Around Here

It's Been A While

2011-03-17T10:53:00.003-05:00

Wow. Long time no write. When I stopped writing the column, I got out of the habit of posting to the blog. Not having an editor and a deadline makes me lazy, I guess. I'm still writing. Quite a bit, actually, but not in venues meant for public consumption.

I miss that, so I'm going to try to do better. I work pretty well when I have a deadline breathing fire on me, so we will see how this works when it is self-directed.

Procrastination is one of my less than attractive qualities, so by admitting it publicy perhaps I will stay motivated.
Fingers crossed :-)

Of Endings and Beginnings

2010-02-02T20:47:00.002-06:00

The weekly columns are ending, but my writing hasn't stopped, it has just switched directions.

I've been appointed to the position of Public Information Officer for the Bootheel Squadron of the Civil Air Patrol. It's like being a reporter, in reverse. I take the pictures and write the stories, but now I only do it for one agency instead of an entire community. Instead of being the person getting press releases, I am the person sending out the press releases.

I'm also, eventually, going to write a book. Along with my sister, my Dad, and Michael and Tiffany, we are collaborating in an effort to keep journals about Michael and Tiffany's time in Africa as missionaries. When they return, we are going to combine our journals into what I believe will be a chronicle of the miracle working power of God in not only Michael and Tiffany's life, but in the lives of the many people they will come in contact with during their two years.

We as a family are supporting them and holding them up in prayer during their journey, and I firmly believe when we begin to compare our journals that answered prayers will leap out at us time and time again. It is a long term project and a labor of love, but I am very excited about it.

Perhaps there is a newspaper in my future here in Clay County. I love writing too much to give it up completely. Then again, the Courier spoiled me to the point that I may not be able to work for anyone else.

For now, though, the Civil Air Patrol is keeping me plenty busy enough. For later...time will tell.

The Last Word

2010-02-02T20:38:00.002-06:00

Well, here it is. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Wondering and worrying and weighing the options. But in the end, the best choice is this one. This is my final column.

It hurts to write those words, because, well, I love writing these words. My readers are precious to me, as are the relationships I have formed over the years with the good people that read the Blytheville Courier.

When I first started working at the Courier as a reporter, I was new to the community, new to the job, new to everything. It was an election year. Talk about trial by fire. I think I drove fellow reporter Pat Ivey crazy those first few weeks with everything I didn’t know. I probably made her job, and everyone else’s, more difficult.

But, oh, how I loved the job. The newsroom was a chaotic, crazy place. You either thrived in it, or ran screaming from the building. The family that made up the Courier staff was dysfunctional. We yelled, threw things, and occasionally stormed out of the building. We loved each other intensely.

Does it make sense? No. Did it work to put out an award winning product we were proud of day after day? Yes. Most days, I would have done my job for free, just for the joy of being able to do it. I loved it that much. Not that I wanted David knowing that. Some days, you couldn’t have given me a million dollars to stay even one more hour. Such is the joy and pain of the newsroom.

When I got sick and couldn’t work full time anymore, writing this column was a lifeline for me. I could still stay connected to the job, the people, and the community I loved, but at my own pace.

The Courier was more than understanding. If I was able to write, I could turn in a column. If I wasn’t, they would use something else that week. No pressure, no guilt. It was a perfect situation.

Then I went and messed it up. When we moved to Clay County in May, I wondered how it would affect the column. I didn’t think it would have that much of an impact on it.
My husband still works in Blytheville. My parents still pastor a church there. We still come to visit, to shop, to see friends. Even though no longer lived there, we would still have a connection.

That sounded sensible. It hasn’t worked out that way, though. I didn’t count on my feelings changing. For more than a decade, I lived and worked in Mississippi County. People freely came to me with their ideas, questions, complaints, and compliments.

When I moved, I lost that connection. When I was no longer in the stores, in the beauty shop, at the school, at church, I lost my ability to get differing opinions on issues. I no longer felt qualified to comment on the things that were going on in the community.

I have opinions, quite a few of them. But since I know longer live there, I no longer feel qualified to express them. I don’t have the filter of other people’s ideas and opinions to balance mine with.

I didn’t expect that change. I don’t think it is fair to the community to live here and write about there. I could write about my life now, but that was never the intention of the column and I don’t think that is what the majority of our readers want.

In a way, this decision breaks my heart. You have lifted me up when I was down, you have encouraged me and prayed for me and made me laugh. You have sent cards and letters and gifts. You have been a part of my life for so long, and I will miss that.

Walking into the Courier News changed my life. It allowed me to have opportunities and experiences I would not have been able to otherwise. I met singers, writers, celebrities, politicians, heroes, and ordinary people doing extraordinary things. I found a community full of people filled with grace, humor, and the capacity to give beyond measure.

You enriched my life by allowing me to tell your story to the rest of the world. It was an honor, as has been being able to write this column. I’m going to miss it, and the people it reaches.

God Bless You.

2009-11-22T18:41:00.002-06:00

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

2009-11-01T20:53:00.001-06:00

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

2009-09-27T13:22:00.007-05:00

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

2009-09-17T23:18:00.001-05:00

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

2009-09-11T09:31:00.003-05:00

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

2009-09-07T20:40:00.002-05:00

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

2009-08-31T22:31:00.000-05:00

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

2009-08-31T22:23:00.003-05:00

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.

2009-08-31T22:18:00.002-05:00

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

2009-08-31T22:16:00.001-05:00

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

2009-07-17T10:47:00.002-05:00

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

2009-06-19T19:53:00.002-05:00

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....

2009-06-16T18:58:00.002-05:00

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

2009-06-16T18:52:00.001-05:00

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

2009-06-16T18:49:00.001-05:00

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

2009-06-16T16:36:00.000-05:00

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

2009-06-16T16:31:00.002-05:00

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

2009-04-12T21:18:00.001-05:00

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

2009-04-12T21:16:00.000-05:00

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

2009-03-01T10:55:00.001-06:00

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

2009-02-18T22:17:00.000-06:00

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

2009-02-08T12:43:00.002-06:00

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

2009-02-05T18:52:00.000-06:00

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

2009-01-08T09:59:00.000-06:00

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.

Lights Of The Delta

2008-12-22T11:17:00.000-06:00

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

2008-12-22T11:15:00.000-06:00

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

2008-11-16T15:37:00.001-06:00

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

2008-10-24T10:43:00.002-05:00

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

2008-10-24T10:41:00.002-05:00

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

2008-10-04T20:31:00.000-05:00

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

2008-09-15T09:06:00.003-05:00

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

2008-09-07T21:36:00.001-05:00

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

2008-08-30T17:51:00.001-05:00

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

2008-08-24T21:46:00.002-05:00

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

2008-08-24T21:44:00.001-05:00

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

2008-08-24T21:40:00.001-05:00

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

2008-08-04T09:31:00.001-05:00

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

2008-07-26T19:45:00.002-05:00

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

2008-07-06T16:48:00.001-05:00

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

2008-07-03T15:39:00.002-05:00

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

2008-06-30T09:19:00.002-05:00

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

2008-06-21T19:44:00.001-05:00

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

2008-06-19T12:03:00.001-05:00

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

2008-06-09T09:22:00.002-05:00

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

2008-05-31T21:24:00.001-05:00

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

2008-05-17T22:10:00.000-05:00

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

2008-05-12T10:06:00.003-05:00

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

2008-05-12T09:49:00.002-05:00

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

2008-05-04T21:04:00.002-05:00

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

2008-05-02T22:43:00.002-05:00

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

2008-04-27T20:32:00.000-05:00

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

2008-04-24T10:18:00.003-05:00

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

2008-04-13T21:28:00.003-05:00

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

2008-04-07T10:33:00.001-05:00

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

2008-03-31T21:48:00.002-05:00

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.

Spring Break

2008-03-31T10:34:00.000-05:00

Quick, someone make school start. I can’t survive this version of a “break.” Tomorrow, Logan will be back at his desk. And I will be at home, recovering from the so-called Spring Break.

It may have been a break for some folks. It was more like work-release for Logan. That’s because he spent the first part of his week with his Nana and Papa down near Marion, at the retirement home they have built.

Papa Decanter rests by working. He may be the “Poor Old Elderly Papa” (his term, not mine) but he works like three strong men half his age. And Logan worked right along with him.

They are so much alike, this somewhat older man and this growing boy. Neither like to be bored. Neither can tolerate sitting around. Both are happier outdoors. Both are the happiest when they have something to do; happier still when that something is outside, working together.

Logan’s young back and willing hands were put to good use down at Haefer, three miles from the middle of nowhere, Arkansas. It’s a peaceful place. We have 12 acres of land that Logan can run or ride free on between us, my parents and my aunt.

Logan shoveled dirt on to a trailer, hauled dirt in a wheelbarrow, picked up wood and other debris, cleared land, filled in holes, did a little mechanical work, did a lot of yard work, and basically fetched, carried, ran, lifted, hauled and did everything else a Nana, Papa, Mom, and Aunt asked him to do.

Mom and I mainly watched. Except Mom cooked. A lot. And then she cooked some more. Logan has started eating all of the time. Every other hour he is hungry again. He is eating everything on the plate and then scraping the glaze off the plate. The kid that we had to beg to eat for 11 years is making up for lost time.

After two days, Logan was bruised, scratched, aching, sunburned, and windblown. He was not hungry, though. He had the time of his life. I brought him home Wednesday, concerned that any more fun would put him at risk for injury. Actually, I was more concerned that any more fun would put our checkbook at risk.

I’ve heard that fresh air, hard work and sunshine are good for you. At the rate Logan is growing, that boy can’t stand too much more of anything that is good for him. He’s bursting out of clothing faster than we can keep up already. Another day or two in the fresh air with Papa and he would have been wearing rags home to Blytheville.

I’m not sure how much of a “break” we got, but we had a great time all the same. Dad got some help and some Papa and Papa’s Pal bonding time; Logan got some exercise with a little work ethic thrown it, and my Mom and I; well, we did our part too.

We rocked on the front porch and swung on the back porch. We read books and watched movies and ate by the fireplace. We handed out back rubs and Tylenol to the wounded warriors and made the appropriate appreciative noises. It was a tough job, but somebody had to do it.

The Anniversary of a Nightmare

2008-03-24T07:56:00.002-05:00

Today is the anniversary of the day my life changed. Ten years ago on this day, horror came into my peaceful town, and killed innocence. Evil took the lives of four children and one adult, an angel shielding her charges. Evil came in and did something that had never been done before, and our lives changed. A barrier was broken, and now it gets crossed, time and time and time again. Evil came in that day, and it has never left.

