Postcard from Paradise

We got back to DC- miraculously- in time to bear traffic, pick up groceries, and toss our beach laundry in the washer before crashing with dinner and a glass of wine in front of a fire. Hawaii was amazing. Travel is hell. It's good to be home.

Still, it's a special kind of sad- and I know Missy agrees with me here- watching the last of the Bellows sand circle down the shower drain. It means vacation is really and truly over.

It was a ridiculously quick trip to Hawaii to see the fam for Thanksgiving, but then again work is always interfering with our vacation plans. We're getting used to it.

In the space of four days, we managed to cram in the North Shore circuit, an Army football game (my Peruvian brother-in-law's first American football game!), an actual Thanksgiving feast, about a hundred games of bocce (and lawn darts and badminton and dice games, oh my!), a pilgrimage to Duke's, a monsoon day at Bellows, and more mai tais than we cared to count. We saw old friends and were utterly charmed by our little niece, Lehua.

We did not surf or paddleboard or snorkel as planned, but part of the fun of being pseudo-locals (by family) in paradise is that there's always next time for the touristy stuff. For the most part, spectacular vistas notwithstanding, we were just like the rest of the poor saps trekking across the US on the busiest travel day of the year to share stuffing and turkey with the fam.

But those vistas were pretty hard to ignore. We're already planning our next- longer- trip, when Seth can hike and hit the waves, and we'll have time (and better weather) to lie on the beach for a change.

I'm beyond jealous that I have to be at the Pentagon for a board at 8 tomorrow morning, while Missy is sending me vacation pictures. (Although there are Mondays even in Hawaii, and Sara had to work.) Looking forward to the next family vacation. Seth survived his first, and claims to be excited to do it again, too.

More and better pictures will follow, but here are a few:

First, and most epic, documents my Thanksgiving wins. Believe it or not. (I never win anything in my family.)

This is from the Worst. Weather. Day. Ever. at Bellows. Check out that fleece!

Toasting Seth's "Alive Day" with champagne and the Bustamantes.

 And this one is probably our favorite. Our little niece, fetching and opening a beer for Dad. Totally unprompted. What a rock star.

Remembering another anniversary

November 30th is the anniversary of the best day of my life. No matter what happens, I am certain that nothing will ever eclipse that one. Our Maine wedding, although hilariously, fabulously, wonderful, didn't quite top it.

A year ago today was three days after I first got the phone call that Seth was alive and a little banged up. Three days, or a lifetime of sleepless nights and heart-in-your-throat moments and crying jags and waiting for phone calls from the road, depending on how you measure it.

A year ago today I fled some fiscal law class hours early, grabbed my already-packed bag, changed outfits three times, got 20 minutes down the road before I had to pull over at a gas station and- I am not joking- gulp most of a 40 of some cheap beer or other leaning on the hood of my car, nearly had a nervous breakdown when I hit traffic, and eventually made it to Andrews Air Force Base where I promptly lost the directions I had carefully written down and spent an hour wandering around lost and panicked and wishing desperately that I had the rest of that 40.

A year ago today I nervously waited in some colonel's office for that plane. Watched the sun start to set over the runway. And felt my heart leap into my throat and my blood pound in my ears as I saw the plane, Seth's plane, circle lower and lower and prepare to land. I stood off to the side, out of place and feeling both ridiculous and hysterical while customs officials got ready to board. I couldn't wait any longer, and was elated when some general officer brushed them aside, told me imperiously to "come with me" over protest, and shoved his way on board dragging me in his wake. The sides of the plane closed in around me as I looked from face to miserable face, and raced past the rows of stretchers. And then I saw him, bearded and beat up and druggy but reaching for me.

People ask me sometimes whether it was hard to make the decision to be "all in" with a guy I had been dating for only a few months before the IED blast changed everything. The answer is no. I didn't think about it for even one second. If you're ever lucky enough to feel the feeling that washed over me on that evening at Andrews, you hang on and never let go. And so I have.

