Lights Of The Delta

If you’ve not been out to Lights of the Delta this year, you are missing a treat. We were one of about a dozen hardy souls who went the night after the sleet and snow, when the roads were the worst. We weren’t sure they would be open, but they were.

There are enough new displays, and familiar displays with new features added, to make it worth a trip even if you have been before. I think it is better this year than ever.
The route has been changed a little, and though the expression is overused, the display "pops" this year.

Seeing it with a blanket of ice on the ground, encased in a foggy night, was fun. We were the only ones on the route when we went through, so it truly was like we were in a winter wonderland.
It’s worth supporting just because it is here, and it is ours. Even if it were the same, it would still be a fun tradition. Take a drive out to the lights. You won’t regret it.

Holiday Heroes

Wow. I keep trying to come up with a better word, but that one word is the best I can do. I’ve thought of bigger ones, more descriptive ones, fancier ones. But every time, I just keep coming back to Wow.

I guess that is because "wow" is the word I have been thinking of over and over again these past few months during the Boxes of Love campaign.
We did it last year, and it was a success. We were pleased and proud at the community’s support. But this year. Donations. Toys. Food. Volunteers. Wow.

Last year, we were new and unknown. This year, we were a little more organized, and had more time to get the word out. But make no mistake, Ignite didn’t do this. Blytheville as a whole did this. The churches did this. The individual volunteers did this. The civic groups did this; the factories and the workplaces and the schools did this. Above all, God did this. He gave us the vision and the means to see it through.

Due to an unscheduled trip up to the Mayo Clinic, I didn’t get to participate in that last, frantic week. I didn’t get to take part in the distribution of the Boxes; which makes the madness beforehand worth it.

I stayed in touch, because my dad would call me with frequent updates. We got in another load, unexpectedly, of toys. Wow. A delivery truck just pulled up to the back door with more food, a truck we weren’t counting on. Wow. We got in more money, money we didn’t know we were going to get. Wow. Another truck, with more food. Wow. More toys, great toys. Wow. More people came to volunteer. Wow.

How amazing. How awesome. Just look what we can do when we do it together. To each individual, each group, each and every person that thought about the Boxes of Love program and contributed, we thank you so much. We quite literally could not have done it without you. We are awed and humbled and so very grateful for the trust and the respect that you have shown us by allowing us to help serve this community.

When it comes right down to it, wow is still the best word. It is the word that we have thought time and again through this project as our needs and expectations were not only met, but exceeded. Thank you, Blytheville, for making us able to say "Wow."

Of Trails, Trailers, and Traditions

My Mom and Dad just got back. My husband went a few weeks ago. My son can’t wait to go. I, on the other hand, am not so anxious. I am talking about that almost holy and oh so glorious place, the deer woods.

The "deer woods" is a different location for different folks. For my husband, it is several locations. One main place and a few backup places. But for my parents, it has been one spot for more than three decades.

When we were growing up, my parents were adamant about two things. We never missed church, and we never missed school. The exception was one time a year, when we went to the deer woods.

They would get all of our assignments from school, and we would take a whole week off. We had to do our school work, but we got to do it in the woods. We still went to church on the Wednesday night we were away, but we went to the small church in the nearest town.

That one week is etched into my and my sister’s memory. Any other vacation we took through the year was from Sunday night after church to Wednesday morning or Wednesday night after church to Saturday morning. Missing church was never an option, never even considered. The pastor doesn’t skip a Sunday, or even a Wednesday.

We grew up with three day vacations, and even then they were never guaranteed. If someone was sick or in trouble, the vacation got cancelled or cut short.

The week of deer camp was set in stone, though. The only exception was the death of a church member. Teresa and I knew that if we could get away before someone called, we could stay away. In an age before cell phones, deer camp was too far for someone to be able to find us.

The four of us were squeezed into a twelve foot camper that only had electricity when a generator was running. It started at 4 a.m. when the men in the camp got up. As the smallest, I slept on the world’s tiniest bunk above my parents. Before technology proved deer have super power like abilities to smell, every morning Dad got up and brewed coffee and cooked bacon or sausage for breakfast.

In that little camper, on that little bunk, the fumes just about choked me every single day. There was no way for him to be quiet, or to keep the lights off so the three girls in the camper could get their sleep. He probably wouldn’t have even if he could have.

We had an outhouse that the whole camp shared. I won’t go into details, but I can tell you that my sister and I also share memories, and not good ones, of that experience. Nothing wakes you up faster than a walk through the woods at 4 a.m. in 20 degree weather.

The men would go off to hunt and gather, or sleep and shiver in their stands, and the women and kids would work, visit, and play around the camp fire. We explored in the area immediately around the camp, although we didn’t go too far for obvious reasons. Our parents didn’t want us to be mistaken for deer and get shot.

We ran and rode our bikes in the fields, and roasted hot dogs and marshmallows stuck on cane poles we had stripped of their leaves at night. Most of the people in our camp were other ministers, family, or church members, so the fellowship was always good, clean fun appropriate for all ages.

The ladies cooked for their families, but almost always cooked extra to bring to the fire. We sampled all kinds of food, and ate until we were stuffed.

Things are different now. That 12 foot Scotty camper has been replaced by a much bigger, much nicer trailer. It doesn’t make sense to me. When there were four of us, they had 12 feet. Now that there are two of them, they have 35 feet, with hardwood floors, a microwave, television, stereo, and a Jacuzzi tub. And indoor...facilities. No more 4 a.m. walks through the woods. Doesn’t really seem fair, does it?

We, on the other hand, still very much rough it in a camper only fit for the deer woods. I’m not sure it is even fit for that. Gary stays in it, and so does Logan. However, the dog refuses to, and so do I.

Whenever we are at deer camp, the doggie and I sleep with mom and dad, even though Gary and Logan sleep in our camper. You could accuse me of being a bad mom by letting my child stay in our camper, except for some bizarre reason he enjoys it. He thinks it adds to the experience.

He probably would have liked walking to the outhouse, too.

The Blessings Of A Broken Road

Last week, I talked about my parent’s celebrating their 46th wedding anniversary. This past week I marked another anniversary. This particular one was not celebrated or talked about or probably even noticed by anyone but me. It was a very important date, though, because it was a date that changed my life.

Sixteen years ago, on Oct. 16, 1992; I drove myself and all my possessions across the border from Louisiana to Arkansas. All my possessions sounds lofty, but what it really encompassed was what could fit into a Toyota Corolla. Me, my cat Isaac (named because it means "laughter" and I so wanted laughter in my life again), some clothing, a 12 inch television, and a few things that were sentimentally valuable to no one but me.

I was, in effect, running away. I was running away from hurt and violence and fear and the constant threat of never knowing when an angry vile filled eruption would occur. But I was also running to. I was running to peace and tranquility. Running to acceptance and understanding. Running to the unknown, which; although scary, was so very much better than the known.

I had very little money. I had no home. I had no job. I was going to be living temporarily with my best friend, sleeping on an air mattress for the immediate future in the only spare room she had. Her laundry room. We fixed it up and it turned into a fine, if a bit noisy, second bedroom. I worked as a temp at dozens of jobs, making less money than I had known was possible.

There were some hard days, some scary days and some lonely days when it seemed like I was all alone in the world. But being all alone was better than being in a toxic relationship, and I cherished the peace and the quiet–just beautiful quietness and peaceful silence–of coming home to a house where no one was waiting in anger when I opened the door.

No one was waiting to accuse me of one more wrong, to challenge me about one more fault or flaw or shortcoming. Knowing that I didn’t have to dread coming home was one of the very best parts of my day.

Coming home to Arkansas was the best decision I have ever made. Actually, it was a group of decisions. I had to decide to leave an abusive relationship. That sounds like it would be easy, but it wasn’t. I meant every single word of "till death do us part" and breaking those vows broke my heart. I took the failure personally, and it took me years to decide that there was nothing more I could do to save the relationship.

I had decide where "home" would be. I had been raised in Arkansas, but I wanted to go somewhere and totally start my life again. I thought a fresh start somewhere completely different might be better.

In the end though, home was here, and I longed for my place, for my people, for my way of life. I met my husband here, and we had our child here. I reconnected with my family here, found old friends and made new ones.

There’s a song called "God Bless the Broken Road." It talks about how every long lost dream leads to where we are now, and how others who broke our hearts were like stars guiding us to the ones we are with now.

My husband and I have been married for fifteen years. We have a 13 year old son that we cherish. My relationship with my family is precious, and I love his family as though they were of my blood.

Driving into Arkansas 16 years ago, I crossed through a little border town called Crossroads. I thought it was a pretty good description of the place I was in my life. I hoped I would find peace, and wondered if I would find happiness. Never in the wildest of my hopes and dreams did I imagine the depths of the love and peace and joy that were waiting for me. God truly did bless the broken road that led me to my new life.

Decades of Devotion

Today is my mom and dad’s anniversary. They’ve been married for 46 years. On this day, over four decades ago, two teenagers pledged their love for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness or in health, till death parted them.

They were young, and they were poor. Not poor like people are poor today. They had $3.00 to their name when they got married. No job, no place to live, and no reliable transportation. That kind of poor. But they were teen-agers, and they were in love, so $3 and love was all they needed.

We hear about the statistics from young marriages. They say they are doomed to fail. No money, sub-standard housing, low paying jobs, kids come along too fast and then there is even less money.

My parents could have fit some of those statistics. They certainly didn’t have a lot of money, and they didn’t have good paying jobs at first. Their first real home was a camper-sized trailer in my grandparents yard. My sister was born there, and a home not big enough for two got even smaller.