This is the anniversary of the Westside school shootings. It was both a private and a public nightmare. Private, because our nephew was there. In the chaos that reigned, we couldn't find him. For us, among so many dead, hurt, and terrified; we searched for our one. The authorities were entirely too busy to find one child among so much horror. We were on our own. So, we did what families do. We spread out, and we searched, and finally, we found him. Safe, scared, and sound.

It was a public nightmare because almost instantly we were national news. Within minutes network news was there, in our yards and our restaurants and our hospitals and our schools. Cameras were everywhere you turned. We were grieving and shocked and still trying to make sense of just what had happened, and someone wanted to know how we felt about what had happened. How did they think we felt? We felt horrible.

It wasn't the local media that was the problem. For the most part, they treated the situation with respect. But the national media was ridiculous. They trespassed, they filmed places and things inappropriately and caused all manner of things that made the situation even worse.

Westside was the first. But sadly, they weren't the last. Each time there is another school shooting, the events of that day come rushing back to me. I will never forget that day. It changed something in my soul, scarred something in my heart, etched something in my brain.

Ten years have come and gone. The murderers are out of jail with a clean record, free to live their lives as if March 24, 1998 never happened. But it did happen. Four familes who no longer have their daughters know it happened. One man and one little boy who no longer have their wife and mother know it happened. A community whose life was changed that day know it happened. And a writer who has scars that will never heal knows it happened.

With No Warning

2008-03-22T17:48:00.002-05:00

Spring is finally here, bringing warmer temperatures, budding flowers, and Mother Nature’s fury. Around here, spring is not just about beauty, it can also be about disaster.

Spring doesn’t always come gently to Arkansas, and we have to be ready to take shelter from the storms. That means having a safe place, keeping an eye on the weather, staying informed, and when the severe weather sirens sound, being ready to take cover.

We seem to be having a problem in Blytheville with one of those things, though. Our weather sirens are not functioning the way they should be, and it is putting our citizens at risk.

I understand the problems. The sirens are old. The city is trying, most likely doing the best they can. The sirens are constantly being worked on by Public Works. It’s hard to get parts for the sirens because of their age. I get it. And, I don’t get it.

If this is the system we have chosen to use, it has to work. If it is beyond working, we must get a new system. During the last two severe weather events, the tornado sirens failed to work properly. An earlier power outage caused the latest failure. I don't know what caused the other one. The back up plan was for our law enforcement officers to go slowly down the streets of our city, warning our citizens of the severe weather.

While any plan is better than no plan at all, this just isn’t going to work as a routine measure. It is inherently dangerous. We’ve been lucky the last few times we have had severe weather. Mother Nature is not always in such a good mood.

In a true severe weather emergency, our officers would literally be putting their own lives on the line by going out trying to warn our citizens. In order for the warnings to be effective, they must move up and down the streets slowly. Storms move quickly.

There is absolutely no way the officers could warn every citizen of our community before the storm hit. In addition, people leave their safe spots to come to a window or door to see what the commotion with the lights and sirens are about. They should stay in their safe spot, not come out of them.

A tornado can pick up those police vehicles and toss them around like toys. Do we really want to risk our officer’s lives like that? I personally don’t. I have friends that work for the Blytheville Police Department and the Mississippi County Sheriff’s Office. Some of those friends are like family to me. I don’t want to lose them because they were being used in place of outdated equipment.

We must address this issue, and do whatever it takes to get a warning system that works each and every time. If the sirens are beyond repair, we need a new system. I don’t know what the answer is, I just know we need one.

It’s spring in Arkansas. That means beauty will come to our state. It also means more storms are coming. We must do something, now, before we risk losing the most valuable thing we have as a community: the people that live here.

Storm Surge

2008-03-20T13:54:00.004-05:00

My goodness. I get upset about weather coverage in my corner of the world, and I in turn upset a whole bunch of other people. Okay. Well, I expressed my opinion. They have the right to express theirs.

A few bits of housekeeping: Regarding Ryan Vaughn. He has a blog, and you should read it. It's at http://ryansmorningblog.blogspot.com. It tells his side of the story. He is correct in most of it, but a little off in a few things. I have no intention of writing about this for an article in the paper. The blog is a separate thing entirely, one where I freely express my opinion. I'm sorry he thought I would write an article that would negatively portray him, his station, and his weather coverage. Believe it or not, I'm more of a professional than that.

Both of us were upset that night. He was overwhelmingly busy, I was overwhelmingly frustrated. Several things went into my frustration, including that this isn't the first time Mississippi County has gotten the short end of the stick when it comes to severe weather coverage. Ryan could see the storms were diminishing. We couldn't. Our sirens weren't working, and our officers were doing their best to warn our citizens. Our problem. Yes, I know. But we could have used a little help.

I could have expressed myself more rationally to him, stated the problem more clearly. If I had made it more clear that our sirens were down and that law enforcement were the ones spotting the funnel clouds, perhaps we would have had a better conversation.

I trust KAIT's weather coverage. Which is precisely why I wanted to continue watching it. They have saved lives, and will continue to. I just want to be included in that weather coverage, even though I live on the fringes.

Not Always Watching, At Least For Us

2008-03-19T11:02:00.006-05:00

I'm furious. It doesn't happen often, so you might want to step back. I'm easy going about a lot of things. But this thing happens, each and every time, over and and over again. Each time, I think it will be different this time. Each time, it's the same thing.

Once again, last night, we had severe weather here. Once again, the supposedly "regional" news channel covered the weather only until it got past their city borders, then dropped coverage and returned to regular programming. Seven minutes later, our law enforcement officers spotted rotation in two separate locations in our area.

We continued to have severe weather for hours. The regional channel continued to ignore us, for hours.

It has happened before, often enough that it shouldn't suprise me. I keep hoping our "good neighbors" over at KAIT 8 will take that title seriously, but apparently they take it too seriously. If you aren't, quite literally, their neighbor, they just don't care.

Their new tag line these days is "Always Watching, Always Tracking, Always On." Well, maybe for some people. Not for those of us in Mississippi County. It was a Memphis channel that was telling me what was happening with the weather last night. Channel 8 thought a sitcom was more important.

The reason this upset me particularly last night is that some of our tornado sirens weren't operating. Our officers were literally having to go street by street, warning our citizens of the severe weather. Wouldn't it have been nice if some regional channel that was watching, tracking, and on would have helped our residents out by doing just that and letting us know about the severe weather in our area? Guess the sitcom and the dancing stars were more important that the continual rotation that kept developing.

I was upset enough that I called Ryan Vaughn last night. I identified myself as being with the Blytheville Courier News, because insanity reigns during bad weather. I wanted him to know that I wasn't the regular "I just saw aliens in the tornado" person that bad weather brings out.

I told him some of our sirens were down, that law enforcement officers had spotted rotation, and that I was upset they had dropped coverage even though Mississippi County was still under the gun. I added Memphis stations were telling us to take cover, while they were doing their regular programming.

His response? He wanted to know if we had damage. He told me he would not go on the air with the storms in Mississippi County unless I had damage to report. It's nice to know he's not concerned with the storms beforehand, only the damage after the fact. He told me they had been on the air for hours already, and if the Memphis station was telling us about the storms in our area, they were "just trying to scare us."

I swear to you I am not making this up. I know he was tired. I know he was busy. But this doesn't make sense. If it is so vitally important to get the news out in Jonesboro and the surrounding area, how can it be so unimportant when the bad weather gets over here? They get sufficiently warned, but we don't because warning us will just scare us?

Oh, I don't think so. I'm glad there were other news channels out there willing to look out for us, even though we are in a different state. I just wish the channel that claims us as being in their region thought that region extended to being included in severe weather coverage.

A Chance Romance

2008-03-16T07:20:00.001-05:00

I have an announcement to make. I am going to be a grandmother. Yes, I am much too young. No, I am not in denial about my age, not at all.

It’s not my 12-year-old that is making me a grandmother, it’s my other baby. My three year old fur baby, Chance. He’s a small black Pomeranian. We have a friend that has a Pomeranian named Shrimp Scampi. Shrimp because she is tiny, Scampi because she scampers everywhere she goes.

She’s a girly baby doll, about half the size of Chance. But when she decides she’s had enough foolishness, she can bare her teeth at you with the best of them.

Scampi is a smart little thing too. Her big brother is a Lab. If Scampi wants to bark at something larger than her (which is pretty much everything) she first runs under the legs of her big brother. Then she tells the world her opinion, safe and protected.

Our friends wanted puppies, and thought Chance was, well, the man for the job. So now Chance is going to be a daddy.

I’m not sure the dog that cowers under the bed in fear of the vacuum cleaner, growls at thunder, and walks around with a pink teddy bear in his mouth is father material. He still has some growing up to do himself.

The dog that is having babies is addicted to his own baby. Chance absolutely, positively must have his little pink bear in his sight at all times. Most of the time, it is in his mouth. When he isn’t chewing on it, he is laying on it.

When Baby gets a bath, Chance goes spastic until Baby is safe and sound back in Chance’s possession. And when Baby is finally worn out from too much love, we have to go to the only store in town that sells Baby clones, and buy another one just exactly like it. In fact, we keep duplicate Baby’s on hand, in case Baby meets a fatal accident on nights or weekends.

I can ask Chance "Where’s Baby?" or tell him "Go get your Baby" and he will go get the bear. When we need Chance to get in his crate, go to a certain room, come in from outside, or do something he doesn’t particularly want to do; the fastest way to get him to obey is to grab Baby. That dog will go anywhere or do anything if the bear is there.

I’m not sure what to think about my own fur baby having babies. Our friends told us we could have pick of the litter, to which we immediately replied no thanks. One human child and one doggie child is enough for our family. I love Chance, more than I ever thought I would, but our lives are such that one dog is all we need.

However, I am very excited to meet these little ones when they come along. I’m anxious to see what they look like and see what characteristics they have of their mom and dad.
Chance and Scampi are both funny, loving, sweet little doggies. I can’t wait to meet my grandpuppies. With their parents, there is a good "Chance" the new little "Shrimps" are sure to be the cutest, most interesting little fluff balls ever.

Troubles Abound

2008-03-13T20:30:00.002-05:00

My cousin Bobby, who has been in the hospital in Hot Springs, has brain cancer. He is the son of my aunt, Sister. Her husband is recovering from heart surgery. Sigh.

