Our wedding photographer just sent us a link to view some of the photos she has finished editing. I opened them with giddy excitement, and promptly started crying.
Happy tears, don't worry.
My head was so far above cloud nine, and my stomach churning nervously around the bits of donut I'd crammed into it in order to have something to sustain me, that I barely remember seeing, well, anyone, really. I had no idea our photographer (shout out to the lovely and talented Homespun Photography by Teresa) was taking so many photos of us getting ready and of me hugging my brother, crying over the card my parents gave me, twirling for Justin when he first saw me, etc.
But she was there, and tonight, I got to be there on that day my life forever changed all over again. Suddenly details came flooding into my memory, evidence that my brain was working even if it didn't feel like it:
* The way my crinolin filled the back seat of my Subaru Forester on my drive to the church
* Seeing church friends hanging tulle on the fence at the church as I walked in to get ready and suddenly realizing they were hanging it for my wedding
* The way my breath caught in my throat when I pulled my dress on, zipped it up and stood with my mom and bridesmaids
* The way my mom and I lingered in our hug in the dressing room
* My brother's smile when he saw me for the first time, and the way he raised his coffee cup into the air
* The way my dad pulled me close and hung onto me for one second longer when our entrance music began to play, and the way we took a deep breath at the same time on that first step down the aisle
* Looking into the eyes of loved ones who had traveled so far as I walked down the aisle
* Time and movement ceasing, all the people falling out of my view, as Justin and I recited our vows; just us and God
* The laughs I heard when Justin and I walked out of the sanctuary to the Star Wars theme song
* Seeing my new sister-in-law in the lobby after the ceremony and having my heart leap as I realized I have two sisters now
* The swelling emotion in my throat when my maid of honor gave her title of best friend to my husband
I am glad these memories are coming to me now, and I am glad someone was there to capture them on film. What a gift. What a day.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Friday, June 13, 2014
Quiet in the frenzy
I am sitting on the edge of the bathtub in the hotel room I am sharing with my best friend and maid of honor. I was up early and didn't want to wake her, so here I am.
I get married tomorrow.
Yesterday, people had to ask me to talk slower because I was so excited I was jabbering at warp speed. This morning, I feel quiet. I feel like there is no way this day that was so far in the future for so long is actually here.
What a joy it will be to see so many beloved friends and family. What a joy it will be to look in the eyes of a man I love more and more every day.
I pray our marriage will bring honor to God above all else. May people see the redeeming work of Jesus in our relationship.
Now, to enjoy this day of preparation!
I get married tomorrow.
Yesterday, people had to ask me to talk slower because I was so excited I was jabbering at warp speed. This morning, I feel quiet. I feel like there is no way this day that was so far in the future for so long is actually here.
What a joy it will be to see so many beloved friends and family. What a joy it will be to look in the eyes of a man I love more and more every day.
I pray our marriage will bring honor to God above all else. May people see the redeeming work of Jesus in our relationship.
Now, to enjoy this day of preparation!
Monday, June 2, 2014
The reporter who cries
I've been filling in for our newspaper's editor while she was away on vacation this last week. I've definitely learned a ton and have even greater respect for my boss. She makes so many decisions each day; it's quite remarkable.
It was a crazy week that included multiple fires, a violent wind storm that toppled trees and semi-trucks, including one that was transporting half of a mobile home, a break-in at a pharmacy downtown and a vehicle/bicycle collision that killed a man and put his wife in ICU.
Our small town is not usually so grim.
Add to that some of my usual government beat reporting and the fact that we're down our sports reporter, and I'll admit my bed was my best friend each night and my coffee my best friend by day (apart from my dear fiance, of course).
Today, I even got the chance every editor secretly dreams of, the chance to yell (or in my case, quietly state), "Stop the presses!"
We were waiting on the name and charges against the driver in the death of the bicyclist. Our cops and courts reporter received the court documents at 11:55 a.m. and called in the details to me. Our publisher had stated he wanted that information in the story if at all possible, so I made the decision to re-send the plates and update the story.
I took the fastest, sloppiest notes ever and wrote the quickest couple of paragraphs of my life. The story printed, and we beat the local radio stations, our media competition, with the story -- in print -- thanks to our cops and courts reporter's timely diligence.
It was a satisfying, if not completely draining, rush of adrenaline.
We posted the story online and on Facebook, and the views are already in the thousands.
