Kristen's Column

2010-06-14T12:20:00.000-05:00

2010-06-14T12:07:00.002-05:00

Birds, Biloxi and Being Home

We moved into a rental house on Big Lake in Biloxi from our house in Oak Grove. From these rear windows lies a panorama of waterways, marsh and endless sky that instantly reaffirm my need to live in the Coastal south. Although we lived in a lovely wooded place, I have felt landlocked for the last 14 years. It’s amazing what a great view can do.

Moving back where the salt air and the rise and fall of tides govern a deep sense of well-being reminds me that there remains no substitute for living within minutes of the beach or riverbanks, that the seamless horizon between gulf and sky serves as a homing mechanism for me, one embedded when I moved here as a toddler. Birds flock here in droves, close to the rivers and bayous, and my own need to nest here is being richly served by the fact that my family loves it here, too.

As soon as we could break away from unpacking, my husband and I rode out in an old bass boat given to us by our dear family friend, Miss Tommie. She will celebrate 90 years in September. She and that boat spent more than 40 of those years together, anchoring off favorite fishing holes in these same waters and landing countless fish both solo and in the company of my Aunt Ora, as well as with other family and friends. Her fishing and filleting skills are legendary.

On our afternoon jaunt, the boat glided knowingly past bulkheads and cattails, through the brackish water among other vessels of all shapes and sizes. We sailed under Popps Ferry Bridge and zipped past the massive homes of Biloxi Back Bay. And though there linger sparse remnants of Katrina’s onslaught, the overall view is one of thriving water dwellers and rejuvenated communities. The healing has been monumental. The recovery, nothing short of miraculous.

We saw egrets and herons, gulls and purple martins. This place teems with wildlife. The flora and fauna of the Mississippi Gulf Coast never fail to astound me with its diversity and resilience. The brown pelicans and least terns can tell the best stories of our role as their stewards. Brought back from near eradication due to pesticides, they boast a triumphant and prolific return.

I know that there are plenty of places on this planet that would make a great place to live. For me, the requirements are few, but essential, to my ability to feel at home. There must be water, salt and fresh, ample trees both deciduous and evergreen, and people who appreciate the value of these things and each other. Sunsets viewed without obstruction, full and magnificent from our most southern shore treat us to a daily reminder of our unique and invaluable heritage here on the Gulf of Mexico.

Perhaps that is why that of all the places I have visited, my South coast home pleases me to no end. Here, my most basic needs are met simply by stepping outside. Like the birds who navigate these spectacular waterways, I am drawn here because it is where I belong. Wherever you are, I hope you find that same satisfaction, the wonderful gratification of being home.

2010-03-23T08:21:00.002-05:00

Katie Mo

When I was kid, I didn’t give much thought to the fact that I didn’t have a sister. I had twin brothers, six years my junior. I didn’t have time for sisters.

Plus, I heard the horror stories of sisters swiping each other’s stuff, of sibling sabotage so sinister, only a sister with sisters could understand. I guess, at times, I was actually glad not to have a sister.

Then one day, I became a mom for the second time, to a daughter. Suddenly, there was a new and spectacular female voice within the family. I know a lot of mothers claim strong bonds with their baby girls at birth. But there truly was something extraordinary about ours. She completed me.

Mary Katherine slept all night her first night at home. She rarely complained, cooed this incredibly adorable sound that proved impossible to resist, and exuded contentment. She begged attention, not because she demanded it, but because she was so completely lovable, endearing and funny.

She always slept with her arms thrust directly above her head. When we’d pick her up from her nap, she looked like a miniature Sumo wrestler, hence her nickname, “Katie Mo.” She watched every move her brother made. Her greatest frustration as a baby was the fact that she could not walk and talk like him. Her greatest satisfaction was to hold his attention for even a few uninterrupted seconds.

Whether he realized it at the time or not, Sam had the ultimate sister. She idolized him.

Katie turned 16 on March 21, 2010. She’s come a long way from that nearly bald bundle of drooling, giggling glee. I have marveled at how intelligent and capable she is, wondered over how it is that Steven and l landed such a truly remarkable daughter. She is beautiful inside and out, and I treasure our time together. My dad said it best. She is one of a kind.

And though for some inexplicable reason she has been saddled with a medical disorder that defies definition, she remains that completely lovable, endearing and funny gal who won our hearts 16 years ago. At times, her pain and physical challenges have been more than any kid should have to endure.

She has weathered ridicule, misunderstanding and alienation from people who should have known better. She harbors no anger, no grudge, in spite of having every right to do so. She has shown strength of character and powerful will in the face of daunting discomfort and exhaustion. Her faith is unwavering, her spirit undaunted.

She doesn’t have a sense of smell, something we didn’t determine until she was nearly 13 years old. Why did it take so long? She’s resourceful. We just didn’t see the deficit because she never realized she had one. I still laugh when I think about taking her to Bath and Body Works and asking her to sniff a dozen fragrances or more. She thought I was crazy. And I thought she was odd to say they all “smell good…I guess?”

I have laughed harder and longer and more gratefully with her because anyone who can find the funny among countless needles and pills and procedures bordering on torture inevitably can make even the most stolid Ice Queen crack a smile. She takes one day at a time and makes each one richer for the rest of us.

So I never had a sister. It’s OK with me, because I have a daughter who is second to none.

2010-03-09T12:03:00.002-06:00

Who Would Make Your Top 10?

A friend sent me one of those inspirational power point slideshows attached to an email titled “Voyage.” It featured a lot of pretty pictures of flowers and some clever thoughts on what’s important in life.

It had the desired effect, I suppose, in that it got me thinking about those things that make me glad to be here, that life is a journey, not a destination, and it's a good idea to take stock of those things that truly matter along the way.

Things like...

Have you ever come to know someone who is truly humble and selfless? They are rare beings. But my Grandma Long was that way. If she had one stick of gum, one leftover biscuit, one bit of energy left to spare, she’d give it willingly to just about anyone. She was a giver, never a taker.

With her, you always felt worthwhile and cherished. And that’s important.

Did you ever love a dog who could make you laugh and cry within the same breath? Dogs are incredibly gifted that way. Our Winnie chewed new shoes, ripped the insulation from beneath our rental house and rolled in putrid carcasses at every opportunity, but she had a way with our children that made me know they would never lack for a champion protector or devoted friend.

That crazy yellow hound always made us feel comforted. And that’s important.

