Today marks the first anniversary of our son’s marriage to a young woman who has captured our hearts as surely as she has captured his. We are so thankful to have her in our family. Her kindness, intelligence, and fun-spirited personality make her a pleasure to be around. We consider ourselves blessed.

I can’t help but look back on their wedding day and remember how excited we all were. Bridesmaids bustled around, helping the bride get ready. The caterer and florist scuttled about, delivering fabulous food and flowers. A photographer shot pictures, some candid and some posed, of friends and family members as they arrived.

I remember the days leading up to the wedding, when we made last minute plans, encountered difficulties, and solved problems as they arose. First, we received an offer on the house we were trying to sell, which also happened to be where the wedding was to take place. We had to be out in nine days, six days before the wedding date. In today’s economy, we had to take the offer.

Then a tornado hit our farm, destroying our caretaker’s home, inflicting severe damage on trees and farm equipment, and eliminating another possible venue. But the wedding day was rapidly approaching, and so we handled it.

Our resourceful daughter-in-law found another place for the wedding, and we headed off to check it out. Unfortunately, the tornado had rendered the establishment without electricity, so we had to examine it in the dark. We could only hope it would look brighter when the lights came back on. And, because we were so late in reserving the place, we had no time for a wedding rehearsal.

Some would have given up and rescheduled the wedding when they had more time to plan. But we had had time, and we had made good plans. Life just stepped in and, well, you know what they say about the best laid plans…

The wedding day arrived and, with it, a cold rain. You would think that would have made for a dreary wedding, but it did not. The music and flowers were beautiful, the food delicious, and the guests festive and expectant.

And the bride and groom! When they walked down the stone path through the garden, all the sunshine and perfectly executed plans in the world could not have caused a warmer glow or happier smile than those I saw on the faces of my son and daughter-in-law. As I looked around at our family and friends, I knew I could not have asked for a better wedding for my son and his precious bride.

Love prevails, and all the obstacles in the world could not spoil that special day for two people ready to start their life together. On this first anniversary of their marriage, I am so thankful that they, with wisdom beyond their years, knew that. I look forward, with eager anticipation, to what lies ahead for them. This much I know. When two people love each other, no matter where or when or how the wedding takes place, it’s love that makes a wedding beautiful.

Aaron’s 499 Dream Weekend NASCAR Sprint Cup stock car race is taking place at Talladega Superspeedway in Talladega, Alabama, not too far from our lake place. The event garners quite a bit of excitement around here. I can’t help but think that Niki, of Niki Knows the Dirt, would want to be right in the middle of the hubbub.

First of all, Niki loves a party, and NASCAR fans know how to party. There’s not a can of beer or a tostito to be found within a thirty mile radius, except at the Speedway. Fans who think they’ll luxuriate in hotel rooms while they’re not at the racetrack had better make their reservations early – as in years in advance. If hotels offer lifetime memberships, anyone who plans to travel down the I-20 corridor during race weekend would do well to sign up.

Niki can get loud with the best of them. Hand her a margarita or two, and she can whoop it up with the biggest NASCAR fan, who is already competing hard to be heard above the din of cars as they speed around the track. Oh yes, and the other fans, who love a good competition.

Then there is the camping. NASCAR fans start gathering a week or two prior to the race, towing RV’s and pop-ups laden with ice chests, barbeque grills, and the ubiquitous Budweiser. Niki, a nature girl at heart, would fit right in with those who brave hot Alabama sun and the occasional tornado to stake their claims to the best camping spots, preferably close to the long line of portable potties that lend their own charm to the tradition that is Talladega National Speedway.

