I'm not sorry the air conditioner quit. I might be later, if it isn’t fixed before the weather warms up again. But having the windows open is a nice change. The wind is blowing in swooshy waves. I could even close my eyes and pretend it’s the ocean. If I open them and look outside, the cactus infested wilderness out back is shamrock green. And the temperature is cool enough that the humidity isn’t making me insane. I have always hated humidity, being from the desert. But now I’m thinking maybe the humidity might keep my zombie face from looking so much like craggy sandstone.
The TV is off, the house isn’t completely disgusting, and I’m still in my pajamas, revising chapter six of Reconstruction. I actually split chapter 6 and put part of it at the end of chapter 5, thinking maybe if I hide that part there, it won’t scream so loudly to be cleaned up. But that is another blog post altogether.
And of course if I’m revising, I’m also procrastinating, which means I’m writing blogs, reading blogs, scrolling through Twitter finding more blogs to subscribe to, and staring out the window thinking of all of the things I could blog about. Then I check Facebook, and Authonomy and Youwriteon, then back to the blog reader, email, other email, Facebook, Twitter, and around it goes, until I come across Thesaurus.com opened in a window, and I remember that I was actually stuck on word choice in Chapter 6.
It is a perfectly ordinary and relaxing Sunday afternoon, made extraordinary by open windows and a breeze.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
What Do You Like To Read?
I started thinking about publishing a novel just as the shift in the publishing industry began. Back then, the mid-list to which I aspired was shrinking and self-publishing was still taboo. The traditional publishing machine claimed that only those novels guaranteed to strike gold could make it through the gate-keepers because publishing houses could no longer afford to foster new or average selling authors. And I get that. Business is business.
But when I got over being a disappointed writer, I went back to being a reader, and I found myself disappointed there too. Am I alone in this? I have no interest in celebrity memoirs. I must be the only person not buying them. I know vampires and paranormal romances are everywhere you look. Dystopian, post-apocalyptic stories with zombies and teen angst are apparently the essential elements that catch the attention of an agent or publisher. But they don’t always catch my attention.
Oh, I’ve bought a few of them. Every once in a while I start thinking that I’m missing something, or the the hook really hooks me. But for the most part, I don't finish them. Not the memoirs, not the YA zombie romance. In fact, without strong recommendations from friends, I might have missed out on Hunger Games altogether because sometimes I get dystopian YA fatigue and I want something else.
I guess my reading tastes largely depend on what’s going on in my life. Two months ago, I wanted to read about rocky mother-daughter relationships and women who fought to overcome some adversity and found they were weaker and compromised for doing it. I would have turned up my nose at a happy ending.
Right now, I want to read a book about people whose dreams come true. I want to read about the rock band that makes it big. The writer whose book gets published and turned into a movie. I want to read about the model discovered while shopping in the mall. The girl who gets the guy.
I don’t care if those stories aren’t popular right now. Honestly, I don’t really care about typos or even unsophisticated use of language. I’m looking for the escape of a story that entertains me and gives me some satisfaction that I may or may not get in my real life. But I still want to be able to relate to some of the things I read. And my real life doesn’t involve being a hot teenager, or zombies.
I am so grateful for this shift in publishing. I’m grateful to goodreads.com and all of the writers on sites like authonomy.com and youwriteon.com. Now I have a better chance of finding something to read in a few minutes than I ever did after spending hours in a book store.
And thank you Amazon. Now I can wade through pages and pages of books to find something I like rather than have my tastes dictated to me, or worse, just lose the desire to read altogether.
My questions for anyone reading this:
• What do you want to read?
• Do you have a hard time finding good books?
But when I got over being a disappointed writer, I went back to being a reader, and I found myself disappointed there too. Am I alone in this? I have no interest in celebrity memoirs. I must be the only person not buying them. I know vampires and paranormal romances are everywhere you look. Dystopian, post-apocalyptic stories with zombies and teen angst are apparently the essential elements that catch the attention of an agent or publisher. But they don’t always catch my attention.
Oh, I’ve bought a few of them. Every once in a while I start thinking that I’m missing something, or the the hook really hooks me. But for the most part, I don't finish them. Not the memoirs, not the YA zombie romance. In fact, without strong recommendations from friends, I might have missed out on Hunger Games altogether because sometimes I get dystopian YA fatigue and I want something else.
