Brandy and baby food

April 10, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

Our five hour flight from Yerevan to London passed without a hitch. Baby Bird even fell asleep for a couple hours. I couldn’t believe our luck.

When we landed at Heathrow we knew a long layover awaited us. The airport was hot and sticky, and once we finished our requisite lunch of bangers and mash, we scratched our heads. Four hours left. What are a couple of tired, jet-lagged new parents to do?

“I heard there’s a play area here in the airport. Let’s see if we can find it.”

Find it we did and spent a relaxing hour watching Baby Bird delight in colorful toys the likes of which she’d probably never seen before. Watching her expressions, as she touched and discovered, was pure joy.

When we could see her energy was starting to wane, Big Papa strapped her into the Baby Bjorn and headed for the concourse. Back and forth he paced until she slumped, asleep. Sweat glistened on his neck and arms as he continued to walk, and walk for another 45 minutes to an hour. I’d catch them every lap or two, say hello and then off they went.

She woke up shortly before it was time to head for security and board our flight to Seattle. We were a few feet from the scanners when I saw the sign. No alcohol. I walked up to one of the security agents.

“I see the sign says no alcohol. That doesn’t apply to duty free, right?”

“Yes, it does.”

I pleaded. “But it’s in a sealed duty free bag from our departure city?”

“Sorry, but as London is not your final destination, your duty free liquids will be confiscated.”

Now I was desperate. “What can we do? It’s a very expensive bottle of Armenian brandy.”

“Your only option would be to check it through.”

She was polite but stone-faced. My brandy and I would not be able to board this flight together. We either had to find a way to check it or drink a few shots before parting ways.

“We have to check it through,” I said emphatically to Big Papa. “I wonder if I could make it downstairs to the British Air desk and back through security in time for our flight.”

I could see the terrified look in his eyes.

“What if you don’t make it back?”

While I knew our main objective was to bring our baby home safe and sound, the thought of having to toss that bottle of brandy in the trash really irked me. I was stewing about this when I turned and saw a small British Air counter just feet before the security line, and then I had a brilliant (or at least I hoped) idea: we could check one of our carry-on bags and stow the brandy inside.

“Let’s shuffle a few things around, and put the brandy in one of our two carry-on bags,” I said eagerly.

Big Papa looked at me like I was nuts.

“Come on, we don’t need everything we’ve brought with us on this flight,” I asserted as I knelt down on the carpet, unzipped our two carry-on bags and started tossing diapers, second sets of clothes, magazines and sundry items this way and that. In a few minutes I’d managed to repack our bags with the “essentials” in one and the non-essentials in another—and the brandy tucked safely in the middle.

I walked up the ticket counter.

“Would it be possible to check this bag? We really don’t need it on our next flight.”

“Yes, absolutely,” she replied with her lovely British accent.

And there went the bag and our brandy. See you in Seattle.

Crazy as it might sound, I felt relieved. I smiled, feeling clever that we’d pulled it off and happy at the thought our future adoption milestones could be accompanied by a proper toast, with Armenian brandy.

And then came the moment, which I’d heard would come, when I had to taste the baby food we had with us in carry-on. “Squeezable” foods like baby food, feel into the LAGS (Liquids, Aerosols and Gels): If you can pump it, pour it, spread, smear, spray, spill or squeeze it, it is considered a LAG. But they were willing to bend the rules, if you taste a small amount right then and there.

So that’s exactly what I did. I opened three jars, put my finger in the jar and stuck it in my mouth. Down the hatch went a sampling of the baby food. It wasn’t as horrible as I’d imagined (read: I didn’t gag), but I wouldn’t order any of them again if I saw them on the menu.

With the security check behind us, we headed to the gate. Only one ten-hour flight stood between us and home. All I could think about was how good it would feel to be in our own house and snug in our own bed, and how much I’d probably want a shot of that brandy.

Want to toast to more great food and drink? Check out Wanderfood Wednesday!

Two planes, 26 hours and 6,336 miles

April 8, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

We set our alarm for 3:30 a.m. and awoke, bleary-eyed, to what would be the start of a very long day. A full, luminous moon was the only light in the pitch black sky. Two floors below us, Tumanyan Street, lay silent: no horns blaring, no cacophony of people passing below on the sidewalk. It felt as though all of Yerevan was asleep, except for us.

