Life Goes On – Road Trip!

The plan was simple: fly west, pick up the car, and drive it home.

But of course, with Dad along, it was never just about the car.

He and Mom had been willing participants in my roadrunner adventures before, and this time was no different—except that Mom was running her quilt shop, holding down the fort, while Dad and I packed light and boarded a flight.

Just the two of us. 

A familiar adventure, a tradition of road trips and shared miles. It’s not just about retrieving a car; it’s about shared miles, conversations between gas stops, laughter over diner coffee and truck stop food, the endless search for radio stations along the way. Nothing loses radio signals like the great expanse of the desert southwest, literally.

Two generations, one itinerary, no timeline but the road.

We landed in San Diego mid-morning, the air already warm, and the scent hit us—the herbal sharpness of eucalyptus stitched into the salty ocean breeze, settling somewhere between memory and motion. That kind of California golden that makes everything feel like it’s just beginning.

San Diego has its own kind of rhythm: kicked-back, sun-kissed, and edged in coastal calm, the kind of place where time stretches and the horizon always feels close.

At the curb outside baggage claim, there she was—Sandy, my eldest sister, waving from behind the wheel of her shiny red Chevy S10. Already smiling like she knew this wasn’t just any pickup. She had that familiar mix of cheer and quiet observation—the sister who remembers birthdays, who notices when the hem of your jeans is new, who makes arrivals feel like homecomings. And she had that twinkle of anticipated mischief in her gaze—because she knew, as always, that mischief tended to follow me wherever I went.

Ritual First - We Always Start With Burritos

Mission Beach. Roberto’s.

Because when you’re in San Diego, no matter what’s ahead—a cross-country drive, a graduation, a reunion, just another day—you start it right:

• Barefoot
• A Roberto’s burrito
• Family next to me, unwrapping theirs with those familiar contented grins

A full-family moment right there. If this is what contentment looked like, I have no complaints. It really is the simple things in life.

The gulls overhead didn’t care we were about to cross a few thousand miles.
The ocean didn’t either—it just kept folding waves across itself like it had seen this scene before.

For a moment, nothing else mattered.
Not the miles ahead.
Not the semesters behind.
Not the car quietly waiting in the background.

Just a packed homemade bean and cheese burrito made by a Mexican family, wrapped tight in butcher paper, salt air in our lungs, and the kind of stillness that tastes a lot like joy.

Wrapped in Silence, Warmth (and Butcher Paper)

Naturally—it was the kind of burrito that demanded respect.
No plastic fork would survive it.
This was full-hand commitment, elbows-out, down to business.

There we were, sitting on the seawall of the boardwalk, the ocean right there, unwrapping our burritos like well-practiced pros. No conversation necessary—just nods of approval between bites. That kind of silence? Golden.

The seawall held me like a memory—it had probably done the same for countless others.
A couple of beach bums lounged nearby, sunbaked and barefoot, trading stories or silence with those familiar, easy grins—the kind that say they’ve claimed this stretch of wall for years.

Surfers walked past with boards dripping saltwater.
Kids zigzagged down the boardwalk on rollerblades, gulls calling overhead.
The waves rolled in and out like they had nowhere better to be.

A Constant Presence

The ocean always had a way of touching my most inward self—my soul soothed by the rhythmic sound of waves crashing on the beach, waves coming in sets. There was a quiet knowing in that rhythm, like the sea was speaking a language I didn’t need to translate to understand.

It was a constant in what at times could be a hectic life.

And it was true to itself, to the timing of the tides speaking in its ancient dialogue with the moon. Something sacred, intimately loyal.

A companion with rhythm, truth, and presence. Something I could always count on - lean on - to be there. I could always feel it's strength and it replenished mine.

Again, it’s the simple things.

As I stood there, I found myself gazing past the shore, wondering where the Kitty Hawk might be—Pat’s ship, CV-63.

Where on that vast blue sweep of water were they?
What did Pat see as he looked out from that immense carrier deck, no land in sight—just ocean, horizon, and sky?

