What happened that day

The funny thing about days that change your life is that they usually start the same as all the rest.

There’s no one to ring your doorbell and alert you to the impending event. No spiral of bad things leading up to it. No one to prepare you that from now on your life will have a before and after.

You just get your coffee, read the paper, check your phone, say Goodbye to your family and head off into the world expecting it to go like any other day.

On Sunday, September 13, 2015, I woke up a little late. I had recently moved in with my boyfriend, Sam, and his son. It had been a rough transition, but that day I felt like we’d turned the corner and I was finally able to enjoy our new weekend normal:

Sleep in. Make a big brunch for the boys. Lay back and read a novel while my boyfriend worked for a few hours and his son watched cartoons and played video games.

When Sam left to see a client for a session at his office, I grabbed my running shoes, my earbuds and went to Lake Fayetteville for a typical Sunday run.

It was one of those gorgeous early fall days that you only get a few of — brightly sunny without being hot, the occasional breeze without being cold. Perfect for a jog. I didn’t even need a jacket.

I parked at the baseball fields just off of Highway 71, near Lewis and Clark, and set off on the 5.5 mile loop around 1:45 p.m. Dozens of other people had the same idea. I passed families walking strollers and small children, college students playing frisbee golf, people cycling in pairs and alone, and other solo runners like me.

I listened to Zella Day radio as I ran, but kept it low enough that I could hear cyclists and faster runners when they whizzed past me. I could hear conversations as I passed groups of people.

A couple of miles in, I slowed to respond to a few text messages from my childhood best friend, Maggie, who had just arrived home with her newborn son. Such a happy time, and we were celebrating. She was sharing with me all the details we’d been waiting for — what color eyes and hair, what facial features from which families.

When I resumed my jog just a minute or two later, I saw a man at a bend in the trail some yards ahead of me.

As a young woman who lived on her own throughout most of her twenties, I instinctively took stock of what he looked like and formed an opinion.

Former experiences taught me to look at men — all men — differently. Defensively.

When I was 18, I had been followed in broad daylight by a middle-aged man while I was shopping alone in Hot Springs one day. When I was 19, a different man physically stopped me from getting back in my car at a gas station and insisted I come with him. I managed to evade both.

This man was tallish. 5’ 10”, 5’ 11”. Wearing cheap, boxy sunglasses and a ball cap with different colored panels. Ordinary clothes, a dark t-shirt and cargo pants. And he was wearing a back pack.

These weren’t the typical athletic clothes and CamelBak. It was noticeable, but not automatically alarming. I’d heard of homeless people camping in the woods there. I’d passed other people who fit this description before.

Until then, the lake trail had been busy with people. Now as I looked behind me, the last family I passed was out of sight. Ahead of me, only this man and an empty field ending in a tree line, the woods that led to the Botanical Garden of the Ozarks.

As I approached, I ran into the left side of the trail to give him space as I passed. He turned, looked directly at me, grinned and gave a brief little wave. I kept going without response.

As I reached the tree line, I heard heavy footsteps quickly approaching behind me.

Oh no.
It can’t be.
That guy?

I look over my left shoulder to see him gaining on me as I realize that he’s after me.
After me.

I speed up, not knowing what to do if he catches me.

He quickly closes in on me. He’s so close that he links an arm up around my neck and uses it to bring me to the ground. We tumble. I hit my head several times, once or twice on the pavement, once or twice on the ground.

When we stop, I’m lying face up and my body is half on the pavement of the trail, half on the ground. I start screaming as he straddles me, rares an arm back and punches me in the face, squarely on the cheekbone.

Shock. He hit me!

Confusion. Why did he hit me? What did I do to him?

He did it again, around the same spot. And again. And again and again and again and again. I lose count at 7 or 8.

All the while, I struggle against him trying to get him to stop. I pull at his clothing trying to bring myself up. I push at him trying to get him away from me. I scratch him.

He tells me to stop screaming, that no one’s going to hear me.

He punches the other side of my face once or twice and returns to the other side for some more blows. I’m still alert, but I’m exhausted, so I stop screaming for a minute. He stops punching me.

When I get my breath, I start screaming again and crying for help. I know that if we do this long enough on a busy day at the lake that someone will walk by and hear me. I only needed one person to hear.

He then presses one hand firmly over my mouth. The other hand grips my throat and squeezes tightly.

I breathe in the smell of soil and dirty skin from the hand over my mouth and it’s then that I really begin to panic. Why did his hand smell like dirt? Had he just dug a place to deposit my body when he was done doing whatever he wanted to with me? How long had he been out here?

It made me think of a broadcast reporter in Little Rock who had been murdered, not that he probably even knew I was a reporter (thank God for that saving grace of print journalism). But she was young and single and lived alone too. She had also fought until the end.

He readjusted his grip and began to squeeze my neck better, harder. I struggled to breathe. Oh. This must be what dying feels like, I thought dispassionately.

He readjusted his grip again and resumed squeezing. I thought of a breathing technique from years of playing clarinet in high school. Could I slow my breathing to a point where he thought he’d done the trick? I tried. I stopped screaming. And I stopped struggling.

He looked up over and past me to the trail as if he heard or saw people coming. He got off of me but quickly grabbed me under the armpits and dragged me just far enough into the woods that the people passing couldn’t see us.

This was my chance. I started to scream again.

He told me that if I didn’t stop screaming he would __________. Almost immediately I blocked that word out of my mind. I couldn’t tell anyone what it was even an hour later, or ever since. Only that whatever it was made me fear for my life. It shut me up.

I heard them pass. My heart sank. How many times would I have to relive this scenario?

He dragged me even further into the woods. Thorns scratched me everywhere, tugging at my clothing, making my legs bleed and my shoulders itch. I made my body as heavy as possible to make it more difficult for him. Finally, he released me, shoving me away from him exasperatedly.

I stumbled, struggled and then stood. We faced each other, both of us unsure. What now?

Disoriented, I realized that we were far enough into the woods that I couldn’t tell what direction we had come from. Even if I wanted to run, I didn’t know where the trail was.

“Are you OK?” he asked me.

I looked at him in disgust as I rubbed my shoulder. He seemed less violent, or at least tired now.

“No, I’m not OK. Why did you do that?”