The first home I remember living in was the basement of the church my dad was pastoring in Harrisburg. The church couldn’t afford a parsonage, so the small basement was the parsonage. It had a little kitchen, a small living area, and a place for my sister and I to sleep and a place for my mom and dad to sleep. It would definitely be considered sub-standard housing. It was close to work though–all you had to was climb the stairs to go to church.

I don’t remember not being happy in that cramped basement. In fact, I don’t remember a time when I ever knew that my parents were anything but thrilled with where we were and what we were doing.

As an adult, I now know there were times of stress and turmoil and financial difficulties, because they have shared the stories of those times with me. But growing up, I never knew. I only knew the laughter, happiness and peace that reigned in my home.

We moved around, because at that time pastors in our denomination were moved every two to four years, if not more often, whether or not you wanted to. My sister and I didn’t always want to go, but it was part of the life my parents had been called to, and we understood the calling even if we disagreed with the method.

We understood something else early on, also. We understood that our home wasn’t the wood or bricks that surrounded us. Our home was the people living inside. We lived in a lot of different places. Some houses we liked, some towns we liked. Some we very much didn’t. But it wasn’t the structure that made up our home. It was us.

Our parents helped us understand that no matter where we were sent, we would be home because home was where our family was.

Over the decades, my parents have been devoted to each other and to us, their children. Now they have grandchildren that they are devoted to. They have been devoted to the members of each church they have pastored.

Today, they celebrate those decades of devotion. Today, I celebrate having parents that showed me what having a covenant marriage is all about; that showed me how to celebrate family; that showed me how to laugh even through the tough times; and that showed me the value of home. Not the place, but the people inside the place.

House Hunters

I like to watch a show on HGTV called "House Hunters." The show follows someone who is looking for a new home as they look at three potential homes, then make their choice.

My mom and I often watch the show together, or call each other after the show goes off to discuss the choices made. We make a game of guessing which house will be chosen.

I’m particularly interested in the show lately, because they could be following me around. We are hunting for a house also. There is nothing wrong with where we live now. In fact, I love just about everything about my house. It’s big, it’s in a great neighborhood, and it has a lot of features that I like.

The one thing that it doesn’t have is land; and that is the one thing my husband desires. After 15 years of living in the city because his city girl wife was raised that way; my country boy husband would like to live out in the country.

I figure after 15 years, it’s time to let him have his way for once. So, we are selling our house (hopefully) and looking for a new home to buy.

It’s been an adventure. We’ve seen little houses and big houses, cluttered houses and clean houses, and a few houses that make you wonder what the homeowner was thinking. We just about needed sunglasses in one house because the walls were all such bright colors. Then again, after someone walks through my house, they may wonder the same thing.

I never knew roosters were so popular. I can’t believe how many kitchens have roosters for their decor. My mom thinks it is because we are looking at homes in the country, and roosters go along with being out in the country. I don’t necessarily dislike roosters, but I’m not sure I like them either. I’ve never given all that much thought to roosters, but apparently someone has, because those little critters are everywhere.

I had forgotten how many people have carpet throughout their home. We don’t. Because my son has asthma, we have hardwood floors in most of our home. I’m so used to it that it surprises me every time I go into a home that is completely carpeted.

One of the first things we are looking at in the houses we see is how much flooring we will need to re-do. We’ve ripped out carpet every place we have lived for 13 years now, so we are getting to be experts at it.

It is a bittersweet time. I get attached to any place I live, because it is my home, where my family has made memories and shared love and laughter. But it is an exciting time too, because we are looking forward to this next step in our lives, to moving on and finding our next home.

It’s going to be interesting to watch this city girl out in the country. I have a feeling it will take some getting used to, because I have a lot to learn. If I run across any of those roosters, I guess I will have to see if they have laid any eggs for me. Maybe I need to ask my mom, a country girl, about that.

The Not So Big Bang

If you are reading this, you survived. Congratulations. I never doubted it for a minute; although some did. I’m not alone in my joy to be here today. Good Morning America greeted their viewers last Wednesday with glee. They were glad to have made it, too; glad they were still alive.

If you missed the controversy last week, let me bring you up to date. There is a whole bunch of scientists from a whole bunch of countries trying to recreate how the universe was formed. They performed a really important test last week. They are ultimately trying to recreate the supposed "big bang" that originally started the whole thing off.

The problem with that is that if one big bang started things, another big bang could, well, end things. Since we are dealing with scientific minds, it is much more complicated than that. My version is the Arkansas version.

Let me quote their version, from an Associated Press story in Geneva, Switzerland.
"The world’s largest atom smasher passed its first test Wednesday as scientists said their powerful tool is almost ready to reveal how the tiniest particles were first created after the ‘big bang,’ which many theorize was the massive explosion that formed the stars, planets, and everything."

In laymen’s terms, twenty years of research have gone into building a $10 billion dollar gizmo. The gizmo is a 17 mile long tunnel along the Swiss-French border.

Wednesday, during a test run, a beam of protons were fired clockwise around the tunnel. Then they fired a beam counterclockwise. Eventually, the beams will be filled with more protons, and fired at almost the speed of light in opposite directions. The tunnel is a vacuum, and is colder than outer space. At four different points inside the tunnel, huge magnets will cross the beams and make the protons collide.

The scientists are looking for what they term "hidden dimensions" of space and time. They are looking for what is sometimes called the "God particle," because they think it gives mass to all other particles, and therefore gives matter to the make up of the universe.

Well. We finally have something we can agree on. I could have saved those scientists twenty years of their lives and billions of dollars.

They don’t have to look for a God particle. All they have to do is look for God. A "particle" didn’t give mass to everything else. A particle didn’t make up the universe.

It amazes me that highly intelligent people will study microscopic particles in depth, and theorize that by exploding those tiny things, everything about the universe could develop.
Yet they reject that an intelligent being could have created the universe.

Talk about faith the size of a mustard seed. You could move mountains with the faith those scientists have. But, unfortunately, you can’t create mountains with their kind of faith...not from those itty-bitty particles that just all of the sudden exploded from nothingness and created every living and breathing and thinking thing in the world.

There are people that are scared the world will be destroyed as the scientist continue their tests. They believe if one big bang created us, the testing to make the next big bang will destroy us.

I am not worried in the least. The scientists can send their little protons around and around their big expensive race track all they want. They can spin them, magnetize them, freeze them, collide them, vacuum them or do whatever else they want to them. But they are wasting their time.

They aren’t going to discover a tiny particle that can do what only God did. Nor are they going to discover the beginnings of the universe. The universe didn’t begin with a bang. It began with "In the beginning, God."

Unconventional Wisdom

I’m not into politics as a general rule. I don’t consider myself a Democrat, a Republican, or even an "other." I just consider myself an American.

I don’t care what label a politician wears. I want them to do what they say they are going to do. I want them to be honest, and after they get elected, I want them to represent the public that elected them instead of being concerned only about their own best interest.

Yeah, I’ve already been told that I am simple minded when it comes to politics. I like to be informed, but I despise all the hot air and posturing that involves the election season. For the most part, I stay as far away as I can from political commentators. I’ll make up my own mind, thanks.

This year is going to be interesting. We have some of the same old same old...a couple of a bit past middle aged white guys. Then we have some new and different. An African American man and a Caucasian woman.

I’m not sure what I think about Obama. I support his right to run completely and whole heartedly. But there is just something about him that still leaves me wondering.

I had no problem with that when Hillary was a candidate. I don’t like her in the least. While I would vote for a woman for president, I wouldn’t vote for that particular woman.

I’m an equal opportunity malcontent. I’m not all that thrilled with McCain either. In a country of millions of people, these are the best candidates we have? Whereas Obama leaves me concerned, McCain leaves me cold. I’m not sure which is worse.

The one candidate I really like is Sarah Palin. I would vote for her for President. You can’t tell me she doesn’t have experience. She has all the experience she needs. She is a mother of five. She can handle anything.

Peace negotiations? Been there, done that. Tie breaking votes? Absolutely. Being the "attack dog" for the president? I will let her tell you about that
"The difference between a pit bull and a hockey mom....the lipstick." Yeah, she has it handled.

Forget that she is governor of the largest state in the country. That experience and insight and ability means nothing compared to what she has learned as a mother to five children.

I’m not much on politics, so I’m not sure if I can write in my vote for president. I’m for Sarah. I would love to see her tell Iraq and Iran to sit down, shut up and behave or else. I think they would listen. You just don’t mess with a mother of five.

The Chance To Choose

The issue of School Choice is back in the news. Last year, the Supreme Court ruled against diversity plans in two cities in two different states because of racially based guidelines. The Court ruled those guidelines to be unconstitutional.

As the kids used to say, well, Duh. I’ve had a problem with School Choice for years, because it isn’t. It isn’t a choice for everyone.

In the case in Louisville, Kentucky, a little boy wanted to go to the school near his home. He wasn’t allowed to. By law, he had to attend another school that was farther from his home.

Why did the law make him attend the other school? Because he was white. Think about that for a minute. I’m not trying to be inflammatory. But flip this around and think about what would happen if that boy had not been white. If he had not been allowed to attend a school, and the reason given was because he was black.

It would have been screamed from every news agency in the country. People would have been outraged, including me. And so they should have been. You should not be denied access to a school based on your skin color, regardless of what that skin color is, black or white.

This is what the boy’s mother, Crystal Meredith, had to say.
"We are not here because we didn’t get our first choice, but because we got no choice. I was told by the school board that my son’s education was not as important as their plan. I was told I should sacrifice his learning in order to maintain the status quo."

