I’m a camera fanatic. I don’t go anywhere without at least one camera and have annoyed more than a few family members with my requests for picture time. But, with family is pretty as mine, could ya blame me?

How many ‘hello’s’ do you think we say on an average day? month? year? lifetime? How many do we say to the same people every day, and how many do we say to someone for the first time? On the fourth day of our trip, Zac and I said hello for the first time in nine years and the first time as the people we’d grown to become to our cousin, Dillan. I can still clearly remember the last time I’d seen him. It was my eighteenth birthday and his father’s funeral. I think if we’d have known then that it would have been so long without a hello I would have made that last one special. I would have said, “Hi, you’re family. You’ll always be family, and I love you more than you know.” I would have hugged him and his older twin brothers, Brad and Brax, longer. But, we didn’t know, so I didn’t.

For nine years, my family had never quite been able to heal from the loss of Kyle because we’d lost his boys that day too.  I’d felt like a stalker trying to find them through any means necessary, but it seemed like every time I did they’d disappear soon after.  When they finally were old enough to establish online identities (websites, MySpace, IM) they were wary of us and uneager to respond.  We wondered if we’d upset them, if they’d been led to believe we didn’t love them.  These were the thoughts swimming in my head as we drove to see Dillan for the first time.

As arrived where Dillan was working with our other cousin Wynn, deep down I was expecting the 11-year old boy and not the 20-year old man. Yet, even with some many days between our last time together, he was impossible to miss. He was a spitting image of how I remembered his dad, and it took my breath away. Zac, in an effort to break the nervous tension, reached out to shake his hand and said, “Hi, my name is Zac.” Dillan hugged him and said, “I know who you are. We’re family.” Gone was the fear; I just wanted to hug him and never let go.

Over the next few days, we remembered how family we were and made up for years worth of hugs and I love yous.  We listened to Dillan and let him re-introduce himself.  We heard stories of his childhood and what his brothers were up to.  We shared our lives with one another and confessed our fears.  We remembered our favorite stories of his dad and let our hearts heal just a bit with his memory. We laughed too much and slept too little.  It was everything I could have hoped for and more.  As our trip drew near, we exchanged contact information freely and made plans to see each other in the future, and while everything isn’t perfect, I do know that our ‘hellos’ will be much more frequent in the next nine years because like Dillan said, “We’re family.”

Uncle Kyle with Dillan, Bradley, and Braxton (L-R)

There’s a park in Spearfish, SD with a creek running through it and a hatchery and more green than an Arizona girl has ever known what to do with. I was worried with my grandma’s health that we wouldn’t get a chance to dip our toes in the water and visit this spot of so many of my best childhood summer vacation memories. We had picnics in the park with chilled watermelon and laughing cousins. We inner-tubed down that creek one summer day and chased one of my shoes down it another. Yet, somehow in my childhood wonder, I never quite grasped the beauty and serenity of that green oasis. Sometimes it takes returning to such a place as an adult to really cement what it was to you as a child. For a few hours on our last afternoon, we were kids again. We walked in the creek, picnicked in the creek, fed the fish at the hatchery, and enjoyed each other at the creek. Our souls didn’t feel the aches of our adult lives. Our love ones were missed but not mourned. It was the best way to end an amazing experience and remind us exactly who we were together and how no matter what that would never change.

With twelve cousins on my mom’s family between the ages of 28 and 18, it’s no wonder we’re as close as we are.  I mean Wynn is 28; I’m 27.  Zac, Kyle, Evan and Kalan (twins #1) are 25.  Ryan, Brax and Brad (twin #2) are 22.  Jillian and Dillan (not twins) are 20, and Adam is 18.  (Brenna is the 13th AND the baby at 13.)  We grew up together, literally and figuratively.  We’ve attended each other’s high school and college graduations and cried at each other’s weddings.  We call, email, text, MySpace, and Facebook regularly and consider one another more than just family.  So with all of that being said, I probably shouldn’t have a favorite cousin, but I do.  Maybe it’s our love of music or our reliance upon each other during hard times, but as much as I love and adore each of my cousins, Evan is my favorite.