Today, on this oddest and most wonderful of anniversaries, I remember the wait. For the plane to get there, to land, to open its doors, to let me just see the person who meant everything in the world to me. I feel gratitude for and cameraderie with the people who know that wait. Danielle Kelly and Jess Klein and the women who I now think of as sisters, because no one else will ever quite exactly understand. I am grateful for the parents- Seth's, especially, who I met for the first time the following day at the hospital, and who never made me feel like that was weird. Their wait, and their journey, is hard- and not quite the same, but there is so much love and shared understanding. For my own parents, who did cooking and yardwork and were always just solidly there. For my best friend who met Seth at the emergency room on a work night because I was stuck in traffic, and who brought me a flask and a hug. For Jackie and her Air Force friends who didn't know me but who jumped through hoops and bent a rule or two to allow me to be there, for that moment on the runway. And were happy to do it. For my roommate who did my laundry and made sure I ate, and our friends and family who were patient and understanding and supportive in little ways and big ones.

Today, too, I think of those whose wait is at Dover instead. My heart will forever bleed for those who watch for a different kind of aircraft.

Today we celebrate life and love, and are grateful. And will never forget.

Some COLD Football

We had a terrific week. Dinner with friends in the city, grilled some elk steaks, caught up on laundry, enjoyed being home for more than a few days at a stretch for a change. Which meant that... the "honey do" list resurfaced. Seth is very patient about the existence of this list, but he also largely ignores it. I know I promised I would leave the man cave alone, but let's face it. A couple months or not trading dinner for chores, and the place is a Superfund site.

So of course I came home on Friday night, after a hellish day and even worse traffic, to a fire and a glass of bourbon. A little Friday R&R- the man wasn't born yesterday- and I had agreed to not one but two football games in the midst of our sudden and offensive cold snap. Which meant, I suspected, that the biohazard that was our downstairs had at least another week to foster bacteria and allow the hunting clothes to get really ripe.

But I digress. The point is that we had a wonderful time at the Maryland- Boston College Game (all decked out in Terrapins gear in honor of Seth's soon-to-be alma mater!), and I say this not just because we spent most of it in the athletic director's warm box, and followed it up with the discovery of a new local sports bar. (I confess that I literally froze after Seth's introduction on the field in the third quarter and- much to my later embarrassment- insisted that we leave to "beat traffic," thereby missing what was described on the radio as an incredibly exciting game featuring a last-second field goal.) I was bracing myself, however, for the arctic Ravens game the next day.

We had front row seats, courtesy of some wounded warrior charity or other, and this one wasn't even too obnoxious. (Picture above notwithstanding.) But it was below freezing, and you can only drink so much beer, and frankly hand warmers don't work that well. It was a long, cold day (and not that thrilling a game), capped off by a (funny)(underdressed)(bizarre) evening on the town in Baltimore with Seth's Army football buddies. All in all, we had a good time. I still can't feel my fingers. And I am seriously concerned about Army-Navy, which promises to be at least 15 degrees colder.

I tolerated the football, and the cold, and the Ravens fans (can you say "lock your doors?") The best parts of my weekend were a long run with Steph, a trip to lululemon, a much-needed dose of takeout Thai, and a rare but amazing hour on the couch with reruns. It was a much-needed weekend at home.

Oh, and this. This absolute highlight. Sunday morning I got to take Seth and his new running leg for a little run along the canal. It's baby steps at first, and I know he gets frustrated that he can't go that far or that fast, and it's more painful than he remembers. But he looks so good, and he's so determined, and it means the world to me to get to run next to him again. Doesn't he look great??

The photo of the week is from Monday night, after Scott & Grace's school Thanksgiving program. We tagged along, and afterward we stopped by for a beer and "storytime with Uncle Seth." He read La La Loopsie. Pretty priceless.

And now... the countdown to Hawaii is on...!

Full Circle & Then Some

Sixteen-or-so months ago, this guy won me over by crashing my solo roadtrip and dragging himself through a half marathon in Keystone, Colorado. It was essentially our third date, and after that, it was pretty much a done deal.

20 surgeries, countless trips to the proesthetician,  and almost 12 months of physical therapy later, he grabbed my hand, looked at me, and started jogging next to me. Getting to run next to him, after the year we had been through together, was the moment I had been waiting for. And it was incredible.

