July 4 with Dukes and Chesneys

Jonathan and Daddy in the pool, lovin' being cool.

Aren't they a pair?! Jonathan is already trying to woo the women with books and knowledge... and a surfer shirt.

Jonathan with Katherine Duke. She's always stylin', check out that patriotic outfit!

Jonathan (observe the socks), Katherine, and Cooper Chesney.

Sweaty but happy at the Kirkwood parade-- William's uncle played Uncle Sam.

Jesse, Katherine, and William Duke. Old friends become new neighbors-- I love life's little suprises:)

Jonathan is getting a little toasty, but loving the cars driving by with streamers and horns!

Our first fireworks as a family.

William and Katherine Duke, Curtis and Cooper Chesney, Katie and Annabelle Chesney, Hannah, Josh, and Jonathan. We had so much fun, thank you Dukes!

"Fire Truck, Again?"

I love watching him learn to communicate and enunciate words. Check out his fire truck impression-- it's pretty impressive.

Boy's best friend

27. Casey and Ashley W

Real, patient, raw, unmoving, determined friendships are hard to come by. They are like needles in a giant city sized haystack, and the finding of them is a jubilant and heartwarming feat. It is a feat that takes weeks, and then months, then years and more. Often you do not realize as these diamonds surface, their glitter is lost amid the sparkle of fun and youthfulness that surround them. A pause is required to reminisce and sigh deep in the acknowledgment of their presence.

Josh met Casey and Ashley back in high school, and they all stayed in touch as the boys both went to Appalachian. High school sweethearts, Casey and Ashley had already been married six months when I was whisked away to Greensboro with wide eyes and some semblance of optimism regarding new friendships. The three of them decided we should all get together, and I liked them from the start. Ashley is thoughtful and bright, hard working and compassionate. Casey is rugged and opinionated, brusque and humorous. They are both fiercely loyal and determined to make people feel known and appreciated.

When I first got to know them I was a bit startled by Casey's innumerable stories of hunting, fishing, riding, hiking, and general adventuring. It was part awe and part jealousy-- I hadn't felt the tug of a line or the rumble of hooves in a long time. He seemed to have the somewhat cocky swagger of one who has taken on the elements and done fine for himself, and I figured that his stories would stay his own. Content to enjoy his retellings by the light of waxing candles that burned down long after dinner, I didn't dare ask to be carted along. I didn't have to. When I turned twenty five the two of them asked what I'd like to do for my birthday. With a giddy childlike sigh I intimated my desire to be back on a horse, without lead rope or a carnival in the background. Casey said he'd get on that.

A few months later I was swinging my leg into the saddle for not only a day of riding with Casey and Ashley's friends and acquaintances but trailer light card games and camping to follow. It was one of the most hilarious and memorable days of my adulthood and despite an allergy attack that left me nearly incapacitated I still smile thinking of Casey and Ashley's determination and follow-through to see me enjoy my birthday.

Ashley is the heartbeat of their marriage. Her empathy runs further than skin deep, so when she furrows her brow in concern for you it is reaching all the way to her marrow. She once called me in a frenetic tone of voice asking advice on how to speak truth to a friend. The humility in asking was impressive in itself, but the zeal for her friend was more so. Every time we do dinner together, which usually means they cook for us at our house so Jonathan can fall asleep in his own bed, Ashley comes smiling through the door and immediately asks me what's new. Her eyebrows are raised and eyes flashing, as if daring me not to be genuine in my response. I've long since given up trying to act like everything's just fine, and instead I root around in my brain to come up with all the new, old, exciting, and taxing. She listens intently and then, most graciously, is honest with me as well.

When Jonathan was born Ashley and Casey were determined not to lose our bi-monthly dinner dates. As I felt pretty confined to the house with a new baby's restrictive feeding and sleeping schedule, we started venturing out much less. Our loyal friends were not to be deterred, so they came over for dinner and brought dinner with them-- from baked spaghetti all the way to dessert and wine. When they pitched the idea it was not so much a suggestion as a statement. It was the same one they've been making for the last four years: "We are diving head first into this friendship and into your lives. You can set out the welcome mat or bar the door, but we're coming a knocking either way. By the way, we brought the wine and fresh caught fish."

