Canton,Tx First Monday Flea A Weekend to Remember

What a weekend! I spent two glorious days exploring the legendary First Monday Flea Market in Canton, Texas—and let me tell you, it did not disappoint. Here’s the scoop:

🚶 27,000+ Steps of Pure Adventure
,Short legs, power-walking style! I racked up over 18,000 steps weaving through endless rows of booths. From vintage dresses and statement jewelry to quirky knick-knacks, each turn felt like strolling through a giant Pinterest board come to life.

🍔 Guilty Pleasures & Local Eats
You know you’ve hit flea-market nirvana when your colon quivers in delight! Between funnel cakes, corn dogs, and the crispiest curly fries, I treated myself to all the naughty eats. Later, a charming burger-and-beans spot provided the perfect hearty refuel before round two of shopping.

✨ Spontaneous Sparkle
Impulse moment: piercings! Why not top off a perfect day with a little extra bling? Sometimes the best memories are the most unexpected ones.

💬 New Connections
One of my favorite highlights: finally meeting my friend’s daughter. She’s a rockstar—bright, driven, and full of potential. And bonus: my son’s fiancée joined us for a mini “girls’ weekend.” Laughter, stories, and sister-time—it was the cherry on top of an already amazing trip.

Thankful for smooth parking (arrive early, friends!) and all the treasures found. Already counting down to next month’s hunt. Who’s with me?

#FirstMondayFrenzy

"When a Daughter Loses Her First Hero: A Story of Grief, Longing, and Love"

 This past week has wrapped itself around my heart like a quiet storm—one that doesn’t come with thunder but lingers in the silence.

My son’s fiancée, Sierra, lost her father. Just like that. No warning. No time to prepare. One day, he was there, smiling and giving those grounding words only a dad can give. The next day, he was gone.

And in her grief, I saw something that took me back years, decades, to a place in my heart I don't often let anyone see. As Sierra cried, remembering the man who raised her, loved her, and called her his little girl, I saw a mirror of myself. But instead of watching what I lost, I felt what I never had.

Sierra's grief and my silent yearning collided this week.

She loved her dad dearly. She always spoke of how he understood her, how he got her in a way no one else did. She never doubted his love. She always felt seen. That bond they shared was something sacred, something so few truly understand until it’s gone. And now, it’s gone.

I’ve been trying to be there for her—encouraging her from a distance, letting her know it’s okay to fall apart, okay to cry, okay to not be okay. But deep down, I think I needed her just as much. Because watching her grieve awakened my own grief. Not for someone I lost, but for someone I never had.

I didn’t grow up with a dad.

There were no bear hugs, no daddy-daughter dates, no words of protection or pride. I never had someone to guard my heart from bad boys, to scare off the monsters under the bed, or to walk me down the aisle. There were no Sunday breakfasts or quiet car rides where everything was said without needing words.

I didn’t get that.

I never got to feel like someone’s little girl. And even as a grown woman, there’s a part of me that still wonders what that would’ve felt like. A piece of my heart that wonders how different I might have been had I grown up with that kind of love holding me up.

Sierra had that.

And now, she’s lost it.

And I’m grieving with her—not just her loss, but mine too.

Grief isn’t always about who we lose. Sometimes, it’s about who we never got to love. Sometimes, it’s about all the moments that never happened. The ones we dreamed about but never saw come to life.

A few years ago, I got to speak with my father for the first and only time. It was over the phone. A few short minutes that I clung to then, and still hold in my heart today.

He didn’t want a relationship. He made that clear. But at least I heard his voice. At least I have that.

Still, it left questions that echo even now:

• Why wasn’t I worthy of your love?

• What did I do to make you not want me?

• Is there anything I could do to change your mind?

They’re quiet questions. Ones you rarely say out loud. But they live inside you. They shape how you see the world, how you love, how you trust. They create a silent yearning—this hope that maybe one day, if I become enough, he’ll notice me. Maybe one day, I’ll do something so amazing that he can’t look away.

But the truth is, that kind of closure doesn’t always come.

And so, we learn to mother ourselves, to father ourselves. To grow roots where none were planted. To build bridges over broken pieces. To give love even when we weren’t given enough.

Sierra’s father once told her to wait five years before marrying my son. I think he was trying to hold onto her a little longer. I think he knew that once she was married, things would shift—not end, but shift.