The carrier was enormous—steel, motion, weight—but did it feel small out there, dwarfed by endless sea?
Did he?
Was the rhythm of the ocean comforting to him, too?
Did it steady him the way it steadied me?

Maybe in the hush between duties, during night watch or sunrise, he paused long enough to listen—to let the sea speak its language to him too.
And maybe in that quiet, we were sharing the same stillness, separated by miles, connected by something more.

What Nourishment Really Means

It wasn’t just a lunch stop.
You didn’t need to be hungry to enjoy a Roberto’s burrito.
It was just what you did.

Because it tasted good—more than good.
It tasted like connection, past and present.
It filled more than our stomachs.
It fed our sense of belonging—our rituals, our timing, our togetherness.

That first bite always felt like we were remembering something—something unspoken but understood.

And with eyes fixed on enjoying that warm moment, it radiated new beginnings and a relaxed, second-nature certainty that the future was going to be good.

#theprairieyankee #familyrituals #missionbeach #militaryreflection #sandiego

Flashback: Did I Mention That Waltz?

The air hummed with music, guitars twanging, voices rising, boots tapping against wooden floors in time with the beat.

The band took a break, letting the jukebox slip into the conversation, filling the space between laughter and lingering glances.

And then—John Anderson’s "Rose Colored Glasses" spilled into the room, smooth and familiar, wrapping itself around the moment like it had been written just for this dance.

That’s when Pat took my hand.

I had never waltzed before. Not like this—not properly, not with the certainty of knowing the steps, not with the ease of simply following.

But Pat knew what he was doing.

His grip was steady, his lead so natural that resisting the rhythm wasn’t even an option.

Three steps, then a turn.

A quiet pause. A heartbeat stretched between movements.

And oh, what a moment.

The jukebox hummed between words, between steps, between seconds.

And then—I looked up.

And there it was.

The most beautiful smile I have ever seen.

Not just charming. Not just friendly.
But full of something deeper—warmth, confidence, a quiet certainty.

Looking down at me. Just for me.

And I couldn’t look away.

Forget the jukebox. Forget the chatter of the bar.

In that instant, everything else ceased to matter—it was just the waltz, the music, and that smile.

Because this moment isn’t just movement—it’s meaning, emotion, something that lingers.

A waltz isn’t just about the steps. It’s about who leads, who follows, and what happens in between. It’s about trust in the lead, the surrender in the follow, the quiet magic in between.

It’s about looking up at that smile, about feeling the rhythm shift from unfamiliar to instinctive.

This memory will never fade, because it wasn’t just about music—it was about connection, about something unspoken finding its place in the rhythm of a song.

It’s a snapshot of something that mattered.

Some memories are fleeting—but this one? It’s forever.

That’s the moment etched into time—the pause, the breath, the quiet realization that something had changed.

And So it Began - What, though?

With Pat setting out to sea and me heading back to Connecticut, the next six months became a masterclass in old-fashioned romance—letters, care packages, and the thrill of receiving it all from a particular sailor.  

No instant texts. No cell phones. No quick check-ins throughout the day. No refreshing a screen, waiting for a response.

And that was just how life worked back then.

Just patience. Just trust. Just hope and the quiet understanding that somewhere, miles away, a letter was being written, a message slowly making its way across the world.

For us, this wasn’t a challenge—it was just life.

If we wanted to talk, we wrote letters.

If we wanted to share a moment, we had to wait for words to arrive, carried across the miles. 

But was it love?

We didn’t even know.

It was too early to tell—too soon, too uncertain, wrapped in the slow unraveling of time.

We weren’t tracing the path of some great romance—we were simply writing, waiting, reaching across time and distance, trying to understand what this connection even meant.

And before the letters piled up, before the feelings became clearer, there was Valentine’s Day.

And the roses and 2 teddy bears hanging halfway out of my mailbox.

The teddy bears clung to the mailbox like they had survived a shipwreck.

Arms stretched wide, caught in the wind, dangling, as if they personally endured the long-distance struggle itself.

And with them, not one but two dozen roses packed into the mailbox, leaving no room for anything else.

I wondered if the town noticed.

How could they not?

