... our pets heads are falling off

Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock Mark, Sidney and I are going to walk through the front door, lock the deadbolt and drive to Pennsylvania for half a week of Evans-family gathering, thus leaving behind this recent chaos and destruction that seems to be falling upon our heads.

When we walk out the door we'll be shaking ants from our feet coming from a steadily growing colony currently taking up residence in the kitchen. I shiver as I write it. A few days ago there were two itsy bitsy ants on the counter beside the sink. In the morning, more. We called our exterminator Bob, whose cell phone number is programmed into my speed dial, but his number had changed so we were unable to bypass the central office. "We're sorry, Bob is booked up until Wednesday afternoon." Keep in mind, we are leaving tomorrow MORNING. "Bob can spray outside the house while you're gone, and when you return we'll have him come back and spray inside." For what purpose are we spraying OUTSIDE? I don't care if there are ants outside, it's my dishwasher, utensils drawer and pantry that concern me.

We will load up into the Jetta, Mark's car from high school, and not our brand-spanking-new Passat because about two weeks ago the large plate that runs underneath the length of the car... fell? Came undone? Dropped? Dragged the highway for 30 miles. Due to the fact that its repair will cost in the neighborhood of $300.00, Mark climbed underneath the car and zip-tied it up. Solution for the forseeable future.

Once loaded into the car, we will cross the threshold of the driveway, which is now a river because our water meter is leaking. We didn't even realize that the water was actually bubbling forth from the iron plate on the curb by the driveway until this afternoon at 5:45 pm, when we quickly called the city, whose representative promised someone would be out within two hours. They came at 7:45 pm (irony?), took the plate off, stuck a crow bar down into the water-filled hole, and then said, "You need a plumber to look at this." What is your job description? "The city won't be responsible for this issue unless the leak is within five feet of the hole." Dear Lord, let it be within five feet. Mark and I spent the ensuing hour calling plumbers to find out who could come tomorrow in the morning, if they could fix the issue while we were either en route or settled in Western Pennsylvania. When I talked to Vic, he said this: "Hm, that doesn't sound good, but it's fixable. Unless, you don't live in Ardmore do you?" Yes. "Oh damn." Fab-u-lous.

I'm taking deep breaths. We will leave tomorrow morning at eight o'clock and pray that on Sunday when we come home our house is still standing.

outer space and a new baby boy.

I swear lately it feels like I am in outer space. The temperatures have finally broken, but for a while there it was like sun-walking. I do realize it was hot across the continent, but inland NC heat is like walking from air conditioning (if you are so lucky)into one of those heavy, prickly, kind of bendable electric blankets - it's on you, under you, all around you and down your throat. I actually gasped for air when I turned on my car and the AC tried to gust through, then drove to the post office where the thermometer read 107 degrees. This is something other-worldly. I haven't written much or edited much of anything in months, which also makes me feel stagnant and shriveled like a raisin (ironically created by the beating down of the sun), though I have been voraciously devouring literature since the spring. I believe writing and reading literature are two sides of the same coin, and hopefully all of this reading is in some way informing me and forming my writing mentality, style and the purposes I hope to achieve. Something needs to tip me, though, back to the actual craft. However, where I am, in this ocean of stories, also contributes to the outer-space feeling because I am beginning to have trouble distinguishing reality from fiction, especially when I keep falling asleep reading. That makes everything exceptionally weird.

My dear friend just gave birth to her son three months early in pretty desperate circumstances, and I keep feeling like I'm there, with her, in Richmond, even though I'm here. Imagining her in the hospital being rushed around by doctors and nurses, her emergency c-section, her new baby son feels very strange. This can't be real, can it? I suppose it can. I keep dreaming and praying for him, for them, but it seems so out of this world. She is the kind of person who keeps calm and sails on. Her unflappability has always disarmed me because it is so different from the way I am, and I think that's why we are such good friends. When she found out her son would be born with some physical abnormalities a month and a half ago, she took it in stride, practically talking through the implications of having a child with some special needs who might undergo several surgeries in the first few years of his life. She mourned some of her expectations, but had this brilliant attitude, thankful for his life. And then, when she was put on a week of bed rest, followed by a week in the hospital where Tucker was ultimately born, she just maintained that steady faithfulness. Here now I can imagine her peering through the glass windows into NICU to watch his fingers open and close, his little head under the small beanie. It's out of this world.