But what he maybe didn’t realize is that no matter how old we get, a daughter never stops needing her dad. Marriage doesn’t erase that longing. Adulthood doesn’t silence that voice that says, "Daddy, are you proud of me?"

Watching Sierra with her dad was beautiful. They had a rhythm, a connection, a joy in each other's company. It was everything I imagined that bond would be.

And now, she walks forward with that bond broken.

But not gone.

Because love like that never truly leaves.

Sierra will carry her dad with her. In the way she speaks. In the way she loves. In the way she raises her children someday. His voice will echo in her heart, his values guiding her quietly. That’s what a true father leaves behind—not just a memory, but a mark.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll carry forward my own legacy too. One of resilience. One of healing. One of learning how to become the kind of person I needed when I was younger.

Because whether or not my father ever saw me, I’ve learned to see myself. And that’s a kind of victory.

To Sierra, to every woman who has lost her dad, and to every daughter still longing for one:

Keep loving. Keep healing. Keep remembering. And above all, keep holding on.

#death #father #daughter

“Keep Going”: A Walk, A Whisper, and a Word from God

 There’s something sacred about a quiet walk in nature—especially when your heart is heavy with questions and your soul is reaching out for answers. I went for such a walk not long ago here in Glen Rose, Texas, around the soccer field where they say the loop is about a mile long. I didn’t go with the intention of exercising or sightseeing—I went to find peace. I went to talk to God.

And He showed up in the most unexpected, yet deeply personal, way.

The path was beautiful, bordered by fresh spring greens and on a cool Texas day. It was quiet, just the soft sound of birds above and my footsteps below. With each step, I prayed. I talked to God like a friend beside me. I asked Him for truth. I asked Him to show me something real—something that would confirm I was on the right path, in more ways than one. My heart needed a word, and I was open to however He wanted to speak.

About three-quarters of the way into the loop, I stopped to take a short break. I wasn’t tired, exactly—but something in me told me to just pause. I stood there, breathing in the peace of the moment, letting the breeze carry away my anxious thoughts.

And then, a man passed by.

I had noticed him earlier, walking briskly on the same trail. Nothing unusual—just another person getting in a walk on a quiet day. But as he approached and passed me, something happened that I’ll never forget.

He turned his head, looked directly at me with gentle eyes, and said:
“I see you walking, and you’re doing great. Keep going.”

That’s it. Just a simple sentence. Then he turned back around and kept walking.

But those words? They stopped me in my tracks.

I don’t even think he knew what he did. He didn’t linger, didn’t smile in that “I know something” kind of way. He just kept going. But his words... they landed in my spirit like a seed planted straight from heaven. I stood there with tears filling my eyes, and I cried quietly the rest of the way back to my vehicle.

Because God heard me. And He answered.

The Daily " Grind"

Some dogs chase squirrels. Some dig holes. My little man? He chases dreams.

From the moment his little paws hit the floor in the morning, he stretches with a big yawn and gives me that slow, sleepy blink that seems to say, "Five more minutes, please?" Then, without missing a beat, he heads straight to his favorite spot—the plush chair that, over time, has molded perfectly to his shape.

With a soft grunt and a few slow spins (three, if he’s feeling fancy), he flops into position, kicks those adorable legs into the air, and settles into nap number one... of many.

Every so often, he’ll open one eye, just to make sure the world hasn’t changed. And if everything looks the same? Yep—right back to sleep.

I often joke that my little man has life completely figured out. He eats when he’s hungry, naps when he’s tired, cuddles when he feels like it, and gives love freely without hesitation. He doesn’t stress about tomorrow or waste energy worrying about things out of his control. He simply lives—fully, contentedly, and completely in the moment.

And maybe that’s why watching him nap brings me so much peace. In a world that feels constantly rushed and chaotic, he is my calm. While everything around me pushes for more, faster, louder—he reminds me it’s okay to slow down, stretch out, and just be.

To some, he might be “just a dog.” But to me, he’s so much more. He’s a heartbeat at my feet, the cozy presence that fills my home with love, and without a doubt, my favorite little man. His silly sleeping positions, his soft snoring, and those content little sighs—those are the things that make him him.

