traces of God, the face of God, in each other.
Sometimes that's easy, and other times, with some people, it sure doesn't look like God is in there at all.

But maybe Sam knows the trick. That first, I have to really want to find God in those faces, and second, I have to spend more time looking.

Thank you, God, for old friends and renewed friendships. Thank you, too, that as you breathed the first breaths of love into each of us, you left behind traces of Yourself. Help us recognize Your face in each other.

When do you tend to see God in the face of another? I'd love to hear about it!
Have a wonder-full Monday, y'all!
Love, Becky

So God created man in his own image,
in the image of God he created him;
male and female he created them.
Genesis 1:27

PS. Guess who came home from school with us on Friday!

Smoke

Flickr photo by neilbetter, creative commons
About this time last year, a group of workers repairing an underground steam pipe under the parking lot outside my daughter's dorm found human bones buried in the dirt.

This is not what most parents want to discover on move-in day.

"It's no big deal, Mom," Sarah said. "Remember, I told you DeSaussure was a hospital during the Civil War. They say they used to bury the amputated parts out back. Either that, or it's leftover cadavers from when the med school was here."
Sarah laughed at the look on my face.
"Mommy," Sarah said, patting my head as if I were cute, "you've got to remember. This place is OLD. You can practically breathe in the history."

Breathing in history.

As we worked on packing up the minivan to take her back to school on Friday, I remembered the bones and our conversation.
Her comment about breathing in history sent me rafting down a stream of consciousness.
Care to ride along? (There is purpose to the journey, I promise!)

Stop #1?
I'm teleported back to junior high. Mr. Keck taught me tons of useful things, like how to use the slide rule (calculators need batteries and were probably a passing fad, anyway,) and how to pronounce Molybdenum ("It's mo-lib-din-um, not molly-be-denim!"--he's probably still slapping his knee in heaven over that one.) But then there's the rant I still ponder quite often: that there was a set number of atoms when the world came to be, and we just keep reshuffling them over and over, in death and birth, in eating and in pooping, in recycling and cooking, planting and manufacturing, killing and procreating. "Breathe in," he used to say. "Why, you might be sucking down an atom that once belonged to Aristotle! Abe Lincoln! Who knows! Whenever you breathe, you're tasting everything that came before you. You're tasting all creation!"

I used to think of this a lot when we lived in France.
(Stop #2)
Not because I was particularly philosophical there. (Though I was. Big changes were happening.) It was on account of the smoke.
I've heard that there's a big effort to curb smoking now, more serious than when we were there, when I'd stop by a café for a café au lait and end up smelling like smoke until the next morning's shower. The smoke was devilishly stubborn. It surrounded you, weaving itself into the fibers of your clothes, nesting in your hair, swirling in and out of your mouth, plunging into your lungs. You'd have to work to get rid of it, lather up with soap and shampoo, wash your clothes, set your coat on the balcony and let wind and time work on it.

I was thinking on this (and drinking coffee!) as I read my psalm yesterday.

But let all who take refuge in you be glad;
let them ever sing for joy.
Spread your protection over them,
that those who love your name may rejoice in you.

For surely, O LORD, you bless the righteous;
you surround them with your favor as with a shield.

Psalm 5: 11-12

You surround them with your favor as with a shield. Surround us like smoke, swirling, weaving into our fibers...

This brought my raft to my last stop stream-side: the fourth grade Sunday school classroom at church.
Each Sunday we light the candle before the children come in, to remind them that as we sit on the carpet and tell the story, we're on holy ground.
God is with us, providing light and presence.
At closing time, we don't snuff out the candle. We call it changing the light, transforming it from a light we can see to another form, to smoke that gets in our hair and lands on our skin. It swirls around us and spreads through the room. We take it with us wherever we go, to big church or home, hanging onto our bodies, in our lungs, in our hair.
The God Of All History that came before us and will unfold for years after we're gone, surrounds us like a shield.

I may have forgotten how to use the slide rule long ago, but that truth stays with me.

Emmanuel, God with us, thank you for surrounding us with your favor, like a force field, like smoke in our clothes and hair, breathed in our nostrils, sucked down into our lungs. Thank you for being in us, around us, before us. We love you.

