saradobie

Founded in 1922, the Perrysburg High School student newspaper known affectionately as The Somethin’ is printing its last edition today. It’s not because of financial reasons or educational budget cuts. They’re shutting down my beloved high school newspaper because of the students and their lack of interest.

According to an article in the Toledo Blade, “There just wasn't enough student interest to warrant the cost. Students now choose other activities and steer away from courses that put an emphasis on intensive writing or reading.” I’ll give you a second to reread that last sentence and contemplate the ramifications.

I’ll give you another second, just in case you don’t read and have trouble stringing words together to formulate a full sentence in order to extrapolate meaning—because that’s certainly the direction in which we’re headed, according to this atrocious travesty that has befallen Perrysburg’s education system.

I graduated from Perrysburg High School in 2000. I was a member of The Somethin’ staff my junior year and Story Editor my senior year. I had a nice, fancy pile of clippings to submit to prospective colleges, and thanks to my experience, I was admitted to journalism programs at New York University, University of Michigan, and the EW Scripps School of Journalism at Ohio University—widely considered one of the best in the country. Would I have been admitted to any of these schools without clippings? No. Would I have ended up as a professional writer without The Somethin’? No. Unequivocally, no.

The Somethin’ classroom was a place where I could hone my craft while surrounded by other journalism students who gave me feedback and helped me develop as a reporter and as a person. It was the place where I learned to be ambitious and “get the story.” Sitting in that classroom … editing the newspaper on my lunch hour … passing out editions on publication day: those memories are the memories I have kept and will keep for the rest of my life, because they indicate the beginning of what would eventually be my career.

I don’t see schools getting rid of math classes. They’re not tossing science out the window because students aren’t interested. Sure, English classes are still hanging on. I’m happy to hear kids still have to read books and write papers. Oh, but then, back to the Blade article: “Putting out a student paper is hard work, and the paper's editors said their peers seem to have little affinity toward the written word. Mr. Fry [journalism teacher] has trouble getting students in the British literature classes he also teaches to read the classics.”

My fear is that someday English classes will go the way of The Somethin,’ too, because in the opinion of some students, reading books and writing academic papers has no application in real life. It’s nice to spend time with your nose in a book, but reading doesn’t pay the bills. It’s nice to be able to write grammatically correct sentences, but now that phrases like “Cll u l8r” are all the rage, who cares about the proper use of a semi-colon? Will teachers someday allow student interest to warrant all education decisions? Let’s hope not.

I am sick to hear of the final edition of the Perrysburg High School Somethin.’ I think about my Grandpa Schwind and my mom, both of whom also attended PHS and both of whom also received copies of the school newspaper every month. Just like tearing down the old half of the junior high, my hometown is relinquishing another piece of history to the abyss of irrelevance. I once viewed Perrysburg schools as a beacon of hope in a country filled with ignorance. I’m disappointed to say we’re just like everybody else.

For the past two years, Jake and I have lived in a two-bedroom, 900-square-foot apartment with one bathroom. As of last April, we added Ripley the sixty-pound dog to that equation. Then, in November, we got married, and once you get married, people assume you’ll do “adult” things like have babies and buy expensive cars. We did neither. In fact, we wouldn’t even have gone house shopping if not for my claustrophobic stress levels—and the boxes filled with unused wedding gifts in my so-called “office,” which doubled as Jake’s closet. We thought maybe we’d consider buying a house in June of 2012. Then, in April, crushed by the weight of our belongings and lack of yard, Jake said, “I think we should start looking at houses.”

Was I initially excited? Not really, but it was no one’s fault. Well, on second thought, it was the fault of real estate developers and builders in the Phoenix metro area. From what I had seen at friends’ homes and while house shopping with my parents, the houses here were built too close together. For instance, if you need to borrow a cup of sugar in Phoenix, all you have to do is open your kitchen window and yell into your neighbor’s kitchen. You pass the cup of sugar in a similar fashion, by merely reaching arms across.

Furthermore, the houses had no character. They were faceless, soulless, lacking in history or sentimentality. Therefore, based on my claustrophobia and my love of all things classic, I felt a teaspoon of hopelessness as we set out to shop.

Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy at first. We started with models in neighborhoods at the base of the White Tank Mountains. The models were excellent (that is their intended purpose). However, lack of yard and far off location deterred me and suffocated my enthusiasm. There were the occasional nightmare houses, too: the one that smelled like cat urine, for instance, or the one that had a carpeted master bathroom with no door separating the toilet from the rest of the room. I had visions of waking up in the morning to Jake on the porcelain throne. Shiver.

Then, we did find a house we liked with a perfect view; a nice, updated interior; and a family who seemed happy to move. It was located at the base of the Estrella Mountains, which was fine, except I knew it would be a lifestyle change. No longer would we be within five minutes of our friends, our gym, or our dog park. We put in an offer regardless, and I prayed and prayed that we were doing the right thing. God is a smart guy, however, and he allowed the offer to fall through. Back to square one …

Two days later, Jake was looking through the listings sent from our incomparable real estate agents Andy and Cristina Altman when he said, “This one. We have to go see this one. Today.” I was still frustrated, and unlike my husband, I take longer to recover from disappointment. I went along for the ride, though, and as soon as we walked into the one-story ranch on West Westview (ah, redundancy), I was in love. I had the distinct feeling that This Is Our House. We put in an offer that afternoon. We finally get the keys Thursday.

From 900-square-feet we will grow to 2800. From two bed, one bath, we have become four bed, three bath, with a massive kitchen and a large backyard, vacant of nearby neighbors. There isn’t even a house behind us to block the view of blue Arizona sky, and I feel like a spoiled rich girl. Will there be emotional repercussions? Yes, and not just for Ripley, who’s been pouting all day because of the strange cardboard monsters in the living room. Surely, she suspects we’re going on another vacation and leaving her behind, but I told her we aren’t leaving. We are taking her to doggy paradise, but she still frowns, because true, there is a light veil of melancholy.

We’re leaving her first home. We’re leaving the first place where Jake and I became an official and legal “us.” We have memories here on Old Litchfield Road, and we always will. However, we are very adult now, married and such. It’s time for a bigger house with more space where we can’t hear our neighbor sneeze through the wall. It’s time to find room for our wedding gifts. It’s time to become homeowners and finally, for the first time, have room to stretch our legs in our home sweet home where we are free to live happily ever after!

My longing to live in a Tim Burton movie goes back years. I guess it started with Sleepy Hollow. Oh, to live in a spooky world where pumpkins glow and thunder rumbles above trees painted autumn orange ... which lead me to The Nightmare Before Christmas and Halloween Town: a place I would fit in quite well, I think. I fantasize about these movies in October and wish, wish I could live in Tim Burton's world, but I was most recently reminded of my fascination via Dark Shadows, released this past weekend.

Little did I know, Dark Shadows was first a 70s soap opera! My mom filled me in. Apparently, when she was in nursing school, all the girls would rush home from class and watch Dark Shadows in the community lounge. The original series looks serious (unlike the movie remake), although the characters are the same, featuring Barnabus Collins and his wacko family, plus cameos by vampires, werewolves, and ghouls. (Why don't we make daytime soaps like that anymore, huh?

The movie remake, as mentioned, is directed by Tim Burton. This is the eighth film he's shared with leading man, Johnny Depp (obsess much?), and his seventh with his long-time girlfriend, Helena Bonham Carter. Depp lost a bunch of weight to better reflect the image of a two-hundred-year-old vamp; he weighed a mere 140 pounds during filming! The movie's tagline? "Every family has its demon."

The film begins in the year 1752, where we first meet Barnabus Collins and his ill-fated family. Barnabus made the mistake of jilting a witch, Angelique (played by drop dead goregous Eva Green, best known for Casino Royale). She put a spell on Barnabus, damning him to eternal life as a vampire in an iron coffin. Uncovered by construction workers, Barnabus wakes in 1972 to find his descendants still reside in his old mansion, but they've fallen on hard times, thanks to vengeful Angelique, who is still alive thanks to her witchy powers. Barnabus must try and restore the family's fortune and take down Angelique in the process.

Is this a horror movie? Sort of. Is it a comedy? Yes. Is it Tim Burton at his best? It's up there. I love creepy stuff and black comedy; therefore, I loved every second of this film that went from serious to laugh-out-loud in the span of five seconds. The comedy caught me off guard, which made it all the more unexpected and riotous. A master of imagery, Burton brings the Maine seaside village of Collinsport to life. He does the same through his characters. Depp's performance harkens back to Edward Scissorhands: awkward and yet charming. Michelle Pfeiffer still looks fabulous, and Eva Green plays an excellent lovelorn psycopath.