Meredith’s son now must ride the bus for three hours a day to get to the school not that his parent who knows him best chose, but that was chosen for him by a system based on skin color.
Discrimination is discrimination. If it is wrong not to allow a black child to attend school because simply they are black, it is wrong not to allow a white child to attend school simply because they are white.

But that is exactly what School(not)Choice does. Black children in that live in Blytheville can attend Blytheville, Gosnell or Armorel, as long as that district has room for the additional students. White children that live in Blytheville can not.

The reasoning behind the law is to avoid segregating the schools. But we are segregated already. By choice, by circumstance, by reality. We segregate ourselves anyway. We choose what neighborhood we are going to live in. We choose what church we are going to attend. We choose what job we are going to work at. We choose what sport we are going to participate in. We choose what friends we are going to associate with.

We don’t necessarily base those choices on skin color, but with each choice, we put ourselves into a certain group of people. We choose to be in this group, and therefore choose not to join in with that group over there.

Attempting to desegregate schools has proven to be a failure, time and time again.
Growing up, my sister and I attended the monstrosity known as the Pulaski County Special School District. It was named that because it included parts of Little Rock, North Little Rock, Sherwood, Sylvan Hills, and Jacksonville.

It was the largest school district in the state, and its goal was desegregation. It tried for close to fifty years, and it failed. I lived near schools that were just minutes away, but was bussed across town. My sister was bussed miles away on the interstate to another city, all in the name of trying to mix us all up into some perfectly balanced formula.

It didn’t work. People moved away in order to let their children attend the school the parents chose, as opposed to letting their children be a pawn in some mathematical form of political correctness.

I’m not against our local schools. I am an outspoken supporter of them. I have friends I treasure that started out as simply my son’s teacher. Our local schools have nothing to do with the School Choice laws. They didn’t make the laws, they just bear the burden of enforcing them.

This is a flawed law. Discrimination is always wrong, no matter who it is directed against. The School Choice law doesn’t give everyone a choice. It needs to be re-written, so that School Choice is truly a choice for every parent and every student, regardless of their skin color.

Teachers, Preachers and Faith Keepers

We survived the first week of school. I was sort of hoping we would. In this case, it’s not just my son, but the collective we that makes up my entire family. There’s a lot of us, and a lot of us are intimately involved with education in all of its forms.

My niece Jennifer has a significant other. He survived his first days on a new college campus. My nephew Drew survived the first week of tenth grade in Little Rock at his charter school, as did his teachers. Jen’s law school is still standing.

My Dad got his official school identification badge. Once again this year, he and other ministers in this area will participate in the Pastors on the Premises program. They will be in participating schools giving support to both teachers and students.

My sister survived her first week as a principal. Prayers were bombarding heaven on her, and her students, behalf. I’ve never had so much sympathy for what school administrators deal with.
As a parent, my focus has always been on my one student. I’ve never thought all that much on what one student multiplied by hundreds might mean. Watching my sister deal with the details of those hundreds has given me a new appreciation for that position.

My sister was just graduating from college as I was starting college. I was majoring in journalism but minoring in education at the time. I thought I might want to switch, and major in education like my sister.

Her first year as a teacher was enough to convince me otherwise. I don’t have what it takes. I don’t have the patience, I don’t have the ability to communicate, and I don’t have the organizational skills. I could deal with the kids. I could deal with the parents. I could deal with all the paperwork. I could deal with the rules handed down by the administration and the state. I could deal with any one of those things. But I absolutely could not deal with all of those things, all day long and into the evening, all at the same time.

The further along Teresa went in her career, the more I was convinced I did the right thing by sticking with my original major. I didn’t have what it took back then. I certainly don’t now. I don’t know how educators do it. I’m glad they do; I just don’t know how they do.

Logan survived his first week too, and we all survived right along with him. Changing classes, getting to the locker and then getting to the next class on time, figuring out where things are in a new school...it’s a scene that repeats itself every year for millions of kids, but this time it was my kid.

The first day, my mom was calling for hourly updates. Right before she went to bed, she needed to know if we were ready for tomorrow. Had I signed everything? Had I made sure his clothes were ready? The alarm clock set? Sigh. I guess no matter how old your own child gets, you still need to make sure they are capable of taking care of your grandchild.

The Jonesboro side also called. Each and every one of them. They too needed a play by play of his day. The benefit, or not, of being the only child on that side of the family. The rest of the world may think Logan started to school Monday. We know the truth. We know the entire Furnish/Decanter clan started school Monday.

And so another school year begins for my family. Some of us are actively involved and some us are just supporters, like me. Some of us do what we do best, like my mom. Her role can’t be underestimated. She prays. If Nana is praying, everything is going to work out all right.

This school year, those prayers are going to be focused on the UCA campus in Conway, where Jen’s boyfriend is. In Little Rock, they will be focused on the UALR law school campus, where Jen is; the LISA Academy, where Drew is; and McDermott Elementary, where Teresa is. Here they will be focused on practically every school, but Logan’s school may get a bit of priority.

If someone you love is attending any of those places, this just might be the best school year they have ever had. Mom’s prayers are powerful things.

A Driving Desire

The earth didn’t tremble and quake. Angels didn’t split the heavens to trumpet the glory. Even without signs and wonders, Logan still managed to turn 13 on the 13th.

It was an event he has been looking forward to with glee. Being a teenager represents a magical time of freedom. He is no longer just a kid. He is one step closer to being independent, and that most glorious goal, being able to drive.

Talk about the earth quaking. Just the thought of him being in control of a vehicle is enough to make me tremble and shake. My fearless son; the one that has never seen anything that is too high, too fast, or too scary wants us to start teaching him how to drive.

If we start now, he will be ready when he is 14 and can get a learner’s permit. Yeah, good try son. And my response to his seemingly logical request? No absolute way.

Was it really that long ago when my dad was teaching my sister and me to drive? It really was. My dad is convinced the reason he got gray hair in his thirties is because he was teaching two teenage girls how to drive.

That’s not entirely accurate. I was a breeze to teach. My sister, on the other hand, was a little more trouble. Dad started her out on a stick shift. That wasn’t a good idea. There’s just too many things to keep up with when one hand has to steer, one hand has to shift, one foot has to do the clutch, and one foot has to do...whatever. Either the gas or the brake, depending on the situation. It’s confusing.

If Dad raised his voice so they wouldn’t get killed from the oncoming traffic, Teresa cried. It didn’t keep the traffic from getting any closer. Dad’s lucky gray hair is all he got out of the experience.

By the time he got around to me, he didn’t even consider putting me in a stick shift. Been there, done that, don’t want to risk getting killed a second time.

I was somewhat easier to teach because I don’t cry as quickly as Teresa does. I don’t get quite as shook up quite as fast. I had the benefit of watching her experiences, so I knew what to do and what not to do.

One of the most important things I learned was that Mom would be banned from my driving lessons. I was 12 years old when my sister was learning to drive. She and Dad were in the front seat. Mom and I were in the back seat.

Mom was praying. Out loud. "Help her, Jesus. Bless her, Jesus. Protect us, Jesus" We needed the prayers, no doubt. But what was going on in the back seat didn’t inspire a lot of confidence in the what was going on in the front seat.

I told Dad that Mom would not be in the car when I started driving. She would make me batty doing that. She could pray, but she had to do it at home. It was just me and Dad, and a few more gray hairs, when I was learning to drive.

The day I turned 16, I was waiting to take my driver’s license test when they opened at 8 a.m. I remember the joy and excitement of that day; the exhilaration of being able to go where I wanted, of not being driven around like a baby anymore.

I understand Logan’s desire. He is growing up, and has the same desire I did to be more independent. Understanding doesn’t make me more comfortable though. I guess every parent struggles with this, but it seems like I was so much older at 13 than he is. He is just a kid. I distinctly remember being practically an adult.

He probably will be a fine driver. He has been practicing for years in go-carts, golf carts, and other assorted things. In the deer woods, both his Dad and my Dad have occasionally let him drive down those dirt roads.

There are 361 days until Logan turns 14. Just in case you need to know, so you can prepare yourself and be on alert. On the 365th day, an extremely happy 14-year old will be on the street, happily practicing for his driver’s license. I will be at home. Praying.

New Adventures

School starts soon. In my family, this year, that means a lot of changes. My sister, an educator in Little Rock, will start this new school year off as a principal.

It’s a first for her, and fulfills a dream she has had for a while now. She will make an excellent one, but there has been a quite a few new and different things to learn this summer. Students think they have it hard going back to school. They should see what the administrators have to learn.

There are a lot of rules, regulations, requirements and restrictions that go into the daily business of educating our children. It isn’t as simple as just walking into the school building and saying "Ok, let’s teach them something today." The paperwork and documentation that goes into teaching them something today is enormous.

This job is a ministry to her, and she will do well. She may occasionally be buried in red tape, but she will be awesome even buried.

My niece Jennifer is in her second year of law school, which means we all are breathing a little easier. We survived Jen’s first year. There were times we weren’t so sure we would make it. We love Jen. But when Jen is unhappy, everyone is unhappy. Jen was unhappy a lot during her first year of law school. The tempest has calmed, therefore the tranquility of our entire family has calmed.

My niece-in-law Tiffany graduated from college in May. Tiffany and my nephew, Michael, are preparing for their first mission trip; which they will take later on this year. We had a hard time having them in Texas. Although we know why they feel the call to go, none of us are going to love the fact that they are in Africa. I’m pretty sure the "no roaming charges" on our cell phones don’t include Tanzania.

