Taking A Break

This year has flown by. It’s almost time for the holidays again. It doesn’t seem like that long since I was packing the decorations away, and now it is time to get them out again.

The holidays mean lights, and this year our excellent Lights of the Delta have agreed to accept donations of toys or canned food in lieu of payment to go through the display for Boxes of Love opening night.

How amazing is that? You can go see the outstanding light display, and help a terrific program at the same time. Thanks, LOTD. Ignite appreciates it more than you can imagine. In fact, it embodies what Ignite stands for. The community reaching out to help the community.

The holidays also means being busy, and for me, this year, that means I need to take a break from writing my column. We have a lot going on in our family, and I feel the need to concentrate on just them for a while.

I’m going back to the Mayo Clinic the week of Thanksgiving, so that will have me not feeling my best for a few weeks. Logan will be out of school, so at least he can come with us. If we have to be in Minnesota for Thanksgiving, at least we can be together.

My nephew and his wife are leaving for Tanzania, Africa during the holidays. We’ve known they were going, but now that it is here, saying good-bye is taking a toll on us. We have changed our schedules so that we can spend as much time with Tiffany and Michael as possible before they leave; and so we can be with my sister.

We know God has called them into this ministry, and we know that He will give us the strength to handle whatever we must. They will be gone at least two years; and we aren’t unaware of the dangers that missionaries face in foreign countries. So we say goodbye with both a joyful heart and a heavy one.

There are other things we have going on, responsibilities and activities and trips that will keep us busy and occupied; things that make me feel like I can’t give my full attention to writing like I should.

I love writing, and I love the support of my readers. It brings my joy you can not imagine. So I’m not gone forever, just for a little while, until the holidays are over and things settle down for my family.

I hope each one of you have a blessed and happy holiday season. I’ll see you in January.

Shattered

Have you noticed that my column's haven't been on here in a while? That's partly because of me, and me, and me.

First, my laziness. I meant to get to it, and procrastinated. Then I was gonna do it, and Karma got in the way. In the form of my puppy, Jake. My puppy isn't of the cute and cuddly variety. He is of the ginormous variety, somewhere around 80 pounds.

I write my columns on a laptop on Thursday, and they are published on Sunday. On Monday, or sometime after they are published, I post them on the blog.

Jake, the giant stupid puppy, was chasing my little Pomeranian Chance, the smartest dog in the world. Giant doggy ran by me as I was standing up and putting my laptop down on the table. The laptop landed screen first on our hardwood floor.

The laptop is shattered, along with my columns that were living in there, waiting to get posted. When I get a new laptop, I will do better for now on.

Hopefully. Maybe. And while we are hoping, maybe Jake will grow a brain, too.

Of Opposites and Attractions

We deal with opposites a lot around my house. I’m the only female, so we have a lot of girl versus boy things. I do a quite a few things I never thought I would simply because the boys want to. Then again, Logan has to do quite a few things he would prefer not to because I, the Mom, have decreed it shall be so.

Making beds and washing dishes and sweeping floors falls into the category of things Logan would like to not do. Baiting my own hook is one of those things I would prefer not to do.

Both of my guys, my husband and my son, tower over me. Because I am just barely over five feet tall, they are the ones that reach up to the highest cabinets or the top of the closets or get things down from the top shelf at the grocery store. Logan’s shoe size is almost double what mine is.

When I drive, I scoot my seat all the way up. When they drive, they scoot the seat almost all the way back. We are opposites. Big versus little, short versus tall. Male versus female.

We have the most fun watching the opposites that make up the rest of our family; our two dogs. Chance is a ten pound fur ball, a small energy laden Pomeranian. Jake is a 75 pound German Shepherd, a great big hard headed dork.

Chance thinks he is biggest. He barks first at any perceived threat, runs to the door first, and backs down last. He steals Jake’s toys, Jake’s food, Jake’s bones. He then runs under the bed with his treasures, where giant Jake can’t get. He gets up on his back legs so he can be taller when he is fighting with Jake, using his itty bitty paws to swat at Jake’s giant face. Jake doesn’t even notice that Chance is fighting with him.

Jake thinks he weighs ten pounds. He watches Chance jump up in our laps, and he tries to. It doesn’t work quite as well for Jake. He watches Chance run under the bed or behind the couch, and wants to. Instead, he smacks into the furniture and then looks confused.

When Jake runs, dishes rattle. When Jake jumps, pictures fall. When Jake decides to fight back, one giant paw swipe at Chance can knock Chance completely over. That’s okay, though, because Chance can run under Jake and hide. Jake can’t find Chance then.

I think Chance is one of the smartest dogs in the universe, and though we were told German Shepherd’s were smart, so far I’m very skeptical. Jake is still a puppy, so that may be it. Or perhaps we just had the luck to get a dog with concrete for brains. Gary is convinced he will be a good dog, someday. I’m wondering, as I have been for six months, if someday will ever come.
Until it does, at least we are having fun.

We play, laugh, cut up, tickle, giggle, be silly, and just generally don’t take things too seriously around here. With four males (two human, two canines) I am overwhelmingly outnumbered. But that’s okay. I’ve learned from Chance that small can be mighty.

Spreading His Wings

I understand why parents of teenagers get gray hair so fast. Logan, who just turned 14, has started to drive. That would be enough, right? That should be enough stress for anyone.

Not, apparently, for us. Now the child wants to learn to fly. He isn’t kidding. And, in true Logan fashion, he researched the issue and presented us with all the facts and figures when he asked.

Is it even legal? Probable? Possible? Logical? Sigh. Yes. It is. I’m still making peace with the fact that 14 year-olds are on the road. Now I find out they are in the sky, too. That ought to be enough to scare all of us.

It should scare me, too, but it doesn’t. We have discovered a truly excellent program. It’s going to teach Logan to fly. And it’s going to teach him a whole lot more. He’s going to learn about honor. Respect. Discipline. Ethics. Integrity. Service. Leadership. Character.

Logan has joined the Civil Air Patrol. If you aren’t familiar with this program, you should be. I had heard of them, but forgot they existed until Logan asked to join. Now, I am on a mission to tell as many people as possible.

It’s not only for kids, adults can join too. Logan is in the Cadet program, which is for kids starting at age 12. He is going to learn about flying and aviation history; but he is also going to learn how to help others. In fact, the Civil Air Patrol handles 90 percent of inland search and rescue missions. They have been there during 9/11; Hurricane Katrina, wildfires, tornadoes, hurricanes, floods, and other manmade and natural disasters.