I guess my reading tastes largely depend on what’s going on in my life. Two months ago, I wanted to read about rocky mother-daughter relationships and women who fought to overcome some adversity and found they were weaker and compromised for doing it. I would have turned up my nose at a happy ending.
Right now, I want to read a book about people whose dreams come true. I want to read about the rock band that makes it big. The writer whose book gets published and turned into a movie. I want to read about the model discovered while shopping in the mall. The girl who gets the guy.
I don’t care if those stories aren’t popular right now. Honestly, I don’t really care about typos or even unsophisticated use of language. I’m looking for the escape of a story that entertains me and gives me some satisfaction that I may or may not get in my real life. But I still want to be able to relate to some of the things I read. And my real life doesn’t involve being a hot teenager, or zombies.
I am so grateful for this shift in publishing. I’m grateful to goodreads.com and all of the writers on sites like authonomy.com and youwriteon.com. Now I have a better chance of finding something to read in a few minutes than I ever did after spending hours in a book store.
And thank you Amazon. Now I can wade through pages and pages of books to find something I like rather than have my tastes dictated to me, or worse, just lose the desire to read altogether.
My questions for anyone reading this:
• What do you want to read?
• Do you have a hard time finding good books?
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Zombified Version of My Old Self
So this is what it’s like? I mean, I knew I was getting old. I’ll be 40 in a few years. And I have gray hair that I don’t have time to keep covered. But I’ve always just joked about it and blamed my kids.
Besides, in my lifetime, I would estimate an 80 to 20 ratio of days that I hate the way I look to days that I’m not that worried about it. This is to say that vanity hasn’t been a real concern for me. In fact I’ve said more than once that being cute isn’t my specialty. I always wanted to be the smart one, yes I know… aka the annoying know-it-all. Well I had to be that. I grew up with five female cousins living across the street from me. They all had their own brand of beauty, but I was the too-tall skinny mousy one. Vanity, not a luxury in which I’ve ever dared to indulge. I didn’t think.
But starting this new job has somehow brought my age into focus. And not just because a co-worker made a joke about it, or because my boss looked at my gray hair and then called me “young lady.” (In fairness to him, I might have imagined that.) But it suddenly got real driving home that first day when I pulled down the vanity mirror in my car. What I saw looked like someone used the Age My Face app on me. And since that moment, I have been walking around painfully embarrassed for anyone to look at me when I look like this.
I’m still hoping it’s just stress and exhaustion from the job change. Evidence in support of that hope: I’ve been getting up early, commuting an hour each way, and spending all day trying to accomplish work in a place where I can’t do a single thing by myself without needing to ask a dozen questions. I’m exhausted and my eyes burn like crazy from being wide-eyed and overwhelmed.
The alternative to blaming the new job is to believe that I really do look like a slightly zombified version of my old self, and that I have all along. And if that’s the case, why the hell didn’t someone tell me? I could have gotten treatment sooner. (And, oh yes, I will get treatment… if I can afford it.)
Or maybe, two weeks ago, I didn’t care. And maybe, by tomorrow, I’ll be over this insecurity. That would be a lot less expensive. And, really, being cute isn’t something I’ve ever been good at. So what if I’m not just plain, but old too? I mean, if I can’t be Halle Berry, what’s the point?
Of course, the next blog post will be over my insecurities about my intelligence and then probably there will be another one over my social skills. There is always material for introspection there. This new job is making me take a hard look at myself from a lot of different angles. And I guess that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It might be painful, but it’ll probably be healthy in the end.
Besides, in my lifetime, I would estimate an 80 to 20 ratio of days that I hate the way I look to days that I’m not that worried about it. This is to say that vanity hasn’t been a real concern for me. In fact I’ve said more than once that being cute isn’t my specialty. I always wanted to be the smart one, yes I know… aka the annoying know-it-all. Well I had to be that. I grew up with five female cousins living across the street from me. They all had their own brand of beauty, but I was the too-tall skinny mousy one. Vanity, not a luxury in which I’ve ever dared to indulge. I didn’t think.
But starting this new job has somehow brought my age into focus. And not just because a co-worker made a joke about it, or because my boss looked at my gray hair and then called me “young lady.” (In fairness to him, I might have imagined that.) But it suddenly got real driving home that first day when I pulled down the vanity mirror in my car. What I saw looked like someone used the Age My Face app on me. And since that moment, I have been walking around painfully embarrassed for anyone to look at me when I look like this.