He starts to look incredibly nervous, paranoid even, and paces back and forth while looking all around us. “There’s Blacks waiting in the woods with guns.”

“I don’t see them.”

“They’re hiding in the bushes with guns, waiting for you to walk by.”

“Maybe that’s my problem, not yours,” I spat.

He stops pacing long enough to get a look at my expression, which from my perspective felt like it was radiating anger and determination. He seemed to understand that I knew he was making it up. “They took my daughter.”

I ask him a couple more questions that keep him talking. As long as he’s talking, he’s not beating me, I reasoned.

We were finally standing far enough apart that I could see him better. His sunglasses had fallen off during the struggle, so I now saw distinctive features and expressions. On one hand he wore something like a class ring, but instead of a high school’s name, it simply said “Dad.”

Now I knew enough about him to make a judgment. He seemed to have lost his nerve. Miraculously, I still had my cell phone in my hand. I unlocked it.

He told me that the Blacks would kill his daughter if I call 911.

“Can I see that?” he asked, making a general move toward me.

“No.” I stepped back and continued pulling up my contact list. If I was going to do this, I had to do it now.

“Please? I need to call my wife.”

“No,” I said as it was ringing. “I’m calling my boyfriend.”

“Don’t do that,” he said. More pacing.

Please, please, please pick up. I knew it wasn’t likely that Sam would answer because he was seeing a therapy client. But he knew I wouldn’t call unless it was an emergency.

“Hello?”

I start crying, losing it. What if this is the last time we talk? I can’t speak.

“Sweetie?”

“A…a…man took me off the trail,” I sobbed. Our conversation was a blur. I tell him the man is still there and that he’s afraid for his daughter and won’t let me go.

“Sweetie, he’s lying.”

“I know,” I say. More sobbing. The man continues to look worried.

“Can you get back to the trail?” Sam asked.

“I can’t. I can’t see it.”

“Run,” Sam pleaded.

“I can’t.” I did not want to start a futile game of Run For My Life. I wouldn’t make it far, given the injuries I had now.

I’m so upset I decide to try something. I look directly at the man who beat and strangled me less than a half hour ago. “Where is the trail?” I ask him.

He pointed in a direction. “Right there.” He motioned for me to walk ahead of him. I indicated that I wouldn’t be doing that. So he walked, leading me back to the trail, all the while turned to keep an eye on me. Sam was still on the phone.

We reached the trail, where a couple sets of people looked surprised to see us emerge from the woods. To my shock, the man abruptly left me standing there. He took off walking quickly in the direction where we’d started from. I turned and walked as fast as I could in the opposite direction.

Sam said he was going to hang up and call 911 while driving to the lake to come find me. I called 911 as I started the long walk to the garden.

The call dispatcher asked me if I’d been raped. No. Could I walk? Yes, poorly. What did he look like? Was he having a mental episode? Did he seem like he was intoxicated or on drugs? And various other questions that I would be asked over and over and over in the coming months and years.

I answered the questions while limping to the Botanical Garden and constantly looking over my shoulder, fearful that the man would come back for me. I passed other people along the trail, but I didn’t speak to them. Not to ask for help, not to warn them of the man. Anyone not in a uniform was untrustworthy.

As I passed the greenhouse that signaled my entrance to the garden property, a cop met me on the trail and escorted me the rest of the way to the parking lot.

Sam arrived right as the ambulance did and served as my steading force.

I stood there dry heaving as a crew of people watched, patiently waiting for their turn to interview me, take my vitals, get me a chair, something to drink. I felt my head, which was already swelling and searched for what surely must be missing patches of hair. But I didn’t care.

I escaped, I escaped, I escaped.

I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t believe it.

 

The hormone haze

When the day comes and my baby boy arrives, I’ll be more than happy to forget many of the irksome things that pregnancy puts you through.

But one aspect I don’t want to forget are the crazy and funny dreams I had in this period of my life, brought on by pregnancy hormones and frequent bathroom trips that woke me more often and helped me retain the memories.

Below are the ridiculous scenes that marched through my head each night since last fall, when I learned that Baby Wallace would join us.

—

I’m in an argument with a senior reporter who used to mentor me when she warns me that she’s going to go there, be really honest and tell me just exactly WHY I don’t make a good news reporter.

“Oh my God, please tell me,” I say. “What’s keeping me from being a good reporter?”

“You’re a morning whore,” she says. “You take all the early (in the day) assignments first and don’t give anybody else a chance to grab them.”

“You’re right,” I say, sadly. “You’re absolutely right.”

–

On a no-name beach, the lifeguards warn us of an impending “devastating ice veil,” and start to clear the beach.  Each time we get the weather advisory it rudely disrupts our summer holiday. They get easier to pinpoint because they have a theme song—some bouncy, cheesy, late ’80s/early-’90s theme….dadadadananananana DEVASTATING ICE VEIL it wails, with electric guitar in the background.

Finally, after several advisories, I get to see one for myself and it’s exactly what it sounds like: isolated showers of ice spikes falling from the sky and taking out unsuspecting swimmers.

—

Walking a long, hot beach with my childhood friend Maggie, I realize that I forgot my sunscreen—a momentous blow for someone as pale as me who needs it on the hour, every hour, at the very least.

When we arrive to our intended destination in the middle of a desert, we meet my friend Utsab, who helps us fill a mop bucket with oil until it runs over.

—

I remember how much I love butterscotch candies.

I make someone mad at a bookstore.

So I go back to work, where my coworkers show me into an empty conference room where I can use my breast pump. Everyone enjoys freshly baked cookies while I’m pumping. From the next room over I hear my friend Laura, who doesn’t work in our office, say “I love that we have these!”

—

Sam and I were at our wedding, but it wasn’t the gorgeous Fairlane Station wedding that we had in real life. I didn’t recognize the location because tacky quality, bright white tablecloths were as far as the eye could see.

—

Sam and I had two weddings back to back in separate locations, with varying outfits and differing guests, audiences for each. I had a frumpy gown in the second one.

—

We’re at Sonic (a highly uncharacteristic stop for us) and I order a lot of food, including a root beer float and a hamburger. When I’m 3/4 the way through with the burger, Sam asks, “Are you going to finish that?”