We’ve only been involved in the program for a few months, but the changes I’ve seen in my young man are astounding. On Sept. 11, the cadets wore their uniforms to school. As a civilian division of the Air Force, the uniforms are military in style.

I wondered about my son, still a bit shy in his new school. He would be the only one there dressed differently that day. Not many people in our community have even heard of the Civil Air Patrol, and Logan was walking into junior high school wearing a uniform with his last name on one side, Civil Air Patrol on the other side, a flag on his arm and boots on his feet.

We talked about it on the way to school. The fact that he would stand out, and people would want to know why he was dressed the way he was. I told him he was going to have to give them an explanation; something better than the one word responses that he tends toward at school.

His reply? “I know, Mom. I’ve been thinking about it all week.” Then he told me what he was going to say; that it was about honor, and patriotism, and standing up and standing out. To show respect to those who died, honor to those who are serving, as a reminder to those that are here at home.

He got out of my vehicle, almost six feet tall in his boots. He squared his shoulders and adjusted his jacket before he walked in. The last thing he said before he walked in was, “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ve got this.”

Yes, I really think he does. The reason he has it is because the Civil Air Patrol is teaching him. If you would like more information or would like to find out if there is a local squadron in your area, go to www.gocivilairpatrol.com.

I Will Praise You In The Storm

I love this song by Casting Crowns. It talks about praising God, even through the storms of life, even when there aren't easy answers or quick solutions. I heard a song this morning, the day we remember the heroes and victims of 9/11/01. It talked about how though some people wonder where God was that day, God was everywhere. On the planes, in the seats with each victim. With the flight crew. In the towers, holding the hands of those who were dying and those who were trying to escape. With the firefighters who rushed in as others were rushing out. With the families of those we lost, holding them up as they learned the horrible news. God doesn't cause the horror. But He is there, in the midst of the storm.

I was sure by now God
You would have reached down
And wiped our tears away
Stepped in and saved the day
But once again, I say “Amen”, and it’s still raining
As the thunder rolls
I barely hear Your whisper through the rain
“I’m with you”
And as You mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise the God who gives
And takes away

I’ll praise You in this storm
And I will lift my hands
For You are who You are
No matter where I am
Every tear I’ve cried
You hold in Your hand
You never left my side
And though my heart is torn
I will praise You in this storm

I remember when I stumbled in the wind
You heard my cry
You raised me up again
My strength is almost gone
How can I carry on
If I can’t find You

As the thunder rolls
I barely hear You whisper through the rain
“I’m with you”
And as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise the God who gives
And takes away

I lift my eyes unto the hills
Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord
The Maker of Heaven and Earth

God is with us, through each and every storm of our life. He doesn't move, He doesn't change, He doesn't abandon us. We simply have to listen, and lift up our hands and our hearts. He will hear us, and if we praise Him even in the storms, we will always find Him.

Winning The Battle

I’m having a problem with the definition of winning and losing. My definition seems to be different than everyone else’s. That shouldn’t surprise me. I’m almost always different from the rest of the world.

In this case, I’m talking about being sick. Several prominent people have died recently, and in news reports about their death, it is said they “lost the battle” with whatever illness they had.

I disagree. They may have died, but they didn’t die a loser. Any person that has any prolonged or chronic illness for any length of time doesn’t lose the battle. They win, over and over and over again.

To understand my thinking, you have to understand not being well. For a person who is sick, everyday is a struggle, and there are battles to be won every day.

Getting out of bed is a victory. Getting dressed and moving and eating and bathing is a victory. If you can run an errand or get chores done or do something that is a reasonably normal thing to do that day, you have won the battle.

Fighting pain is a fierce and nasty battle. Not giving in to abusing pain relieving drugs is a battle. Not giving up and just staying in bed is a battle. Getting out and going on and keeping on and keeping up is a battle.

Every single time, every single day that someone who is ill manages to make it, they have won. If they have a terminal illness, every day that they beat the odds, they win again. If they are still breathing, they have won against the monster one more hour.

We all will eventually die. Some of us will die from an illness, and in our obituaries it might read “after a long battle.” That part would be right. It is a battle. But it isn’t one we lost.

We may die, but we fought for each day, and in the fighting we won victories both large and small. When I die, it won’t be because I lost a battle with an illness. The illness may ultimately be responsible for my death, but me nor anyone else who battles is a loser. We won because we fought. Death comes to everyone, but it doesn't defeat.

We refuse to be labeled a loser when we know what a victory every day was. We were sick, yes. We were dying, perhaps. But we were also living, and laughing, and loving. We were finding joy and peace and comfort and happiness. Perhaps we were even giving comfort and peace and joy and happiness to others.

Life has an end that must come. For some, the end is easy and for some it is not. But the battle was fought, and it was not lost.

City Vs. Country

I’ve always had a split personality of sorts when it comes to the things and places I enjoy. I grew up in a city, but loved going camping with my family.

I like cities, the bigger the better. I love the things most people hate. The hustle and bustle, the rush, even the mass of people. I like big buildings, and being on the highest floor of the tallest building. If you want pizza at 3 a.m.; you can have it. If you want to go out or go shopping for shoes at midnight, you can do it.

I like being a part of the whole, never having to wonder what to do because you live in a place where there are hundreds of things to do at any time of the day or night and thousands of people to do it with.

When I met my husband and mutual friends suggested we go out, he wasn’t much interested. I was a city girl, and he didn’t like city girls. That was okay, though. He was a country boy, and I didn’t much like country boys.

Things change. Part of that change is because the country boy that didn’t like me much married me. His love of the outdoors and of solitude and peace and quiet rubbed off on me. He dislikes cities for the reasons I like them. He hates crowds and traffic and the constant rush around him.

Part of that change was becoming a mom, and realizing the value of raising a child in a small town. My family isn’t the only one that loves and cares about my son in a small town. His teachers, his church family, and our friends do too. He isn’t just another face in the crowd in a small town.

There’s a little place close to where we live. The locals just call it the One Stop. From the road, it looks like a non-descript little gas station in the middle of nowhere. When we first moved here, I wasn’t sure it was even in business.

We discovered it is the heartbeat of the little community it serves. They have coffee starting at 5 a.m. They also have sandwich meat cut off the “stick;” basics like milk, bread and eggs; and everything from news to gossip to plumbing supplies to coloring books.
Our neighbors invited us to the Friday night fish fry at the One Stop. The gas station serves fish? Oh, yes, they do. And ribs. And shrimp. Every Friday night, the most happening place on our side of Clay County is at the One Stop.

