Eating books.

When I was young, reading was never just reading. It was consuming, devouring, absorbing the words on a page, and letting those stories become a part of me.

I can recall a time in my life when my own memories were blurred with the stories of my favorite characters. Not sure where their lives ended and my life began, reading to me was as necessary as breathing.

I have a memory of myself at maybe 10 years old. It is snowing outside, and the house is quiet. My mother is making dinner, my baby brother is sleeping, and my father is still working. I have the living room to myself, and there I am: curled tight into the corner of our tired blue recliner, arms around my bony knees, my book propped onto the arm rest. The book was Matilda by Roald Dahl. A couple hundred pages were gone in just a few short hours.

Never had I read a book like that—so fast that the last page came with teary eyes because I could never read it for the first time again.

Though I find less time these days to finish a book in one evening, reading still provides the same catharsis that it always has for me. I visit countries I will never see. I fall in love. I fight small battles and big wars, and I almost always win.

With a book in my hand, I am that little girl again.

And at the close of nearly every book, I find myself believing, if only just for a moment, that the world makes sense again like it did when I was small.

From the same perspective.

There is no bond in this world like the bond between siblings. Some days you are competitors, most days you are partners, and all days you are linked as people who have shared the same life, from the same perspective.

When my baby brother was born, I was just about to turn 9 years old. Truth be told, I was absolutely smitten with him from day one. I remember thinking that he was truly the most beautiful baby I had ever seen, from his tan complexion to his head full of curly black hair. If a baby can be called quiet and determined, that was Timothy James Lark, Junior.

The story that I hold dearest for my brother, the one I come back to again and again, is one that reminds me of all the reasons I love him. (And hopefully why he loves me.)

Tim was maybe 3 years old at the time, and he was a sick little dude—that toddler kind of sick where even seeing him was just pitiful. It kind of broke my heart, so I offered to stay up with him while my parents went to bed. Since he was not so interested in playing, I put in this new movie my mom had bought him.

I set up blankets and pillows on the floor in front of the television, and started the movie. It was a Pooh Bear movie, so I was none too thrilled, but I was content to sit there while my brother relaxed. On the cartoon went, until we got to this one particular scene.

It was Pooh, and Piglet, and Eeyore—and I have to say, even in adulthood, I still appreciate the truly deadpan humor that A.A. Milne attributed to the Eeyore character—and they were sitting beneath a tree. Eeyore was complaining about something, when suddenly an apple falls directly onto his head. Animated Eeyore falls onto the ground and makes this noise that sounds something like,

“EEE-YONG”

It was a nasally sound, and for whatever reason, we both thought it was HILARIOUS. To this day, I am absolutely positive that neither of us has ever laughed so hard as when that apple hit Eeyore and he made that noise. In fact, I rewound the tape so many times that we were crying, bellies sore, laughing on the ground until my parents came out of their room to see what was the matter.

That night is such a nice picture in my memory. One 12 year old girl, one 3 year old boy, sharing silliness in a way that only siblings can because there are no secrets, and no pretensions.

Today, I am proud to say that my brother is still that person—just 13 years older, and more than 6 feet tall. He is still someone who can appreciate simple humor, and someone who is hilarious himself. More than that, my brother is someone of strong conviction, of compassion, and the most fiercely loyal man that I have ever met.

Though it breaks my heart to see the “baby” part of “baby brother” disappear before my eyes, I feel so fortunate to know this one person who has seen me at my very best, and at my very worst, and to have a brother who loves me in the most unconditional way.

In fact, I think that love is what makes siblings so special. Without the responsibility of being a parent, being a sibling means that you can love and accept someone regardless of whatever life holds.

I am so grateful for my brother. Grateful that he was born, and grateful that he still tolerates my insistence that he hug me in public, and tell me that I am his favorite only sister. :)

But more than anything, I am grateful for the unconditional love of a brother.

At my wedding, keeping true to form.

The moment I knew.

Everyone always wants to know when you discovered that your spouse was “the one.” After much thinking, I realized that I really could not pinpoint just one moment. At first it made me a little sad, and then I just gave up.

Then, this morning, there I am driving to work when I realized: That was it. The moment when I knew Chuck was the one.

During my four years of college, I finished a major, a minor, an honors degree, and I studied abroad. In that time I worked one job that was nearly full time, and had an internship that was also nearly full time. My home, school, job, and internship were all in different directions, and a normal day involved all four.

If it was a day that I got to see Chuck, he was in another direction.

College was a blast, but it was also exhausting. Most of the really busy days, I would end up with Chuck.

I forget the specifics of this one day, but I was beyond tired. Chuck had homework to do, so I was going to just sit and read something for school. He was sitting at his desk, and I was propped up. I never understood how people could fall asleep reading, but that night I did.