As time goes by there seem to be an increasing number of circumstances that blind side us and I'm more and more cognizant of the imperfection of this world. HOWever, I also think I am (we are) developing a greater love for life. There is more to fight for, and that perspective, the vigor it fosters, is something to be thankful for.

a few pictures from the ficker family sandbridge trip.

music memory.

In elementary school I learned that our bodies have all kinds of memory systems. We remember some things easily, but other things are only recalled because of a trigger, suddenly we remember a moment, the balloons at our third birthday party, the dog that got out of its pen and tore, barking, down the street at us, the girl that sat in the front corner of the music class. Triggers can be through any of the senses. I remember a lesson on how we have smell-memory and sound and sight-memory.

Music is my emotion-memory trigger. I've been thinking about it a great deal lately because this summer's country offering is pretty strong so I've been tuning into the country station (THE WOLF. Ridiculous name). I'm finding that this summer I feel, eerily, like it's high school. I am 16, driving the gold Honda I shared with my sister, and I do not care about how I look except that I'm tan.

My childhood is triggered by Billy Joel, Simon and Garfunkel and James Taylor primarily. I'm thankful it doesn't take Veggie Tales sing along and Raffi to get that period of my life to the forefront of my mind, so mom and dad, if you have ever felt guilt about the music that was in our house, let that go. The songs of these old artists make my stomach hurt wishing I was spindly and miniscule again, running around until it was dark outside in overalls with wild, whispy hair and dirty feet and my sister and brother. It makes me think of being in the subaru with my dad on Saturday morning driving to the Meineke and Home Depot and Dunkin Doughnuts, how we'd drive with the windows down and I would watch the tiny dust hairs drift around the inside of the car when we were stopped as I waited in the parking lot. These songs make me feel peaceful and safe in a way that I don't think I'll ever, as an adult, feel again. For that reason I want to cry when I hear them. For this reason I smile: I realize, in listening to Carolina in my Mind, Cecilia, and The Entertainer, that I had a sweet, sweet childhood. It's hard to know, objectively, if you had a "healthy childhood." You don't really know how dysfunctional you are, I don't think. But music helps me to believe, to know, to remember, that the process of growing up was happy for me.

Moving forward. Country music, as previously declared, takes me in a rush back to high school. Tim McGraw, Kenny Chesney, Faith Hill, SheDaisy, The Dixie Chicks... when I hear those songs that came out between 2000 and 2004 I get pitched backward in time and there I am again, plopped back into the wonder and joy of growing up. The way I felt like I was a real person, not just a kid. Learning how to drive was the most liberating thing, and the boy I loved and I would drive at night in the summers listening to music pouring out of the windows, just laughing and singing. My friend Megan and I went to a dozen concerts, even met Tim McGraw, and belted out every song at the concert where we sat so far back on the lawn in the middle of July. Those country singers take me back to a state of eagerness, this wild readiness to GO! Embark on life, college, moving away, learning to be independent.

I met Patty Griffin in college and she became the artist of my life. It's interesting, I think she may have become a Christian in the last few years and her newest album, Downtown Church, was a lot of old hymns re-done, lovely. I love it, but I loved her other albums more. Primarily Living with Ghosts, an album which lives with me almost daily. Her music is fabulously beautiful and deeply stirring. She was full of sadness and curiosity and angst and trouble, and those were things with which I became acquainted in college. Her music moved me then, and it moves me now. She understands how my brain work even though she doesn't know me. Now, hearing those songs, I feel a little bit of sadness, but mostly the maximum of my depth. I believe that college teaches us about our true selves more intensely than any other life experience. To me, Patty equates the way I felt in college: fully spent, fully shot, and fully present at the base of myself. Also, her song Heavenly Day was Mark and my first dance on May 2, 2009, and that song makes me stupid, crazy happy. That was the best five minutes of my entire life.