Logan will start seventh grade. When I was in school, seventh grade was the beginning of what we called junior high school. Here, seventh and eighth grade is middle school in some areas, and ninth grade starts high school. In Little Rock where I went to school, ninth grade was still junior high, and high school was tenth, eleventh and twelfth.

Junior high school, those grades, that age; was beyond a doubt some of the worst years of my life. I did not make a good young teenager, from 13 to 15 or so. I don’t know what it was. I’ve heard all kids that age sort of go crazy for a while.

Maybe they put the kids that age together in school to contain the craziness to one campus. Knowing how weird my feelings were, how crazy some of my thoughts and actions and ideas were isn’t doing anything to make me look forward to the next few years. Teachers and others that choose to work with this particular age group probably deserve some sort of combat pay.

I’m pretty sure I’m not going to get to hold Logan’s hand and reassure him on the first day of school like I have done in previous years. It would look pretty funny with me looking up - way up - to encourage him. He is inches and inches taller than me now. And it would humiliate him to no end. My little boy will be a teenager, walking through the doors where other teenagers are to embark on another year.

In another place, other members of my family will be taking their next steps. Tiffany and Michael continue to save money, and continue to learn a new language. Jen will walk through the doors of the law school to start another year of preparing for her future.

Teresa, Mrs. Richardson, that is, will be standing inside the doors of her school, where other parents with young sons and daughters will be. As she embarks on her own new adventure, she will welcome those little ones to their new school year, as they begin a new adventure themselves.

Equal Time

It was quiet around my house last week. Part of it was because my body has decided once again to do what my family refers to as it’s "Tena Thing" and flip out for no good reason.

Every so often, just to keep life interesting, my body decides to do something unusual and unexpected. The result leads to me being uncomfortable, my doctor being confused, and all of us knowing that here we go again.

I’ve spent the last few weeks sharing quality time with my bed and my couch, moving as little as possible and sleeping as much as possible, which is about the only state I’m comfortable in.
My local doctor refers to me as "special," which is most likely code for what he won’t say: weird. It’s okay. I knew that already.

Logan’s grandpa rescued him by taking him to Jonesboro for the week. I definitely wasn’t any fun, and Grandpa occasionally feels the need to undo the Decanter side of whatever damage is being done to the grandson. After all, Logan is exposed to that side constantly. They live here.

There has been an ongoing, albeit good-natured, war on since Logan learned to talk. Actually, since Logan learned to repeat whatever the Papa would say, and then go tell Grandpa. Papa drives a big Dodge truck. Grandpa drives a big Ford F-350 dually truck. That’s enough ammunition right there.

Papa tells jokes. Grandpa tells funnier ones. Or, at least they are funny when the granddads tell them. Filtered through Logan, they loose something. He hasn’t quite developed perfect timing and total recall yet.

In our extended family, "You be sure to tell your Grandpa," or "You tell your Papa," is a common phrase that brings groans from everybody. Logan loves it, so it keeps going.

We were a little worried about Grandpa. He isn’t as young as he was when he had his own 12 year old to chase around, and he hadn’t had two knee replacement surgeries. He asked for Logan, though, so he got him.

They had all kinds of adventures. Logan’s birthday is coming up, so Grandpa took Logan shopping. My child isn’t any more normal than I am. So while most kids would go to the mall, my kid went to his favorite places....the pawn shops and military surplus stores in Jonesboro. Yeah, they bought stuff. Used stuff. Stuff nobody else wants, but stuff that is a treasure to my son.

They toured the fire station, something Logan loves to do and asks to do routinely. We’ve done it here so often that the firefighter’s know him by name. They just about know him by name in Jonesboro, too. He knows every make and model of every truck, and wants to go every time a new piece of equipment comes in. He knows more about the equipment than the average adult citizen, and probably the average city council member does of either town. It is one of his passions.

They went fishing late one afternoon and evening and caught a whole lot of heat and a whole mess of mosquitoes. They did not catch any fish. They spent the next day vacuuming the truck, trying to get out what Logan said was "four quadrillion" bugs.

After Gary got off work Thursday, he rescued his dad by going to Jonesboro. The three of them went up to Bull Shoals on the White River. The plan was to spend a few days doing some Father-Son-Grandson bonding while fishing for those world famous trout.

They had better luck up there. They caught less mosquitoes.

The Brace Race

Another rite of passage is upon us. This is one I had sincerely hoped to avoid, although millions before us have done it and will continue to do it. Logan is getting braces.

His dentist has been telling me for at least three years that Logan would need braces. I have been asking for those same years to wait. He has been patient, telling me we can wait for a while but the time is coming.

The time came. On Logan’s last check up, the dentist said, "Mom, it’s time." I knew this day was coming, but I was sort of hoping for a miracle. It can happen, because it happened to me.

When I was a little younger than Logan, my dentist told my mom I needed braces. It was going to be $2,500, but it could have been $25,000. We didn’t have that kind of money, and it would have been very difficult to come up with it.

My mom looked at my mouth, looked at my dentist, and told him she would pray about it. The dentist laughed at her, and told her when she was finished praying, to bring me back for my braces.

She didn’t have to. My teeth straightened up on their own. I was hoping history would repeat itself, but my prayers apparently need a new set of batteries, or Mom’s have more persuasion. Logan still needs braces.

We started the process a few weeks ago. The dentist put in what they called an appliance. I call it a torture device. The last time Logan’s mouth was in this condition, he was still in a high chair. He needed soft food, regular food needed to be cut in tiny pieces; and for a few days he was drooling like a St. Bernard.

He got better, and then had to go back to get an appliance on the bottom. Lovely. Here we go again. All in all, Logan is coping with it pretty well. In typical Logan fashion, he is finding humor in the situation.

He is making jokes about getting good radio reception, simply by adjusting his ears. All the metal in his mouth could signal aliens where to land. If we fall on hard financial times, we can sell the stuff in his mouth for scrap.

After living with the appliances for about four months, his mouth will shrink even more when he gets braces added to what is already in there. I don’t know where they will find the room, but they say it can be done.

Eventually, the appliances will come out, thankfully, and just the braces will stay on. Supposedly, that is the easy part in all of this. Surely it can’t be worse than all of the stuff that is in there now.
We are starting down the path that millions have blazed before us. I love my dentist, and know he will be there for whatever bumps in the road might come up.

I’m not going to stop praying, either. Just in case. Logan might go in for a checkup and those teeth and his mouth might have aligned perfectly, miraculously, where they are supposed to be. It could happen. But if it doesn’t, we are still going to be okay. As long as the aliens don’t land in our front yard.

Independence Day...Sort Of

We celebrated Independence Day last week. Freedom has been on my mind a lot lately.
My son turns 13 next month, his very own Independence Day. Freedom is very much on his mind. He thinks a heavenly choir is going to sing, angels will appear, and a decree from above will be read; granting him overriding freedom in all things. I’ve got a bulletin for him: Not as long as I’m his mother.

He thinks the magical world of being a teenager means he is free to do all kinds of things. Having been one myself, I know the thought process of the majority of teenagers means he most likely needs less freedom, not more.

We are in the negotiating stage. If he doesn’t act like an idiot, he won’t be treated like one. Seems simple enough to me, and is currently as far as I am willingly to take negotiations. If that seems harsh, you should have been raised by my parents.

Despite the complete turn around they have made as grandparents who don’t know how to refuse anything to their grandkids, they certainly didn’t have that problem as parents. Did I like them being strict? Not in the least. Did it keep me out of all manner of harm and foolishness and stupidity? Yes, more times than I can count.

In short, it worked. And while I swore as a teen I would never do that to my kid, with the wisdom of age; I am doing that to my kid. Hopefully, it will work again.

We haven’t locked Logan down in chains yet. Then again, he hasn’t had his birthday yet. We are pounding several vital truths into his head. I firmly believe you get treated the way your actions dictate you want to be treated. Thus, if you are disrespectful, you are asking to be treated disrespectfully. If you act like a child, you are asking to be treated like a child. If you don’t act trustworthy, you can’t be trusted. If you aren’t truthful, you can’t be believed.

This is not breaking news to Logan. Since before he could say the words, we have been telling him "your actions have consequences." Even as a toddler, he knew if he chose to behave a certain way, he was choosing to be punished for that behavior. He knew it, because each and every time he did something he wasn’t supposed to, we warned him by telling him to stop, and by telling him if he didn’t stop he would be punished.

If he kept on, we carried through, and told him "you chose to be punished by not stopping when we asked you to. Your actions have consequences. If you keep on after we tell you to stop, you are choosing to be punished."

The older Logan gets, the more freedom and responsibility we have given him. As he has been able to handle it, we have given him more. We know there will be times when he won’t make the right decision; when that choice he makes won’t be the best one. That’s part of being human. No one gets it right every time. I certainly didn’t. I still don’t.

Although we will love him and support him always, we will also expect him to get back on course. If you think this sounds like we have impossibly high standards for him, you are half right. We have high standards for him. They are not impossible.

We want him to achieve his fullest potential. As a man, a husband, a father, as whatever he eventually chooses to be. He can’t do that if we accept just any kind of behavior, anything that comes out of his mouth, any action he decides is okay. He’s getting taller every day. He may look almost grown, but he is not. His brain is not fully developed, and won’t be until he has gotten completely out of his teens.

He may want freedom. What I want for him is much more important than his temporary happiness, than our temporary peace at both agreeing on something. So far, we are still getting along just fine. I’m not going to like it when I’m not his friend. But when it comes down to it, I’m his parent. His guiding force, the adult that has gained knowledge and experience he doesn’t have the benefit of.