Those teddy bears weren’t subtle. The roses weren’t quiet. The mailbox was putting on a full Broadway production, and the neighborhood had front-row seats.

Neighbors slowed down for a better look perhaps whispering like they were analyzing evidence in a small-town mystery.
People formed theories—some romantic, some dramatic, all thoroughly entertained.

And me? I was just trying to vanish into thin air, hoping maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t becoming the talk of the small New England neighborhood out in the woods.

But there was no escaping the attention—everyone driving by was witnessing it, absorbing it, forming their own quiet opinions about the kind of romance that warranted teddy bears publicly clinging to a mailbox for dear life.

But was it love?

No. Not yet.

What it was, was a connection—something unspoken, something still taking shape, something we weren’t ready to name.

We didn’t know what it would become, where it would lead, whether it was love in the making or just two people hanging out across miles and time zones.

And before the letters piled up, before the feelings became clearer, there was waiting.

Then came the letters.

And with them, their own rhythm of unpredictability.

Some arrived one at a time, solitary messengers carrying their words with quiet intention.
Others arrived in clumps, piling onto each other, demanding to be sorted by postmark, untangled, arranged in the right order before they could be read properly.

One letter might be full of excitement for something that had already happened.
Another might answer a question I hadn’t even asked yet, because my own letter hadn’t reached him in time.

It wasn’t just about receiving them—it was about deciphering them, untangling the order, making sure the conversation unfolded the way it was meant to.

Every delivery was a puzzle, every message had to be pieced together, carefully arranged so nothing skipped ahead or got lost.

And through it all, the uncertainty remained.

No, it wasn’t love yet.

Only later, looking back, could we trace the moments, the patience, the quiet certainty that someone was always on the other side of the waiting.

And maybe that was love all along, even if we didn’t recognize it then.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t need instant messages or perfectly clear reception.

Sometimes, love is just words on paper, the weight of waiting, and the quiet hope that distance is only temporary.

For us, it was never about instant replies.
It was about knowing—without a doubt—that across miles and months, someone was always waiting on the other side.

It was knowing the distance wasn’t a problem to solve. It was just part of the story. Just a connection waiting to be understood leaving us both wondering what it would become.

Stay tuned for more in the next blog post by thePrairieYankee!

 

Statistics, Christmas Cookies, and a Sailor Who Just Fit - Date #2

I had a Statistics final to study for, and while some guys might have balked at spending a date watching someone flip through textbooks, Pat didn’t hesitate.

That right there? It said a lot.

No grand gestures. No trying to impress. Just showing up, being present, and settling into something simple and real.

He didn’t rush me.

He didn’t sigh impatiently or check the time.

He just... waited.

Sitting there, talking with my sister, munching on homemade Christmas cookies, fitting so effortlessly into my space that it felt like he had always been there.

And that? That said even more.

Seriously. How many guys would be perfectly content hanging out in an apartment while their date flipped through textbooks, drowning in formulas?

Well, I’m from the school of thought that the best nights aren’t about big gestures or planned perfection.

They’re about someone showing up, settling in, and feeling like they always belonged.

But the best nights don’t last forever.

And sailors don’t stay in one place for long.

Soon, the miles between us wouldn’t be just a few city blocks.

They’d stretch across entire oceans.

Shoot! I cannot concentrate. I stared at the pages, willing my brain to absorb something—anything.

But the truth was painfully clear.

Statistics and I would never see eye to eye.

Book closed. Date officially in motion.

With studying abandoned, we headed to Foggy’s Notion, a hamburger joint with a dance floor, known for burgers so big, they came with a side of regret.

What was I thinking?

How do you sit across from someone you're trying to impress while eating a burger bigger than your face?

I did my best, attempting to maintain some level of dignity, but clearly, Pat saw the battle I was fighting.

From across the table, he started quietly gesturing to his face, trying to send me a message.

I paused mid-bite, confused. Did I have something on my face?

He gestured to one side, so I wiped it with my napkin.

Then he gestured to the other side, and I followed suit.

The third time he did it, I finally caught on—he was messing with me.

The grin on his face said it all.

So much for trying to look polished and sophisticated. At that point, I gave up on impressing him and just leaned into the ridiculousness of it all.

