Daddy's Coming Honey!

Home and Heart

This weekend we visited Carrie’s family in her hometown.  It was like we were picking out a spot to raise our kids in cozy little Brasstown, NC where the boys make their own hats, the girls make their own quilts, and everybody eats down at Doyle’s.  Yes, it’s that kind of town.  There was a folk art festival down at the folk school, and we stepped out to enjoy the atmosphere of fall outside of time, watching wood turners and cloggers, eating barbecue pulled from the spit, and sniffing candles.  We stay in a cabin overlooking the school on the top of the hill, across from Clay’s Corner, home of the New Year’s Eve Possum Drop (I wish I could make this stuff up).

Later that afternoon we eat boiled peanuts and listen to a poem lamenting the loss of a beloved rooster.  There is another rooster about.  We know this because he woke us up that morning.  Note to all non-farm-dwellers: The rooster does not crow when the sun comes up.  Oh, no.  He crows at about 5:00 in the morning, he wakes the sun up.  Also, he does this about fifty-leven times until the sun does come up.  by that time you are already up, and you are thinking about having the rooster for breakfast.

But it was nice for Carrie to revisit the place she grew up.  I’m not that far from mine, and my old ground isn’t as mythically small-town, but more a suburban big town that behaves like a small one, especially on my side of town, where Old Main Street awaits down one road and the brief countryside of Shawsville down the other.  Carrie points to all the old places that haven’t changed, and the places that have.  The old dirt road that is now paved, causing her to shiver, the road that leads to Old Mona (I added the Old descriptor for dramatic effect), the woman who used to babysit Carrie and fifty-leven other kids.  She also taught them how to kill a chicken.  I first met Mona when I asked for her approval to marry Carrie (honestly, I could have married her anyway, but I’m a gentleman).  This time we told her we were pregnant.  It’s nice for people to live long enough to raise you and one day meet your children.  Both Carrie’s sets of grandparents are no longer here, but Mona may still be around to meet our child.  I sure hope so.

We’ve met our child too, by the way.  We had our first sonogram a couple weeks ago.  The practice she visits is nice.  I expected a hall of cold hospital rooms and old male doctors slapping on talcum-covered gloves.  Instead we walk into what is possibly an all female cast, and they lead us into a room that looks more like a spa than a sonogram room.  Dimly lit, purple walls, soft plants, a collage of sonogram photos (one did look like a demon child, and I sure hope that’s not anybody I know).  I was expecting the technician to give us a massage and play Enya while we viewed the sonogram.

Viewing the sonogram was one thing.  That first time you don’t see much.  But what you see is life.  What really struck me is the sound of the heartbeat.  As soon as the technician flipped the switched I heard the pulse of a living force that was climbing upward towards us, beating as if performing for mommy and daddy with all the gusto it has.  This our child does all day, its little heart hammering with vitality.  I love this being.

This is our child below:


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