Next thing I know, my cell phone alarm is going off. I am laying in a bright room, and my glasses are missing. I panic anytime my glasses are missing, but as I started reaching coherence, I realized that I was in the same place I was four hours ago… but now the clock now said 1 a.m.

Realizing that I had fallen asleep, Chuck had taken the book from my lap and the glasses from my face. There they were on the table next to me. My glasses were neatly folded, and there was a piece of paper marking where I had left off in my book. Both items had been placed neatly beside my cell phone—which was going off because Chuck had also set the alarm.

That moment is just one of a million stories I could tell you illustrating the fact that my husband is easily the most considerate person, friend, and spouse.

In fact, the reason it was so hard to recall just one moment when I knew Chuck was “the one” is because he gives me another reason every day.

The glasses story is a perfect example, though. We all define “husband” and “wife” differently, making it hard to quantify when you say something like “I have the best husband!” Depending on who you are, that could mean he always takes out the trash, or he sends me flowers, or any number of attributes… but none of those things actually matter like this does:

My husband is my best friend.

Not in the way that you call your best girlfriend your best friend, but in the way that I have this one person who would literally do anything for me—even though I rarely deserve it. :)

There are no conditions. Whether “anything” means changing our life plan tomorrow, or just making sure that my glasses are safe, and that I keep my place in my book.

On that day, it was just the glasses and the book… and that was the moment I knew.

The inverted pyramid.

That first summer I was an intern at Dayton Daily News is like a living sepia photo in my mind. The colors are distinct, but muddled, and the most discernible thing about that summer is the brightness that I feel when I think back to those days.

I had always thought I wanted to be a teacher, but by the time I was a senior in high school, I realized that education was not my calling. Rather, I had taken the position of Senior Editor and then Copy Editor for our high school newspaper and I discovered a truth about myself that I had actually known all along:

Whatever career I chose, I had to be writing.

That revelation lead to journalism, which ended up not being the path I chose—but in that summer I learned more about myself than I have in any other season of my life.

More than anything, I think that internship gave me such a sense of importance. Not that I was important necessarily, but that there were important things to be done in the world. I learned so many things in those short three months: the inverted pyramid, parallel parking, how to drink real coffee, and the all important questions of who, what, when, where, and why?

In the end, the hardest lesson I learned was that I could never be a good journalist. Call it gut, or something else, but I just did not/do not have what it takes to force the tough answers out of people.

What I have, of course, is a sincere love for the written word… and I can say with full confidence that my first summer as an intern was the crash course I needed for a life of writing.

Some of those lessons I learned:

• Trying to get children to answer a question with anything more than “yes” or “no” taught me how to answer the tough questions myself.
• The benefit of working on a deadline is that every project is your opportunity to save the day, and to give the world something else worthwhile before the day is done.
• Nothing will ever make you cheer for the protagonist like learning that the good characters are so far outnumbered by the bad.

I could go on and on, and maybe I will in some future post, but what I really mean to say is this: In that first summer as an intern for the Dayton Daily News, there were some people and projects that ended up changing my life. That old building taught me everything I know about writing, and most of what I know about life.

And I am grateful.

My very favorite birthday.

For as long as I can remember, my mother has given me a Birthday Week. Rather than limiting the birthday to just one day, we celebrate our birthdays for a full 7 days.

Nothing particularly special happens on the 6 days surrounding your actual birthday, but the birthday week becomes a great excuse.

“I don’t have to do the dishes. It’s my birthday week.”
“We’re having tuna noodle casserole for dinner. It’s my birthday week.”
“I don’t care what you want to watch on TV. It’s my birthday week.”

And so it goes, a week of glorious control over your fellow family members. I recommend you try it.

Of all my birthdays, and birthday weeks, there is one that I remember most of all as my very favorite birthday.

It was the year I turned 8, and the last birthday I celebrated in San Diego. In Southern California, it was always sunny and 70 degrees in February, so I had outdoor birthday parties.

Now, I was an admittedly stranger-than-average child with varied interests. So I insisted on having a Garfield-themed birthday, complete with a lasagna.

(Most kids have pizza; I had trays of lasagna.)

But the real highlight of the party? My parents had rented a bouncy house for me and my friends.

To the best of my recollection, everything was going pretty smoothly on the day of the actual party. The decorations were up, and I was rocking a seriously purple ensemble. And then the phone rang…

I heard my mother answer, and the disappointment building in her voice.

There was no bouncy house for my party that day. The company had double-booked my bouncy house, and it was going to some other birthday party for some other kid who definitely was not me.

I have to imagine I was pretty disappointed. There was still lasagna of course, but no bouncy house.

Then my fortune changed. To make up for their error, I ended up with a full size, princess castle bouncy house big enough to fit the whole neighborhood.

