Easy Reader.

Just finished watching the 2007 movie, "Evan Almighty" staring Steve Carroll with Morgan Freeman as 'God' (the squeal to the 2003 film, "Bruce Almighty" staring Jim Carey)... Cute film, but then I'll pretty much watch anything with Freeman as he is among my most favorite actors of all time, and well, I rather fancy the idea of Morgan Freeman as God. Much more so than George Burns or Alanis Morisette, but that's me.

As I am prone to spontaneous curiosity in this convenient age of information at our fingertips, I found myself suddenly wondering at how Freeman got his big break... so I Googled. --Interestingly, one of his earliest roles in the American media was in the early 1970's on the PBS kids' show "The Electric Company" as the character 'Easy Reader.'

Then it hit me like a recessed memory that bubbles up from the surface of nostalgia, Wow. I remember that! I grew up with Morgan Freeman! 

How could one not adore the talents of a man who had once sang about words and reading over the television in that silky smooth, hip, jivin' voice decked out in gold rings and bell bottoms to a little country girl in her pajamas every morning?

"I always tell my kids if you lay down, people will step over you. But if you keep scrambling, if you keep going, someone will always, always give you a hand. Always. But you gotta keep dancing, you gotta keep your feet moving."

...Morgan Freeman

traveling with strangers.

window seat., a photo by Luna Soledad on Flickr.

Last month I managed to escape the clutches of North Carolina for a long overdue, albeit much too brief, getaway to Dallas, Texas to spend some quality time with one of my most favorite, life-long people in the universe - my dear cousin Greg.

Even as I excitedly counted down the weeks, days, and hours to departure, I was riddled with guilt over leaving my husband at the mercy of the children for a long weekend. Especially when they all came down with whiny, snotty colds. Although that did not stop me from getting on the plane... or trying to anyway.

March 31st, Thursday evening the clan dropped me off at RDU two hours prior, all packed up properly with travel-size everything in two carry-on bags. --An ugly floral roller bag for clothes, toiletries, etc. and a shoulder bag strictly for my purse and camera bag, least the airline nazis fine me for the extra baggage. It was all a pretty uneventful process initially; I checked in, took my shoes off, did the security thing, found my gate and settled in to read, “Night” by Nobel Laureate and Holocaust survivor, Elie Wiesel (a truly amazing and painfully poetic account; a definite MUST read).

Shortly before boarding, an announcement calling all final destinations for Dallas to the AirTran service desk... I approach and am told that my Atlanta connection has already been missed due to extreme weather conditions - you know, the hurricane-like precursor to the recent tornado epidemic up and down the southern coast as well as all the crazy winter-storms that happened up north. Yay. My choices were: 1) (have Kevin get the kids back up, turn around and come get me) stay the night in Raleigh and (get back up at 4 am with the kids and) fly out at 6 am to Atlanta, or 2) fly to Atlanta and stay the night in a partially comped hotel for a 10 am flight to Dallas... either way, I would arrive in Dallas around the same time Friday morning. --Kevin and I agreed the lesser of the evils was to stay the night in Atlanta and get a good night’s sleep.

Ha ha ha.

So I arrive in Atlanta, the airline equivalent of an overpopulated ZOO, on the last flight of the evening, call the number on the voucher, make a reservation for the Clarion (four start hotel my ass!) for fifty bucks, and then make my way to the other end of the earth to stand and wait a half hour for an over-crowded hotel shuttle bus whose final destination would be my good night’s sleep.

Ha ha ha.

In reality, the forty or so of us tired, hungry disgruntled travelers from a great number of flights were dumped off to form a long-ass winding line throughout the hotel lobby with our bags of crap for check in... I was finally assigned a room and given a room key around 1 am, wished the other weary souls well, got a glass of overpriced house wine in an unwashed glass, and went to my room... to discover the bathroom sink was leaking and I had no toothpaste. An hour later, wine finished, teeth brushed, and sink fixed, I crawled into bed utterly exhausted... only to be awakened not two hours later by a drunken middle-aged cat fight in the hallway outside my room. SERIOUSLY?!! We’re not on spring break here you assholes! WTF? --Normally, my inclination would be to step into the hall and yell at these two twats, but I was just too freaking tired and pissed at the whole scenario and the fact that I had already missed an evening with Greg and decided it would be a good idea not to get hauled off to jail in Atlanta so I lay there cursing in my room until I fell back asleep.

The next thing my barely cognizant brain registered was the sound of the hotel room phone ringing with my morning wake-up call and scaring the crap out of me. Holy hell. I felt like I had been run over by a truck. --The irony that it was then April Fool’s Day was not lost on me.

I was already set to be in a foul mood, mentally daring anyone to jack with me, and sulked back to the too small shuttle bus for the 10 mile ride back to the airport... where a handsome young man promptly gave up his seat for me. I was neither prepared nor accustomed to such chivalry (heck, even as a notably miserable pregnant woman, I don’t recall someone doing that; you’re lucky if they hold the freaking door) and softened my mood accordingly in gratitude. Then a middle-aged African American man boarded the shuttle bus with a warm, happy smile and plopped down in the driver’s seat announcing, “Okay folks, my name is Darryl and I am your driver this morning. I’ll be taking you back to the airport quickly and safely and want to make sure that you have as positive an experience with me as possible so maybe you’ll want to come back and visit the great city of Atlanta and not hate us for screwing up your flights.”

In spite of myself, I smiled inside. He had that infectious kind of happy energy that would not allow otherwise. And for the next ten miles he gave us a brief “tour” of Atlanta, the beloved city in which he had lived all of his life... He tossed out geographical facts and history lessons all along the way - everything from downtown attractions to MLK events and memorials. He told us where four-time World Heavyweight champion Evander Holyfield lives and how his mansion is now open to the public to supplement his cash flow in paying off his eight baby-mamas “but we aren’t going there ‘cause we don’t feel sorry for him...” And he pointed out the $159 million runway overpass at Atlanta airport which took ten years to complete and was only used once for landing causing a massive pile-up on 285 when several terrified drivers erroneously thought the plane was about to crash into the highway.

A hard-working father of two (one in med school and one aged 7), Darryl was a natural “entertainer” with a genuinely likable personality. He truly made my day, lifting my spirits in ways I did not realize at the moment until I caught myself chuckling later remembering his commentary.

By the time I checked in and trekked across the enormous airplane metropolis with its many concords and subways, my back was on fire from carrying the shoulder bag - which I saw as more than enough justification to pop into a baggage store and purchase another wheelie bag. Of course nothing I could afford came in just a simple black so I quickly grabbed a black and white giraffe print to compliment the ugly couch-looking floral I was dragging around, then made a bee-line to Starbucks for some desperately needed caffeine. --It soon became clear that I hadn’t thought this process through when I was handed my coffee and had not an extra hand for the new extra wheelie bag - which would not stand on it’s own and kept falling over. Doh! The man behind me kindly offered to carry my coffee and follow me to my gate. I was so tired and grateful, I almost cried.

Found my gate, sat down the flowery couch bag and my coffee and turned to a couple across from me to ask them to please watch my bag a moment as I went to exchange the other. They politely obliged. When I returned 10 minutes or so later (with a hideous, though better constructed, primary-color blue bag capable of standing upright) and thanked them, they smiled, said I was welcome and told me that they had been waiting at the wrong gate as they stood to leave. Even after their realization, they had sat watching my bag as promised and patiently waited for my return...