Have an awesome, wonder-filled Wednesday, y'all!
Love, Becky

O Brother

Have you seen the movie, O Brother Where Art Thou?
The film begins with the escape of three friends, Everett, Pete, and Delmar from a chain gang in rural, depression era Mississippi. Still in leg irons, they set out to retrieve the $1.2 million in treasure that Everett stole from an armored car and buried before his incarceration, and they've got to find it fast. In four days, the whole valley will be flooded to create Arkabutla Lake, and all hopes for riches will be lost.

It's a modern retelling of Homer's Odyssey, and it's hilarious and scary and has an amazing soundtrack that burrows under your skin like ringworm.
A gorgeous, soulful ringworm, but still.

We watched it again at the beach last week, and ever since we got back home, I've been singing Man of Constant Sorrow and When I Went Down to the River to Pray. I'm crazy about both of those songs, but my family is beginning to wish they could figure out how to change my channel.

Then yesterday, as I fiddled with this blog, adding photos of our French life to the French Living page, I came across this picture.

Yes, that man in the black coat is actually me. (I know it's not fashionable, but I'm a Carolina girl who gets cold in the snow, so sorry.)
It was taken during the first year of our French life, during our first visit to Notre Dame d'Orcival, a 13th century Romanesque basilica in the tiny village of Orcival, about forty minutes from where we used to live.

Here's a better photo of the church.

Photo by Francis Debaisieux
The basilica is indeed a world treasure, but the thing that struck me most about it is what hangs on an outer wall. See it in the inset there?

Here, let me blow it up for you.

Photo by Francis Debaisieux
Those are leg irons.
Leg irons, just like the ones binding Everett and Pete and Delmar.
I saw the photo of us standing in the snow beneath the leg irons and remembered that cold day as my brain started singing
I am a man of constant sorrow I've seen trouble all my day. I bid farewell to old Kentucky The place where I was born and raised.

Our Michelin Green Guide said that the chains had been hung "in thanksgiving for released prisoners." Ben wanted to know just who was released and if it was really safe to set prisoners free, and Sarah said that maybe they weren't supposed to be in jail anyway, especially if they were the kind of prisoners who care about thanking God.

But the chains got all of us thinking and talking about what it means for God to set us free.
And yesterday, as I looked at that picture and sung along with Everett, I remembered this verse:
⁷ He upholds the cause of the oppressed
and gives food to the hungry.
The LORD sets prisoners free,

⁸ the LORD gives sight to the blind,
the LORD lifts up those who are bowed down,
the LORD loves the righteous.

⁹ The LORD watches over the alien
and sustains the fatherless and the widow,
but he frustrates the ways of the wicked.

Psalm 146:7-9, New International Version

It's a lovely scripture, but at first thought, I wasn't sure that it had anything to do with me.
I'm not really oppressed (except by my laundry pile, ha ha.) I'm not hungry or in prison, blind or made to bow down. I'm not an alien anymore, nor am I fatherless or a widow.

But maybe it speaks to me too.
I might not be guilty of doing things that land me in prison, but I know I'm imprisoned in other ways.
Even though I try not to, I do things and think things that keep me from living the whole, healthy life God wants for me.

I envy other people. What they own that I don't. Their talents. What looks like the ease of their lives. I worry too much, and sometimes I let fear keep me from doing things that would please God. Fear of what other people might think. Fear of failing.

I could go on, but you get the point.
I'm just thankful that even though God knows all about my sorry failings, He refuses to shut the door on me. God lets me in anyway, unbinding me daily from the chains that hold me back, letting me try to do better, again and again.

I can see why Ben was worried. Is it really smart of God to operate this way? To set the prisoners free, with just their word and a piddly human effort to do better?
But that's how God operates.
That's how grace operates.
No wonder they call it amazing!

I'd love to hear your thoughts. Have you seen the movie?
What imprisons you?