My family seems to have been bitten by the bad health bug. We just lost my uncle to cancer, and now this. Bobby is younger, and a fighter. There is hope, where there simply was none with my Uncle Tom.

I'm not sure how we managed to get on this particular merry-go-round, but I want this one to stop. I want off of this ride.

A Sad Update

2008-03-02T21:00:00.002-06:00

I wrote Troubled Times last Thursday, for my regular deadline of noon on Thursday. It appeared as my regular column in the Sunday morning edition of Courier News. My Uncle Tom died Sunday night around 6:30 p.m.

Please keep his family in your prayers.

Troubled Times

2008-03-02T20:57:00.001-06:00

They say misery loves company. I’m thinking trouble doesn’t like being lonely either. Trouble has come to my family, and has brought grief and turmoil with it.

Last Monday was a long day for us. We spent part of it at a hospital in Memphis. My Uncle Harold, my mother’s brother-in-law, is there with heart problems. Despite procedures and medications, nothing seems to be working.

My aunt, the woman we have called "Sister" all of our lives, was by his side. But her mind was also on her son, who was in a hospital in Hot Springs. My cousin Bobby was in Intensive Care, from complications after brain surgery. Sister came from the hospital in Hot Springs to the hospital in Memphis when Harold started having chest pains. They are still there, weeks later.

We also spent some time in Tupelo, Mississippi. My dad’s brother-in-law, my Uncle Tom, was in the hospital there. He has cancer. In his liver, his spleen, his spine, his lungs, and his brain. He has eight tumors in his brain. There is no hope.

Three weeks ago, my Uncle Tom and my Aunt Linda were on vacation at the Grand Canyon. All was well, and they had no idea he was sick. Then he spilled his coffee, and his balance seemed a little off. He got lost at the airport. My aunt was mildly concerned, so she scheduled a doctor’s appointment. The bottom of their world simply dropped out from beneath them.

A month ago he was fine, or so we thought. And in a month or so, he will no longer be with us.
We know life has no guarantees. We know people die. Yet it is still a shock, each time. As we drove through Tupelo, we passed the hotel we had stayed in when my grandmother was sick. We went to the same hospital, walked the same halls.

We drove through New Albany, passed the hospital both my grandmother and my grandfather died at. We passed the hotel we stayed in, the restaurant we ate most of our meals at. Although it has been six years since we lost my Mom Decanter and not quite two years since we lost my Pop, the grief was still fresh as we retraced some of those same steps.

Now, here we are again, on the brink of losing another that we love. To that murdering beast that has already stolen part of my family. Cancer. I hate that word. It is the filthiest of words, the vilest of all of the curse words in the human language.

My Aunt Linda is devastated, as you would expect. They have been married more than 45 years. They have three children, two grandchildren; a life built together since she was teenager. She simply does not know how she will function alone when she always had her partner by her side.

We, her family, have and will continue to surround her with love. It won’t be enough, of course, but perhaps it will help as much as anything can help in such horrible circumstances.
If you see my mom, my dad, or me around in the next little while, we might be a little distracted. We might be thinking about my cousin Bobby in Hot Springs; my Uncle Harold in Memphis, or my Uncle Tom in Tupelo.

We are a family, and when one part of us has trouble, we all have trouble. Our hearts are hurting, because we can’t be everywhere we need to be each and every time we need to be there.

My Aunt Linda told me she wished I lived in Mississippi, so I could help her get through this. I will help her, in any way I can. We all will, with each of them. It’s what we do, when trouble comes to family.

Bigfoot Discovered Alive

2008-02-19T09:58:00.000-06:00

After years of rumor and speculation and grainy photos, I have proof. Bigfoot is alive. Not only is he alive, he is living in Blytheville. He’s a good bit younger than most experts thought, but he does exist. I know, because he lives with me.

My son’s feet have grown again. At 12, his feet are bigger than his dad’s. We are down to buying him one pair of shoes at a time, because he goes through them so fast that it just doesn’t makes sense to buy more.

Last week, his shoes fit when I dropped him off for school that morning. That afternoon, there was a hole in them. He busted out of that pair in one day, a record for him. It made me think of the Incredible Hulk. At least he didn’t turn green and start throwing things.

I shouldn’t be surprised, because we recently had to go buy all new uniforms for him. He literally outgrew the ones we bought at the start of the year within a week. They fit on Monday. They didn’t fit on Friday. This is getting expensive. At this rate, we are going to have to start a clothing fund along with the college fund.

When he saw his Grandma in Jonesboro a few weeks ago, she looked up at him and said, "you’ve done it again." He had gotten taller on her since she had seen him last. She sees him every few weeks, and he is taller every time she sees him. It’s kind of funny. It’s kind of scary. That’s my little boy, in that body that is taller than I am.

We all have the flu, courtesy of Gary bringing it home from Nucor. He got it at work, brought it home to me, and I gave it to Logan. Thankfully, Logan doesn’t have it as bad as Gary and I do.
I took Logan to the doctor at the first sign of his symptoms, hoping to head off the worst of it. It’s been a while since he has been there. The receptionist did a double-take. So did the nurse. So did the doctor.

They all used to call him "little Logan." because he was so small for so long. Practically every one in the office asked "that’s little Logan?" They wouldn’t have recognized him, this almost teen-ager towering over me.

"He’s not little Logan anymore," is what one of the ladies at the doctor’s office told me. No. Indeed, he is not. He is growing and changing right before our eyes. I don’t really mind it, for though I loved little Logan, it is time for him to be put in the past. It is exciting to see what this Logan is becoming. It’s hard to let go of the boy. But it is going to be easy to embrace the young man.

Not So Super Tuesday

2008-02-10T10:04:00.000-06:00

I can hear the buzzing of chainsaws from my office. A crew is next door, getting the tree off the roof of my neighbor’s house. It woke her up Tuesday night as the tree crashed into her home, above the bed she was sleeping in. Talk about a nightmare.

It was a nightmare for others, too. My aunt’s son is a police officer in the outskirts of Memphis. He was out in that chaos trying to help and protect others instead of trying to protect himself. His daughter was in Jackson, Tennessee at a small Christian college, huddled up for safety. My Aunt Ruth was worried both for her son and her granddaughter, and more than worried when she knew Jackson had taken a direct hit.

Mike and Marnie are both okay. Marnie’s college is very much not okay. She’s supposed to graduate in May, but it will be without about 80 percent of her campus looking like it looked Tuesday afternoon before the storms.

It’s horrible, all over. My favorite run away spot is damaged, over near Mountain Home. We love the Bull Shoals /White River area around Gassville and Lake View and Cotter. We camp and fish and canoe over there. If we can’t get that far away from home, we sometimes run over to the Spring River around Hardy and Highland and Ash Flat.

The beauty of the mountains and the rivers may surround them, but their people have been devastated. It’s so sad, every time. There is no rhyme or reason. One home is destroyed, one home is perfect. One life is gone, one life is spared.

At Marnie’s college, dorm rooms were completely torn apart, yet clothes hung neatly in a closet, not touched at all. That closet was now outdoors, but it was in perfect order while rubble was piled up just inches away from it.

It doesn’t make sense. It never has. I guess it never will. One of the things I was grateful for last Tuesday night, other than the fact that our community was mostly spared, was our own hard working men and women of our police and fire departments and emergency squad.

They were out in force with their eyes to the sky. They saw a good bit of rotation, and made sure our community was safe by having the tornado sirens activated when appropriate. Several of them had damage to their vehicles in the course of their duties. They very well could have been harmed while trying to protect us from harm.

It was the thing my Aunt Ruth was the most worried about. Her son might have had a job to do, but more important to her was that he was her son and he was in danger. She didn’t want him to be. She wanted him inside somewhere, safe and sound.

Mike knew his job was outside, so others would be safe and sound. So did our guys and gals of our police departments and sheriff’s office, of our fire departments and emergency squad, our trained spotters and our ham radio operators.

We have emergency services for a reason, and Tuesday night made that very clear to me. Super Tuesday took on a whole new meaning for those of us in Arkansas and Tennessee and other states in the Mid-South. It was more like Super Cell Tuesday.

All in all, I wish that kind of weather never happened. But since it does, I’m glad we have people that are willing to stand for me, to watch for me, to make sure me and mine will be well warned and well protected when the nightmare comes to my house. Being well served by those who have vowed to protect and serve. It’s just one part of being from Around Here.

For Whom the Doorbell Tolls

2008-01-27T14:20:00.000-06:00

I’m a friendly person. I really am. I’m easy to get along with, because there are very few things that bother me. Even at that, I realize the things that bother me don’t necessarily bother others. I guess I’m a live and let live kind of person. You do your thing and I’ll do mine.

You don’t have to agree with me for us to get along. Most of my friends are polar opposites of me. In fact, so is most of my family. So is my husband. I’m used to being the odd one out, and having a sense of humor about it.

Being the friendly sort, I like people. All kinds, all colors, all faiths, all beliefs. You don’t have to be like me. In fact, there’s an excellent chance you won’t be, which is probably a good thing for you. Having said that, I’m feeling a little less than friendly lately.

The reason? My hyperactive doorbell. It’s not my family and friends that I’m opposed to, and it’s certainly not the pizza guys and gals, who are welcomed with open arms. It’s the others, and they are starting to make a nuisance of themselves. They fall into three broad categories. If I were the unfriendly type, I would post a notice by my doorbell. It would go something like this.

"If you are a salesman, we don’t want any. If we wanted it, we would have already bought it." This category would include the vacuum salesman that stayed for almost three hours, in spite of the fact that we told him, repeatedly, we weren’t interested. I have hard wood and tile through most of my home. The one room with carpet doesn’t need a vacuum that costs thousands of dollars. Which we told him, over and over. He had apparently been dropped off, and was waiting on a ride. We finally got him back out of the door, and he had to wait for a ride. Mean of us, yes, but so is not taking no for an answer.

"No, we do not want you to rake our leaves, cut our grass, or trim our trees. We have a yard service for that. If we get desperate, we have a 12 year-old son for that." This one really gets to me. We have someone ring our doorbell just about every single day offering to do yard work. First of all, I frankly just don’t care if I have leaves in my yard. I have two giant oak trees in my yard, so I’m going to have leaves, even if the yard guy has just come. As soon as the wind blows, there are going to be more leaves.