26. Mrs. Brennan

I love to read. Getting lost in a book is like getting a pedicure, sitting down in a sauna, or laying out on the beach. I can feel the forest breeze pass over me, the salty sea air brush my nostrils, the meadow grasses tickle my ankles, and the welcome of a homecoming embrace. Besides the beautiful scenery and life-giving adventure is the mystery. Any good novel is laced with the mystery of metaphor, allegory, allusion. Mrs. Brennan is the woman who unlocked the door for me to see what I could really suck out of a good book. She showed me that while orange juice is good, sinking your teeth into a pulpy flesh is even more exhilarating.

Mrs. Brennan is a tall, willowy woman with swooping brown hair that was going gray around the edges when I knew her. She had a long and pointing nose and big round eyes that were framed in thick black mascara. When she read passages to us in her gentle yet fervent voice her spectacles sat on the end of her nose and the chain dangled down, curving around her ears and resting gently on her neck. It seemed that everything about her rested gently. She wore long flowy skirts and loose colorful blouses. She had slender feet and a swanlike neck and we all talked about how she must have been a knockout in college. Sometimes we stole glances at the pictures on her desk in the back corner of her room, where we rarely ventured except when we visited after class to check our grades, and a couple of us were pretty sure we saw a photo of a familiar looking blonde beauty with long hippie hair and an eye-catching figure.

The impressions we had in our head of Mrs. Brennan were shadowy at best, she kept her personal life held close like a buried treasure and we hesitated to disrespect her with so much as a question about family or her past. All of us sat around the clustered wooden tables during class and proudly shared our carefully essayed observances and takes on the novels, pausing to look up for her smile of approval. Outside of class, however, we had much more pride in our teacher than in our own literary analysis. She stole the show without so much as an "Ahem" or an "Actually,...". I think she just loved to hear our excitement in discovery and let us have the spotlight. I know she'd read thousands of pages more than we had combined, but she always made me feel like I'd discovered something new, she let me be Columbus and sat back to watch me detail the New World.

I'll never forget holding those paperbacks in my hand, notes splayed out in front of me and next to me my classmates', watching her beckon us further in to the story with rose pink blush sparkling on her cheeks and on her forehead. I always thought it odd that she dabbed that bright pink powder on her prominent forehead, and noticed it especially when her brow furrowed in thought. Now I can't think of her without it. It calls me to remember how I watched her in a sort of mature wonder. Old enough to appreciate that she would stay in my memory, perhaps I was cataloguing her unique oddities and her riveting beauty. Oh, she was riveting. Her eyes were bright and piercing but never accusing. Even when we procrastinated, or just plain failed in our work, she was always encouraging, always pushing us forward like the breeze at our backs. A rudder I suppose, she was like a rudder. She steered our little class ship from the back, gently turning an inch or two to make us steer for a totally different island.

As a teacher and a woman I am so grateful for that year of discovery and opportunity. I love thinking about the work she inspired me to do, the words she taught me to write with the simple and patient urging of her trust. Her gracefulness and wisdom will continue to surface in the pages that I read and treasure for a lifetime. I hope she knows what a wonderful teacher she was for me.

25. James Taylor

I know, I know. He's a famous person and I can't really admire his persona because I don't know it. The thing is, his voice is a memory from my youth, a welcoming hug from the Carolinas, and a reminder that things don't have to change too much in a lifetime.

James Taylor's voice is an even hum, steady like the wind. It dips and rises and cruises through harmonies like a breeze finding its way around trees. "There's something in the way she moves, looks my way and calls my name..." At this part I have to join in and sing with him, trying to match my voice to his liquid sound. It doesn't matter if I can't though, because the steady voice coming through the radio is forgiving and I can let my own jilted vocal stylings mingle with his balanced rhythm.

What I appreciate even more than his soothing voice is his restraint. Both his lyrics and his sound exude passion but lack that over-the-top excess that you hear in so many desperate artists. Don't get me wrong, a little Aerosmith is enjoyable every now and then, but James Taylor is able to express his love, his humor, and his fear in a way that beckons you to listen further rather than scares you away with its intensity. When he sings about his girlfriend who can't do the Cha-Cha, and then teaching her how and realizing she's better than he you pick up on boredom, his pride, the slight humiliation, but all without drama. When he sings "Down in the Hole" you can hear and feel his despairing pain but without the blood draining from your own face or having to clutch your chest in empathetic misery. I so appreciate his respect for the listener. His lyrical restraint allows me to belt out his songs without getting caught in the drama, and his vocal restraint keeps his sound crisp and steady.