This afternoon, though, while surrounded by piles of paper and enjoying some pride at what I felt was a job well done, a comment made on another Facebook page about the story on the vehicle/bicyclist collision missed my head and hit my heart. It was about the driver and was something along the line of, "See ya in 30 years, missy."
I began to cry in my cubicle.
I began to cry as I thought about a woman my age who will now spend her years until retirement age in prison. I began to cry about the horrendous death of a well-loved member of our small community and the body pain and heart pain his wife will feel when she recovers. I began to cry about the fact that it was I who had printed the cold, hard facts that can never, ever capture the...tragedy...of it all. Tragedy isn't even the right word, but I can't find a better one in my head right now.
I should be writing another story instead of this blog post, but I needed to clear my head. And I needed the world to know that journalists do care -- or at least this journalist cares -- about the pain behind the words we write.
It was a crazy week that included multiple fires, a violent wind storm that toppled trees and semi-trucks, including one that was transporting half of a mobile home, a break-in at a pharmacy downtown and a vehicle/bicycle collision that killed a man and put his wife in ICU.
Our small town is not usually so grim.
Add to that some of my usual government beat reporting and the fact that we're down our sports reporter, and I'll admit my bed was my best friend each night and my coffee my best friend by day (apart from my dear fiance, of course).
Today, I even got the chance every editor secretly dreams of, the chance to yell (or in my case, quietly state), "Stop the presses!"
We were waiting on the name and charges against the driver in the death of the bicyclist. Our cops and courts reporter received the court documents at 11:55 a.m. and called in the details to me. Our publisher had stated he wanted that information in the story if at all possible, so I made the decision to re-send the plates and update the story.
I took the fastest, sloppiest notes ever and wrote the quickest couple of paragraphs of my life. The story printed, and we beat the local radio stations, our media competition, with the story -- in print -- thanks to our cops and courts reporter's timely diligence.
It was a satisfying, if not completely draining, rush of adrenaline.
We posted the story online and on Facebook, and the views are already in the thousands.
This afternoon, though, while surrounded by piles of paper and enjoying some pride at what I felt was a job well done, a comment made on another Facebook page about the story on the vehicle/bicyclist collision missed my head and hit my heart. It was about the driver and was something along the line of, "See ya in 30 years, missy."
I began to cry in my cubicle.
I began to cry as I thought about a woman my age who will now spend her years until retirement age in prison. I began to cry about the horrendous death of a well-loved member of our small community and the body pain and heart pain his wife will feel when she recovers. I began to cry about the fact that it was I who had printed the cold, hard facts that can never, ever capture the...tragedy...of it all. Tragedy isn't even the right word, but I can't find a better one in my head right now.
I should be writing another story instead of this blog post, but I needed to clear my head. And I needed the world to know that journalists do care -- or at least this journalist cares -- about the pain behind the words we write.
Monday, May 12, 2014
32 days and 13 hours
I don't own a smartphone. Or a PDA. I don't use the calendar on my email programs. I don't use anything electronic to organize my life.
I am a diehard paper calendar writer-inner.
I have one at home with personal stuff: days bills need to be paid, coffee outings, doctors appointments and such.
And I have one at work where each little box for each little day is filled with penciled-in appointments: county commission meetings, interviews with the mayor, moments to bang my head against my cubicle wall in exasperation and such.
I never write work stuff in my calendar at home because I prefer to keep work at work. I'm happier when I do that, although I must admit, it's not always easy.
I have found over the last few months, however, that "home" stuff has been written on my work calendar. Etched between meetings, interviews and head bangings are things like, "Bridal shower!" and "ONE MONTH!"
That one's coming up on Wednesday. ONE MONTH! On June 14, our wedding day, I think I actually wrote something nonchalant like, "Get married." And then there's this happy line drawn all the way through the next week, over various city and county meetings I won't be at, with the word "Honeymoon!" printed giddily over the line.
I digress. ONE MONTH!
My stomach does this odd half flip when I say it. One month? How is it even possible? How did it come so fast? How am I ever going to be ready to get married? How am I ever going to make it that long?!
I am super, duper, way beyond stoked to get married...in 32 days, 14 hours, 8 minutes and 53 seconds...50 seconds...48 seconds...
And I am super, duper, deer-in-the-headlights about getting married, even though we've done our premarital counseling, and we both have incredible examples of loving marriages in our parents, and I've read lots of books.
How do I prepare for this? Is it even possible?
