When airport baggage conveyors brought mine and Andrea’s matching black suitcases into a terminal, it was hard to distinguish them from other generic bags rolling alongside them. They were branded as Jeep, but they weren’t extraordinary, and toward the end of their usefulness, I picked them out by their rips, broken wheels, and other scars.

They were part of our marriage from the beginning. My parents bought them from Sam’s Club as their wedding gift to us, and our first trip with them was our downtown Chicago honeymoon. The original plan was a honeymoon in the Yucatan Peninsula, but spring 2009 was the height of the “Swine Flu” epidemic, and with all the flight and hotel accommodation cancellations, we settled for the far less tropical Windy City in May.

Almost twenty-one years ago, Caitlin Mirela entered our lives. Now, that may sound odd to those of you who know her, because her twenty-first birthday was over seven months prior to me writing this post. But there are a few of us out there who remember November 1 just as easily as her March birthday.

First, let me step back a few years. In about 1997, my parents chose to begin the foreign adoption journey. I was ten or eleven-years-old when the adoption agency interviewed my parents in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Some months afterwards, a social worker interviewed our whole family to see if we were fit to adopt a little girl. Early on, my parents chose to seek adoption for one infant girl from Romania; they’d already picked her name too—Jaci. After we were approved, we just had to wait for a specific referral from the agency.

Where I live in Pennsylvania, the old adage of “a pizza shop on every corner” almost applies. Many of the national chains are here (Pizza Hut, Domino’s, Little Caesars, Papa John’s), but local shops flourish even more. Those local shops all serve New York style, and you should expect to hear Italian spoken while they toss the dough.

My family loves pizza, to the point of eating it nearly every Friday—in the twelve years Andrea and I have lived in this part of the country, we’ve built plenty of memories around these places too. For a while, I’ve wanted to compile some of the thoughts and memories we’ve had: nothing profound, but all things I’ve observed and pondered.

The last few pages in Heretics of Piedmont, after the story and epilogue, are acknowledgments. I am very thankful for those who supported me through my first writing journey. You can read those pages for yourself, so I’ll refrain from reiterating them here. I want to give special attention to my wife, Andrea.

A few years ago, I remember her asking me a question: “What’s one of your dreams you’d like to see come true.”