Leaving Home

As I sit trying to once again collect my thought, listening to Elton John Radio on iHeartRadio, I am reminded of the last time I was packing my house up for a major move. I was in our home on Childress St in Wellington, Tx, crying over some boxes. Bennie & the Jets was playing through our old turntable. 

I did not want to be packing. I resented every box, every run of tape, every whiff of marker as I packed away our life in preparation for a new start. I had just moved here 3 1/2 years earlier when we got married. Packed up my whole life and moved 9 hours & 600 miles from all I ever knew, 3 kids in tow. We had settled in Wellington and it was home. 

 Wes had gotten laid-off from a job he loved, we were broke and there was just no conceivable way to stay any longer if we were to survive as a family. It was heartbreaking at the time and I just didn't see anything worse than leaving his hometown, uprooting our kids from their home, and starting over in a place I knew nothing about. 

 I fought the move, worse than our children did, I won't lie.  He seemed to be the only one confident in what we were doing.  He had lived in this place called Winnsboro for a year or two in the past and had visited many times growing up. His grandparents lived there, his Dad was from there, he was certain it was going to be okay eventually. Me? Not so much. He was right. (yes, I just publicly admitted my husband was right. Mark that on a calendar! lol)

There was a lot of hurt in that tiny Texas town for Hoss and it was time for him to leave it behind. His family was all gone. The grandmother he loved and cared for had passed. He was all that was left. His job was gone (no fault of his employer, the economy was tough. They were and still are good people and we miss them.). The department he grew up in, dedicated 16 years to, didn't even so much as say bye when he resigned his post.  His heart was so broken and he had been so let down by people he thought were different. It seemed no one cared if we left and I guess that added to the hurt. We knew our friends (they know who they still are) didn't want us to go but they understood why it was time.  It just wasn't the Wellington he grew up in anymore. 

So, countless boxes of our things, appliances, bicycles, toys, 5 kids, 2 dogs, a cat, a Suburban and a pickup, we left "home" and moved to Winnsboro, Louisiana. 

When we pulled out of Texas, I couldn't bare to look back. As much as it killed me to see my kids cry as the said good-bye to their friends, I guess a part of me knew that they'd be okay in time. We would settle into a new normal and we had no time for looking back. It served no purpose.  

Funny how we thought we were leaving home. Funny how we had no idea 6 short years later we would be once again taking this journey, only to discover we just thought we were leaving home last time.  This time, oh, this time how it hurts so much more. 

We have found something here that we have never be able to find anywhere else. We have found what was missing.  We have found family. It hurts to leave family.

So many here have been there to lift us up, to help us when we didn't even know we needed help. So many have shown us love in ways they don't even realize. Our children have too many Aunts & Uncles to count these days. I know in my heart who loves us and who means it when they say "if you need anything, just holler". 

Saturday evening, Hoss' brothers called him the station. We arrived to find it packed with people, all there to wish us well as we start this new journey.  In true Franklin Parish style, we ate fried catfish with all the trimmings, Kool-Aid pies, tea & a cake the size of a small car hood!

I know these guys didn't think it was anything monumental, this gathering they pulled off but they are so wrong. They will never, ever, understand what it meant to Wes, to me. We are so very proud to be a part of this community, this parish and this family. I just do not have the words to tell you how loved these people are by us.  I pray they know that even though we are leaving, we will never be far away. 

As we prepare to move to Ball, La and start a new life, a piece of us is staying in Franklin Parish. After all, it's home. I won't say good-bye, I just can't. 

From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you for loving us and showing it. We love you all.

Sandy

  

Little Black Band

Take a look at this picture. That's my fingers, a strip of black elastic, a needle and some thread. I'm sure you think I have some new craft project up my sleeve. You'd be wrong.

 

This simple piece of elastic means so much more than meets the eye . It is in fact a glimpse into a deep seated tradition. A tradition carried, out time and time again in the fire service.  Why do I show you this picture? Because this past week, we had to bring this tradition to the forefront as we laid to rest one of our own. You see, my husband's Chief with the Winnsboro FD passed away last Sunday morning. 

Chief Hutto had been sick for months but I don't think anyone really thought he would leave so soon. I guess you always think there is more time. Time to do what needs doing, say what needs saying but sometimes it just doesn't go the way you plan. He left behind 6 grown daughters, a wife, a huge family and so many friends that the church was nearly standing room only at his service. Willard was so well known, people came from all over the state to pay their respects and it was a real testament to his life. 

Admittedly, I did not know Chief Hutto all that well.  We did not socialize and hang out with him or his family but there was still a bond there. A bond that all firemen and their families share. It's hard to explain that bond to those who have never lived this life.

 Police officers understand it. Soldiers understand it. Have you ever noticed people looking at others in the mall, the grocery store, and they just nod at each other as they walk by?  You know they don't know each other but it almost seems like they do? It seems odd to the outside world but they do in fact know each other. One may wear a Vietnam Vet hat and the other a Operation Iraqi Freedom one. One wears a fire department t shirt while the other sports a SWAT shirt. You see it in their eyes if you look hard enough.