Even as a lil kid Evan had this way about him that just made you wonder if he was a wise, old man trapped in a three-year old’s body.  The story’s been told a hundred times of the early morning when my mom and dad were out sleeping in the bunkhouse one summer when Evan (no more than 3) busted in and asked, “Aunt Jamie, who’s that man sleeping in your bed?”  He’s just that way.  His humor and insight catch you off guard and make you wonder about all he has to say.  It was with great trepidation that I stepped on that plane to fly north and seeing Evan was one of the sole reasons I mustered up some intestinal fortitude and went.

I’ve spent a lifetime treasuring my time with Evan, and this trip was no different.  From the moment he picked us up at the airport until he had Zac, the grandparents, and me laughing so hard we were wheezing at his ‘hairy eyeball’, Ev brought happiness wherever he went.  No other cousin could get away with playing The Verve’s “The Drugs Don’t Work” on Grandbob’s acoustic guitar in the living room and have grandma say, “play another one” or pull off the ‘chimo’ look of wool vests, old man beards, and ranching Levi’s.  Without realizing it, he’s just that special.

Of all of the stories I’d love to share with you if I had the time about Ev,  the one I have to tell still causes me to just shake my head and mutter under my breath, “oh, Evan.”  Somewhere on the drive home from the airport during our usual speed catching up, we found ourselves on the subject of dating.  Always the gentleman, he asked about us first.  Zac told him about Victoria, and I tried to change the subject upon the  Laurel’s ‘life, love and other mysteries’ segment of our drive by asking Evan if he had a ’special lady’.  I should have known by his sigh and stammering that this was going to get good.  Apparently, as one of the unclaimed bachelors in SE Montana, Evan was a hot commodity.  The community where he grew up and now returned to live and help his dad ranch was full of family and families he’d known forever, but somewhere in those Montana buttes were two women who had piqued his interest, the new schoolteacher and another girl.

Listening to him talk on that drive, you would have thought if anyone had a chance at catching this boy’s heart it would have been the teacher, but as the details of Bachelorette #2 unfolded, we realized the real story lay there.  Maybe it was in the Levi’s her parents had bought him or the countless calls her mom had made trying to hunt him down to have dinner at their house.  It might have been in their request for him to travel to Wyoming with their family to learn to sheer sheep or how they believed in hands-off courtship (think…. Montana arranged marriages).  But somewhere in the tidbits of information he leaked to us over the next five days, we realized that this way way more serious than even he realized.

The climax of the ‘Evan gets stalked by the Hans’ story came after his mom confessed to him upon returning home from a community women’s banquet that a lady from a nearby town had told her that Evan and B#2 were ‘together’ in that courting/promised kinda way.  Didn’t she know?!?! Always one for rational thought, Evan decided that his best course of action upon realizing he was unknowinly courting this girl was to flee the country instead of telling the family that he was unaware of the ‘courtship’ or being honest about his interest with her.  I’m dead serious.  Within five minutes, he was planning on moving to New Zealand to do an agricultural exchange program so he wouldn’t have to upset her… (I don’t think he realized that his sudden departure would have done just that.)

Then, all of a sudden he realized he couldn’t leave yet because he’d already paid his fee to go to sheep sheering school with them.  To say that the rest of us found this whole thing comical would be an understatement.  Anyone else would have stormed out of the house and threatened to never speak to us mean cousins who were laughing at him, but not Evan.  He just shoke his head and let it roll of his back.  Why do I love him so much? Do you really have to ask.

Even as a child one of my favorite places to visit was my aunt and uncle’s ranch in southeastern Montana.  There’s something about driving out into the middle of nowhere and then going fifteen more miles down a unkempt dirt road that reminds you we’re all still small in this big world.  Imagine living miles from your mailbox, neighbors, and a store to buy a loaf of bread.  How about not traveling to civilization for weeks in the winter and traveling to school by snowmobile when the roads were too covered to navigate a truck.  It’s a different world then the one I grew up in, and yet every few years I find myself craving a retreat to this corner of land.  I ache to shed the technology and responsibility of my everyday life and recenter who I am and what’s really important.  In the days since I stepped off that plane in Mesa and drove back up the mountain, I’ve longed to return to the ranch.

Spend a few hours with my mom’s family, and you’ll begin to truly understand where Zac and I get our obsessive need for music. My grandfather has led the singing at whatever church he’s been at for yours. My mom, aunt, and uncle play the piano and sing. All thirteen cousins sing and/or play an instrument, and each of us has a unique, musical style. I guess calling our family “musical” would be a bit of an understatement.