My former boss, Dr. Mary Ruth Coleman, truly one of the most remarkable human beings I have ever known, refers to such happy, uplifting surprises as “blessings” and believes that life is full of such if you're open to it... I felt then in that moment, truly blessed. --Sometimes it is the kindness of strangers that makes all the difference in our lives, and sometimes when we’re lucky, we get to be the strangers.

I remember the day in June of 1999 when I returned to the states from living in Germany, leaving behind my husband and father of my child, and the only place that ever really felt like home for me. It was probably the hardest decision I have ever made... I had my entire life crammed into three of the biggest, heaviest suitcases ever packed in the history of people packing things as they were each filled with the stuff that meant the most to me: boxes and boxes of photographs and other priceless mementos I thought I might never see again if I left them behind (I mailed my clothing). In addition to the mega-luggage, there were four carry-ons, a stroller, a car seat, one hysterically barking Pug in a kennel, and my 18 month old non-ambulatory, non-verbal angel of a daughter, Isabel. --I foolishly left Frankfurt with no money what-so-ever and by the time I landed in LaGuardia (where I was soon confronted with the absolute rudest people I have ever met in my life), my bank account back in Germany had been emptied. Realizing I had less than an hour to get to the opposite side of the airport, I desperately asked for help with my bags and was dismissively told that was not the problem of airport personnel. An older woman who had been seated near me on the plane overheard my situation, turned and gave me eight dollars, hugged me, and disappeared before I could thank her. Out of nowhere appeared an immigrant porter who offered to help me with my bags. He told me we had to hurry. I followed him blindly with swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks for what seemed like miles and into a tram. Halfway to my stop, another military wife who had been on my flight turned to me and said, “There’s twenty dollars under the lining of your daughter’s car seat,” and with that, she gave me a warm smile and exited the tram. --I have never ever forgotten either of those women. I don’t know their names nor do I even recall their faces, but I have never forgotten their immeasurable kindness on one of the worst days of my life... I gave all twenty-eight dollars to the porter.

Yes, MRC, you're right, life is full of blessings, often when you least expect them... I am grateful for all the blessings I have received in my travels through this life and I always try my best to pay it forward each and every time I am lucky enough to be the stranger.

"The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference."

...Elie Wiesel

picture day.

...Bringin' Sexy Back (Yeah baybee), a photo by Luna Soledad on Flickr.

Today was school “picture day” at Bella’s school, for the second time this year.

A lot has changed in the tradition of school pictures since I was in grade school needless to say. Like digital cameras for starters. Also, when I was in school, you only had one photo taken once a year with the same background and pose. We dressed in our best, or rather what our parents deemed was best -- I mean, this was the ‘70’s were talking about folks, so ‘our best’ was very subjective and should be taken into account. Many months later, we would finally get our proofs to order from which we had to return so the orders could be matched up and then a few months after that, our photo package would arrive and most of them would be gone, swapped out with friends, before even getting off the school bus.

We did not have different poses to choose from and there were no retakes for the yearbook because you didn’t get yearbooks in elementary school. We did not have cute little magnets or bookmarks or trading cards and we didn’t have our names printed on our pictures. Our parents scrapped together and bought the big packages back then with plenty to give away to grandparents and family, display on walls and bookcases, and wallet sizes that were actually carried in wallets because that was the one and only time a year that most of us had “professional” photos taken documenting our youthful existence throughout our educational career. --And we sure as hell did not have to pre-order and pre-pay for photos yet to even be taken as is the policy with Lifetouch Studios - who received a nasty letter from me with my minimum order today, but I digress...

I remember many, many years ago on picture days at Cleveland Elementary School, we would all line up and march up with our classes to the third floor auditorium where all the school photo equipment was set up on stage. --The same stage my father, his siblings, and parents of most of the rest of my classmates had once strolled across when they had once upon a time graduated Cleveland High School. (Oh yeah, my Grandfather went there too.) The background for the vast majority of my elementary photos was always some seasonally-inappropriate artsy spring/summer woodsy medley (seen here) and a fake “fence” which we were posed against year after year in the exact same arm-crossed fashion (and me with my pinky finger dangling off the edge awkwardly as though it were broken, every single year) - as if leaning against a fence in the woods smiling like a dolt was the most natural thing in the world. But then again, it was the ‘70’s man, perhaps our school photographer was a hippy?

The absolute worst school photo theme ever in the history of school pictures was the “library / reading a book” look. This theme was shot in front of a comically unrealistic backdrop painted with bookshelves lined with books and required sitting at a desk with a colorfully illustrated kiddie book open (and held down by our hands so the pages wouldn’t flop around); that was 5th grade I think. O.M.G. did those suck a big one. I’m not even sure any of those still exist; I think I burned them all. --Oh, and then one year, 7th or 8th grade I believe, as we moved into a new decade of horrid fashion and tackiness, the creative directors of school photography in a brain-fart of inspiration keeping with the times, incorporated a high-back wicker chair into the setting. You know the ones. ...Actually, now that I think about it, I think they used the "library" background for that one too.

Yes, picture day always yielded a surprise because you never knew just what kind of God-awful tackiness they might spring on you next until you walked into the auditorium and got in line with your class. Just when we got used to the fence in the woods and all the photos in our homes matched, they went and got all crazy on us.

I honestly don’t think I have a single decent school picture of myself but then again, isn’t that the point? Everyone looks awkward and clumsy with freakish growth spurts, bowl-cut hairdos, and zits. Not to mention the ever classic deer-in-headlights expression that inevitably happens after shooting a couple hundred kids and the photographer is ready to get the heck outta dodge. Some of my school pictures could most certainly rival the DMV’s most memorable shots. And that’s pretty much why we buy those stupid things -- for the nostalgia and comedy. Few things are more fun than flipping through years worth of bad hairdos, bizarre clothing, and perplexing expressions. I mean, nothing says comedy like a snaggle-tooth smile in an obnoxious big-collared nylon Saturday Night Fever shirt leaning against a fence in the woods with a broken finger... except maybe posting those same pictures of your friends on Facebook. ;-)

"Most things in life are moments of pleasure and a lifetime of embarrassment; photography is a moment of embarrassment and a lifetime of pleasure."

...Tony Benn

happy 84.

a lifetime of love., originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

Today is my Grandma's 84th birthday.

She has certainly seen better days. Visiting her now is always bittersweet for me as the essence of the wonder-woman I grew up with has all but moved on waiting patiently for her soul to follow...

She's tired, I know this, and is winding down. Her health is failing and her appetite gone. It's hard to convince her to eat anything especially when she's quick to argue about the big breakfast she just cooked and how she can't eat another bite, even though it's 6pm and she hasn't been in front of a stove in years.

She sleeps a lot these days, making up for all that she's missed in her long lifetime I suppose, but a couple of weeks ago she fell into a deep, sound sleep giving quite a fright to all who love her. When she finally woke in the evening, she indicated to my aunt that she was fine and had spent the day talking with the Lord. The Lord told her that soon he would heal her and take her home; she said that was fine by her.

That is so Grandma.

Grandma has always had a strong faith in God though she rarely went to church. Her church was the outdoors, her gardens, her flowers, the wilderness, and wildlife. I believe Grandma knows the truth. I also believe that her truth is one of many.

She died once, many years ago on the operating table during a procedure. She told me of how she watched from above all the commotion as doctors and nurses scurried frantically about her body in attempts to revive her. Like so many others have recounted of near death experiences, she saw the "tunnel of lights" and felt completely at peace, ready for the journey. She saw a hand move away from her and understood that it was not her time... She awoke later in the hospital with vivid memories of her encounter.