The folks there know the locals and the strangers. They know who is sick, who is malingering, who is going downhill in a hurry and who is on the road to recovery. They know who is flirting, who is chasing, and who is being caught. It’s an education to go eat fish on Friday night. And, surprisingly, it’s a pleasure.

There is no hustle and bustle. It can take two hours to finish off a cup of coffee. The only traffic jams are cars trying to get around the tractors on the highway outside. The tallest buildings are the silos. If you want pizza at 3 a.m. you better have one in your freezer.

As a city girl, I loved going to new restaurants and trying different things. Driving 45 minutes to get across town and standing in line for an hour to get seated was no big deal. There was always a huge variety on the menu. It took forever to get waited on and then to get the ticket to pay. It was just part of being in the city.

Now, I drive eight minutes on Friday night to go to the same place. There are three things on the menu. Even with one waitress, you still get your food and your ticket quicker than it takes to get a glass of water in the city. You may have to stand in line to pay if the one waitress is serving instead of up at the cash register.

I liked the new and different and always on the go of the city. That was then. This is now, and I am discovering, much to my ongoing amazement, that I also like the steady and slow and always the same of the country. My “city” never rubbed off on my country boy husband. But his “country” sure has rubbed off on me.
　

Update On Customer Yes, Service No

Kudos to Connie at the Public Service Commission. We had been promised the phone cable would be buried on a certain date. I had decided if I didn't see activity by noon, I would call the PSC.

Connie beat me to it. She called me at 10 a.m. Were they there? No ma'am. She said she would take care of it. Phone company trucks started rolling in at 2 p.m. Our neighbor talked to the workers, who said they had gotten orders to do the job, and not leave until it was done. They stayed until 6:30 p.m.

Connie called me again Monday morning, following up. Did the workers come, and did I have service? Yes. And where should I send her flowers? She laughed, and said she was happy to help. I was happy to have her help too. Otherwise, I would still be in CenturyTel hell, paying my bill but not getting service.

So thanks, Ms. Connie at the Public Service Commission. I'm not sure what your exact job title is, but you got this customer the service she was looking for. You were kind, concerned, dedicated, and willing to go the extra mile. We truly appreciate your help.

Customer, Yes. Service, No.

I’ve always felt sorry for people who had to deal with customers all day long. I’m a people person, but I also know that dealing with some folks can be trying.

People can be mean and rude and short tempered and, well, just not very bright. Any one who watches any version of any reality show, from Cops on down the line to the whiny girls trying to get a man to the whiny college kids trying to live together in the same house to whatever the networks have come up with now know what I mean.

I try to be a good customer. I pay my bills on time, I’m polite when I need to call with a question or a problem, and I remember that the person answering the phone is not the cause of my problem. They are just the person having to answer the phone.

Trying to be a good customer has gotten real difficult lately. Me and my phone company are in a battle. I’ve called in reinforcements, but I shouldn’t have had to.

When we moved, we didn’t have a phone line to our house. Okay. We dealt with that by calling the company on May 18th. Their solution to the problem was to string a line from a phone box almost a mile away up to our house.

Three months later, the line still hasn’t been buried. It is laying across the road, across the neighbors’ driveways, over bushes and shrubs and fences. Every time a neighbor pulls into their drive or mows their yard or someone drives over the line just right, we lose our phone service.

We call an average of twice a week to report an outage. Each time, they fill out a repair ticket, and each time we explain the problem and they promise to get something done. Each time, not much happens.

It’s frustrating for us personally, but on a bigger scale too. I got my first bill four days after I moved in. The company has no problem sending me a bill, but has a real problem giving me service I am paying for.

If we as customers do our part they should do their part. Not just me, but every customer everywhere. They certainly want their money and will fuss and call and threaten if we don’t pay. Why don’t we have some sort of power if they don’t uphold their end of the bargain?

Thinking along those lines, I started doing some research, which led me to the Arkansas Public Service Commission. They oversee utilities in the state. I had a nice little chat with Connie on a Friday, and she promised to look into my problem. It would take three to five days, she said. Three hours later she called back and said the phone company had promised to have the line buried by the next Friday.

Wow. Now there’s customer service. At 10 a.m. on that Friday, Connie called me back. Was the line buried? Umm, no. Connie said she would take care of it. I didn't know what she was doing, but I felt better with her on my side.

I don’t feel better about my phone company. Three months should be plenty of time to take care of something in a timely manner, particularly since my payment for my bill is making it to them in a timely manner.

I’m their customer, and a new one at that. But their service? It certainly leaves something to be desired.

Under The Earth

My son Logan loves to explore. He particularly likes being outdoors. He is happiest when he is hunting or camping or fishing or climbing a mountain or doing the thing I hate most--exploring a cave.

Logan and I had been home from visiting family on my mother’s side in Indiana less than a day when my husband’s parents called him. They were camping up at the White River at Bull Shoals and wanted us to come up.

I stopped unpacking our bags and began repacking them. Logan, Gary, and his dad had a lot of fun trout fishing and did pretty well. It’s a subjective thing up there. Sometimes the fish bite as quickly as you can drop the bait in the river, and sometimes they won’t bite no matter what you do. This trip up, they seemed to be hungry and the guys enjoyed themselves.

We were all set to come home Sunday, then I saw an ad for Blanchard Springs Caverns. Logan has been to several caves, including the one at Bull Shoals. He has never been to one the size of Blanchard Springs, though, and we thought he would enjoy it.

They wanted to go on the "Wild Tour," so we bought the required boots Sunday for the Monday morning trip. Then Gary and Logan got to the Cave and discovered something not on the informational brochure we had gotten. The Wild Tour takes five hours. And it costs $75 a piece.
I’m claustrophobic in the extreme, which is why only Gary and Logan were going in the first place. It would be $150 for them to go into the cave, on a tour that would require hard hats, ropes, crawling on their hands and knees, and slithering on their belly. I was thinking folks needed to be paid to go on that, not have to pay.

Gary and Logan went on the Discovery Trail, which took about two hours and still required lots of walking and climbing; 686 steps in all. The last part of the tour is called "heart attack hill" because it is a straight vertical climb up stairs.

They had a great time. Oddly enough, the guys want to go back and try the Wild Tour. They are thinking of making a return trip for Logan’s birthday next month.

If they do, I will go with them…to the front door of the visitor center. I can’t breathe if I get any closer, so I will drop them off and then go read a good book or something, safely above ground.
When they get back, they will talk about all the tight spaces and confined areas they were in, and tell me how great it was. And I will smile, and be so thankful for open spaces and fresh air.
　
　