I’m still hoping it’s just stress and exhaustion from the job change. Evidence in support of that hope: I’ve been getting up early, commuting an hour each way, and spending all day trying to accomplish work in a place where I can’t do a single thing by myself without needing to ask a dozen questions. I’m exhausted and my eyes burn like crazy from being wide-eyed and overwhelmed.
The alternative to blaming the new job is to believe that I really do look like a slightly zombified version of my old self, and that I have all along. And if that’s the case, why the hell didn’t someone tell me? I could have gotten treatment sooner. (And, oh yes, I will get treatment… if I can afford it.)
Or maybe, two weeks ago, I didn’t care. And maybe, by tomorrow, I’ll be over this insecurity. That would be a lot less expensive. And, really, being cute isn’t something I’ve ever been good at. So what if I’m not just plain, but old too? I mean, if I can’t be Halle Berry, what’s the point?
Of course, the next blog post will be over my insecurities about my intelligence and then probably there will be another one over my social skills. There is always material for introspection there. This new job is making me take a hard look at myself from a lot of different angles. And I guess that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It might be painful, but it’ll probably be healthy in the end.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Glitter Band Aid
I just looked up and saw a picture of Jordan in its frame. This picture, a Christmas picture, was taken while she was in daycare, when she was about three years old. She’s holding a fake present and her wispy little-girl hair is up in the ponytail that I kept on top of her head. You see I was adamant that she would not have bangs. That was very important to me at the time. Who even knows why? Some childhood anger I had at my mom for cutting my own bangs, maybe?
Apparently what wasn’t important to me was to get the ponytail straight, or to get all of her hair into it. Or maybe, the pictures were taken after she had been at daycare for a while, and some Baylor student/daycare-teacher had redone her hair. A college co-ed who wouldn’t put the same love and care into my child’s ponytail as I would. How could she understand that 15 years later, I’d still be looking at that picture, when it would remind me of just how much we have changed, and accomplished, in this long strange trip.
But the truth is, I probably wouldn’t have put much more effort into her hair than that Baylor student. Because, I was probably younger than that student at the time. I probably didn’t understand the lasting importance of that picture any more than she did. And, honestly, I couldn’t get that wispy hair to stay put, no matter how hard I tried. I didn’t learn about gel and hair-wax until the gymnastics years.
But the real reason I know I wouldn’t have been so particular with her hair is because the thing that caught my eye about that picture just now is the glittery band aid that I used to hold it in place in the frame. I guess I was out of tape. Well the band aid didn’t hold up. Fifteen years later, the picture, and the band aid, have both slipped.
A band aid? What in the world was I thinking? I was just a kid, and a late bloomer at that. Just making do. It’s a miracle we survived at all. But we did. And I have to say, we both turned out to be very creative problem solvers.
I guess I need to replace that band aid and fix that picture at some point. But first, I’m going to take a digital picture of it. Because, in fifteen years, I might look back on this day and wonder what in the world I was thinking, “fixing” something that was just fine as it was, an artifact that tells a much truer story than the staged Christmas scene in the actual picture.
Apparently what wasn’t important to me was to get the ponytail straight, or to get all of her hair into it. Or maybe, the pictures were taken after she had been at daycare for a while, and some Baylor student/daycare-teacher had redone her hair. A college co-ed who wouldn’t put the same love and care into my child’s ponytail as I would. How could she understand that 15 years later, I’d still be looking at that picture, when it would remind me of just how much we have changed, and accomplished, in this long strange trip.
But the truth is, I probably wouldn’t have put much more effort into her hair than that Baylor student. Because, I was probably younger than that student at the time. I probably didn’t understand the lasting importance of that picture any more than she did. And, honestly, I couldn’t get that wispy hair to stay put, no matter how hard I tried. I didn’t learn about gel and hair-wax until the gymnastics years.
But the real reason I know I wouldn’t have been so particular with her hair is because the thing that caught my eye about that picture just now is the glittery band aid that I used to hold it in place in the frame. I guess I was out of tape. Well the band aid didn’t hold up. Fifteen years later, the picture, and the band aid, have both slipped.
A band aid? What in the world was I thinking? I was just a kid, and a late bloomer at that. Just making do. It’s a miracle we survived at all. But we did. And I have to say, we both turned out to be very creative problem solvers.
