http://fayobserver.com/article?id=312992

So for the first time since I moved to North Carolina I actually slept through a Saturday night. I'd forgotten what that felt like. As you can see, I traded concrete and chaos for pines and peacefulness. While I'm still doing the loft living of sorts, this time it's from a treehouse perspective. That's Par 2 across the street. I don't know much about golf but from what the villagers tell me it's the place to be.

I unpacked what boxes I had and then took myself to lunch on Saturday afternoon. I ate at one of the local delis...mmm..I think it's called The Village Deli, but I might be wrong about that.

Since it was almost 2 p.m. I didn't think there would be a crowd. I was wrong. I walked into the deli and every head turned. You could see it in their eyes, that "Newbie in town" look. There was only one place to sit in the entire joint -- a table for five. I sat down and told the waitress that if anybody else needed a place to sit they were welcome to join me.

I ordered chicken salad, after making sure it didn't come with a heap of mayo, and then I began to listen to the conversations around me. Seeing how it was I didn't have anyone to chat with myself. I'm a snoop. I admit it.

The two women at my back were in there early 30s. They were talking about the problems at church, the problems with Mormons (Once you join their church, they pursue you relentlessly, even after you to get out), and the myraid of health problems experienced by people with too much time and money on their hands.

But it was the men directly across from me that captured my rude attention.

"Did I hear you say you were headed for basic training?" the man in the navy blue sweater asked.

"Yes," replied the fella with the not-yet-shorn hair. "I'm headed to Fort Benning."

"I was in for 3 years," the man said. "Let me tell you, you'll be so proud of all those men you go through basic with. I've never been more proud of anything than I was at the end of that. I still remember those guys. It was the time of my life."

The boy's father asked the man what he did for a living.  

"I'm a commodities trader from Chicago."

"Really?" the father said. "I'm from Massachusetts." 

"Where'd you go to college?" 

"Holy Cross."

They chatted about schools and about Boston a bit and then the man turned to the recruit again and wished him the best. The boy's father never mentioned having spent any time in the service himself. I paid my bill and walked away, wondering, what is that like? To have a son join the military when you were of the era that tried to avoid it at all costs.

On Sunday, at church, I met a savant. He told me he had an aunt and a cousin named Karen so it would be easy for him to remember my name. I'm not sure that's a good thing. He said a lot of other things too. In fact, I'm not sure how it was he sat so quiet during the service because once he started talking it was an endless stream of words.

I was pleased when I got to church to find the fellow in the pew in front of me sitting there reading the newspaper. Had it held up in front of face, in front of God and everybody.

A newspaper at church of all things.

I smiled.

When the kids were little I would tell them that anywhere they found a ladybug that was a sign that they were in the place they were supposed to be.

For me the newspaper was that sign.