“Yes, yes I am, get your own,” I say.

A complete stranger then invites us to the local, city parade where we’re told we can have approximately 13-16 minutes of fun.

—

Only a couple days before we found out the gender of Baby Wallace, I dreamt of my nephew Jordan, who died more than 3 years ago. He appeared only 7 or 8 years old in my dream and was holding my baby. It was clear that he loved, adored and felt protective of my baby, who looked to be a cute blond-haired, chubby boy.

After that, I stopped worrying so much and felt like baby already had a guardian angel.

—

I was at a day-long bridal portrait shoot, where brides arrived to a mall studio and we arranged them in the same position each time: as a mermaid atop a fountain that didn’t have water running. Passing by it for the millionth time, I roll my eyes. “Why doesn’t anyone want something unique?” I think to myself.

—

My childhood friend Maggie is recounting a crazy dream of hers for me and I’m responding to her like it’s one of our regular conversations and not just another dream, which it really is.

—

I’m taking a class in art and architecture, but every time I arrive we study the same structure—some round, white adobe structure with a circular opening at the top that’s not even covered by a window. Through it you can see palm tree branches and storm clouds.

Bret, a former professor of mine, is there, but I can’t tell if he’s the instructor or just another student. So the students can get to know each other, we take turns around the room to say what our (alcoholic) drink of choice is.

When it comes to me, instead of saying wine, I flatly say beer. After a beat, just to be funny I say battery acid. Everyone absorbs this uncomfortably before moving on to the next person.

I’ve got my off-brand phone plugged into the wall. Later in the class, it decides to update several apps at once. Even though it’s on silent, it starts buzzing like crazy. I can’t make it stop.

—

Sam, Jack and I go on vacation but end up in an adventure scenario.

We’re at a testing laboratory. Based on the goings of the unhappy people around us, including my friend Jerry who seems rather apathetic at the time, we’re there for a little more than a year and we’re not exactly free to leave whenever we want.

Escaping out the front door is not an option. To find a way out, you have to survive a moat with some sort of unidentified monster in it. We tried to cross it more than once.

In the final attempt, Sam and Jack went through it successfully. I either forgot something or lagged behind for some unknown reason, so I was the closest to being consumed but managed to narrowly escape.

As I pull myself up on the concrete lip of the other side, I realize I’m wearing Sam’s signature navy hoodie and gray shirt.

—

I arrive to my friend Michelle’s house for our monthly book club. After the meeting, the other women and I are preparing to leave when three men join us. Michelle crawls under the porch and cuts some complicated-looking wires. The house goes dark as I understand that it was us against them. We were about to fight.

—

My sister and I were in a towering skyscraper and for some reason I wasn’t married to Sam, I married someone else. My new husband explained having blacked out—he didn’t  remember proposing—and we essentially just woke up with wedding rings on.

Some unnatural storm was brewing and only I seemed to know. People didn’t believe me, but I had to get myself out of there. I was in the woods when the electrical storm hit and could only remember emerging from the forest really beat up and with sticks lodged in my hair. The Stranger Things theme song played in the background.

—

A childhood friend was mysteriously chosen by the Fayetteville Police Department to take my statement after I was attacked on the trail. During the exchange, she got furious with me. She took back a painting that she’d made for me and splashed it with white paint to destroy it, and then pooped on it to make her point.

—

It’s our wedding day again, only this time we got married in Italy under some lovely and architecturally significant building with tall Tuscan archways. I check in to the old hotel next door to get ready and a female coworker is already in the room and won’t share the space. I’m half an hour late to the ceremony because I have to wait my turn.

—

I was taking care of a fluffy, dark gray cat when he started vomiting bright green stuff everywhere. I asked him if I should take him to the veterinarian now. He nods gravely, as if he totally understood.

—

I arrive to my home, but didn’t recognize it as mine right away. When I walked in I assumed it was someone else’s because the person who lived there was clearly a mother. Then I noticed that some of the stuff was definitely mine.

—

I went on a very long, awesome bike ride. I was still living with Charla, an old roommate and dear friend of mine, and when I walked in the door she asked if I wanted to go for another bike ride. I happily agreed, and we took out on the trail again.

—

Baby Wallace was swaddled in white and wearing a white cap. Someone authoritatively tells me to set the baby down. I do, reluctantly. When I look up, he’s on a frozen pond in the middle of the woods. At first, I’m scared for him. Then I relax when I realize not only is he not fussy, he’s totally fine.

—

I was with an ex-boyfriend on a rooftop when he starts to recall some life-threatening incident we supposedly had together. I tell him I don’t remember it. He’s appalled and starts to relay the event in great detail. It’s nothing personal, I say, as I tell him what happened to me on the trail. The other experience simply faded away for me.

He continues to try to refresh my memory of the harrowing experience, but I know it won’t return. It’s truly behind me.

—

My childhood friend Maggie leads me on a quest through the woods to find dead things.

—

Friend Michelle reveals to me that her daughter Lulu Mae was actually her biological daughter and also a twin. I’m shocked to hear this and even more shocked when she reveals that she has multiple sets of twins. Instead of talking to me about her pregnancy experiences, she says casually, “Oh yeah, they install twins in me each year.”

—

A porn literature store popped up on Dickson in Fayetteville, right next to the Dickson Street Bookstore. They called it “Dickson Street Dicks.” It was wildly successful.

—

My parents came to visit us, but we weren’t living in our sweet little historic house in Springdale. It was something industrial, like a modern two-story restaurant or something. My mom really wanted me to make her some toast, but since I don’t like it, I told her I keep the toaster upstairs out of my way. She would have to go get it.

As she walked up the stairs, I asked her to please be careful so she wouldn’t burn the toast and stink up the whole house.

The toaster spoke up, saying in a robotic voice, “LET IT BURN.”

—

Our wedding again, only this time it was in a church with beautiful hardwood floors and walls.

President Bill Clinton was our opening act.

From the bridal suite, I could hear our guests laughing hysterically at whatever Clinton was saying in his nasally drawl. I struggled to get ready on time since we once again handled the bulk of wedding preparations ourselves.