Have a great Wednesday, y'all!
Love, Becky

Muddy Knees

Flickr photo by mcmrbt, creative commons
As I remember it, she was around 19 or 20, about my age at the time, and as she led us through the military cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer, France, past the thousands of crosses to my grandfather's grave, I sort of wished she'd just hand over the map and let us find it by ourselves.

First of all, there was the awkwardness of the language barrier. (Life would bring me back to France for mongo lessons on this later. Did it ever.) She spoke English but so quietly and with such a heavy accent that we could hardly understand her.
But mainly I was concerned about my mom. This would be the first time since she was a bouncing baby that she'd be mere feet from her father's body, now bones and dust under the lush, green grass, and I didn't want her to have to think about keeping her composure just because a stranger was there.

Will she cry? I wondered. Of course she will. In my dream the night before, she'd lain face down over her father's grave, and when the camera shifted to a cross section scene, I could see my mother lying over her father, and five feet below, his face looking up at hers through the soil.

Would I cry? Would my brother or my dad? I walked faster, hoping to get Dad's attention and maybe signal him to take the map and send the girl back. But he was too busy looking at Mom and I couldn't catch his eye.

It started to drizzle and I hoped that maybe now she'd go back, hand us umbrellas and let us go on our own. But no. She walked on, ignoring the weather, carrying the bucket of wet sand that she'd taken time to get before we started out. Couldn't that chore, whatever it was, have waited? I shivered in the wind, glad to have my jacket, and noticed her bare legs.

Finally, there it was, my grandfather's cross. My father inched closer to my mother, who stood still, transfixed by the name. Now she'll leave, I thought, but instead, she knelt before the cross, her bare knees sinking in the wet ground. What? She dipped her hand into the bucket, pulled out a clump of wet sand, and begin smearing it all over the cross!
Wasn't my father going to do something? The cross had been beautiful, and now it was a terrible mess.
Before I could say anything to my dad, the girl picked up a clean cloth, and with slow deliberate strokes, wiped it clean. Gleaming white, except now Glen Kuhn's name stood out in bold brown letters. The cross had been just one of thousands, and now it proclaimed my grandfather's service, for all to see.

As I tried to catch my breath, the girl rose, her knees muddied. She thanked my mother for her father's service and left us to be alone.

I've thought of that girl so many times over the last twenty five years. I've remembered how she gathered her skirt and knelt on the wet ground, how she stroked the cross so reverently, how she honored my grandfather and then honored our privacy. She wouldn't let the awkwardness of a language barrier stand in the way of her focus on our family. Maybe it was her job, but she did it as if it were more than that, as if it were a holy mission.

This French stranger became a model for me of what it means to be a servant: to show up, put away any concerns or thoughts of yourself, and be willing to sink your knees in the mud for someone who needs it.

I picture her, and another servant comes to mind, kneeling before his friends, washing their feet, saying,
"I, your Lord and Teacher, have just washed your feet. You, then, should wash one another's feet. I have set an example for you, so that you will do just what I have done for you. ...Now that you know this truth, how happy you will be if you put it into practice!"
John 13: 14-15, 17

Today I'm wondering who has muddied their knees for you. I'd love to hear about the servanthood you've experienced in your life. I hope you'll share!

Love, Becky

Cannes, Ramsey Style

http://www.flickr.com/photos/charliedees/ / CC BY-SA 2.0
Whoop-de-doo! The Cannes film festival starts today!
Did you know? (Do you care? :) )

I ate my morning oatmeal with Matt Lauer, and as we chatted with Cate Blanchett and Russel Crowe about the Cannes experience, I watched the breezes from the Mediterranean flutter their hair but I hardly heard anything they said. My thoughts were traveling back in time, back to the Cote d'Azur, back to these guys...