Neither do I care if the grass is an 1/8 of an inch above where it should be. I pay handsomely for someone to do my yard, but admittedly we are easygoing about it. He gets to us when he can. We just aren’t that picky. When the day comes that I have only the leaves on my yard to stress over, that will be a joyful day indeed.

And, last but not certainly not least: "I am a firm believer in my faith. You are not going to change my mind. Please don’t try." I am apparently doomed to damnation, at least in one sweet lady’s mind. She is sincere. She is faithful. She has been to my door probably a dozen times in the last three months. I think she is truly concerned for me, but she just will not accept that I am strong in my faith and she is not going to sway me. I like her, and wouldn’t mind getting to know her or having a cup of coffee with her.

But I’m not going to argue about my faith with her. She doesn’t agree with mine, and I happen to believe hers is a cult, not a religion. I haven’t told her that, because it would offend her, and that is not what I want to do. She really is sweet. So is all of the others that want me to switch brands to their particular version of their particular religion.

I don’t believe there is only one true faith, only one brand that is the chosen one. People are individuals, and different types of churches that worship in different ways appeal to different people. I think God is a lot more concerned about whether or not we worship Him than how we choose to worship Him. There are a few absolute truths that a church must believe in order to truly be a church, but other than that, I just don’t think it matters what name is over the door.

We each have our individual styles of worship and our individual preferences of churches. God made us as individuals, so I believe He understands our need to have different churches.
My sweet little lady calls it being divisive. I call it being unique, the way God made each of us.

I’m a friendly sort, to all sorts. But if you are a salesman, a itinerant yard worker, or in the mood to convert someone, I would prefer you go be friendly to someone else. Unless you’re bringing pizza. In that case, you can ring my doorbell anytime.

Looking Back To Go Forward

2008-01-22T16:30:00.000-06:00

Several weeks ago, I was at the Mayo Clinic. One of the things I was required to do was attend a two day Pain Clinic. This is not something I wanted to do. I had to do it as a step to getting ready for surgery later on this year.

When I told my doctor that I felt like I had the coping skills the pain clinic would teach me, he explained that it was a requirement. Since the surgery will not fix my problem and will not take away all of the pain from my problem, the team of doctors on my case require the two day seminar. As my doctor put it, if nothing else, I had to attend it so we could check off that little box on the list of things I had to do to get ready.

So I went, with a not so good attitude. I absolutely hate being required to do something, and especially dislike doing something that seems like both a waste of time and money.
I know how to relax. I know how to breathe. I know how to talk to my family, how to tell them when I am and am not capable of doing something. I know how to exercise and eat right and do things in moderation. I don’t abuse narcotics, because I don’t take them. I’m not depressed. I’m not stressed.

I did learn, though. One of the most important things I learned is that I have come a long, long way in these almost six years. The things I know to do didn’t just come naturally. It came by trial and error and mistakes and what didn’t work and what, finally, did work.
It would have been nice if five years ago or so someone would have mentioned a seminar at the Pain Clinic. The other thing, the most important thing, I learned is that other people on the journey I am sometimes lose their way.

Other people in the seminar were stressed. They were depressed. Some severely. They were addicted to pain killers. They didn’t have the support of their family and friends. Some of those folks were desperate for help, and needed that help right now.

It reminded me of darker days, of days when the pain was all encompassing, when I could think of nothing and no one else. It reminded me of when I did take narcotics, and it reminded me of why I no longer do. It reminded me of the awesome family and friends I have, and that I absolutely could not do this without their help and support.

I looked into the sometimes frantic eyes of the other group members, and I saw my past. They looked at those of us who have managed to come a little further, and they saw their future. There is hope, there is help, and, amazingly enough, there was something to be learned.

I started out thinking I would learn nothing of value at the Pain Clinic. I was wrong. I learned the most valuable lesson of all. I learned to appreciate what my life is now, because I had forgotten what it had been.

Waiting and Wondering

2008-01-21T09:28:00.000-06:00

We got the call Saturday. A friend has a son in Iraq. His platoon had been hit. There was a fatality, and there were injuries. He was not the fatality. Otherwise, we would just have to wait for more information. And wait. And wait. And wait.

Through all the rest of Saturday. Through all of Sunday. Who knew a day could be so long, could drag on and on and on? His wife was getting updates every hour on the hour, yet still his name wasn't coming up. Going on the hope that no news was good news, the waiting went on. And on. And on. Through Sunday night and into the early hours of Monday.

And then, finally, Monday morning, a short phone call. He is fine. Tired, dirty, dejected. And he can't talk about what happened or what is about to happen, what has his family and friends praying yet again for his safety. He can tell them it's not yet over, and so the waiting goes on. And on. And on. But so does the praying, for this man we love to be safe yet one more time; for all of them to be safe yet again.

And so we wait, and so we pray. Again and again, over and over, until the next phone call.

In Memory of Milo

2008-01-19T12:53:00.000-06:00

We lost our dog Milo in the fire. It has been heartbreaking for us. He was our dear friend and a very special part of our family. Milo was a 13 year old maltese and has brought us a lot of joy and happiness. My heart goes out to all the families who lost their pet's.
Sincerly
Betty Jerome

In Loving Memory

2008-01-18T10:46:00.000-06:00

I feel the loss as if mine had been there in that fire. Last week, Chance spent six days at Dr. Cato's home away from home, living in the doggy hotel until we got back from Minnesota. So easily, it could have been mine. It was some of yours. There is, quite simply, nothing that can be done to ease the pain and the sorrow. But I would want a way to remember my beloved pet if he had gone on, and so I would like to offer a way for anyone affected to do the same.

I would like to be able to memorialize the pets lost. If you will post your thoughts, your stories, your memories or whatever you would like, I will put them all together on this blog, and we will rejoice in their lives and the love and joy they brought to us. We might be able to upload pictures, too. I'm still not sure about that part.

For now, this is your page, to honor the lives and the memory of your pets. If you have questions or comments or concerns, email me at tfurnish@sbcglobal.net.

Horror

2008-01-17T16:06:00.000-06:00

My first thought was "Oh, Dear God, have mercy." My next thought was of the horror, the tragedy, and the loss, both human and not. Dr. B.R. Cato's veterinarian office burned down early this morning. That in and of itself would be a tragedy, for he is a good man and an excellent vet.

But it couldn't be just as simple as a tragedy to a good man. There were animals in there, about 40 of them. None of them, not one, could be saved. And so, the horror. There isn't blame here. I'm sure the Fire Department did all they could do. The building was blazing when they got there. There was, quite simply, nothing they could do for the animals.

And Dr. Cato? I can't imagine what he is going through right now, but I know that he takes excellent care of my cherished pet. He is compassionate and understanding and loving, to each of his patients. So I would think that the word grieving doesn't cover it. Horrified, devastated... there just are no words.

If this seems personal to you, let me assure it is. Last week my fur baby would have been there, and today he would no longer be with us. So, yeah, this hits home for me. My pet wasn't there, but someone's was, and they loved their pet just as much as we love ours. Their loss was as devastating as our loss would have been.

For Dr. Cato, that loss is magnified times forty. He has lost his business, but I would think that would pale in comparison to the loss of life. Every time I see him, I am struck again by his gentleness, and I just can't imagine the suffering he will endure in the coming weeks.

So, the horror. If your pet was there, I am so very sorry for you. I know it doesn't help the loss, but I am so very, very sorry. If you want to tell your story, or share a cherished memory, feel free to do it through this page, in the comments section. You can contact me, and I'll share my space with you. I know it's not much, but I feel helpless and would like to be able to do something.

Home Again

2008-01-12T09:31:00.000-06:00

We survived it all. Again. Thursday morning started off sticky, literally, with needles going into my brain. Yes, it hurts. A lot. It got kind of interesting when the doctors couldn't find a pulse in my brain for a while. You pretty much need one of those pulses to be, well, alive. I was obviously alive, but they really, really wanted to find that pulse. We all breathed a sigh of relief when they found it, faint, but there. When I mentioned that my husband has always thought I should donate my brain to science when I die, the doctors agreed that it would be a service to mankind. I don't think they were joking.

Thursday afternoon was even more needles. Sigh. But then we packed up and left, on our way home. Yea! Our feeling of euphoria was short lived. We hit Iowa, and Iowa hit back with a nasty snowstorm. What falls silently at home was hitting our windshield so hard it sounded like hard rain. It looked like dense fog. Yes, we know better than to schedule a trip in January. It was getting dark and slick. We pulled off at a hotel, only to learn it was shut down. Lovely. We got back on the interstate, diligently praying for our safety and for a hotel to magically appear.

We made it to Cedar Rapids, and then got totally twisted around in downtown. We could see the hotels, but we couldn't get to them. They have an amazingly twisted version of one way streets. We managed to accidentally get back on the interstate going north, the direction we had just come. Not a good thing. My husband was not using his happy voice. The streets were slick, the traffic was heavy, and we were exhausted.

We got back off, got twisted and untwisted and finally just made a illegal u-turn to avoid going where we didn't want to go again. We found a hotel, found a room, and rejoiced that we were out of that mess. It snowed for hours, and for inches and inches. What the locals called "just a dusting" and what amounted to about half a foot when it was all said and done.

Friday morning we waited for rush hour to clear off the roads, then got back headed South where just a dusting of snow is not half a foot, but half a inch. My kind of snow. My kind of place. Around Here. Thank God.

Day Three- Free Day

2008-01-09T21:10:00.000-06:00

Today is my birthday, and the best gift was that we had a free day at Mayo. That means no needles, a very good thing. Tomorrow there will be lots of needles, a not-so-good thing. We love exploring up here. It is so different from home, and we have seen some amazing things in the years we have been coming to Minnesota.

Today we went east, to a community called Harmony. Wouldn't it be nice to live in a place called Harmony? It is an Old Order Amish community. Horse and buggies, no electricity, very strict rules. We passed a horse and buggy with his rider, and while the rig went faster than I had imagined, I also felt sorry for the man. It's cold up here, and that open air rig couldn't have been a comfortable drive. We browsed in some of the shops, and the attention to detail and workmanship was incredible.

While I think I would go crazy living that life-style, I can see the benefit of a community of like minded people working together and pulling together in times of need to help each other. Gary thinks that if you could get accustomed to the life style, it would eventually be relaxing. No debt, less stress, people that you knew you could count on.