After packing away our burgers, we set out for Coronado, dropping in for a drink at The Islander—or, as I originally thought, just "The Island," since the last two letters were burned out on the old neon sign.

Inside, it was obvious—wall-to-wall enlisted.

Settling in with some of his mates, conversation came easy.

Then, something unexpected when Pat left the table for a minute—his chief came onto me.

Yeah—weird, right?

Coming onto me like I didn’t just walk through the door with someone else.

Moron.

I let him know exactly what I thought. Don’t people know better than to piss off a redhead?

Pat returned, and before he could even sit, I was out of that booth and we were out the door.

"What just happened?" he asked, baffled.

"Your chief just came onto me. And I let him know what I thought of him."

He laughed, brushed it off, completely unworried.

Not defensive. Not rattled.

If anything, he seemed impressed—like he knew I could hold my own, and he respected that.

And suddenly, in that moment, I saw him differently.

Not just as someone I was drawn to, but as someone who carried himself differently, who trusted me, who didn’t let things shake him.

A Full Moon and Coronado Beach

The moonlight cast silver ribbons out into the night, out into the Pacific, reaching toward something endless.

The thought settled deep—him, soon out there, beyond the shoreline, beyond the horizon, beyond where I could reach.

The breeze wrapped around us, cool, effortless, alive with possibility.

His hand tightened around mine, and I felt it—the quiet understanding that this moment was inevitable.

No grand declarations. No rehearsed words.

Just connection, timing, and a kiss that lingered just a little longer than expected—as if neither of us wanted to step away from it.

A slow lean-in, the warmth of his hand in mine as the world just faded out.

Soft. Unscripted. 

One of those rare moments where time slows.

A moment beyond a memory. A moment meant to shape you. 

And that kiss? It was one of them.

Two dates. Six months. Oceans between us.

Two dates. That was all we had.

Yet, in those fleeting hours, something settled between us—unspoken, inevitable, carrying the kind of weight that lingers even when goodbye is certain.

The finality of parting ways, yet the quiet pull of something unfinished.

An ending wrapped in possibility.

A goodbye that carried the weight of something not yet written, something waiting—just  beyond the tides, beyond the horizon.

Yet, it felt like the end - and not at the same time.

A fleeting connection, a quiet hope, a feeling both complete and unfinished all at once.

Would it last? Would time smooth it into just a memory, or would it remain—waiting, stretched between moonlit nights and miles of ocean?

I didn’t know.

But I did know that some distances aren’t barriers.

They are simply waiting to be crossed.

Maybe, just maybe—this wasn’t the end at all.

Just the beginning of something undetermined, unspoken, yet undeniably there.

Something that time and distance might not erase.

Hope that six months, a city on the other side of the country, wouldn’t change the certainty sealed in moonlight, wrapped in possibility, held steady by the warmth of his hand.

Beyond hope. Beyond longing. Beyond distance.

A hope that the oceans and time between us were only temporary.

What happens next? Stay tuned!

First Impressions & a Hop, Skip, and Go Naked - Date #1

Since Pat didn’t have a vehicle, he instructed me to pick him up at the Naval Amphibious Base Coronado. When I arrived, he was already waiting outside the gate in a red jacket, the December evening cool.

Rolling down my window, I couldn’t resist. With a grin, I called out, "Hey, Sailor! Need a ride?"

He laughed, jumped in, and just like that, our first date officially began.

As we drove, he asked me to pick the restaurant. That’s when my brain went into absolute overdrive.

I wasn’t a fancy person, and I definitely didn’t want to spend all of his money—especially if it might put him in an awkward spot. But at the same time, I didn’t want to default to fast food either.

And so began the great restaurant dilemma.

I overthought everything. Should I pick something casual? Would a sit-down place be too much? How do I balance making it feel like an actual date without making it too formal? Am I the only person who spirals into these tiny decisions before a date? Geez.

Hours ticked by as we drove through San Diego, deep in conversation, and yet—I still hadn’t made up my mind.

Finally, I pulled into Denny’s. Simple, easy, no pressure. A place where the focus could stay on us, rather than the menu.