When I was young, Grandma and I had many conversations about death and dying and God and what we thought happened next. We made a promise to each other that whoever went first would try our best to come back and let the other know we got there okay.

I don't know how I will ever face it, but I know that time is coming.

Kevin, the kids and I went to see her recently and took some of her favorite foods in hopes that she would eat: pimento cheese (yuk!), fresh strawberries, applesauce, and a couple of new things to try - blackberry flavored water and a Starbucks coffee.

Grandma always loved her coffee and sweet tea (the mother's milk of the south). After more than eight decades, I decided it was high-time she had her first Starbucks. So I took her one: a sugar-free 1/2 decaf. Cinnamon Dolce with whole milk.

Each time she tasted it, she said it was downright delicious. She ate a quarter of a pimiento cheese sandwich before telling me again about her big breakfast. She tried the blackberry flavored water and told me how she could make it taste much better because it wasn't sweet enough, "All you gotta do is stew some fresh blackberries with a cup or two of sugar..." she said, which kinda defeats the purpose when you're diabetic but I'm sure she was right. After a slice or two of strawberries, she began trying to feed the children, who were happy to eat Grandma's strawberries and Grandma was happy to see the children eat them.

"Okay Grandma, how about you have the applesauce and Liam will eat the strawberries, he hasn't been eating well."

I turned to my son, "Tell you what, for every bite of applesauce Grandma eats, you have to eat a strawberry," I said as I was cutting the berry halves into minuscule pieces.

Worked like a charm and both Grandma and Liam finished all of their fruit while Isabel gobbled down the remainder of the uneaten pimento cheese sandwich. Grandma was very proud of Liam for eating all of his strawberries. ;-)

84 years: 1st Starbucks., originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

"Oh Grandma," I said for the dozenth time, "I brought you a coffee to try. It's from a coffee shop called Starbucks. I think you'll like it; it has cinnamon in it."

And once again, she would try her very first Starbucks latte and proclaim in surprise, "Well Crys, I've never had coffee like this before but this is downright delicious."

Happy Birthday Grandma!
I love you! Always and always.

"Grandma always made you feel she had been waiting to see just you all day and now the day was complete."

...Marcy DeMaree

ice cream floats.

Eve & me, originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

IBC Root Beer, in my humble opinion, is the best stuff. And makes the most awesome root beer float, even with the diet root beer. Not sure why we fool ourselves with the whole diet soda bit when coupled with something like ice cream or a Big Mac, but we do. It's as if by shaving off a few soda calories we're giving ourselves permission to indulge elsewhere, but whatever...

So last night, I made myself a (diet) IBC Root Beet float with Bryers chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry ice cream. Liam thought it was the strangest concoction he'd ever seen until he tasted it. --My mistake. That's like feeding a dog from the table - then you have to listen to it whine and beg throughout dinner.

My favorite part of an ice cream float is when the ice cream freezes from the cold soda and produces those delicious little ice cream flavored icebergs in the mug - a cold crunchy delight. =)

I remember once back in Germany, hanging out with my sister Evelyn... We hit the Baskin Robbins on post at Leighton Barracks for ice cream floats. Oh the days of simple joys... As we continued our stroll across base, me sipping my yummy float and hunting for icebergs, Eve suddenly makes a mad dash for the nearest trashcan as if she would vomit up bile and spat out a mouthful of her ice cream float.

"OMG, it's ROOT BEER!" she exclaimed in utter disgust.

"Uhm, yeah, that's generally how ice cream floats are made," I replied.

"That's disgusting. I hate root beer. It's supposed to be Coke!"

"Coke? THAT'S disgusting," I said looking at her as though that was the craziest thing I'd ever heard. "A Coke float? On what planet?"

"Puerto Rico!"

"Age does not diminish the extreme disappointment of having a scoop of ice cream fall from the cone."

...Jim Fiebig

a perfectly good diaper.

baby + prunes..., originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

So yesterday I took a break from life and lost myself in the safe, soothing labyrinth of words, wisdom, and personal amusement commonly referred to as "the bookstore." --The day had been such a downward spiral of aggravation riddled with angst and irritation that I had no choice but to remove myself from the rat-race and fade into some deliriously enjoyable escape that can only be found in solitude between the covers of a good book... I collected a pile to review, found a lone vacant chair, popped a Klonopin, wrote a few lines of nastiness in my red Moleskine, and thumbed through my selections waiting for the daggered edge to leave me.

After an hour or so, I calmly, coolly, and collectively rose from my hideaway and made my way toward the register, only to find myself distracted en route by a book entitled, "Sh*t My Kids Ruined." How could I not pick that up?

I stood alone in the store flipping page after page through a glorious pictorial of the joys of parenting in its finest moments... and the wake of destruction left behind by our spawn. Photographs of everything from microwaved Barbies and Hot Wheels cars... strewn cereal, baby powder, flour, condiments, and nearly anything imaginable found in a household that comes in a box or bottle... a carpet cleaner filled with a gallon of milk... fantastic poop catastrophes... the artistic devastation that only Sharpie markers can create - on leather sofas, carpet, cabinets, and walls... broken windows, appliances, shower doors, plasma TVs and laptops... and my personal favorite - that literally had me laughing out loud: a photo of someone's hard-earned college diploma from Louisiana State University completely adorned in a toddler's scrawl!

It was exhilarating! Like an unmistakable sign from the universe that screamed at me: "YOU ARE NOT ALONE!" Yay I thought! =D

And this little therapeutic antidote began as a website started by a fellow frustrated and no-doubt exhausted mother, whose pain (and comedy) I deeply feel.

I mean sure, I could probably write my own book complete with pictorials of shit my kids have ruined over the years -- from clothing, food, and furniture to floors, carpet, walls, VHS tapes and DVD's... beautiful days and perfectly good diapers... not to mention my sanity, which leads me to this post:

Once upon a time when Liam was but a wee lad of 7 months, the family unit and I set out for some quality time on a lovely spring Saturday in April (because like pets, you feel guilty if you don't take them for a walk once in a while). We spent a few hours at a local carnival and as it was such a lovely day, we decided to ride out to the beautiful Duke Gardens in Durham, North Carolina for some fresh air and sunshine in a scenic atmosphere in hopes of capturing some life long memories in photographs.

Well, we certainly accomplished that!

We pulled into a parking spot and began to disembark though quickly discovered, much to our disgust and horror, that we had had a major blowout. "O.M.G." cannot even begin to describe the sight I beheld...

I called to Kevin, who, cued by the panic-stricken shriek in my voice, bolted over to my side of the car where we both stood, mouths gaping open like black holes of disbelief at our darling, happily-smiling cherubic baby son, completely covered from head to toe in SHIT. Yes, that's right, s-h-i-t. --It looked as if this child, clothing, car seat and all, had be dipped into a well-used septic tank. How on earth one tiny being produced such an explosion of foulness I will never know. Wow. It was truly impressive. Not a proud moment mind you, but impressive none-the-less. Holy hell.

"Give him prunes she said..." Kevin finally says in his best wife-mocking voice breaking the spell -- just as shitty happy baby stops flailing his fat little arms and legs in delight -- and completely in slow-motion to the viewing world around him -- reaches up with his little diarrhea-coated dimpled fist and plants it right in his mouth!...