How do I pick up a new last name after carrying mine for almost 33 years? I've practiced writing my new name about a thousand times (it's delightfully curly), but it's still a wonderfully odd thought to me to just become a new name and a new role - wife! - in about 30 minutes flat.
Not changing my name is not an option. I WANT to change it; I'm just processing. Too much, probably.
I want to change my name. I GET to change my name! I am getting married - MARRIED! - to a man who loves God and loves me and makes life so much better. I pray I can bring him joy and delight and encouragement every day with my love. I hope we learn to love selflessly, unconditionally, honestly, daily.
I hope we...we, us, together...there is no loss in marriage. I do not lose me or my experiences because I change my name. I lose nothing, and I gain a precious gift, undeserved.
How do I prepare for this? I don't, I suppose. I've read my books and planned my move into his apartment after the wedding. I've thought my thoughts. I've dreamed. I've got a dress and shoes and tickets to our honeymoon.
I love him. He loves me. We love God. That will do.
And, hey!, I get a really great new name, an honorable name...in 32 days, 13 hours, 34 minutes and 14 seconds...how am I ever going to make it that long!?
I am a diehard paper calendar writer-inner.
I have one at home with personal stuff: days bills need to be paid, coffee outings, doctors appointments and such.
And I have one at work where each little box for each little day is filled with penciled-in appointments: county commission meetings, interviews with the mayor, moments to bang my head against my cubicle wall in exasperation and such.
I never write work stuff in my calendar at home because I prefer to keep work at work. I'm happier when I do that, although I must admit, it's not always easy.
I have found over the last few months, however, that "home" stuff has been written on my work calendar. Etched between meetings, interviews and head bangings are things like, "Bridal shower!" and "ONE MONTH!"
That one's coming up on Wednesday. ONE MONTH! On June 14, our wedding day, I think I actually wrote something nonchalant like, "Get married." And then there's this happy line drawn all the way through the next week, over various city and county meetings I won't be at, with the word "Honeymoon!" printed giddily over the line.
I digress. ONE MONTH!
My stomach does this odd half flip when I say it. One month? How is it even possible? How did it come so fast? How am I ever going to be ready to get married? How am I ever going to make it that long?!
I am super, duper, way beyond stoked to get married...in 32 days, 14 hours, 8 minutes and 53 seconds...50 seconds...48 seconds...
And I am super, duper, deer-in-the-headlights about getting married, even though we've done our premarital counseling, and we both have incredible examples of loving marriages in our parents, and I've read lots of books.
How do I prepare for this? Is it even possible?
How do I pick up a new last name after carrying mine for almost 33 years? I've practiced writing my new name about a thousand times (it's delightfully curly), but it's still a wonderfully odd thought to me to just become a new name and a new role - wife! - in about 30 minutes flat.
Not changing my name is not an option. I WANT to change it; I'm just processing. Too much, probably.
I want to change my name. I GET to change my name! I am getting married - MARRIED! - to a man who loves God and loves me and makes life so much better. I pray I can bring him joy and delight and encouragement every day with my love. I hope we learn to love selflessly, unconditionally, honestly, daily.
I hope we...we, us, together...there is no loss in marriage. I do not lose me or my experiences because I change my name. I lose nothing, and I gain a precious gift, undeserved.
How do I prepare for this? I don't, I suppose. I've read my books and planned my move into his apartment after the wedding. I've thought my thoughts. I've dreamed. I've got a dress and shoes and tickets to our honeymoon.
I love him. He loves me. We love God. That will do.
And, hey!, I get a really great new name, an honorable name...in 32 days, 13 hours, 34 minutes and 14 seconds...how am I ever going to make it that long!?
Photo courtesy Homespun Photography by Teresa
Friday, March 7, 2014
A snow storm, a Friday night deadline and a shower
Last week, I had the adventure of traveling across the state to Wyoming's capital to cover the State Legislature. I carried a briefcase, wore a business suit and rubbed shoulders with senators and representatives and the governor.
And I had a press pass. Nothing like an official red badge pinned to your lapel announcing your profession to make you stand a little taller and hold your reporter's notebook a little straighter.
It was all good fun. And very educational. And crazy fascinating. Honestly, the legislative process is worth checking out if you have the opportunity.
But that's not really what this post is about. This post is about feeling all warm and fuzzy as the recipient of hospitality and showers of love from dear friends.