Aren't we the stylish family? Pink leggings on my son and a $5 Old Navy tee on my hubby, complete with American flags, just in case anyone was fooled by our incredible accents. Ha ha. I can't really explain the tee shirt (he really wasn't the obnoxious American tourist, I promise) but perhaps I should try to explain the pink leggings or else Sammy will be so humiliated when he sees this post that he will make me email the whole world that we made him do it and it wasn't his fault. Which is true, not that he cared at the time.
So here goes.
French school gives the kids had a long April vacation, so two other families and ours decided to make good use of the time and take a trip to Cannes. Together. Six adults and eight children.
We were clearly out of our minds.
On that particular day we spent the afternoon letting the kids wade in the Med, and of course Sam completely soaked himself during the first five seconds of play. We immediately stripped him down to his underwear, but the touring afterward required a little more clothing. The only clothes available were his buddy Anna's leggings, and he couldn't care less. He was three. (Is that clear enough, Sam?)

So we spent our vacation trying to remember we had children and to keep an eye on them, while our eyes kept wandering back to this.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/tomoyoshi/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

They were preparing for the film festival just as we arrived.
We looked for stars like Nicole...

http://www.flickr.com/photos/rockwilder/ / CC BY 2.0
But she didn't show.
Instead we saw these superstars.

Hey, there's Ben, Jonathan, the Clemson student, and Mitchell, who's now driving! (Watch out, Simpsonville!)

And see that lovely aluminum siding behind them? It's one of our spacious motel rooms!

Yes, with all the fancy- shmancy four star hotels available in Cannes and Saint Tropez, we chose to spend our nights in a mobile home camping park, which was PERFECT! (If you've ever taken a vacation to a fancy place with eight kids who love each other and get terribly excited whenever they're together, you'll understand.)
It really was ideal. We could spend our days sightseeing and behaving ourselves, and then go back to the campsite and let the kids run wild, play ball, and squeal as much as they wanted. We ate out for lunch, and each family took a night to cook, followed by a raucous, 14 player game of Pit!
Ah Cannes! The palm trees, the sparkling sands, and the pull- out bunk beds! Quelle joie!

Have you ever taken a multi-family vacation? Good memories? I still remember all those beach trips with the Huggins family. Anybody want to go crabbing?

Have a great Wednesday, y'all!
Love, Becky

Nutella, I Pledge Thee My Troth

Happy World Nutella Day, y'all!
Actually I'm lying. WND was February 5, but somehow I missed it. So I'm making it up to The Greatest Spread of All Time by celebrating a few months late. Yey, Nutella!

Are you a Nutella lover too? We Ramseys fell in love with its creamy, chocolaty hazelnut goodness within a few days of moving to France.

Some dear soul brought a jar to our apartment, and I spread a little on toast, as I saw French people do on commercials,



and my life was forever changed.

Nutella makes everything better. It's great for pretzel dipping, to lather on a cupcake, right out of the oven, and (don't tell anyone) it's even heavenly on a finger!
And of course it's magnificent on crepes. With or without sliced bananas.
WARNING: This short video may make you cry. At least it has that effect on me.



When we moved back to South Carolina, I positively grieved over the lack of Nutella. Every time Todd went back on a business trip, he knew he'd best return with several jars in his suitcase.
But then a marvelous thing happened. Nutella showed up at the local Bi-Lo! It's in the peanut butter section, and it's kind of pricey but well worth it. Ask my kids. They've become Nutella evangelists, converting all their friends, and teaching them Nutella trivia. (Did you know it was invented in the 1940's, when cocoa was rationed? Pietro Ferrero thought of extending the cocoa flavor with the hazelnuts plentiful in northwest Italy, and Nutella was born!)

So Happy Nutella Day, everybody!
If you haven't experienced it yet, my crepe-master suggests you give it a try!



Have a great day, y'all!
Love, Becky

I Saw Van Gogh in My Bathroom Shower. Really.

Nope, I'm not a raving wackadoodle. At least I don't think so. But I really did see him!
Before you call the crazy bus to my house, allow me to explain.

For several years now I've been trying to bring more peace into my life, to take time to breathe and pay attention to my surroundings, to see, to sense, to listen. Usually I'm a complete failure at this and race around like everyone else. But every now and then I get little reminders of the value of inner peace. Like the gold nugget Karen Jackson shared a few weeks ago at the women's conference I attended: the Chinese pictograph for busy is made up of two characters, the one for killing and the one for spirit. Hear that, America? (Hear that, Becky Ramsey?) Our culture may equate busyness with importance, but I know that running all day long sure doesn't feel good to me. So I say all this to give you background, in hopes that you won't think I'm too much of a looneybird.