We also drove to the small community of Lanesboro, probably what our downtown Main Street would like to grow up to be. Shops, restaurants, theaters, galleries and other attractions are in old historic buildings that have been restored. The town is nestled into the bluffs along the Root River, which meanders its way lazily in around and through town. A foot bridge crosses over the river and leads to a lake with a gazebo on it. The lake is frozen now, and shows signs of foot and snowmobile traffic across it. We watched eagles fly and land in their nests in the cold, clear air, and looked out over the snow covered hills and valleys.

When we got back to Rochester, I went to my favorite Italian restaurant, Victoria's. It's almost worth the twelve hour drive just to go there. Even Gary likes it, high praise from my picky husband. They make a great steak for those non-Italian lovers among us, husbands included. The hotel shuttle driver sang to me on the way to the restaurant, so all of the rest of the passengers on their way back to the hotel from their various appointments at Mayo joined in. It was a .... unique....experience.

So this has been an excellent day, filled with new sights and sounds and wonders. I would prefer not to spend a birthday, or any day when it comes down to it, at Mayo. But since I had to be here, we made the best of it.

Day One - Monday

2008-01-07T20:15:00.000-06:00

Day One is over and done, another one down and survived. It was a looong one. But it's over. I'm sore from so much walking. Mayo is a huge place, actually a complex of quite a few buildings spread out over several city blocks. One appointment today was at St. Mary's hospital this morning; a continuation at St. Mary's from 1 p.m. to about 3; then another appointment at Mayo, which is actually just one building in the whole complex. St. Mary's is probably a mile or more from the Mayo building.

There are shuttles that take you from building to building and wheelchairs if you need them, but even just going from one appointment to another in the same building requires covering the equivalent of several city blocks.

We went to Fridays to eat my favorite thing...fried green beans. I know it sounds gross. It is actually a lot better than it sounds. It has no nutritional value whatsoever, but I really like them, and we don't have a TGIFriday's at home. After that we went to the mall to use one of my Christmas gifts from my mother-in-law, a gift certificate to Barnes and Noble. I love to read, and could literally spend hours in a book store. I never get to spend as much time as I want, because there is always something else that needs to be done. But up here, after we are done for the day, we have nothing but time to kill. Gary got a magazine and just sat and read while I browsed and browsed and browsed. I loved it. Gary tolerated it.

Tomorrow it is back to St. Mary's hospital for another full day, but then we get a break Wednesday.

We're Here

2008-01-06T18:14:00.000-06:00

Here we are in Rochester, and I must say it was an...interesting trip up. About eight hours into the twelve hour journey, Gary and I renewed our vow to never, ever, ever come to Minnesota in January again.

We meant it last time we made that vow. I'm pretty sure we aren't going to have to learn this lesson a third time. It's not fit for man or beast up here. I stick by the theory I made a few years ago that the reason people stay up here during the winter is that something freezes up in their brain during the brutal weather and they forget how horrible it is from winter to winter. Then they are stuck and can't get out during the worst of the weather, but then it gets nicer and they don't remember how horrible it was. It is a vicious cycle. These poor folks have three seasons to escape but don't.

This time, it was fog that made the trip interesting. Not just any fog, though. Warm fog. I'm not sure what a weatherman would call it. It is unusually warm up here (for this part of the country). Most of Iowa was in the fifties on our way north, and Minnesota was in the high thirties. That warm air was hovering over literally feet and feet of piled up snow over the fields and at the edges of the roadways. It created this monster fog from the warm air over the cold snow. You just couldn't see at all, and you couldn't see for hours. It cleared up about 15 minutes before we got to the hotel. Sigh.

And it gets better. Freezing rain and sleet and snow tomorrow. But at least we don't have to drive in it, since I will be at the hospital all day. Inside is about the only way I want to deal with Minnesota weather. It is pretty to watch, because it can snow a whole lot in just a little bit of time. But all in all, I'm glad I'm just a visitor.

Forgetfulness and Other Diseases

2008-01-05T18:13:00.000-06:00

Wow. Long time no blog. Sorry about that. My editor is too. I'm not quite used to having a blog yet, and I got caught up in the holidays and sort of, well, forgot. Memory is not one of my best things.

I used to have a memory, then I developed a brain with swiss cheese-like holes in it. My theory is that the memory was the first thing to start leaking out. The medication I take has memory loss as a side effect.

Which means that I pretty much forget everything, all the time. We live on post-it notes and dry erase boards at our house. There is one in every room and by every telephone, plus a Master Board of sorts on the refrigerator. If you want me to do it, it better be written down. If you don't write it down, you never said it. Even if you said it a dozen times, it just didn't happen if I can't see it in writing.

It's frustrating, but it is also a fact of life. It's easier to just learn how to cope than it is to fuss and fume and wish otherwise. I have one place, and one place only, that I always put my keys. They never go anywhere else. Therefore they never get lost and I never forget where I put them. If I put them somewhere else, my family puts them back where they go. My husband has one place for his keys and wallet. My son has one place for his backpack, and the hated belt he has to wear to school everyday.

It sounds organized and efficient, but what it really does is save a lot of fuss and bother. If I don't have one place for the important things, I will never remember where I put them. If I don't have one place to write down things for me to remember, I will never know where to look for important messages.

It started out as a necessity to keep us from killing each other and has evolved over the past five and a half years as a routine that saves a lot of grief and searching and "don't you remember that I told you about that?"

Because at my house, the answer is always No. I don't remember. Not even five or ten minutes later. It is frustrating, and I try to remember, and I wish I could remember, but there is just a black hole in there some where. Maybe all those jocks in high school that accused me of being an airhead, based on the fact that I was petite, perky and a natural blond, had it right all along after all. There may just be air in there. What is not in there is any sort of short term memory.

Since we've all settled down from the holidays now and have gotten back into some semblance of a routine, perhaps I'll do better with the blogging. SantaBaby (otherwise known the rest of the year as my husband) brought me a laptop for Christmas, so perhaps it will be easier now. It won't help the memory any, but it might make it more convenient. I'll try to do better. Maybe I'll write a note to myself. That usually works. Until I lose the note.

Santa Claus Is Coming To Frown

2007-12-17T10:09:00.000-06:00

Bless his heart. The poor man is incredibly busy right now. He’s making lists and checking them twice. He’s overseeing the massive production of millions of toys. He’s getting the reindeer in shape, filing flight plans, pouring over the most efficient way to cover the entire world in one night. And now he also has to fend off criticism about his appearance?

It’s tough to be Santa Claus. Last week the Surgeon General of the United States said that Santa needed to go on a diet. Santa is a bad role model for all the children he comes in contact with. What we need is not a jolly, roly-poly Santa, but a thin, healthier, weight conscious Santa.

I suppose if you are the Surgeon General, you would take your job of being very serious about health issues; well, very seriously. And overweight children are no joke. But let’s just leave Santa out of this issue, shall we?

The man does a lot of good. He’s a little heavy, yes. But depending on whose research you believe, he is anywhere from more than two hundred to more than two centuries old. Maybe Santa should be giving us some healthy living tips.

He is environmentally conscious. He doesn’t use gasoline or diesel to get around. You never hear about a chemical spill or fire caused by Santa or his workers. The news isn’t full of toy recalls coming out of Santa’s workshop. Elves don’t go on strike because of bad working conditions at the North Pole, a minor miracle considering that it is at the North Pole.

The Humane Society doesn’t have to investigate complaints of animal abuse. There was that one time when the other reindeers were being mean to Rudolph, calling him names and not letting him play with them; but Santa put a stop to that pretty quickly.

Santa enforces good behavior among our children. He gets them into bed early on those frantic nights right before Christmas, when it is the most important that they behave the best. Let’s face it. We are all exhausted right before Christmas. Our kids get treats they normally wouldn’t, and are around all the relatives and friends they don’t usually see. The kids are hyper from excitement and exhaustion. But when they normally would be at their worst, just a reminder about Santa settles them into well behaved little ladies and gentlemen.

Santa seems like a pretty smart guy to me. He manages to handle a multi-dimensional empire all year long and only makes the news once a year. Not one reindeer has come forward with a scandal. Not one elf. Mrs. Claus hasn’t asked Dr. Phil for help with her marriage, or cried on Oprah’s couch.

I think we ought to just leave Santa’s waist line alone. With all the good he accomplishes, the man deserves his milk and cookies.

Rollin' On The River

2007-12-09T16:21:00.000-06:00

It’s just not safe when we get together. My husband has suggested that we should come with a warning label. That might have been helpful this past weekend, when I celebrated a little early with my sister in Little Rock.

The only day Gary and his Mom both have off is Christmas Day. That happens to be the day the rest of my family are going to be down in Little Rock with everyone else. So we are going to celebrate with the Jonesboro side Christmas Day, and the Little Rock side....well, we haven’t quite figured that part out yet.

They are a fluid bunch, spreading out in all directions. I can’t seem to keep all of them in one place at one time long enough for all of us to get with all of them. Throw in my husband’s unusual work schedule, and, of course, the almighty, not-to-be-messed-with deer season; and things get complicated.

Since I knew I wouldn’t see my sister again before Christmas, I bummed a ride with my Mom and Dad when they had to go to Little Rock. We planned on a little quiet conversation, very subdued. Not.

We planned on eating as much as possible, as often as possible. We planned on shopping until the credit cards melted. We planned on staying up and staying out and playing and laughing as much as we could in the 24 or so hours we had.

The only problem with that on-the-go scenario is that I had to be in a wheelchair. My mom has a brace on her knee, after injuring herself cleaning house. She’s pretty serious about a clean house. That’s another column entirely. I will say that, after knowing she was hurt, she continued to clean for several more hours. Like any good southern lady, she knows any injury short of death is no excuse for a less than spotless home.

So here we are, my mom limping along with a brace on her leg, me rolling along in a wheelchair, and my sister. Oh, and my son. The wheelchair driver. The 12- year-old wanna be Nascar driver wheelchair navigator. Did I mention it has been suggested that we should come with a warning label?

Logan had to continually reminded to slow down. He wanted to help by pushing me, but his version of slow was our version of very fast. The only threat that seemed to work was for Aunt Teresa to offer to push. Teresa was darting in and out and over and around, trying to take care of all of us.

My idea of looking at something is to read everything on the box, read everything on the other boxes of other brands around it, and then to compare them. Logan’s idea of me looking at something was for me to be able to glance at the box and possibly speed read it as he drove me by that particular section. Shopping is not his thing.