Speaking of tradition, there are a few about which those who have never attended a race at Talladega may not know. The one that comes to mind is the tradition of boats pulling as close to the I-20 overpass as possible, at race’s end, so NASCAR fans can get a glimpse of bare bosoms as they pass, at snail’s pace, over the bridge. I’m not sure how this fad got started, but I’m pretty sure it had a something do with drinking. I don’t know if Niki would have been in the cars or in the boats – I’ll let you decide for yourself.  I do know that her sister, Cheryl, would have been right there with her, whispering that a lady would never show her girls in public; and asking Niki if she really wanted another margarita. I’m pretty sure Niki would have ignored her.

Having painted a pretty picture of race weekend at Talladega Superspeedway, let me add that I’ve never attended one. And, no, I haven’t been in the boats either. I do know that those who attend NASCAR races are loyal fans, one more reason Niki would fit right in. Niki Edgar is loyal, if anything. Just ask DeWayne.

They say there’s no place like home, and I guess that’s true. But my husband and I took a trip to Charleston, South Carolina, last weekend, and I’m here to tell you there are some places that are pretty cool, even if they’re not home. Charleston is definitely one of those.

First of all, Charleston is full of history. We happened to have as our tour guides two gracious Charlestonians who knew a lot about their city and clearly loved it. They tirelessly drove us around town, pointing out historical buildings and sites, and adding their own personal remembrances of Charleston’s landmarks, customs, and culinary delights. Pat Conroy, himself, couldn’t have done it better – and let me tell you, Mr. Conroy does a fine job of making you wish you had been born and raised in this captivating, romantic town.

Charleston’s architecture leaves one breathless. We’re talking history again, and a beauty that only comes from weathering battles, Mother Nature, and a lot of living. Houses with porches and awnings evoke visions of pretty ladies and courtly gentlemen sitting on Sunday afternoons, sipping iced tea and waving to passersby in horse-drawn carriages. Courtyard entrances adorned with jasmine invite visitors to repose ‘neath a moss-draped oak and while away the ‘noon. Yes, memories of Charleston wax one poetic. Tell me who could help but throw in an apostrophized “beneath” or “afternoon.”

Charleston offers, to my mind, the best of both worlds. Water and wind juxtaposed against a shopper/diner’s paradise. Untamed nature cohabiting with civilized city. We dined at the wharf and shopped at Godiva. What could be better than that?

During our trip back to Birmingham, I reflected on my fickleness. I love my hometown; so how did Charleston so easily turn my head? I think the answer is that we were treated so graciously by our new friends that we felt, as any true Charlestonian or Birminghamian would say “right at home.”

A dear friend of mine told me she’s planning to move to Charleston in a couple of years. I confess that, at first, I didn’t understand why she would do such a thing. Now I know. They also say home is where the heart is. I believe that’s true, because I think I left a piece of my heart in Charleston.

I love a good road trip. There’s just something about waking up in the wee hours of the morning, cramming your sleepy self into an automobile loaded to the gills with things you can’t live without, and heading off to parts unknown. Taxi-ing to a crowded airport and plodding your way through a security line doesn’t quite measure up to the casual, don’t-even-bother-with-makeup feel of riding in your own car, surrounded by snacks and magazines, radio tuned to country or rock, or whatever genre happens to accommodate your current whim.

My husband doesn’t get the road trip. The few times I’ve tried to engage him in the fine art of fun on the freeway, he has carefully plotted our course, checked weather radar, and refused to participate in the packing of the picnic, an essential for the success of a good road excursion. “We’ll find something along the way,” he’ll say, which sounds in keeping with the program, but everybody knows a good road trip must include snacks in which you would otherwise never allow yourself to indulge. Like crème filled oatmeal snack cakes and corn chips, eaten together, of course, and washed down with lukewarm lime flavored sodas.

The first rule of the road trip gets broken right off the bat when my husband is at the wheel. Instead of meandering down the highway at a respectable, barely above the minimum speed limit pace, he puts the pedal to the metal and flies off down the highway like he’s piloting the plane he wishes he had taken in the first place. Now, how is one supposed to count the buttercups on the side of the road at eighty miles an hour? And forget seeing the alligator with two heads that everyone knows you can only find by reading the hand painted signs that line a winding, sandy road into backwoods you’ll never even glimpse if you speed down the interstate at a rate to make Mario Andretti proud.