Unlike other Tim Burton favorites like aforementioned Edward and Big Fish, this is a film I could watch over and over. It has serious moments, and it is dark; yet it never takes itself too seriously, and I was left feeling giggly and cheerful by the end. I truly do want to live in a Tim Burton film, where an edge of the macabre is always within view; where freaks become heroes; and where a little bit of supernatural magic is the norm. I know it's the middle of May, but this movie made we want to shout, "Is it Halloween-time yet???"

Continued from yesterday...
From Xunantunich, Robin took us zip-lining and cave-tubing. Jake doesn’t like heights; I don’t like closed spaces. Therefore, it was another day of conquering fear. Once we got started, Jake loved the feeling of flying through the air (as did I). Once I got over the pitch-black water, cave-tubing wasn’t all that bad either. I was sort of proud of myself: snorkeling, bike-riding on the edge of the ocean, and cave-tubing. Things I never would have expected myself to do, and yet, I did all of them. For the drive home, Jake and I were given a gargantuan pitcher of Rum Punches to share. They may have been the best drinks we had all trip, or maybe it was the exhaustion, excitement, and adrenalin that made them so sweet.

Once back on the island, Byron and Prince picked us up. First, they drove us to a local bar, which consisted of an unmarked pink building with no windows. Sure, we got a few weird looks walking in there, but we picked up two local beers called Belikin (yummy stuff) and headed to their next destination. Randomly, they had to pick up John and Ashley (the father-daughter duo from Rojo), but instead of picking them up and going somewhere else, we all stayed at their hotel and drank the night away by the pool. I was amazed by the synchronicity. Apparently, Byron and Prince had already befriended John and Ashley, just as we had. Small island, yes?

We learned a bit of African creole that evening, with Prince’s help. (For instance, a “sheh-lye baby” refers to a baby you’re not sure is yours. Get it? “She lie.”) While enjoying myself, I at one point glanced at Byron and Prince, wondering if they had places to be, people to see, but then I remembered Belize Time—an unfamiliar time zone that worshipped fun, friends, and spontaneity. How I loved Belize Time!

The next afternoon, Saturday, I came upon the most amazing test of my resolve yet. We were to take a boat and go snorkeling in Hol Chin Marine Reserve, featuring (gulp) Shark Ray Alley. Was I ready? Uh, sort of. Once I got there, did I hop right in? Strangely, yes. I was right up there with our guide! I felt an amazing rush, wearing my flippers and face mask, as I coasted over thirty-foot-deep splits in the reef. A couple times, I swam down deep with our guide to closely investigate schools of mysterious fish, camouflaged by reefs and dark water. Sure, when our guide tried to play with a bright green moray eel, I shied away.

But when he took us to Shark Ray Alley, I had a true out-of-Sara experience. We swam with sting rays! Huge sting rays, bigger than your arms can reach. We pet nurse sharks! Lots and lots of them. In wonder, I watched them scurry below me. I even dove a couple times and tried to grab one. What was wrong with me? I was on Belize Time, dang it! Where excitement and fun ruled the day! In hindsight, the experience of swimming with things that scared me was my favorite experience. I can’t wait to go snorkeling again!

It was the super, super full moon that night, and we watched it rise from a beach bar with our new family: John, Ashley, Byron, and Prince. We ran around San Pedro’s “Central Park” that night, drinking rum in the golf cart. We had the odd experience of a Belizean Gentleman’s Club, and Jake was chased by crazy San Pedro puppies. Dogs were everywhere in Belize. Practically everyone owned one, and the strays ran rampant. We became particularly close with our resort’s dog, Portia. I suppose we became particularly close with everyone we met there.

Our last full day (no! no!), Jake and I shared a couple’s massage on the pier outside the Capricorn Resort. It was strange being practically naked on a pier with boats flying by, but eh, it was Belize. Why not? Following that uber-relaxing experience, we spent the day bar-hopping down the beach on our bicycles. We said goodbye to Palapa (my favorite bar, probably because I could drink beer while floating in the ocean). We said goodbye to the sunset on the west side of the island. The next morning, we said goodbye to Byron and Prince over lunch and promises of Facebook friendship. That’s when Prince called us “family,” and amazingly, that was exactly how I felt.