We made it through. Little Rock survived, and so did we. We ate as much as possible, as often as possible. I drank really excellent coffee, something that always makes me very happy. I met my niece’s new significant other, and we all stayed up talking so late that my Dad fell asleep on us and Teresa was about asleep between sentences.

It was exactly the weekend I had hoped for, although it might have been easier on Teresa if Mom and I had been a little more mobile. We did manage to get around though. The credit cards coming due in a few weeks will be proof. It was too early for Christmas, but it wasn’t too early to get the holiday started.

A little fun, a lot of family, some silliness and some saneness. We didn’t blow anything up, we didn’t shut anything down. We were perfectly safe, with no warnings needed. This time.

Rolling Along

2007-12-05T21:53:00.000-06:00

I'm still limping around from the stray needle hitting a nerve a few months ago. I'm getting better, but it is a slow process. Last week I was in Little Rock with my sister, and I was in a wheelchair.

As we navigated around the crowded aisles, I was reminded again that so many places that say they are handicapped accessible aren't. The stores were packed, not with people, but with stuff in the middle of the aisles. It made getting the wheelchair down a straight path impossible. The regular aisles were so narrow that often times my wheelchair wouldn't fit. Quite a few stores lost business because I couldn't get to the product I wanted to buy.

When I'm in Minnesota, just about the entire city, and definitely the downtown area near the clinic is set up for people with any type of disability. You almost feel different if something is not physically wrong with you. Most of the time that I spend in a wheelchair is up there, in a city accustomed to dealing with people that have different needs routinely.

By the time I come home again, I am better and over whatever procedure put me in the wheelchair (usually) so I don't have to be in one down here that often. Having to use it this weekend, on a busy crowded holiday shopping weekend, reminded me of how difficult it is for people who don't have the advantage of being able to get up and walk away from their wheelchair.

The truth is many, many places that say they are accessible are not. I can't tell you how many checkout counters I couldn't reach, how many times I couldn't see the amount I had paid, I couldn't swipe my debit card, all because the counter was too high for the wheelchair. There were stores I couldn't go in and areas in the stores I couldn't get to. That is in all of those malls that have ramps and signs telling you how accessible they are. They aren't.

I think every store owner should have to spend a day in a wheelchair, trying to navigate his store. Perhaps then, stores would truly be handicapped accessible.

Getting It Right

2007-12-03T15:35:00.001-06:00

No, I don't know exactly what happened. But they sure as the dicken's don't. Pardon me while I go on a not so mild mannered rant. I'm a reporter, so getting things right is very, very important to me. You can laugh if you want, but most reporters have integrity. Getting it right is vital. Some don't. Thank God they are a minority, but they do seem to get all the attention.

Because those that don't care if they get it right as long as they get it fast and first do get the attention, most people believe all reporters are like that. We aren't. And those Others make Our job harder.

I'm not so silly as to beleive a certain radio station in Memphis that is somewhere on the dial between, oh, say 102 and 104, purports to have anything remotely close to journalism as its purpose. It is about entertainment and ratings. I get that. I really do.

Today the entertainment and derision was at the expense of the good people that live in my home town of Blytheville, Arkansas. Those that are on the morning talk show thought an incident of the police tazing someone was a more than hilarious. They didn't bother to deal in the truth of the incident or consider that those people they were making fun of are real people with real families.

Blytheville isn't a perfect city, and our people aren't perfect. From my own personal experience, I would say that Memphis is a long, long way from reaching perfection themselves.

The fact is, there just wasn't anything funny about what happened, and making fun of the incident wasn't in the best interest of anyone. Not the victim, not the officers, not the city. Except perhaps by stretching and reshaping the truth for ratings for station in another state, for people who have no concern about the people who live Around Here.

Trimming the Tree

2007-11-27T13:17:00.001-06:00

The Christmas tree is down (from the attic) and up (in the den). Although I love the look and smell of a fresh tree, our son's allergist told us in no uncertain terms that we were practically abusing him by having a fresh cut Christmas tree.

That was probably eight years ago. So even though my tree isn't "real," it's still pretty, at least to me. And you can't beat the convenience. It's pre-lit, and in three sections. We just put it together, part A to part B to part C, shake it out a little and plug it up. Fresh trees are nice, but they are way more work.

We have a huge fireplace that takes up almost all of our back wall in our den. One more reason not to have a fresh tree. As the wife of a man who has survived not one but two house fires, I can promise that we are more than vigilant about things that can burn.

We do not leave our tree on all night, when we are away, or even when we are out of the room for an extended period of time. Not only do we turn it off, we unplug it. I unplug it even if I'm just leaving long enough to take a shower. My husband is sincere about not wanting to experience a third fire.

So the stockings are hung by the (gas log burning) fire place with (great) care, but there's no mistletoe for the same reason there's no other living plants. If it is green and it is living, my son and my husband are allergic to it. There's no candles burning (see above) and no live garland like all magazines suggest this time of year.

I'm pretty sure my home won't be featured in any magazine spread anytime soon. That's just fine with me. It's pretty to me, and it's pretty to my husband and my son. Our home is decorated with things that have meaning to us and things that bring back memories important only to us.

Most of the time, I don't like those spreads in all of those magazines my Mom gets anyway. They are always too cluttered to me. There is stuff everywhere. Too much clutter, actually, any clutter, bothers me. I don't have things sitting out everywhere all over every surface in my home. It would drive me batty. It is, apparently, the style, but it is definitely not my style.

So I don't think Better Homes & Gardens or Life&Style or Southern Living will come calling to my home anytime soon. But that's okay with me. Our home suits us, quite well, thanks. And it just really doesn't matter to me if it is the latest thing or not. It's Our Thing. And that's all that matters.

Tis The Season: Of Thanks And Gifts Already Given

2007-11-25T17:02:00.000-06:00

The (deep-fried) turkey has been eaten; the last of Grandpa's famous (and fabulous) pecan pie is gone. The day set aside to stop and give Thanks is over. With it comes the rush of the holiday season, the gearing up for other days we will spend with family and friends.

This time of year always inspires me to look back, and for me personally, this has been an incredibly hard year. My body decided to rebel, and let me know it in all kinds of ways. Pain, pain, and more pain has been my constant companion this year, following me like a shadow that I just couldn't escape from.

We learned some hard news from my doctor at the Mayo Clinic this year. It rocked my world, and in a way I mourned for a little while. But you have to live while you can, and eventually I stopped mourning for what I had lost, for what my future would hold, and started embracing the here and now. I'm going to make the best of what I've been given. That has always been my creed, I just lost sight of it for a little while this year.

That best includes pain, and there's just no way around that. I am going to hurt, every hour of every day. Some days and some hours are worse than others, but I am going to hurt. So, I am going to deal with it, every hour of every day. With a smile, hopefully, and a good nature.

It has been hard on my family this year, watching my journey through this difficult time. Though Thanksgiving is over, I am so thankful for my family. I simply could not cope without their strength and support. It is harder in many ways on them, because their love for me is great.

They have spent this year making that long, long trek to Mayo; driving Logan to school when I was too sick to drive; cooking and cleaning and doing my laundry when I could not, letting me stay with them when I was too ill to stay at my own home, supporting me and uplifting me and encouraging me.

It would be very easy for my family to get tired of this foolishness, as I often do. For them to have something better to do, to be too busy with their own lives to help me cope with mine. Yet they never complain, they never make me feel guilty, they never make me feel like I am intruding. It is an amazing gift, and one I am grateful for.

So even though Thanksgiving is over and Christmas is not yet here, I have plenty to be thankful, plenty of gifts to be grateful for.

My husband Gary, who is my rock. My stronghold, my shoulder, the one who loves me above all others, no matter what. My Mom and Dad, who do so much that people never know about and do it quietly, because it is who they are. Gary and I simply could not get through this nightmare without them. They are Logan's other parents. It began out of necessity, but I have come to realize it may very well be one of the best things that could have ever happened to my child.

My sister, Teresa. She calls me every single day. She sends me cards. She makes me laugh and lifts me up and makes me feel like the strongest and the bravest and smartest person in the world. Of course, I'm not. But my sister believes in me, so of course, I am.

Gary's mom and dad, who will do anything we ask of them without question or complaint, immediately. Gary's sisters, who are always there when I call, to vent my frustrations and to listen.

My family. The thing I am most thankful for. And the very best gift of all.

Giving Thanks

2007-11-23T19:10:00.001-06:00

I have so much to be thankful for. I often loose sight of it in the day to day routine. I'm glad there are times that we must slow down, look around, and take account of our blessings. Mine are many.

I have a husband and son I adore, and am blessed enough to be able to say, with absolute sincerity and certainty, that they adore me back. What an incredible gift. I've been in relationships where I wasn't even liked, much less adored. I much prefer it this way.

My parents and my husband's parents love us and love each other. There are no harsh words or feelings or competition between us. We love being together, and my parents like to get spend time with his parents, just because they can, because they like them so much. Yes, I know how lucky I am.

My sister loves me with a fierce and fiery love. I am her baby sister. Don't mess with me. She is indescribable, but if I had to describe her, the words would be awesome. And lovely. And amazing. More importantly, mine. How thankful I am to have a sister like her.

I have two sister-in-laws that inherited me through no fault of their own, yet they put up with me anyway. They love me anyway. They are there through the good and the bad times anyway.

I have friends, such wonderful friends, that call and come by and write and tell me again and again that they are here for me. They offer to do whatever I need, and are there for me when I take them up on that offer. They are not related in any way to me, yet they love me. How blessed I am.

I look around during this time set aside to give thanks, and I see what all I have. In the background is an afternoon talkshow, with a very unhappy family on it. The mother-in-law doesn't like the new wife. The grandchild is being used as a pawn. The husband has washed his hands of the discord, but not before saying terribly hurtful things to his mother. Other family members have taken sides, and an all out war has been declared. The so called expert on television is trying to sort it all out.

As war is being waged in the background, nothing but love is surrounding me in the foreground. But I see; how I see, how awful it could be. How easily it could all be so awful.
And I look around. And I say a prayer of Thanks to the One who has given me so very much. I certainly didn't earn it, and I certainly don't deserve it. But how very thankful I am for it.

Santa Needs Help

2007-11-18T10:27:00.000-06:00

Time is running out, and Santa needs your help. Or, in this case, the group that is wanting to help where Santa might not be able to show up this year because some families can’t afford Santa.

Ignite 07, teamed up with the Junior Auxiliary and Toys for Tots; are committed to making this Christmas better for 1300 needy families in our community this year. But to do that, we need your help. We have the food to give, thanks to you. And, Thank You.