There is one time of day that I can say I do a pretty good job at paying attention: my morning shower. So it only lasts about five minutes, but hey, it's a very peaceful five minutes. And sometimes it inspires me to continue paying attention even after I've toweled off!
And sometimes it inspires me to see impressionist painters in flower petals stuck to my shower door and to write blogs about them and their inspiring, creative lives!
See?

No? Look harder. That white blotch is a petal from our pear tree that somehow ended up stuck on my shower door. You still don't see van Gogh's face? Come on. I took the trouble to get back in the shower with my camera just to show it to you. It's his silhouette.
Maybe this will help.

Ta da!
Okay, so it could be any bearded man, but to me it's Vincent van Gogh. (It's also an example of pareidolia . Remember that?)
Before our French life, all I knew about van Gogh was that he was the crazy painter who chopped off his ear in a fight with Gaughin.

Plus, he painted the picture that hung in the kitchen of my childhood home.

I'm pretty sure that my mom picked that one because it was cheery and went with our orange and yellow plaid wallpaper, not because I would grow up and one day have a spiritual transformation in France in which van Gogh played an active part, but I'm grateful just the same. It makes me feel like the artist has been following me around all my life, whispering in my ear.

Do you know much about van Gogh?
I'm so glad I got to know him a bit. His life proves what I keep discovering: people are so much more than their darkest moments, more than their weaknesses and disabilities, even more than their mental illnesses.

I'll share just a couple things about him that were new to me.
Van Gogh started out as an evangelist, a preacher like his dad and uncles. But when he gave away all his things to the poor, in order to more closely identify with them, it started to freak out his family. They made warned the bishop about him and made him quit. He had been painting during that time, painting his parishioners and scenes of their daily life in Holland.

He went back to painting, but he didn't stop working for God. He even wrote a letter to his brother Theo, in which he described Christ as "the supreme artist, more of an artist than all others, disdaining marble and clay and color, working in the living flesh."

His art was dark and grim until he moved to France and discovered his own brand of impressionism. Don't you love the passion in his work? I think it vibrates, like his light.

Here's another of my favorites. The almond tree, in blossom.

Look! We're back to flower petals again.
I just love it when that happens.
Have a great weekend, y'all!
Love, Becky
PS. Enjoy this amazing series of self portraits of van Gogh. And if you want a great movie to see this weekend, I recommend Lust for Life, the 1950's film about van Gogh's life starring Kirk Douglass. It's a favorite of mine.

If I Knew You Were Coming...

I'd a baked a cake!
Oh yeah. I did already!
It's the most glorious chocolate cake I've ever eaten, if I do say so myself. But I can't take any credit. It's a simple gâteau au chocolat, and all the glory goes to France. Well, France and Carole Clements and Elizabeth Wolf-Cohen, the writers of French.

my best loved cookbook of all time.
If you like French food, you MUST get this cookbook. I use this book at least a couple times a week and it never fails me. Ever.
My favorite recipes, besides the cake? The scalloped potatoes, the quiche Savoyarde, the zucchini and tomato bake, the chicken and pistachio pâté, the provençal beef stew, and the pear and almond cream tart.
But the cake. Oh, the chocolate cake.
It will make you want to slap somebody in happiness.
Or kiss your dog on the lips.
Or strip down to your undies and do interpretive dance.

Beware of the power of this cake.

Guess why I'm making it.

This little cutie pie is coming home from college for the weekend.
Hurray!
We will eat cake. We will clasp hands and do ring around the rosies in the kitchen.
Then we will do her laundry.
I can't wait.

Have a great weekend, y'all!
Love, Becky

Ooh la la, C'est Si Bon!

http://www.flickr.com/photos/bixentro/ / CC BY 2.0
Translation: LORDY LORDY, IT'S SO GOOD!
The flaky layers, the dark chocolate, the buttery goodness...and to think, dear pain au chocolat, if things had been different, you might not have curled my toes this weekend!
Shall I tell you the story, friends? It's full of dramatic tension. Prepare yourself.