He doesn’t have to like it. He just has to live with it. And if he wants that freedom in my home, he lives with it in a respectful manner. We are raising a man, to be the best man he can possibly be. That means we may have some bumps and bruises in the road ahead over the next few years, as Logan figures out what being the best person he can be is all about.

There is freedom there, and as a parent, I am very willing to give it. But it has to be deserved, and deserved on my terms. It’s not original, but I think it goes for teenagers too: Freedom isn’t free.

The Shock and the Pain

Can't breathe. Can't think. May be hyperventilating. Gotta push past it. How could this happen? I'm here, aren't I? I've done everything in my power to show my love, my support. I've been loyal. Ridiculously so.

Starbucks is leaving Blytheville. Things will never be the same. How can they be "underperforming?" Even my mom laughed at that. She thinks my business alone should keep them in the black.

I like Jenni Betts Deming, who broke the news in today's Blytheville Courier. I have reason to believe she likes Starbucks. Or, at least the people that work there. So how can she so callously say that we will soon have to go elsewhere for our caffeine cravings??

There is no elsewhere. It's Starbucks. Folger's just doesn't cut it. I know there's a few fast food places that say they can compete. Please. It's not the same. Not even close.

My Mom thinks I might can rally the troops and save our 'Bux. I doubt I can compete with the corporate world; but hey, if it saves our Starbucks, I'm all for it.

So, good citizens of Blytheville: Go Buy Something At Starbucks. Go Now. Go Tonight. Go Tomorrow. Go Often. They have more than coffee. They have tea. They have cold drinks. They have food. Heck, they even have juice and water. Order my son's favorite drink, an Italian Cream Soda. Just Go. Soon. Often.

Starbucks leaving Blytheville? I can't think about it. It makes it hard to breathe.

Too Much Time On My Hands

It was quiet around my house last week. Gary was in Virginia for work, and Logan was at summer camp. Which left just me and the dog; a situation that had the dog routinely going to check bedrooms and doors to see where everybody was.

I don’t necessarily mind being alone. Gary’s work schedule is such that I am alone a lot, especially when Logan is in school. The difference is they eventually come home.

Last week, Gary was gone for six days and Logan was gone for five days. I had big plans of getting a lot of things done with all of that free time. Closets could be organized, drawers could be cleaned out, cabinets could be streamlined. Clutter could be banished once again, with no one there to see what was going to the curb.

I accomplished....pretty much none of that. I slept, a lot. I’m still trying to catch up from some of my Mayo madness. I went shopping with my Mom one day, and did normal routine stuff that I would do every other day.

The one thing I did differently was what I chose to eat. My guys could eat meat and nothing but meat happily for the rest of their lives. I could eat fruit and vegetables and nothing but that happily for the rest of my life. We compromise on our menu. They eat veggies, grudgingly, and I cook meat for them but end up not eating my portion. They are suspicious of any veggies they haven’t already tried, and aren’t into experimenting in the kitchen.

I love to experiment, and love almost every type of fruit and vegetable. I hate brussel sprouts and cauliflower. Other than that, bring it on. This week, without the guys, I got to eat the food they are particulary opposed to. I know could cook it for myself anytime and sometimes I do. But usually, it just isn’t worth the trouble.

The dog, who enthusiastically samples anything we give him, occasionally questions my judgement by sniffing my offering and then walking away. Once he sniffed, then backed away in fear. Logan thought that ought to tell me something. When the dog that has no problem eating all manner of objects, including things that aren't food, has enough sense to back away; maybe I shouldn’t eat it either.

My kitchen was crowded with mushrooms and artichokes and broccoli and strawberries and canteloupe and all manner of good things last week; including the ingredients to make quiche; something Logan refers to as "egg pie."

I cooked my way through the week, waiting on my guys to come home. They didn’t complain about the what that gross stuff was, and weren’t there to make remarks about the foreign things I was eating. I couldn’t threaten to make them eat it if they didn’t pipe down.

It was fun for about three days. Half the fun of cooking the things they deem disgusting is hearing them moan and groan about it, and the very occasional times that they actually like something they didn’t think they would. I have the pleasure of knowing they have expanded their limited horizon just a little.

My guys are home now, and all is well with the universe again. I got my food fix in. Gary got his business taken care, and Logan got his fun taken care of. We are back to our version of normal, which is not normal at all. It works for us, and that’s all that matters.

A Detour Through Disaster

The past few weeks have been unusual ones for me. I went to Mayo the last week in May for a fairly new procedure that we have been doing. This was my third time to have it done, and each time is slightly different. That part is planned.

This time, something went wrong. That part wasn’t planned, and meant we had to go right back up to Mayo. Fast; or, as fast as you can make a 12 hour trip. We left within two hours of finding out we had to go back. We had been hearing about flooding in Wisconsin and in Des Moines. But Wisconsin was east of where we were going, and Des Moines was west of where we were going. We weren’t particularly concerned, and the fact was we had to get up there, regardless of what was going on with the weather.

My mom kept calling, updating us on the breaking news she was watching. Storms were adding to the problems in Iowa, and flooding was occurring in several cities we would be going through. The further north we went, the more often Mom called, and the more concerned she got. Things were getting bad in a hurry, and we were getting closer of the worst of it.

Still, there wasn’t much we could do. There aren’t that many ways to get to Rochester, and we had to be there by morning. We couldn’t stop, and stopping would only give the weather time to get worse. My first indication of the flooding was in Iowa City. The Iowa River started about three miles before it should have.

When we got to Cedar Rapids about a half hour later, I was shocked. I knew they had flooded, but I had no idea it was that bad. The Cedar River runs through downtown, with pretty little bridges that cross over it every so often. The interstate runs above most of downtown, so you can look down into the city. Businesses had water up to their windows, and stop lights were flashing. It surprised me that electricity was still on, because the water was running so swiftly that there was literally a current to it.

We tried to detour around Waterloo on the advice of truckers at a gas station. We managed to miss the first turn and ended up in downtown anyway, at the edge of the water. Sigh. We found a friendly fireman, who got us back on track.

The last 108 miles of the trip was some of the most stressful of my life. It was raining harder than I have ever seen it rain. We couldn’t use our high beams because they glared back, like in fog. We literally watched the center yellow line and the right white line to keep ourselves on the road. And, it appeared to be raining frogs. The critters were coming from everywhere, hopping across the pavement. I have no idea why, other than perhaps they were drowning in the downpour and trying to get to higher ground.

When we finally made it to the hotel around 2 a.m. Thursday, we were all so keyed up none of us could sleep. I think I finally managed to drift off around 5, but then had to get up at 7 so I could get ready for my appointment.

Mayo got me fixed, my regular doctor did a little fine tuning and a little fuming over the other procedure, and we got back on the road headed home Friday morning after I spent Thursday night recovering from Mayo and their ever present needles.

We had not been that concerned coming up. We were truly worried coming home, having watched local news for a day. Roads were closed, entire cities were evacuated; and we had no idea what the best way to get home would be. We couldn’t go east or west because major interstates were shut down in both directions. We decided to try our regular route and take whatever detours were necessary.

I was simply awestruck at what a difference 48 hours made. Waterloo was completely shut off, several miles before we made it to the city. This time we successfully detoured around it.
Cedar Rapids had one lane open on the Interstate, the rest was reserved for emergency vehicles only. Every exit, every roadway had detour or road closed signs up. Businesses that had water up to the windows on Wednesday night now were under water. The water had completely covered the bridges that ran under the interstate, and was lapping at the supports of the road we were on. Railroad bridges were covered, like they didn’t even exist. I’ve been through there enough to know they are down there, but the water made it look like a large lake.

Wednesday, only downtown was affected. Friday, neighborhoods miles away from the city center was affected. The water just kept going as we drove, for mile after mile after mile. I was shocked that so much water could have come in so little time, but there it was. Seeing it on the news is different from driving through it, from seeing the devastation in person.

As we drove and the water just kept on going, I realized the extent of the devastation for these people. Their beautiful city, their homes, their businesses and jobs all destroyed. Thousands of people in crisis, one that will continue for months if not years.

We left on a trip up to Minnesota because I was having a crisis. I had only myself on my mind. Today marks the sixth anniversary of my illness. It is a date I hoped not to mark, or at least that I hoped to be doing significantly better by.

Driving home through the devastated cities, through the destruction something as simple as water can bring, made me realize that my problems are so very insignificant. I have a home, safe and dry. I am in no danger of losing it; of wondering where I will go and how long I will have to stay there. I’m not dealing with sludge and toxic substances in my home, with everything I own destroyed even though the water is gone.

Everyone suffers. Everyone has problems. Everyone has pain of some type; either physical or mental or emotional. It’s funny how things work. I had to take a detour to get back on track.

Racing the River

I went up to the Mayo Clinic recently. We basically follow the Mississsippi River up through Missouri, Iowa, and Minnesota. I was shocked at the devastation the floods have brought, especially in some cities like Cedar Rapids, Iowa.I could waste words, but that is what it would be. A waste.

My editor, Andy, is from Cedar Rapids. His words, and pictures, are much more eloquent than mine could ever be. You can link to his blog on the bottom of this page by clicking on "The Fast Talker" or by going to http://thefasttalker.blogspot.com

It's something you should do. It speaks for itself.

Capturing Arkansas

I’ve found a new hobby, and it is fast becoming addictive. It combines two things I like very much, photography and the state of Arkansas.

The Arkansas Democrat Gazette is publishing a coffee table art book filled with photos of Arkansas. The book is unique because the pictures are by everyday people, about everyday things.

Anyone can submit a photo, and the pictures get voted on. The most popular pictures will be in the book. It’s a big book, though, something like 128 pages, so that’s a lot of pictures.
The chapters include Scapes of All Sorts, People, Nature, Sports and Recreation, Everyday Life, Newsworthy Events, Pets, and Institutions.