A Little Peace and Quiet. Or Not

It was finally sort of quiet around my house last week. For the first time, I was alone for much of the time at our new home. Gary was working, which isn’t unusual. Logan was away at camp, which is.

Monday, after Gary left for work, I considered my options. Everyone gone for the day, just me and the dogs at the end of dead end road in the middle of nowhere. I put on a minimum of makeup, and the most comfortable t-shirt and shorts I own, which means they are also the rattiest. I ran my fingers through my hair to settle it into some semblance of order and considered myself dressed.

A few hours later, the mini-dog and giant dog set up a din. There was a man in my yard. The telephone man had come to see about burying my phone cable. Again. They’ve been promising to fix it, immediately, for six weeks. He assured me he would take care of that day. We are still waiting.

A little while after that, another doggy alarm led me to the door. Who needs to wait for the doorbell with these two around? The mailman had a package. An hour later. Growl and Growlier ran to the window. This time not one, but two guys were in my yard.

Lovely. The day I look the scariest, there is a virtual parade of people at my house. The electric cooperative folks wanted permission to spray for weeds and cut tree limbs out around the power lines. Absolutely. Cut and spray and chop anything you want to. We’ve got twenty acres that were badly damaged in the ice storm. It all needs to be cut and sprayed and chopped. Please. Go right ahead.

The next morning, I had learned my lesson. I got up, got dressed in decent clothes, and fixed my hair and my face. Not one soul came up that day. Maybe I scared them all off Monday.

Wednesday Gary was home, and we got ready for a cookout we were planning. We bought a new grill a few weeks ago. It has gas on one side, charcoal in the middle, and a smoker on the end. We’ve had it about two weeks, but just now got brave enough to invite anyone over. Our old grill died more than a year ago, and we are just now getting around to replacing it.

The first week was sort of hit and miss. If we got something done one day, it was burned the next. Gary and I both had a few disasters, but we have gotten better now.

Thursday we did a test run by cooking some of the same things we were planning on making for everyone Friday. Since we have had some missteps, we didn’t want our family to starve, so we secretly experimented Thursday so we wouldn’t poison anyone Friday.

My son finally got home from camp, my sister was here, and my mom and dad were visiting too. My husband was off work, so it was a great day. In my family, being together and getting to eat always adds up to a good time.

Happily, we didn’t kill anyone with our cooking, burn anything down or serve anything raw. We might just be getting the hang of this. Then again, I’m probably not going to have anyone over that doesn’t love me for a while, either. Just in case.

Daddy Made Me Do It

When I was growing up, there were a few things that were absolute in our house. We didn’t question if we could or couldn’t do certain things. There was no question. We knew. We knew, because Dad had said. And, as he likes to quote from a verse in the bible, "Thereunto is the end of the matter."

Housework would be done. Our rooms would be picked up. We wouldn’t live in clutter or filth. It might be our room, but it was in their house. Mom, the "queen" of the house as he liked to call her, would be helped, would be honored, and would be respected. We knew, because Daddy made us do it.

We wouldn’t fight. We wouldn’t raise our voices, and we certainly wouldn’t raise our hands or fists to each other in anger. It wouldn’t be tolerated. We knew, because Daddy made us do it.

Our friends would come inside the house and meet our parents. Mom and Dad would know where we were going, with whom, who would be there, what time we were getting there, what time we were leaving and when we would be home. If we changed our plans, we would inform them. We had to. Daddy made us do it.

When I started dating, I was attracted to a man that was strong, loving, compassionate, humorous, intelligent, kind, gentle, and hardworking. How could I accept anything less? Daddy made me do it.

When I became I mother, I realized we were parenting with set boundaries and strong guidelines. My child is required to respect me. He helps out around the house. His room is reasonable at all times.

We know his friends, we know where he is going, and we know when he will be home. If that changes, he lets us know. He is required to do these things. His Daddy makes him do it.

The best gift a child can have is a loving father that enforces standards of behavior in the home. Standards that include respecting Mom, and every other family member, keeping a clean home, willingly being forthcoming with information, and living in harmony.

It doesn’t happen automatically or even easily. I wouldn’t be the daughter, sister, wife, or mother I am today if I would have grown up in any other home environment. There were times I hated the rules. But now, looking back, I can say I am so glad Daddy made me do it.

So It's A Little Confusing....

If you read my columns or my blog, you will see a unifying theme. It's chaos. Which is why several of these posts suddenly appeared on the same date. No, they didn't all just happen. They just all happened to get posted.

Sorry about that. I've been a bad blogger. I would put them in chronological order, if I could figure out how to do that little thing. I can't. I will try to do better, which should make my editor happy, although he has kindly not said a word.

It should also make my mother-in-law happy, who has said a word, although kindly. This is for you, Grandma. Happy reading.

Changes

It seems like I am tired all the time these days. We have so much stuff going on, and my brain is having a hard time keeping up. I literally have a notebook with me at all times so I can keep up with myself.

Yes, I know every other person in the world has a handy dandy PDA. I’m a low tech kind of girl. Paper and pen works just fine for me.

Part of the tiredness stems from not sleeping. I had underestimated how much work a new puppy would be. We are doing well with our new four month old German Shepherd, but he hasn’t quite mastered sleeping through the night yet. He wakes up at least once to go outside. Considering the alternative, I would rather wake up.

He wakes up for good about 4:30 a.m. He is good, just playing until the rest of the house wakes up. Unfortunately, he doesn’t play quietly. And in our small apartment, it doesn’t take much playing by a forty pound puppy to wake the rest of us up.

We are making other changes too. Logan is almost out of school, and is as excited as a four month old puppy with a new toy. Another school year down thrills him. This has been his best year ever, and we have been so happy with his school this year. His teachers were absolutely amazing, teaching with a joy that I had forgotten existed.

Our biggest change, though, is the one we have been working on the longest. We have found our house in the country that we have been looking for.

When we sold our home in November, we began actively looking for a new home to buy while we rented a place temporarily. After 16 years of this city girl staying with what was most comfortable, my country boy husband and wants-to-be-a country boy son were ready to find their dream spot.

We have looked and considered and even made an offer that was rejected. At the time, the rejection hurt. But now, we are so thankful that seller didn’t like our offer.
Our new home has everything we have wanted since Gary and I first got married. A little land, a lot of privacy, out a little but not too far out.

We can’t wait to begin the process of moving, this time into our dream home. We’ve wanted it more than a decade, and now we are getting it.

Between buying a home, which always has so many details to keep up with; getting the puppy, and preparing for the changes to come, I’m tired. But I am also excited. Changes are not always a good or happy thing, but for us, these changes are something we have been working toward for a long time. We are ready to make finally make them.