A good road trip includes numerous bathroom breaks, a necessity for those who indulge in the lime soda ritual. But the break isn’t all about relieving the call of nature. It’s another concept that has seemed to elude my otherwise highly intelligent husband. Bathroom breaks are opportunities to check out local culture. After taking care of business, one meanders into the service station, picks up a honey bun, a pack of gum, and a Yoohoo, and strikes up conversation with the overalled man who would have pumped your gasoline in days gone by, and still will, if you’re on a road trip roll. This is where you gain information vital to the continued success of your adventure.

Your newfound friend will first establish where you’re from and who your people are. If the gods are smiling, you’ll discover a few connections in your lineage that encourage him to share secrets of your surroundings to which mere paying customers of his humble station would never be privy. Like where to find the best fried peach pies and, if he thinks you look the type to appreciate such info, freshly bottled homemade muscadine wine. If you’re traveling down the interstate at the speed of light, you’re going to miss out on a facet of education that no college degree can ever afford.

Bathroom breaks aren’t the only stops along a road trip journey. There are the overlook stops, where one soaks up the beauty of nature from the safety of a guard rail. The thrill seeker, of course, will have a picture snapped while perched precariously on top of the rail, leaning dangerously over a precipice lined with jagged rocks and slippery waterfalls.

There are tee shop purchases to make, and one musn’t forget about the homemade fudge, boiled peanuts,  and various pecan products that even the most reluctant of road trippers cannot resist.

The thing my husband doesn’t understand is that I want my picture taken with my head sticking through a hole above Pocahontas’s body. And I want to see his serious face break into laughter as he poses above Arnold Schwarzenegger’s scantily clad torso. I want to make cheesy photo albums of our road trips together, in anticipation of hot cocoa and remembrances by the fire on cold winter Sunday afternoons.

You probably won’t remember going through the security line at the airport on your forty-somethingth business trip. But you’ll never forget the craggy face of the old-timer who told you about the two legged hound dog that could chase a raccoon through the woods and tree him quicker than a whole pack of Redbones with all their appendages in order.

Our fast paced days of high technology and modern transportation are fine for business meetings and getting where we need to go in a hurry – there’s no denying that. But if you want real adventure, try a good old-fashioned road trip. When you do, I’d love to hear about it. E-mail me at denisehays@gmail.com.

I’m having a hard time getting around to Monkey Business, the sequel to my Niki Edgar mystery, Bloodhound. People keep asking me what Niki is up to, and I have to tell them I don’t really know. It’s kind of sad. Niki has been good to me, and yet I don’t seem to have time for her. Each time someone brings up her name, I vow to do better.

Do you have a friend like that – one whom you love dearly, who has your best interests at heart, who causes a little prick of guilt every time another day goes by without any effort on your part to connect with them? Let me tell you what can happen if you allow too much time to pass without spending some time in the company of people who love you.

You’ll forget about them. It’s true. I can hardly remember what Niki is up to. Last time I contacted her, she was in Costa Rica. That was months ago. I don’t even know if she’s home yet. For all I know, she could be lost in a Costa Rican jungle, or kidnapped by some Central American drug lord. She could be back in the States, remarried – to DeWayne! Or Jason! Or Bailey. Okay, that was a stretch, but you get my drift.

Another thing that can happen is that your friend may forget about you. Life goes on, and people get busy. If your friend doesn’t hear from you, she’ll eventually find new friends – friends who are not too busy for her; maybe even friends who are more interesting than you.

Yep, it could happen! There could be someone out there who will cause your friend to perk up and say “I can’t wait to see _________(fill in the blank with the name of her new best friend). Ouch! It hurts, doesn’t it? Your own name used to fill that blank.