Josh and I made our retreat down the aisle to the song "How Sweet it is" partly because I wanted to play music we both enjoy, but also because Taylor's simple appreciation of human relationships is something I can identify with. I love that James Taylor takes the complicated out of music, and instead provides me with a sound I can smile to as I listen, and sing to as I try to shrug off the strains of the day. I love that he reminds me that just looking at the sweetness of my marriage is the best perspective, that the way Josh looks or the way he moves is a raw and precious gift.

24. Kyle F

I was just reading in My Utmost for His Highest about "spiritual sluggishness". Oswald Chambers writes,

"We are all capable of being spiritual sluggards; we do not want to mix with the rough and tumble of life as it is, our one object is to secure retirement... To live a remote, retired, secluded life is the antipodes of spirituality as Jesus Christ taught it. "

Now, my brother Kyle does enjoy retiring. After one of his usual swim practices his muscles are so tired they fall like wet noodles onto the big chair in the family room and he nods off to sleep with his hands just barely clasped over his middle. I like this image of him though, it does not make me think him a sluggard, for two reasons. First of all, he looks just the way our dad looks when he falls asleep in his big chair-- head back and mouth slung open in (sometimes) silent snoring, legs splayed out on the ottoman and hands resting on his midsection. Secondly, Kyle's retiring is out of a necessity for rest and not due to stereotypical teenage sleepaholism.

When Kyle was still a little guy, (though tall and slender even then), my mom explained to him the necessary after-school routine. Once she told him, and little more did she need to: "You can come home and have a little snack, but then you need to finish your homework before you go play."

I honestly do not remember a day of my teen years when my little brother did not come home and do just that. He would chow down on Cool Ranch Doritos, his dark eyelashes framing intently blue eyes, not talking, perhaps lingering a moment at the kitchen table, and then trudge off to his room with his blue backpack slapping against his knees. He would plop down at his desk, flip on the IKEA desk lamp, and complete his homework. Every day.

Kyle was stubborn as a mule, so ridiculously observant and so keen in the memory department that he drove my mother crazy.

"Kyle, you need to eat something healthy, nothing sweet until later."

"Mom, Doritos aren't sweet," he'd answer as he reached for the bag. She'd roll her eyes and have to explain the nuances of common speak, wondering why her girls never thought to throw these literal translations as arguments.

Truth be told, however, it was this keen observance and grasp of logic that has led him to so many smart decisions. When he was young he understood the concept of priorities and therefore honored Mom's suggestions. Nowadays, standing tall at six foot four, the blue backpack that used to slap his knees now fits him like a hamster on a horse's back and his lithe muscles have grown taut and strong with hours and hours in the pool. Unlike many of his cohorts, Mom's and Dad's suggestions still ring true for him and he has been saved the embarrassment and dishevelment so many high schoolers face because of it. He still gets his homework done on time, but even more impressively he doesn't squander his weekends on booze and cavorting but works doggedly to improve his swim times, get time with friends, and collapse on his bed Sunday night atop his finally finished homework.

When I visit my family in Florida I am never the first to stir. Being the mother of a toddler that is nigh impossible, but Jonathan's are not the first feet to pad across the floor. Kyle moves silently, and leaves into the dark of the morning nearly every day for swim practice. Two hours later we are all up with the sun, playing with Jonathan on the floor and sipping coffee in our pajamas. Dad is filling his coffee mug and straightening his tie and Kyle walks in, starch with chlorine and sagging as his muscles bear the burden of his exhaustive workout.

During the school year these workouts are followed by a full day of school, then another workout. He finally comes home around five thirty, opens his books and studies until dinner. After eating enough food to feed a family of six in order to provide his tired muscles with enough protein to recuperate for the next morning's regimen, he heads back to his books until his eyelids fall heavy on his cheeks and his chin sags to his chest. He pulls his full frame from the chair and plods upstairs to catch a few hours of sleep before starting over again.

When it came time to apply for college I was grateful in his stead, grateful that he could finally relax, take college at an even pace and quit swimming so that he could enjoy it. I mourned a bit the loss of his sport, realizing that I would no longer receive victorious texts from my parents after he shaved tenths of a second off his 100 meter races. Then UNC Chapel Hill told him they wanted him... and not just for his flawless GPA. They wanted him to swim, and I thought that was too bad, my little bro was going to take college for the joyride it could be.

