Well, okay, that’s maybe a bit of hyperbole…or, if you want to get technical, not true at all.

 

What IS true is that I was raised by conservative hippy parents. My father grew corn and soybeans, ran a dairy farm,  flew helicopters  and T-38 jets for the Air Force (truth be known it was several types of airframes), and has a law degree thrown in for good measure. My mother has done everything from running daycare centers to being travel agent to selling real estate to bartering with old Frenchmen to acquire antique pieces for her shop.

 

My folks met in Texas after my father had returned from flying O-2’s as a forward air controller in Vietnam.  My grandpa got sick and they took over the dairy farm in Wisconsin where my father had grown up. After 5 years (and one tragic barn fire), they up and moved to Texas where my father got a law degree while my mom sold real estate. They still operated the farm as a cash grain entity from afar. Then, they decided to rejoin the AF. (Trust me, there are quite a few stories about all this that I’ll dole out, in time).

 

Yep, after all that hard work, countless hours of study, my father passing the Texas and American bar exams and being all set to be able to work as a lawyer, they went, “Hey, let’s travel! How about we get back into the Air Force?” (Side note: maybe we are part gypsy, too??)

 

While in the AF, my family lived all over the US, including Hawaii, and in Germany. My father was also stationed in England, the Philippines (well, until the volcano – Pinatubo – blew and melted all his stuff), and Japan, but that happened on tours where he could not take the family, or when my sister and I were in college.

It’s no wonder that when my husband and I were first married, in 1999, that we thought to ourselves, “You know what’s a good idea? We are young, stupid, and childless…and we CAN…so, let’s move to Hawaii!” So, we did.

 

It’s no wonder I have found myself in some interesting situations. Just to get a taste, I’ve wandered around Paris with my mother and sister looking for our hole-in-the-wall hotel room, armed only with my mom’s good sense of direction and my (then) sophomore level French-speaking skills; driven (well, I rode at this point) around Europe in a ’78 Volkswagen camper bus we named Sweet Pea; and used my last $14 to visit Carlsbad Caverns while driving home from an impromptu trip from New Mexico to Texas (don’t worry, we had a full tank of gas to get home) and the truck made it in one piece!