I was supposed to stay in Cheyenne through Saturday morning, but word of a wintry blast of a snow storm promising impending doom, or at least really nasty roads, made me decide to scurry out as soon as my last interview was done Friday afternoon.
I hit the road, and the road was good. On my way, I called an older couple I knew from church in a small town along the way where I was scheduled to have a bridal shower Saturday and asked if I could crash at their place that night. Wayne and Marge gladly obliged.
I showed up at 4:30 p.m., said a quick hello and then promptly asked for their wireless password, a table and a couple hours in which to pound out my story for that night, due at 6 p.m. They did not once make me feel bad for not completing the nicety of socializing when arriving as a house guest. In fact, they quietly walked by and cheered me on in my pursuit of making deadline.
I filed my story before 6 (Woot!), and then Marge served a delicious dinner of lasagna with ice cream for dessert. I made one last phone call for work then joined Wayne and Marge to watch my first episode of "Downton Abbey" before turning in for the night in a cozy guest room that would beat a hotel any night.
The next morning, there was a "no unnecessary travel" warning for the road I'd just come up the night before. Ice, snow, blowing snow, limited visibility. Whew!
Marge cooked me eggs, and we chatted over the morning paper. Come mid-morning, Wayne, who is in his 80s, said he would prefer to drive me to the church for my bridal shower than have me drive myself. He shoveled the walk, brushed off his truck and came to get me. He helped me into my coat and drove me the four blocks to the church, dropping me off right at the door.
When we pulled into the parking lot, several men from church were out snowblowing the lot so that lines could be seen and feet could be dry for all the ladies descending on the church for my shower.
Gosh, it was refreshing to be the recipient of such chivalry! Yay for gentlemen!
The bridal shower was so, so perfect! Two of my best friends, Sarah and Becky, decorated to the nines, made yummy soup, rolls and brownies and made me feel so very special. A dozen "church ladies" who I hold very dear even though I've been away for years showed up and, well, showered me.
They showered me with gifts, and stories, and laughter, and love. And while I don't usually like to be the center of attention, I soaked it up that cold, snowy day. There was something about receiving their support and encouragement that made me feel more ready for my wedding and my marriage than I'd felt before.
Thank you to Sarah and Becky (the kind of friends who make you feel happy and safe and like no time at all has passed since last you met), Marge (practical and young beyond her years), Jane (calm and warm), Jan (giving and encouraging), Joni (energetic and delightfully rebellious), Dani (wise beyond her years), Jerri (the kind of woman who makes you want to become a better version of yourself), Susan (gentle and inviting), Abby (strong and fun), Joyce (respectable and wise), Lori (spirited and life-giving), Liz (witty and patient and maker of amazing kiddos), and Liz (big-hearted and the most valuable mentor a girl could find) for making me feel so special. I am very lucky to have so many lovely women by my side as I enter this adventure called marriage!
That night, for dinner, I enjoyed an incredible conversation with Wayne and Marge. It was so wonderful to hear their stories. We should all ASK to know the older people in our lives because they so often do the asking and the caring about us and our stories.
I hope beyond hope to introduce my fiance to this wonderful couple some day (at the wedding, at least!) because I want to be like them. I want us to be like them: hospitable, smart, feisty, funny, full of life and love and compassion for others.
Sunday, I woke up and the roads were clear so I drove home (after a quick cup of coffee with Sarah). It was one of the longest times Justin and I had been apart since we started dating, and, oh, it felt so good to wrap up in his arms and his smile!
Being loved is wonderful! And I don't even care how cheesy that last line sounded. It is! And I hope I give my love away as freely as it was given to me last week in a snow storm, under a Friday night deadline and at a shower for me, the soon-to-be bride.
And I had a press pass. Nothing like an official red badge pinned to your lapel announcing your profession to make you stand a little taller and hold your reporter's notebook a little straighter.
It was all good fun. And very educational. And crazy fascinating. Honestly, the legislative process is worth checking out if you have the opportunity.
But that's not really what this post is about. This post is about feeling all warm and fuzzy as the recipient of hospitality and showers of love from dear friends.
I was supposed to stay in Cheyenne through Saturday morning, but word of a wintry blast of a snow storm promising impending doom, or at least really nasty roads, made me decide to scurry out as soon as my last interview was done Friday afternoon.
I hit the road, and the road was good. On my way, I called an older couple I knew from church in a small town along the way where I was scheduled to have a bridal shower Saturday and asked if I could crash at their place that night. Wayne and Marge gladly obliged.
