When I was 15, my father took a promotion with his job and we moved to a suburb of Chicago. For this girl who’d lived her whole life in her hometown, Chicago was a BIG change. Translated: I HATED it! Even though I soon made friends and came to really like my new life, I always hoped that I’d one day walk in the front door to the news that we were moving back home. We did eventually move – to Utah. Sigh. Of course I could have chosen a home-state university and high-tailed it out of there, but my parents were there and I didn’t want to live across the country from them. So I lived in Utah for college and a decade beyond. I had great friends and a career, but I still always longed for home. For seventeen years. That dream came true for me in 2002. I’m here. I can go out into my backyard and listen to the cicadas anytime I want to. I can walk barefoot in the grass and catch lightning bugs. I can eat real barbecue. I can see dogwoods bloom in the spring and fields of white cotton in the fall. I can go anywhere and be surrounded by beautiful accents that remind me I’ve made it home.
My grandmother loved to grow things. She loved to TALK ABOUT growing things. When she had to give up her home and move into an apartment, she had windowsills filled with violets that would take your breath away. And when she no longer had those, I’d load her into the car and we’d drive through neighborhoods to see what other people were growing. My dad is the same. So many of my childhood memories are of my dad’s beautiful yards, and the time and love he put into them. And that green thumb rubbed off on me in a big way. When I moved out after college, I must have spent thousands of dollars on flowers, trying to keep them alive in less-than-ideal environments in one apartment or another. I remember so many times wandering around at the nursery and drooling over all the bloomin’ things, wishing so badly that I had a place to plant them. Even a tiny little garden spot. Now I do. I can’t look out a single window in our home without seeing the flowers and trees and bushes we’ve planted, and we have acres of room for more.
From the time I was about fifteen years old, I want to fall in love with a big ole Southern boy. I dated guys in Chicago. I dated guys in Utah. I dated guys during the couple of years I was in Atlanta. But there was a part of me that always hoped and prayed that someday the Southern man of my dreams would come and sweep me off my feet. I guess I never really thought it would happen, though. I had a great career, wonderful friends and family, and always enjoyed living in the homes I created for myself, but at night when I’d crawl into bed, I ached for him. For his love. For the life we could have together. It was a physical ache. And then one day he was there, walking into my apartment, so beautiful to me that I could only glance at him for a moment at a time. It was like looking at the sun. We’ve never looked back since that day. Engaged four months later. Married four months after that. For seven years this coming December. The only thing is, O has so far surpassed every dream I ever had about that big ole Southern boy I’d kept in my heart. I did not know that such a man existed.
There is a quote that I run across from time to time, on Facebook or in a forwarded e-mail. Of course, I can’t find it at the moment so I am about to massacre it, but it’s something along these lines:
Don’t spend your time mourning what you don’t have, because the things you DO have were once your heart’s greatest desires.
I am struck by the sentiment every time I see it.
It reminds me that child or no child, every minute of my life is beautifully touched by my dreams come to life. And I don’t want to ever, ever forget it.