A Rogers City Council member was in the bridal suite with me. She was distressed because she’d forgotten our wedding was so soon and had shaved her eyebrows off. She used an eyebrow pencil on them, but not to recreate eyebrows. She wrote words in their place instead.

—

Coworker Melissa and I continue our coverage of the Bentonville Film Festival. We meet at the library, our usual place to write copy that week, and she reassures me that we have a good start because she’s written four words. “Great!” I say, “What are they?”

They’re “Bentonville Film Festival popcorn.”

I’m oddly relieved by this.

—

Sam was on a weird version of Jeopardy that had a purple-blue background and President Donald Trump was host instead of Alex Trebek. Sam was incredibly tactful and tried his very best to stay out of Trump’s way, but something invariably tipped him off. Trump exploded. “Sam Wallace, you and only you now have to pay taxes,” he yelled. “Nobody else in the U.S.!”

—

I went to the library to check out a stack of five books in preparation for a vacation. For some reason, a female coworker of mine was the library clerk and she refused to lend them to me. I got huffy, called her a book whore and left.

—

I dreamt that I was eating a strawberry pop tart, and it was amazing.

The Honour of Your Presence

You can tell a lot about a bride, I think, by what she chooses to work on first for her wedding.

For many of my friends, it wasn’t the dress or the venue. It was the cake or a theme or how to incorporate special people into the ceremony.

For me, it was the invitations. Ever since I was a little girl, I have always loved writing. Before I wrote for newspapers and magazines, I wrote for online publications and blogs. Before that, it was essays and term papers. Before that, there were letters and journals. Lots of them.

Even when social media came around, I still liked to keep up with old friends and family back home by sending a card or a letter with doodles in the margins, pictures, newspaper clippings. There’s something exciting about opening an envelope that you know the other person has taken care in sending this particular message just for you.

So when I got engaged, I booked the venue just to get it out of the way, then I called my friend and former co-worker Laura Taylor. She’s in marketing design for University Relations at the University of Arkansas. When she’s not doing that, she’s designing invitations for weddings, wedding rehearsals, bachelorette parties, bridal showers, baby showers and business logos through her business Elle Bee Designs.

They are all so cute and creative that I knew I wanted her to design mine and save me from the standard invitation template.

I came to Laura in January with only a few things in mind:

• For my invitation to look unique and not particularly wedding like or feminine.
• To have at least one of our colors (navy, grey, ivory) well incorporated, but not all-white or even mostly white.
• I wanted our cool, modern venue in it.

All around, I wanted the invitation to set the stage for the evening we’d planned: a brisk fall evening full of merriment and dancing under the Tuscan lights.

We kicked around the idea of a navy invitation imposed with white lettering, but it took Laura lobbying several printers before she found one that would even consider it. Moxy Ox in Tontitown was our best bet, and they suggested a flood coat instead. We’d buy textured white paper and print navy onto it.

Laura sent me 7 very different package options based on what I wanted and even came up with a custom package based on what she would do herself, which was a mix of having quality paper and saving on qualities that were less important.

We selected a package that included an invitation and envelopes, double sided custom map with written directions and RSVP postcard.

Before we even received our first invitation proof, Laura made sure we saw samples of the paper we’d be using from Moxy Ox so we could confirm whether we liked the weight and feel of it.

She also took care to see the various shades of printed blue so that we wouldn’t end up with Royal Blue instead of Navy. I will love her forever for that.

It resulted in this as our first invitation & RSVP proof:

We loved the basic idea of it, and especially that a bicycle was included (Fairlane’s signature touch). But Laura was kind to let us know that the first proof is a starting place and welcomed our input on evolving it.

We asked for a silhouette of Fairlane, for the lights to be further apart and some options for the style of the fonts and type of bicycle.

The old fashioned pennyfarthing (in the second image) was cute, but just didn’t seem as whimsical when set to scale of the building. Definitely not as noticeable, anyway.

Overall, we were definitely drawn to the vertical designs and Laura mocked up more of them once we chose a couple of contrasting fonts from her wheelhouse.

Two with a minimalist outline of the building:

And two with the building filled in:

We liked both looks so much that it was really difficult to choose. Eventually we asked to see the filled in design with a little more color: yellow lights in the windows, navy awnings and balconies.

We absolutely loved the result. It felt more complete than the white outline (though we loved the outline building for how artsy and chalkboard-esque it was), and asked for one small difference, a little navy outline for the windows.

Paired with the RSVP postcard, map and directions, I think it turned out absolutely perfect!

Having an invitation set we loved made me excited to get them stamped & out the door to our guests.

And vice versa!

The venue hunt

Once we stepped off the plane and returned from our trip to New York City where Sam proposed, it took us all of one week to narrow down our potential wedding venue sites and make appointments to see them.

Both Sam and I are planners, so as soon as all family members were called and friends notified, we dug into the essentials of what we wanted for our wedding celebration. In the dreaming phase, we considered a few Bentonville options.

1. Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art

Throughout our dating years, we spent any weekend away seeing art at museums around the country. Any special weekend in Northwest Arkansas typically included a trip to Crystal Bridges.

The thought of getting married here made sense because it was already indicative of our values and said something about us as a couple.

We loved the idea of having minimal decorations and a venue that entertained our guests before, during and after the event. Many of them are from out of town, and it would be a great chance to show off the best of our region.

But in terms of art style and era, we both lean more toward the modern, not historical. So we then considered our local modern art destination.

2. 21c Museum Hotel

The first of Sam’s birthdays that we spent together was at 21c Hotel, where we spent a weekend to soak in all the good food the Hive restaurant had to offer, the off beat and unexpected art galleries and enjoyed its proximity to so many other things in downtown Bentonville.

It is gray, sleek and modern-all style things that Sam gravitates toward-and would be pretty convenient for guests to have a short commute between their hotel room and the reception hall.

I had been to a mock wedding event (like a wedding expo, but more of a party) at 21c, something I covered for the paper, and was kind of in love with all the different ways the space could be transformed for your special day.

Also rolling around in my mind was a more traditional option.

3. Avondale Chapel

I was initially drawn to this venue because, in the scheme of things in Northwest Arkansas, it’s fairly new. It has a beautiful, naturally lit reception hall and a quaint garden out back. But the more we talked it over, I knew it was too traditional for our tastes.