I'm not sure if I gagged first or shouted, "Nooooo!" while leaping with the stealth of a Cheetah to grab his hand (again it was all a slow-motion blur) but irregardless, my prey escaped me and thus the day forevermore became known as: "The Day Liam Ate Poop."

As I said, it was a beautiful spring day. A lovely day for a wedding in fact, of which there were two. --Imagine the looks of horror, disgust, judgment, and pity on the upturned faces of many an old money wedding guest crossing the parking lot adorned in their finest formals, off to celebrate the blissful unions of their loved ones. And here we were laughing hysterically and taking pictures (memories to last a lifetime ya know) engaged in the shit-fest of the century, disassembling a crap-covered car seat, with trash bags full of dirty clothes and yucky baby wipes - and a naked, brown-speckled baby on the asphalt.

I don't think I've ever felt like such a hillbilly in my life, though we did have the good grace to deposit our abundant garbage in the proper receptacles - only after of course giving baby Poo-zilla a quick sink bath in one of the wedding reception hall's bathrooms...

And yes Liam, my little love, you can expect to see this photo again one day... in your own wedding reception slide show! ;-)

"Ninety percent of everything is crap.”

...Theodore Sturgeon

adventures in ALE.

cheers!, originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

A lot of people don't know this about me... I was once a "narc" - though the slang term is somewhat misleading. More accurately, I was an undercover volunteer with a Raleigh division of Alcohol Law Enforcement, interestingly enough during my aspiring underage drinking days of high school. Of course, I justified this hypocrisy with the fact that even as an young immature party-goer I had strict self-imposed rules about drinking and driving (riding with my lunatic alcoholic high school boyfriend Stephen was more than enough to scare anyone straight) and the fact that my life's ambition at the time was to join the DEA. Go figure.

Even then I was smart enough to know that such a gig would look great on a resume... and it came with an adrenalin rush all its own.

It all started one evening waiting tables at the little seafood and barbecue restaurant on 50 Highway (way before I-40), the Country Squire, where I used to work. I had a six-top of unusually mixed fellows who didn't look at all like they belonged together with some clean cut in suits and a a couple rough-neck-looking types in leather motorcycle gear. Naturally I was suspicious until a jacket fell open and I spied a badge. Aha. The curiosity was killing me so I just flat out asked who they worked for. The next thing I know they collectively interviewed me and I gave them my number. I was 16.

As an undercover minor, my job was to drive some piece of shit impounded drug car to various convenience stores and bars and attempt to purchase alcohol with my valid NC drivers license looking like the teenager I was complete with pony-tail and orthodontic retainer. I would drive up alone, go in the store, pick out a six pack of beer, and go to the counter to purchase it. Soon to be followed by an undercover ALE agent picking up sodas, snacks, and gum or whatever else was on our collective wish list. If the cashier asked for ID, I showed them and often they still made the sale. I was amazed how easy it was. I mean, I knew all the hot spots in Johnston County to purchase anything but that was out in the sticks; JoCo still had bootleggers for Pete's sake. But wow. --If there was a bust, we'd meet up and do paperwork, statements, etc.

I also acted in several service training videos over the couple of years that I worked for them, though I never saw them. Betcha didn't know I was such a movie star either. ;-)

The most interesting sting I was part of involved Fairlanes bowling alley in Raleigh which no longer exists. A bartender there served 12 pitchers of beer to three teenage boys one night... one of them never made it home. WTF? TWELVE pitchers?!! That's FOUR a piece. What makes anyone think that even a legal adult should be allowed to tank up like that and turned loose on the roads? Oh, I was all in for that one.

So the night of the Fairlanes bust, I went in alone allegedly waiting for my fictitious boyfriend and friends who would never arrive while the entire ALE division bowled at the other end of the alley. --A waitress came up and asked what I'd like to drink; I ordered some domestic beer or another as my taste had yet to mature so I didn't know any better. I see her at the bar chatting with a handsome young fellow obviously full of himself and checking me out (hey, I was purdy cute back then)... She quickly returns to tell me with a wink that I would have to order from the bar but not to worry he was cool. So I walk up to Mr. Cool Bartender and place my order. He asked for my ID and I handed it over. He takes a look and smiles at me, "I'm sorry sweetheart, you've got to be 21 to buy beer." Before I could even reply, he flips my drivers license over and slides it back to me across the counter. "Let's try this again," he says, "how old are you?" "Sixteen," I respond with my best retainer smile. He kind of shakes his head like he cannot believe how stupid I am and then decided to give me one more chance, "One more time. How old are you?" "Twenty-one." He smiles and pours my beer. I walk off and pretend to sip my beer as the agents conclude their game.

It was the same bartender who had served the teenage boys.

My first time ever in a court room was as a witness in the Fairlanes case and yeah, I was nervous as hell when I took the stand. Needless to say, the handsome bartender wasn't smiling at me then. The defense attorney was your stereotypical hard-ass and did his best to bully me into confessing that I had intentionally deceived the unknowing bartender so each question that he asked repetitiously five different ways was answered something like this: "After showing Mr. Cool my valid North Carolina drivers license stating that I am sixteen years of age and after verbally telling him once that I was sixteen years of age, then yes, I said that I was 21 as he indicated that's what he wanted to hear..."

He was convicted and Fairlanes was fined. I remember the judge saying something he thought wise, like the moral of a story in the even he ever was quoted for something great, such as, 'If we can raise our children with strong morals and values until adulthood and shield them from harmful influences, they will be better equipped to make mature decision and use good judgment as adults...'

I thought that was sound wisdom until I moved to Germany and realized that if you could reach the bar you could order a beer and that strangely there wasn't a huge problem with teenage alcohol abuse. I mean, even in a country which brews the best beer in the world, in a society where ale is traditionally a staple with meals and kids grow up with access, where's the fun in sneaking around and getting shit-faced when you can sit down and have a beer with your parents at dinner? Besides, the public transportation is so superior that no one need ever drive a car and cannot afford to really until well into their 20's when they've had time to save the $2000 or so it costs to get a drivers license. Sure, DUI's happen there too (and believe me, the Polezei don't play), but more often than not, they're on bicycles. --So sure, raise your kids to be good people, I get that, but I also believe greatly in the temptation of forbidden fruit.

Anyhoo... working undercover was an extraordinary (and dare I say fun?) experience and has been an interesting topic of conversation in job interviews ever since though ultimately my career path inevitably veered after my first born. --I'm always quick to point out too, that during this time period, I was also a full-time high school student, drove an elementary school bus, and waited tables 20-30 hours a week as proof of my ability to multitask with great efficiency... though again, this was once upon a time well before marriage and children another world ago. Most importantly, I gained a unique perspective into the working lives of the men and women in law enforcement and a healthy respect for the truly good guys. I did go on to major in Criminal Justice and had a heck of a lot of fun participating in Officer Survival Training playing the role of a criminal, not to mention DUI training... but that is but another blog...

And as it so happened, my connections got me out of a few traffic tickets over the years as well, but of course these days, I have The Husband, Esq for that. ;-)

Cheers!

"You can't be a Real Country unless you have a BEER and an airline -- it helps if you have some kind of a football team, or some nuclear weapons, but at the very least you need a BEER."

...Frank Zappa

rediscovery.

muse., originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

In my life, I have grown to believe and have often said that there is a vast difference between relatives and family... and that soul is much thicker than blood. Well, as everyone's individual perspectives are shaped by their own unique experiences, this is the lesson I have drawn from my life's journey...