Will you remember countless hours spent in the business of raising children? Kids are enormous investments of time. They come into this world by our invitation, completely dependent on our ability to provide.

There is this blur of birthday parties, tooth fairy visits and award ceremonies that I find difficult to recall. But I once stood beneath the boughs of newly leafed pecan trees in our back yard, watching my small son and daughter sleep in a stroller while the warmth of spring and the promise of the future rushed me with unforgettable gratitude. I can still remember every subtle nuance of that ordinary day.

Moments like that make a parent feel utterly complete. And that’s important.

Can you sing something for every season, read stories that inspire you, dance for the purpose of just pure indulgence and love unconditionally?

Have you forgiven the unforgiveable and received the same?

Do you laugh often and loudly, especially at yourself?

When you find solace and reassurance, is it based in an innate and unfailing faith that is as much a part of you as your DNA?

Do you do nice things for others because you want to, not because someone is looking?

Somewhere in your history have you ever taken the time to write a letter to someone for the sole purpose of reminding them that they are loved, they are special and they matter?

Because these are the things that make our lives as humans worthwhile and enjoyable. And that’s important.

In the slideshow I watched, the author reminds us that while most of us can’t name various “top tens” among celebrities or athletes or historical figures, we will remember the names of people who made a difference in our lives─ the teachers, the friends, the mentors. Some people, like whoever created that slideshow, take the time to remind the rest of us that kindness, compassion and a good sense of humor make all of our lives richer and far more memorable.

And that really is important.

2010-03-01T18:36:00.003-06:00

"'Doing Business' at Your Friendly Kangaroo"

My daughter has chronic health issues that have led our family on some pretty interesting trips to medical destinations near and far. While we continue the pursuit of a unifying diagnosis, she has adopted an approach of “laughter is the best medicine” and tries to take one day at a time.

Sometimes, those days find us on the road and out of our minds.

Our family of four set out for Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN one late October afternoon. We stopped for dinner, drove a bit, then nature called and we pulled into the next quick stop. Katie headed directly to the ladies’ room while her brother, dad and I browsed the aisles.

We immersed ourselves in shopping, beginning with a rack of tee shirts emblazoned with biker motifs and state logos. We moved onto the candy section, followed by the chips and crackers. We checked out the hot bar, the coffee station, the ice cream freezer, and the automotive supplies.

After 20 minutes or so had passed and we were reduced to second-guessing our snacking selections, I surmised things might not be going so well in the bathroom. Just then, my cell phone vibrated in my purse. As I made my way to the bathroom, I extracted my phone and noted the incoming caller.

It was Katie.

“Why is she calling from the bathroom?” I asked myself. “This can’t be good.”
I pictured the possible scenarios in my head: out of toilet paper, massive regurgitation, explosive diarrhea or a treacherous combination of all three. Who knew what lay on the other side of that restroom door? I answered the phone.

“Hey, girl, what’s going on in there?”

“MOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM! FINALLY! WHY DIDN’T ANYBODY ANSWER THEIR STUPID PHONE? GEEZE, I THOUGHT Y’ALL HAD LEFT ME!”

Somehow, this high-decibel screech comforted me. She was breathing. She was conscious. And she was some kind of mad. Bravely, I motioned to the others that I was going in.

“Whoa. Calm down. I’m on my way in there. Are you OK?”

“Just get in here! Hurry up!” And with that, the phone went dead.

I was just past the oatmeal cakes and Ho Ho’s, almost to the nuts and pork rinds, when an unsuspecting woman cut in front of me and headed toward the sign marked “WOMEN.”

My mind raced as I considered the very real possibility that this gal might soon be rendered completely senseless by noxious fumes or worse, but I was helpless to stop her. She heaved the door inward, and what appeared to be a vacuous hole of pitch black darkness suddenly erupted into a glowing cubicle of searing white light.

In that split second, the ears of every creature within a ten-mile radius would splinter with the guttural boom that echoed from the confines of a single bathroom stall in a Kangaroo quick stop near Memphis, TN.

“THANK YOU!!!”

I would have loved to see the expression on that woman’s face upon her triumphal entry, but she ducked for cover in the stall next to Katie’s before I could gauge her reaction. What I did see was a completely benign bathroom environment, remarkably clean, actually. Thankfully, it smelled harmlessly like lemon cleaner. What I heard was far more sinister.

My daughter doesn’t cuss, but the blend of growls and pitches behind that metal door sounded much like the kind of muffled swearing grown-ups use in the presence of children and clergy, indecipherable but clearly not born of happy thoughts and well wishes.

“Katie, are you OK?”

“YES, NOW THAT I CAN SEE WHAT I AM DOING, YES. I AM JUST FINE.”

This was followed by several spins of the toilet paper dispenser, more grumbling and the type of telltale noises that make a mom know her services are no longer needed. I waited outside.

A few minutes later, the girl child emerged. Anyone with female adolescent offspring can testify to the fact that when they are ticked off, you best give them plenty of time and space to decompress. The problem in this particular scenario is that we were all about to crawl into a minivan together and finish what was left of a 20 hour drive to the northern limits of these expansive United States.

“Geeze, Katie, what took so long?” her brother asked.

To which she replied, “Grrrrrrrrr.”

But, to her credit, the outrageous circumstances evoked appropriate hilarity on her part, and within minutes, we were all laughing like a bunch of baboons on a big banana high.

Apparently, this particular bathroom came equipped with an energy-saving sensor that turned out the lights when no movement is detected after a certain period of time. Maybe five minutes or so into her bathroom retreat, it all went to black.

“You try doing what you need to do on the toilet when you can’t even see your hand in front of your face!” she spat.

She had called us, and we didn’t answer because two phones were in the van and one was on “vibrate” in my purse. So her only safe option was to wait in the dark on the pot wondering why her family had abandoned her.

All’s well that ends well, but I have to wonder what that woman thought when she was welcomed with such vigorous and appreciative cheers as she entered the bathroom. Perhaps she chalked it up to superior customer service--a big “thank you” for “doing business” at your friendly Kangaroo.

2009-10-19T12:43:00.000-05:00

Sammy, Sammy, are You Ready?

As I was looking through family photos to submit to my son’s yearbook staff, I determined I was having one of those “moments.” I have a lot of them lately with the rapid advance of the firstborn’s senior year. They are near-breathless moments that rattle my heartstrings with the insulting yet triumphant fact that he is nearly grown and I am getting old.