I didn’t want to leave Belize. I could have stayed there forever. I have never felt so relaxed, so at peace, and so filled with life. Yesterday, Jake said to me, “That wasn’t a vacation. That was a life-changing experience.” Yes, honey, it was. Here is the challenge: how do we bring Belize back to Phoenix? Eventually, yes, there is a distinct possibility we could retire there, and yes, we plan on making it a bi-annual trip. But what about right now? How do I bring Belize home?

Let’s review what we learned:

First off, smile at people. Even strangers. All the time. Because why not smile?

Next: who cares if something takes a while? Relax, mon! It’s all good.

Do something that scares you, every day.

Make time to relax.

Never put a time limit on fun.

Who needs a TV? Go watch a sunset instead.

All of the things above are important, but most important? Live in Belize time. Slow down. Go with the flow … because the flow can take you to really cool places.

Belize, Central America, is not an easy place to get to. A whole day of travel and three planes later (including a puddle-jumper to our resort on Ambergris Caye), we were there … and we were sticky. Amazing how you forget about humidity living somewhere like Phoenix. Our resort, the Capricorn, had Rum Punches and snacks waiting for us in our ocean-side cabana. Needless to say, that helped.

We quickly realized Ambergris Caye was not an island with white, sandy beaches. Strange, considering the shockingly turquoise water, but Belize is a smart country, dependent on its ecosystem. That meant protecting sea grass, which meant no swimming on the beach! The morning after our arrival, we were shown the way of the natives: kayaking out to the reef, tying to a buoy, and snorkeling. Since I’m somewhat terrified of open water, this was a terrifying prospect. I felt certain a shark would come scoop me up. However, a shark never showed, and for the first time, I saw the Caribbean Sea and swam among its critters. What a reckoning!

Next, we realized there was no efficient transportation on Ambergris Caye. The single road that ran from north to south was in disrepair, so we rode bicycles. And I thought snorkeling was scary! Riding a bicycle on the beach was even worse, considering my constant klutziness. We made it unscathed, however, into the island town of San Pedro, where we made the acquaintance of two road-side salesman, Byron and Prince. Byron and Prince sold us our mainland tour package, and shockingly, by the end of the week, Prince would tell me, “You’re family now. You know that.”

We rode our bicycles back toward our resort, but not before a stop at ocean bar Palapa. Palapa floats on stilts above turquoise water. Going to the restroom there sounds like being underwater, and apparently a moray eel lives under the toilet. We began to realize something at Palapa. First off, there was no sense of time. As a collective, we were there … and we had nowhere to be. Perhaps because of this, everyone we met wanted to talk to us—know where we were from, when we’d arrived on the island, and what we planned to do while we were there. Strangers who smiled and laughed and bought us beers: a truly foreign concept, in contrast to fast-paced, self-centered America. 

We slept like babies (we did every night in Belize), and the next morning, we rented a golf cart and set off to explore the island. San Pedro is the one and only town on Ambergris Caye. It’s a tiny burg with even tinier streets. The houses are crooked, the roads are bumpy, and laundry hangs on strings high above the street. Golf carts often threated the lives of pedestrians and bikers, yet no one yelled and not once did we see a middle finger thrown.

In San Pedro, we ate at a roadside restaurant called Robin’s run by a Jamaican husband and wife. We ate Jerk chicken and curry with a side of rice and beans. Of course. We ate rice and beans every day. What bliss. That night, post-shower and pool, we rode the golf cart into town with “travelers,” otherwise known as alcoholic beverages for the road. Never leave your house without one, although be warned: drinking on a bumpy golf cart does have its downsides. Just ask my stomach Wednesday night …

By Thursday, we had fully acclimated to Belize Time. Belize Time is otherwise known as Island Time. For example, five minutes Belize Time would probably be considered a half an hour here in Phoenix. Again, it goes back to the fact that no one—not even the natives—has anywhere to be, and I think you’re arrested if you even try to rush. We took a boat taxi to Rojo Lounge, up on the north end of the island. There, we enjoyed floating in the beach-side infinity pool while sipping jalapeno-infused tequila. There, we made friends with the other members of our island “family,” John and Ashley—an American father-daughter duo from up north.