Big Papa rolled out of bed with a groan. On soft feet, so as not to wake Baby Bird just yet, he padded over to the bathroom. I heard him turn the squeaky handles to the shower, grunt and then, in a loud whisper say: NO water.

During our two week stint in this apartment, we’d experienced water “issues.” We would wake up, one of us would make coffee and the other would saunter to the bathroom only to find there was no hot water. We’d wait a few minutes and try again and then again, until eventually one of us would call our translator and she would call the building management and they would send a man to reset the hot water heater.

This became a daily routine. Every morning we would wait until a respectable hour to make our phone call, and sometime before noon someone would make an appearance and fix it. Once or twice we felt brave or impatient enough to bathe under a bracingly cold stream of water.

But today, on the morning of our departure, before we would spend the next 26 hours traveling 6,336 miles, half way around the world to our destination—home—with an infant, there was no hot water. In fact, it turned out there was no water at all. No water for a shower, even a cold shower, no water coming out of the tap. Thankfully we still had a bit of bottled water left, albeit only a half-bottle, enough to make Baby Bird’s formula and—if we were lucky—enough for one espresso-sized cup of Armenian coffee for each of us. And we really needed that one cup.

We were scheduled to leave for the airport at 4:30 a.m. There wasn’t time to do anything about the shower. I dampened a washcloth with a sprinkling of bottled water and gave myself a sponge bath.

Big Papa made a bottle for Baby Bird and I got her up. I hated waking her and hoped she would sleep once our plane was airborne. Our first flight, which left at 6:30 a.m. from Yerevan to London, was close to five hours long. Then we would have a five hour layover in Heathrow Airport before boarding our final, 10 hour flight to Seattle. After passing through U.S. Customs, we would need to meet with a U.S. Immigration officer and catch a taxi home. We’d figured we’d be home, at our house, around 5:00 p.m., Easter Sunday.

When our agency’s attorney arrived, he handed us a large manila envelope. THE envelope we’d heard so much about during our four year adoption journey, the envelope from the U.S. Embassy in Yerevan containing all the adoption documents U.S. Immigration would need to process our daughter as a new U.S. citizen. We were told do not open this envelope under any circumstances, do not let it out of our hands, and do not let anyone else open it until it is safely in the hands of a U.S. Immigration officer.

We drove to the airport in the darkness, talking about the trips we’d made to Armenia, the emotional upheaval of our failed adoption, our deep appreciation to all the people who helped us along the way, and our elation that we were finally parents. I felt sad watching the lights of Yerevan fade into the distance. As much as I wanted to get home and begin our life as a family, I knew I would always feel a longing for Armenia, the curve of the hills on the road to Gyumri, the rose-colored tuff of the buildings. I would miss the people we came to know, and crave the amazing Armenian food we’d be hard-pressed to find in Seattle. Even though I was certain we would come back one day with our daughter, that day could be years away.

At the airport we checked our luggage and made sure we indeed had seats on our flight, including a “lap seat” for our daughter. Obtaining berth for her on our flights had been no easy matter. Before we left for our court trip, Big Papa and I had reserved two seats, one for each of us, on two different flights, one flight with British Midlands from Yerevan to London and one flight with British Air from London to Seattle. Our travel agent told us we couldn’t reserve a lap seat for Baby Bird until she was legally our daughter, but to simply give her a call when we had her passport and she would be added on to our ticket.

That’s what we did, and though she tried, she was unable to reach British Air. “Go to the British Midlands office in Yerevan and see what they can do.” And so we did, and what they told us was that they could reserve her lap ticket for the first leg of our trip, but not for the second leg with British Air. Apparently British Midlands and British Air ticketing systems were unable to “communicate” with each other because they did not share codes. The ticket agent told us we could try to get her a seat when we arrived in London…but, “if we couldn’t, we’d miss our connecting flight.”

The thought of being stuck in London for more than the five hour layover was unimaginable. Baby Bird only had a visa to enter the U.S. so we couldn’t go through customs and leave the terminal in any other country except the United States of America. Visions of “The Terminal” with Tom Hanks flashed through my mind. In this film, an eastern immigrant finds himself stranded in JFK airport, and must take up temporary residence there.