A month or so later I was talking to Kyle about the prospect of swimming at university.

"Yeah, I'm gonna do it," he said casually, as if he were deciding between mowing the lawn or not on a Saturday.

"You're going to swim," I replied, and bit back saying, "Why?!"

I knew why. Kyle has observed a lot over the course of his lifetime-- more, in fact, than most people care to notice over the course of many more years than he's got. I knew that he had realized the value of hard work. He may not be a builder or a waiter or farmer, but Kyle has grit. He has stick-to-it, don't complain about it, get the job done grit. What our whole family knew, and the reason we didn't argue with his decision, is that Kyle has already observed the difference between just getting by and digging in your heels. He'll take the latter, and won't care to look back.

There was another side to his stubbornness as a child. He may have driven mom crazy, but then the nights his migraines hit we were all silently impressed, myself awed, by his indefatigable endurance. He would lay quietly and in immense pain until it was too much to bear and his body gave over to intense nausea. Ginny and I never knew of these nights because Kyle was so quiet and resolute. Without waking even Mom or Dad he would take himself to the bathroom and lay there through the pain. He wasn't trying to be a hero, he doesn't see the point in being showy, he just didn't need to wake everyone up so he didn't. The complaining would only worsen the pain, so he handled it.

I look forward to the day he graduates. I look forward to the day he gets his first job, has his first child, and handles his children's pain. I don't so much look forward to his face of victory or the way he will fist punch the air in jubilation, but rather the way he will smile crookedly and almost timidly raise his eyes to accept the cheers and clinking of glass. I look forward to looking back with him on all the things he has endured, for I know that for Kyle they will be many. He'll handle it.

23. Wayne and Gail C

In CS Lewis' book, The Four Loves, he talks about eros love involving two people looking at each other in wonder and admiration, while friendship love involves two people standing side by side and looking out at a shared vision. This, to me, is a challenge. I want for Josh's and my relationship to not only be a mirror but also to be full of searching adventures and shared vision. I married my best friend, and I don't ever want that to change. I know that this will take constant renewal, a lot of communication, and the sacrifice or setting aside of our individual passions along the way.

There is a couple we have gotten to know at our church and they are joyful beneath their white and grey hairs, they have bright eyes that twinkle in sparkling delight when greeting friends. You can find Wayne standing by the double doors to the sanctuary, passing out programs and gripping his friends' arms in salutation or smiling widely at women and children who know him well and whose shoulders relax in his presence. Gail is usually chatting, her petite frame sort of bopping as she animatedly converses with friends. Neither of them seem to stop smiling; it is almost as though they have lived enough life to know the worthlessness of frowning. Wayne laughs in jubilant recognition every time I see him, and Gail always smiles so wide she goes squinty-eyed and asks how I am. I can't help but smile wide myself, and don't stop until I've long passed them.

Wayne and Gail seem to have a side-by-side operation. I love seeing them together, they stand close to each other and their joy radiates in a magnetic field that pulls other congregants to them. They have owned and operated a business together for years and years, so they know the grit it takes to be married to your co-worker. Gail spends many a day with her ailing mother, and Wayne seems proud of her rather than resentful of her time away. Several years ago Josh and I were having lunch with them and Wayne related how his wife takes care of her mother. His eyebrows went up as he told us how hard Gail works to take care of her mom. It made me want to squeeze my then-fiancé's arm as I watched them prove just how long true love could last, and with it a vision to help others in their sphere.

Wayne and Gail are an attractive couple. They are both strong and graceful even though the years they have shared together are many. Wayne's white hair is full and dashing, Gail's grey curls are soft and flattering. They look sharp in pressed cottons and linens every Sunday and Gail wears a rose colored lipstick that sets off her dark features beautifully. No one ever mentions this however; it seems that the Joy that shines through this staid couple leaves a much more indelible impression than their good looks. Their smiles and warm embraces are what linger, their shared vision for compassion and the sharing of the Love that's theirs.

