Moving On...

Doug and I moved into our first home on August 8, 2008. It was new construction, so everything was shiny and new—the rooms smelled pungently of new paint and new carpet and the hardwood floors were scuff-free. It wasn't a significant amount of space, but it was enough for us and our cats.

New adventures await us in Seattle, but I've realized that the townhome in Raleigh wasn't just our first home, it was a house-shaped box of memories from the past five years. We were rock stars in our living room, sometimes hockey fans, and amateur connoisseurs of art and live theater. We entertained friends and family from South Carolina, North Carolina, and even Washington state and Canada. We embraced Southern culture, and we played in the snow. I married my best friend on a humid day in October 2009. But even as a writer, I understand that some things are better expressed visually, so below is a collection of a few bright moments from the past five years—time spent with friends, family, and each other in our townhome and in Raleigh, North Carolina.

Farewell, and thanks for the memories.

The Luck of the Three-Legged Chilean Pig

So finally, Doug and I have returned from our two-week excursion to the West Coast, and we had a great trip. We spent Christmas with my Canadian family in the Vancouver, British Columbia, area, visited my mom briefly in Bellingham, Washington, and then drove down to Seattle for some apartment hunting and New Year's fun.

Apartment hunting? This may be news to some, but to make it official, we have decided to pack up our belongings and make the big move to (or, in my case, back to) the Pacific Northwest. Not that we aren't happy in Raleigh, but a lot of personal decisions concerning job prospects and the possibility of a future baby Greene all play a role, along with the appealing idea that we can finally experience four real seasons instead of the South's seasons: lukewarm, warm, hot, and really freaking hot. Wait. You say it rains in Seattle? It does rain a lot—in November and December. Actually Washington, D.C., and New York have higher annual rainfall averages. And contrary to popular belief, it hardly ever snows. I'm definitely looking forward to camping, swimming, biking, and hiking in the 75-degree-July summers once again. We don't want to live in the city, but comfortable suburbia appeals to us, so we had our sights set east of  Lake Washington in Kirkland, Redmond, Bellevue, or Issaquah.

With this in mind, I had a lot riding on our New Year's visit to Seattle. Doug's only been to Seattle once, and it was a brief and wet experience, so I wanted him to see the Pacific Northwest with my eyes this time and understand why and just how much I am in love with that part of the country.

Legendary Chocolate Chip Cookie

Initially, Seattle disappointed me with a steady downpour the first night we arrived. My friend Corrie, who we were staying with, was nice enough to take us downtown, and we explored Pike Place Market, Pioneer Square, and a few shopping areas, and purchased a cookie the size of my head (pictured right). We had fun, but I really wanted the next day—our day to apartment scout—to exclude galoshes and umbrellas and the ever-present steely gray hue that overshadows everything in the rain. And then our luck changed. While exploring downtown, Corrie took us to the Seattle Art Museum's gift shop, and that's where I found the little three-legged Chilean pig. Three-legged pigs, called chanchitos, are apparently very good luck in Chili, and I thought we could use a little extra boost of fortune, so I bought the little guy; Doug named him Churro.

Our Three-Legged Chilean Pig, Churro

And the next day, Churro rode shotgun with us to find our new future home, and he gave us some sun and a fantastic taste of suburban Seattle. Driving across the bridge over Lake Washington, we could see snowy peaks to the north and south, and a veritable wall of evergreens rose to meet us on the other side. We visited apartments and shopping centers nestled in the trees with perfect, rugged mountain backdrops. And thankfully, on the practical side of our search, we also found reasonable rent prices and discovered the wonders of Seattle public transit.

At the end of the day, we enthusiastically chose Redmond and Issaquah as our top favorite living locations, although many decisions will depend on where Doug finds his new job. But we had a great visit, and it made us hopeful for the future. Thanks Churro!

Baby Logan's First Party

Caroline and I before the shower

This past weekend I attended my sister-in-law's baby shower—the first party for my highly anticipated nephew. To be honest, Caroline and her husband (Doug's brother) are still "undecided" on the baby's name, but they are leaning towards Logan, which I love.

I was amazed at the large turnout for the event and the incredible generosity of Caroline's friends and family, who truly showered her with an overwhelming amount of baby gifts. The party was held in a beautiful homey Southern ranch house venue, and Caroline's aunt, who hosted the event, decorated the space with a Noah's Ark theme, which is how Caroline is decorating Logan's nursery.

