Dear Willie Nelson . . .

Dear Willie Nelson,

At the risk of sounding like Judy Garland at the beginning of her song to Mr. Gable—I am writing this to you.  And I hope that you will read it so you’ll know . . . but that’s where the similarity ends.  You didn’t make me love you or anything, though that would be far more romantic! I hope that you will read it so you’ll know that I spent almost my entire childhood convinced that you were a friend of our family’s! 

You may wonder how this could happen.  Well I blame my parents, of course! While other kids my age had parents who considered holiday music to be Handel’s Messiah or the current pop sensation’s (in my case this would have been the Carpenters’ or Carly Simon’s) Christmas album of ancient songs with a “new” twist.  Our Christmas music was almost entirely comprised of your record albums.  Can you imagine thinking that “Red Headed Stranger” was a holiday album?  Well I did! Don’t get me wrong.  They played their share of Mahalia Jackson in the days following Thanksgiving and on up to New Years peppered with typical Christmas music and Linda Ronstadt (I haven’t quite figured that one out yet.) But mostly it was Willie.  In fact I didn’t even know you had a last name until I was about ten years old.  And so every milestone of life that I can recall is time-stamped with one or more of your works, from Stardust to the Highway Men. 

I’ll never forget the evening a babysitter came to watch my sisters and me when I found out where my parents were headed: to Reno—to see Willie.  I asked if I could go.

“You have to be 21,” they said.

I was eight and totally confused.  I actually thought about calling you myself! 

Or how about the time my dad suggested I get a guitar and learn how to sing so I could call myself Nelly Wilson? 

“Willie would be proud,” he said! 

I totally believed him J I am pretty sure he even bought me a kids’ starter guitar at a garage sale that I have yet to learn to play (or find): Though I can carry a tune in a bucket—lots of tunes if the bucket is big enough!

Like most people, my childhood wasn’t perfect.  After my parents divorced, I harbored a lot of fear about the future and the world in general.  But you wouldn’t believe how just a few measures of hearing your guitar play would give me a sense of comfort and hope during the turbulent years.  It didn’t even matter if the song’s subject matter was about heartbreak and lost hope!  I’m not going to pretend that as a teenager, I rocked out to Willie cassette tapes with my friends!  They’re still shaking their heads over my obsession with Neil Diamond! Your music just had a magical way of transporting me back to a simpler chapter in my life—an era that the strains of your guitar and vocal melodies and harmonies subtly insisted would become an anchor for me.

Now that I’m 40 years old, I have learned that real comfort and peace come from a man who claimed to be God about 2000 years ago.  You called him “The Troublemaker,” which really confused me because in all the stories I had heard about Jesus, he was a good boy!  But in fact he did cause trouble.  He said it Himself, “I did not come to bring peace, but a sword!” 

Upon learning that you were a famous musician sometime in the first decade of my life (I wasn’t known for my astute sense of observation back then), I’m sure I didn’t take it quite as hard as the news about Santa Claus.  But since, I’ve come to appreciate that I may not be the only lost child to have mistaken reality from fiction.  I’ll tell you this much—I wouldn’t change it for anything!  I still love to hear your songs.  I love to watch my teenage boys listen to your music with renewed appreciation.  I’m proud of our oldest who is working on a music performance degree (though I doubt he’ll use any variation of your name as a stage moniker).  I know my help, hope, and anchor come from the Maker of Heaven and earth!  (I just didn’t want you to feel responsible anymore.)  And now that I’m old enough, maybe I can catch one of your shows in the near future J

Sincerely,

Christyanna Banana (Conn) Arnold

Taking Inventory

Minimized at the bottom of my computer screen is a spreadsheet labeled “Home Inventory.” Corey and I are using it as a means to take stock of the things we currently own, the things we want to own forever, and the things that we could honestly do without.  Man, we’ve got a lot of things!!  Have you ever really thought about what it would take to make a list of all those things? 

A few years ago I was shopping with a friend who found 5 perfect somethings among the wares we were browsing in the store.  As we got back in the car she announced that she would now have to find 5 items in her home to get rid of to make room for the new ones.  I admit, I had never once considered the impact that bringing things into my home would have on the simplicity I crave, the cleanliness I can never seem to attain, or the aesthetic quality of the home of my dreams.  I have lived among stuff for so long, I cannot fathom which things in my life are necessary and which things I am just too lazy to let go of. 

On the radio the other day, the DJ put the question out there: What if you had to whittle your belongings to only 100 things (of the thousands if not, hundreds of thousands of things you already own) for your every day needs.  Could you do it?  As I start my day with my cell phone’s alarm and realize it can only operate correctly with its charger, I am highly aware that I’ve already thrown 3 things onto my list ; unless I don’t have to count electricity, then I’m down by two.  Add Shampoo, conditioner, soap, hairspray, my Mary Kay® Timewise™ cleanser, moisturizer, hand and decollate complex (with SPF 20 of course), Day Solution, and Night Solution, I’ve already claimed 10% of my allotment and I haven’t even started on my make up yet!   I’m afraid I’ll be out of options before I even make it downstairs to start on the coffee. 