Although they obviously would like for you to buy the book, you don’t have to. Looking at the pictures, submitting photos, and voting for the photos that will be in the book is all free. This is the best part of the process.

Arkansas, and the people that make up this wonderful, wacky state, is unique. Professional photographers are fine. But they can’t be everywhere all the time. The best pictures are those that just happen suddenly. The first time your child gets a taste of something sour. That picture of a tiny newborn baby in Grandpa’s big arms. Your dog deciding he wants to jump in the river too, and then deciding he very much does not want to be there.

Sunsets. Sunrises. Puppies. First smiles. First steps. Rainbows. An unexpected something; and a quick click that allows the moment to live forever.

I believe the book has the potential to be great. I don’t care if you buy it or not. I’m going to, because I love Arkansas and have a thing for pictures. But I have found just going to the website at www.capturearkansas.com and looking at the pictures is a wonderful way to relax.

Some of the pictures make me laugh. Some make me sad. Quite a few take my breath away. Arkansas is a beautiful state, and the Scapes of all Sorts chapter is worth spending time on, especially at the end of a hectic day. If you can’t take the time to travel to the places yourself, going there on-line is the next best thing.

Some are the ordinary elevated to the extraordinary. An elderly farmer with his crop at the end of a long day, decades of experience etched in every wrinkle. A child at the fair, her tiny face covered in cotton candy while lights swirl behind her. A bee sleeping on a flower, pollen clinging to his wings.

For every picture I see, I want to see a few more. It’s addictive. I’ve seen a good bit of Arkansas, but I haven’t been everywhere and seen everybody. Through these pictures, I can do that.
I’ve submitted a few pictures, just for the fun of it. Anybody can. You can watch how well your pictures are doing, or not, on a personal page. A few pictures I thought might do okay are tanking. So much for my judgement. Logan considers himself in a race with his Papa, because they are in some of the pictures.

When Logan’s picture pulls ahead, he feels victorious. When Dad’s picture is in the lead, Logan isn’t quite so happy. The best picture so far is of me and my dad fishing at the White River, which isn’t making Logan all that thrilled. The worst picture is one with Logan on the U.S.S. Razorback submarine; a unique picture Logan loves. He very much doesn’t like being on the bottom of the pile, and thinks maybe we might want to delete his Papa from the group.

It’s all in fun, and there is certainly no guarantee any of my pictures will make it in the book. With the really fantastic pictures submitted so far, I honestly doubt they will. I don’t care though. Putting them in was fun, watching them go up and down the scale is fun, and seeing all the wonderful other pictures is more than fun.

Capturing Arkansas in photographs is a great idea, and watching the creative process as it happens really appeals to me. Maybe it is because, as a writer, I edit things all the time. Leave this in, take that out, this would be better there. Having a say in which pictures are great and which are not so great makes me feel like I have a part in shaping the book. Since I am a bit of a book fanatic, this also appeals to me.

I’ve lived in Arkansas for most of my life. The eight years I didn’t live here, I very much wanted to come back. Now I have a way to see Arkansas any time I want. Thousands of pictures of things and people and activities you would only see here, in the place I absolutely love to call home.

The Not So Mighty Mississippi

We were back at the Mayo Clinic a few weeks ago for the nasty needlework the doctors there do to my brain. It is a long trip, but our son Logan loves to go with us.

He is a good traveler, having grown up with parents and grandparents that all tend to take quite a few trips. The kid can eat and sleep anywhere, which is really helpful. The 12 hour drive up to Minnesota doesn’t phase him. He enjoys seeing the new and different sights.

While I was recovering from the procedures, Gary was playing around on the computer. Although Logan takes going to Mayo in stride, we have always made an effort to make the trip fun for him. He sees not so happy things happening to me there, so we try to balance that out by doing something he will enjoy.

We basically follow the Mississippi River most of the trip north. The river begins in Minnesota, and Gary thought Logan would enjoy seeing the headwaters of the river. Our son is a real history buff and loves to learn about how things were in the past. This was perfect for him.

The one hitch in the plan is that Gary didn’t quite read Mapquest correctly. What he thought was a three hour trip turned out to be a five hour trip. But, it was a beautiful trip. Minnesota’s motto is the land of 10,000 lakes, something we have sort of scoffed at before, wondering if they counted every ditch. We decided on this trip that they just stopped counting when they got to 10,000. There was water everywhere, on both sides of the road.

We ended up at Lake Itasca State Park, in northwest Minnesota. The headwaters of the Mississippi flow out of Lake Itasca. The mighty, muddy Mississippi is unrecognizable up there. It is a shallow, clear stream, less than 18 inches deep at it’s beginning.

Gary and Logan waded across it, and the water never got over their knees. Logan walked across, up, down and around in the river; amazed that he was in the same river that flows deep and wide here at home.

He laughed at the historical markers that told us of the search for the mouth of the river. Apparently, quite a few people thought they had discovered the beginning of the river, and they were all wrong. Another explorer came along, and did the wise thing. He asked the Indians. They basically told him, sure, they knew where the river started. Follow them. The rest is, literally, history.

The river begins as it ends, with curves and curls and bends and twists. It is so shallow and narrow that it seems it would be in danger of drying up. It just doesn’t seem possible that this little stream is the same body of water that we see, the strong river that carries boats and barges, that is so wide and deep and muddy and temperamental.

I’ve grown up with the Mississippi most of my life. I crossed it to visit my grandparents when I was young. I crossed it down in Baton Rouge every day when I was in college, and watched fireworks from the levy during special events. I have lived near it during different stages.

The Mighty Mississippi has been a part of my life. Now I have seen the not so mighty Mississippi. It reminds me of a story in my childhood, the little train that thought it could and did. This little river starts out as not much more than a shallow stream, but ends up as a major waterway that is the backbone to much of our nation.

We enjoyed making this trek, even though it meant our usual 12 hour journey became a 17 hour trip home. We still made it back in one very long day. We have new memories, lots of pictures, and a little more education. What started as an adventure for Logan ended up being an adventure for all of us. All in all, a great, if very long, trip.

Living and Loving and Laughing All the Way

My anniversary is Thursday. I talk a lot about my husband, about my marriage and my family. It’s something I cherish above all else; something I once thought I would never have.

I’m proud of the fact that we have made it work for 15 years. Holding a marriage together is work, no matter how committed the individuals that make up the couple are. I’m nowhere near perfect, although Gary is pretty close.

One of the things that has helped us is our sense of humor. It’s a weird one, but it’s there. It has gotten us through some rough patches, over some bumps and bruises, and just generally made things go better all along.

There will always be some sadness and turmoil in any marriage. Just living life brings times of sorrow. Being able to smile in spite of the pain, to laugh with your partner through the tears, is a precious gift. Gary can turn my tears to laughter. He helps me remember that it is possible to deal with what is happening but maintain a good attitude in the process.

I was doing something the other day that I routinely do. I won’t tell you what because it would embarrass my mother and prove that she absolutely failed at raising a proper daughter. My husband, unique individual that he is, believes that it is not only okay, but good and proper.
When he saw me doing it, he commented that I was "such a good mother" to which I replied that no, but I was at least adequate. I mentioned that if my grandmother saw me, she would be coming out of her grave to reprimand me. Gary replied that with the two of us, both of our grandmothers would do that on a routine basis.

We agreed that it didn’t matter, it worked for us and that was what mattered. This, to me, is a real blessing. A man that believes, however misinformed, that what I do is right and beneficial. I know he should know better, but I just count my lucky stars and go along with a smile on my face.

My sister Teresa celebrated her 26th wedding anniversary last week. She knows a thing or three about having a happy marriage. Except for mine. She keeps wanting to interfere with mine. I keep wanting her to keep her nose out of what I think is a perfect situation.

Teresa has a good natured issue with Gary’s habit of buying gifts for me. He tends to buy them months too early, then go ahead and give them to me. When the holiday rolls around, he usually goes and buys another gift, although I remind him he has already bought me something.
My sister thinks she needs to have a long talk with Gary. I think she needs to leave him alone; although I have offered to let Gary have a long talk with her husband if she would like.

I know others have been married longer, but 15 years is a good start for me. I have many faults and flaws and failings, so for someone like Gary to survive someone like me for that long is a true sign of his character.

I’m looking forward to the next 15 years. I’m having the time of my life, loving and living and laughing all the way.

The Hardest Job, The Greatest Joy

I love being a mother. It is without a doubt the greatest joy of my life. Raising my son, watching him grow and change and learn is a constant surprise; and a continuing pleasure.

It’s not all hearts and roses. Being a parent is tough. There are hard times and unpopular decisions and days if not weeks when you agonize over making the right choices for your child, and how the things you do will impact your child.

Every word I say, every choice I make, every place I go, every thing I do and see and allow him to do and see has the potential to affect my child either in a positive way or a negative way.

Being a mother is tough. My job is made easier because I have help, and I can’t imagine how much harder my job would be without the support of my husband. He requires obedience and respect from our son. He has made it quiet clear to Logan how Dad expects Mom to be treated, even when Dad is not around. Especially when Dad is not around. We are a team, and Logan knows it. That makes my job easier.

I also had great role models in the form of my parents when I was growing up. I’m not sure what kind of mother I would have been without the influence of my own parents, but I don’t think it would have been pretty.