We ended the day with the chicken drop at Wahoo Lounge in San Pedro. It’s one of the most popular forms of gambling on the island, based entirely on where a chicken poops. I’m serious. A chicken wanders around a numbered grid until it poops. Whoever bought the number the chicken pooped on won money. Hence, “chicken drop.”

Friday was our mainland adventure. We had the pleasure of stuffed fryjacks for breakfast. Fryjacks are an island specialty. They’re deep-fried tortillas. They can be consumed with honey and butter or stuffed with things like eggs, ham, cheese, et cetera. My stomach moans at the thought, I miss fryjacks so much.

We took a plane to the mainland and met our priceless tour guide, Robin. Robin is a native who worked at the Belize Zoo and studied botany. He basically knew everything … about everything. In one day, we learned the entire history of Belize. We learned about the rodent delicacy known as the “Royal Rat.” We even learned about the poison tree, the sap of which practically burns off your skin. Gotta love having a botanist on hand!

Robin drove us to the Mayan ruin, Xunantunich, which was quite a riling experience, since Robin says speed limits are merely “suggestions.” Xunantunich was a spooky place, when you think of the ancient culture that lived there, prayed there, and died there. In order to get to Xunantunich, we drove across the entire country. I was shocked by the level of poverty. Houses barely standing up. Sweaty children playing on broken-down playgrounds. Despite this, everyone seemed so happy—so peaceful. I have never witnessed a culture more filled with peace and joy, and yet, they own next to nothing. Humbling, to say the least.

More tomorrow, as I continue “Belize: Welcome to Paradise, Part II.”

Tonight, I will attend my very first magazine launch party at ASU-West for their literary magazine Canyon Voices: Journal for Emerging Writers and Artists. A non-fiction essay I wrote entitled “Here but Fading” made the cut for their spring 2012 edition. Although this may have been the hardest essay I’ve ever written, they’ve asked me to read it at the launch party tonight. Idiot that I am, I agreed. Wish me luck. For your consideration, an excerpt from my most recently published work.

Here but Fading

My grandfather turns ninety this year. As usual, the family will take him out to Red Lobster for his birthday. He won’t remember it. My grandfather has dementia.

His name is Barney Schwind. He joined the Navy when he was just out of high school, left the family farm in Ohio, and headed to Chicago. He would later admit the only reason he joined the Navy was to get a college education for free. See, Papa is a smart guy. He met my grandmother while visiting a buddy in New York City.

Papa’s buddy’s name was Vernon Cochran. Everyone called Vernon “Rusty” because he had red hair. According to the story, Rusty said, “Hey, Barn, you doing anything tomorrow?” My papa said no, so Rusty invited him to a picnic. Rusty promised food, beer, and girls. Papa’s response? “Put me down for three.” He met my grandmother at that picnic. Although he now says he liked her “knockers,” I think he liked a lot about my grandmother. Hell, they’ve been married for over sixty years.

When he tells you the story, he gets a far-off look in his eye—like he’s watching a black and white film version of that particular day. Papa remembers everything from the old days. He remembers classes he took in college. He remembers the one time he stopped over in Charleston, South Carolina. He used to tell me that story all the time when I lived there. I probably heard it a dozen times. The story got old, but hearing his voice never did. 

I don’t know if it’s possible to pinpoint the onset of dementia. Dementia is one of those sneaky diseases that creeps up in the dark and makes a home in your head. We knew it was bad when Papa went mad. He claimed Grandma was sleeping around. The accusation would have been funny, considering my grandmother more closely resembles an apple every year. I should have laughed when my mom called to tell me about the incident. She giggled while she explained.

But I didn’t laugh. I couldn’t. Papa was gone, replaced by something foreign and sick. I would later realize my mom had no choice but to laugh. What else could she do? …

(There’s plenty more where this came from. Head over to the Canyon Voices website to read my essay in its completion.)

I’m extremely fond of Veronique Vienne, author of masterpieces like The Art of Doing Nothing and The Art of the Moment—small, square-shaped books that hold a lifetime of French wisdom. In the latter of the two aforementioned books, Vienne dedicates a chapter to “The Art of Wonder.”