I’m struggling a little with how I should respond to the stuff I’ve amassed through many shopping expeditions, gifts, and the generosity of others.  Should I be embarrassed that I have so much and be ashamed of my greediness?  Should I give it away to those who need it more? Should I liquidate it all in a yard sale and use the funds for a more lofty purpose?  I tell you, I will have to come to grips soon with every single item we own.  We are expecting orders to Korea any day and will have to account for every single thing in our home.  Does it go overseas?  Does it go in storage?  Does it get thrown away?  Given away?  Sold?  Every magnet on the fridge and every coffee mug in the cupboard will soon have to be given a designation and a value.  The very thought of the tedious process is beginning to exhaust me. 

But this will be an opportunity to determine the personal value of our things and whether or not they make our lives easier, happier, more organized, more fulfilled, or more frustrated.  For now, I’ll try to take it one thing at a time and not get burdened by the process, but I can’t help but realize that I am way more blessed than I can ever fully report on a spreadsheet.  By the way, we’re having a garage sale Labor Day weekend!

The Art of @#$%& Big Words

My 17 year-old said it best—“I don’t need to cuss.  I know lots of big words!”   It reminds me of a time when I was still in high school.  Some friends and I were going to hang out at the river and swim.  I, having been raised to not be a pansy, decided I would “break the ice” and be the first to jump in.  There would be none of this trying out the temperature and slowly acclimating one body region at a time.  I knew the trick was to jump in over my head and get it over with and that’s exactly what I did! 

The expletive I uttered actually came out in multiple syllables.  But you have to understand, that water was really (really) cold, and I made sure to get the warning to my comrades waiting patiently on the shore for my assessment.  Through half closed eyelids and rapid intakes of minute levels of oxygen, I could make them out as they processed my report.  I was the only one who ended up in the water that day.  Evidently, if it made me cuss, it was just too dang cold! 

I do remember consciously making the decision that I wasn’t going to cuss, but my motives weren’t exactly pure or moral.  It was just that I had noticed far too many of my peers did and I hated to be just like everyone else, so I opted to describe more eloquently how I felt about the current state of the union or the weather that day.  I wasn’t really sure that anyone had even noticed the absence of 4-letter words in my vernacular until that day at the river. 

Imagine a world where, instead of the stock, one-syllable response to a square hit of a hammer on the thumb, one exclaimed, “For the LOVE of all that is good and holy, my thumb feels like it’s just been stung by a bee, sliced with a knife, and burned on a red hot coil! I have NEVER hated an object more than I loathe this HAMMER and it’s all I can do to prevent myself from HURLING it at our sliding glass door and giving it a PERMANENT burial in the back yard!!”  I actually feel better already, and it’s been years since I’ve hit my thumb with a hammer!

I find it a bit entertaining when a soldier apologizes to my husband, a chaplain, for abbreviating his feelings to a one-syllable sentiment.  As if he’s never heard (or said) it himself or that somehow God only cares if he cusses in front of clergy.  Cussing is like a second language in the military and it’s so common place that many feel self-conscious if they don’t speak the lingo.  I guess the best argument in favor of it is the expediency of the communication, but as for me, I’ll stick with the big words!  It’s way more entertaining from my perspective.  

Thanks of a Grateful Nation

I just love a man in uniform.  More specifically, I love my man in uniform.  I love a woman in uniform, too!  And from what I’ve been able to tell, lots of people do.  On the occasion that our family is out and about in the community while Corey is in uniform, inevitably someone will want to shake his hand and tell him “thank you for your service.”  Maybe you’ve done that, too.  But have you ever wondered exactly what you’re thanking them for?  I never understood why our military was so important (except for having been told it was) until we joined the ranks ourselves.  The next time you tell a member of our military “thanks,” you should know that it will be taken to heart.

When you offer your thanks for serving, you are actually saying thanks for choosing to put a nation’s priorities and safety above their own.  You’re saying thanks to their family for never being able to choose where they are going to live regardless of how far it is from family or friends.  You are saying thanks to their children for being willing to have their hearts broken every couple of years as they say good-bye to good friends, and for being strong enough to say hello to new ones.  You’re saying thank you to their children for sharing their mom or dad with, not only the entire United States of America, but also with another country to whom our nation is offering its services.  You’re saying thank you for the birthdays that get celebrated with one missing family member, the Christmases that get celebrated on Skype, the anniversaries that come from the florist delivery guy with a sentiment attached in someone else’s handwriting.  You’re saying thanks for walking into a new, empty home days or weeks before their belongings arrive, only to begin making mental preparations for moving out in a couple of years.  You’re saying thanks for living “on the edge” when orders are about to come due and they have no idea where the military is going to send them next, except that it probably still won’t be near family or friends.  I could go on, but I’m not sure how long a paragraph should reasonably be in a well-written blog post.