Recently however, I rediscovered my cousin Jennifer... ever a lovely person, just six months younger than me, Jenn is someone I have known pretty much as long as I've been alive and yet, I never had any idea that we had so much in common. I won't elaborate on our shared personality quirks, genetic flaws, and other fun stuff except to say that it was a pleasant surprise. For the fist time in my life, I didn't feel like such the black sheep, just a different shade of gray.

I remember oh so many afternoons playing together at Grandma's with Jennifer and her older sister Renee. One very distinct memory is Renee instructing us how to make a bird's nest in a Styrofoam cup scavenging the farm for straw and twigs and feathers (not surprisingly, Renee grew up to be a college professor). Growing up next door to Grandma, I knew the farm like the back of my hand and was always excited to show my two city cousins the new litter of baby feral kittens I found beneath the seat of the old pick up truck or such... We three spent a lot of time making mud pies, cakes, and cookies which Grandma always pretended to eat with joyous delight and it was not uncommon that we found ourselves in trouble with Granddaddy for digging holes under the carport.

Once, my dad took the three of us to WRAL's television studio and we met Charlie Gaddy who autographed a picture for us. Because he only signed one photo for the three of us, Renee and Jenn had offered to tear off my portion with my name on it to take home with me. (Interestingly, I met Mr. Gaddy again in 2002 at my daughter's graduation from the Charlie Gaddy Center for Children; he looked the same as he did twenty-something years ago... I think it's time he went into hiding before someone stakes him.)

I remember Jennifer's Strawberry Shortcake collection that sat atop her dresser; she always let me play with them when I visited.

Then there was our high school years, me in the country and Jenn in the city, when we were socially awkward and trying to figure out who we were in our own lives... I was the wild-card who wore too much make-up, spoke my mind, and came home drunk and Jenn, well she was always a good person who was always nice to everyone and secretly, I suppose envied her.

It's funny the things we store in our memories - the stuff that actually sticks. And now, a lifetime later, though it all seems like a blur, deep down in the sediment of my mind, there are still things that make me smile in spite of it all.

Jenn., originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

Not so long ago, after so many years, we all reconnected on Facebook of all places.

Though anonymity has it's perks, I suppose it's high time I stop hiding from people that were once such a big part of my world.

After much conversation, I managed to talk Jennifer into humoring me for a photo shoot in an effort to further develop my craft with someone I wouldn't have to worry about catching me refer to my cheat sheet for exposure settings. Essentially, Jenn was my guinea pig but I had no doubts I'd get some great shots - she is a beautiful woman, inside and out... I wanted to capture that, the beauty of my cousin, my family.

I think I did.

"A family is a place where minds come in contact with one another."

...Buddha

birds.

birds.
Originally uploaded by Luna Soledad

I'm not a member of the National Audubon Society nor have I ever been out bird-watching for the sole purpose of watching birds, and unless it's a Parakeet, Cardinal, Robin, Crow, Blue Jay, or some sort of farm foul, well I couldn't tell you what is what. But I do like birds.

As a little country girl, when I wasn't helping Grandma in the gardens, I could usually be found out exploring the vast acreage and wilderness that was my grandparents' farm. I often found stray animal and reptilian babies who had lost their way or fallen from their nest, and they all came home with me: dogs, cats, possums, turtles, snakes, frogs, squirrels, and birds... lots of birds.

Once I even found a bird egg toppled from it's nest and despite my mother insisting that it wouldn't hatch, I brought it in, made a bed for it in a paper cup, and kept it warm... Not only did it hatch, but the tiny naked creature grew and thrived and eventually, fully feathered, would fly around the house following me on command until the day we finally set him (or her) free.

I remember going to visit my Aunt Buella and Uncle Zinnie (yep, those were their real names) who raised Peacocks. There was nothing more beautiful to me than to see those magical birds spread their magnificent plumes. --Besides the big brass spittoon that sat between their chairs, the only memories I have of my great aunt and uncle are their wonderful birds.

So yes, I do like birds. --If there is such a thing as reincarnation, I think it wouldn't be such a bad thing to come back as a bird... to soar above the world and taste the sky...

A recent addition to my growing (ebay) art collection are these three mixed-media paintings from the uber-talented Jenny Berry which now adorn my wall. I especially like the bird on the telephone pole; that particular painting is like a memory captured. Her stuff is amazing to me and makes me smile inside... and isn't that what art is all about?

"Birds sing after a storm; why shouldn't people feel as free to delight in whatever remains to them?"

...Rose Kennedy

Fall.

Fall palette., originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

Fall. I can almost taste it. So close, yet so far away... and these 70 degree teasers just before the temperature shoots back up into the '90's are driving me nuts! But I'll take what I can get. At least my glasses no longer fog up from the hellish humidity when I walk out of the house in the mornings.

I love Fall. It's my most favorite time of year. In part thanks to the cool splendor and beautiful Fall palette that slips quietly into our surroundings as summer succumbs to its miserable death and the reign of the mosquito comes to an end... but for me, Fall also makes me giddy with nostalgia for my most treasured memories...

Four-wheeling on country back roads and fields in my old Jeep with the doors off, cruising in my friend Karen's gold LeBaron convertible mooing at cows, sitting in the parking lot of Cup-A-Joe's at 2 am reading poetry, riding motorcycles in the rain, camping at my Grandma's pond with friends and singing songs around a fire, school night visits to NC State and driving back the next day for class wearing the same clothes from the day before, impromptu parties at Sammy's and him coming home in the middle of the night using a flashlight to make his way through the minefield of bodies sleeping on his living room floor, and the oh-so-many adventures at ECU... Oh those were the days!

I remember hanging out at Fort Bragg with my dear friend Trawick and some other army buddies one Friday night bored. We decided on a whim to take off and go somewhere... We ended up camping at Lake Lure in a freshly cleared logging area on a mountain top and sleeping beneath the stars. We sat up all night talking, drinking, and laughing while Maloney ran up and down the steep hill on all fours howling at the full moon and Rosenburger ate cold beans out of a can. --The next day we made our way across a rushing mountain stream and went repelling down a cliff.

One night, my friend George and I followed a big water pipe beneath the town of Smithfield for what seemed like forever until our backs ached to the point we could go no further... Why you ask? No particular reason aside from the fact that we could and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

And Halloween... Long before there was the tedious task of walking around with small children begging for candy from our neighbors, All-Hallows-Eve was a night filled with mischief, costumes, and scaring the crap out of one another.

Oh the memories, and so many I dare not share here.

And then comes Thanksgiving, my most favorite holiday of all and of course that has nothing at all to do with the smorgasbord of delectable food -- honest. ;-)

Yay for Fall!

"Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay."

...Robert Browning

arepas.

arepas.
Originally uploaded by Luna Soledad

Never do we leave a relationship without taking away something - usually it's baggage, but occasionally we're left with something worthwhile: a lifelong friendship, fond memories, furniture, maybe even some great jewelry or a child... and sometimes, as in this case, a great recipe!

Once upon a time while in college, I had a roommate (turned psychotic boyfriend) from Venezuela... I'll call him "Francisco" (because that was his name). --It was an absolutely disastrous relationship from the get-go, from the point we crossed that treacherous roommie line until I finally threatened to have him deported and married someone else. Ahh the memories...

But I was young and resilient back in the day and quickly moved on to the next romantic catastrophe without looking back.

Besides some fantastic material for my memoirs, the one thing I took away from that relationship was the addictive taste for arepas and the talent to make them.