The photos, a mixed bag of babyhood and grade school shots, provided a bit of time travel:

a newborn wrapped tight in a hospital blanket

our big yellow hound perched in ridiculous profile atop a teetering birdbath, boy at her feet

a grade school Easter egg hunter

a teenager poised for who-knows-what leaning into his silver sedan at dusk

Moments like these validate what I knew instinctively all along. Glimpses of our history together─ the laughter on the road, the tears over lost loved ones, the anger beneath the surface, the fear inside unspoken words, the love within every single embrace and whispered prayer─confirm that being a parent makes me deeply grateful for this life as well as a little shocked that children seemingly become adults overnight.

Years of transitioning from one stage to the next blend and soften the stark reality that photographs showcase with such bold and undeniable detail. Sam is now taller than his dad. He does actually hug his sister, willingly. I am grayer than his dad, proving his father has weathered the years far better than I. This may have something to do with the fact that sentimental activities like looking at old pictures only make him grin, while they thrust me into an exhausting search for lost time.

Although I want to cheer and celebrate the victory of delivering such a grand guy to the world, the overriding desire is to chain the kid to his bedroom and deny him free reign of his destiny.When did this boy who used to spend hours devouring the pages of Calvin and Hobbes turn into a man who talks politics, religion and the complex language of the NFL? When did he learn the ways of the sneaky old world?

These yearbook photos will go on a page that honors his accomplishments and congratulates him on his high school graduation. It’s become a popular tradition for parents to purchase a page and provide photos and a note as a testament to the fact that their kid is, well, theirs.

There is so much I would have liked to say on that page, yet I kept our parental musings short. But given more space, I might have reminded my male child of just how splendid life is with him as our son.

I would remind him:

Even when you launch yourself from this nest we made eighteen years ago, we will still be in the picture. We are that part of you that makes you know you are loved unconditionally, trusted to the depths of your soul and understood at the chromosomal level.

You have never walked alone and never will. We take immense comfort in the knowledge that your faith is secure and your purpose is centered on good works and gratitude.

Whether there is a photo of it or not, we can be seen in the way you choose a good book or take comfort in a good friend’s smile or dance like a fool simply because it makes no sense to do otherwise. Nothing is as liberating as being able to laugh at yourself. (I think I taught that one best.)

We will always show up when you think about doing something you know you should not. It’s called a guilty conscience.

We are there, reminding you that everything happens in God’s time, not ours.

When you see that stray dog, and wonder if you should pick it up, we are the ones who already have you on the side of the road, in the rain, Samaritan heart full-throttle. Mom and Dad, invisible, are in every moment that leaves you marveling over the wildly intoxicating beauty of life. Your smile in that photo is our smile, one way or another.

I have these crazy moments, yes. But they are opportunities for me to reflect on my handiwork as a parent, to cherish this gift of an adult child and look forward to what is yet to come. I need these moments to remind me that this is a good thing, growing up. I just wish I was as good at it as this boy of mine seems to be.

“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”─ 1Corinthians 13:13

2009-07-30T13:31:00.000-05:00

Of grown-ups, goons and getting together

Last weekend, I had the pleasure of hanging out with a group of friends, some of whom I’ve known since kindergarten. Hopefully everyone has friends like these, the kind you may not see for years at a time but can pick up right where you left off, talking about everything from college escapades to the unsavory business of gray hair and spare tires.

It’s difficult to describe, but old friends just make time together especially rewarding.

The fact that this particular group claims a wicked sense of humor and an appreciation for off-color jokes definitely keeps things more than interesting. They are kind and mindful of everyone’s personal trials and tribulations without being a wet blanket. Each one of us claims a close personal tie to the Mississippi Gulf Coast and a deep-seated love of seafood, saltwater and days and nights spent in the company of both.

But of all the satisfying reasons we have to gather, I think it is our common history of doing just what we did last weekend that gives us great incentive to remain good friends. Hanging out, retelling the same crazy, hilarious stories, adding some new ones for extra measure, we all simply enjoy time together.

When my parents passed away a couple of years ago, one of the comforts that helped us manage that tremendous loss was the fact that our family shared countless good times over the years. There were no regrets as far as “I wish we had seen each other more.” We cooked and savored wonderful meals, visited through long afternoons on the front porch, celebrated holidays and birthdays featuring a million or more hugs.

The memories we made together are what get us through our being apart.

Last weekend, ten of us long-time friends and one brave new one descended on Destin, FL with twelve kids. Eyes popped and mouths fell open as the younger set witnessed their parents let loose with endless ribbing and fully animated stories.

I suppose it’s a bit scary to see old Mom and Dad laugh like goons and head to the beach in the wee hours like a band of gypsies. Who knows if they will choose to maintain the same kind of friendships we have? But for those three days, they witnessed their parents adding yet another memorable chapter to the book of our lives and underscoring the vast rewards of lasting friendships.

Making friends reminds me of planting new trees. You can always search out a new one. The more, the better. But it’s the ones with deep roots beside your own that will always cast a wide and comforting canopy, buffering us from the storms of life and reminding us of the beauty. Much like the irresistible shade of a Coastal live oak, the laughter shared with these old friends is uncommonly good, a pleasure I hope we all cherish for many years to come.

2009-04-03T11:05:00.000-05:00

Newspapers Need Great Stories Told Well

Much of what’s to be read online in the news revolves around loss of jobs and our ailing economy. I work as a freelance writer, which is a succinct way of saying my income depends on someone willing to pay me to write.

Cut to the cascade of failing newspapers and out-of-work reporters and editors, and I’m sorely aware that something has gone terribly wrong with the business of journalism. What happened to our newspapers?

I’m not what you’d call a real reporter. My experience as a journalist arose from an intense desire to work from home while I tended my children and an average ability to construct newsworthy features. My college degree is in biology, but my passion lies in telling stories.

When you work as a freelance writer, the opportunities to meet interesting people are endless, as are the opportunities to meet people who think they are interesting. Sometimes, you discover you are conversing with someone whose experiences would read like an Oscar-winning screenplay. I love those times. That’s when the writing is less for the buck and more for the sheer pleasure of catching a glimpse of a lovely life.

I came to know of such a life when a man named Norm wrote to me about one of my newspaper columns.

Norm loved puns. He told very silly jokes. I never met him in person, but coming to know him through his emails and posts to a humor writers’ group led me to believe that this man laughed long and loudly much of the time.

