Anne M. Plant is a recent widow with two young daughters, 13 and 8, who traded their E! entourage lifestyle in Los Angeles for stability and structure in a provincial town on the Virginian peninsula. Now here's the story, of a lovely sister and an Army officer brother-in-law who opened up their home. They were living in Virginia with three children of their own; one girl who's 13, a boy who's 10 and baby Binkles, she is one. They've taken in Anne and her two that makes eight. It's Operation Brady Bunch and it's high adventure.

My daughters and I rode a four day whirlwind winding up our lives in Los Angeles before we headed to a small town on the peninsula of southeastern Virginia The girls were unmoored, flitting from friend to friend getting in one last hug with their BFFs. My thirteen year old squeezed in tearful goodbyes via iChat and trips to the mall. She was also lovingly treated to a John Maher concert at the Hollywood Bowl and celebrated at a well attended "surprise" send off party. My eight year old spent a day with an old pal in a celebrity mansion, took a trip to the water park and maintained her own rotating schedule of well wishing playmates. I too, squeezed in priceless moments with my girlfriends. The highlight of which was a gift-hanging out in the nude at a Korean spa where, en masse, we were soaked, kneaded, scrubbed and rubbed till we glowed. (Wish I had discovered that activity sooner.)

Precious time with friends was woven in between concluding escrow, supervising movers, co-coordinating auto transport, arranging for art shipment, cleaning out safe deposit boxes and monitoring the estate sale. It is remarkable the sense of paranoia and vulnerability the loss of a spouse can instill. What other critical part of my life might suddenly be leveled? What catastrophic loss might occur in this rolling earthquake of liquidating and moving my entire net worth from one coast to the other? As with my husband, there is no ability to replace. I'm not whining. I'm just trying to make it clear. This is not a story, this is my real life. I don't know if everything works out in the end. This is only the second posting and the plot is unfolding as you scroll.

On my last post a reader commented that sometimes an "Atta girl was better than a hug." I thought about that a long time and was impressed by the insight after just one reading. I hadn't looked at the support from friends and family in my life transition from LA MILF to VA widow in that way. In review, I did receive many "Atta girls" and I am thankful for that support and encouragement of friends, family and church. I am also thankful for the patience and tolerance of a few workmen during that time. Some of whom received hysterical calls at 6:30am the day before we moved out. I could not find a file containing the originals of the most important documents of my life and I was convinced one of them had taken it. The lack of rest and the underlying sense of vulnerability had finally caught up with me. I scavenged for the business cards and paid bills for their phone numbers as I frantically pressed the buttons on my phone. I really feel bad for the twenty-something electrician who actually answered his cell phone at that hour. And I really, really felt humble when I had to call them all back to tell them I found everything at 7:00am. (I was a little surprised the electrician answered the second time.)

When at last it was time to go, this adrenaline charged schedule and intense sharing of love was such a high, it was hard to come down from. Not every good bye had been said, not every detail had been sewn up, still it was time to go and I was glad to be leaving a little too early than a little too late. This sense of too soon was exacerbated by getting to bed too late the night before and leaving too much to do the morning of departure. The girls and I were harried and bickering as we drug our luggage through LAX. In Murphy like fashion, three of the bags we were overweight by five pounds each. I was given the option of complete chaos -- open the burgeoning bags right there and redistribute the weight to the fourth bag- or pay a $25 per bag fee. Sanity is expensive.

After earning more miles on Midsized Airlines by paying the fee via credit card, the girls and I pushed, pulled and, in a Bedouin manner, maneuvered what was left of Plant possessions in our control to the security checkpoint. I kept with me one heavy carry-on containing that precious file of documents and the contents of our safe deposit boxes. There was no possibility of relaxing as I set myself down in the terminal chair. I sent the girls off to purchase some diversion as we waited to board the plane. As I sat there, the edges began to fray, just a bit. I was exhausted, nervous and ignoring the tumult inside. I was feeling a little sorry for myself as I sat in that end terminal waiting for the flight that would C-sect us from life as we knew it and deliver us to our future.

I pulled out my new Blackberry, an extravagant gift from a friend which has brought me much delight as it did at that moment. There on the 'Berry was a little note. "You're probably checking bags,...off through security then up, up and away. I know our paths will cross again soon. See ya." It was so thoughtful, just what I needed at the very moment it was occurring to me that the lives of all our friends in Los Angeles would simply continue on. As a wound heals and more often than not there is no trace of what once was a painful laceration, so would our friends completely be absorbed in their day to day occurrences that no longer included us. I Berry'd back. "You're right. Thanks, E. for always coming through at just the right moment." A tiny tear budded in the corner of one eye from the warm glow seeded inside.

I turned to look for my children and there just down the row of chairs sat E, grinning ear to ear! I have no idea how he got past security, but how kind of him to make the effort. He said a quick "Hello" and then "Good-bye for now." No polluting with melodramatic words and hugs, just a firm vote of confidence and support from a friend. It was an "Atta girl."

The flight is long coast to coast, particularly in coach and with a three hour layover compounded by a two hour delay. At last we arrived at a small airport in Virginia two hours late and well past midnight. My eldest is like her father, she does not do well when inconvenienced and is unabashed in telling you or anyone else -- so. We were cranky from the travel and, though looking forward to the refuge of my sister's household, we were not giving life via spoken words to the wailing, gestating dramatic change about to be born. We were tense inside and out when we debarked the plane and stepped into the strong, crushing embrace of my sister. Only my daughters were able to wrest themselves from their inner thoughts to smile and banter with their aunt as we walked the very short distance to luggage claim.

Twenty minutes after standing around in the silent baggage area, there was finally a rotation at one of the two carousels in the small airport. We Los Angelinas lagged back from the crowd, avoiding contact with the masses. The carousel stopped. Five minutes more passed in waiting, an eternity in ineptitude. The carousel behind us lit up and the swarm moved over us toward the light. The new carousal began to rotate, and then it stopped. The pain inside was compounded. Silence in the room. A chuckle rose from the crowd. "Psych!" a fellow passenger joked. "Maybe we should move back to the other?" another quipped. The group began laughing good naturedly as at last the bags were flowing.

Are these people nuts?!!! Where are the lawyers clamoring at customer service? Where are the regally annoyed standing behind weary livery men in dark suits? I want our luggage! I'm tired, I'm crabby and I want Midsized Air to hurry up. These people are laughing!!!!

We are so no longer in LA.