Each time your friend’s name comes up, you’ll feel a little prickle of guilt, and you’ll vow to do better. But you won’t. You see, absence does not always make the heart grow fonder.

But time can heal wounds. Both you and your friend will stop feeling the pricks from your consciences. You’ll think about each other less often, and other people will replace you in each others’ hearts. You’ll eventually feel just as happy without each other as you did with each other. That’s life.

Now that I’ve made you completely morose, did I tell you this post is for writers? Not writers and their friends, but writers and their characters. If we stay away from our “friends” too long, we’ll lose our relationships with them. Think about it. As for the rest of you – well, if the shoe fits…

A cat owner has an extraordinary opportunity to learn from her pet. Let’s examine the lives of felines:

First of all, cats don’t have to shop for groceries, cook, or wash dishes, and yet they eat like kings. They never have to slog through rain or snow to get to the office, and they don’t even know what traffic jams are. They show up at dinnertime and get fed by people who talk sweetly to them, and who delight in giving them treats.

Cats never have a bad night’s sleep. I know it’s true, because have you ever seen a cat sleeping that didn’t look so comfortable it made you downright jealous?

Cats don’t have to clean their own bathrooms. They just do their business, throw a little litter over it, and walk away. Their person comes along and literally shovels their – well, you know – for them.

Unlike we humans, cats seem to naturally know how to stay in shape. They exercise daily, chasing light rays and phantom shadows around the house, jumping onto the backs of chairs, and hiding under beds and tablecloths. They romp through the house, playfully skidding to a stop in front of things we can’t even see. You try it. Next time your cat gets frisky, try a little follow the leader with her. I’ll bet you can’t keep up.

The most important lesson we can learn from cats has to do with emotional health. Cats purr to show their pleasure, and turn their backs on unhappiness. Now, there’s a thought. And have you noticed how, even though cats get mad and turn their backs, when they turn back around, they’re good to go. No pouting, no bringing up past mistakes, no ultimatums. A simple purr or turn of the back says it all, and once said, it’s over.

Yes, cats seem to have life figured out. People can say “It’s a dog’s life” all they want. I’m sticking with my cat.

Spring has sprung in Alabama, so it’s time to get out the flip flops.

Statements like the above are why I need a stylist. I’m no longer a spring chicken and, as Mama always said, “Women of a certain age need to try harder. Otherwise, we’ll look like we need to try harder.

Enter Megan LaRussa of Southern Femme. When I started receiving her e-mails, I wasn’t sure her services were something I would enjoy. But the more I read her newsletters and watched her videos, the more I began to think that maybe this was someone who could help me. She talked knowledgeably and cheerfully about the subject that had mystified me all my life. Even if it turned out I was a hopeless case, just talking with this young fashion maven would be a fun adventure.

Let’s just say I’m style challenged. That’s why I think flip flops when the weather turns warm. I don’t mean cute little sandals with rosettes on top. I’m talking rubber thongs in every color of the rainbow, the kind that go “flip-flop” when you walk and usually rub their color off on your not-yet-summer-ready heels.

So I e-mailed Megan and asked her if she could help me. “Oh, most definitely,” she said. Bless her heart.

We met at a barbeque joint near our home at the farm so she would not have to navigate the winding country roads to our home without cell phone coverage. It’s easy to get lost out there, and if you go around the bend, well let’s just say you’ve gone too far.

Megan was delightful – so full of enthusiasm and energy. And, of course, she looked like a fashion plate. But she was so young! She graduated high school with my youngest son, for Pete’s sake! What could this oh-so-young woman know about how to dress me?

As it turned out, she knew plenty. Style is style, no matter what your age. That was the first thing she taught me about living the stylish life. This girl may not have experienced as much of life as I had, but she had certainly lived the life she had lived with style.

First, she asked me to fill out a survey about my lifestyle, my feelings about clothes, and why I had engaged her services in the first place. I probably told her more than she wanted to know about that, and I was afraid I might have scared her off with my neediness. But not Megan – she was a woman up to the challenge.