We didn’t know what to do, but the travel agent said that British Midlands and British Air were merging their ticketing systems, tentatively on Friday March 6, 48 hours before we needed to board our plane. The only thing we could do was cross our fingers and wait.

Friday arrived, and merely hours before our “interview” at the U.S. Embassy in Yerevan (where we would receive a visa for Baby Bird) we made another trip to British Midlands. I’m sure the agent could see the worry in our faces. She smiled and said the two airlines had indeed worked out the kinks in their systems, and started sharing codes, which meant we were able to get her a seat on my lap for the first flight and a “cot” on the second flight.

And now here we were the three of us, about to board the first flight of our long journey home. We hugged our attorney, and walked through security, stopping in the duty free shop to buy a much coveted bottle of 20-year Armenian brandy.

“You won’t be able to take this on your flight out of London. It’s a customs’ regulation,” the clerk at the cash register told us.

“That doesn’t make sense,” I replied, feeling annoyed. “We’ve taken brandy home on all our previous flights through Paris.”

“It’s your decision, but you’ll be taking your chances with an expensive bottle of brandy.”

We decided to take our chances. He zipped up our bottle in a duty free puffy plastic bag and we headed for our gate.

Sitting in the hard plastic seats, waiting for our boarding call, I could see Mt. Ararat standing tall in the distance, lit by the rising sun. My stomach was in knots. Two flights, 16 hours flying time, five hour layover, 12 hour time difference, one 11-month old baby. Big Papa later told me how scared he felt, thinking about what we were taking on, the flight alone, never mind parenthood itself.

As our plane pulled away from the gate and we taxied onto the runway, I glanced at Big Papa and Baby Bird, my family, as my eyes brimmed with tears. I squeezed his hand tightly. We were homeward bound!

48 hours in London

March 14, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

How much can you see if you have 48 hours in London? A lot as it turns out.

Last March, en route to Armenia, Big Papa and I spent two days and two nights in London. Armed with our copy of City Walks London (we’ve used, and loved, City Walks Paris on several trips), we set out to explore the city.

What we saw: Big Ben, Parliament, Buckingham Palace, Kensington Palace, Westminster Bridge, the river Thames, Scotland Yard, London bobbies, double-decker buses, St. Paul’s Cathedral and the London Eye.

What we did: strolled around Kensington Gardens, toured the Tate Modern museum and looked at cool art before enjoying a yummy lunch at the museum cafe, rode the tube in the London Underground (and made sure to mind the gap!), meandered through Hyde Park and saw amazing feats of skill on roller blades, walked across Millennium Bridge, bought a wool scarf for Big Papa and fingerless gloves for me on Portobello Road, wandered arond Notting Hill and watched dapper school boys in crisp shorts and blazers get picked up from school by mums in spendy sports cars.

What we ate: plenty of delicious bangers and mash, sublime Indian food (at Zaika), and washed it all down with pints of bloody good beer.

London’s calling

London bobby and his horse

Bangers and mash

Beth and Big Papa with St. Paul’s in the background

Millennium Bridge London

British flag

Girl in Hyde Park

Check out Delicious Baby Photo Friday for more bloody good photos!

Plane ride to parenthood

March 12, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

One year ago, on March 12, we received a call from our adoption agency with the date we were to appear in court to finalize the adoption of our daughter. Less than 24 hours later (yes, less than 24 HOURS LATER!), Big Papa and I boarded a plane headed to London, where we would stay for two days and two nights before boarding a second plane to Armenia. Only a handful of people knew where we were going and why: Big Papa’s boss, our cat sitter, our pediatrician-to-be, my mother and sister, Big Papa’s cousins (who offered to help us out when we first got back home), and one close friend.

We had waited to take this plane ride for nearly four years and the idea that it was finally happening felt surreal. Only a year before, our pending adoption of another baby girl had fallen through, merely ten days before our scheduled flight. I found it hard to settle myself and put away the fear that something bad would happen this time too.

My mind revisited all the scenarios we’d faced along the way: two referrals, five trips to Armenia, multiple updates to our files and dossier, several trips to our local USCIS (U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services) office for several sets of fingerprints, numerous visits to our bank to have paperwork notarized, and a number of road trips to Olympia (our state’s capitol) to have our documents apostilled.