Only downside? The bouncy house was so big that my mom actually made me invite the whole neighborhood. Including a girl who was by definition a bully, who had destroyed my forts on multiple occasions, brought me a re-gifted Barbie that I already had, and who kept saying throughout the entire party,

“I don’t YIKE DASAGNA.”

My mother and I still say that today. And my eighth birthday is still my very favorite birthday. Thanks, mom!

What was your favorite birthday?

My only cool story.

Here is my true confession: I have always preferred a book and a cup of hot tea or coffee to just about anything outside my own home.

And I think that is a good preface to this story, because it illustrates how little I knew about the world when I ended up needing help from a man named Bear in a Waffle House outside Columbus, Ohio.

When I was a senior in high school, the boy I was dating got us tickets to see Offspring. I forget why now, but I know I was pumped. The show was in Columbus, so we had a pretty long trip for two people who had never really driven outside of Dayton.

I remember the show being amazing, and how rebellious I felt when we stopped to get breakfast at a Waffle House on our way home. It was pretty late—or early, rather—at this point, so our fellow diners were colorful to say the least.

As we were taking out seats, I remembered that I left my cell phone in the car. I had just found it, and was walking back in, when a younger guy stopped me to ask for money.

He told the same story I have heard a dozen times now, but at barely 18 years old, I was a sucker. He said he had a flat tire, and he just needed $20 to get a taxi, yada yada yada.

What did I do? Well, I had no cash. So I went inside and asked the boyfriend for money. He kept asking why, and I kept saying, “Don’t worry. I’ll pay you back. Just give me $40.”

Being the trusting girl that I was, I gave this very untrustworthy man a whole $40 that went to pay for who knows what? But unfortunately, this story continues…

The stranger went on his way, and I went back inside the Waffle House. As I sat down, the waitress came over and said in her thick Southern drawl, “Now Honey, you didn’t give that boy out there your money did you? He’s been out there asking for money every night this week!”

At this point, the very nice boy I was dating started turning very red, and getting very quiet. He looked at me quite seriously and said, “I’m going to go get my money back.”

Now, he said it in that voice where you just know not to argue. So I kept my mouth shut, and I let him go. Especially because I know I was wrong.

After about 10 minutes, I really began to worry. Other diners started talking, and I was beginning to feel pretty helpless. All of a sudden, a man who introduced himself as Bear—I am not joking—stood up from his booth in the back. In all his leather glory, Bear said, “I’m gonna go get your money back, darlin’.”

Unfortunately, Bear missed an important part of the story. When Bear returned, I asked him where the boyfriend was. Bear said, “what boyfriend?”

I said, “the boy I came here with.”

Bear said, “I didn’t see no boy, but the police just arrested someone next door at the gas station.”

At this point, we still had not ordered. So I picked up my stuff as fast as I could, and ran to the gas station to see what was happening. As I walked in, I saw the police officer that Bear had managed to flag down. And sure as Bear had said, that police officer had a boy in handcuffs.

The only problem? The boy in handcuffs looked nothing like the pan handler. In fact, the boy in handcuffs was my boyfriend.

I panicked a little at first, trying to get the police officer to understand that the one in handcuffs was not actually the pan handler. Eventually he listened, but that poor boy looked petrified in those handcuffs.

And me? I never got any Waffle House that night.

Les mémoires de Paris.

On my sixteenth birthday, my mom got me a lamp shaped like the Eiffel Tower. It was heavy, and bright silver, and I loved it!

Because the lamp was so specific, I asked my mom why she picked it out. She answered, “because ever since you were a little girl, you have always talked about going to Paris.”

I never realized I had ever actually told anyone that.

My dream of seeing Paris was something that I definitely internalized. To be completely honest, I never thought I would actually make it to Europe in the first half of my life. The older I got, the more responsibility I earned, the more I felt like studying abroad would be too frivolous. But after 9 years of French classes, I finally found the right opportunity to study in Paris.

I was a commuter all through college, and worked two jobs to afford school. Once I decided on Paris, I had to work even harder, saving every dollar to pay for the trip. I am fairly positive that once the day finally arrived, no other person had ever been more excited to board an 8 hour flight than I.

There are so many details of my study abroad experience to share, but I wanted to start with a memory that I am so very proud to have.

On the evening of our second night in Paris, our professor gathered us together to see the Eiffel Tower at night. I can remembered the jitters I felt leaving our hostel, and the excitement building as we walked toward the métro. I can recall perfectly the moment we exited the station at Trocadero, which put us just North of the Eiffel Tower. As we stepped out onto the narrow sidewalk, I remember thinking that in just a few steps, I would accomplish what had seemed like a near impossible life goal.