I showed up at 4:30 p.m., said a quick hello and then promptly asked for their wireless password, a table and a couple hours in which to pound out my story for that night, due at 6 p.m. They did not once make me feel bad for not completing the nicety of socializing when arriving as a house guest. In fact, they quietly walked by and cheered me on in my pursuit of making deadline.
I filed my story before 6 (Woot!), and then Marge served a delicious dinner of lasagna with ice cream for dessert. I made one last phone call for work then joined Wayne and Marge to watch my first episode of "Downton Abbey" before turning in for the night in a cozy guest room that would beat a hotel any night.
The next morning, there was a "no unnecessary travel" warning for the road I'd just come up the night before. Ice, snow, blowing snow, limited visibility. Whew!
Marge cooked me eggs, and we chatted over the morning paper. Come mid-morning, Wayne, who is in his 80s, said he would prefer to drive me to the church for my bridal shower than have me drive myself. He shoveled the walk, brushed off his truck and came to get me. He helped me into my coat and drove me the four blocks to the church, dropping me off right at the door.
When we pulled into the parking lot, several men from church were out snowblowing the lot so that lines could be seen and feet could be dry for all the ladies descending on the church for my shower.
Gosh, it was refreshing to be the recipient of such chivalry! Yay for gentlemen!
The bridal shower was so, so perfect! Two of my best friends, Sarah and Becky, decorated to the nines, made yummy soup, rolls and brownies and made me feel so very special. A dozen "church ladies" who I hold very dear even though I've been away for years showed up and, well, showered me.
They showered me with gifts, and stories, and laughter, and love. And while I don't usually like to be the center of attention, I soaked it up that cold, snowy day. There was something about receiving their support and encouragement that made me feel more ready for my wedding and my marriage than I'd felt before.
Thank you to Sarah and Becky (the kind of friends who make you feel happy and safe and like no time at all has passed since last you met), Marge (practical and young beyond her years), Jane (calm and warm), Jan (giving and encouraging), Joni (energetic and delightfully rebellious), Dani (wise beyond her years), Jerri (the kind of woman who makes you want to become a better version of yourself), Susan (gentle and inviting), Abby (strong and fun), Joyce (respectable and wise), Lori (spirited and life-giving), Liz (witty and patient and maker of amazing kiddos), and Liz (big-hearted and the most valuable mentor a girl could find) for making me feel so special. I am very lucky to have so many lovely women by my side as I enter this adventure called marriage!
That night, for dinner, I enjoyed an incredible conversation with Wayne and Marge. It was so wonderful to hear their stories. We should all ASK to know the older people in our lives because they so often do the asking and the caring about us and our stories.
I hope beyond hope to introduce my fiance to this wonderful couple some day (at the wedding, at least!) because I want to be like them. I want us to be like them: hospitable, smart, feisty, funny, full of life and love and compassion for others.
Sunday, I woke up and the roads were clear so I drove home (after a quick cup of coffee with Sarah). It was one of the longest times Justin and I had been apart since we started dating, and, oh, it felt so good to wrap up in his arms and his smile!
Being loved is wonderful! And I don't even care how cheesy that last line sounded. It is! And I hope I give my love away as freely as it was given to me last week in a snow storm, under a Friday night deadline and at a shower for me, the soon-to-be bride.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Introverted pie
I stared at the pies for about eight minutes too long.
I picked up the pumpkin -- put it back down. Picked up the chocolate -- put it down. Picked up the marionberry -- put it back, picked it up.
Put it down.
Then the pumpkin again. Pumpkin would say I was confident and comfortable. And it would be a lie.
Chocolate would say, "Hey, ladies. I'm totally one of you, and we all like chocolate, right?"
Nope.
Marionberry. Not the usual just-grab-a-pie pie.
Maybe, just maybe, this marionberry pie would say, "Hi. I'm new. I don't know you, and I don't really feel like I'm going to fit in here, but I'd like to try. If you would take some time to get to know me, bite by bite, one on one, I think we could maybe hit that pumpkin pie comfortable feeling, but it's going to take a while, and I have a job with an unpredictable schedule, and if you want to get together on a Thursday or Friday night, I'll say yes and then cancel last minute and hang up the phone and cry because I'm so stinking tired of people -- I mean, I love people -- but I'll be tired of them by then, but too stubborn to realize I truly need to be alone to recharge, so I'll say yes then cancel, then feel sick about it and frustrated with myself to the point where I'll be tempted to just let the possible friendship die, but I won't want to, and I'll want you to stick it out with me and maybe ask me to do something on a Tuesday afternoon instead, or maybe Saturday about lunch time when I've had time to get some sleep and some coffee and a few precious moments alone with my thoughts so I can appear -- no, be -- pretty chill and fun and talkative. Yes, Saturday lunch or coffee would be good.