Children aren't really my thing, and I suppose I've always preferred baby animals to baby humans. Actually, I'm a little nervous around babies (those little fingers and toes are fragile!). I'm not the type of person who swoons over newborns or entertains toddlers with games of peek-a-boo. I have limited experience with little people, so to speak, since I was the youngest of my step and half siblings and never babysat when I was a teenager. But when my oldest step brother had his two children, I started to warm up to the idea of being an aunt. The first toy that I sent Cameron after I moved to South Carolina was a plush white tiger. He named it Mow (Mah-ow), which is how he pronounced meow when he was a baby, and my brother said he carried it everywhere and told anyone who would listen that it was a gift from his Auntie Sara. What a heart-warming anecdote, right? Now, I love picking out Harry Potter LEGOs for Cameron and buying Natalie pink kitten-adorned pajamas—all of which I would have adored when I was a little girl.

And now, with baby Logan on the way, Doug and I spent the past six months collecting the perfect tiny overalls, onesies, and footie pajamas that would fit Kyle and Caroline's personalities. I'm hoping that child #2 is a girl so we can do the same with Hello Kitty shirts and pretty pink dresses. Although I've never been in a hurry to have children, my husband and I are beginning to think that maybe a little one in our distant future wouldn't be so bad.

Below are some pictures from the weekend taken with my amateur photography skills.

Hello, Autumn

Last Friday was the first day of fall, my favorite time of year. Most of you know that I love Halloween more than any other holiday, and not just because my birthday is November 1, though I suppose that might have something to do with it—I did celebrate a lot of Halloween-themed birthday parties growing up.

The wicked, warty witch of the west

From as early as I can remember, my mom, with her amazing crafting skills, would design a new costume for me every year with her creative flair and a sewing machine. In August or September, we would make a trip to the fabric store where I would pick out material for my next elaborate costume. Without fail, by the evening of October 31, I was unrecognizable as Sara, my outfit perfected down to the last detail—from the layer of shimmery fabric sewn to my cloak to the silver kitty cat collar (I was a witch cat that year, and, yes, she even sewed ears onto the brim of my pointed hat). But my favorite part was the face painting. With a few agile brush strokes of makeup, my mom, the talented painter, transformed my face into a feline masterpiece; she even used a photo of our cat, Ginger, for comparison. Over the course of many Halloweens, I was a warty, wicked witch, a gray tabby cat, a pirate, a Siberian tiger, a cow complete with a rubber utter, a black cat, and a Shadowen, which is a sinister character from a Terry Brooks novel that some might compare to a Harry Potter Dementor or a Lord of the Rings Nazgûl.

Autumn with my mom then

Autumn with my mom now

I love fall in Washington. Some might consider it a gloomy time of year, but I anticipate the chilly weather and the contrast of fire red maple leaves against a steel gray sky. Sweaters, hoodies, and boots are my favorite. Store shelves fill with over-sized bags of individually wrapped treats. Animatronic, cackling witches and howling ghosts with glowing eyes startle shoppers. The air smells vaguely of pumpkin spice, apple cider, and cinnamon. And, of course, visits to pumpkin patches, haunted houses, corn mazes, and hay rides are in order. Having lived in the Carolinas for almost nine years, one of the least appealing aspects of this area is the short fall season. We get the occasional "hoodie weather" (as my husband calls it) off and on throughout much of October and November, but the temperature tends to yo-yo back to 80 degrees more often than not until December. However, that's never stopped me from decorating when my favorite season officially begins—I still feel like a giddy child this time of year. So, I normally wait until the first weekend in October to lug all the Halloween and fall paraphernalia from the attic, but last weekend my husband's parents came to visit for the weekend, so I decided to decorate a little early and bake a few goodies for the occasion.

Pumpkin hunting at Logan's

We had a wonderful visit with the in-laws, including a trip to Logan's Trading Co. in downtown Raleigh, where we ate lunch at the Seaboard Café and browsed the beautiful selection of flowers and pumpkins, and an all-day shopping marathon. We also stopped by Gigi's Cupcakes for an afternoon indulgence. Below is a slide-show of our house, now thoroughly decorated for autumn and Halloween, as well as a few photos from our weekend adventure. Enjoy!

Team Edward, Most Definitely

I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm a fan of the Twilight series, which is probably unusual as most English majors consider it popular, mediocre teen romance fiction. But this series is one of my "girly" guilty pleasures (along with "Dawson's Creek" and the odd Lifetime movie). I know some who believe that Bella is a very weak female character, but I relate to her very well. After all, most of  you would agree that I am a pale, awkward, clumsy, yet responsible, romantic from Washington state. However, everyone is entitled to their own opinions, and I'm not writing this post to instigate literary analysis on Bella as an anti-feminist heroine. No, instead I wanted to share with my pro-twilight friends the new trailer released today for "Breaking Dawn: Part 1," which comes out in November.