It never gets old.  It’s the simplest, least expensive thing you can do, but when you walk up to my husband—especially when we are all with him—and tell him “thank you!” we know you mean it.  And when one of us says, “It’s an honor!” you can be sure we’re not just saying that. 

1-32 Cav Ball



It doesn't look it, but the gown is actually purple.




















This is how I still get pics out that we want to show off!   

Had to get both sides :)



The ball was held at the Bruce Convention Center in Hopkinsville, KY on 08 July 11.
Photog credit goes to Connor Arnold.  Go read his blog--"Adagio for the Computer Keyboard." http://www.adagiokeyboard.blogspot.com/ 

Life Without Cable: or Why Theater Makes me Cry

I don’t know how she does it, but theater extracts tears from my ducts like no movie or book ever has.  I think it’s because the stage taps into more of the senses than the screen or the page.  It doesn’t matter whether it’s “a rhapsody, a symphony, a comedy, [or] a play” (Stewart, 1977), being surrounded by the result of thousands of man (and woman) hours of rehearsal, prop building, directing, and lighting brings some emotions to the surface.  It’s probably because I have ADHD.  It may be because I secretly want to audition for the role of Desdemona in a local theater production of Shakespeare’s “Othello.” 

It’s actually probably because we haven’t had cable TV since 2006 and can barely channel a signal to watch even a snowstorm version of local broadcasts since the conversion from over-the-air to digital a couple years ago.  (Don’t lecture me about a converter box.  We have one.  It doesn’t help.)  So my news sources have come primarily from friends who post on facebook and now, Twitter, since I’m abstaining from facebook for the time being.  We have since discovered Netflix, which allows us to catch up on almost any show we may have missed in the past 5 years sans commercials and in a fraction of the time.  It also has eliminated the anxiety-producing wait time in between episodes.  I still rely on all of you for my newsfeeds though.

Today, my husband and I enjoyed a local production of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” at The Roxy Theater in downtown Clarksville.  Our friend, Courtney Collins, was featured in the ensemble, so there was extra incentive to see it before it was too late.  At the Roxy, there’s not a bad seat in the house—unless someone with an obnoxiously tall hat sits in front of you. I’m not speaking from experience here.  Even in the second to the last row, I’m pretty sure the reflection from the sequins on Joseph’s amazing dreamcoat rippled across our faces when the stage lights hit it just right.  Generally, it’s a funny production, but when the entire cast poured its heart and soul into describing the hues present in the object of his brothers’ jealousy, “Yellow and purple and peach and violet . . . “ I felt a tear make its way down my cheek. 

I’m sure it was just an especially bright, targeted sequin reflection from Joseph’s coat thanks to the expert position of the spotlight.  I’m sure that’s what it was. 

Does anyone know if a local production of Othello is in the works?

The Sound of Summer

I begrudgingly participated in exercise this morning. Don’t get me wrong—I looked for many reasons to politely decline, but it was a mild 71° at 8 o’clock am here in Kentucky, so the weather wouldn’t provide me with a reasonable excuse.  Neither would any imagined or real injuries.  Nor would I be able to claim less-than-adequate REM since according to my husband, I was sound asleep by 10pm and I return your attention to the moment of deliberation—8am.  You do the math, I already exercised today.

Corey,  in his determination to come in at Army required weight allowance, had left with the beagle and I quickly calculated that I had approximately 12-15 minutes before he’d been one lap around his usual course to meet him.  After donning the appropriate foot and body requirements for a jog, I set out to “surprise” him and offer my company for his morning jog (read: give him an excuse to slow his pace.)

It was on the quarter mile stretch to the bike path from our house that I heard it, The Sound of Summer.  I must describe first the overcast heavy air that surrounded me for you to hear what I heard.  The sun’s light strained behind a wall of clouds preventing it from producing any shadows on the ground.  One by one, I picked up the rhythm of my shoes meeting the pavement in a squishy, labored sort of song.  I heard it in the brassy timbre emitting from a fellow jogger’s headphones as she and I passed each other on the way.  I wondered what song was providing her motivation to keep going.  A lonesome sounding bird was cooing to my left in the wooded area across the street.  And though I couldn’t hear it, I’m sure a deer lifted its head in awareness of the vibrations of potential predators nearby and, satisfied, returned to snacking on the abundant undergrowth.  Behind me, the soft crackle and whirring of a bicycle’s wheels caught up with me as an 8 year old boy passed me on his bike.  I silently approved him for wearing his helmet, whether or not it was his idea.  In the background, critters chirped, clicked, and scurried, barely audible, providing a layer of mood music for an oblivious audience.  I passed another jogger with headphones in her ears.

Up ahead, I saw my husband rounding out the first lap of his jog, followed by our beagle panting with tongue hanging out eager to sniff, investigate, and mark every vertical object he encountered.  “I thought you might like some company,” I offered. 

He smiled.