One of the simplest joys in my Grandfather’s life has always been singing the ol’ hymns with his children and grandchildren. Whenever family is gathered, a group of us makes our way down to the basement piano to sing with “Grandbob” (as he’s been affectionately named) even if you aren’t a ’singer’. Despite our varied musical tastes, each of us have a love for those old hymns that we grew up singing in church and in that basement. To this day when I sing hymns in church, I hear his voice in the back of my head.

Like so many others, this trip was no different. With my Aunt Rena at the piano bench, Grandbob, Zac, Evan and I found time on two separate occasions to bond at the piano. Grandma made her way down the stairs to listen, and Grandbob was ecstatic. From “The Solid Rock” to “Shall We Gather At The River”, each of our voices blended together, and I struggled to not dissolve into tears at the uncertainty of how many more of these opportunities we’ll get with Grandbob. Upon my return home, I was delighted to discover in the middle of our musical moment another cousin had grabbed my camera and filmed a bit of it.

This week’s musical moment is a bit more personal than most. It’s a low-quality, poor-audio clip of one of the happiest moments in my life singing with my family and letting the music remind each of us of the blessing of music and the strong tie that binds us together.

Before I can really tell you about my trip, you have to allow me to gush about the gorgeous area I was in for most of my time away. The Black Hills of South Dakota have always been one of my favorite places to spend time, and with surroundings like these who wouldn’t want to get away there. At least once during every trip to see my grandparents in Spearfish, we drive through the canyon to a little cafe for the best breakfast north of Denver. Everyone at Cheyenne Crossing Cafe knows my grandparents by name and that warms my heart just a bit. Lucky for us, we had the time to really soak in the drive after breakfast and stop to enjoy the magnificent waterfalls found buried there. Zac and I had to hike a teeny, tiny bit to see this one, but it was so worth it. Especially when the group of foreign tourists came up to the creek right as Zac stepped into the arctic water with his feet clad in MY pink Crocs and howled. Good times…

One of the rules in my house growing up was that we were required to write thank you notes for all of our birthday and Christmas gifts before we could fully enjoy them.  It was a simple lesson in gratitude and etiquette that I’ve tried to continue even in my adult life.  “When people do nice things for you, the appropriate response is a heart-felt thank you.” Mom couldn’t have been more right not that I’m surprised by that.

After I finally dragged my butt out of my big comfy bed on Sunday morning, I (like a kid on Christmas morning) couldn’t wait to open my gifts and read what my guest bloggers had written for me while I was away.  Four of my closest friends in their own way and voice presented me (and all of you) with the simple gift of a different perspective than you get to see around here. Yet, what amazed me was that somehow each of them had missed the memo that they were doing me a favor.  Here I am asking for their time… for their words and thoughts… and they’re the honored ones?  The ones who are panicked?  Who feel privileged?  I’m the one who was overwhelmed with your generosity.  Who was moved by your willingness to put your lives on hold to help me out.  Who needs to be screamin’ from the rooftops, “THANK YOU!!!”  I truly adore each of you.  Thank you, thank you, thank you, and a special thank you for keeping this place pink.

Cory, as usual, made me laugh as he confessed his epic failures to the ‘Pink Nation’. (I have a feeling his panic at forgetting to post was what caused the extreme amount of WoW jargon.) Lauren, of course, was Lauren.  So lovable and genuine that you want to sip cups of coffee with her and see how she brightens your day.  HeatherBee, my musical soulmate, let’s take another road trip together.  We could load up our iPods and open our souls to one another with each rhythm and rhymes.  What do you say?  Eric, well you did spice things up about with your willingness to touch a subject I’ve left alone for months, but to be honest, I never expected to be called out on my own blog.

Over and over for the past few months I’ve been reciting the line to Mr. Blues and others that I’m ‘waiting’ for the debates to decide who gets my vote.  Honestly, that was BS; he was right.  My mind’s been made up for quite sometime, but I’ve been subconsciously holding out for a miracle.  I’ve never once had an issue believing what I believe, and for any of you who know me, I never hesitate to let my voice be heard.  But lately, I’ve felt like the lone kid on the block who knows that Santa Claus isn’t real.  I’ve been begging to be swept away and be a part of the excitement that has infected so many of my generation, and that’s just not going to happen.