22. Aunt Dotty

Aunt Dotty and her family live in Connecticut and I have spent most of my life below the Mason Dixon line, so our paths have not crossed with any sort of regularity. While many people have left indelible impressions on me because of their nearness and consistent presence in my life, Aunt Dotty leaves a sparkle and smile in my heart that occasionally surface with a cheerful sound of music from inside me.

Truth be told, I don't even know if Aunt Dotty is musical. I'd like to think that all of Grandpa's children inherited at least a smidgen of virtuoso from his wide range of abilities. What I do know is that Aunt Dotty's eyes sparkle like the light on the strings of a guitar in sunshine and that her rosy cheeks remind me of an opera singer and her smile seems to sing on its own. She is bubbly, a great conversationalist, and a ray of light in the Ficker family. I remember sitting on the screened in porch at our old house in Maryland, gnawing on corn and grilled chicken and sweet blueberry muffins while Aunt Dotty sat at our table and updated us on the goings on of herself and her boys: Uncle Richie, Ben, and Andy. These characters that she spoke of made me smile shyly; my older male cousins always intimidated me and incited a spark of adrenaline to either imitate them or flee from them depending on the occasion. I especially loved hearing the stories about Andy's budding chef's career, and was grateful for Aunt Dotty's willingness to stop through town and visit a while.

That, however, was several years before she experienced life's greatest loss. Ben, her eldest, died after a lifelong battle against diabetes at the age of twenty seven. In the same cluster of the hours that constitute a day to most families we lost Grandma, the sweet and gentle soul that had always moored the family to peace and closeness. Those mere twenty four hours wiped out a lifetime, and then another, and Aunt Dotty was left in the cold wreckage of searing loss.

When my wedding day arrived less than a year later I didn't presume to think Aunt Dotty, Uncle Richie, and Andy would come. In fact, I assumed they wouldn't. I barely wanted them to come, knowing that my happiest day would incite so much emotion and the celebration of it would feel like salt to their open wound. How could they watch us celebrate in the same season of their searing loss?

They came. They sat front and center during the reception, and my cousin Andy even came up to me with a huge smile and a fierce hug to say, "Congratulations, cuz." The same rosiness that had always dotted Aunt Dotty's cheeks dotted his. Her warm loyalty, her determined love for family, and her cozy embrace emanated through Andy's arms and features as I hugged him back. I wanted to say something, some small message to share with his parents that I understood what it took to come here (though of course how could I understand) and was grateful, so grateful. That was not what they came for, however, not for more sympathy or for mourning or for gratitude. Aunt Dotty came, she came and brought her men, to celebrate my moment of newness and beauty and commitment. And she came beautifully committed herself, to our family and to my new one, the newness of her loss not inhibiting her from raising her glass to love me.

It's been many years since Aunt Dotty sat down with me over corn and fresh sliced tomatoes, but I won't forget what it took to come visit us, to waylay her travels for a night of shared stories and reconnecting. No matter how many years go by from the day of my wedding, I will never forget the road she took to be there and share in my new story. I am her niece, and I am proud to be so.

21. Emily D

My friend Emily is currently eight-and-a-half months pregnant. She still shows off a cute figure, but I know that those extra twenty-two pounds are taking a toll. Cap off the situation with a blazing North Carolina summer that's leaving everyone in a permanent wilt and I'd say she has a blank check for complaining. Nonetheless, she isn't.

A survivor, Emily is juggling several large balls in the air, these being a well-progressed pregnancy, selling the house her husband is building, writing said house as its realtor, doing the accounting for the family business, and raising a two year old with a mission to destroy planet Earth before bedtime. Occasionally I'll get a call from her and she'll say, almost laughing, "Hannah, can I tell you what happened today? I'm actually going crazy, you may have to commit me before the baby comes."

Truth be told, the stories she has to vent are usually pretty hilarious and so I rarely begrudge the call. There is almost never a time when I feel the need to say, "Emily, you are being irrational," because she really is not an irrational person. Usually I end up sympathizing with her and planning how to console her the next day. This, however, is what I love about Emily: there is no need for consolation the next day. She is the most resilient woman I have ever met. If I call the next day to check on her stress level, she will calmly and laughingly reply, "Oh, I'm okay now. I just needed to vent yesterday."

At this point I raise my eyebrows on the other end of the line because I know that I would not be okay at that point. I would still be shelling out complaints, but Emily just doesn't see the point. It's inspirational. Sometimes when I am frustrated with someone I'll think of Emily and her ability to shrug things off, disallow a grudge when reconciliation or simply forgetting is an option, and I'll channel my own resiliency to mirror hers.