Quote: “Your attention can allow you to see the beauty of a vacant lot, of an overpass, of a parking lot, even of a blank wall. … In contrast, when you are self-involved (when you are held hostage by your internal dialogue) everyday reality feels quite banal. If you are in a distracted mood, everything is a blur, a drone, a blah—a so-what. … Absorbed in your thoughts, you are not mindful of what’s going on around you. Why should you be? As far as you are concerned, nothing is happening. But wait a minute! Are you sure that nothing is happening? Or could it be that what you assume is ‘nothing’ is, in fact, the lull that precedes a really important event.”

Last week, I experienced three events that pulled me out of my banal internal dialogue and threw me into the magical world of wonder. Let me share them with you.

First, I attended a beautiful luncheon at the Phoenix Art Museum. Following my lovely lunch, my companion and I walked around the museum. We almost missed the exhibit that would change my day—and possibly my entire mindset—until a museum guide said, “Did you see the fireflies? You have to see the fireflies.” The fireflies were hidden on the second floor. The only indication that they were actually present was a small white arrow painted on a big, black wall. That little arrow led me into a true out-of-body experience.

The installation is called “You Who Are Getting Obliterated in the Dancing Swarm of Fireflies” by artist Yayoi Kusama. Walking in, you are consumed with blackness until your eyes begin to focus and then you see them: the fireflies. They’re really just a bunch of LED lights, hung at different levels, reflected in mirrors on the walls, ceiling, and floor. Sounds simple, and yet, inside the installation, I lost myself. I lost any sense of my body or mind. I lost the worries of today and the fears of tomorrow. I just stood there and allowed myself to be obliterated. Now, in moments of stress, I try to remember the fireflies, and I plan to go back as soon as possible.

On Thursday night, I attended a volunteer appreciation event at the Arizona Science Center. I was there for one reason and one reason alone: Van Gogh Alive. Combining the troubled artist’s work along with light, music (want some immediate wonder? check this out: MUSIC), and animation, this exhibit is a must see. There are strategically placed benches, and I could have sat there for hours. Not only was the art stunning (especially when projected on room-size canvases), but Van Gogh Alive felt a lot like the fireflies. I lost myself. I had no worries. I felt peaceful, relaxed, and very Zen. The exhibit will be open until June 17. Don’t miss it, and try to go very early in the morning or late in the day. It’s more fun when there are less people around.

Finally, Friday, Jake planned a super-secret date. He told me to wear a nice dress, and we headed to downtown Phoenix, where we enjoyed appetizers and happy hour drinks at District Kitchen. Then, the big surprise: we had tickets to see Florence + The Machine. Florence is wondrous when simply witnessed via audio, let alone on a huge stage, spinning in a wide cape and matching green dress. On a huge stage, she was a goddess of motion and song. When she played Cosmic Love, I almost melted with glee, and again, I didn’t worry about homework or deadlines or moving into a new house. I worried about nothing, because Florence made me feel free.

Perhaps the most wondrous thing about last week, though, was Jake, because what could be more wonderful than being married to Jake? Jake, who works so hard, while earning his Master’s degree. Jake, who takes me on super-secret dates. Jake, who is a true wonder. Have a wonder-ful week, my friends!

I didn’t think people in Arizona cared about bluegrass music—not like we cared about it in Charleston, South Carolina, at least. The McDowell Mountain Music Festival this past weekend proved me wrong. Way wrong.

According to the website, the Festival took off in April of 2004 as an endeavor to bring real music back to Arizona while getting the Phoenix community together for a great cause: children. All proceeds, yes ALL PROCEEDS, raised from the festival are donated to two charities: the Phoenix Children’s Hospital and Ear Candy, an organization whose mission is to provide local youth access to music education.

The festival is not billed as bluegrass-specific. All sorts of performers from all over the world show up to the McDowell Mountain Music Fest, but Jake and I attended for one reason and one reason alone: the Carolina Chocolate Drops.

The venue itself is somewhat confusing if you’ve never been. It’s hosted at The Compound, which is a grassy knoll to the side of a parking lot. Wacky, huh? Especially to a Midwesterner, who’s accustomed to festivals like Bonnaroo and All Good, where there isn’t a parking lot for miles. Once inside, though, you kind of forget you’re next to a parking lot, thanks to the vendors, beer, and tunes.