The biggest change will be watching this city girl try to turn into a country gal. It may be interesting, and will probably be funny. I’ve got a ways to go….but I’m going to enjoy it every step of the way.

Moving And Mayo

I’ve been talking a lot about chaos lately. I guess that is what has been on my mind the most. We have finally gotten sort of settled in our new home.

Most of the boxes are unpacked; although Logan’s room could still use a little direction. Mainly because he considers it to be an adventure to live out of a box. He sees no reason to unpack, and I see no reason to put an almost 14 year old boy’s room together for him.

We are at a bit of a stand off, although because I detest clutter I see the stand off not lasting long. Those boxes will get gone. Whether they get thrown out packed or unpacked will be up to Logan. But they will be moved out of my home so it will be organized.

Getting the house set up, getting things on the walls, and making it feel like "ours" took a break this week so I could go back to the Mayo Clinic. I had badly wanted every thing completely done before we left for Mayo, but that didn’t happen.

I had to stop unpacking boxes so I could start packing luggage. Going to Mayo is a production at any time, but going when you are moving is an experience. I very much appreciate all the help we had moving in.

However, that help means I am not quite sure where everything is. Finding things I only use occasionally, like the special bag I only take to Mayo, has been interesting.

My mom, my sister, my niece, my nephew, my nephew’s wife, my mother in law, my father in law, and my sister in law all helped us move and unpack. My idea of a logical place for something quickly turned to "just put it anywhere," when they asked where something should go. I thought we would figure it out later.

Later hasn’t come yet. Some things have gotten where they need to be, some things may never be found again. Getting me and Logan to Minnesota, the big dog to the kennel, and the husband and the little dog settled in to stay home by themselves has been a testament to our sense of humor.

Coming home from Mayo always put me in a fog of exhaustion. Perhaps this time, when the fog clears, I will remember where things are, where they need to be, or just make a whole new place for them. After all, this is a time of new beginnings. I guess we can start by making new places for our stuff.

Losing Our Mind

My Mom has my sister convinced I am going through a mid-life crisis. That would be pretty hard to accomplish for a couple of reasons. For one thing, I am no where near mid-life. For another thing, my sister is four years older than me. She hasn’t had her crisis yet, so I can’t possibly be having mine.

They need some valid reason for the major life changes Gary and I are making. Since Gary is perfect and has never made any wrong choices, bad decisions, or out of the ordinary plans in any shape, size or form, this is all my fault. Again. It is our little secret that we could blame every single bit of this on him. But we aren’t going to. It amuses both of us that he is perfect and I am not.

On one hand, I love that they agree I have a perfect husband. On the other hand, I’m getting tired of losing my mind. Although to my sister’s benefit, after she has soothed my Mom, she calls me giggling. Mom has told her of whatever my latest sin is. Teresa makes all the appropriate "can you believe she did that" noises to Mom like a good older, wiser sister should.

Then she calls me. And laughs. She’s been laughing a lot lately. She wondered what we were thinking when we got a new puppy. At this stage, I’m sort of wondering too. Fifty pound headstrong puppies are...well, they are a pain in the neck, and a few other places.

We were thinking we would finally have room on 20 acres for Logan to have the kind of dog he has always dreamed of. We were thinking by getting him now, he would be adjusted to us before the chaos of the move. That was a joke. Chaos is reigning supreme around here, and his name is Jake.

She began to get more concerned when we bought a house out of my usual comfort zone. My city roots means my fantasy place had always been a penthouse, at the top of the tallest building in the largest city. No grass. Just glass, floor to ceiling. A house so far out that Google gets confused when you put in the address isn’t something I longed for as a girl.

But now, I’ve really gone and done it. They had almost gotten used to the dog. They were getting on board with the house. After this past week, they are absolutely sure I’ve lost my mind. My much loved baby car has turned into a big four wheel drive vehicle.

My baby car couldn’t make it to where the new house is without serious damage. I traded in the car that my sister loved so much she immediately went out and bought one just like it, only in red. Teresa is speechless.

She didn’t start this phone call giggling. She started it by saying "You did not." Which made me giggle, knowing Mom had already been talking to her. Sigh. Yep, Sis, I did. What’s worse, I enjoyed it. And worse than that, I’m loving every single minute of driving my big (to me) bad four wheel drive.

If this is a mid (not) life crisis, I hope I get to have more of them. With the exception of the hard headed puppy, we are having the time of our life. I highly recommend them.
Which is what I have been telling my sister. She needs to catch up. She is older, and she is getting behind in a hurry. Her husband already believes I am a bad influence on her. It’s true. I’m sort of proud of that.

Since there is no redeeming me, I think she ought to join in the fun. She needs to go find her a new house. She’s been wanting to move for a few years now anyway. It’s time for a new puppy, although I would recommend one a bit less stubborn than ours. And if she gets a hankering for a souped up ride....hey, it’s her mid-life crisis. What can you do? She has obviously lost her mind.

Chaos and Confusion, For the Sake of Jake

Chaos and confusion is reigning supreme at my home this week, even more than usual. Every minute of every hour of the day and night. We are exhausted and sleep deprived.

We have a new baby in our house, of the fur variety. This particular fur baby is already around forty pounds at three months. We got a german shepherd puppy last week. Jacob Patton Furnish is now a part of our lives.

Which leads to the chaos. Jake is big. Jake is teething. Jake is hungry, all the time. Jake is about 95% housebroken. Jake has lots and lots and lots of energy. Jake can run through our entire house with a forbidden object in about three seconds. We can’t keep up, and Jake can eat/swallow/shred said object before we can retrieve it. He particularly likes shoes, clothing, and rugs.

But what Jake likes best is Chance. Unfortunately, our 10 pound Pomeranian does not share Jake’s affection. Which leads to the confusion. Chance is extremely unhappy with his new little brother, who outweighs him and outsizes him. Jake’s paw is about the size of Chance’s face.

Jake wants to play. So he chases Chance. He nudges Chance. He grabs a toy or a chewie that Chance thinks is his, and runs with it. They each have their own toys, but Chance, having been an only dog for four years thinks everything belongs to him.

For a few days, Chance just hid. Then he just watched for a few more. Then the real fun started. Chance decided he was here first, and this was his house. My little doggie may be only 10 pounds, but he thinks he is 100 pounds. He decided to exercise that imaginary bulk and fight back.