I recalled the RFE (Request for Evidence) that had us gripping edge of our seats in the cliffhanger that was our prior adoption attempt, the interminable angst as we waited for nearly three months to get resolution when that adoption was interrupted, the uncertainty of how to “undo” our Article 5 (final Hague approval from the U.S. Department of State), a situation–as we were told by our immigration agent–that no prospective adoptive parents had faced before, and then the crazed race to update our paperwork yet one more time so we could be eligible for a new referral.

Reverently, I remembered the soul-wrenching isolation I felt, and the deep dark depression, when I couldn’t share what was happening–what had happened–even with some of my closest friends, for fear that we might jeopardize the future of our adoption. I couldn’t talk about it. I couldn’t blog about it. The only thing I could do was stew about it.

I thought about all the excitement, disappointment, hope and heartache that led to this moment. And yet here we were, passports and suitcases in hand, getting on a plane, literally on our way to parenthood!

That’s when it hit me. We were really on our way: TO PARENTHOOD!

Village of Fayetteville (New York) Bird Preserve (Gramlich Bird Sanctuary)

February 21, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

When my parents purchased the home where I grew up in Fayetteville, New York, one of the selling factors was that the property backed up to a bird preserve. My father reasoned that because the land was protected, no one would build on it and our home would always be surrounded by woods in the back. As someone who loves birds, I feel grateful to have grown up in a place where they were literally in my own backyard.

The Village of Fayetteville Bird Preserve, otherwise known as the Gramlich Bird Sanctuary is on about eight acres of land on both sides of Limestone Creek east of Highbridge St. at Audubon Parkway. In 1987, the area was listed as 10.2 acres, either because the creek had changed course or the original measurement was not precise.

The land was given to the village in 1933 by Jacob and Belle Gramlich to provide a forever wild area along Limestone Creek. They named it the Fayetteville Bird Preserve as a memorial to Frederick M. Gramlich who died in 1933, a few months after his graduation from the naval Academy at Annapolis. A bronze plaque on the east side of Highbridge St., just north of the entrance to Hullar Enterprises records the gift.

The land was originally planted with about 3,000 seedlings in the late 1920s by Fred Gramlich and his brother, J.E. Gramlich, as part of work for a Boy Scout conservation merit badge.

In the 1960s, a local Boy Scouts cleared paths and thinned the over-growth. The Fayetteville Garden Club planted shrubs to provide food and nesting locations. Several clean-up projects by Boy Scouts were done during the 1970s.

In the winter, when the birds are farther and fewer between, there is a beautiful stillness. The trees are covered in white, and walking along the paths, over a crunchy blanket of snow, it truly feels like a sanctuary.

Want to see more winter loveliness? Check out Delicious Baby Photo Friday!

Blissed out in Baja

February 8, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

A year ago, Big Papa and I were preparing for a trip to Baja, Mexico. Our first trip to Mexico and our last trip just-the-two-of-us.

Find more bliss…check out Delicious Baby Photo Friday!

Dreams of Ishkan fish

February 6, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

Who would have guessed that in a small landlocked, mountainous country in the South Caucasus, you can find the most delicious fish? Not me. But you can, and that’s why I’ve been dreaming about eating fish, Ishkan fish.

Ishkan fish is a lake trout from Lake Sevan in Armenia.Lake Sevan was once the largest lake in the region, teeming with Ishkan trout, which was a species endemic to the lake. Unfortunately, during the era of Soviet control, the level of the lake was lowered, competitive species of fish were introduced (whitefish, goldfish and crayfish) and Lake Sevan trout were fished to near extinction (the “winter trout” sub-species no longer exists in the lake).

Today, farm-raised trout are released into the lake, and licenses are issued. The fee for each fish caught is U.S, $ 25.00, but you can buy the same trout in Yerevan or Gyumri, the second largest city, for a fraction. And if you like fresh fish prepared skillfully on location, head to Gyumri and ask for directions to Cherkezi Dzor Fish Farm and Restaurant.

Cherkezi Dzor is located in a valley at the foot of the Red Fort. The fortress was built in the early 1800’s under the decree of Russian Tsar Nicholas I. The restaurant company owns and operates seven fish farms throughout Armenia and sells sturgeon along with fresh lake, river, and brook trout. And…Lake Sevan trout.