Most attendees bring their own chairs or blankets, and you set up camp in the middle of the field, as close to the stage as possible—or in the shade, of which there was very little. No matter, though; it was a pleasant dry heat! Just remember to wear sunscreen. Once our camp was set, Jake and I grabbed a couple brews and hit the vendor tents, which included some excellent glass jewelry, Mojo Yogurt, and Scentsy. Everyone we came across was talkative and cheerful, and I chalk it up to bluegrass and good old country sound.

Did I mention the Carolina Chocolate Drops? Jake and I saw them play twice back in Charleston, and we love—I mean love—their music. They are well-trained masters of old-time fiddle and banjo-based music, and they won a Grammy for Best Traditional Folk Album last year. When I saw them sitting around behind the security area, I did what any star-struck fan would do. I waved them down and begged for their autographs. We shared a couple laughs over the memory of a heavily over-crowded show at The Pour House back in South Carolina, and I almost exploded with glee.

Their set was inspired, of course, filled with clogging, kick-ass vocals, and general awesomeness. But what almost (almost) excited me more was the realization that Phoenix folk love bluegrass music! As a big ole group, we danced, stomped our feet, and sang along. It was like a scene from the Deep South, and I was proud to be part of it and to call myself Phoenician. Let’s face it: you can’t frown when bluegrass is playing. You can’t be sad when someone is singing about “corn bread and butter-beans and you across the table.” I smile just thinking about it …

I will definitely take part in the McDowell Mountain Music Festival again next year. It reminded me of being back in Charleston, where the world moves slower and people spend afternoons on front porches, doing nothing but playin’ banjo and drinkin’ cold beer. The festival also made Phoenix feel even more like home, now that I know I’m not the only bluegrass fan in the county.

It was fairly easy choosing a honeymoon destination, considering all we required were turquoise beaches, white sand, and margaritas. Friends of ours had already spent their honeymoon in a mysterious place called Belize, Central America. Yes, I had to look at a map to understand where it was, but once I saw pictures, it was love.

We’re leaving in a few weeks (can’t wait!!), so this week, I did some homework. We’re staying in an ocean-side cabana on Ambergris Caye, which is a little island off the mainland. San Pedro is the big city on Ambergris Caye, and Belize City is only a quick boat ride away. So beyond lying on sunny beaches and drinking the aforementioned margaritas, what do people do in Belize? Well, let me tell you.

Mayan Ruins

The peak of Mayan civilization was from about 600 to 900 AD, and Belize was an important part of their culture. The country’s fertile climate and access to marine life led to the growth of a large population of Mayans, and when they disappeared (aliens?), they left breathtaking ruins. There are several to visit, but Caracol is the biggest and Xunantunich is most heavily visited. Maybe we’ll see both!

Snorkeling

I still have a slight phobia of the ocean. Not much, mind you, since living in Charleston, South Carolina, but I still get freaked when I can’t touch the bottom or see what creatures might be circling my toes. The good thing about Belize? The water is crystal clear, so at least I’ll be aware of creatures that might want to eat me. Because of the clarity of its turquoise water, Belize is the perfect place to snorkel, and I plan to do it at the Hol Chan Marine Reserve, the location of Shark Ray Alley—where we’ll swim with Nurse Sharks and Southern Sting Rays. Crazy? Yes, but how often do you get to do something like that?

Eat/Drink (My Favorite)

When researching restaurants and bars in Belize, I didn’t look for the ones with the best food. I looked for the ones with the best views of the ocean. One of them is literally in the ocean; now, that’s what I’m talking about! The two places we HAVE TO GO and possibly spend LOTS OF TIME: The Rojo Lounge in San Pedro and Palapa Bar and Grill—the one literally on stilts above the sea. I discovered both of these locales online yesterday, and I giggled with glee. If Palapa is as cool as it looks, we might just never leave …

Massage

Of course we’ll get sea-side massages. Of course! The place that looks most promising is Ocean Essence Day Spa. It’s a tiny spa right on the beach. I mean right on the beach. Can you imagine? Sitting outside, hearing the waves, feeling the salty breeze from the sea … and getting a deep tissue massage all at the same time? Priceless.

Our honeymoon will be here soon. Belize is coming! It’s about damn time. We deserve a vacation, and I look forward to life off the map and off the computer … and in the arms of my hubbie! Happy honeymoon!