Because he's Seth Nieman,of course,  he didn't stop there. An hour or so afterwards, he suited up for the Wounded Warrior Amputee Football Game against the Redskins Alumni

And he did this...

And this...

And this...

And you get the idea.

 

The Wounded Warriors won.

And looked awesome doing it.

Afterwards, we celebrated with a few beers at Clare and Don's with DJ, and then headed home so the boys could watch football. (That's right. The photo of the week is proof that I was the only person in the house who watched my Trojans' epic victory over Stanford.)

 

A story about the game, along with a cool interview clip, appears here: http://www.wusa9.com/sports/article/283078/444/Wounded-Warriors-Take-On-Redskins-Alumni-In-Flag-Football

 

 

The Last Best Place

The speed limit in Montana is 75. I cruised along at 78 and was passed by the only two cars (pickup trucks, natch) that I saw on 90 at almost midnight. There was no reason to slow down; there just wasn't anybody on the road. I only passed a handful of exits in 40 miles. I had a hard time wrapping my mind around the fact that just hours earlier I had been in the land of stop-and-go traffic and urban sprawl that didn't quit.

I was thrilled- I finally got to join Seth on one of his many trips, and it was to one of our favorite places. When Seth was offered a hunting trip to Red Lodge, Montana, he realized it was Veterans' Day weekend, so I could go- and a Nieman adventure was born. I could ice climb and snowboard while Seth stalked elk, and we could spend evenings hanging out in front of our fireplace.

Well, sort of. Except that we had a cabin-mate (named Adam, a double amputee that I ended up liking so much I got up early to make sausage and eggs for them before they left at o'dark early every day.) And Montana was unseasonably warm, so there was no ice and not a lot of snow. (Although Montana warm still meant a on of layers.) Anndddd there were social obligations every night. So we had our hands full.

But we met a ton of great people, and solidified our plan to retire in The Last Best Place. I ran miles on icy dirt roads with stunning views of the mountains (with bear spray and a Ruger in hand, which made me feel much better when I saw bear tracks and got stalked by a wolf), snowshoed up Beartooth Pass and had the whole spectacular valley to myself, and got to climb Rimrock with Charlie, a climbing legend who had done first ascents with Yvon Choinard. Seth killed a big mule deer and got to drive around in ATVs, imparting his hunting experience to the other wounded warriors, who were new to hunting. He even got asked to come back as a guide.

And we did spend a lovely (freezing) morning together, riding around in search of elk with Jake, Seth's cool guide-- a 20 year old who worked in a coal mine and wore a cowboy hat without a hint of irony. We love Montana. And Montanans. As we slammed our last meal on the way to the airport (that's right, the Niemans can get in lunch and two beers apiece in 20 minutes flat), we watched big, fat snowflakes fall on the streets of Billings and googled Montana realtors. We're thinking log cabin, lots of acres. With big wildlife, Seth-friendly gun laws, lots of trails, and expansive views- it's our kind of place.

Photos of the week:

Seth and Adam at the salad bar. I was actually appalled, although it was funny.

Andddd had to include this one, from our longggg 4-day week back. Best part of working at Belvoir is lunch breaks with Mom & Dad!

Quick trip to the 'ville

We made a quick run down to the ‘ville for Seth’s team party, an event which had long been in the works. I, for one, was bummed we couldn’t stay longer. Unfortunately, if you have to work at all on Fridays and live anywhere north of Richmond, you’re a hostage to traffic until well after it would make sense to begin a 5-6 hour trip. So we drove down Saturday and back Sunday. It was a whistle-stop tour to say the least.

We did get to see Brian, and meet his wife Serafima and her daughter Eva, who are finally on U.S. soil after a long and arduous immigration battle. So that was really special. And Jenn was nice enough to bring “my” baby, the now-walking Magster, to meet us at a bar the afternoon we got in. And of course we squeezed in a beer or three with Jax and crew (although, post-party, it was my turn to skip our planned Sunday run.)

