He is Baberaham.

We came home on Sunday morning all gussied up with nowhere to go. 

"Wait! We can have one of the kids take pictures now that you're dressed and looking fine," I said, running to my office to get the camera and begging my 12 year old to start shooting.

"Don't you want to shave first?" I asked. "And fix your collar. Where's your leather cuff? Spike up your hair a little, darling, please!"

He smiled and acquiesced, dutifully posing and smiling in all the positions we asked him to. 

My eldest descended the stairs. Dad... that beard. You know, you kind of look like Abraham.

"A sexy Abraham," I piped in. "Because he's rather a babe."  

He's Baberaham!

And that is how the Russian moved onto a new threshold in his life. With the wisdom of the forefathers, and the sex appeal of Sean Connery (yeah, he doesn't agree with that so much) - this man is the anchor of our lives, a shelter in a time of storm, he who will get wood from the shed when it's below freezing and snowing outside while we keep warm indoors, defender of the family philosophy and stalwart grocery shopper (sales only). To him our lives, fortunes and honor!

Note from Baberaham: Girls are always looking at their clothes, even after twenty years (see picture).

In this podunk town lives a star, but the only thing that gives her away is the utter elegance with which she walks through town. She lives a quiet life, hidden away in a most possessive valley that rises up on all four sides with mountains and ravines lest she choose to up and leave us behind.

And she could, if she wanted to.

But though she was once in the arms in John Wayne and in the lens of some of the world's most prestigious designers, though her hand in marriage has been solicited by a royal count, her own personal catwalk led her right back here - to this podunk town.

Geneviève. 

Her story shall be told.