Did you get chills? I certainly did. I will make the cliché statement that the books are better than the movies; however, I have a lot of faith in the series' new director Bill Condon—we can only hope that  he does justice to the conclusion of Bella and Edward's story.

Meeting Mr. Brooks

Terry Brooks has been my idol since I was 13 years old. It's true that the person who actually sparked my interested in writing at a very young age was Ursula K. Le Guin, who is most noted for her fantasy fiction. I read book one and two of her "Catwings" series in elementary school (which, yes, are indeed about the fantastic adventures of winged felines) and was instantly inspired to write the third book. I penciled out about six pages (front and back) on wide-ruled paper in my over-sized child's handwriting before I was distracted from the project, but I think that's pretty good for an eight year old.

Yet, when I was 12 or 13, my mom began to read me Terry Brooks' "The Sword of Shannara." I was skeptical at first since the novel is more than 700 pages, but my mom assured me that I wouldn't notice the page count once I was immersed in the story, and boy was she right. "The Sword of Shannara" is the tale of unlikely hero Shea Ohmsford and his brave companions who undertake the considerable task of defeating Brona, the evil warlock lord. It's truly a fantasy adventure in the same vein as J. R. R. Tolkien, and equally as impressive, in my humble opinion. By the time my mom had read about 100 pages, I decided that I couldn't wait until bedtime every night to hear the next part of the story, so I began to read it on my own, and that began an entire summer of reading. I tore eagerly through "The Sword of Shannara" and then moved on to "The Elfstones or Shannara," "The Wishsong of Shannara," and The Heritage of Shannara tetralogy. And, much to my dismay, at the time, that was the end of Shannara, but Terry Brooks had earned his place as my favorite author. He became the reason that I wanted to write. Cinema incites laughter, sadness, horror, and shock with a visual and auditory montage of talented actors, special effects, and music. But when writers can trigger the same emotional response from their audience with nothing but words, well that's incredible talent. Terry Brooks did that for me, and I wanted to be just like him. And even now, 22 years later, I still consider him one of my biggest writing influences, despite the fact that I never became the famous fantasy author that 13-year-old Sara wanted to be when she grew up (though, I suppose there is still time). Overall, I did tackle an impressive 30 books that summer, and I also delved into the worlds of David Eddings, Raymond E. Feist, and Robert Jordon, all of whom remain on my top ten list of favorite authors.

Mr. Brooks entertaining the crowd.

But moving on to the present. I follow Terry Brooks' website regularly and always keep an eye on his "events" page. Typically, Mr. Brooks undertakes a book signing tour beginning in August or September after the release of his latest masterpiece, and this year was no exception. (Yes, he releases a well-written, well-edited book once a year, without fail—imagine if all authors could perform such a feat?) Lately he has discussed touring less and writing more, which is a wonderful idea, but it also means that in-person book signings will be a rarer occurrence. Now, I've actually been to three other Terry Brooks events, but the last time I saw him was in 2003, and I didn't want to miss the chance to see him one more time. On Wednesday, Mr. Brooks visited Quailridge Books in Raleigh to promote his latest release in the Shannara series, so Doug and I drove to the bookstore that night.

I should take a moment to brag about my wonderful husband, who not only lugged around my bag of thirteen 300-to-400-page hard cover novels and took pictures of the event, but also waited in line with me for an hour and a half so that I could speak with Mr. Brooks and have my books signed.

Mr. Books and I

The event was as wonderful as ever, with a moderate, yet polite crowd, and we got to speak with Mr. Brooks about previous novels and characters, his future projects, and even a possible movie deal on the horizon. Although I've met Mr. Brooks before, I'm always impressed with the time and effort he puts into his signings. He reads from his latest novel or one that's forthcoming, has a causal Q&A session with the crowd, and gives each fan an individualized, personalized experience during the actual book signing. And despite catching a plane to Boston the next day, he didn't limit his time, which seems unusual in the fast-paced, impersonal business world. Sometimes I wish everyone appreciated Mr. Brooks the way I do, but I suppose it would be difficult for him to take on such a laid-back, intimate persona with the public if he had legions of teenage fans like Stephanie Meyer or J. K. Rowling.

If you're interested in Mr. Brooks' work, please visit his website.

It's the End of the World as We Know It

Last week, seemed like the end of the world in North Carolina. We felt the vague tremble of the 5.8 earthquake that shook Virginia, and then last weekend we survived the "fury" of Hurricane Irene. But I'm not really intimidated by "nasty weather," a fact that seems to frustrate my husband when I run eagerly to our porch to experience the spectacle of a passing thunderstorm. Not that these natural events aren't cause for alarm, but to me the idea of a zombie apocalypse is much scarier—at least being struck by lightning or blown away by a tornado is part of natural selection and not some man-made, manufactured virus that escaped a government lab via incompetent, infected technicians.