But mostly, we were just in town for the 3126 get-together. It was a really nice event, although I know it was tough for Seth. It was his team’s official goodbye to him. He did a bang-up job giving a thank you/ farewell speech, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house when he was finished and they handed him his plaques. I was really proud of him, as I know it kind of marked the end of an era for everyone, and emotions ran high.

But there was plenty of beer, and hunting stories to tell, and a good time was had by all.

And now it’s Monday, and I’m back at the grind and Seth is in a tree stand somewhere. It’s cold and miserable back here “up north.” I think it’s a soup-making night. Since I’m still getting used to the end of daylight savings time (two commutes in the dark!), I’m pulling out the big guns: http://online.wsj.com/news/articles/SB10001424052748703396604576088182976391222 Butternut squash and mascarpone, and it always makes me grateful for the immersion blender Michelle gave me a couple Christmases ago. The fall foliage was gorgeous on our (long) weekend drive, but I know what that means: winter is right around the corner, and soup season is here!

Photos of the week: 3126

 

And the whole 3126 family:

Why I Never Hit the Snooze Button

The short story:

 

 

The rest of the story:

I never hit the snooze button. Ever. Nobody in my family does. The Walters family considers the inability to get the heck out of bed to be a pretty major character flaw. On weekdays, I wake up the instant my alarm goes off and am dressed and out the door with coffee in hand inside of five minutes.

And then there's Seth. He's had an adversarial relationship with morning wake-ups since I've known him (and, according to his Mom, since birth.) It's only gotten worse with TBI, and the buckets-full of drugs he was on as a result of getting blown up. He has to set three or four alarms to get up and get to physical therapy, and I suspect that that trick only works some of the time. Because of his many other fine qualities, I've managed to overlook this imperfection. I even occasionally feel bad for making fun of how groggy and disoriented he is when he has to wake up early.

And now I should probably take it all back, because it turns out that I'm wired exactly the same way, only backwards. I cannot function after even one tiny snooze button smack.

This morning, my alarm went off before dawn as usual, and it was just so nice in our bedroom, with the sound of the rain hitting the deck roof and a sleepy Seth next to me. He did not want me to get out of bed, and told me so. I don't know who can resist a snuggly husband on a rainy morning, but it's not me. So against my better judgment, I hit snooze.

I woke up ten minutes later, late and frantic. I threw on running clothes, grabbed my stuff, dropped it all in a puddle, and- having forgotten my coffee- raced for the door. Halfway to work, I noticed I had forgotten my phone. "Terrific," I thought. "I guess I'll google map the address I need to be at for dinner, and make wild guesses as to the traffic situation. I can do this."

I proceeded to cause a minor traffic jam at the Belvoir gate, since in my haste I had neglected to take my ID card out of my uniform pocket, which was hanging in the backseat, requiring me to get out to retrieve it and seriously angering my fellow drivers.

The skies opened up about halfway through my run, and I learned that I had also failed at hasty running shorts- selection. The pair I had grabbed was a size too big and one of a number I had pulled the drawstring out of the last time I put on a few pounds, figuring I no longer needed help keeping them up. That was apparently a few pounds ago, and when my shorts got soaked in the downpour they inched down my waist, eventually requiring me to run with one hand holding up my traitorous waistband. At the big intersection near my office, I wiped the rain from my face with my shorts-holding hand without thinking, and they fell down to my knees before I caught them. I hoped desperately that I had not just mooned someone I worked with. Fingers crossed.

I discovered the final disaster when I made it back to the gym to shower and pulled my uniform out of my car. There was nothing underneath it, and it hit me: I had left my boots beside the door. In Bethesda. This was a major problem. I definitely did not have two hours to make the roundtrip home, and I had to be in uniform for a ceremony this afternoon. I headed to Mom and Dad's, who always save the day, and luckily Dad had an extra pair in the upstairs closet. I wear a men's 5.5 in combat boots. I think Dad's are a 10. I look like Bozo the Clown, and you can hear me coming from down the hallway. My office has been in stitches all morning. I think it's seriously hurting productivity around here.

And that's why I never hit snooze.
Hope everyone else's Friday is going better than mine, at least in the shoe and shorts departments.