What we need now, desperately, are toys for the children. We have a few. A very few. And while we know that food is essential and toys are not, try telling that to a child on Christmas morning. Tell that to a child the first day of school after Christmas break, when he sees and hears about what all of his classmates got.

Imagine his feelings when a classmate asked what he got, and he has to say "nothing" because Santa doesn’t know where he lives. There’s not enough money for Santa to come to his house, so he had to do without at Christmas while other children got their hopes and dreams and wishes fulfilled.

We want to help Santa visit as many homes as possible that might not otherwise be able to buy their children toys. If you have the ability to buy an extra toy or two, please help us out. We are so grateful for those who have already given, but this is a big project, so we need big participation.

We need a minimum of 2500 toys. Yes, we know that’s a lot. But there’s a lot of good people in our community, so we know that we can ask for and receive the help we need.
Toys can be dropped off at the old Riggs building on Lockard Street between 1 and 3 p.m. on December 1 and December 8.

They can also be dropped off during regular business hours at Pathway Church of God or Ruddle Road Church of God. To schedule a pick up, or for more information, you can call Doug Echols at 740-1094; Dwayne Culp at 780-4517 or James Decanter at 740-8156.

I have a child, and I love everything about Christmas. I love fixing up my home, making my son’s favorite holiday snacks and buying the food he likes best that only is available this time of year, like eggnog. I love wrapping his presents and putting them under the tree, and seeing his anticipation about what is under that tree. I love watching him open his gifts and enjoy them, and I love the thrill I get when he throws his arms around my neck and hugs me tight, thanking me for his gifts.

There is another mother in our community that loves her child just as much as I love mine. But she can’t run to the store and pick up her child’s favorite holiday food. She can’t wrap up presents and enjoy the anticipation of watching her child open that gift. She won’t get a hug and a thank you, because her child won’t have a gift to open on Christmas. That is, unless we at Ignite can Unite as a community to do something to help.

We want to make this Christmas the best Christmas our whole community has ever had. We believe we can do it. It’s a big dream, but we have faith. Will you help us? We can do this, with your help.

Unsung Heroes

2007-11-14T14:41:00.000-06:00

I hadn't planned on a day like this. I had several appointments today, so business was on my mind. Matters of life and death were not on my mind. All of that changed in an instant. My husband and I were coming home from West Memphis, where we taking care of business. At about the 31 mile marker on I-55 North, Gary looked in the rear view mirror and watched a car swerve off the road and into the ditch. It looked like the car had flipped over.

No one else seemed to have seen the accident. They weren't stopping. I called 911 while Gary pulled over and ran down the embankment. One lady had been thrown out the back windshield of the car. She was on the ground, bleeding and moaning. Two other people were still in the car, bloody and dazed. The airbags had deployed, and the front windshield was shattered. The back windshield was completely gone. Parts of the car and debris from inside the car was scattered everywhere.

An 18-wheeler stopped on the shoulder. The truck driver jumped out and ran down the embankment to help Gary, while I stayed on the phone relaying information to the dispatcher. Another car stopped, this time, blessedly, an off-duty paramedic and his wife jumped out and started helping.

When help got there, it got there in spades. We had Mississippi County Sheriff's deputies, state troopers, tow trucks, fire departments with the jaws of life, the helicopter crew, and more firefighters than I could count.

The first officer on scene was a Sheriff's deputy. As he was slowing down to help us, an 18 wheeler in the south bound lane of I-55 rear-ended another vehicle, causing that vehicle to slide off the road and into the ditch on the other side. Now we had two wrecks to deal with. Some of the people that had initially stopped for the first accident ran across the interstate to check on the driver involved in the second accident. His vehicle was totaled, and he had to be cut out of his car. He was a first responder, who was on his way to help out with the first accident.

So many people were there and stopped to help. There were probably six people that stopped and were helping in some way before the professionals ever got there. Once the professionals got there, they did their job with compassion. Those non-professionals stayed on the scene, to fetch or carry or run get this. Some of them directed traffic or carried equipment or helped lift the back boards.

My point is this. People were in need. Strangers that no one knew. But that didn't matter. People stopped and helped, even though those people didn't really know what to do. They just did what they could until the real help could get there. And once the real help got there, they did their job in an excellent manner.

I don't know the names of all the people that stopped. I don't know the names of all the deputies, the troopers, the paramedics, the firemen. But if I did, I would tell them Thank You. I'm glad people like you live and work near me. You know, Around Here. It's a good place to be.

Limping A Mile in Someone Else's Shoes

2007-11-13T14:47:00.000-06:00

The old saying goes something like this: Don’t judge someone else until you have walked a mile in his shoes. It’s good advice. You never know what someone is dealing with unless you are in the same position they are. It’s easy to be judgmental from a distance.

I have made a discovery these past few weeks. Although I consider myself to be a compassionate person, I haven’t been nearly sympathetic enough to people who have back and leg pain. During my recent trip to the Mayo Clinic, doctors hit a nerve in my lower back during a procedure to inject dye into my spinal column.

That nerve runs down my left leg. My lower back and left leg have been in immense pain, and my leg has been almost useless at times. Who knew one nerve could be so important? Apparently the nerve knew it, and is committed to making me know it.

I have had headaches, severe ones, for more than five years. I know pain. But this is a different pain. Your head just kind of goes along with the rest of your body. It’s not in charge of moving anything. Your back and legs are a good bit bigger than your head, which means the pain can spread out over a wider area. That’s not a good thing.

I’ve discovered I move a lot more than I knew I did. Every little movement is painful, and, well, you just have to move sometimes. Getting in bed is a chore. Getting out of bed is a chore. So is standing and sitting and walking. Getting in and out of the shower. Leaning down to kiss your child goodnight. Stretching up to reach something. Bending down to pick up something. Just going about your day requires movement, and each movement is painful.

It’s been an eye opening experience for me. I’m getting better, thankfully. But I know that there are many people that don’t have the hope of getting better. Their injuries are permanent, and they deal with this kind of pain daily.

It is so frustrating to not be able to do even the most simple things without pain. It wears on you, both physically and emotionally. I haven’t been able to drive for the last few weeks. The loss of that independence is something I feel deeply. I don’t like being a burden on others, being dependent for every little thing.

But I have the hope of knowing this is temporary. I will drive again. There are many people that won’t ever be able to drive themselves. They’ve lost their independence, but don’t have the hope of getting it back.

This experience has been sobering to me. My family and I have dealt with a lot in the past few months, and we have a lot more to deal with in the coming months. We didn’t need this added roadblock, more frustration, more pain, more to deal with.

But it has made me stop and consider the many people that live their lives with this kind of pain, with no hope of getting better. I’ve been pretty caught up in my own troubles lately, wondering what the future holds and trying to plan ahead for what is to come. I’ve not had a lot of time to think of others.

Then this nerve injury happened, and on top of everything else we were dealing with, there was one more thing. I thought I was overwhelmed already. I thought I was at the end of my ability to cope already. But my thinking has changed, and I realize how selfish I have been.

Though I am almost constantly in pain, I can move through my day. My head just sort of comes along with me as part of the package, whether it’s hurting or not. I have found a new empathy for folks that have to endure the agony of back or leg pain. It affects every part of their day, and it affects them every single time they move.

I know people who have problems with their back, and I know now that I’ve not been nearly sympathetic enough to the challenges they face. That’s going to change, starting now. I’ve limped a couple of miles in their shoes, and now I understand.

Home Sweet Home

2007-10-29T19:51:00.000-05:00

We are home. We got in late Saturday night. I am exhausted, and I am in PAIN! It seems that during the cisternogram last Monday, the needle going into my spinal column also managed to hit a nerve. The nerve didn't like getting poked with the needle one bit, so my back and my left leg have revolted. It hurts to sit, stand, walk, and lay down. Lovely. Just lovely. I knew my back was hurting, but it always hurts after a lumbar puncture. When the pain got worse instead of better, we had to get it checked out. This is not something I want to deal with.

One the positive side, I got a nerve block in the back of my skull Friday at Mayo. It hurt like holy heck for about two minutes, but then it completely stopped all the pain. Pain free is very, very good.

We are now in the waiting stage. My team of doctors will review all of the test results from the past week, and determine whether or not the neurostimulator implant is a option for me. We are hoping and praying it is. If they say yes, we will be back at Mayo in about two weeks for more testing. The process will take about a month between testing, surgical procedures to get ready for the implant, and the actual implant.

Right now it is the only hope we have to hold on to, so we are holding on tight.

An Answer and More Questions

2007-10-25T21:49:00.000-05:00

Today was a day of waiting. And waiting. And waiting. We were trying to get in earlier for a Friday afternoon appointment, so we waited on standby. No such luck today in getting an earlier appointment, but that also means no needles today. Yea!

So we have a few answers, and more questions. The biggest answer so far is that I can not have the major brain surgery to fix the problem and repair the damage. It just can't be done. It is a blow to us. We knew from the beginning it was a long shot, but we were so hoping that something could be done.

Now our hope rests on an implant, something called a neurostimulator. It doesn't fix the problem, but it basically short circuits the pain signals my brain gets, making my brain think I'm not in pain. Realistically, it can reduce my pain by about 50%. That's a huge amount, and something we really, really hope can be done. We don't know if it can be done yet. More tests will tell, but we are so hoping.

I will still have a leaky brain, but the pain from the leaky brain won't be as bad. There are risks and complications associated with the surgery; and I have gotten some test results back that are not exactly making my doctors happy. So the jury is still out on this one. Our fingers are crossed and our prayers are fervent. My main neurologist, after getting back results from one test, told me, "Well, I went neurology because I wanted a challenge. And here you are." He wasn't smiling.

So on to plan B, or C, or D....I've lost count. But still here we are, and we aren't down for the count yet.

Day 3...A Roadblock

2007-10-24T18:29:00.000-05:00

Have I mentioned how tired I am? Several times, you say? Oh, sorry about that. It seems to be a recurring theme. This place is exhausting. There's a lot of hurry up and wait. Like this morning. When I thought I had an hour to make my next appointment. When I double checked I realized I had 20 minutes. That's not a lot of time, considering Gary was in the shower, and Mayo is a huge facility.