Coldplay and Imogen Heap are the summers I spent in Florida, totally free and easy and unburdened. Sara Groves is the year we were engaged. Frank Sinatra is Kaili with me in Italy. There are thousands more. And here I find myself again, listening to country music after an 8-year hiatus. And do you know, I feel so free and so tan.

owen wilson in winston-salem.

The buzz in Winston-Salem this week is that Owen Wilson, Zach Galifianakis and Amy Poehler are in town and Mr. Wilson in particular is living it up. "Living it up" in Winston is a bit of an anomaly because it's a very small city with fewer than five good bars, two exciting downtown streets and pretty sparse on live entertainment, but I think what everyone means is that he is here, in fact living on West End Boulevard for a few weeks while filming the movie You Are Here, and that he is not staying sequestered with other famous folk, but that he is choosing to explore our fair city, try our restaurants, chat with our bar tenders and get to know the people here, if only for a little while. It kind of makes me happy, less for us and more for him, that Winston will offer him a little southern hospitality, a probable great distinction from his normal routine. I keep thinking, "I hope he goes to Camino and his diet allows him to try the lemon rosemary cookies," and "I wonder if he has heard of the trampoline park," and "I wonder which house is his on West End and if it's got a great city porch," and "I hope he bumps into someone who tells him to go to the Olive Tree if he likes Greek food, but that he has to have some cash or a checkbook...." and to try the Gimlet at Tate's if he's a gin drinker... and to go see a movie at the indie film theater a/perture on Fourth... and to take a walk up through Reynolda Gardens if it isn't raining because the roses are so fabulous right now... and to have a cup of custard from Wolfie's... It's absurd the amount of thought I've given to Owen Wilson being in Winston-Salem, and I think it's probably because I have developed a certain pride about this place after having lived here for four years and I think the A-listers will find it charming if they give it a chance. I have lived in so many cities I've learned how to adopt a place as my own more quickly, and this one feels like like OURS - Mark's and Sidney's and mine, and that's a first. It feels good and comfortable. It's the THIRD Spring we have watched bloom outside the windows and I knew when the big old gnarly tree out back would be covered with green leaves and the temperature that would kill the impatients if I didn't get serious about watering them. We know the sidewalks of our sprawling neighborhood pretty well, and our neighbor has become quite fond of our dog and we finally decorated our guest room so it's really pretty and inviting. I love to run in this town, and get take-out from the Mexican place near the Indian grocery store, and I love the little second-hand shops and the twenty minutes or less rule that ideally describes every in-Winston trek you might make. This is a good place to live, a really really good place. Owen Wilson, of all people, has me thinking about this all rather idyllicly and I do hope he and his gang can soak it up while they're here. And I hope they order the the Moravian Cookie Crusted Salmon if they hit up Milner's for dinner.

good cause for a manicure.