My sweetheart spent more than a week in France, working (so he says) and eating up my favorite French foods: confit de canard, foie gras, pommes de terre dauphinoise, and clafoutis--not to mention a week of sumptuous breakfasts. Grand crèmes and pastries that make me cry.

Oh. I think I might weep, just telling it.
I will try to be strong.

He was finally on his way back to me on Saturday, and being a smart man, he'd brought a bag of pastries he'd bought at the airport in Paris. He had an awful flight and was met in Atlanta by news of snow and ice in South Carolina. All the flights home were canceled through Sunday.

Of course I worried about him. How would he make it home? It's a 2 1/2 hour drive home from the Atlanta airport. The roads were icy and he'd been up for more than 24 hours trying to get home. How would he keep himself awake?
HE WOULD EAT OUR FRENCH PASTRIES!

Our pains aux raisins!

http://www.flickr.com/photos/roboppy/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

So luscious!

And our viennoises!

http://www.flickr.com/photos/roboppy/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
Heaven.

I have reason to worry about this. Once when we were young and wrinkle-less and lived in Washington DC, we got stuck in a traffic jam trying to get out of the city and back to the Carolinas for Thanksgiving. As we sat parked on the highway, the chocolate pie I had placed on our back seat started calling to us, swirling its chocolaty aroma into our nostrils.
We were both exhausted and hungry and emotional and weak.
Todd handed me the pocket knife off his key chain.
We ate the entire pie.

Would he have the moral fiber to restrain himself all the way home?
Sarah came home from college and the boys told her about the pastries.
We were all waiting. Wondering.

I'm thrilled to tell you that this story has a happy ending. Todd got home safely, all pastries intact. (At least I think they were. He might have eaten one or two.)
Pain au chocolat, favorite of Ben.
Pain aux raisins, my favorite and Sarah's.
And viennoise, the love of Sam's life.

Ah, the memories make me drool.
Excuse me while I try to get a hold of myself. And wipe the chocolate off my cheek.

There we go. I'm all clean.
Too bad I can't say the same for this guy.

Where in the world is this boy's mama?

Some things never change.

Have a wonderful Monday, y'all!
Love, Becky
PS. That plate of goodies wasn't all for Sam, just so you know. I do have some motherly standards--and the rest of us wanted them too!

King of the Road. Or Not.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/stevenm_61/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Can you name this city?
I can do it in six notes. I mean letters. (Remember that show?)
City hint#1: a most delicious omelet.
City hint #2: the mountains.
Yes, it's Denver, the first city I fell in love with as a grown up.
I'm thinking about Denver today because my friend May recently did a fabulous post confessing she was torn between two lovers: San Francisco and New York. It made me think about all the towns I've loved before and the lessons each one taught me. Or should have.

And it made me curious about you. I'd love to know where you've lived and loved. Feel like sharing?

I'll go first. I'll try not to be long winded. Thanks to the Air Force, it's not a short list.

1. Denver, as shown above.
Lesson I should have learned? Don't be so in love with the mountains and Todd Ramsey that you neglect to ask how much the teaching job pays before you sign the contract.
(Still it was fun. Who needs money when you have love?)

2. Omaha, Nebraska

http://www.flickr.com/photos/conrad_matt/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

That's not my photo, but it's exactly what I remember.
Lessons learned? If you live near a corn flake factory, you constantly thirst for milk.
And Omaha's suburb Papillion might be spelled like the French word for butterfly, but if you pronounce it that way, Nebraskans will laugh at you.

3. Greenbelt, Maryland

http://www.flickr.com/photos/thisisbossi/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

Beautiful, huh? Our apartment complex wasn't in this part. We lived in a neighborhood which my sweet mother in law once called The Projects.
Lesson: When men are always huddling together, trading things in the parking lot of your apartment complex, you ought to move.

4. Washington DC

http://www.flickr.com/photos/b-tal/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

Lesson: It's exciting to live where everything happens. But ride the metro. Don't drive.