Now, when Jake decides Chance might want to be chased, Chance barks, growls and stands his ground. When Jake steals a toy, Chance steals it back. One day, Chance tried to get a toy, and Jake put his gigantic paw over it. Chance simply walked around, bit Jake’s tail and waited. Jake moved, Chance got his toy.

Chance is little, so he can run behind furniture or jump up on furniture. He finds his spot, and makes a stand. He gets where he is going, and then lets Jake have it.

By this morning, Jake was putting his head down between his paws and backing off. Which is a good thing. Jake will get somewhere between 100 and 125 pounds when he is grown. At 10 pounds, Chance is grown. He needs to get his bluff in on Jake while he can. Jake can hurt Chance without meaning too, so he needs to think Chance can hurt him.

It is sort of funny to watch the little yappy dog boss the big puppy around, and we are making sure neither one of them gets hurt. We don’t want Chance to hurt Jake any more than we want Jake to hurt Chance.

I will be glad when they work everything out, Jake learns who is boss (that would be Chance), runs down on the Puppy Energy, and things just settl back down to our version of normal again. It is never normal around here, but it is interesting. Here lately, it's a little exhausting, too.

Sherriff Meadows

Like so many others, I was saddened to learn that we had lost Sheriff Meadows. I got the call about his passing early that Friday morning while out of town. Even though I was on vacation, I had a hard time keeping my mind on the fun because my thoughts kept wandering back to my memories of the Sheriff.

When I first started working with him, I appreciated his manner. He would tell me what I needed to know. If there was something that would help me but didn’t need to be published, he was honest about that. He had a sense of humor that kept me on my toes but still made his point.

At one time, he was working on an investigation that I had questions about. It was extremely sensitive because it involved someone who was well-known. Leroy told me he would give me my information when he was ready for me to have it, and in the meantime he didn’t want anything about the investigation leaking out. I told him it was safe with me.

Wanting to drive the point home, he told me what he would do if the information got out before he was ready. He would send two of his biggest, meanest deputies to my house to draw and quarter me and then feed me to the catfish in the river.

"Have you ever seen how ugly those river cat are, little girl?" he asked me.
I laughed at him, assuring him that I had indeed seen them, and that I didn’t want to be fish bait. When the time came, he called me at home late one evening, telling me an arrest was being made at that moment, and to go write my story. I had kept my word, and he kept his.

Images and pictures and phrases and things he said to me over the years kept crowding through my head throughout the last weeks. He called me "little girl" so often that at times I wondered if he knew my name, but he never forgot Logan’s name.

He never liked me taking his picture, but tolerated it because I told him it was part of my job and part of his job. He seemed to have an expression of "can we get this done already" on his face in every picture I took of him.

If he could find a way to get out of me taking a picture of him, he would do it every single time. Which is why quite a few pictures I took in news stories about the sheriff’s department had some shocked looking deputies in them. They had just gotten recruited to stand up and take a picture they weren’t expecting to take. Off to side, Sheriff Meadows is smiling, because he just got out of taking picture he didn’t want to take.

Another thing I remember is how calm he was. We were talking on the phone one afternoon during stormy weather. He asked where Logan was. When I told him he was still at pre-school, Leroy told me to go pick him up. He told me his boys (the deputies of the department) had spotted a tornado in one area near Blytheville, with rotation in the clouds in another area. He had to get off the phone with me so he could go sound the sirens.

That memory sticks in my head because I left work, went and got Logan, and made it back to the drive-way of my home before the sirens sounded. It was probably 15 minutes from the time Leroy told me a tornado had been spotted until I heard the warning sirens.
Now, each time I hear the sirens I remember our conversation and wonder exactly how long ago rotation was actually spotted.

But I also remember that Leroy knew, even during our conversation about work related matters, that I would be concerned for my son. Yes, he needed to get his job done. However, he didn’t just hang up on me. He told me to go get my child, and get him to safety.

He took care of us first, before going on about his business. Which I guess is probably the thing I remember the most about the Sheriff. He just naturally took care of people as he went about his business.

Fighting the Fog

Yes, it’s me. I’m here. I haven’t disappeared, fallen off of a cliff, ridden off into the sunset or met with some other mysterious demise. Since it has been almost a month since I have written a column, I can understand how one would think such a thing.

The past few months have been hard ones for me physically. Writing shouldn’t be something that is hard to do, and usually it isn’t. But since my physical problems include my brain, sometimes just thinking hurts.

Since my editor prefers for me to think while I am writing, it was better for all of us if I skipped a few columns rather than writing in the condition I have been in. Trust us on this.

We just got back from another trip to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota. That insures a few things. First, that I will be in what my husband calls the "Mayo Fog" a little longer. The Fog is a term we use to describe the week or so after my trips to the clinic. It is a long trip up and back, 12 hours one way. Mayo can do more to you in one day than most hospitals can do to someone in one week. Then we drive the 12 hours home.

My body reacts to all of that by essentially shutting down. We are so hyped up while we are there, doing everything we can as quickly as we can. For one thing, we want to be home. For another thing, even though insurance pays a portion of the actual treatment at the Clinic, nothing pays for the food, gas, and hotel bills while we are there. The faster we get it done, the cheaper it is. But mainly, I just like being home as opposed to being somewhere that the answer to every single question begins by getting poked with a needle.

We get home, and all that adrenaline fades. Completely. Totally. Into nothingness. I shut down, literally sleeping for up to 20 hours in every 24 hour period. I can do that for days, and we have discovered it is best to let me do that. If I don’t do it, I don’t recover as fast.

Eventually, the fog lifts and life gets back to what our normal is. Which isn’t normal at all, but works for us. That brings us to the second thing. I will get better. I won’t apparently get well, but I will get better than I have been doing the last few months. The doctors at Mayo did a little magic, a little switching and swapping. I am sort of a work in progress. So we have a few new options we are trying, and hopefully they will help.

The third thing may be another procedure at Mayo in June that I dread, hate, loath and detest. It hurts. Well, practically everything they do hurts, but this one is pretty much beyond my tolerance level. I don’t like it, I don’t want it, and asked my doctor not to do it this time. If the magic we are trying for the next eight weeks doesn’t work, I won’t have a choice. If it does, I will. Time will tell, and I am holding onto hope for the magic.

I already feel better. The fog is slowly lifting, and this past week has been better than the past few months have been. I guess that means you are going to have to get used to seeing me around here again.

That’s good, because I like being here.

Taxing Times

Talk about the times that try mens souls. I don’t know about mens souls, but my soul is a little worse for wear this week. I have been doing my taxes. But I feel like my taxes have been doing a number on me.

