David and I went through a lot of stuff in his garage yesterday.

A lot of my things from fifteen years ago, twenty years ago, and even forty years ago were in his garage (long story), and we were sorting out keep/discard/donate piles from the boxes.

I found a ton of old papers and pictures, including childhood photos: my first puppy (Dude, a Collie-Basenji mix and the best dog ever), a black and white rocking horse that was used by three generations, John and I with our dog Dude posed at various bathroom breaks during moves across the country (we were a Navy family), a red-haired friend and I dressed as kittens for Halloween. I have evidence of many birthdays, backyard parties, my Grandpa being silly, then somber, in side by side pictures. Celine's velvet toddler dresses from various Christmases.  I discovered Christian's baby socks, a photo of  my brother and I climbing a tree that has since been pulled up by the roots, even pictures of friends on their wedding days (Jenny W., Gary S.),  candids and school photos of friends from high school. We unearthed a picture of  my certifiably ugly first car, and of  nearly-forgotten friends from the Baptist church (those were semi-sad to see, partly because of how that particular church I attended at the time failed both of those people; and yet, that is the same church where faith first became personal and real to me).  I have one photo of a great grandmother- Grandpa's mom, wearing a corsage and very little like I remember her, though I know it is her. There were handfuls of thin, faded photos of  my brother and I playing with neighborhood kids as we grew up on beaches, Navy housing yards and parks  in Florida, Virginia,  Mississippi, and California.  I found a photo of me with yellow ribbons at a Welcome Home ceremony at the Organ Pavilion in Balboa Park when the American hostages were released from Iran after Reagan took office. My cousin Debbie's high school yearbook photo (you look gorgeous, Deb!). So much. There were letters from Gemma extolling me to "practice, practice, practice" (tennis- we were on the Mar Vista High School team together) so we could "slaughter, slaughter, slaughter" the Montgomery High School girls' team. A letter from my conservative Grandma K., typed with her old cursive-writing typewriter, describing the men who had moved in next door, and their garden, then adding "I don't know if they are "Gays", but if they are, it doesn't bother me".  Photos from Celine's first encounter with a horse, on Dave and Dawn B.'s property which was in east county in San Diego. A shot of Celine at age two and Christian at age about four  months, on a hotel bed out cold after a long day at Disneyland.  Pictures of my brother looking impossibly young- in a Pop Warner football uniform, which he apparently autographed for me, in school pictures, and hanging out with friends (including you, Doug). My mom and I on the concrete steps of our place at Easter when I was two years old, her with a 1960's  Elizabeth Taylor-looking hairdo, and a pastel A-line dress; soft spring sunshine is lighting our faces, which are not turned toward the camera.

Wow.

I just finished reading "Belong to Me" yesterday, so of course I was thinking about how certain people "belong to" each other. Sometimes you are born to it-  it is blood- family. Sometimes you make your own family. Sometimes your family chooses you. Some have family thrust upon them.  

I'm grateful for all the moments that brought belonging in my life.

One of these days I will show y'all the felting I purchased from juliepersons '
etsy shop. It has so many layers of meaning for me, and in a way, this post is about one of those layers. In the felting, a woman is facing forward (future), but is holding onto a stream of jumbled colors that flows behind her like a scarf.  Above her head are the words, "CARRY IT WITH YOU."

Every person we have known, for good or bad. Every experience we have enjoyed or endured. Every lesson learned, every sorrow, every triumph.

They make you who you are. And who you are is irreplaceable. No one else can be who you were meant to be. No one else can do what you were meant to do.

I feel like I have been away from home more than I have been home for the last two months. Crazy. In a good way.

I will catch you up soon on our lives,  and I am trying to keep up with your blogs, but forgive me if I hit and miss and seem generally sporadic in commenting. I'm just never home for weeks now, and have a lot going on, and a lot on my mind, and too much to do, and it doesn't leave me much Xanga-energy.

I'll catch up on photos soon, too.

Love to all- oh, and here are two shots of "Rocky Rocky Raccoon", a frequent, curious, and bold visitor to our cabin throughout our stay in Pipestem, WV.  He ate everything we gave him, but seemed especially fond of low-fat string cheese and Fruit Loops. And yes, we city folk know by now how raccoons can have rabies and how dumb we were to feed him, but thanks for the well-intentioned advice, and hey. We were ignorant and it was fun. Next time we'll try to ignore his little hopeful and hungry face.

P.S. HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY TO kschonhoff !