Next, we went through my closet, garment by garment, she asking me questions like “Where did you buy that?” and, probably more to the point in my case, “Why did you buy that?” During the process, I found things I didn’t even remember buying. Megan was kind, but firm, as she had me discard item after item from my closet.

When we were through, I felt cleansed. I stood in front of my closet, admiring the empty spaces and wiggling my clothes on their hangers, just to hear them rattle against each other, something that had not occurred in my closet in decades. It was music to my ears.

The next day, Megan sent me a look book of outfits, in which she detailed what items of clothing to wear together, along with what shoes to wear with them. She even included jewelry, explaining how to layer necklaces and stack bracelets for the funky, artsy look that she deftly understood I had longed for all my fashion challenged life.

I now had outfits to wear to meetings, to cocktail events, to church, and on date nights with my husband. I would even look good knocking around the farm. I couldn’t wait for an event to come up so I could go confidently to my closet and select an outfit that I knew would look good on me. I cannot begin to tell you how much stress that has removed from the simple act of getting dressed in the morning. For the fashion challenged, you see, life can be hard.

Megan’s expertise extended to skin and hair as well. She recommended specialists in my areas of interest. She introduced me to an excellent seamstress for alterations. She taught how to shop for things that would look good on my body type, and how to care for my new wardrobe. She even shopped with me, and she brought me style magazines and articles about how to remain fashionably current.

I can’t begin to tell you all the ways Megan has helped me along the road to becoming a  southern femme. At the risk of sounding like an advertisement, I highly recommend checking out Megan LaRussa www.southernfemme.com. And, yes, she travels to help clients all the time.

The other day, my husband and I were busily hanging pictures and moving furniture around in our new home. Out of the blue, he said, “You’re looking younger.” Since time neither stands still nor reverses for anyone, I can only think that my new style is working.

Megan has taken me from being an eyesore to being a sight for sore eyes. I no longer dread approaching my closet each morning, and when I leave the house, I feel confident I’m looking as good as I can look.

Move over, America’s Next Top Model, here I come!

Sheila and I sat at lunch discussing what we would work on during our afternoon writing session. As she talked about her novel, I got so excited that I found myself wanting to work on her book instead of my own. Then she mentioned a screenplay she had been working on. Her dilemma was that she didn’t know which one to work on first.

“What are you working on?” she asked me.

I had nothing. I needed to post on this blog, but strongly felt that if I had nothing funny to say, I probably should keep my computer shut. “I don’t know,” I said. “I think I might have writer’s block.”

“Why don’t you write about what’s happening to you right now?”

I looked around the restaurant. She was right. The restaurant was full of interesting people avidly talking to their lunch mates, gesticulating, smiling, laughing, and sometimes looking like they might cry.

I decided to do what I confess I often do in restaurants. I tuned in to conversations around me. Pretty soon, I couldn’t wait to get home to type up what I had heard. The result was last week’s blog post on this website.

Next time you’re at a loss for words, tune in to what’s happening around you. I’m not exactly advocating eavesdropping, but everyone has a story. Even if you don’t hear what they’re saying, your own imagination will fill in the blanks. That’s why you’re a writer – your imagination can’t help but fill in blanks.

When I started last week’s post, I wasn’t sure what would come out; but I started typing anyway. I guess you could say I stepped out in faith. It worked, and it will work for you, too. So stop with the procrastination, open up that laptop, and move those fingers. The rest will come. Your imagination will see to it!

Sheila and I were sitting in a restaurant that caters heavily to a male crowd. No, we were not at Hooter’s. It was just a local bar that serves meat-and-three specials on weekdays. I had eaten there several times before, but had not noticed the predominance of testosterone until Sheila pointed it out to me. Of course, once she pointed it out, it was all I could think about.