Every time I see Emily I am impressed by her ability to pull it all together. She'll walk into my house loaded down with a diaper bag and a toddler on her hip and, these days, a belly to boot, and yet she still looks fresh and lovely. Her hair falls from her swooped back ponytail in light wisps. It frames her high cheekbones and perfect little nose, lighting around sparkly eyes. It's hard to accept compliments at the end of pregnancy, so I just think to myself how pretty she looks. I think how pretty, and how strong she is. Though a gentle friend and a patient wife and mother, Emily has an astounding amount of fortitude. Behind her picturesque features is a fighter, and a humble one at that.

20. Morgan A

My father-in-law goes by several names. Among these are "Dad", "Dedaddy", "Morgan", "Hun", and my personal dub, "Poppa". Far more than the names he answers to are the hats he wears, which include but are not limited to: husband, father, grandfather, carpenter, should've-gone-pro golfer, electrician, gourmet chef, and salesman. The adventures he holds as memories are too numerous to record in a single biography and it never amazes me when he says, "Oh yeah, we can fix that no problem," for whether the subject at hand is an under-marinated steak or a crashed computer he almost invariably does know what he is talking about.

Last week the family gathered over at Jonathan and Jamie's for one of our now infamous work weekends. We all show up in grubby clothes, every last one of us, but it is always Poppa who really gets his hands dirty. His hands, his knees, his eyebrows, his elbows... he is our ringleader and the one who never quits. This go-round it was laminate flooring among other things, and before we knew it he was off and leading the pack through demolition and refurbishing so that what was once dingy white carpet was rapidly transforming into sleek, almost golden oak flooring. Nevertheless, as none of us can work as fast as he does the weekend turned into a week, and then another weekend, and finally on Saturday two days past Poppa was making the final cut on the table saw. One last cut, and then havoc. His hand went down, the adrenaline of nearly finishing coursed through him, the table saw connected, and five hours later saw him laying in a hospital bed contemplating amputation. No joke.

Of course few of us realized what was actually going on. The call Josh received went something like this:

"Hey Josh, go ahead and start on the front nine. I cut my hand a little bit and I'm just going to run over to the emergency room --"

"The emergency room? Dad, what did you do?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll try to meet you on the back nine after I get a few stitches. Just go ahead."

As Josh and his uncles headed for the back nine, we all got the call that Poppa was headed for surgery. Not only surgery, but the doctor was also prognosticating a half-way amputation of the left pointer finger. Apparently at that point the doctor and my brother-in-law Jonathan watched as Poppa exhaustively raised his hands end on end and curled them as if clutching two glass tubes.

"Dad," Jonathan asked with a chuckle, "are you checking to see if you can still play golf without it?"

"Yep," he said as his head sank back on the pillow, "I think I'm good."

That, my friends, signaled go time. Poppa did not flail about passionately or pitch a pity pit, but patiently accepted his lot.

Poppa is one of those people who has dogged determination and immortal grit, but no frazzle-your-hair stress in accompaniment. He has endured much and is determined to power through more, but the only time I see him lose his cool is during his daughter's basketball games. Unless threatened by lackluster coaching, he never feels the need to flap his feathers about.

You'll be happy to know that he did not lose his finger, which I suppose is due to some excellent doctoring and the willpower of a golfer combined, but I honestly can't imagine a person who could handle the challenge better than Morgan R Adams III. I mean, he was the one who at the age of approximately six stepped in when his father died of cancer and helped raise his younger twin brothers. Of course, his solution to dirty dishes was to throw them out in the snow and bury them discreetly, but I think that so much of his top notch attitude is due to the way he reacted to this first and very hard responsibility. He took it on, did not look back, and never complains about it... ever.

19. Our founding fathers

These are men I do not know to look at. Though their original portraits survive and show their high posture in poses of grace and fortitude, I do not know how they looked telling a funny story. I cannot picture them tucking their children in at night or how the coloring in their faces changed when they stood before armies or Congress or the King of France.