5. Raleigh, NC

http://www.flickr.com/photos/tsmyther/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Coming home can be beautiful, even while puking into the car's air conditioning vents on the way to your first day of work. Especially if it's because of morning sickness.
(But do sell the car. It will never be the same.)

6. Greenville/Greer, SC

There are cool people in every town, just waiting for new friends.
Small towns are great for kids.

7. Clermont Ferrand, France

Life is to be enjoyed. Eat! Drink! Write!

So now it's your turn!
Are you king of the road, or loyal to one knock out town?
I'd love to hear all about it.
Have a great weekend, y'all!
Love, Becky

Let's Go!

I'm thinking about France today, probably because the sky is a brilliant blue and the weather is finally chilly, the way fall is supposed to be, and Carla Bruni is singing L'Amoureuse in my ear. Where oh where is my chocolate croissant? And the waiter with my café au lait?
Shoot. I'll just have to imagine. Tant pis.

I guess I'll just have to stare at the Air France poster hanging on my office wall and pretend. That's it above. I bought it from the guy who sells old books out of the back of his van at the Sunday flea market in Clermont Ferrand, and it's one of my favorite souvenirs of our French life.
I love how the New York sky scraper stands shoulder to shoulder with the Eiffel Tower, and that they're flying their flags like twins.

Are you a fan of vintage travel posters too?
This one's nice.

I love the style. The bright colors.
Even the lettering.


Hey, that's Chamonix, the home of one of our very first road trips in France! Where we learned that French inns serve breakfast on china, no matter if you have little Americans used to plastic and a 9 month old baby who likes to grab things.
Once we learned to negotiate breakfast, we had a marvelous time!
Back to travel posters...

http://www.flickr.com/photos/15549210@N04/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Very pretty! I'm ready to go. Anybody want to come along? Where are you in mood to travel today?

Have a good Monday, y'all!
Love, Becky

Who you calling a Lady, bug?!

Today's Wonder of the World is...the Ladybug!

Flickr photo by porcelain duck
Or ladybird, lady cow, may bug, or even Bishop that Burneth, depending where you live.
It's sort of a wonder that we often think of ladybugs as cute little creatures, when they're really just beetles with polka dots.
I don't normally invite beetles to crawl on me, though I will do that with a ladybug. I'd even ride around in this.

Flickr photo by becaneck
I saw one of those a couple days ago and remembered this cute little ladybug.

Hey Ladybug Gillian, who was born sans antennae but with that full head of blond hair. Hey mermaids Sarah and Katherine, and Baby Penguin Ben in my arms in the background. It's hard to believe he's almost 17 and now has chipmunk cheeks from having his wisdom teeth surgically removed.

Sorry, I got lost in yesteryear for a moment.

Back to ladybugs...
So anyway, I saw a ladybug car a week or two ago and then turned on the radio and heard the latest ladybug news. It seems there's ladybug craziness in the air.
See what I mean?

It's a puzzle, huh?
Suddenly it's a Ladybug Woodstock in some places,

Flickr photo by TienAnton
And other places? Nada!
The scientists need our help to figure it out. If you've got a budding entomologist at home--or maybe you're one yourself--hop over here and join in.
Who knows, they may be coming to your town next!

Flickr photo by skadoodle83
You might enjoy the visit. Legend says that if a ladybug lands on you, you get your wish. I remember hearing in France that if a ladybug (une bête à bon Dieu=the Good Lord's beast) crawls across your hand, you'll be married within a year. What do you get if you're already married?
I doubt they'll swing by my place. A few dozen had a family reunion in my bathroom last winter and sort of overstayed their welcome. We helped them out the door for a few days and then we resorted to...well, I won't go into details. It wasn't pretty.

Speaking of pretty, do you know how to tell a boy ladybug from a girl without looking down any ladybug trousers? The Manbugs are smaller. That's it.
Oh, and they don't like to be flirted with by rowdy bar bugs.

At least Francis doesn't.

Before you fly away, fly away, fly away home, tell me, how do you stand on the ladybug issue? Cute little beast or creepy crawly beetle?
The world wants to know. At least I do.
Have a wonder-full weekend, everybody!
Love, Becky