Most clearly, I remember that strange feeling that I think everyone experiences when you realize that you are on a completely new continent for the first time. I felt a little bit alone, but I also felt like I was on the verge of something great.

As we turned that last corner, and walked up the steps of the Jardins de Trocadero, I found myself nearly eye level with the Eiffel Tower itself.

More than 120 years after it had been constructed, that Eiffel Tower and I had a moment to ourselves. As I watched it twinkle in the distance, I felt a good mixture of wonder and accomplishment, knowing that I made it where I was always meant to go.

Night view from Jardins de Trocadero.

Night view from below the Eiffel Tower.

(Source: picasaweb.google.com)

The love of a grandpa.

When I was 8 years old, my dad moved me and my very pregnant mother to Michigan from our home in California. We never really talked about it, but I think my dad was just ready to go home.

That trek across the country is a story for another post, because today I want to tell you about my grandpa.

My grandpa was diagnosed and died of cancer within just two short years of us moving to Michigan.

I wish I could tell you the life story of Lawrence John Lark, Senior. But the only stories I can tell you are the moments I remember in the 9 years I got to be his granddaughter here on Earth.

My grandpa and I shared a lot of things. We had traditions. Like eating chips and dip, and taking long walks in the woods. Perhaps my favorite tradition was that each time I came to visit, my grandpa would take me shopping for one toy. I can remember the excitement, and exactly what it felt like to crawl across the leather seats into his big car. My dad will laugh when he reads this, but I remember how he drove with his seat way back, his long arm reaching all the way to the steering wheel. There was one specific trip where my grandpa bought me a Polly Pocket mansion, complete with a horse-drawn carriage. What I remember most about that particular trip is the look on my mother’s face when we returned, thinking about how much it must have cost.

My grandpa spoiled me.

I can remember one summer day, when my grandpa and I were outside together in his side yard. Grandpa was already sick by this time, and he was sitting in a lawn chair enjoying the sun. It was late morning, perfectly warm and sunny. I had my Walkman on, and I was playing Ace of Base. I was just 9 years old at the time, and my favorite thing was to sing the lyrics at full volume and make up synchronized dances. I guess my grandpa was watching me, no doubt laughing at my ridiculousness. When my dad came outside to see what we were doing, my grandpa looked at him, so serious, and said, “Does she actually know what those songs mean?”

My grandpa was funny.

The last memory I have was the day that my grandpa died. I remember when the phone rang, and I remember the first and last time I ever saw my dad cry. I remember sitting on my windowsill and praying, praying, praying that God would take it back.

I remember growing up a little in that moment, and learning the hard truth that death is so much a part of life.

Although I have been blessed with the love and devotion of good men—my father, husband, brother, and uncles—no one can ever love you as unconditionally as your grandparents.

There are so many moments that I wish I could have shared with my grandpa. So many parts of my own story that he should have been a part of. I wish he could have met Chuck; I wish he had been at my wedding; I wish he could see my brother grown.

At our most recent family gathering, my grandma asked me if I thought my grandpa was watching us. Although I can still feel his love, I only hope that he can see us.

If he is, I hope he enjoys our stories.


My grandpa and I, together.

Chapter 1.

It is not my intention to number every story as a chapter, because really, where would one even begin? But this is the first chapter of what has become my favorite story. The story of me, and of my husband, together.

It was February of my senior year in high school when I started working as a cashier at Dorothy Lane Market. If you are unfamiliar, DLM is a collection of three stores in the greater Dayton area, specializing in gourmet and import groceries.

That little detail is essential to where our story begins. Each associate at DLM is required to wear a name badge that lists where they were from. I am still not sure why, but I assume it is so the employees seem like imports themselves.

Anyway, I had been a cashier for just a few months when I started noticing this boy. As far as I could tell, he worked in the Deli, and I would see him walking to and from the break room. He had longish red hair, and he wore black Chuck Taylor All-Stars. At the age of 18, that was pretty much all the information I needed to decide that I definitely wanted to see more of him.

Soon enough, the right opportunity arose. By summer, the redheaded boy was promoted to supervising the night shift cashiers.

One afternoon, the boy—whose name I still did not know—was bagging groceries for one of my customers. In a lull, I finally had the chance to read his name badge.

His name was Chuck, and he was from Los Angeles, California.

How fortuitous. Under the name on my badge, it said San Diego, California. So I looked that boy right in the eyes and said, “We are both from California. We should probably be best friends.”

I would love to say that demanding someone be my best friend was born of some brave moment, but really, I was a girl with a crush and nothing to lose in the summer after my senior year. Either way, it worked to my benefit.

It only took me a moment to say, “We should probably be best friends.” But in that moment, my favorite story began.

Chuck, about the time I met him at Dorothy Lane Market.