So yes—today he napped all day... and then took another nap. Right there in his favorite chair, wrapped in his favorite blanket, without a care in the world—living his absolute best life. And honestly? I wouldn’t change a single thing.

Because if happiness had a picture, it might just look like this: a sweet Boston Terrier, belly up, legs flopped every which way, snuggled in soft fleece, completely at peace and dreaming doggy dreams.

“Gnome Sweet Gnome? Not If the T-Rex Has Anything to Say About It!”

 When you visit Dinosaur Valley State Park in Glen Rose, Texas, you expect a few things: dinosaur tracks, fossil fun, maybe a life-sized dino statue or two.

What you don’t expect?
A T-Rex caught red-handed (or clawed?) mid-rampage—devouring an entire crew of poor, unsuspecting garden gnomes.

Yep, you read that right.

On a sunny walk past a charming wooden porch near the park, we stumbled upon this hilarious and slightly horrifying scene: a fierce little T-Rex frozen in time with gnomes hanging off him in every direction. One gnome was halfway down his throat. Another was clinging for dear life to his back. And several were scattered at his feet in dramatic surrender.

Let’s just say… it was a gnome-nado.

Naturally, we had to stop, stare, and laugh. This quirky little sculpture wasn’t just cute—it was a total Instagram moment and the perfect example of the kind of humor and personality that makes Glen Rose so special.

“Spoiled Rotten in Glen Rose: My Dogs Ate Better Than Me”

We traveled about seven long hours to get to Glen Rose, Texas—and when I say "we," I mean me and the dogs! My husband met us there from a different direction, so it was a bit of a reunion all around.

This is where the magic happened—our kids and grandkids met up with us, and let me tell you, our pups are living like royalty! They’re getting the full King and Queen treatment: extra ear scratches, belly rubs galore, and more walks than they know what to do with.

And the highlight? A “kid steak” with broccoli—yes, you read that right—a special meal from a steakhouse we’d never tried before called Hoffbrau. That place was so good, the dogs were licking their chops clean and looking at us like, “Why don’t we eat like this every day?”

While on vacation, this is where my dogs had their first face-to-beak encounter with a Texas buzzard—and let me tell you, I had no idea just how huge those birds are until one showed up right at the window, peeking in like it was eyeing a snack. The way it looked at my dogs... like they were walking, barking appetizers!

Glen Rose, TX has truly been one of the most pet-friendly places I’ve seen in a long time. You can take your furry friends on almost every adventure. We visited Dinosaur World (so fun!), and I had no idea pets were allowed—next time, I’m absolutely bringing Itchy and Princess along to walk the park with me.

“Big Biscuits, Bigger Memories: A Southern Love Letter”

The Beautiful Art (and Chaos) of Biscuits

American biscuits come in all shapes and sizes—flaky, fluffy, buttery, golden-topped. Some folks dress them up with honey or jam, others load them with butter, gravy, eggs, bacon, or sausage. No matter how you top them, they’re a true Southern comfort staple.

I grew up in the South, where biscuits weren’t just for breakfast—they were at every meal. Morning, noon, or night, there was always a batch on the table. Now, I’ll be honest with you... I make ugly biscuits. They’re a little lopsided, a bit uneven, but let me tell you—they’re good. The kind that steam when you tear them open and melt in your mouth with a bit of butter. Ugly or not, they don’t last long once they hit the plate.

There’s a certain mystery to biscuit baking. Some say it’s a science—precise measurements, cold butter, a gentle hand. Others say it’s an art passed down through generations. I’ve heard stories of grandmothers who didn’t even measure—just scooped flour into a bowl, threw in some lard, and slapped the dough into a hot cast iron skillet. No frills, just love and instinct.

On a recent trip to Glen Rose, Texas, I stumbled across a small gem of a place called Big Cup Eatery. And let me tell you—if you ever find yourself there, you have to try their biscuits. These things are no joke—each one is bigger than your hand and hot from the oven. I had one just the other day, and I’m still thinking about it. People were ordering biscuits and gravy like it was the most normal thing in the world—but I couldn’t wrap my head around how they managed to eat two of them! They were homemade, hot, and absolutely massive.

Whether they’re made from scratch or from memory, eaten with butter or smothered in gravy, biscuits carry stories, traditions, and a whole lot of heart. They’re messy, imperfect, and deeply nostalgic—which is probably why I love them so much.