I’m not really much of a nurturer by nature. I’m not a natural listener. I tend to make snap judgements. None of those things make me the mother I need to be; one that comforts and listens first and considers all the options before making a decision. I learned those skills from my parents. I learned how to be a team from them, how important it is for the spouses to respect each other and back up each other. I learned how important not only love is, but also laughter. I learned about compassion and forgiveness and a healthy dose of humor.

Being a mother is hard. Despite what the commercials would have us to believe, there is a lot more to it than just hugs and puppy dogs and jewelry and flowers. There is also tears and hurt feelings and emergency room visits in the middle of the night. There is waiting up because it’s past curfew, and worrying over that new friend that is a bad influence. There is harsh words you wish had never been spoken, and trying to patch things up again after a heart has been broken.

Being a mother is hard. But being a mother is also the best, most fulfilling, most wonderful, most precious, most awe-inspiring feeling in the universe. There is simply nothing else in the world that comes close to the feeling of wonder that comes when those little eyes look to you for answers; when that little hand reaches for yours for reassurance; when little arms wrap around your neck for a hug.

I am a lot of things. I am a wife, a sister, a daughter, a friend. To some, I may be funny or silly or even dumb and clueless. But the title I cherish most is “Mom.”

Mother of the Year

At my church Sunday (Mother's Day) my Mom was shocked to discover she had been chosen as Mother of the Year. It was only a shock to her; many others felt that she was a very appropriate choice. I was asked to help in the presentation of the award, and to write a tribute to her. This is what I said:

The word Mother has many definitions. There is the obvious one, a female parent. But there are other definitions. The word also means "to care for." My favorite definition is this one: The inspiration for an activity or situation, such as ‘necessity is the mother of invention.’

My mother is all of these things. She is my parent. She is the very definition of caring, not only for us, but for every member of every church we have pastored; for every person that ever crossed her path.

More than that, though, she is an inspiration, not only to me but to so many others.
When I was growing up, I had a friend named Marti Sue. Marti’s mom was different. Marti had to buy her own food, her own hairbrush and toothpaste; everything she needed to take care of herself. Even though she lived in the same home, in very many ways it was like Marti lived alone. Her parents wanted to teach responsibility; but instead taught her that they didn’t care.

When Marti came to my house, my mom hugged her. My mom cooked for her. My mom asked Marti how she was doing in school, and asked how her day was. It shocked Marti, because know one had ever treated her like that before.

Because of my Mom, Marti started asking me questions about my God. She didn’t know a lot about God, but she thought my God was loving, and caring, and compassionate, sort of like my Mom. Marti got saved, in part because of the love of God she experienced in my home. Marti and I are still friends. We share a strong bond, forged because my Mom loved and accepted her when Marti’s own mother rejected her.

That’s what my Mother does. She loves. She accepts. She hugs. She understands. She comforts. She weeps. She prays. And she does it, not just for those of us that are privileged to call her "Mom," but for each and every person that has the privilege of knowing her. Your children are her children. Your parents are her parents. Your worries and burdens and heartaches are hers. So, too, are your joys and triumphs. She just doesn’t know how not to love, not to embrace those she knows with all that she has to offer. She doesn’t know how not to see the best in every person.

There is so much that she does, although no one knows about it because she doesn’t do it to be known. She does it because it is right, or it is needed, or it is helpful, or it will bring a smile. It may be a phone call, or sending a card, or making cookies, or baking a cake or even cooking a meal; and then driving it over in the pouring rain while it is still hot. Whatever it is; she does it because she is Mom, and she doesn’t know how to be anything different.

I’ve read the dictionary, so I know how they define what a mother is. But I know the true definition of a mother, because I have lived my life watching the best example possible.

May Merriment

May is finally here. I’m ready for the rest and relaxation that comes with this month.

The community clean up was a rousing success, and seeing the 25 or so kids and adults from our church working their way down Ruddle Road inspired me to de-clutter around our house.
We pulled some weeds and some dead plants from Gary’s over active attempt to kill said weeds.

He also managed to kill a few azalea bushes, some tiger lilies and almost all of my hostas. We planted a few rose bushes and a couple of other flowers in their place. They are probably doomed to death, but we planted them anyway.

Although our grandmothers had green thumbs and could grow practically anything, both of our thumbs are decidedly brown, apparently. The joke in my family is that I can kill fake plants. We try, we really do. We just don’t succeed.

Gary finally got his shop built out in the back yard, so all of his stuff that belongs out there and not in and around the house has finally found it’s way to where it goes and not tucked in, around, over and under places it doesn’t particularly go.

I did an extreme make over on Logan’s room; his closet in particular. He was at school during this event. He thinks I simply re-organized, and was amazed at all the room in his closet that I found by moving things around. His dad and I were wise enough to dispose of bags of junk, old clothes, toys and other things he didn’t know he could live without before he got home from school. I won’t tell him if you won’t.

It’s amazing how many treasures a 12 year old kid can accumulate since the last de-cluttering occurred. We have fairly simple rules when it comes to keeping his room picked up. His bed has to be made, and nothing can be on the floor. Clutter really bothers me, but I want to make it easy for him to follow the rules. He has hooks and shelves and drawers and baskets to help him keep things in their place, and mostly does a pretty good job, considering the fact that he is a 12 year old boy.

Still, things do multiply, and it seems that everything he gets comes with multiple pieces and parts. Going in and mucking things out every once in a while makes it easier for him to follow the rules, and keeps both of us happy.

May is a good month for me for other reasons, too. I will celebrate my 15th anniversary this month. My publisher, David, often refers to his "Dear Sweet Sainted Wife." I’m not sure what kind of title would suit Gary, but I do know the man deserves some type of medal for bravery, courage, valor and honor.

Fifteen years of living with me should merit some reward other than a near constant state of confusion that comes from living with me. My family refers to it as "only in Mom’s world."
I prefer my world to be sparkly, have rainbows, hearts, butterflies, furry critters, hugs, and lots of caffeine. It doesn’t necessarily have to have much to do with reality, as it’s a happy place filled with sunshine and light. Someone bought me a coffee mug last year that says "Welcome to my world. It’s okay. They know me here." Sums it up nicely.

It’s a trick living in my world with my husband, whose world in mainly dark and gray and cloudy. It’s a not very happy place because its filled with reality and just the facts. That’s the way it is, and things are probably getting worse. He can’t really help it; his family tree was rooted that way.

My family are optimists with a "the glass is half full and the waiter is coming around to fill it back up right away" mentality. Gary’s family are pessimists with a "the glass is almost empty, there’s a leak in the glass, and all the waiters have left so no one is coming to fill it back up" mentality.
It is truly amazing that we get along, much less that we love each other and that our relationship thrives. Miracles do still happen. The fact that my sparkly world and his gray world can co-exist is proof of that.

May also means the end of school, much to my son’s joy. The true beginning of summer, and the promise of all that can bring. May is here, bringing with it renewed hope and for us, ongoing happiness. It’s going to be a great month.

DIRECT HIT

It was our turn, I guess. After all the talking I've done about Mother Nature, I guess she decided to get back at me. This time, my family was in her Bulls-Eye. The tornadoes that roared through the state today made its way through the tiny community of Heafer, Arkansas.

It destroyed the home of a good friend of my family. It also destroyed my dad's shop, the one he had lovingly built over the last few years at the house they will retire to someday.

When the weatherman said there was a tornado on the ground at the intersection of Highway 42 and Highway 181; my mother started crying. She has friends and relatives in that community. The only home she has ever owned is also in that community, and the tornado was less than a mile away from it.

We waited anxiously for news after the storm passed, but all the circuits were busy. Finally, a call from aunt came. She was crying, as she told my parents that Dad's shop was destroyed.

Yes, it's only a building, and a small one at that. Yes, it can be replaced. Yes, we are thankful no lives were lost, and yes, we realize how very lucky we were that their home wasn't taken in the storm.

Yet, still, there is pain. My Dad loved that shop. He loved tinkering and puttering and creating. He had it organized just so, with everything where he wanted it and how he wanted it. It was exactly what he wanted it to be, and he took a great deal of pleasure in it. Now it is gone, and with that comes a heavy heart.

Once again, Mother Nature has unleashed her fury, but once again, we will prevail. We spent hours picking through rubble and debris Friday afternoon, trying to save what we could. We will rebuild Dad's shop, and it will be done exactly the way he wants it. It will be organized just so, and it will be as good if not better.

Mother Nature is tough. But nobody hurts my Daddy and gets away with it; so we will rebuild...bigger, better, more, longer, taller; whatever it is he wants that will make him smile again.

We will survive, and we will get through just another one of those things that living life throws at you.

Promises At The Park

It’s getting closer. Are you ready to do your part? The Great River Promise Block Party is May 17 at Walker Park. It’s going to be a day of fun and a day of purpose.

We are getting a lot of support, but we need more. We have 17 churches and 12 businesses signed up to sponsor a booth at the park. We need 20 of each; so we need three more churches and eight more businesses.

There will be all kinds of activities that day, including the Kiwanis Fishing Rodeo, Harry Myers’ incomparable Barbeque, antique cars, motorcycles, food, rummage sales, auctions, music, games, and a few other surprises we aren’t ready to mention just yet.

If you want to be a part of this, we need to hear from you. Contact Ignite chairman James Decanter at (870) 762-5510 or (870) 740-8156 or Ignite member Doug Echols at (870) 740-1094.

Why should you care? Because it’s our community, and it’s our kids. The Great River Promise is a program that guarantees our kids will have a chance for a college education, regardless of their ability to pay. There are rules, of course. They have to take some responsibility for their actions. They can’t be convicted for drug or alcohol charges. They have to stay in school and out of trouble.