It’s time for me to be honest with myself and quit hoping the rulebook will be rewritten and I’ll wind up at the popular kids’ table. Despite our differences, the teenage-like peer pressure to hang with the cool kids, and our preconceived notions of what red and blue voters look like, I have to hope for a middle ground that allows excitement to pair up with wise decisions where stiff Conservatives dance with spry Liberals even if I won’t be sitting on Santa’s lap this November.  So, while I’ll never be a political pundit, I will stop being a liar when it comes to my choices and beliefs. Who knew that a simple guest blogging task could unearth such hidden revelations.  Thanks, EB, and thanks to each and every one of you for being so kind to these four who mean so much to me (now I’m sounding like JM.)

It’s true… I have returned to the land of technology and have so much to tell all of you.  The past week has been one of the best and most thought-provoking weeks of my life, and going back to work today after nine days off was not easy.  I’m still trying to unpack, put my house back in order and digest the events of my trip, but I promise I do plan on sharing stories, pictures, and personal discoveries with you throughout the next week.

I’m posting from a picture message from my cell phone because I know I won’t be ready to divulge the details of my trip tomorrow.  More than likely, I’ll either be sleeping, cleaning, or pep-talking myself into returning to work on Monday after a 9-day (!!!!) hiatus.  I have so many stories, thoughts and pictures to share over the next week, but for now I’ll leave you with the lone image I took on my cell phone camera.

(I took this last night at around 8:15 pm.  Proving that we were all smarter than a 5th grader exhausted the grandparents… Or maybe it was putting up with their Arizona grandkids… hmmm.)

Forest Gump was right when he said Presidential elections are like a box of chocolates. You really don’t know what you’ll get. Regardless, I’ve been an avid election follower since Carter’s nomination. I learned about pretty words, big lies, and plain folks sales tactics by adolescence. My political core was being formed even though I was unable to vote or voice an experienced opinion. And for the record, that core never understood all the fuss about Carter’s brown turtlenecks.

The actual election was a special treat. Mom let me stay up to watch. Those were the good old days when you knew who the President would be the same night the election was held. I would await the results like a child struggling to sleep on Christmas Eve. But like a carefully wrapped gift, the true contents of the nominees are often hard to discern by shaking the box. In the case of Presidential nominees, that old practice can be downright dangerous. “Johnny, put down that box. You’ll tear the wrapping; it’s the same paper that’s been used for the last eight years.” “Cindy, be careful dear, there’s only a little tape and hope holding that one together.”

In fact, when the entire nose pinching, eyes shut, lever pulling procedure is over, the four-year results often turn out quite differently than planned. Darn! Choose again. Maybe you’ll get the chocolate covered-cherry this time. Knowing whomever wins will only deliver 3% of what was promised dulls the pain. But in the spirit of wishful thinking, I’d like to make a few requests for the next election.

1. 1. Let’s call a lie a lie, and those who tell lies, liars. Obfuscation, disengenious, dissembling, and mischaracterization will all be outlawed words. When a candidate says something that can be proven factually untrue (superfluous enough?) over and over again, let’s call him or her a liar. Scream it from the rooftops of hurricane flooded homes.
2. 2. A clearer distinction should be made between journalists and professional pundits. When a journalist can’t mention a candidate’s name without drooling or becoming visibly excited, kindly remove them from the public conversation. I expect cheerleaders to carry pom poms and wear short skirts, not Armani suits. When the entertainment factor begins to outweigh the education factor, programs should not be couched as news.
3. 3. Finally, reconsider the entire debate debacle. Both of the major parties had over 20 debates. With all those debates and over a year of steady campaigning, there are still numerous people who claim not to know the most rudimentary history or positions of the candidates, one nominee in particular. There’s enough blame to go around here. It can take a few tries for a candidate to establish the political narrative he or she is consistently comfortable with. Also, voters can be incredibly apathetic and dismissive of candidates they don’t like. Nonetheless, if the purpose of debates is to inform the public, there’s obviously room for improvement.