Maybe the operative word here is "number." They aren’t my thing. They never have been. Math and I have a longstanding controversial relationship. We hate each other. I try to be cordial, because we do have to get along sometimes. When I want to pay bills and balance the checkbook, for example.

Math, on the other hand, doesn’t even try to meet me halfway. It is always changing. It never says what I need it to say. It always disappears just when I need it most. When I want those numbers to expand, they decrease. When I need more, they become less. And math delights in playing hide and seek, especially when I need to balance the checkbook. A few numbers always run off and hide.

I’m a writer. I am not a number person. I have an innate distrust of people that can make numbers sit down and behave; to do what they are supposed to when they are supposed to. It just isn’t natural or normal. In fact, it scares me a little.

I have been dreading doing our taxes this year in particular. We always itemize, but we had what Turbo Tax likes to call some "life changes" this year. I have been putting it off, but I finally sat down this week to get it done.

It was a mistake. I am organized in the extreme about our taxes, because we do itemize. I save everything, and everything has a nice little folder, with labels and envelopes and sub-labels. So this should have been really simple. You just plug in the numbers, hit the buttons, and you are done. Yeah, right.

I got my stuff together, and sat down at 9:30 a.m. By 1:30 p.m., I was ready to either throw the computer or myself off the roof. We were having a distinct lack of communication. We moved this year, and in the process of moving I discovered things I thought I had right where I needed them had apparently moved somewhere else.

Every number I put in led to a new question, which led to a different piece of paper, which led to another question, which led to another piece of paper. That led to a search for more paper. Eventually, I ran out of papers I had, and had to search for papers I needed. That’s when things really got fun.

I couldn’t find what I needed, even though it should have been where it wasn’t. I detest not being able to find things. Gary had some information in his computer at work, but I couldn’t get in touch with him because he was at work. I couldn’t go forward, and I couldn’t go back. Offices that I could call to get additional information were closed because it was President’s Day.

By the time Gary called to see how my day was going around 2 p.m. things were bad enough that Gary probably regretted making the phone call. He advised that I back away from the computer. Slowly. Just walk away. Put it down. Carefully. Breathe in, Breathe out. He apologized, profusely, for ever mentioning that we needed to get around to doing our taxes. He apologized that anything as evil as taxes had ever been invented. He suggested I go take a nap. He suggested I go find chocolate. Anything, just as long as I stop what I was doing.

He promised I would never, ever have to look at the taxes again. He promised he would do the rest of them. He promised we would pack it all up and take it to a professional. He promised we would go out to eat that night.

It was not a good day. After I had calmed down a little, which took about four days, we tried it again. We found the paperwork we needed, and we slew the beast.

The taxes are finally done. Since one of the things Gary promised was that next year he would do it all, I’m not stressing about it. I am practicing, though. I may have to talk him down from the roof next year.

Valentine Views

Yesterday was one of my very favorite days. I know a lot of people think Valentine’s Day is just a created holiday to sell things, but I like celebrating love. It is easy to get so busy in the day to day things of life that you don’t take time to tell people how you feel. Having a day set aside forces you, or should, to take that time.

Valentine’s Day has always been pivotal in my life. In elementary school, we made presents for our parents, then had to give out Valentine’s to every other kid in our class, whether we liked them or not.

We got rewarded by parties back then, in the olden days, with cupcakes and cookies our moms made and brought for the party. I know, hard to believe in this modern, home-made goodies are evil day.

As a teen-ager, I held my breath wondering if "that" guy knew I existed, and would prove it on Valentine’s Day. I still remember the time in junior high school when I got brave and sent the object of my affections something to let him know he was the object of my affections.

Unfortunately, he had no clue that I even existed, and wasn’t too impressed that I did exist once he discovered who I was. He and his friends had a good laugh at my expense to my undying and never-ending humiliation. Which lasted about three days until I got mad instead, and decided he wasn’t worth undying and never-ending. Perspective is a marvelous thing.

As I got older and my affections were returned, the day got more fun. Not only between me and whoever happened to be the significant other in my life at the time, but with family and friends also. By nature, I want people important to me to know that. A day that has stores filled with hearts, balloons, stuffed animals, silly things, serious things, flowers, candy, and anything else you can imagine helps me get my point across.

The most important Valentine’s Day was the one sixteen years ago. Gary proposed that day. We had been dating two weeks. It sounds outrageous, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt absolutely normal, and right, and good.

After 16 years, I look back and wonder at the fact that when we married, I loved him. But it was nothing compared to what there is now. I didn’t think it could be any deeper, or richer, or sweeter than what it was then. But it was only a small fraction of what we have now. Sort of like wading in the kiddy pool as compared to having the entire ocean to swim in.

It humbles me. I am so blessed in so many ways. Gary is beyond description as a husband and a father. I had no doubt he would be, but he goes even further than I expected. There is love, there is honor, there is respect, there is admiration. There’s not a whole lot of obedience, on either side. Since we are adults, neither one expects it. But mainly, we have so much fun together.

Most of that fun comes from trying to get Logan to adulthood. It’s a challenge. He is a unique person, this son that is so much his father, yet so much an individual. There are very few dull moments in our house. Crazy, mixed up, and bizarre, yes. Dull, no.

I wouldn’t have it any other way. There’s a good chance no one else would have it either, which is fine with me. It doesn’t have to work for anyone else, it just has to work for us.
Since it does, I celebrated this Valentine’s Day with my very best friend. As an added bonus, we got to watch Logan’s eyes roll and hear him make gagging and choking noises while we exchanged gifts, kisses, hugs, and other things. Part of the fun is making the kid run to his room in disgust. In our house, you get extra points for grossing out the teen-ager.

Now we just have to figure out how to top ourselves for next year. Seventeen years for us, and Logan will be 14. He may be harder to make run next year. Gary and I are a team though, and we are committed to winning. My money is on us.


*****
There are volunteers from the Presbyterian Church in my neighborhood, cleaning up the absolute mess left behind. They are doing a terrific job. They are friendly, professional, and working just as hard as they can from morning to late afternoon. They are cutting trees, hauling limbs out to the curb, and probably doing a lot of other things I don’t know about. I do know they are most appreciated. Thanks, guys!

In Praise Of Power

Power. Beautiful, wonderful, gorgeous, lovely power. We have it. After seven days, we got it back, and I will never take it for granted again.

We cheered the utility trucks as they moved closer and closer to us, and applauded the morning they were directly in front of our home. I did a happy dance and there was a great deal of rejoicing when we got power, then a bit of booing when it went back off a few hours later.