Honestly?

If a guy can’t handle a $12.48 Denny’s tab, I might need to reconsider my options.

With dinner wrapped up and no financial crisis in sight, it was time to figure out our next move and where the night took a turn. 

We headed to Wrangler’s Roost, referred to simply as "the Roost", a country-western bar where you could always find a live band, friendly people and a dance floor that took you outside through one door and back in through another.

And Pat? Pat wasn’t just ordering drinks—he was orchestrating them.

A former bartender, he leaned confidently against the bar, rattling off drink names like a seasoned pro, instructing the bartender step by step on how to mix each one.

"You ever made this one before?" he’d ask with a smirk.

What started as a simple round quickly spiraled into something resembling a bartender’s boot camp, with Pat leading the charge. The bartender was loving every second of it—grinning as he took on the challenge, following Pat’s instructions, and occasionally chiming in with his own suggestions.

Then came the drink names.

At first, it was innocent enough—classic cocktails, standard mixes.

And then? Hop, Skip, and Go Naked.

One glass, two straws.

Try keeping a straight face while staring at someone you barely know over a drink with that name. Ha!

We both tried—tried so hard—to be normal, to sip casually, to make it feel like just any other drink.

But the longer we held eye contact, the harder it became.

A slow smirk. A twitch at the corner of my mouth. Then his.

And that was it—we lost it, laughing into our straws, the bartender shaking his head with amusement.

Next up? Sex on the Beach.

Cue even louder laughter, the bartender chuckling, and me wondering exactly what I had signed up for.  By now we had a crowd.

But the real kicker?

"Let’s do an Orgasm!" Pat announced.

That did it. I nearly fell off my barstool.

The bartender was chuckling now, Pat was unfazed, and I was trying very hard not to burst into full-on hysterics.

By the end of the night, we’d spent $80.00 on drinks, though at that point, it felt less like a tab and more like a record-breaking mixology experiment with a side of comedy.

It was the kind of night that was impossible to plan, yet unfolded perfectly.

And, one that led to one last date before we headed out in very different directions.  

Stay tuned for date number 2!

From New England to Oklahoma: A Love Story Across Oceans - The Beginning

Some journeys don’t just take you across the country; they take you straight into the heart of the unexpected. My path from New England to Oklahoma wasn’t just about miles traveled—it was about adventure, fate, and a love story that unfolded in the most surprising ways.

A Road Trip That Changed Everything

It started with a favor—helping a friend drive her vehicle cross-country. Drive cross-country - we had 3 days - get her car to her duty station at Ft. Ord in Marina, CA, then return home to Connecticut. That was the plan. But life has a way of unraveling plans and weaving together something better.

The ocean breeze, the endless sunshine, the carefree rhythm of life—it all pulled me in, and before I knew it, San Diego became home. I would go to school, earn a degree while I was there. But I would have fun, too.

Three years passed, and the call of my Yankee roots grew stronger. I was ready to return to the small-town charm of Portland, Connecticut, and the feeling of belonging that only home can offer. I was ready to leave. My ticket was booked. Everything was in place.

The plan was set—until fate threw me a curveball less than a week before I left.

A Dance That Almost Didn’t Happen

After a long day at an outdoor picnic, I almost didn’t go dancing that night. My friend and I were exhausted, but we convinced ourselves to go early for the country-western dance lessons at our usual spot. As the evening picked up and the bar filled with people, I was ready to call it a night.

Then, I saw him.

First, a good-looking man stepped through the doorway. He paused before heading straight for a table—blonds aren't my type, so I was still set on leaving. But two seconds later, his friend framed the doorway—a tall, dark-haired, strikingly handsome man. He paused, scanning the room before following his buddy.

I turned to my friend, half-joking, half-serious: I’m staying.

Then I quickly laughed it off. No guy I wanted to ask me to dance ever actually did, so why would this time be any different? As I mused about it with my friend, once again preparing to leave, she suddenly lit up.

"He’s coming over," she said, eyes sparkling.

I scoffed. Not even. History speaks, after all.

She only grinned. Well, he’s coming.