If they do their part to live up to their potential, we will help them by promising them a two year college education at Arkansas Northeastern College. As the executives like to say, it’s a "win-win" situation for all. The kids have motivation to stay in school and out of trouble, and the knowledge that they can go to college, even if they don’t have the financial ability to pay for it.

The community has the benefit of knowing our kids are striving for a goal, and we can pull together to help them attain that goal. It’s what a community does. We bind individually, and each do a little so together we can accomplish a lot.

Why should you come to Walker Park? Why should you donate some of your hard earned money? Because we can’t do it alone, but we can do it together. Our churches and our businesses and our people are all coming together this one day in something the town has never seen before. We are having the biggest block party ever, coming together in a united effort for one project, for one cause, for our most important resource.

Nucor has pledged funding, giving this project a major boost. We appreciate their generosity. But, it’s not enough. Other people have to get on board in order to ensure that every child in this area can have the education that will be vital in the future.

Not everyone can do what a corporation can do. But everyone can do something. It’s what being a community is. Some can do more, some can do less. But we all can do something, to keep a promise of a better future for the next generation of our community.

In Memory of Max

We lost Max today. He was my sister's beloved shih-tzu. She rescued him from a shelter eight years ago, wondering if perhaps he had wandered away from his home. Teresa couldn't imagine anyone willingly not wanting that adorable face, those big brown eyes, that loyal heart.

Max was the family's first dog. My parents, my sister's family, my family; none of us had pets. Max showed us the error of our ways. Max showed us what we were missing. I would have never taken a "Chance" on my much loved doggie had Max not paved the way.

He loved my sister fiercely. He wanted to be next to her, wherever that might be. If she moved, he moved. He would sit next to you, as long as Teresa was there too. But if Teresa left the room, Max would dessert you for where ever his Mommy was going. He followed her from room to room like a shadow. We laughed at his antics and marveled at his doggie devotion.

I called him "Mop Face" because he always had so much hair, even after a trip to the groomers. I teased my sister that she could dip him in water and clean her floors with him.

Max was an old man, and had been deaf for a few years. His eyes were blurry, and he could no longer get up the stairs to my sister's bedroom. She carried him up and down. He couldn't jump up on the couch any more, so his family would gently lift him.

We knew his time was near, but you are never prepared for the grim news of "it's time."

So today, as our hearts are breaking because Max will no longer be here with us, there is also a smile through our tears. He brought so much joy and happiness and laughter and comfort.

Here's to you, Mopface....you changed our lives, made it better just by what you were; Max, the dog we loved and were so glad to have in our family.

More Weather Woes

I’m not sure what we in Arkansas have done to make Mother Nature angry. Whatever it is, I wish we could send up some sort of apology. Tornadoes, flooding, more tornadoes, more flooding. Sigh. Ten days ago, I listened to a Little Rock station as tornadoes pounded central Arkansas. My sister and her family were literally in the bullseye of the storm. So were other good friends, from Benton to Little Rock to Sherwood.

The next day, my family was in Little Rock, and I spent time with my sister. I wondered if they took cover during the storm. Or, if the males in the family heeded the universal homing signal. You know the one. When the weather siren goes off, every male must go outside and look up. I’m not sure why, I just know they do.

They live in a split-level house, three stories. Her bedroom is on the top level. Did she go to the lowest level and take cover? No, she went to the top story and went to bed. She knew there was bad weather in the area, but apparently with the peace that comes from clean living, she wasn’t particularly concerned.

That is, until I got there. Our old high school suffered major damage. The auditorium was lifted off its foundation, then set back down about a foot away. The roof on several buildings were torn off. More than a dozen trees were down, as well as utility poles.

The baseball complex next to the school was completely destroyed. Light poles down or leaning at an angle. The fence twisted like some oddly shaped free form art. The concession stand demolished. Bleachers that had been set in concrete were standing upright, smashed into a fence.

The airport, also home to the local weather service for that area, took a direct hit. Airplanes tossed around like toys, hangers crumpled like so much aluminum foil.
My sister, who weathered the storm without fear, saw the damage with me and realized the impact. She lives two miles from the school, less than three from the airport. Those were the winds that passed over her home, thankfully without harm.

I am amazed, each and every time, at the fickleness of nature. Steel and concrete bleachers were moved, yet nearby a plastic trash can remained upright, it’s plastic liner still in place. One tree down, yet another one stood. One house destroyed, yet another unharmed. On the school campus of Sylvan Hills where the high school, the junior high, and even the elementary school all had damage, a single wide trailer remained unscathed.

The senior class of Sylvan Hills High School will spend at least part of the rest of their school year at my sister’s church, First Assembly of God in North Little Rock. It’s a large church, and when the call came for help, the pastor immediately offered the church’s 25 classrooms.

I find it comforting that in a real crisis, those so called barriers between church and state break down. It’s not the first time First Assembly has stepped in. A fire at an elementary school several years ago moved students off campus, and into the church.

I am more than ready for Mother Nature to take a nap, a pill, a potion, or whatever else and get over herself and her bad mood. I’m ready for calm winds and sunshine, for the ease of one day being pretty much like the next day weather wise.

Until that happens, I guess we will all have to watch, and wait, and wonder. And the next time my sister is in the eye of the storm, perhaps she will heed the warning, and head downstairs instead of up. Or, perhaps not. Clean living has to count for something.

A Stitch In Time

I’ve been thinking about quilts lately. It’s sort of a strange thing to be thinking about this time of the year, when most of us are thinking about warmer weather. But quilts are about more than warmth, at least to me.

I grew up with quilts. My great-grandmother and both of my grandmothers made quilts. My "Mom" Decanter made quilts strictly for warmth. They weren’t particularly pretty, but they were functional. Money was always an issue in her home, and there just wasn’t enough to buy the prettiest fabrics and patterns. She made do with what she had, but her family stayed warm.

My "Mammaw" McGill made beautiful quilts. They weren’t as warm as Mom’s. Mom’s were heavy. Mammaw’s were light. Mammaw’s had pretty patterns and colors on them. I remember going to her house as a little girl and seeing squares stacked up from something she was working on.

When I was in second grade, Mammaw made a quilt for me. It had little Dutch girls on it, and the squares were separated by a light blue and lavender border, my favorite colors. My sister was in sixth grade, and she got a quilt too. The Dutch dolls were bigger on Teresa’s quilt, because she was older. Her squares were bordered in red and yellow, Teresa’s favorite colors.

We both still have those treasured quilts, one of my most precious possessions. I have a wedding ring quilt Gary’s grandmother made for us when we got married, with a beautiful scalloped edge. The rings are embroidered instead of done in fabric, which took so much more time to make. She made Logan a quilt when he was about five, done in a log cabin pattern in red, white, and blue.
Grandma Powell had a goal of giving each of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren a quilt before she died. She fulfilled that goal.

My quilts are displayed in my home, but I don’t really actively think about them that much. That changed recently when I saw a news story about a group of ladies that have a quilt ministry. They attend church together, and make quilts for cancer victims undergoing chemotherapy. The quilts are free, and are made with love, prayer, and the good wishes of those ladies who put in hours of hard work so that someone else can have comfort during a difficult time.

I started thinking about how often I grab one of Logan’s old baby blankets when we head up to Mayo. I nap a lot on the trip up, in the hotel room, in the hospital during the procedures, and definitely on the trip home.

So with my brain buzzing with plans, I searched for my own quilt. The ones I have are too old and fragile for the purpose I have in mind. I found the perfect one, and also discovered my grandmothers could have gotten rich. Quilts are expensive these days.

This week, at my own church, my group of ladies are going to take my quilt and make it not mine, but ours. They are going to sign it and, if they choose to, they are going to put a bible verse on it that is meaningful to them.

These are the people that have been with my family through these almost six years of this illness. They have prayed and cried and hugged and ran errands. They have wiped my mother’s tears, and taken care of my son as though he belonged to them. They have called me and encouraged me and made me laugh.

The next time I head up to Minnesota, it won’t be with an old blue blanket that my son has abandoned. I will be covered, literally, with the love and good wishes of those who know me best, of those who have been on this journey with me. I can’t say I’m looking forward to the trip. I never do.

But this time, instead of counting the ceiling tiles in the hospital room, I will have my quilt. It will give me something to focus on instead of the pain of the procedures. Seeing the messages from friends and family will surely bring a sense of comfort and home. I know it won’t have any real healing powers, but I think it can’t help but make me feel better.

They Were Watching And Tracking, For Us

Almost two weeks ago, I was very upset about the severe weather coverage that had taken place. I felt like KAIT had let us down by dropping coverage while we were still in the midst of the storm, and I wasn't quiet about expressing my displeasure.

We've had bad weather here again tonight, and I could not be more pleased with KAIT. They promised to stick with the weather coverage until the bad weather was "completely out of Region 8," and I admit, I wondered if they meant it.

They did. They were on frequently tonight. They mentioned Mississippi County. They mentioned Gosnell and Blytheville. They shocked me speechless by acknowledging two areas across the river in Tennessee that weren't in Region 8, but that were in their viewing area. Therefore, they also warned those folks of the impending storms.

It's not about getting our name on air. It's about being aware that the storms are still here, and we are depending on them, even though we are at the river's edge. We've depended on them before, and I've not been sure of their commitment.

Tonight, they kept their promise. They tracked. They watched. And they stayed on, until the storms crossed through Mississippi County and over the river. I expressed my displeasure last time, so it's only fair that this time I give praise where praise is due.

Thanks, Ryan. I was counting on you. I appreciate you keeping me, and my county, updated and aware of the situation. I know it wasn't all that bad, even though it sounded horrible a few times. I truly did feel like you were watching out for us.