What I can picture is the way sweat would bead on my own arm if I started waking at night between dreams of a new nation and nightmares of bloody defeat. Even more I can imagine the way my stomach would clench into a tight wad at the thought of telling my neighbors I thought freedom could be ours if we fought for it. I can imagine the lift of eyebrows, the aversion of eyes, and the frowning shakes of heads I would receive if I voiced my stalwart disdain for the powers that be... and my desire to overcome them.

I do not know what a hug from George Washington felt like, nor the taste of a lecture from John Adams, nor the grace with which Thomas Jefferson rode a horse across his fields. All I know is the raw excitement in a hug a president gives his wife when he learns he has been elected by his people. I know the passion with which my teachers and parents taught me about our history and our uniqueness, and the feeling of riding a horse through brook and forest and field and pasture... of my homeland.

All I can admire of these men is what they left, and what is written in history books about them. I can appreciate them mostly, and admire the idea of them. In many ways I wish I could glance back in time at their raw humanity, such as George Washington stained by war but riding home to reclaim his farm and his simple life after the Revolution. I'd like to see him again when he realizes the people want him as president, and the humble acquiescence with which I imagine he took up that blazing torch. There is so much to admire in these men that I will never know, and so I offer my gratitude and my commitment to treasure this country in the way they did.

18. Jack V

My Grandaddy is a gentleman. He still stands tall even at the age of eighty-four and you can see the outline of his six feet and change, though the years since Grandmommy died have nicked off an inch or two. As long as I can remember he has been a measure of a man, an example of dignity and humor and hard work much like my own dad.

I remember staying at his house in the summer. When Ginny and I were very small we would wake up early, too excited to sleep, and pitter pat down the hall to Grandmommy and Grandaddy's room. They would roll over with tired smiles and move over so we could hop in between them. We would giggle and burrow in the covers and generally love being with them. Their room smelled like clean menthol and perfume, a mixture of Grandaddy's mouthwash and Grandmommy's sweet clean scented lotion.

When I was a bit older I would wake up and stare, groggily startled by the yellow pattern of the wall paper and the mirror across from the bed, confused by my surroundings. Slowly my head would clear and I'd realize I was at Grandmommy and Grandaddy's. I would let my eyes drift back closed, and then slowly open, happily content to be in one of my favorite places. Enjoying the happy fact of summertime and the quiet creaks of the big old house, I would listen for a while. Soon the door downstairs would open and I'd hear the rustle of paper bags and the thump of his feet. It always impressed me that he was up so early, already dressed in khaki slacks and a button down shirt even on a Saturday, already out taking care of his girls. Smiling, I would climb out of bed and head downstairs for the Bojangles biscuits or powdered doughnuts I knew Grandaddy was carrying.

There were so many moments with my Grandaddy that left me either euphorically happy, like with the biscuits and doughnuts, or awed and impressed, such as his early rising and the fishing. Oh, fishing. We spent so many afternoons on the back of Grandaddy's boat with Uncle John and Dad, drifting slowly against the anchor and patiently dropping the line again and again. The best part was watching Grandaddy skin them and pack them up. His thick muscular fingers worked deftly, wielding his gutting knife with such ease I wondered if I could ever do the same. Then he'd roll them up in newspaper like they were nothing more than vases from Michael's and clean up the mess left on the wooden board. As we walked down the docks he'd wave and say, "Hallo," to the men we passed, exchanging a couple words with each one as he went. When I finally was allowed to go with him to the Boat House I thought I was entering holy ground-- I knew that here, where you could buy beer out of a vending machine and skin and eat fish together with the boys, was where I'd watch them admire him in his element. I felt small and much too much like a girl, but I liked listening to him laugh and joke with these men that so obviously admired him. I felt proud to be introduced as, "my granddaughter Hannah," and puffed up inside like an inflated balloon when I stood next to him at the sink while we both washed crab off of our fingers.

My grandfather is a gentleman who knows how to work hard. He takes good care of things but isn't afraid to use duct tape to fix 'em. He is gentle and kind and firm and strong. Grandaddy loves his family and is loved by his town. He is courageous and loyal and the best damn crab cooker on the East Coast. I love him more than horses and red wine and if someone ever says I remind them of my grandfather I'll know I'm living right.

17. Jeff M

There are some people in my life that inspire me and provide wisdom that wraps my heart in inspiration, but I can't pinpoint why. I can picture their characteristic movements-- a cock of the head in thought or a tightening of the lips in concentration. I can see their eyes, how they glisten and seem to say something in silence. Yet, I can't tell you why it is that I am inspired.