Then again, that's an awful lot to ask of one marionberry pie.
Still, it would be nice if a pie could say all that for me because I'm not really sure how to say it for myself. I wish I could hand out a written disclaimer when I attend social events.
~Hello~ it would say.
~My name is Hannah. I'm a reporter at the local newspaper, but please don't let that lead you into thinking I'm an extrovert. I am a very capable, very friendly, very sociable reporter who is quick-witted and willing to ask ridiculously deep questions of complete strangers or people in positions of influence, but only when I'm wearing my reporter hat. I have removed my reporter hat and am now approaching you feeling rather -- well, completely -- naked as a true blue introvert. Part of me would rather be at home writing in my blog and drinking tea, but if I was there I know I'd be wishing I'd at least tried to be social and make friends because I know friends are important. So, here I am. I forced myself to drive straight here from work. I stopped at the grocery store to buy a pie. It took me nine minutes because that choice of pies suddenly became a total inner struggle with my fears of what you all would think of me and how I wanted to portray myself. I also walked away from the pies four times, two in near tears, as I almost audibly argued with myself over whether it would be better to go or not. I chose marionberry, and if you read my blog, you'll see what I wanted that to say about me. But before you think I'm a completely hopeless loss, please appreciate the effort it took for me to get here and trust that I really do want to be here, even if you later find out I fought back tears on the drive home because I wasn't sure it went that well and I was just so very drained. Trust me. By tomorrow afternoon, after I've had some coffee and a few moments to write in my blog and stare out the window at the tree, I'll think it was a lovely time, and I'll probably join you all again in the future. It will still be an inner battle to get myself there, but I'll probably bring a "down home" apple pie. And if we hang out a few more times, I'll bring pumpkin. And one of these days, I'll bring whipped cream, too.~
~It's nice to meet you.~
I gotta go.
I picked up the pumpkin -- put it back down. Picked up the chocolate -- put it down. Picked up the marionberry -- put it back, picked it up.
Put it down.
Then the pumpkin again. Pumpkin would say I was confident and comfortable. And it would be a lie.
Chocolate would say, "Hey, ladies. I'm totally one of you, and we all like chocolate, right?"
Nope.
Marionberry. Not the usual just-grab-a-pie pie.
Maybe, just maybe, this marionberry pie would say, "Hi. I'm new. I don't know you, and I don't really feel like I'm going to fit in here, but I'd like to try. If you would take some time to get to know me, bite by bite, one on one, I think we could maybe hit that pumpkin pie comfortable feeling, but it's going to take a while, and I have a job with an unpredictable schedule, and if you want to get together on a Thursday or Friday night, I'll say yes and then cancel last minute and hang up the phone and cry because I'm so stinking tired of people -- I mean, I love people -- but I'll be tired of them by then, but too stubborn to realize I truly need to be alone to recharge, so I'll say yes then cancel, then feel sick about it and frustrated with myself to the point where I'll be tempted to just let the possible friendship die, but I won't want to, and I'll want you to stick it out with me and maybe ask me to do something on a Tuesday afternoon instead, or maybe Saturday about lunch time when I've had time to get some sleep and some coffee and a few precious moments alone with my thoughts so I can appear -- no, be -- pretty chill and fun and talkative. Yes, Saturday lunch or coffee would be good.
Then again, that's an awful lot to ask of one marionberry pie.
Still, it would be nice if a pie could say all that for me because I'm not really sure how to say it for myself. I wish I could hand out a written disclaimer when I attend social events.
~Hello~ it would say.