Several months into our correspondence, Norm shared that he had had a stroke years before that left him fairly limited in his ability to move. He adapted by using a motorized chair. He participated in university research in Florida that developed devices for survivors of stroke and other impairments. He was a fighter and a lover of life.

Norm’s emails were usually brief, devoid of capital letters, and always, always funny. But, one day I opened an email that was fairly lengthy. I imagine it took him hours to type it. It was a love story. I remember reading that email over and over, stunned by two things: there was not one stupid joke in it, and it was a hell of a story. A true story. The kind of story that, had he shared it with a real reporter, he might have seen it win a Pulitzer prize before he passed away.

When he fell gravely ill as a result of a second stroke, his daughter sent an email to those of us who had shared emails and online friendships with her dad. She warned us that it was unlikely Norm would recover. He died a few days later. The family established a memorial in his honor online where we could post our condolences and share our love of Norm. It was the first time I ever saw a photo of him. He was handsome, smiling like he’d won the lottery in every last frame.

I never wrote about Norm because I felt that his family might want to tell his story in their own way. His daughter is a writer, an obviously talented one from what I read in her correspondence with me. It’s not my story to tell, but it is my inspiration for believing that there are truly remarkable people with incredible stories that do make a powerful difference in the way the rest of us live our lives.

So, I wonder, how much of this mess that is the floundering newspaper industry can be tied to the fact that we have devalued the talent of intelligent, creative writing? Has our need for instantaneous news and bawdy tales of the sensational overtaken the potential for finely crafted stories to remind us that we humans actually have a lot to live for, regardless of the stock market and the current status of Britney Spears?

When I was a kid, I read the newspaper. I worked as much of the crossword as my limited skills allowed. I learned about government and how to cook, about local veterans and faraway places and that a columnist from Dayton, Ohio could make my South Mississippi mother laugh out loud on a weekly basis, in spite of us clinging kids and only three channels of network TV.

I'm not saying there are no talented reporters with bylines in newspapers. I'm saying that somewhere along the line, those who manage newspapers let go of the fundamental purpose of newspapers, that the bottom line shouldn't be about keeping advertisers happy. The bottom line should be about serving your readership, and that means hiring and supporting a staff of competent, hopefully imaginative writers who cover the news, sports and stories of human interest with perhaps a little fire in the belly.

Whatever the future holds for newspapers, I hope somebody remembers that whether it’s printed on paper or posted online, the written word remains one of our most treasured and effective tools in documenting the current state of human affairs. It’s a condition that could use some substantial encouragement in the form of great stories told well.

2009-02-18T08:57:00.000-06:00

When Toads and Fears Collide

Honey patrols our back yard for toads as if the creatures harbor some secret sinister agenda. One of four poodles we indulgently adopted, Honey faithfully confronts toads in a comical assault, something we call “Poke-A-Toad.”

When our crew of canines bolts outside to empty bladders and bowels, Honey circumnavigates our fenced lot on self-appointed border patrol. She stops dead in her tracks when she discovers yet another amphibious intruder. Her helicopter tail runs full throttle as she prods the hapless toad with tentative paws.

Thankfully, she never tries to eat them. In fact, she barely touches them. She appears innately afraid of, yet irresistibly drawn to toads. She is wary, yet boldly curious. Often, while she lounges inside, a toad will land on the door sill in full view through the French doors. Honey comes completely undone.

We live down south where a plentiful variety of amphibians enjoy a warm, moist climate much of the year. After Hurricane Katrina, it seemed the selection expanded exponentially. I’ve lived in Mississippi for 44 years. I’ve seen wall crawlers since that storm that never before appeared among the typical salamanders and tree frogs familiar to my outdoor jaunts.

Maybe I just never noticed them. Maybe I was too focused on other things, much like Honey and her toads. She won’t give a gecko the time of day. Every night, when all the other dogs answer the call for bed, Honey insists on making one last circuit. Sometimes I have to physically retrieve her. She watches the windows as I tote her inside.

One morning, the unthinkable happened. A toad made it inside. My son spotted one in the corner of our half-bath, tucked in the shadows. Of course, we immediately summoned Honey.
“Look what’s in the bathroom, Honey!” we chimed. She remained motionless, perched on the sofa back, unaware that her worst fear was about to be realized.
I picked her up and dropped her beneath the pedestal sink in full view of her nemesis. The toad crouched in the corner, and Honey surprised us all.

She did absolutely nothing. Not a whimper or bark of defiance did she utter. She simply locked eyes with her web-footed demon then quietly walked away.

Perhaps her behavior should be dismissed as just one more puzzling poodle oddity, but I sensed there was some semblance of a metaphor there.

For Honey, the threat of toads proved almost unbearable at times. Yet, once the unknown was finally realized, fear gave way to understanding. Truth reigned supreme, and the only thing left to face was the possibility that she had wasted way too much time worrying over toads.

She still pokes toads, still takes it upon herself to diligently track their scent and alert the entire neighborhood of their tireless invasion. But I detect a calm resolve where previously there was simply raw anxiety. She has seen the cornered toad, and it is—completely boring.

2008-09-19T13:08:00.000-05:00

Then and Now

A guy I knew from community college called this week. He had heard that my parents had passed away a year and a half ago and wanted to share his condolences. My dad had taught him when we were both students in the biological sciences.

When I heard Ray's voice on the answering machine, I didn't recognize it. But when we talked, I recalled how he always made my dad laugh out loud. We shared a deep and abiding appreciation for irreverent jokes. They still make me howl--and blush.

It's strange to strike up a conversation with someone who knew you in a "previous" life. A friend of mine refers to that time as "BC," Before Children. When I think about how very naive and green I was at that stage of development, I cringe. To recall being 18 years old is to instantly feel 180. Many miles and memories span those 25 years.

I was a new student and working part-time at Biloxi Animal Hospital. My dad taught biological sciences. I enrolled in his classes as part of my pre-veterinary curriculum. We learned a lot about living organisms in zoology, anatomy and physiology. But that's not all.

We shared a common experience of learning that was as diverse as the creatures we classified. We learned how to love the natural world. Students from all walks of life, all ages and backgrounds filled those classrooms. My dad reveled in that. He loved to open minds and guide his students toward a lifelong love of learning, especially those who had to work extra hard just to be there.