In the end, all three of these locations were far more expensive than we wanted to budget for. We realized that our first priority was finding a venue that would allow us a fun, memorable celebration that allowed us to enter married life without going into debt.

Finally down to business, we got serious about what we really wanted, so we started with what we didn’t want.

We didn’t want a barn wedding. Though we’ve both been to our share of them that were beautiful and well done, it just didn’t fit our style.

We didn’t want a chapel wedding, since neither of us attend church regularly.

And we didn’t want to get married on an old estate.

All said and done that left very few options, which was great because it made the choice easy. We explored two of them in our home of Springdale.

1. Sassafras Springs Vineyard

Sassafras Springs Vineyard has been open only a couple of years and has a tasting room converted from a milk barn, chapel ruins and a reception venue converted from a horse barn.

The site is on the location of a historic mill. Before Sassafras Springs owners Gene and Cheryl Long got a hold of it, the place was owned by former head Razorback football coach Houston Nutt.

The vineyard itself has more than 600 vines and it’s producing a few wines already. They use grapes from other local vineyards to supplement when they need more. The bridal quarters, called the peacock room, sit above the wine making room and look out onto the vineyards. Beautiful.

The proximity of so much wine was also appealing, not gonna lie.

The reception hall is a hop, skip and a jump from those bridal quarters. It struck me as a bit of a walk, if you account for the ridiculous shoes and gown I plan on wearing.

The inside of the reception hall, converted from horse stables, was nice and the restrooms were spacious and clean.

Though the cost of renting the venue was reasonable, we had to account for the cost of outfitting the patio, which in late October would need a couple of tents, some string lights and several heaters.

What really gave us pause, the part we loved the most, was the gorgeous chapel ruins.

It is chapel-like, without being an actual chapel or church, which we liked. Images of other wedding ceremonies in the evening hours, with Tuscan string lights, are absolutely gorgeous. And then there’s these beautiful doors…

We nearly booked the place for these doors alone. What a perfect entrance for our guests and an ideal spot for bridal portraits.

Overall, we were still (lightly) concerned about the amount of walking distance between the chapel ruins, bridal quarters and reception hall for those in high heels and trying to gauge what the comfort level would be in late fall weather.

2. Fairlane Station

Fairlane Station is another newly opened event space in Springdale and it happens to be only a half mile from our home. We first came to Fairlane in the fall of 2014 for a “Folk and Food” event that brings folk artists and food trucks into the area for a night.

We loved the whole atmosphere of the place and kept going to Folk & Food events, about once a month in the fall and winter.

The color scheme-white walls, black doors and grey detail-is similar to how Sam decorated our home. I liked that it wasn’t all hardwood floors and shades of romantic rose blush like many antique style wedding venues.

A big plus: the space is so versatile that either side (indoor, outdoor) can be used for ceremony or reception, and the managers said it’s almost exactly down the middle for how people “usually” do it. Kind of cool to have a choice.

The outdoor patio has these quaint string lights, a dreamy spiral staircase and a dark gray privacy fence with ivy growing up it. One side has this little covered portion–a good backup for bad weather and nice area for musicians and their instruments to set up.

I was really hoping the spiral staircase was a way for the bride to make her entrance, but alas the second floor of Fairlane is closed to the public.

Even the bridal quarters are dramatic and midcentury. If you took it out of context, would it seem like bridal quarters? Probably not, and that’s what I like.

Practical things, like having enough space in the front room and a kitchenette for our food, wine and goodies, are taken care of.

And look at all these fun details…

The wedding party gets to use the white bicycles on the big day. Can you tell how biased I am? We totally booked this place.

We’re getting married at Fairlane Station in Springdale on Saturday, October 22!

 

The great white dress hunt

My wedding gown is very soon to arrive. I ordered it the first week of March and now that it’s nearly here, ready to embark on the arduous altering journey, I’m growing excited.

Since it’s decided and there’s no going back, I thought it’d be fun to share my dress hunt story with you. (With zero spoilers about what I actually ordered, of course.)

So many friends told me they went to one, two shops tops, but having a 10 month engagement gave me plenty of time to figure it out. I wanted to make sure I knew what all my options were and include a few family and friends along the way.

While making appointments at bridal shops, I realized that my mother had never been wedding dress shopping before! I knew the story: my dad bought my mom the yards of white satin and in the last few weeks before they were married, my mom sewed both her own prom dress and her own wedding dress.

BUT I’d always assumed she’d had the experience when my sister got married. In reality, my sister had borrowed our cousin Jenny’s wedding gown. They were about the same size and age, and married something like one year apart.

So I decided that my first wedding gown shopping experience would also be my mother’s and sister’s first as well. We began in Little Rock, just a short drive from our family home in Rose Bud, with appointments at Proposals Boutique and The Bridal Cottage.

At Proposals, they took time to get to know us: they asked what our relationship was to each other, how I met my beau and wanted to hear the story of how he proposed. They took time to celebrate my engagement before picking out dresses and also listened to what I had in mind (a strapless trumpet style gown with minimal detail) before choosing a variety for me to try on. The selection included some styles they anticipated I wouldn’t like, just to be sure that I knew what I wanted. We also generally had the place to ourselves, which was great.

This one was a little mermaid-y for my taste, and I was unsure of having such a humongous train.

This one had a similar gather, but a different neckline. Its detail was nice, and the lace was beautiful.

One thing I knew I didn’t want was a ball gown. But each place I stopped put me in one just for fun. What can I say? I’m short, I’m blond. People assume this is what I want.

It was flattering, but didn’t sway me. I like the more fitted, curvy styles more. This one felt a little closer to the mark.

At The Bridal Cottage, the mood was quite different. It was a bit of a crazy free for all, with both brides and prom gals sharing a central bank of mirrors. But each one still had their own consultant.

I appreciated my consultant there because she told me not to be shy about what I didn’t like and she strictly stuck with the initial budget I had in mind.

Her feelings weren’t hurt when she gave me this to try on and I told her no more satin or bright white, please.

I thought this blush colored one was sweet, but in the end it felt too prom-like.

Back home in Northwest Arkansas, I started with The White Dress boutique in downtown Rogers. They were friendly and our appointment set aside plenty of one-on-one time, but they didn’t allow any photos with the dresses. Apparently each one is designed and made only once.