It got better. I got to the second floor of the hospital, found the right area, and things seemed a little....off. Well, a lot off. It looked like a residential treatment facility. I re-checked my schedule. I was on the right floor of the right hospital at the right time (barely). I checked in and waited. When the nurse came to get me and we started talking, I discovered my first impression was right. I was at the wrong place. A foul up in the scheduling process had me at the wrong building, the wrong floor, the wrong everything. No, I wasn't here for the intensive three week program. Thanks, but no thanks.

A quick check with my doctor proved that a few (dozen) wires got crossed. I wasn't supposed to be at that clinic. I was supposed to be at the other clinic. Which means that now, instead of getting a very important consultation done today, it won't get done until Friday. Sigh. Just another day in paradise.

Day 2 Another One Down

2007-10-23T20:38:00.000-05:00

We made it through another one. I have several dozen more needles holes in me. My back is an amazing rainbow of blackish-bluish-yellowish-purple. I hurt, well, pretty much everywhere. I am whatever the word for beyond bone numbing exhausted is.

But, this day is almost over. My bed is calling, and we don't have to be at the hospital until 8:30 in the morning; practically mid-day by Mayo standards. I get to actually sleep all night, and as far as I know, there aren't dozens of needles in my future tomorrow. Maybe a few, but not dozens. A definite improvement.

Day 1...Survived

2007-10-22T22:28:00.001-05:00

I survived it. Gary did too. So did my Mom and my sister, who had the very important job of praying. I've got so much scar tissue in my spinal column from so many previous needle sticks that it is very hard to find a new place to go into without hitting scar tissue, which makes a painful procedure worse. Praying was important, and it worked. The needles went in relatively easily, all things considered.

So, this, my longest day, is finally over. I didn't sleep last night, so it was a very long day. The procedures haven't gotten any better, but they at least weren't any worse than I was expecting. I am very sore tonight, with a few more bruises on my back and in my arms. I am radioactive, I am beyond tired, and I can't sleep. One of the tests tomorrow requires no more than four hours of sleep tonight.

I'm slugging double shots of expresso. No sleep last night coupled with this day means staying awake tonight is not going to be easy, even on a caffeine high. Sigh. But this, my worst day, is over. The tests tomorrow won't be fun. One of them involves 22 needles going into my scalp and the back of my neck. Another one involves even more pokes, more than I can count, all to figure out just what is happening in my brain.

It will be a mark of today to tell you that nothing tomorrow will come close to what happened today. I'm not looking forward to it, but neither am I dreading it. It's just routine, and I've had both procedures scheduled for tomorrow quite a few times in the past.

My mom tells me so many people are calling her, praying for me and asking about us. I can't tell you how much it means to me, to have that little bit of home way up here, so far away. Thank You. I've gotta go find more caffeine now.
Signed,
Bruised, Battered, But Not Beaten....

Let The Fun Begin

2007-10-21T16:58:00.000-05:00

Well, we are here at Mayo. It's Sunday night, I've had my shower, I'm in my jammies (which includes an Arkansas sweatshirt....it's fun to confuse the locals) and I'm pretty sure there's not a lot of sleep in my future.

I'm not looking forward to tomorrow. By far, it will be the worst day of the three days of testing. But, on the bright side, by tomorrow night at this time, it will be over. I will be in worse shape, but the worst of it will be over. The sharpest needles, the worst pain, the longest procedures; they will all be tomorrow. Not everything Tuesday and Wednesday will be pleasant, but after tomorrow I just won't care. I guess that's something.

So, here we go. Let the sticking and the radiation poisoning and the poking and the prodding begin......

The Great Draining Brain Experiment

2007-10-20T01:32:00.000-05:00

By the time you read this, I will be in Rochester, Minnesota, preparing for what will be a grueling week of tests and procedures at the Mayo Clinic. I often mention that I go to the Clinic, but I very rarely talk about in detail. If you know me, you already know about it. If you don’t know me, you probably don’t care.

Since this week may very well determine my future, I’m changing my policy of not talking about it. For one thing, this may be the last column you read from me for a few weeks. Depending on what happens, I may not be able to write for a little while. I love writing my columns, and I didn’t want to disappear without an explanation.

It’s a good bit more in-depth, but we are basically going to determine whether or not I am a candidate for brain surgery this week. In the five years I have been sick, surgery has never been an option for me. We were told it couldn’t be done, that it would cause more harm than good. But new technologies have emerged, and now it might be possible. It might not be.

If one surgery is not an option, another surgical procedure might be. So I will spend three days at the Clinic, literally running new tests every few hours, to see what is possible. On Monday, I start at 8 a.m., and have a procedure at 9 a.m., at 10 a.m., at 12 p.m., at 2 p.m., and at 3:15 p.m. On Tuesday, the whole thing starts again at 8 a.m., but at least we will have time to eat.

By Thursday, we will know what can and can not be done. The options are: 1) major surgery to repair some of the damage from the last five years and possibly fix the problem; 2) less major surgery to help with the ongoing pain but that can not repair damage and can not fix the problem; or 3) nothing can be done.

Although the thought of major surgery scares me, I really, really hope something can be done. I’m tired of nothing being possible, tired of the pain, tired of the waiting. As long as we knew nothing could be done, we just accepted it and went on with life. Now that we know there might be hope for, if not a cure, then at least a reprieve, it’s almost worse than before.

If the outcome of all the testing is still that nothing has changed and nothing can be done, I think it may be harder to accept, to have hoped and then have that hope yanked away. Then again, we’ve dealt with it for five years, and we will continue to deal with it.

We determined long ago that this illness would not control us, that we would control it. It has gotten a little meaner, a little sneakier. It’s playing rougher here lately. But that’s okay, because I’m a fighter too. And what I’m fighting for here is too precious to lose. I’m fighting for my life, for my family, for my husband and my son. For peace. I’m not going to give up. I’m not going to give in. And I am not going to lose. I am not.

If you have any spare prayers laying around, you can send one up north for Gary, who will be with me this week. He was going to be in Virginia, but Nucor let him come with me. Gary may very well end up wishing he had stuck to the original plan of sending my Mom with me while he went to Virginia. It’s not going to be fun for me, and it’s going to be even worse for him.

You apparently can’t figure much out about a brain without sticking needles somewhere. Usually into a spinal column. The needles seem about two feet long, and they just about always have some sort of radioactive dye in them. And no, I don’t get to be asleep for the procedures. Not any of them. If I start talking crazy, having seizures, lose consciousness or some other not good thing, that would be an indication for the doctors something bad was happening. So while they are poking and prodding and taking pictures and generally making me radioactive as all heck, I’m laying there perfectly still and wide awake. Fun. Or, Not. At. All.

Then they get done and deliver me, sore, radioactive, and in pain, into Gary’s hands. He takes care of me until it’s time for the next test. He pushes the wheelchair, makes sure the injection site doesn’t spring a new leak (which would be an emergency), feeds me, comforts me, talks to me when I can’t sleep, and helps me get dressed when I’m too sore to do it myself. Then we go on to the next test, where more needles with more dye awaits. Sigh.

My Mom and Dad have Logan. They all get along just fine. However, Logan’s teacher could probably use a spare prayer too. Dad doesn’t have any problem feeding Logan pancakes with ice cream and gummy bears on it, then sending him to school. Or letting him drink Mountain Dew. Or letting him stay up late, or any of those other things that can make a child not do well in school the next day. Dad calls it having fun. I call it a nightmare for the teacher. Mom has her hands full with the two of them.

Many of you have expressed your concern for me, and I can’t tell you how much my family and I appreciate it. I am going to be fine. I really am, no matter what. I am not looking forward to all the yucky stuff that goes along with having something wrong with your brain, but that’s just part of it. We will get through this, no matter what "this" turns out to be.

I look forward to coming back to this space soon, hopefully with an improved brain. And if not, well, it will just be the same old leaky brained me. But at least I will be back home, in this space where I belong.

Still Loving, After All These Years

2007-10-11T16:12:00.000-05:00

Friday, October 12 is my parent's 45th wedding anniversary. Wow. James and Peggy Decanter, who started out as teen-agers with $3.00 in their pocket and nothing else, have been married 45 years. What an accomplishment. I've been married 14 years and think that is something to be proud of. But 45 years....I can't even begin to imagine it.

She was 17, and had only been 17 for a month when they got married. He was 19. They didn't have jobs. They didn't have a place to live. They had no money. She was a senior in high school. They had absolutely nothing, nothing but love. Over the years that nothing has turned into something. They've made a success of themselves in every way, but the best thing about them is that they still have that powerful love, that love that conquers everything, even no home and no money and no job.

I have no doubt that if they lost everything but each other, they would still survive, because if they had nothing but each other, they would still have everything. They would still have love. After 45 years, they still cuddle and hug and kiss and hold hands. She still says "Wow!" when she sees him in the morning. He still makes sure everyone knows she is the queen of his castle.

They raised us, their daughters, to love, honor, and respect them. We didn't backtalk our Mother, because our Father simply did not allow it. We didn't talk disrepectfully about our Dad even when he wasn't around, because our Mom simply would not tolerate it. Even if she privately didn't agree with him, she stood by him in our presence. They were a united front. There was no "divide and conquer" in our household, because they could not, would not, be divided. They were a team.

Forty-five years later, they still are.

About Around Here

2007-10-06T18:10:00.001-05:00

I wanted to let you know why I chose the name Around Here. It's sort of a southern thing, to hear about Around Here. When something is done well, that's just the way things are done Around Here. When something is not done well, we can do better than that Around Here.

Every couple of months, I go to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota. And every single time I am up there, someone says "you're not from Around Here, are you?" No. No, I'm not. I'm a Southern girl, born and bred. It's something I'm proud of. There's nothing wrong with being from Up There, it's just not for me. I'm from Around Here. I was born Around Here, and I'll die Around Here.

I hope I can bring honor, light and laughter to Around Here. I hope to make you smile, and sometimes I might make you cry. Maybe I'll make you think. It's all a part of being from Around Here.

A New Journey Begins...

2007-10-06T18:03:00.000-05:00

So Here We Are....Something new for me, and something I hope you will enjoy as much as I think I am going to. I love writing my weekly columns, but sometimes things happen Right Now that I wish I could talk about, but know it will be over and gone before the column comes out.

The nature of the newspaper business is such that my deadline is actually days before the column appears, so breaking news is often no longer breaking or even news by the time you are reading my column.

This gives me another avenue to talk about things and be a little more current, but more than that, it gives you a chance to give me feedback. I love hearing from my readers, whether it is a "good job!" or a "you really blew it this time!"

We are in this together. I'm looking forward to it, and I hope you are too.