Dad was a tough instructor. His tests were notoriously challenging. Yet, students like Ray took away from his lessons the heart of what he most wanted to share--a thirst for knowledge and satisfaction in learning.

Ray tells me he is working on his doctorate in marine biology. He is 51. I know that my dad would be glad of that. His former student told tales of Dad busting a gut trying not to laugh while conducting labs or lectures. Ray's words brought bittersweet feelings that resonate with what I loved about Dad so very much. He found humor in most everything, even when he was up to his elbows in dissected fetal pigs or explaining for the umpteenth time the Watson and Crick model of DNA.

Perhaps that is why I take such pleasure in the fact that my own children harbor that same love of learning. My children revel in the sciences like their Paw Paw. They read and write with passion. And I remain fascinated by the wonders of our natural world, including off-color humor.

Good luck with the marine biology, Ray, and know that somewhere out there Dad is cheering you on.

2008-09-11T08:30:00.000-05:00

Check out my essay in "The Home Forum" of The Christian Science Monitor:

Spider Lilies Herald Welcome Seasonal Shift

2008-08-28T11:45:00.000-05:00

Insanity Required for Parenting Gig

More than sixteen years ago, my husband and I became parents when I gave birth to our son. Our daughter arrived on the scene a couple of years after that. Suddenly, they are both in high school, both on the fast track to leaving us for college. It occurred to me recently that we just might survive this parenting gig.

When they were babies, veteran parents offered sage advice, from pacifiers to toilet training to teaching them their A, B, C’s. With all the do’s and don’ts proffered, we had to find our own way. Mainly, we had to realize that to raise kids, you have to be a little bit crazy because no truly sane person could stomach this job.

Doctors will tell you that as you age, your body changes and so does your ability to do things you’ve always done with ease. I’m not so sure about that. I’m thinking that it could be this parenting endeavor that has short-circuited my brain function to that of a house plant. When my back aches and my muscles throb, I feel certain it has more to do with the fact that the last time I truly relaxed was 1991.

My son started driving. This singular event has altered the nature of my psyche to the point that I’m fairly certain the person I used to be was abducted by aliens and supplanted by a large lump of anxiety fashioned into some trembling semblance of the former me, but with lots more gray hair. Every time the car leaves the driveway, so do half my nerves.

I shared my concerns with my husband one evening when our son’s expected time of arrival came and went.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to this,” I told him stiffly. “Ever.”

“I see what you mean,” he said with a smirk. “I’m sure my mom still worries every day that I’m driving out there all on my own. It’s been what, only three decades?”

Where logic is his forte’, mine is listening for the garage door to open.

“It’s just that so many things can happen on the road. And we’re just allowing him to go, free as a bird. What kind of parent does that?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Normal ones, maybe?”

That’s when I remembered that to be a parent, you have to be insane.

One afternoon, my son tromped across the front yard to check the mail. I watched him from the front porch as this small flutter of panic rose in my chest. He is grown! Years ago, he would walk to the mailbox as I peered from the window, making sure he remembered to look for cars that could flatten him. Now he drives off and I’m not there to remind him, “Look both ways, mister!”

In no time, this girl of ours will be getting her driver’s permit and testing the highways herself. It is more than I can fathom. Every wreck I see, every patrol car in hot pursuit, every ambulance with siren wailing makes me want to pull over and lose my lunch. And this is normal?

Through every stage of their development, I have admired their abilities and strengths. Our children have good hearts, good heads on their shoulders, and recognize what a tremendous gift a life of purpose can be. They amaze me daily. Worry me constantly. But they totally make this parenting thing worthwhile.

What I hope they realize is that the term “driving me crazy” must have been coined by a parent, most likely while pounding an imaginary brake and muttering prayers of deliverance through gritted teeth. I also hope they understand that this white-knuckled ride we share with them is one we wouldn’t trade for anything, in spite of that requisite loss of sanity. Parenting proves to be the ultimate, most rewarding job, followed closely by backseat driving.

2008-08-10T23:31:00.000-05:00

Front Porches Revive the Spirit

Mrs. Harmon turned to me during the “meet and greet” part of church service a few weeks ago.

“I want you to write about front porches,” she said. “I was sitting on mine the other day and decided to tell you that you should write about front porches.”

As we returned to our seats, I thought about my assignment. Within seconds, I was a kid again, lounging like a lovesick lizard on my Grandma Long’s front porch swing.

Grandma’s house on Mulberry Hill in Ellisville faced a deep pasture of sprawling hills dotted with maples and black walnut trees, oaks and sweet gum. Blackberry bushes clotted the low areas and sometimes a few cows would graze and ruminate in the shade of the trees. It was pretty country, and you could soak it all in from her porch.

The swing, painted white with a slatted back, dangled at one end of the porch from two lengths of chain that creaked musically with the slightest nudge. During the sticky heat of summer with no air conditioning, it was one of the few spots you could sit and hope to feel the air move.

Most always, my cousin Dwelia and I would perch together, our bare toes just touching the smooth, cool concrete, and we’d sing:

“Bimbo, Bimbo, where ya’ gonna go-ee-oh. Bimbo, Bimbo, whatcha gonna do-ee-oh?”

Her mama, my Aunt Bobbie, taught us that song, and we belted it out with opera lungs.

“Bimbo, Bimbo, does your mama know? That you’re goin’ down the road, to see a little girlie-o!”
We pushed back and forth in rhythm with our jubilant, if not harmonized, voices.

One time when our cousin Scott was visiting from Ohio, we had a chinquapin war headquartered at the front porch. He plucked dozens of berries from the tree just behind the porch and popped us so hard with those green bullets they left red hot spots on our freckled skin. We did our best to nail him from our fortress, but he was too quick and we were laughing too hard.

Grandpa Long would sit in his aluminum chair right at the edge of the porch near the steps to spit and whittle. A rare August breeze would carry the sweet scent of cedar shavings across the porch and through the screened windows. The aroma always made me think of quilts and winter time. I would rock on that swing, close my eyes and dream of cool autumn air.

When Ms. Harmon asked that I write about front porches, I was ashamed at just how little time I spend on mine. Some of the best therapy in the world can be found atop a rocking chair in full view of the world just outside my door. Sitting outside at dusk, when squirrels scamper in the fading light and birds settle in the branches, I feel comforted. And much like a good hymn sung with sincere and earnest praise, time on a front porch revives your spirit with life’s very best tonic.