Every time I see a lineman or a utility truck, I want to pull over and say "thank you, thank you, thank you." I know better than to distract them, but I am so glad for the job they are doing for us in our time of need.

Speaking of doing jobs for us; I can’t say enough about the local emergency and volunteer workers in my particular area. The night of the ice storm, a giant tree in my yard just kept losing large parts of itself. Another tree came down on my carport.

I don’t know who all of them were. Some of them were Gosnell police officers, some were volunteer firefighters, some were utility workers with spotlights, some were Westminster Village security. All of them ran up and down the streets in this area, repeatedly, with their big lights on checking for damage.

My gigantic tree fell close to the corner of my home, and looks like, from the road, that it is on my home. I noticed a spotlight shining through my backyard from the road. Several minutes later, there were men in my yard, checking to make sure we were okay, not trapped, and the tree was not in fact on my house.

An hour or so later, I got a call. Security was letting me know that lines and poles were down in my yard, tangled up with the tree, and I needed to careful if I went outside.

Since we didn’t have power, the only show to watch was the one outside the window, and it was something to see. They made a continuous circuit with their bright lights and flashlights and spotlights, stopping to check out anything that looked dangerous. They stayed on the roads all night, up and down and around, over and over and over again. They had to be cold and exhausted. They probably wished they were in their own homes.

Added to that, what they were doing was dangerous. Trees and power lines and poles were snapping constantly, falling into the very roads they were driving. I knew it was bad that night. With the light of day, it was worse. It made what those officials were out there doing all night even more heroic.

For the guys that spotlighted my house, thank you. For the guys that checked to make sure we weren’t trapped; thank you so much. We weren’t, but if we had been I would have appreciated knowing you were there to rescue me. For the guy who called me and told me to watch out for the lines in my yard, thank you. I take my dog out at night, and may not have noticed amid all the rubble.

For every officer, every fireman, every lineman and utility worker and volunteer and official that is working to get us through this, thank you. We were in a mess, and because of you all, we are getting through it. This particular citizen appreciates it, more than I can say.

View From The Top

I had a birthday recently. They seem to be coming more quickly the older I get. I’m not over the hill. However, I’m afraid I can see the top of that hill from here. I don’t feel older, and don’t think like someone who is older. Except for all the kids are starting to annoy me more. And those kids? That’s anyone under 25 or so.

Babies that were born after I graduated from high school are having babies. People born in the nineties are becoming legal adults. You know, I changed my mind. I do feel old, after all.
When I was a teenager and in my twenties, I didn’t think anyone over 35 was capable of making wise decisions. They were out of touch with reality. Now I don’t think anyone under 25 is capable of making wise decisions. They haven’t experienced enough reality.

When I was in school, my parents didn’t get it because they were too old. Now my son doesn’t get it because he is too young. It’s funny how our perception of others changes as we change.
Logan wants to be an adult so he can have total and absolute freedom to do anything he wants. I laugh at that, and wonder where all my total and absolute freedom is. We tell him being an adult just means you have more people to boss you around. You have to pay bills and go to work and pay taxes and be responsible to all kinds of people for all kinds of things.

I’m not sure there is a perfect age, where it all comes together in harmony. Where you are old enough but not too old, independent enough but not burdened with too many responsibilities.
I do know that with age comes appreciation. I took a lot of things for granted when I was younger. I didn’t realize the food that magically appeared every week on the shelves took time and effort to get there, the house that was always in order didn’t happen because the good housekeeping fairy sprinkled her magic dust on it. Laundry didn’t wash and fold itself, bills didn’t get paid from money that invented itself.

The work that goes into having a family and raising children and holding down a job and having it all come together and making a success of it never crossed my mind. It just...was. How it happened and the worry over it all was never thought about.

Logan is taking a class this semester. In my day, it would have been called Home Economics. Now it has a longer name, something like Family and Consumer Science. I like that better. Successfully raising a family and running a home and sticking to a budget and surviving as an adult is a science, and needs to be taught. It doesn’t just happen, at least not if you want to do it well.

I’ve never minded getting older. My life has progressively gotten better with age. I made some whoppers of wrong decisions when I was young, paid for them in my twenties, got over them in my thirties, and now in my second decade of being in my thirties, I am the happiest I have ever been.

In another decade or two, I will cross over that crest and be over the hill. But that’s okay, because I bet the view is fantastic from the top.

New Year, New Fear

The new year is here, bringing new fear to my heart. Not about the incoming president or the economy or any other of those things everyone keeps telling us we should be watching.
No, my fear is of a much more personal and frightening kind. My son will start driving this year. If that doesn’t give you the same chill bumps and shudders it gives me, you must not know my son.

What were the lawmakers thinking, letting 14 year-old’s drive? Particularly 14 year-old boys? Fourteen. Think about it. And if it has been a while since you have known a 14 year-old boy; trust me, they shouldn’t be driving.

Logan is 13 now, but counting the minutes until August, when that blessed moment comes and the clock ticks down until he can finally, legally, drive. Of course, he can only get a learner’s permit, but that is just fine with him.

He doesn’t care about all the fine print. He just sees the big picture, in bold, large swipes. He can drive. Nothing else matters. Except, it does.

He may be tall enough to drive. Lord knows at the rate he is growing, he may be over six feet by the time August gets here. He is pushing 5'8 now. He may look old enough and big enough and every other "enough" there is.

But there should be some exception in the law. It could be called the "Mom exception." It would go something like this. Fourteen year old boys can drive, if and only if the mom of the 14-year-old boy is ready for him to drive.

Learner’s permits and driving privileges will be awarded based on an in-depth interview with Mom, including a psychological profile determining the damage that may be done to Mom by knowing her child is out on the road somewhere.

This would have to be a "mom exception" because Dads don’t count. That sounds kind of harsh. What I mean is Dads don’t understand. Okay, that sounds bad, too. Dads just, well, don’t think like Moms do. That’s it.

Dad not only is excited about Logan driving, Dad is helping. Dad is coaching. Dad is encouraging. Daddy is giving Mom a headache. He is supposed to be on my side. That’s what couples do. They unite in front of the kids. They are a team. One voice.

However, in this particular instance, being of the male species, Dad thinks 14 year-old boys are perfectly capable of driving. Dad thinks Logan needs to start learning now, so he will be prepared when that fateful day comes in August.

Mom thinks Dad is nuts. Logan thinks Dad is great. Dad thinks Mom is over-reacting just the teeniest tiniest bit. Maybe the law will change between now and August. I think allowing a learner’s permit at about the same time they graduate from high school would be good. There’s always hope.