Arepas are flat, unleavened gordita-like patties made of white cornmeal which can be grilled, baked, boiled, or fried. (I prefer to bake mine.) They are far easier than buttermilk biscuits to make, are very hearty, and can be stuffed with a variety of foods to be eaten like sandwiches or as an accompaniment to a meal.

To make arepas, you need only find a small yellow bag of Harina PAN (if you're lucky, you might find it in the Hispanic section of your local grocery) and follow the directions on the bag, or follow mine...

Ingredients:

• 2 cups Harina PAN pre-cooked cornmeal
• 1/2 - 1 teaspoon Salt
• 2 1/2 cups luke warm water

Directions:

• Preheat oven to 400ºF. In a large bowl, mix together the cornmeal and salt. Pour in and mix with clean hands to form a mass. Cover with a towel or plastic wrap and set aside to rest for 5 to 10 minutes.
• Using wet hands, form balls of dough out of about 1/4 cup of dough and press to form a cake about 3 inches wide and 3/4 inch thick. (If the dough cracks at the edges, mix in a little more water and then form the cakes.)
• In a skillet over medium-high heat, lightly brown arepas on one side then flip and brown on the other side (most recipes instruct to sauté in hot oil although a nonstick pan works just fine and the arepas are just as tasty sans grease).
• When all the patties have been browned, transfer them to a baking sheet and bake in the oven for 15 to 20 minutes, or until they sound lightly hollow when tapped. Serve immediately.

Arepas make great picnic food and can be stuffed with anything that you might put in a biscuit or sandwich or anything that just sounds good to you. Enjoy!

"There is nothing to which men, while they have food and drink, cannot reconcile themselves."

...George Santayana

KISS.

KISS.
Originally uploaded by Luna Soledad

I remember being six or seven years old when I inherited my first musical 8-track tape from a much older cousin - KISS's "Destroyer" album which I listened to religiously on my 2XL toy robot. (Hey, 2XL was THE stuff back in the day!) I knew all the lyrics to every tune on that album and used to perform song and dance routines for anyone I could coerce into witnessing the insane display, which usually was my Grandmother. (Hey, give me a break; I was a bored little farm girl back then.) --Oh those were the truly ignorantly blissful days...

I LOVED KISS. I had a KISS black light poster on my bedroom door (although I had no idea what a black light was). And while most girls my age were fawning over Scott Baio, Shaun Cassidy, and The Bee Gees, my crushes were Paul Stanley, Peter Criss, and Gene Simmons.

I've been to my share of concerts: Hank Williams, Jr., The Black Crowes, Def Leppard, Melissa Etheridge, Robert Plant, Van Halen, Blink 182, Dave Matthews Band to name a few... Though I'm not really one for big crowds (I can pretty much guarantee you will not find me anywhere near a mall November through December).

But back in 2003, when my favorite local foreigners, Karl and Thorsten, invited me along to the KISS / Aerosmith concert... How could I possibly say no?!!

Nearly three decades later, KISS went on tour with Aerosmith. I can't even begin to describe the nostalgia! What a crazy déjà vu standing there with my two German counterparts, memorable worlds colliding in untouchable, unspeakable ways. And then, there they were, smoke rising as "Detroit Rock City" sounded off and throngs of seventies survivors, many sporting clueless grand-kids upon their has-been shoulders, cheered and raised lit cigarette lighters of tribute into the air while the sweet fetid stench of marijuana wafted through the night. I felt the rippling chill of "once upon a time" wash through us all, like a big magic wave, wistful. And then, as quickly as it came, dissipated into the present moment, when I saw them - my childhood rock stars, jamming fast and furious, as grand as they ever had been in their glory days - larger than life... even as their flabby beer guts hung over too tight leather chaps, even as Gene's heavy caked-on stage make-up and fake blood oozed into the cracks and wrinkles of his forlorn face, even as the guitar didn't break apart on the first slam upon the stage or even the second, even as the crowd absent of screaming, half-naked, sexually-liberated hippy girls - stood hollering, mesmerized and lost in time, wanting more, just a little more, to return, for just one more song, to their lost bittersweet youth, where ever they were. --Something about the near-geriatric rock-n-rollers parading around in their leather and studs, 'shouting it out loud,' wasn't quite the kinder-euphoria I remembered, however, I had to smile in spite of myself, returning, if only for an instant, to simple happy days past.

Though it seems that no concert is complete without an annoying drunk or two hundred and of course, one lone inebriated fellow found us. --Karl, never one to be impolite, befriended the poor soul while Thorsten, ever the gentleman, claimed me as his "wife" when the guy began beer-goggling me. All in all though, me, Karl, and my "concert husband" had a blast. That was the last concert I attended to date and I'm cool with that... it was a perfect note to end on.

And it was an incredible show!

"Flaming youth will set the world on fire"... and they always do... then you grow up, like it or not, and hopefully learn something useful and good and maybe have some interesting tales to tell.

Oh yeah, and Aerosmith kicked ass too. ;-)

"Nostalgia keeps dissolving the ironic narratives in which I have contained my past."

...Mason Cooley, City Aphorisms, Twelfth Selection, New York (1993)

Chris.

the last time i saw him..., originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

I once had a friend named Chris... He was a soldier stationed at Ft. Bragg; we met back in the day when Benson, North Carolina was the "cruising capital of the south."

Chris was an amazingly fun and charismatic fellow who was as funny and entertaining as he was handsome. It was impossible to not have a great time when he was around and we spent a lot of time together watching movies and stealing into matinees for free second shows, camping and fishing in the middle of the night, rappelling off of base towers and being escorted off post, visiting my friend Karen at ECU, and just generally goofing off. He was a great friend and perfect gentleman and though we never dated, I always thought he would be a great catch for some lucky girl. Life was one great big adventure with Chris and everyone wanted to be along for the ride. To know him was truly to love him.

Once, Chris, his friend Mike, and I set out for a weekend at ECU to see Karen and partake in a bit of East Carolina's infamous college life. It was a hysterically crazy fun weekend until Mike, having exceeded his limit of alcohol, puked all over Karen's laundry. Furious, Karen made us spend the bulk of the following day at the laundry mat washing her nasty, chunk-covered clothes while she went to work at the mall where we were to meet her later. --Even doing laundry was a riot with Chris modeling for us one of Karen's pretty floral sundresses...

"I triple-dog dare you to wear that to the mall!" I said.

And he did. --It was a Sunday afternoon, the mall flooded with nicely dressed couples and families just out of church who all just stopped and stared, mouths hanging open, at this 6'2" smiling soldier with hairy legs and armpits sticking out of a very feminine summer dress sauntering his way through the mall and into a kitchen ware's store.

Karen beet red from embarrassment, could barely contain her laughter as she mustered up her most scolding motherly tone and exclaimed, "You go take MY dress off right now!"

I still have the pictures.

There are so many memories flooding my mind now as I type this and even if I wrote them all down, I still would not be able to sum up the essence of Chris.

Back then, there were no cell phones and no email, and gradually we lost touch as we both began dating other people. He left me a few messages on the answering machine and I tried phoning him a few times too -- which was a challenge calling the barracks because whether or not you actually got through to the person you were trying to reach depended solely upon the willingness of whatever CQ was stuck answering the phones to get up, walk down the hall, and go check their room... But we never connected again.