Our pastor Jeff is a man who is sincerely devoted to God and to his flock. He stands at the pulpit in a humble posture, and it always seems to me that he feels it a gift to just be there. Never forceful, he speaks with a gentleness and a softness in his eyes that encourages me to listen to what is there behind his words. When he speaks of Jesus he seems to be at home, as though trudging through the daily grind is foreign to him, but to speak of Jesus is natural and life-giving.

Every Sunday Josh and I sit in roughly the same place, to the right of the sanctuary and close to the front. Jeff's family sits a few rows ahead of us, quietly but supportively in the front row, close to dad and husband. What strikes me is that this man, speaking with such conviction yet such calmness, leads a family whose strength and authenticity buttresses him instead of calls him into question. His wife Holly is smart, a sharp but unaffected woman with a natural beauty and confidence. Her strengths seem only to support him, never to draw the line of comparison, and when I watch her watching him from a few rows behind I am grateful to learn from this man. After all, I can tell even after only four years of marriage for myself that theirs is a tie that binds.

Jeff is a man who seems whole. Does that even make sense? What I mean is that he doesn't seem to be looking for that missing piece, he doesn't seem to grapple with the words that he preaches other than to find a good way of explaining them. This is not to say he is perfect, for surely he is not and will tell you the same, but more to say that I am baffled by his gracefulness. No, not gracefulness like a ballerina: Jeff is strong and rather firm and talks with his hands in a sort of staccato fashion that reminds you the points he is driving home are truth. He is graceful in the way he moves through conversation, not getting hung up on insecurity and judgement, never stopping at self-flattery or false admiration.

He is leading a church plant in this city; Josh and I and a handful of friends are going too. While the adventure is tantalizing, I know that for me it is more a matter of trust. I simply trust Jeff, I trust him and the family that so beautifully and self-assuredly joins him.

16. Deeann C

Deeann is pastel colors. With soft, wispy blonde hair that frames small feminine features on a heart-shaped face, she could be a movie star. She only wears clothes that are soft to the touch, so hugging her is always soothing, like her lack of strong perfume and the tenderness of her lotion-y hands. She has a feminine voice that calms me over the phone just as well as in person, and laugh that sounds like rainbow sprinkles, in the way that it falls down and splashes suddenly with brightness.

My friend Deeann has two children well under the age of three. I like watching her with them for she is always aware, always on top of things, but somehow unharried. She wouldn't say this about herself, but the way she gently bounces Natalie while simultaneously scolding Ben demonstrates the ease with which she manages her sudden new occupation. Her mother's heart has opened in bright huge butterfly wings with the birth of each; when asked if she likes being a mother she will thoughtfully say, "No. I like being a mother to Ben and Natalie."

Her warmth is subtle, a hospitable opening of arms to those who draw near. She does not spend this warmth willy-nilly, but rather reserves it in order to spend with a fervent generosity on those who know her well. It is a gift to be called her friend or family, for we have a unique opportunity to sit at her table and relax in a pastel presence.

Many people show off their personality inadvertently in the way they decorate and dress. No one does this as much as Deeann. Her room growing up was butter yellow; a soft and pastel quilt covered her bed and her curtains matched, mimicking the sun's morning shaft of light. Now her bed is covered in a white matelasse with small coral covered pillows. She likes to dress in cotton candy pink and baby blue and khaki. She looks dazzling in a muted olive green and can even wear white well in dead winter. I honestly think she takes the beach with her wherever she goes.

One day last year I was visiting friends in Dee's area and she offered to have me stay at her house. I was so grateful, for I knew her bathroom would be bright and clean and fresh and her bed linens soft and laundered. One night, late and after the kids were in bed, we sat talking at her oak dining table in the glow of lamps that colored the walls in a soft ivory. I remember how easy it was to be honest with her and let down the burdens weighing my mind. She gently squeezed my hand and looked at me with a sympathetic purse of her lips. Sitting there in the comfort of her home was like returning home for Christmas at college; sweet and welcoming and freeing to feel known.

Beyond her warmth, physical beauty, and inviting decorating talents Deeann is humble. I think it is this in her that allows me to drop my bags at her door and fall happily into her presence. This humility is a warmth in and of itself, an open hand to others' imperfections and an invitation to be real.