~My name is Hannah. I'm a reporter at the local newspaper, but please don't let that lead you into thinking I'm an extrovert. I am a very capable, very friendly, very sociable reporter who is quick-witted and willing to ask ridiculously deep questions of complete strangers or people in positions of influence, but only when I'm wearing my reporter hat. I have removed my reporter hat and am now approaching you feeling rather -- well, completely -- naked as a true blue introvert. Part of me would rather be at home writing in my blog and drinking tea, but if I was there I know I'd be wishing I'd at least tried to be social and make friends because I know friends are important. So, here I am. I forced myself to drive straight here from work. I stopped at the grocery store to buy a pie. It took me nine minutes because that choice of pies suddenly became a total inner struggle with my fears of what you all would think of me and how I wanted to portray myself. I also walked away from the pies four times, two in near tears, as I almost audibly argued with myself over whether it would be better to go or not. I chose marionberry, and if you read my blog, you'll see what I wanted that to say about me. But before you think I'm a completely hopeless loss, please appreciate the effort it took for me to get here and trust that I really do want to be here, even if you later find out I fought back tears on the drive home because I wasn't sure it went that well and I was just so very drained. Trust me. By tomorrow afternoon, after I've had some coffee and a few moments to write in my blog and stare out the window at the tree, I'll think it was a lovely time, and I'll probably join you all again in the future. It will still be an inner battle to get myself there, but I'll probably bring a "down home" apple pie. And if we hang out a few more times, I'll bring pumpkin. And one of these days, I'll bring whipped cream, too.~
~It's nice to meet you.~
I gotta go.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
A lighter look at Twenty Thirteen
And now for something a little lighter than my last post...
Photos!
Here is 2013 in a photo-shell.
January:
December:
Photos!
Here is 2013 in a photo-shell.
January:
Ashley and Meghan and I got up early and hiked up Steamboat Point.
We celebrated Mardi Gras with an official King's Cake from Meghan's parents in Louisiana.
King's cake.
February:
March:
April:
May:
June:
August:
October:
I left my job at the Sidewalk Cafe and began working as a reporter at The Sheridan Press.
Me and Heather on my last day. I miss her.
March:
Finally met my dashing nephew, Cable!
My niece, Maria, feeds the ducks.
Spent time with some of the most lovely, wonderful friends a girl could ask for.
My best friend Lindsey and I went to a ladies retreat and enjoyed time together.
I ate at one of my favorite restaurants with two of my best girl friends: Sarah and Becky.
Sarah and I snuck up the mountain and did some snowshoeing before I had to head back home.
Meghan and Ashley and I went snowshoeing and built snowmen and chopped wood on a fine April day.
I moved out of one cozy apartment with a crazy landlord into a cozy apartment with a nice landlady. I only have photos of my old place, but I will remedy that in a future post about my new place.
Meghan and Ashley and I went puddle jumping. It was fun.
Meghan had a birthday! Yay!
June was packed with hiking and photography adventures...and the shooting of guns.
Justin and I went over the mountain and found a neat tree and an old barn.
Justin shooting with his Mamiya film camera.
My gal pals and I went backpacking.
We played cards in the tent. Yes, they are Lisa Frank cards with rainbows and dolphins.
Meghan and Ashley take aim.
My first time holding a hand gun.
Me and my dad enjoyed a hike and some frappuccino on Father's Day.
July:
In July, Justin and I made a spontaneous trip to Colorado to go backpacking, and eat at my all-time favorite restaurant: Snooze.
Car troubles put us behind schedule, so we got a couple rooms and camped at the Marriott the first night.
Snooze! Best pancakes in the world!
Backpacking in Estes Park.
Justin and I trekked to the Teton Mountains. We used only film cameras for the adventure.
Ahhh, camp coffee.
Snake River Brewing...the best beer I've ever had. Hands down.
Cooking frozen waffles on the camp stove.
Kayaking below the Tetons.
We met up for some disc golf with Justin's sister and her husband.
September:
We threw Justin a Star Wars birthday party. And, oh, Justin and I got engaged at 9,500 feet on top of Black Mountain.
I turned a year older. Justin had a gallery showing of his photography. And we got outside a bit.
Justin and his mom at the opening reception for his show.
Justin and fellow photographer Roger Appell.
A pretty walk. We went out to find fall colors and found snow instead.
We picked pumpkins!
November:
My folks and Justin and I took a nice walk on Thanksgiving, and I sat on a hay bale. Justin got me flowers, as he often does because he is super swell like that.
December:
I baked gingerbread men to celebrate the six month mark until Justin and I's wedding. It was completely dorky, and I would definitely do it again. We got a Christmas tree in the mountains with my folks and spent a lovely Christmas day with Justin's family. What an incredible year!
The wedding is June 14. Not too far away now!
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