I kind of fell in love with one of their gowns, which was a light gold colored trumpet style lace with dotted swiss and a medium length train, but it was many times over the budget I set. Just couldn’t do it.

Instead, I enjoyed the visit for time with my maid of honor, Camilla, and her daughter, Chloe.

Turns out Chloe loves all things bling and sparkle and princess cut dresses!

At She Said Yes, my consultant and I connected over a shared hometown. She grew up in Searcy, which is just a hop, skip and a jump from Rose Bud. I felt comfortable with her because she too knows what she likes but wasn’t too fussy when it came to planning her wedding. It was nice to have someone who wasn’t out to sell me the most expensive or most elaborate dress.

This one was pretty. The train was my favorite part and would have gone well with a mantilla veil (LOVE), but it was all too traditional for my taste. More of a chapel wedding selection, which mine is not.

 

And this one just didn’t look or feel right to me. I guess at the very least it makes me seem a bit taller!

But by then, I’d homed in on the slightly tinted dresses, the ones that some whisper of a color that compliments my fair skin. A recurring theme for me were gowns with a champagne base and ivory lace.

This one was more boldly champagne colored. I went back and forth from loving it and wondering if I’d regret not having a strictly white dress.

The light gold was a more ethereal, bridal color, but the more classic shape didn’t draw me in as much as the traditional trumpet style. The sweetheart neckline, however, kept ringing true.

Again, they were all beautiful but I couldn’t see myself spending as much as they were asking. Not for just one dress for just one day.

My bridesmaid Anna not only sat through that trip patiently…

She made my last stop with me too, to Tesori Bridal in Fayetteville.

My Tesori consultant was a young, polite college student and the shop is beautifully set up. Romantic songs played softly in the background. I could tell there were other appointments going on, but they never really crossed our paths.

In general it was comfortable, but it definitely seemed like more of a shop where sorority girls first get their formals, then closer to graduation get their bridal gowns. Fine, but not my cup of tea.

They put me in a blush ruffle gown, which I enjoyed more than I’d like to admit.

And something sparkly, of course. It was a little much.

For good measure, they put me in a couple with straps. Still not crazy about them. Their trains, though…

This next champagne one felt more like what I wanted.  I kept thinking it was silly that consultants would ask me “Does this make you feel like a bride?”, because what does that even mean?, but they put a veil on me and bustled the gown and I started to understand.

And this light gold, trumpet style with two different ivory lace overlays, sweetheart neckline and generous train came from a designer out of Barcelona. It was my runner up. I nearly bought it that same day.

In the end, I bought my gown from Proposals Boutique. I had the best experience there and I was able to find something that fit my vision of the dress as well as my budget. But I’ll have to wait until October 22 to show you that one.

light at the end of the tunnel

Only three weeks until race day, and things are going fairly well. I’m growing better at judging naturally when my body needs a break instead of relying on my training schedule to tell me, and there’s a comforting rhythm to the whole thing. 

Issues I’ve had lately

-Aches and pains. One week it’s a knee, the next it’s my foot, other times, a sore back.

What I’ve done about it: 

I’m trying to keep in mind what Runner’s World suggests, which is paying close attention to posture and form until you’ve made it a habit. Keeping your back straight and not leaning forward will help reduce strain on your back and neck, while taking small, quick steps will keep you from overextending yourself and putting more pressure on your knees and feet. 

That my pain is not consistent and in the same location leads me to think it’s manageable and not permanent, but I have been taking a day or two here and there to make sure I’ve recovered. 

Favorite snacks lately

Now that I’m more regularly into the 8, 10 and 12 mile runs, I’ve been making use of gel packs and like the GU energy packs (especially the espresso love flavor). It gives me an added boost in the middle of an arduous workout. Usually around this time, I like to have a Gatorade here and there for an oomph that water can’t always deliver. 

For immediately after my run

A protein shake! Sometimes I don’t feel like cooking (or waiting until I’m presentable again to go retrieve food) after a particularly long run, and a protein shake can give you some good nutrients to stave off the hunger until you do gather the energy or courage to go get something more substantial. 

Current favorite music playlist

Audible is at the top of my playlist these days, what with a return to the graduate semester and my tendency to listen to music during work hours, it’s nice to catch up on popular fiction while also doing something productive. The subscription gets you a single book each month, but that’s usually at least 7 hours of listening time.

Stats

Last week’s longest run: 10 miles

How I’m generally feeling: Great while running and less winded than before. The trouble is that when I decide not to run, my body definitely feels it, seems to miss it. I get a little antsy and at least have to stretch those muscles out. 

midtown: a running update

Greetings from week 11 of my half-marathon training! I’m roughly half way to my race date. Things are going well, but not without a few hang ups. Confession: the combination of icy conditions and graduate finals led to me skipping about 8 running workouts or roughly 2 weeks of training, but I tried not to let it discourage me too much. Better to miss a few, rather than get injured (I refuse to pay for a gym membership to run indoors.)

Issues I’ve had lately

-Not many, save for motivation. Now that my body has grown more accustomed to the workout once again, it’s just hard to get up, put my book down and go outside in the cold, and often in the dark. The rest is cake at the moment. 

-Finding a good running location that I’m not sick of already. Favorite places right now are my neighborhood for convenient, 3 mile runs after work and Lake Fayetteville for the weekend long runs- a pretty location frequented by other dedicated runners.

Favorite snacks lately

Anything with peanut butter or multi-grain toast and jam. Running a few hours after a meal and having a carb heavy snack 90 minutes prior seems to be the best balance. 

For immediately after my run

A full meal while my body’s still burning all those calories and a glass of Blue Moon. Don’t judge, it’s actually beneficial for runners.

Current favorite music playlist

Phantogram Pandora station, heavy on the DeVotchka and Xx

Stats

Last week’s longest run: 8 miles

2013 running total: about 300 miles (that I recorded)

2013 cycling total: about 150 miles

How I’m generally feeling: ok while running but achy legs in the evenings and pleased with the little bit of weight loss I’ve seen.

a joyful life

One of my nephews died this week, and today I’m submitting his obituary to two papers in the Conway-Little Rock area. Because I’m disgusted by the situation and by the limitations of a 50 word obituary, I wrote this. It still won’t do him justice, or truly show just how much joy and laughter he brought to his friends and family, but I hope it will be at least a little closer to his character.