Few things are more wasteful than an empty front porch. So in the interest of enjoying a much needed respite, I sat on mine this evening and settled into the calm. I watched moonlit clouds sail slowly above the pines. I could taste that rain was on the way and savored the pleasant quiet as even the bugs seemed to soften their chirping and buzzing.

It was peaceful, beautiful and I wondered why I don’t venture out there more often. I do know that I fully agree with Ms. Harmon. Front porches are certainly worth writing about, and I thank her for the essential reminder.

2008-05-01T22:40:00.000-05:00

Have Family, Will Travel

We decided we should take a family vacation this summer. This is no small thing. Whenever all four of us travel, that leaves the five dogs, two cats, one guinea pig and a brood of saltwater fish in need of surrogate care. For what it costs us to accommodate the animals, we could stay an extra couple of nights at a five-star hotel. Perhaps anyone stupid enough to have so many pets doesn’t deserve to get away. But we hope to, if we can agree on a destination.

We talked about driving out west to Yellowstone or Yosemite National Park. This would require at least two weeks on the road. The kids predict that enduring that much family togetherness would cause a major rift in our familial bond to rival that of the Grand Canyon. As much as I’d like to see the real thing, I’m not sure it’s worth our children divorcing us.

While my daughter and I could see ourselves taking in the sights of the Big Apple, my son and husband insist that a river, ocean or lake be the primary focus of our adventure. The two of them drove to northern Minnesota last summer and fished from daylight to dark the better part of two weeks. As thrilling as that sounds, somehow I doubt it would work for certain family members who prefer the comfort and convenience of hotel hot tubs and sushi bars.

We’ve done Disney. We’ve camped at nearly every state park in Mississippi. We’ve been to the nation’s capital, stayed in the Rockies twice, done Jellystone Park in the Smokies and hit the beach a time or two. There are millions of places we haven’t been, but narrowing down the choices proves surprisingly difficult. It’s not a lack of places to visit that challenges us . It’s the potential for disaster on the road. That’s why I’m considering a most novel idea. What about a vacation at home?

I can’t help but think about the time our son got food poisoning and yorked his way across Texas. Then there was the seatbelt incident on a lonely stretch of road in Colorado when our then five-year-old daughter nearly strangled herself after attempting somersaults in her seat. Of course, the fastener wouldn’t release. We were seconds from cutting the seatbelt with a pocket knife when she turned upside-down and simply shimmied out.

There was the chewing gum incident where I unceremoniously spat a wad of bubblegum out the van window, only to have it boomerang back and land squarely on my laptop keyboard. While driving at a crawl up a perilous cliff in the Rocky Mountain tundra, my husband experienced full and immediate paralysis when my son suddenly screamed , “WOW! LOOK AT ALL THOSE ELK!” They say family vacations are all about the memories. I will never forget how his face froze in a state of sheer panic and his fingers formed a death grip on the steering wheel. When I consider these incidents, staying at home sounds like more than a good idea. It actually could be a lifesaver.

But then, if we stayed home, we wouldn’t experience the new perspective you get on this beautiful country of ours whenever you see the sun set on an unfamiliar but spectacular horizon. We would miss out on those unforgettable images that evoke some deep and primal longing, from the rush of magnificent views of rolling hills and wide open sky to the panoramic display of land and sea along some emerald stretch of coastal waters.

I’m not sure where we’ll end up this summer. We might not make it far. But what I do know is that every time we hit the road together, we never fail to return with a renewed appreciation for this great land of ours, and an even greater appreciation for that place we call home.

2008-04-18T09:42:00.000-05:00

You Can Go Your Own Way

Early in our marriage, my husband would passively aggressively agree to go shopping with me. This means that while his mouth was saying, “Sure, I’d love to go to the mall with you,” his tone and pronounced facial tic were saying, “There has got to be a way out of this.”

After nearly 19 years of marriage, we’ve developed a method that seems to work well. He goes his way, and I go mine. But we still run into problems, like the other night at Wal-Mart.

“I tell you what,” he suggested. “You go get the eye drops and I’ll go to tools. Meet me there.” And with that, and the shopping cart, he was gone.

On the way to the eye drops, I directed a woman in obvious distress to the closest bathroom. I grabbed the eye drops then realized I had lost the shopping list. I found the slip of paper and made my way to the tool section. My husband was not there. I was not surprised.

“This happens every single time,” I said out loud. A man scanning the plumbing supplies retreated cautiously. I couldn’t call my wayward husband. He had my purse and my cell phone in that blasted cart.

“I knew this would happen. It always does. ” I had the entire tool department to myself. I debated whether to stay or to go. I peered from each end of the aisle, in both directions, leering. I headed to the grocery section in full pursuit where I ran into a friend.

“Hey, girl,” said Suzanne. “How’s it going?”

“Have you seen my husband?” I asked, trying to smile through gritted teeth. “He was supposed to be in tools. He’s not there. I’ve covered the entire store. “

“Uh oh,” said Suzanne, nodding knowingly. “Been there, done that. Good luck.”

Somewhere within the confines of that superstore was a man stewing in his own juices while I simmered in mine. He couldn’t find me. I couldn’t find him. And I had checked the beer section twice.

Finally, I glimpsed his bright yellow polo, his back to me, heading in the direction of the jewelry counter.

I half yelled, half growled his name across fifty feet of open floor. I learned on a previous encounter with store security that running through a major retail outlet draws immediate and unwanted attention. I watched him. He turned the corner toward tools. Finally, I’d be able to wring his neck.

I rounded the corner among the hammers and nails. He wasn’t there. I stood, stunned. I careened through aisles of hardware, the paint department and automotive. He was gone. Again. I imagined the announcement from customer service I so badly wanted to deliver:

“Mr. Twedt, what’s left of your wife has spontaneously combusted at the customer service desk,” I’d have them say. “Please pick up her smoldering remains IN THE TOOL SECTION.”

At a complete loss, I waited. I tried to calm myself among the hardware and watched as the heat from my infuriated body melted stainless steel. And then, just like that, there he was.

“Where have you been?” I railed, choking on smoke. The look on his face essentially screamed the same.

“I went to tools, just like I told you,” he said. “I waited at least 30 minutes! I decided you must have gone for the groceries. I walked every aisle twice!”

“Well, I went to tools as soon as I found the grocery list and you weren’t here,” I accused. “I swear! I am never shopping with you ever, ever again.”