 Each one knows the other as well as they know themselves. They know the struggles, the pain, the heartbreak the other has seen and lived through. They know what is yet to come. That old vet sees his buddies that are now names on a wall in that young soldier's face, knowing he has no clue just what he signed up for. The cop sees the rookie she once was before the abused women and kids, the drivers who had too much to drink and the insults hurdled at her for wearing a badge became what keeps her up a night, making it hard to sleep soundly. The fireman sees the probie, so full of enthusiasm not realizing it fades so fast as the calls start to run together and you discover you can't save everyone, no matter how badly you want to.

There may be different colored lines but the black in that piece of elastic in my fingers represents that bond. That little piece of elastic is placed around a badge as a symbol of mourning but also one of endurance and hope. Every time one of these black bands is lovingly put into use, it is a sign to the rest of those who serve that we lost one of our own. It is a sign that we will protect their memory and honor them by carrying on. Death will never stop those who serve from rising up and continuing on. It just doesn't have that kind of power. That little black band is very nearly the strongest bond on Earth, second only perhaps to a parents love for their child or God's love for us.

As a fireman's wife, funerals of lost brothers are harder than most. My mind goes places it shouldn't when I stand silently by my husband's side as Last Call is sounded, the bell rings out and Taps plays, fighting to hold it together, to be strong for him. While I pray daily he is a crabby old man when that day comes, I know someday that same sea of uniforms, loved ones and badges wrapped in black bands will be for my love. I also know that the bond that holds us now as a fire family will be there to catch us and hold us tight if God forbid the worst happens. 

As you go about your week, say a prayer for the Hutto family. Losing a loved one is never easy. Pray for the Winnsboro FD as they pick up their gear, get in the trucks and go about being silent heroes to an unseeing world. All the while, trying to heal their broken hearts. Rest easy Chief Hutto, your men have it from here. 

#proudfirefamily

New Job, New Town, New Adventure.

  Wow has it been a while since I blogged anything or what? I am not expressly sure just how time has slipped by so quickly but it certainly has. So much has happened in the life of the Anders Herd over the last few months. Big changes are coming for us but we are ready.

  Hoss applied for a Chief's position in the small town of Ball, La. He applied, met the requirements, and got the job. My love is now officially the Fire Chief of the Ball Fire Department! I could not be prouder!!! He is such a dedicated fireman. He eat, sleeps & breaths the fire service. It is just who he is. If the town gives him a fair chance, they will be so happy with him as their Chief. Change is hard, its harder when you refuse to even try so please pray for the folks in Ball. Some are really having a hard time with the changes and are going way beyond the norm to cause issues where, in reality, there are none. 

  This new job means unfortunately, that a move is in our near future. We are having a hard time finding a rental due to restrictions on how far away from the town line we can live. Rent is insanely high, I'm talking $1000 a month for a 1960's FHA house! Not sure how its going to work out but I do know that we haven't been carried this far to be put down now. God will provide us with the right place in his time, of that I am certain. The packing has started in Faith that He has us something just around the corner!

  We have another daughter set to graduate in June, the boy turns 16 in a week and our 2nd daughter is engaged to be married. I used to joke about how neat it was they were all a year apart and how they would all leave home quickly. Its easy to joke when they are 8, 10, 11, 12, & 13 and you do 35 loads of laundry a week. You are just tired and need a break but then you look up and your job as full time Mom is nearly over.

  What I wouldn't give to go back to those days of ball games & sleep overs. Days of colds that seemed to just recycle through the house over and over, and the chicken pox...oh dear Lord the chicken pox! Dinner every night, yes we ate at the table every night as a family. We said Grace and some of our best memories and inside jokes have come from countless meals around the table, (yellow rice). I miss searching for "Woofy", assigned seats in the old Suburban so they couldn't fight over who sat where last time, so many shoes by the front door you've thought it was a thrift store shoe rack. So many things you don't even think about missing until they are gone. Kids make you crazy. They give you mini-heart attacks on a regular basis and where do you think grey hairs come from? It's crazy being a mom. Its even crazier to discover that all of those things are what you end up missing the most.  

  All you moms going through the trenches today, I know its tough. I know its thankless most of the time, but I can wholeheartedly promise you that every single solitary moment, both good and bad, is worth it. I have been a mother more than half my life and I don't know how to be anything else. They made not need me to patch skinned knees, find lost toys and cheer at band half-time shows anymore but I am still their Mom. Their needs have changed but I haven't and that's okay. While its a little sad that this part of my life is winding down, I am excited to see what's coming next. 

  Pray for our family in the months to come. Lots of changes, lots of new adventures await the entire Anders Herd and we are ready! 


  I'll leave you with some pics from the last few months. Just the highlight reel, right?

 Our Christmas Card