~

Jordan Douglas Rutherford, 23, of Conway died Nov. 19. He was born April 26, 1990, in Searcy to Steve and Rachel Rutherford. In high school, he played saxophone and was active at Harlan Park Baptist Church. He studied at the University of Central Arkansas and was a manager at Chick-fil-A.

Jordan often leaned into any awkward situation he could find. That someone else was uncomfortable didn’t bother him, only amused him more. He had an odd, dry and quirky sense of humor with a snappy wit to match and was known for a gigantic, booming laugh so contagious that even if people around him didn’t get the joke, they’d still laugh along. Many say they’ve never laughed as hard as they did around him.

He was always losing something. But his wide friend base and off-kilter charm meant that it wasn’t the obstacle it could’ve been. He showed care for others in small gestures and won people over quickly.

To be his friend was to be a part of an exclusive club, an intricate network of inside jokes that was never ending. He made boring events fun and insufferable events tolerable.

He always knew just what to do to brighten your day.

As a child, he was engulfed in a continual lightsaber battle in the backyard of a suburban Conway home, and used any opportunity he could to smash his twin brother with a sock-em bopper. Trips to his grandparents’ home elicited reruns of Lion King, Aladdin, coloring in the floor of the kitchen, eating pancakes topped in granulated sugar and hours and hours of jumping hay bales, tramping through creeks, tireless games of tag and carrying home frogs and other critters.

Friends from his early years at Florence Mattison still remember his signature mischievous smile. Others say he approached life like he did a rain puddle: both feet in and a smile on his face.

Growing up, the members of Harlan Park Baptist Church became his friends and then his family. Sometimes they’d catch a ride with him to church in a beat up Ford Bronco they had to start with a screwdriver. No matter the conditions or how they got there, they still had fun. He showed his compassion for others everyday, but it was particularly evident in the mission trip he took to Mexico with his church members, his year of working in a local nursing home, his evident protection of his little brother Jacob, and his great way with children, like his niece Bailey.

Even those who knew him only for a short while were still left with a strong impression of his pleasant demeanor and general easy-going-ness. Coworkers said he made life easier at Chick-fil-A because he was always smiling and making people feel welcome. He was marked by both good intentions and clumsiness, a fortuitous pair sometimes. It once led to him accidentally stabbing a friend, another Chick-fil-A coworker, when he only meant to pretend to do it. All in good fun, it only brought them closer.

His silliness took every shape. At work, he dressed as the Chick-fil-A cow and as Superman, and made his own shenanigans elsewhere, like the times he made a makeshift bellybutton out of scotch tape (because he didn’t have one), covered cars in post-it notes, made up his own lyrics to songs, and played with friends while casually sitting in a fountain.

He was serious about wordplay, and had a habit of entertaining people when things were stressful.

Though his goofy antics and gregarious manner were the first things to draw your attention, he had a contemplative side. In college, he studied psychology and was so well-read that his literature class aggravated him for its angle on theory. He was a huge fan of Elliott Smith, lived by Bayside, and loved the works of Kurt Vonnegut.

Life ends. So it goes. But our memories of you won’t.

third time around

In less than four months, I’ll be running my third half-marathon. I ran track and played basketball in middle school, but that was the extent of my “athleticism.” College was great for its convenient access to a gym, but it wasn’t until my senior year that I began to run.

I ran a relay in 2010, a half-marathon in 2011, and then two 5ks and a half-marathon in 2012, with a time improved by about 20 minutes, and a duathlon this year.

On the third time around, I’d like to do some things differently. One day I’d like to run a full marathon too, but I thought it’d be best to improve my half-marathon technique before testing my endurance like that.

So in the coming weeks, I’ll post updates of my progress. What’s working, what’s hurting, the best things to eat, how it’s affecting my body & sleep. I hope it will help me see patterns and improve, but if it helps you too, even better! (And if you have some thoughts or advice, please share.)

I’m currently in week 4 of the official training. The build-up training was a hit or miss for me. I ran just over half of the suggested workouts, but something about getting to the official schedule got me into gear, and I haven’t missed a run…yet.

Issues I’ve had so far:

1. Running without stopping
2. Staying hydrated
3. Being too hydrated
4. Finding a good time of day to always run, rain, shine or cold
5. Swollen feet

What I’ve done about it:

1. Endurance is always slow to build, so I’ve been attempting patience with myself. My first goal was to run half a mile without stopping. Since my typical running area is the boulevard that goes through my apartment complex and one lap around it is a mile, it makes it really easy to keep track. Once I could comfortably run half a mile without stopping, I did the same for a single mile. Eventually 3 miles, and that’s usually as far as I’ll push myself. Each time you reach a goal you’ve set, reward yourself. Turn on your favorite song or tell a trusted friend. The achievement might seem small, but you’ve worked hard & can achieve more when you’re feeling good about yourself.

2. Staying hydrated is usually not a big problem for me, but with a recent job change, it’s been a little shaky to get into a corresponding new routine. I’ve been using a plastic 16 oz. (or so) Brita water bottle that I love, and finding that the only problem is taking it with me. I’d like to eventually have one for work and one for home, so I never have an excuse to stay hydrated.

3. Aaand then the opposite problem. So far, the best balance I’ve found is to hydrate throughout the work day, then drink very little (or even none) at home, depending on how soon I get out and run. That way my body is hydrated but I don’t have to take a bathroom break in the middle of my miles or remain uncomfortable.

4. Consistent running time is important, and I’m learning that the time I hope to run is significantly different from when I actually run. Just knowing yourself and your habits, and having a list of things you always always have to do can help you decide your running time. The worst part of all was getting myself to realize that I can’t simply walk in the door from work, throw on my running shoes and get out there. I set my stuff down, listen to NPR, unwind, take my time switching gears. And that’s ok. It just means my start time is later. Having a consistent time takes the guesswork out of it. Do I want to run today? Who cares. I usually run, that’s what I’m mentally prepared for, so let’s go.