Admittedly, he did a pretty good job of camouflaging a victorious smile. He left to pick up our daughter from the mall, and I slung food into the cart. I was nearly finished when they returned.

“Wow, that was fast,” said my daughter when she arrived ten minutes later. “Dad said you hadn’t even started shopping for groceries.”

“I guess I spent too much time looking for an appropriate weapon,” I muttered. But, apologies were exchanged. Laughter prevailed. We vowed to never separate in a store without our cell phones. But just in case, I have customer service on speed dial.

2008-04-08T08:09:00.000-05:00

She Doesn’t Smell Well

Looking back, I can’t believe we didn’t figure it out sooner. Whether it’s the soft scent of baby powder or the pungent pine of Christmas trees, the smell of popcorn erupting in buttery goodness or chocolate chip cookies emerging from the oven, our daughter has never experienced any of these olfactory sensations. Katie has anosmia. It took us 13 years to notice.

Anosmia simply means the absence of a sense of smell. Doctors at the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda, MD tested her olfactory abilities with a scratch and sniff book of familiar scents. She failed it, big time. While some people have nerve damage or injuries that cause them to lose their ability to smell, Katie’s is apparently a congenital problem, present since birth. Yet, her deficit only recently came to light.

I remember going to places like Bath and Body Works when she was much younger. We would spray the little cards to help us select our favorite fragrance. But while I was choosing from the enticing aromas of citrus or peach, Katie could never decide on one she liked. Once, we laughed ourselves silly when we misread the name on a bottle as “Brown Sugar and Pig” instead of “Brown Sugar and Fig.” I had asked her, “Does that smell like a pig to you?” In hindsight, I recognize what was complete indifference as she sniffed the unscented air and shrugged. Now I realize she couldn’t smell a thing.

Katie readily admits that if she had to go missing one of the five senses, she would pick her sense of smell. The others work just fine, thankfully. Where she may lack the ability to enjoy a whiff of hot baked bread or smell the summer rain, she harbors an amazing talent for seeing the positive side of things.

“When we’re in science lab, I just love it when everybody else is gagging over horrendous odors and I’m just fine,” she told me. “I don’t smell farts, or dog mess or anything else that makes people want to hurl.” While this girl of ours could be bemoaning the fact that her sniffer doesn’t work, instead she finds reasons to be glad in it.

They say that when you lack one of the five senses, the others may be enhanced. We’ve decided the child has supersonic hearing. She can hear the flutter of moths’ wings and private conversations from a mile away. Of course, I worry over the fact that she can’t smell something burning or the stench of spoiled food. She uses deodorant profusely and squirts perfume in spite of the fact that she has no idea if it smells good or bad. I never gave my sense of smell much thought until I witnessed her challenges through a parent’s eyes.

The olfactory bulb in the brain is closely tied to the limbic system, which helps us process memories and emotions. As a result, odors and aromas play a large role in triggering recollections of the past. Cinnamon, vanilla, apple pie. Who doesn’t have warm and wonderful memories tied to these? Not once have I heard my daughter say “That smells so good!” when I cook her favorite foods.

While I am amazed we didn’t discover her anosmia sooner, she laughs at the fact that when the rest of us were extolling the exquisite aromas of steaks on the grill or jasmine in bloom, she always pretended to smell them. What she must have experienced sniffing the odorless air had to be something akin to eating food that, no matter what, tasted like rice cakes.

Katie exhibits an intense appreciation for color and design, for music and hugs. She sees life as full of opportunities as well as challenges. She hears the promise of a hopeful future. She tastes the spice of life easily and gratefully. In spite of puzzling health challenges the last couple of years, this girl of ours is feeling the welcome reward of finally being understood.

Sometimes we’ll exclaim, “What’s that smell?” The look she gives us speaks volumes. I tell her that when she marries, I hope it’s to a man who smells well. Or is that good? I suppose it would be great if it’s both.

2008-04-01T22:32:00.000-05:00

Of Trucks and Men

Without fail, anywhere we went, we’d see one.

Short bed Chevy.

Ford Supercrew.

Tricked out truck with polished chrome, Yosemite Sam mud flaps and a six foot antenna threatening the belly of an interstate overpass.

He’d point out each one, his discriminating eye absorbing the pros and cons of every make and model.

“See, that one’s a short wheel base, regular cab, the last of that body style, about a 1997,” explained my husband. “See the hood on that one? Bad hinges on that model. Every last truck like that will have a crimp across the middle because the hinges are no good.” He talked like I understood, like I knew an overhead cam from a fuel injector.

“They came out with that model when I was in high school. Gets about five miles to the gallon. Oh, man, look at that one. Now THAT’s a truck.” At this point his eyes always glazed over, a boy’s Christmas face frozen in pure idolatry before the department store window.

Truck fever isn’t pretty. It basically permeates every waking moment, every conversation. We’d start out talking about the kids, work, the budget, but ultimately the discussion always turned to towing capacity and extended cabs. Then there’s the song and dance about how every man needs a truck.

It seems the need to haul things, to tow things, to administer horse power in such a way that your masculinity is essentially validated when traveling by truck is inexplicably tied to the Y chromosome. While we needed another vehicle about like we needed multiple sore toes, somehow we decided that a used truck was something of a necessity. Last weekend, we found ourselves at the Woolwine Ford dealership in Collins.

“Can I help you?” Ricky the salesman asked. My spouse salivated. He stood within a sea of new Fords, trade-ins and the palpable magnetism of four-wheel drive.

“We’re looking for a truck,” he stammered. “Not new. Very affordable. “ He looked, momentarily, as if his legs would give out from under him.

“I think I can help you out with that,” Ricky assured us. He retreated to his office and reemerged with a computer printout. Meanwhile, my better half locked headlamps with a ruby red Ford XLT, a 2000 model that I would swear winked at him. It had high miles, but higher appeal. Little flickering red hearts surfaced where his pupils used to be.

“ What about this one?” Ricky studied his papers and indicated the item met our criteria. We walked the perimeter of the specimen, examined the engine, sat behind the wheel. We mentioned the fact that we think the world of his boss, Richard Woolwine whose Aunt Tommie we claim as our own. We shared our story of buying one of our favorite cars, a Mercury Grand Marquis, from that very lot years before. Some might have accused us of brown-nosing. Truthfully, I felt certain that if we left that lot without a truck, my husband might spontaneously disintegrate on the spot.