I guess I need to replace that band aid and fix that picture at some point. But first, I’m going to take a digital picture of it. Because, in fifteen years, I might look back on this day and wonder what in the world I was thinking, “fixing” something that was just fine as it was, an artifact that tells a much truer story than the staged Christmas scene in the actual picture.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Wireless = Chicken Foot
Wireless networking is enough to drive a person to superstition. It never fails that I have a board room full of people and the computer screen projected on a wall when someone decides at the last minute that they need a document off the network. Should be no problem, especially for someone who has as much experience and knowledge as I have with networking. I mean I truly, fully, graphically understand how wireless is supposed to work.
But for some reason, only in board meetings, I cannot connect. And with the whole world watching, I cannot run to the my office to troubleshoot. So I am powerless.
And that is where the superstition comes in. What did I do wrong? Was I wearing these shoes the last time this happened? Is it because I don’t have on my lucky bracelet? OOOOH That is blasphemy. That is why I’m being punished. Or, did my mind wander during invocation? Am I even being punished? Am I supposed to learn something from this humiliation? Why did I choose this field? Why was I ever born? What is the meaning of life?
Honestly, at times like this, if you told me that waving a chicken foot over that laptop would fix it, I would be terribly tempted to try it.
You see?
Wireless = Chicken Foot
But for some reason, only in board meetings, I cannot connect. And with the whole world watching, I cannot run to the my office to troubleshoot. So I am powerless.
And that is where the superstition comes in. What did I do wrong? Was I wearing these shoes the last time this happened? Is it because I don’t have on my lucky bracelet? OOOOH That is blasphemy. That is why I’m being punished. Or, did my mind wander during invocation? Am I even being punished? Am I supposed to learn something from this humiliation? Why did I choose this field? Why was I ever born? What is the meaning of life?
Honestly, at times like this, if you told me that waving a chicken foot over that laptop would fix it, I would be terribly tempted to try it.
You see?
Wireless = Chicken Foot
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Good, Bad and OMG!
Who am I? Okay, I know the answer to that. I spend a lot of time thinking about who I want to be, and a lot of time taking actions that move me in that direction. So why the question: Who am I? A phone call from an old friend reminded me of the decisions I made back when we were close. It reminded me of the way I thought at that time and what I thought was important.
When I look at my life in its entirety, it’s dizzying. I’m sure this can’t be healthy, because when I think back to the person I was, I cannot reconcile that person with the person I am now. And how I came to be here, at this age, in this life, with these people is bizarre to me. I imagine an amnesiac coming home from the hospital after a head injury trying to remember the threads and stories tied to the people and places and things in her life.
In this present tense, I am a relatively content, self-sufficient human being. Hopefully I give more to society than I take. I am a reluctant leader. I don’t trust myself, but a lot of people depend on me for a lot of things and I do everything I can to keep from letting them down. I believe in doing what’s right, even when it’s inconvenient, even if it’s difficult, even if it costs you personally. That is the easy part. Figuring out what is right is the most difficult. Finding it buried under all of the “I wants” and “I don’t wants” is a chore.
I know that sometimes you have to speak up and lead. And sometimes you have to shut up and follow. And usually, when you most need to do one of these, it’s when you really don’t want to.
I don’t believe in zero-sum solutions. I don’t believe that if I’m smart, you must be stupid. I don’t believe that if you’re successful, I’m a failure. And I don’t think that there is a prize for identifying the shortcomings of others. I have learned that there is no us vs. them. I like people. I like win-win solutions and the creative process that finds them.
I like quiet enjoyment. I’m not a thrill seeker. And if you saw me screaming on those roller-coasters last Sunday, well, inside, I was quietly enjoying the view. Raising my hands and marveling at the sensation. Melding myself into the turns and rolls, smoothing them out. And if you were there and you thought my screams had a note of falsehood, they did. When I yelled out, it was calculated. I decided to do it to see how it would feel.
I have a collection of amazing people in my life. They make me better at being a human.
I believe that human touch has healing powers.
I am a hard person. I speak harshly. I am intolerant of many things, like mediocrity. But I saw a WWJD bracelet about five years ago, and it changed the way I look at the world. There is beauty in grace. And we all need grace. Especially me.