Last Thursday, feeling entitled, I went to get a manicure on my lunch break, a luxury for which I spring about once every eighteen months. I went to a place called Dream Nails in a strip on the backside of Harris Teeter and had my fingernails trimmed, conditioned and painted bright pink for $15 (including tip). I was feeling stressed and exhausted, and when I sat down at the little desk and put my fingers (which I had only the night before painted lavender) under the desk lights, the man looked at me and said, you tired. Brother, you ain’t kidding. Here’s why… Three weeks ago I received an e-mail from a friend in town saying that her cousin, a student at the UNC School of the Arts in Winston-Salem, was part of a film crew that was in the process of producing a short film. The crew, students at UNC-SA (one of the best film schools in the country, which I didn’t know) was teaming up with a group from NYU to produce this film that would be submitted to film festivals around the country, and would also serve as the writer/director’s senior thesis. COOL. They would be shooting in Winston. COOL. Their location had fallen through. NOT COOL. They were in immediate need of a last minute house. OKAY… And they were looking for something a little older, small, brick, with a front porch, nice but not too nice interior décor, you see where this is going. My friend said, and I told my cousin that I have the perfect house for your film. MARK AND GINNY EVANS’ HOUSE. Not knowing much about anything, really, I of course agreed to this. Why not? Mark and I work full time (the house is inhabited by only the dog for 9 hours a day) and making a film is pretty neat, and I am clearly an extrovert and love to meet new people. Plus, I’ve always kind of felt like the house isn’t REALLY ours anyway, and anybody should really be able to use it… so, YES. Absolutely, you can film your movie in our house. The schedule went like this: Saturday afternoon: Eight crew members come spec the house for an hour and a half. Monday-Friday: 8:00 a.m., van, several cars, twenty-something people pull up at Walker Ave. and unload massive cameras, light fixtures, trash cans full of props, costumes, some sort of scaffolding, wall-sized black standing sheet-wall things, large metal brief cases full of sound equipment, large boxes of food, tables, chairs, shovels, etc. They worked until 8:00 pm every evening, except Friday when they stayed later filming evening scenes. They dug a massive hole in the backyard, moved furniture, took down photographs, filled the fridge with caffeinated beverages, turned the writing room into a producer’s closet of equipment and, in a matter of 60 hours and change, made a movie. And let declare it here, from the bottom of my heart: It was one of the most fun weeks of my life. Every day I came home at lunch to a couple dozen artsy, interesting people who were living in my home, loving HARD on Sidney, smoking cigarettes on the front porch, lounging on the sofa, re-decorating and creating something from scratch. I got to talk with them and learn about acting and making movies and directing and living in New York and trying to make a career out of their craft. I drank wine with one of the actors, and we laughed about the process of turning your art into something – he knows exactly how the whole writing thing goes because it’s in many ways the same as being an actor. They were fun, and kind, and completely endearing, thankful and gracious and mouse-like when they broke a wine glass and when we first saw the depth of the hole in the yard. We came home from being away for the weekend to the house, as it was last Saturday, clean and fresh, as if nobody had ever been here. There was a bottle of red on the table, a blue tennis ball for their best friend Sid, a stack of trashbags to replenish the ones they had used, and a sincere thank you note signed by the whole lot. They kept saying what a gift we were, but what I kept wanting to write back was No, you were the blessing.

nyc.

A couple weeks ago I mentioned a trip Mark and were planning to take to the Big Apple. Well, we got back yesterday and agreed it was the best trip we have ever taken! Absolute bliss. Here are a few photos...
(*note Katelyn Belcher - dear friend from college studying law at NYU, Buvette Gastroteque, a little French gem, the WTC memorial, and at last Cafe Lalo, setting of Joe and Kathleen's meeting in You've Got Mail)

cold, cold morning in february.

Today feels like the bleak winter I've been waiting for since December. It is cold because of the wind, and the precipitation that won't turn to snow because it's one degree too warm. I wore flats this morning, which I knew was a mistake before I even stepped off the front porch, and my toes are still attempting to thaw. Typically I'd bemoan this day, but as we have had a very spring-like winter thus far, I feel it's fair to allow the white season to come into its own a bit. Plus it's nice to hole up in the bungalow for a day, work on my query letter, hang out with the dog, be together without the TV on in the background. I like how the heat in our house is loud like white noise, it pumps all day because the wind blows through the drafty cracks in the house and the sounds make me want to fall asleep.

Yesterday we had nothing to do, so we cleaned a good bit, watched an episode of DOWNTON ABBEY, detailed our cars at the self cleaning station on Peter's Creek Parkway, and then had my sister's family over for dinner. I was reminded in their presence of the truth that to be known and loved is what we really want, thankful for their friendship - how they ask about the things that I really want to have asked even though they hurt, how she helped me clean up my dining room and let my massive moose-dog lick her baby's face without worrying about it, how our husbands stole away for an hour to play basketball (aka cultivate brotherhood), how we sat around in the end, as always, planning our trip to Paris (I have no clue what we'll talk about the day after we actually take this trip - perhaps plan for Istanbul?).