I could continue but truthfully, this is a futile exercise. We’re in for a carnival from the day the news organizations pitch their tents until the last scrap of confetti is swept away. Media manipulate the candidates. Candidates manipulate the media. And we’re left to pick through the box of smashed chocolates, still hoping to find the one we really want.

Thanks to the Pink One for allowing me to guest blog.

Eric Blues

With the start of every new semester, we have a overwhelming wave of machines that for countless reasons need our attention.  Most of the time it’s the same ol’ same ol’ with each of them, but sometimes we find little surprises of joy.  There are my favorites from the past month.

PimpJuice. I was pretty proud that I knew this was a real song when no one else did and sang it to the students in true Nelly-fashion. Click To Continue Reading…

Well hello there, readers! I apologize for the lateness of my post. It has been a long, long day.

I am truly honored (as well) that Laurel asked me to guest blog while she is away but even more honored that she chose me for her traditional Thursday music post! She and I are musical soul-mates. As referenced in her blog title about my visit, “Sisterhood of the Traveling iPods”. But, my lovely Jukebox friend far surpasses my knowledge of music, if nothing else, by the sheer volume of her music library! So it was a compliment to me that she viewed me an appropriate author for this post.

I thought a lot about which artist or genre I would post about but since Laurel and I line up so perfectly, she’s covered everyone I love the most! So I decided that I would take this opportunity to blog about a band that I really think everyone should be listening to.

I digest music in a really strange way. I have a limit for new music – it’s almost like my brain is a funnel and I can only allow so much in at one time. I want to chew on every lyric and memorize every melody before moving on to something else. I think that’s why I sit on one record for months and am perfectly content. I remember the first time I heard Room for Squares, nothing else went in my CD player for six months. It’s just how I do things. Mild obsession followed by mild obsession.

Anyway, I have been listening to this record for a couple months and it is still fresh and exciting with each listen. I give you, I Nine’s “Heavy Weighs the King”.

I was introduced to I Nine at a trio of shows in Atlanta during Christmas 2005. They were hand-picked to open for John Mayer when he returned to Eddie’s Attic. I Nine hail from South Carolina but had a kick-start to their career in Atlanta. During those special nights, Carmen completely won me over because she was genuinely nice to us offstage. On stage, she is a force. Watching her sing live is completely different than listening to her through car speakers or headphones. I can’t explain it but there is something organic and raw about her that is pretty infectious.

Their acoustic EP was for sale at Eddie’s (and had been recorded there) and I had been living off that raw sound until “Heavy Weighs the King” fell into my lap a few months ago. Along with their record deal came a bit of a pop makeover. Their acoustic quartet expanded into drums and electric guitar in the studio and it gave them a whole new sound. “Heavy” touts a list of new songs written specifically, I assume for their “debut” album. Also included are songs from their live EP with an infusion of their new sound.

My favorite tracks are “Don’t Wanna”, “Beckon” and “I’m Alive”. Since I am not a master of media like Laurel, you’ll just have to go to their MySpace to take a listen! “I’m Alive” is an old song that got remastered for the new record. It’s not on their MySpace so I’m including a YouTube of them in the studio finishing up the song. It’s mildly amusing and you get to hear the entire song! I hope you all take a minute to check them out. I promise, the album is stellar from start to finish. You won’t be disappointed!

Thank you, Laurel, for allowing me to pimp my band of the moment! Hurry home! Can’t wait to hear all about your time off the grid.

- Heather Bee

I love all those crappy pre-teen shows and movies on The Disney Channel. I’ve seen both High School Musicals and all of the Cheetah Girl movies.  Most of the time I blame the kids who I hung out with as a CaresTeam and my favorite munchkins, but now that that’s over… I have no excuses.  Camp Rock is the newest of such movies, and oh yeah, loved it!  Can’t wait for the Demi Levato album to hit the shelves…. there’s nothing wrong for the moments I’m twelve again.  At least that’s what I tell myself.

Walking into the grocery store the other night, I had to hang up on my mom to take a picture of the sky.  There’s just something about this time of year that makes you want to stay outside as the sun sets in hopes you’l get the gift of such a sunset.  In typical Flagstaff fashion, by the time I exited the store 15 minutes later it was raining so hard the 50 foot jog to car had me soaked through a sweater and two tank tops down to my bra.