Image Credit: photo2.si.edu/earthquakes

Image Credit: www.sanfranciscosentinel.com

But back on topic, past experiences probably should have made me more apprehensive of natural disasters. Being from the West Coast, we didn't get much in the way of tornadoes or hurricanes, but earthquakes were a fairly common occurrence. Growing up in Bellingham, Washington, we just had little ones hardly worth mentioning. But it was a different story down south in California. In 1989, when I was eight years old, the Loma Prieta earthquake shook the ground of the San Fransisco Bay area, where my aunt, cousins, and grandparents lived, and phone communication was inaccessible because of the disaster. My mom and I camped out in the living room—on a school night, no less—with the telephone close by, waiting anxiously for word that our family was safe. The news stations highlighted the damage done by the 6.9-magnitude-quake, and I remember seeing endless footage of the Oakland Bay Bridge, which had collapsed on itself in the middle of rush-hour traffic. How horrifying it must be to have your mundane drive home from work interrupted by the tremble of an earthquake while the bridge beneath you violently collapses. And what about the poor people on the underpass below? Only those fortunate enough to star in a John Cusack or Nicholas Cage action flick would escape that awful scenario unscathed. But after a sleepless night, we did eventually reach my aunt, and everyone was shaken up (no pun intended), but safe. I'll never forget the nervous fear I felt while waiting on that news.

Of course, that wasn't a first-hand experience. A year later I had one of those. Most Southerners assume that the Pacific Northwest's climate is similar to that of the Northeast Coast, but the cold months are actually fairly mild most of the time, with few days of snow, if any. However, 1990 was an usually harsh winter in Western Washington. And despite the fact that a nor'easter was headed our way, my elementary school insisted on holding the annual Christmas assembly. But I wasn't focused on the incoming storm. No, this was the first year that I would get to be one of the "star" vocalists for our grade, an exciting (and nerve-wracking) honor for a 10-year-old girl. I wore my favorite frilly Christmas dress, which was probably adorned with some sort of kitten, and my matching red tights and shiny black Mary Janes.

As we backed out of the garage, the snow began to fall in earnest, and by the time we reached the school, the power had already gone out. But, of course, the show must go on. I left the event pretty upset that I'd sung my little heart out with a dead microphone in a dim, candle-lit elementary school gymnasium.

By now the weather had worsened. The wind was blowing fiercely, gusting down the chimney and making horrible whistling noises, like screaming ghosts, outside the house. My mom lit some candles and offered to read to me before I went to bed. We were halfway through a chapter, when an audible snap was heard above the roar of the wind. I remember the disturbing sound of glass shattering, and our living room curtains billowing dramatically toward a shelf full of lit candles. Startled and completely terrified, I the screamed the kind of scream that would put a B-movie horror actor to shame. The cat scrambled from my lap, tearing holes in my pajamas. My step dad, who had been sitting next to window, leapt to his feet and backpedaled away from the chaos. And my mom, the bravest woman I know, rushed toward the disaster to blow frantically at the candles, fearing that the curtains would catch on fire.



The Aftermath

It was difficult to investigate what had actually happened since peering outside revealed nothing but darkness and blowing snow. But the morning revealed that the trunk of one of the cottonwood trees had snapped under the stress of the wind, fallen across the street, crushed my step dad's El Camino (his pride and joy), and crashed through our living room window.


My Step Dad's El Camino

That night, all we could do was board up the big bay window to keep out the winter chill. Thankfully, we were in the process of remodeling the backside of the house, so we had a convenient supply of plywood. Our neighbors, bless their hearts, braved the tangle of branches and downed power lines to help any way they could.

 

By the time we finally went to bed, I couldn't sleep. Instead, I listened anxiously to the storm, my heart jumping at every gust and creak. Rightfully so, too. During the night, the other cottonwood also fell, shaking the entire house as it hit the ground. Apparently the wind had changed direction because that monster of a tree should have fallen onto the house—like its brother had earlier. It would have undoubtedly destroyed my bedroom, but instead it landed along the length of the street.



The county came the next day and started the long, tedious clean-up of our front yard, which was littered with branches, power lines, and the twisted metal remains of my stepdad's car, all obscured by a fresh blanket of snow.



I was a nervous around windstorms the rest of my childhood, but eventually I got over it and forgave Mother Nature. There are far worse evils in the world. I don't know about you, but I, for one, will be prepared when zombies invade our streets. It's almost like hurricane preparation, right? Stock up on batteries, bottled water, canned food—and of course, firearms.