Because I started living too soon. Or maybe it was too late. I was taking action before I was fully awake. I made horrible childish mistakes at adult games. And my self-recrimination stops as I remember that I was too young to be playing those games in the first place. The person I was would sacrifice my entire future for a moment. Not for the thrill of the moment, but for a moment of approval or acceptance. The person I was made herself invisible and worked off the radar to get her emotional needs met. No values of my own. Nothing so sacred or personal that I wouldn’t give it up for someone else. I adapted myself to whatever the situation or person in front of me called for. Weak. Desperate. Small.
So how did I get to be the obnoxious independent thinking person that I am today? I’m not sure it’s something that can be fully understood. Somebody gave me the tools, many somebodies gave me many tools along the way. But I really decided, fully committed to using these tools when I became a mother. I was sick of heartache by then. Sick of the heartache that comes with bad decisions. And then I had someone in my life that I valued. I didn’t think enough of myself to set boundaries, but I thought enough of her to go to bloody battle with anyone who would tread on her.
And I thank God every day for giving me the will to live. Not just exist, but to live. She is sixteen now, and she is everything that goes with that. Good, bad and OMG! I’m not the best parent. All parents lack objectivity, but sometimes I examine her with glittering fascination. She reads. She drives. She rolls her eyes. I am amazed that we made it this far. She’s almost a fully formed human being.
Her name is the same as the river of Jesus' baptism. The popular definition of her name is “downflowing” as it relates to water, and maybe that is also fitting. But her name truly means “descendent of the tribe of Dan,” and Dan’s name means “God is my judge.”
When I look at my life in its entirety, it’s dizzying. I’m sure this can’t be healthy, because when I think back to the person I was, I cannot reconcile that person with the person I am now. And how I came to be here, at this age, in this life, with these people is bizarre to me. I imagine an amnesiac coming home from the hospital after a head injury trying to remember the threads and stories tied to the people and places and things in her life.
In this present tense, I am a relatively content, self-sufficient human being. Hopefully I give more to society than I take. I am a reluctant leader. I don’t trust myself, but a lot of people depend on me for a lot of things and I do everything I can to keep from letting them down. I believe in doing what’s right, even when it’s inconvenient, even if it’s difficult, even if it costs you personally. That is the easy part. Figuring out what is right is the most difficult. Finding it buried under all of the “I wants” and “I don’t wants” is a chore.
I know that sometimes you have to speak up and lead. And sometimes you have to shut up and follow. And usually, when you most need to do one of these, it’s when you really don’t want to.
I don’t believe in zero-sum solutions. I don’t believe that if I’m smart, you must be stupid. I don’t believe that if you’re successful, I’m a failure. And I don’t think that there is a prize for identifying the shortcomings of others. I have learned that there is no us vs. them. I like people. I like win-win solutions and the creative process that finds them.
I like quiet enjoyment. I’m not a thrill seeker. And if you saw me screaming on those roller-coasters last Sunday, well, inside, I was quietly enjoying the view. Raising my hands and marveling at the sensation. Melding myself into the turns and rolls, smoothing them out. And if you were there and you thought my screams had a note of falsehood, they did. When I yelled out, it was calculated. I decided to do it to see how it would feel.
I have a collection of amazing people in my life. They make me better at being a human.
I believe that human touch has healing powers.
I am a hard person. I speak harshly. I am intolerant of many things, like mediocrity. But I saw a WWJD bracelet about five years ago, and it changed the way I look at the world. There is beauty in grace. And we all need grace. Especially me.
Because I started living too soon. Or maybe it was too late. I was taking action before I was fully awake. I made horrible childish mistakes at adult games. And my self-recrimination stops as I remember that I was too young to be playing those games in the first place. The person I was would sacrifice my entire future for a moment. Not for the thrill of the moment, but for a moment of approval or acceptance. The person I was made herself invisible and worked off the radar to get her emotional needs met. No values of my own. Nothing so sacred or personal that I wouldn’t give it up for someone else. I adapted myself to whatever the situation or person in front of me called for. Weak. Desperate. Small.
So how did I get to be the obnoxious independent thinking person that I am today? I’m not sure it’s something that can be fully understood. Somebody gave me the tools, many somebodies gave me many tools along the way. But I really decided, fully committed to using these tools when I became a mother. I was sick of heartache by then. Sick of the heartache that comes with bad decisions. And then I had someone in my life that I valued. I didn’t think enough of myself to set boundaries, but I thought enough of her to go to bloody battle with anyone who would tread on her.