First of all, we were two of the only three females in the place. The other lady was there alone, and I could only imagine why. I guess if I were single, I might give it a shot, too. It beats Home Depot.

We studied the menu, a little disappointed in the heavy fare. But it was a man’s world we had entered, so we decided to go with the flow. Sheila settled on a vegetable plate, even though the dishes offered were a bit heavy, like mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese. I chose a grilled cheese sandwich, not exactly a dietician’s dream.

It was after we placed our orders that I began to notice the salads passing by. Grilled chicken on a bed of lettuce, with crispy croutons and vinaigrette so light it sparkled in the sun; chicken salad piled high, with fresh cucumber and tomato garnish; Greek salads of black olives, sundried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, and feta.

Where were these salads going? Would you believe to the men’s tables? Who would have thought. Sheila and I looked at each other sheepishly before we dove into our cheese laden entrees.

Then, as I usually can’t help while in restaurants, I began to catch snatches of conversations from surrounding tables. Two metrosexuals behind us discussed recent trips to New York and the Broadway plays they enjoyed. I even heard the words “Godiva” and “spa” from two tables away. An older gentleman commented on his wife’s new Kate Spade purse. Really?

We had begun to get uncomfortable, and then I heard it. A forceful nose blow from the very table that had just sung “Wicked’s” praises. We relaxed a bit, happy to hear that something was normal here after all. Then again, a long, honking blast from Mr. Kate Spade himself.

This time, we laughed aloud. The world had changed a bit, softening its testosterone edges, but one thing will never change. A man is still a man. Next time your man blows his nose at the table, console yourself knowing that somewhere out there a man is enjoying a day at the spa or nibbling daintily on Godivas. Perhaps he’s even reading a Harlequin.

And when you find yourself in a predominantly male restaurant, don’t hesitate to order your salad. If you get the urge to embrace your masculine side, have a whiskey straight up. That’ll show those sissies.

Do you have any idea how the search for the perfect recliner can consume a man? The chair must be the perfect fit, both in size and personality. No man wants a lady-like recliner. Or was “lady-like recliner” an oxymoron? I think perhaps.

Tall men have an especially difficult time finding their recliners. At first, I thought my husband just liked the macho look of a man-cave appropriate chair. After shopping with him a while, though, I began to understand the problem.

I’ve already hinted that recliners are just plain ugly. Or did I? If not, please consider yourself properly informed. Recliners are ugly. Let me repeat that – recliners are ugly! Oversized recliners, the size that best fits my husband, are doubly ugly.

We wandered through store after store, trying out every recliner that didn’t make me gag, only to find that, alas, the only ones that fit him were the gag-worthy ones. He tried his best to make do, but I couldn’t let him settle for a recliner from which his head hung off one end and his feet another.

He would scrunch down into a less offensive but obviously smaller than acceptable recliner and prop an arm under his head to prevent whiplash. Then he’d twist his body so his legs didn’t hang over and cut off the circulation to his feet. I would watch his somewhat comical maneuvers and then shake my head sadly, resigning myself to the inevitable.

The pretty den in my head would slowly morph into a man cave, and I couldn’t even blame my husband. He had tried, he really had. My white cottage sofa slipcovers turned into walnut twill, and my fleur-de-lis adorned floor lamp into a converted golf club rigged up to deliver only enough electricity to illuminate the tv remote, even though that would remain constantly attached to the palm of my husband’s hand.

Our new den may not turn out as pretty as it was in my head, but one thing will probably turn out even better than I could possibly imagine. My husband and I will spend countless hours in our man-cavish den, discussing news reports, laughing at sitcoms, and crying over sentimental movies. Well, maybe that last bit was a stretch.

Anyway, we eventually compromised on a slip covered twill sofa and love seat a couple of shades lighter than the leather recliner we finally bought. I think my husband only agreed to the slip covers so we could move on to the next most important purchase for our new home.

Do you have any idea how the search for the perfect television can consume a man?