Like most native Arkansans, I watched yesterday's inauguration of George W. Bush with a mix of relief and sorrow. For at last, it is over!—and sadly, yes, it is over, and we will probably never see the likes of such attention again. That quiet, rural state has been in the limelight for the past eight years, and what an incredible time it was to be living there when Clinton was first elected.

The closing of this man's presidency closes an eventful chapter in my life, as well.

The first line from one of my favorite books—Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca. Oddly appropriate: a book that starts with a young, confused woman who flees everything she knows—and ends with a grand old building in flames.

My previous entry about this will eventually scroll. For when that happens, here are three pictures:

Fire destroys Bauxite High School
by domesticat. Attempts to save Bauxite High School building
by domesticat. Bauxite High School building in flames
by domesticat.

Let me tell you what it was like to grow up in this place: Bauxite, currently population ~400. So named for the bauxite ore that was available in the area. It became a boom town in World War II. Bauxite, you may remember, is the ore from which aluminum is made—aluminum that was made into lightweight planes that helped win that war.

Let me sing a requiem for a place I loved and hated; hated for its pain and loved for its family memories.

Bauxite High School building in flames
by domesticat.

second photo, thirdphoto

This was the main building for a very small school. Given that my graduating class had 33 people in it, I think you can quickly understand that what you're seeing is the destruction of an entire school.

Sayonara, you old building, steeped with memories. You went down with quite a fight, it seems. There is, apparently, more truth than I expected in the statement "You can't go home again."

Welcome home, Amy, I say to myself. Look around. This is where you belong, whether or not you want to admit it.

After a long and exhausting day of having all three nephews over at the house, I told my mother what Jeff and I have been quietly discussing for some time: the fact that unless something strange happens, that we won't be having children.

She says she's not disappointed. I hope that she's telling me the truth; it's hard to tell. But I know that she's not surprised. She mentioned that some of my relatives have started asking her when Jeff and I planned to start having children, and that her response has been that she's never been too sure that we planned on having any at all.

My favorite Christmas carol is still "Carol of the Bells."

I still have no memories of a white Christmas. Looks like this year won't be the year I get to make those memories. Perhaps another year.