Although we visited Cherkezi Dzor on a cold day in March, I’ve heard the fish farm is lovely in May when the apple and pear trees bloom. For us, the restaurant was a warm and quiet respite. We ordered our fish, and while it was being prepared, wandered around the grounds, peering into pools teaming with fish, watching lavash being made in a tonir (deep, in-ground clay oven), until we headed back to the main building, and enjoyed our lunch.

Big Papa and I ordered our trout wrapped in lavash, but I also wanted to try it poached the Armenian way, half steamed and half boiled. Our fish was delicious, the ambience at Cherkezi Dzor was rustic and homey, and the service was friendly and very competent. I can see why many people make the two-hour drive from Yerevan, the capital, just to enjoy skillfully prepared fresh trout or baked sturgeon, in a beautiful setting.

Sadly, Seattle is a long, long way from Lake Sevan. To satisfy my craving, we bought steelhead trout. Big Papa cooked it on the grill. We paired it with a salad and rice mixed with nuts, dried fruit and pomegranate seeds.

It was delicious. But it wasn’t Ishkan fish.

Grilled Steelhead Trout

Recipe makes 4 servings

Ingredients

Olive oil
1 pound skinless steelhead trout fillets
1/4 cup dry white wine
2 1/2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 teaspoon fresh thyme
Salt and pepper to season

Directions

Lightly brush the trout with olive oil.
Mix wine, Dijon mustard, lemon juice, and thyme in a bowl; spread over the fillets, letting some run underneath the fish.
Season with salt and pepper.
We cooked our trout outdoors on the grill for about ten minutes.
You can also bake the trout in your oven. Preheat to 400 degrees. Use a baking dish, lightly coated with olive oil place the trout inside. Follow the remaining directions including cooking time (10-15 min.).
Trout should flake easily.

Want to fish for more deliciousness? Check out Wanderfood Wednesday!

Spitak Earthquake: 24 years ago

December 7, 2012 by Beth Shepherd

When I was in Gyumri–in 2011 and 2012–I could still see evidence of the massive earthquake that struck Armenia on December 7, 1988 at 11:41 a.m. The epicenter was located in Spitak, at least 25,000 people lost their lives,and hundreds of thousands were left homeless. Measuring 6.8 on the Richter Scale, the massive earthquake destroyed poorly constructed Soviet buildings across the region and many other buildings sustained heavy damage or collapsed.

The small city of Spitak was destroyed, while the nearby cities of Leninakan (later renamed to Gyumri) and Kirovakan (later renamed to Vanadzor) sustained a lot of damage as well. The tremor also caused damage to many surrounding villages.

Since most of the hospitals in the area were destroyed, and due to freezing winter temperatures, officials at all levels were not ready for a disaster of this scale and the relief effort was therefore insufficient. The Soviet Union allowed in foreign aid workers to help with the recovery in the earthquake’s aftermath, and this was one of the first cases when rescue and relief workers from other countries were allowed to take part in relief works in the Soviet Union. Gorbachev cut short a visit to New York City in order to visit the disaster area. He promised to have all of the damaged areas quickly rebuilt.

The outpouring of aid from both private individuals and governments around the world was very generous, though much of it had a great deal of trouble reaching Armenia through Azerbaijan which was blocking and damaging shipments.

Although I have read that, in 2003, the last of those homeless due to the earthquake were either given new apartments by the Lincy Foundation or vouchers to purchase homes, when I visited Gyumri it was clearly evident that many people were still living in boxcars and quite a number of buildings have yet to be reconstructed.

I am posting this because a part of Gyumri will always tied to my family…my daughter was born in the nearby countryside. I was taken with Gyumi’s beauty, its history, the intricate ironwork of the buildings and the spare, dramatic landscapes that surround the city, and I mourn all they lost–as a city and a people.

Great expectations

December 5, 2012 by Beth Shepherd

When I heard the news, Kate and William are expecting, I couldn’t help but remember the last time I was in England. Nine months ago, I passed through London on the mother of all trips, the trip where Big Papa and I would bring home Baby Bird. London was, if you will, our last hurrah before parenthood.

Big Papa and I enjoyed two days of Big Ben and Buckingham Palace, all the while feeling a heady mix of emotions: excitement that, after years of waiting, we were finally going to be parents; fear that something might go wrong at the last minute–a situation we were all-too-familiar with; and, a certain suspension of belief around the myriad ways our lives were soon to change.