I was in the middle of mumbling something about not wanting to embarrass myself when I heard the words—soft, direct, perfectly timed:

"Would you like to dance?"

If my face matched my friend's, it must have been comical.

The Promise

We spent the evening talking, providing each a glimpse into each other’s stories as we swayed across the dance floor. He mentioned that his ship was preparing to depart for a six-month world cruise, but its journey wouldn’t bring him back to San Diego. Instead, it would end in dry dock in Philadelphia.

As we talked, he mused aloud that if circumstances had been different, he would have liked to get to know me better. I smiled, understanding the bittersweet timing. After three years in California, I was preparing to return home to my Yankee roots, so even if his ship had been coming back, I wouldn’t be there to greet it.

We spent the evening chatting, lost in conversation, as if the universe had conspired to create a fleeting moment that neither of us expected but both were enjoying. Before the night ended, I told him something bold, something that felt right—if in six months’ time, we were still in contact, I would meet him on the pier in Philly when his ship returned.

It wasn’t just a promise—it was an acknowledgment of something neither of us could quite name but both felt.

In the meantime, he asked me for a date and since he'd be on duty the next day, he'd call me on Monday. 

A Bold Call and an Unexpected Connection

Monday rolled around, and as I recounted the weekend’s developments to my colleague Nina, she hit me with a question I hadn’t even considered:

"Why don’t you call him?"

I laughed. Call him? He’s on an aircraft carrier in the Navy—you don’t just look up their number in the phone book. Or do you?

That’s when Nina grabbed the massive yellow pages and dropped them onto my desk with a knowing grin.

Well, as it turns out, you can just look up the ship’s number. Or, more accurately, you can find twenty numbers assigned to the USS Kitty Hawk. Giggling, Nina casually said, "Pick one."

I hovered over the list, hesitant. What was the worst that could happen? I spotted a listing—"OD - Officer of the Day." That seemed official enough. I took a deep breath and dialed.

A familiar voice answered.

"Janine, is that you?"

Oh. My. Gosh. Seriously. Of all people, his friend Joel who was with Pat that night had answered the phone.

I stammered in disbelief, but Joel just laughed, completely unfazed. "I’ll get Pat for you."

And then, just like that, I was connected to Pat. He was caught off guard, surprised that I had found my way to him through sheer determination (and a little help from the phone book). I could hardly believe it myself.

As Nina and I erupted into laughter after I hung up, I realized that this wild, impulsive moment had done something remarkable—it had officially set the stage for that first date.

Did the 1st date happen? Stay tuned!

A Tradition in Bloom

Every spring, the pasture comes alive with bursts of fiery red-orange, the Indian Paintbrush flowers spreading like wildfire against the green grass, erasing winter’s touch. It’s a sight I’ve cherished for years, but what makes it truly special is the hands that gather them—hands that once belonged to a little boy, now a man grown with a family of his own.

When my eldest son was small, he would run through the fields, plucking handfuls of those wild blooms just for me. No special occasion, no prompting—he simply saw beauty and wanted to share it, a gesture so simple yet so full of love.

The years have passed, carrying with them the weight of time and change. That little boy has grown into a father, his hands no longer small, yet just as steady and sure as they ever were. And every spring, without fail, he still reaches down and picks those same wildflowers from the pasture, bringing them to me with that same familiar grin. No grand gesture, no need for explanation—just a quiet act of love, reminding me that some things, thankfully, never change.

How grateful I am for this thread that ties us together—the bond only a mother knows, woven into something as simple and beautiful as a handful of wildflowers. The seasons will keep changing, and life will keep moving, but I know that as long as the Indian Paintbrush blooms in the pasture, he’ll still find them for me. And I will treasure them, always.

Time moves forward, reshaping life with its responsibilities and joys. Yet in that simple act—his hand selecting the blooms, their vibrant colors blazing against the green—I see the boy he was and the man he is, and the love that endures between us.

And while some traditions are written in books and others carved in stone, ours grows wild and free—scattered throughout the pasture, returning each spring, just like always, carried across generations.

Photo Credit: Janine Sterry Pittman