5. I haven’t had this problem pop up before, so I was a little alarmed when my feet were quite swollen at the end of a workday, but I wrapped my ankles, elevated my feet and used an ice pack. The pain came back a time or two days later, but not consistently. I’m being more conscientious, taking my time to stretch, before and after.

Favorite snacks lately

For mid-afternoon, roughly 2-3 hours before my run
roasted, salted almonds. Apparently they’re higher in fat than some snacks, but generally good for you overall and leave you feeling full enough to eat smaller portions at your main meals.

For immediately after my run
a half glass of Naked juice. It’s not quite a meal, but it is a lot of good, filling nutrients very quickly.

Current favorite music playlist
Lana Del Rey Pandora station, heavy on the Lorde & Mackelmore (no judging)

Stats
Last week’s miles: 15
This week’s miles: 16
Total training miles logged so far: 96
How I’m generally feeling: hungry all the time.

the delicate nature of body image: a case study

This coming week, I’m going to interview someone in connection with a nonprofit that helps teenage girls deal with body issues and that helps them build a healthy sense for eating and exercising habits.

It’s got me to thinking about my own situation, and how nice, how wonderfully helpful it would have been if we’d had any such similar program around when I was growing up.

There were some bad years, some unfortunate situations, but I wouldn’t say that any of it was vindictive or purposefully destructive on my parents’ side. But then there were some really good supportive years too, and still somehow I struggled with identity and weight issues. Often, I still do.

As a child, I was chubby. I always had pinch-able cheeks. I was short, so the fat had nowhere to go, I had no siblings at home to motivate me to go play and runaround outside- instead, I had books and sedentary hours at the piano, and our diet then was heavy on the starch, carbs and meat, easy on the vegetables.

Even at the sweet age of nine, when no girl should be thinking about diets and altering their growing body, I remember my aunts making direct comments about my weight. The exact words and phrases escape me now, of course, but I remember the disapproving tones when I was chubbier, and the reinforcing delight they showed when I slimmed out due to a gain on height.  Just the thought that someone I looked up to-no matter that I only saw these people once or twice a year-was disapproving of something about me meant that I wanted to change for them, I wanted them to dote on me, I wanted them to like me. By age 11, I was eating as little as possible, cereal for breakfast, something meager for lunch (often nothing at all), as little as I could get away with at the dinner table, and holidays were a gold mine for me because there were too many people around for my parents to monitor my intake. I usually lost weight on Thanksgiving and Christmas. I knew because I checked my weight and my waist and hip measurements regularly. I wasn’t even in junior high yet.

By 13, something inside me broke. I’m not sure if I was tired doing so much for people who cared so little, to spend so much energy for approval-seeking, or if it was the raging hormones, but in junior high, I began to eat everything in sight. I gained 30 pounds.

Then the monster was an entirely different kind. I was at the mercy of teenagers, others just as insecure and ready to bring down others to make themselves feel better. Boys would mock me, saying that the worst I could do in return was to sit on them because it would hurt so badly. Athletes made cruel comments as they ran past me during gym. People in the youth group at church wouldn’t hide their surprise when I could keep up with them during running and outdoor games, incredulous at the fat kid who could still get around. People stole my lunch on a regular basis, saying that I didn’t need it.

At home, things weren’t comforting, either. My dad would just happen to mention to me once in a while that his waist size in 1970, when he got married at the age of 20, was smaller than what mine was (then, at the age of 13, 14). My sister would casually bring up what her weight was before she had children. I was larger than that, too.

Not a single person told me that my growing body, while strange and awkward, was perfectly normal and that it would continue to change. That one day not long from then, things would even out on their own. No one sat me down and said “let me help you figure out a few healthy, filling meals you can eat on the average day.” No one said “yes, you’re a little overweight, but it’s ok, I still love you and other people will like you too,” and no one offered to help me establish any fitness regimen or to exercise with me.

It was just guilt. It was a passive aggressive challenge for me to lose weight so people would like me.

One romantic rejection and several stupid anecdotes from my family, and I was back to my starving regimen. At the age of 15, I lost 20 or 25 pounds, this time with a little more height on me. My clothes hung off my frame. And NOW people had the nerve to be worried about me. “I wish you would tell me your secret,” some adults would say to me. My parents were very concerned, but they didn’t know what to do about it, so they grounded me.

I was once punished by not getting to go over to a friend’s house for the weekend until I gained a certain amount of weight. When I didn’t fold and just retreated to my room or my piano each time that happened, and continued to eat less and less, they resorted to asking other people to talk to me for them.

It happened a number of times, but the most frustrating was when they asked a family friend, a young woman who ordinarily wouldn’t give me the time of day, to take me on a brief walk and explain why it’s not cool to starve myself. This was the most infuriating thing. I might have been young, but I knew she didn’t want to talk to me. I knew my parents had put her up to it, and it was the sorriest attempt at manipulation I’d had in my short life. It fueled my desire to control my weight any way I knew how.

The entire ordeal affected my view of people. It destroyed any trust I’d had in my parents, and it showed me who my real friends were.

In short, it made me very, very angry.

It wasn’t until college, when I had the culinary world at my feet and a gym around the corner, that I was able to push past everyone’s perceptions of me, what they wanted for me, and what I thought of their opinions of me. There were some months of fast food and snacking freshman year, but it didn’t take me long to start valuing a good breakfast, salads and vegetables, having protein to lift your energy during a sleepy afternoon, and other sound eating habits. I was able to lift weights to relieve stress between bouts of trying homework, and later I began the therapeutic practice of running.

To this day (I’m now 25), my aunts still ask me what my dress size is. Just to know. Not because they want to pass on hand-me-down clothing or anything. My parents sometimes balk at the amount of miles I run per week. And the boys who made cruel comments in high school often try to reconnect with me on Facebook, and are baffled why I claim not to remember them or simply want nothing to do with them. But none of that affects me any longer, because I’m an adult and my formative years in that respect are over. I made a choice to lead a different lifestyle so I could have more healthy years in front of me- without any of that condescension, judgment or baggage- to do whatever I want and surround myself with people who genuinely have my best interest at heart.

I can’t affect what you do or say to the little girls in your life, and I’m not here to preach, but just know that they are listening closely. Very closely.