May 27, 1993 -- For no particular reason, Chris popped into my head that afternoon and would not leave. I dreamt of him that night, and the next... Strong, vivid dreams of nothing specific, just his haunting presence. Something wasn't right and I felt it in my bones.

The following day, I called his barracks and explained to the CQ that I desperately needed to reach my friend, that I was calling long distance and wasn't even sure if he was still stationed there or if he'd already left -- please, please, please see if you can find him... I gave his name. Silence. The First Sergent took the phone and began quizzing me on how I knew Chris, my relationship with him, and when I last spoke with him... My mind was racing - I was thinking, oh no, that crazy-ass went AWOL, but no such luck...

May 27, 1993, just three days after ETSing on permanent leave, Chris was shot in the head at point blank range while visiting a friend in Indiana by some unprovoked, deranged bastard who said he felt threatened by the "military look" in Chris's eyes; his friend, Denise, was also murdered.

I felt numb, empty, in shock. --I spoke to Mike, who gave me Chris's mom's number... Though I'd never met nor spoken to her, she knew exactly who I was. We talked and laughed and cried for hours. --Perhaps that was what he wanted, for me to comfort the mother he loved so much.

Shortly after his death, the girl Chris had been dating found out she was pregnant; she had twin boys - who look so much like the father they would never know.

It's been 17 years and I still think of him.
I still miss knowing him...

A Trick I Learned In The Philippines--

I can see your mouth smiling
At my brain,
As clear as the last photo I took--
that devilish grin
of a boyish man,
full of mischief,
full of life!
--You are still the fun
In my fondest memories
And I miss loving you,
my friend.
They say you're dead.
He stole your mischief--
the fucking BASTARD!!!
But for me,
You will always be
full of life;
it's in your smile,
hiding in my brain...

Love,
Crystal.

CLJD 25 January 1994

homesick.

Home Sweet Home., originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

I miss the days when life was simpler... When I lived abroad in a town that was older than country I was born in, full of enchantment and adventure and kind-hearted care-worn people who enjoyed life's simple pleasantries... working to live, not the other way around.

Where every morning a bread truck came by delivering delectable pastries and fresh baked bread. Farmers tended to their livestock and gardens and I bought fresh eggs every week from my landlords for the equivalent of a dollar. Elderly people swept the stoops and sidewalks every day and cared for the graves in the local cemeteries. There were times when I was even late for work because a Shepard was herding his flock down main street, but no one complained and no one minded.

At nights I slept with my windows open, even in winter, and at precisely 3 am a train would pass in the distance bellowing its soft whistle... that was the only sound the nighttime held. I've never slept so soundly since.

I miss the walk from Bibergau to Dettelbach each weekend with my Chinese Pug, Paco, and how we would sit for hours at a sidewalk cafe dining on Goulash soup and Bacchus wine.

Where fests were frequent and drunks were happy. Friends gathered often and unplanned for coffee, dinner, or just a long walk through the scenic wonderland that is Germany.

In spring, there were Federweißer and flower stands aligning the streets of small villages. And summers were never very hot; no one had air conditioners in their homes because a fan or a fresh breeze from open windows worked just fine.

Winters were often hard and always cold with the biggest snowflakes I've ever seen... a cold that would bite through whatever layers you could pile on, but there was always the fragrant aroma of sweet Glühwein in the air to warm your insides.

And the most dangerous thing that ever happened to me (short of driving on the Autobahns) was opening my front door one morning to find a neighbor's escaped goat who was just as startled as I was.

There is not a day that has gone by since that I haven't missed, ached for the only place that ever truly felt like home. When life was simpler and we worked to live, not the other way around.

"The worst feeling in the world is the homesickness that comes over a man occasionally when he is at home."

...Edward W. Howe

Frida Khalo with Brush.

Frida Khalo with Brush.
Originally uploaded by Luna Soledad

I've always been a fan of the Arts be it music, the written word, theater and movies, or other visual mediums: painting, sculpture, and photography.

Painting was never my forte despite three fruitless years of art classes in high school. In three years, I managed to produce two whole pieces of art that I was proud of and I haven't a clue where they are now. Not that we didn't have a talented instructor, but poor Mr. Godwin never really excelled at keeping his unruly students in order. By my junior year, I think he had pretty much given up on our group as he spent his hour long class time locked in his office smoking cigarettes until the bell rang and he was rid of us. Due to my contributions to Mr. Godwin's ulcers, I was barred from taking art my senior year.

There were some talented and productive student's in the class however, namely Mike and Steve, and how they managed to accomplish anything in the midst of the rest of us is beyond me.

I had known Mike since grade school and he had always been amazingly talented and uncharacteristically advanced in drawing as well as academics. He was my sweetheart in first grade.

I remember how he used to draw Superman with such precision and detail that he was often accused of tracing it. Once in third grade, we were carving pumpkins at Halloween. Mike was in my group and since he was undisputedly the best artist in the class, we charged him with the task of sketching the face upon the pumpkin that we would carve. When he finished however, he had drawn the face three dimensional - appearing as it would as if it had already been carved... he could not understand for the life of him why that wouldn't work.

In high school, Mike was always busy painting while the rest of us assed off and reeked havoc and always he produced something utterly amazing. And then, much to my horror, before the paint had yet dried, he would paint over it and start on something new. I think he must have used the same canvas for years. It used to kill my soul to watch this... what I wouldn't have given for an ounce of his talent and I often wonder what he's doing with his life now.

Of course, I've never been one to recognize opportunities as they presented themselves early in my life. Perhaps I was too immature, stubborn, or just plain stupid, whatever the case, life is too short for regrets and by the time you're approaching forty, you just have to work with what ya got. ...And perhaps one day, I'll give painting another shot.

Meanwhile, I have fallen victim to a blooming obsession as I have discovered an abundance of talented artists selling their passions for reasonable fares on none other than eBay...

This is one such painting: "Frida Khalo with Brush," an original acrylic on canvas by Mexican folk artist Claudia Garcia.

I've always been enamored with Frida Khalo. Apparently, I am not alone as there are many Frida inspired paintings, jewelry, and other random artsy things out there as well as reproductions of her work.

Garcia's painting is her interpretation of Frida's likeness and, while not bearing a realistically striking resemblance, it is her clean and simple folk art style that appealed to me. It was the symbolilc sentiment, combined with those amazing eyes, however, that sold me.

And it looks beautiful on my wall.

"I paint self portraits because I am the person I know best."

...Frida Kahlo

communion.

communion.
Originally uploaded by Luna Soledad

Once upon a time as a young military wife stationed abroad, I had the extraordinary experience of discovering family in a wonderfully diverse array of people brought together by the shared commonalities... Distance from our families of origin, the uniqueness of military culture, and the desire to enjoy life with people we love.

Some of the best times of my life, some of my most sacred memories, were born in Germany. And some of the best friends in my life, made.

I recall Thanksgivings gathered 'round my giant table filled with flowers and delicious food cooked with love by Germans, Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, and Croatians. Soldiers, civilians, children, my gay hairdresser and his boyfriend.

I remember Christmases gathering at Elvia's house spending hours making tamales with friends... Pot loads! We talked and laughed, spooned & folded. The taste of that first batch freshly steamed was something straight out of Mexican heaven.

New Years, celebrating with Martin and Evelyn on the old bridge in Kitzingen, drinking champagne and dodging firecrackers, and calling our parents and friends back home, six hours ahead, to wish them good tidings.

German street fests and church basement parties. Hispanic heritage functions on base and touring the Würzburger Hofbrau Brewery with USA DENTAC on the taxpayer's dime.