We had been a couple for seven years. Seven years of hours spent working in our garden, of wine tasting trips to Walla Walla and Willamette Valley, of weekends away at remote B&Bs, and of dinners with friends that started at 7:00 and lingered for hours.

Friends who were parents themselves would tell me: Eat out at romantic restaurants as much as you can. See movies_in_a movie theater. Finish any lingering home improvement projects. Travel! I would smile and nod my head as I imagined our child giggling and jumping in the leaves we’d rake each fall, ordering Mac ‘n cheese off the kid’s menu at our favorite dinner spots, or toting a little suitcase packed with stuffed animals as we boarded a flight.

And I continued to conjure up these images until I sat, that last night, at Zaika, a high zoot Indian restaurant in the Kensington district, that a friend had recommended to us. I sat at that table, with its white linen tablecloth, gleaming silverware and crystal goblets, amidst elegantly dressed diners, listening to the din of their chatter. I sat there and stared at my Tandoori chicken. I stared at Big Papa and he stared back at me.

I know we both felt ready to run like scared rabbits. In 12 hours, we would pack our bags and board a flight that would take us to a place we’d never been, a place we could have never imagined in our wildest expectations.

“Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.”

~Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

When you wish upon a star

November 21, 2012 by Beth Shepherd

This morning I read Baby Bird a new book, Olivia and the Fairy Princess. She loves the original Olivia and I’d heard great reports about this book too. In this book, Olivia is having an identity crisis. There are too many ruffled, sparkly princesses around. She wants to do more than just fit in. She wants to stand out. At the end of the story, as Olivia lies in bed unable to sleep, she starts imagining who she could be.

I read aloud to my daughter:

Maybe I could be a nurse and devote myself to the sick and elderly. I could use my brothers to practice bandaging and various other treatments.

Then I turned the page and continued:

Or maybe adopt orphans from all over the world.

I stopped, took a deep breath, and finished reading the book.

As the day went along I found that I couldn’t stop thinking about this one sentence. I had a something else in mind to post today, but now I feel compelled to write about this.

There are many fairy tales with an adoptee in the storyline: Cinderella, Snow White, Pinocchio, and Bambi; the list goes on and on. And, as we all know, there is always a happy ending with the protagonist fulfilling his or her dreams, securing a warm home (if not a castle), finding true love, everlasting happiness, and being accepted as part of a healthy, loving family.

When you wish upon a star
Makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires
Will come to you

If your heart is in your dream
No request is too extreme
When you wish upon a star
As dreamers do

Fate is kind
She brings to those who love
The sweet fulfillment of
Their secret longing

Like a bolt out of the blue
Fate steps in and sees you through
When you wish upon a star
Your dreams come true

But the truth is that life—for many– is quite unlike the Disney fantasy. It does make a difference who you are, anything your heart desires may not come to you, and fate is frequently unkind. And there are millions of people, not just orphans, who are unable to find a place to lay their head at night, a meal to fill their belly, and family and friends to love and care for them.

Sometimes, I feel selfish that we chose to shower time, money and attention on making a difference for one, when there are so many in need. It was truly heartbreaking to spend a great deal of time in several orphanages, and see children whose lives are never going to be filled with the opportunities our daughter will have.

For whatever challenges I’ve had or might face, my life is indeed blessed. I live in a beautiful city, inside a cute house with a lovely garden filled with color and nature. Each night I fall asleep in my own bed beside my wonderful husband. While I have lost several friends and family members who were dear to me, I have many incredible friends who sustain me and a family who loves me. I am healthy and fit and eat delicious meals on most nights. I’m able to indulge my interests in photography, gardening, cooking, and writing. I have been able to fulfill some of my dreams: to travel, to marry and to become a mom.

I am one lucky girl.

Happy Thanksgiving to my family, my friends and those of you who faithfully read my blog.

To Big Papa: There are no words to really say how deeply grateful I am to share my life with you.

To Baby Bird: May this, your first Thanksgiving, be the foundation for a life with many more.

For each new morning with its light, for rest and shelter of the night, for health and food, for love and friends, for everything Thy goodness sends.

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

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