This Thursday Mark and I are flying to NYC for five days. FIVE WHOLE DAYS. We're going to see WICKED on Broadway, visiting the World Trade Center Memorial, walking on the Highline, taking five hundred photographs and having strangers snap a few more, eating a ghastly amount of irregular food, walking miles and miles, staying up late, spending money that we've been saving for this very trip for a year (how do you spell satisfaction?), probably laughing a good amount, sleeping a good amount and imbibing a good amount. After a long, exhausting several months, this trip is shouldering us in like a great big sofa and we can't wait. It was planned appropriately for this time of year, in the doldrums of late winter when the human race needs a shot of adrenaline in the arm to get through to warmer, longer days. Yes, New York will be quite a bit colder, but *I've got my love to keep me warm.

This is all coming together at this point: that these are blessings. I see that God, in his infinite wisdom, knows us and what we need. I'm thankful for that, and for this week, even though I'm tired. I have been wrestling with the command to "Delight yourself in the Lord," because I want the result and I know that the command is good, but I don't think I know HOW to act out this verb. I keep asking Him to HELP ME (the most commonly uttered words out of my mouth and pen), and perhaps existing in the awareness of these small blessings is the action.

happy valentines day.

Double dark chocolate cupcakes for dessert :)

old shoes and new ones

I had this one pair of running shoes, back when I was training for the first half marathon (one of the two—it was a short career). They were black with thin, gold stripes on the side. Asics GT-2130s I believe. Those were the best dang shoes I’ve ever had. I loved that they were black instead of the typical white or gray with a few colorful spots. They looked tough, and I felt tough the first time I ran the 13.1 miles. You don’t even know how much I love those shoes. That was four years ago now that I bought them, and although I have purchased many pairs of running shoes since, I have held onto the black and gold ones. I wear them with sweats or jeans on Saturdays. I wear them when I’m comfortable and dressed down, and they still look awesome. I mean it, they are really cool.

Since the black and gold days, I hadn’t found another pair quite as good. Even though I’ve continued to buy that Asics series, I have not appreciated the changes to the model. UNTIL NOW. A few months ago on a longer Saturday run my knees started to hurt. My knees never hurt. My feet, yes. Toes, ankles sometimes, even my shoulders. But not my knees. I went home, showered, and drove straight to the sports store because I had a coupon and hurting knees can only mean one thing: New shoes required. They had one pair left in my size, and I was pleasantly surprised by the gray color with purple highlights, the soles that were neon green, purple, silver. Not tough, but really cool. I bought them. I brought them home. I ran on Monday. And I was in love, for the second time.

A few weeks ago Mark and I went up to Pennsylvania to visit some old friends. “Old” means that these are friends we made in college, friends that although we have moved on, grown up a bit, gotten hitched, secured relatively stable careers, are still some of our best friends. We had such a wonderful time visiting—laughing at old, ridiculous college memories, like when Mark and Nate dressed up as characters from the Die Hard series for Halloween one year, and when Lu and I used to run through downtown Harrisonburg, the vacation we took together last summer. And we talked about the future too, our hopes for this new year, our mutual cloudiness over what the next few years will hold. It was relaxing, fun, easy, so familiar. These are the old, black and gold friends. Old faithfuls. Even though we can’t run with them every day anymore, they will always be there in the closet, favorites and still perfect for certain times and dates.

We have made a lot of new friends these past few years living in Winston-Salem. When we moved here it was a bit of a gamble, only knowing a few people, but we have been truly astounded at the community that rose up. There is the Young Life community, our remarkable new church community (who would have thought what harvest we would reap when we sowed the seeds of my short part-time career as the youth director of a new church we hadn’t considered before?), and the surprise of new friends through Hannah and Josh, just twenty minutes away. These new friends know us as Mark&Ginny, rather than individually, and I love that, because it is the truth of us now. These are the new shoes, the friends that are now in the everyday of my life.

This has gotten me into thinking about these seasons of life through which we rise and fall, and the reality that the important thing is the people. I am thankful for my old shoes, and my new ones (I love shoes a whole lot), and I am thankful for our old friends and our new ones (I love them a whole lot more.)



(visiting those old friends)