And I thank God every day for giving me the will to live. Not just exist, but to live. She is sixteen now, and she is everything that goes with that. Good, bad and OMG! I’m not the best parent. All parents lack objectivity, but sometimes I examine her with glittering fascination. She reads. She drives. She rolls her eyes. I am amazed that we made it this far. She’s almost a fully formed human being.
Her name is the same as the river of Jesus' baptism. The popular definition of her name is “downflowing” as it relates to water, and maybe that is also fitting. But her name truly means “descendent of the tribe of Dan,” and Dan’s name means “God is my judge.”
Monday, August 30, 2010
Park Road 4
No one can drive down Park Road 4 without counting their blessings. I defy them. I know it looks like an anonymous turn off of Highway 281. And the first stretch might mislead you into thinking it’s just a paved path to take you wherever you’re going. Even as you pass Longhorn Cavern, you might still be preoccupied enough to take this place for granted.
And maybe it’s best if you are lulled and unsuspecting when you come to that first hill. Then it really gets you in pit of your belly. Your car tilts down and you have to lift your head to see forward. But you can’t really see forward, you can only see the almost vertical up-stretch of blacktop that is the other side of the hill. The trees block the rest of the road from view. And while you crane your neck, watching for oncoming cars, your stomach floats up into your chest. And before you know it you are tilting your head down, trying to see over the hood of your car, and you stomach is being pulled down toward your seat. Then whoosh, it’s over.
And what makes this road better than any other tickle-belly hill from my childhood is that, on Park Road 4, there’s another hill coming, just as steep as the first. And then there’s a third that’s almost as exciting that follows right after that. And if you’re really blessed, you’ll have two ten-year-old boys in the back seat yelling “Faster! Faster!” But you don’t really have to go faster. The hills will still give their thrill at a safe speed.
And once you’re past those hills and smiling in that homemade ice-cream and lemonade frame of mind, there’s a majestic castle that comes into view just long enough to amaze you all over again. No matter how many times you’ve seen it, you still come to that one point in the road where it’s rising out of the greenery and looming against the blue sky. Then it disappears again, and you can only catch glimpses of it through the trees.
But the little guys in the back won’t let you work very hard to get another look at the castle. “Wow! Mom, look at that.” You turn and sloping down to the left are soft rolling hills framed by the bristly cedar and oak that line the roads. And you feel like you’re landing an airplane when you slide down and around the hill and the view collapses slowly and drags out behind you.
So if you just happen to be taking Park Road 4 to meet the very best friends you have for a birthday party to celebrate one of the most amazing kids you know, well, just be sure you can handle that kind of bliss. It is exquisite.
And maybe it’s best if you are lulled and unsuspecting when you come to that first hill. Then it really gets you in pit of your belly. Your car tilts down and you have to lift your head to see forward. But you can’t really see forward, you can only see the almost vertical up-stretch of blacktop that is the other side of the hill. The trees block the rest of the road from view. And while you crane your neck, watching for oncoming cars, your stomach floats up into your chest. And before you know it you are tilting your head down, trying to see over the hood of your car, and you stomach is being pulled down toward your seat. Then whoosh, it’s over.
And what makes this road better than any other tickle-belly hill from my childhood is that, on Park Road 4, there’s another hill coming, just as steep as the first. And then there’s a third that’s almost as exciting that follows right after that. And if you’re really blessed, you’ll have two ten-year-old boys in the back seat yelling “Faster! Faster!” But you don’t really have to go faster. The hills will still give their thrill at a safe speed.
And once you’re past those hills and smiling in that homemade ice-cream and lemonade frame of mind, there’s a majestic castle that comes into view just long enough to amaze you all over again. No matter how many times you’ve seen it, you still come to that one point in the road where it’s rising out of the greenery and looming against the blue sky. Then it disappears again, and you can only catch glimpses of it through the trees.
But the little guys in the back won’t let you work very hard to get another look at the castle. “Wow! Mom, look at that.” You turn and sloping down to the left are soft rolling hills framed by the bristly cedar and oak that line the roads. And you feel like you’re landing an airplane when you slide down and around the hill and the view collapses slowly and drags out behind you.
So if you just happen to be taking Park Road 4 to meet the very best friends you have for a birthday party to celebrate one of the most amazing kids you know, well, just be sure you can handle that kind of bliss. It is exquisite.
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