I remember Isabel's first birthday party... our flat was filled to capacity with people from around the world, every shade of the human spectrum, a symphony of languages... Everyone eating, drinking, and being merry simply because a little girl's birthday was a fine excuse to come together just be happy.

Indeed, some of the best times of my life.

This past week, Elvia's daughter Nicki graduated from high school. I drove up to Virginia. Another friend, once a single soldier in Germany many a year ago, drove out from Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Another couple, also from our Germany days, drove down from New Jersey. And still others, from Washington, DC. A few fellow graduates came over after graduation... The house was filled with people, each from distinctly different lives, backgrounds, cultures, ages, races, and professions -- rich with love and laughter.

I had not seen some of these dear people in nearly 12 years.

Two folding tables were erected in the living room for a celebratory spaghetti dinner and a good time was had by all... making memories.

And for a moment, I felt like I was home again...
But home, after all, is where the heart is.

"Home is a place not only of strong affections, but of entire unreserve; it is life's undress rehearsal, its backroom, its dressing room."

...Harriet Beecher Stowe

the graduate.

the graduate., originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

She did it! W00t!

Twenty years ago, I walked across the stage. Seems like a lifetime ago and I suppose it was. Two decades. Wow.

I can still recall the excitement of school being over, really over, and feeling as though I was finally an "adult" and the world was wide open...

Of course, we could barely stand for obligatory photographs what with the beach waiting and all. My best friend Karen and I climbed into my old 1980 CJ-7 Renegade with it's custom paint job and 35" tires and stole away into the night like giddy thieves barreling down the highway with the doors off, tossing our pantyhose out the windows. --The beginning of the rest of our lives.

This is yours Nicki and the world awaits brimming over with promise and dreams... Take advantage of every single moment; it will vanish in a blink.

I have no doubt that you will make your mark and the world will be all the better for having you. It's what you're made of.

I'm so proud of you! And I love you!

"The man who graduates today and stops learning tomorrow is uneducated the day after."

...Newton D. Baker

Gma & me.

Gma & me.
Originally uploaded by Luna Soledad

I miss my Grandma. Immensely. Terribly. I ache with missing her...

These days, if you're lucky, on a good day, you may still catch a glimpse of the truly remarkable and amazing woman that is my Grandma.

She turned 83 this year. Health problems are nothing new for the woman I once believed indestructible, however it is the absence from clarity of mind that is the most difficult to accept, at least for me.

Growing up next door, Grandma was my best friend. With an eighth grade education, she was still the strongest, wisest woman I knew. We gardened together, we planted, weeded, and harvested vegetables, fruits, and flowers. We shucked corn, shelled peas, and snapped beans. We fished together with cane poles and many a day would just cop-a-squat in the hot summer sun, bust open a watermelon and eat it right there in the middle of the dirt farm path with our hands.

I often spent the night at her house and went to bed wearing one of her lacy nylon or flannel gowns, smelling of Avon products. Right up into my teens, she would sing to me when I asked, a song she had learned as a girl, "Topsy Turvy Town" and I would drift off in utter bliss snuggled deep beneath layers of handmade quilts as Grandma lay beside me mumbling in her sleep.

Last week, we had a good visit. I took her fresh strawberries which she loves. She asked me several times where I got them and each time I told her the grocery store. Then she would offer them to me. Grandma, true to her nature, was never satisfied unless she shared what meager things she had and fed people.

She told me before I left that I should come stay with her when she got home. I told her I'd like that very much.

How I wish I could go back again, be that sun-kissed, long-legged blond little girl who went fishing with Grandma and went to bed smelling of Avon.

"And so our mothers and grandmothers have, more often than not anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the flower they themselves never hoped to see: or like a sealed letter they could not plainly read."

...Alice Walker, In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens (p. 240)

free yourself.

free yourself...
Originally uploaded by Luna Soledad

Thanks to incredible incompetence of AT&T, we had no Internet all weekend... and I lived to tell about it.

It's truly amazing how dependent we are upon technology these days.

I remember some of the very first personal "mobile phones," also known as bag phones because the portable phone and all of its required components filled up a big ole heavy bag larger than most purses (not that I had one, because who the heck could afford such a luxury!)... as compared to today's models which are smaller than a Pop Tart - and probably taste better too.

I also remember life before the Internet. (*Gasp!* Was there really such a thing?) Before personal computers and cable television...

What in the world did restless young souls do back then to fill our days you may ask?

We wrote letters, on paper and we passed notes in class, on paper. We made phone calls from home phones and talked for hours and our parents bitched about the high phone bills. We wrote our school papers neatly by hand or on typewriters if we had them and took Typing as an elective because it was a handy skill to have and it looked good on a resume. We ordered music through the postal mail from Columbia House on cassette. We watched TV but there were only three channels and we rented VHS movies at the country store. We checked the newspaper for movie showings and job listings. When we were out and needed to make a call, we used pay phones (can you believe it?!) and we had to actually memorize phone numbers, dozens of them. And if we were out and our car broke down, well, we just walked to the nearest house and used their phone to call for help. And we used maps to figure out where we were going. We rode around with strangers cruisin' Benson in fast cars and big trucks and drank bootleg liquor. We went skinny dipping in irrigation holes and four-wheeling on the tank trails at Fort Bragg. And yes, it's a wonder in Heaven no one ever grabbed us, did us harm, and buried in a corn field somewhere.

We didn't have cell phones and email addresses and Facebook, but somehow that never slowed us down.

I was 23 years old and married when I signed up for my first email account (and I still have it) and 25 when I bought my first personal computer for $500.00, used. And I was a 28 year old single mom when I got my first mobile phone.

It's impossible to imagine how different life would have been coming of age in the World Wide Web and difficult to envision life without it now...

And when Monday came, as it always does, I discovered after a weekend without the Internet, that not only had I survived, but I didn't miss a single thing.

"Information on the Internet is subject to the same rules and regulations as conversation at a bar."

...George Lundberg

once upon a prom.

Nicki & Jake., originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

This past weekend, I had the pleasure of photographing a beautiful, young couple on the eve of their senior prom: Nicki & her beau, Jake.

I've known Nicki since she was a sweet, pretty little girl stationed with her family in Kitzingen, Germany. Her family quickly became my family; her mother, a sister I never knew I had... My daughter, Isabel, the baby sister they always wanted.

I remember when Nicki first started kindergarten and how she used to race home in the afternoons and burst through the door bringing with her all the bubbly excitement of her day... Her love and enthusiasm was infectious. I remember how she would greet her little brothers and then run to see tiny Bella -- and I can still remember the melody of her angelic little-girl voice as she sang out sweetly, "Hi Isabel!"

Just outside of the front door to her home, I remember her mother had hung a decorative house that read, "Home is where the army sends us" and so true... though it's been many years and we've spent much of that time far apart, Nicki, her mom, dad, and brothers have remained family and even from a distance I've watched as she has blossomed into a beautiful, genuine young woman and her brothers, considerate and handsome young men.

But I will always remember Nicki as the kind, fresh-faced little girl who was always concerned for others and wanted little more than to see everyone around her happy.

And now she is a senior in high school, attending prom, and graduating next month to begin her own journey through life with the world at her fingertips and magic in her eyes...

And isn't she gorgeous?!!

Age is opportunity no less,
than youth itself, though in another dress.
And as the evening twilight fades away,
The sky is filled by the stars invisible by the day.

...Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Morituri Salutamus