Ricky got the keys and we took it for a test drive. I witnessed pure pleasure that day. The clouds turned dark, the sky drizzled rain, but the mood in the cab of that F150 XLT reached something akin to unadulterated ecstasy. The odometer had close to a bazillion miles, but the ride was tight, the engine sound and the glistening exterior belied the age of eight years. If ever there was a taker, that truck was it.

I love car salesmen who get right to the point. Not long ago, Tony at Vardaman Honda sold us our minivan with the finesse of a retail wizard and the ease of a good friend. Ricky did the same with that truck. We appreciate that. In less than two hours, we became the proud owners of a pre-owned Ford that might as well have been a gilded chassis fit for a king. Who knew a truck could sprout wings and fly?

The man got his truck and all was well with chromosomes, machismo and trailer hitches. Only now, the 16-year-old son has developed a sudden and irrepressible itch for a fishing boat.

Aluminum.

Sixteen foot.

25 horsepower.

Just the thing for that truck to pull.

The tackle box quivers in the toolbox with each mention of “Evinrude” and “Mercury.” What I soon discovered is that with truck ownership comes the mysterious need for men to bond on lakes and rivers, compelled to seek the satisfaction found in baiting bass from watercraft—watercraft that preferably include trolling motor, live well and depth finder, of course.

Of trucks and men, there is no end to the male patterned boldness found riding the roads in the comfortable cab of their dreams.

2008-03-23T01:03:00.000-05:00

On writing columns…

About eleven years ago, I submitted an article to my local newspaper about a cartoonist. The editor liked it, ran it on the front page of the features section, and that was how I first came to know the thrill of a byline.

At the time, this newspaper also ran a weekly column titled “Readers Write.” As a guest columnist, I submitted a story about my dog, Winnie. In the weeks following, I received letters and email from strangers. They shared their own dog tales. They told me they liked my column. And so, I wrote more.

My column ran on that same front page of the “Living” section for a few years until a local chef with a talent for running restaurants and writing humor took over. My column was delegated to an inner page. Still, people wrote. I joined writers groups. I started freelancing for magazines. It seemed my dream of writing for real was underway.

Then, last year, my parents died. First, Dad in June and then Mom in March. With them I lost a large part of why I always tried to find the time to write the column. God knows, it wasn’t the $25 paycheck. On some subliminal level, I always aspired to write something of significance, something that would make them proud. Writing their obituaries and the words I shared at their memorial services made me realize just how much I had wanted to secure a Pulitzer while they were still on this Earth.

A few days ago, some intriguing soul joined the subscription service to my blog. He or she went so far as to calling the newspaper to see if I were still writing. And, this guy or gal took the time to ask why I had neglected to post a column since December. The only answer that seemed honest was simply that I didn’t know.

One of the things that I believe about columnists is that they are born with an internal mechanism unlike most folks. They view the world through a lens that filters what they see much like a prism compartmentalizes the colors of the visible spectrum.

There are people, places and events of interest. There are seasons and holidays and celebrations. There are emotions and sensations and perceptions. There are births and deaths and miracles. There are dogs. These are the things that have you sitting at the computer at 2 a.m., writing like there’s no tomorrow, because, well, there might not be. These are the things that today’s newspapers lack so severely in their content. And it’s a shame. Because voices like those of Bombeck, Grizzard, and Buckley have already faded and those hell bent on hawking wares and taking pot shots appear to be taking over.

So tonight, as I stood on my back deck and waited for the dogs to pee, I thought about writing columns. I watched the full moon cast luminescent strands of light through the shimmering branches of pines. The clouds chased past winking stars and the breeze carried the scent of jasmine and new grass. Spring enchanted me even in the darkness, the promise of renewal burgeoning on dogwood branches and azaleas bushes loaded with vibrant pink buds.

The dogs, all five of them, took care of business. They paraded across the back lot, digging and snorting after moles, their noses coated in freshly turned dirt. Daisy, the smallest one, took her place at my feet. And though we often accuse her of trying to talk, that’s exactly what she did.

“Look, I’ll tell you what to write, but just this one time. You don’t even have to give me credit."

But I know better. Who’s she kidding? We columnists live for the byline, even when our writing has gone to the dogs.

Thanks, Daisy. And thanks to those of you who keep reading and writing. Whether the column runs in newsprint or not, I will always count myself among those troubled minds who simply tell tales of the heart and pay homage to those who make the endeavor unfailingly worthwhile.

2007-12-18T07:52:00.000-06:00

Sincerity of Spirit Rules Supreme at Christmas

Each year our family draws names to determine who gives what to whom for Christmas. We essentially buy one gift for each name drawn, eliminating the waste and redundancy of unwanted items and duplicate presents. It works well for the grown-ups who pretty much have the necessities and many of the accessories of comfortable living. This rule does not apply to the children, though. The kids make an outrageous haul, and so it should be at Christmas.

While we enjoy gift-giving as much as any family does, I find greater pleasure in the kind of giving that lifts weary spirits, the type of benevolence that comes without fancy gift wrap. I have seen and been on the receiving end of gifts that brought tears and overwhelming gratitude, thanks to the selfless generosity of others. Christmas, with all its glitter and gold, showcases the very best of the human spirit, in all its humility and quiet grace.

When we hosted a fundraiser for two children in need of medical care, the residents of Wesley Manor Retirement Community gave lovingly and charitably. I arrived at my office the morning after we announced the upcoming event and unloaded my mailbox. Among the stacks of marketing solicitations and business letters, I found three notes:

One, torn from a yellow legal pad, featured shaky handwriting almost microscopic in size; the second, on folded stationary, was inscribed with beautifully fluid cursive; and the third, a small note card from a Catholic press, no inscription, just a pre-printed scripture from Proverbs. All contained money, a total of seven dollars. They simply read “For the children.”

The anonymity struck me first. These three gave with no need for acknowledgement. The sacrifice got me good, too. Something about these gifts told me they came from huge hearts of meager means. And then, the sincerity of spirit in which these dollar bills were folded, the notes written, the prayers delivered made me know that there live among us people who genuinely take great satisfaction in helping others who are down on their luck. I will always remember the powerful reassurance that was mine as I read each one.

The Bible tells us we are all God’s children. Perhaps while our wee ones are reaping the rewards of good girls and boys in the form of toys, games and electronic wonders, we “big” kids should take satisfaction in the fact that we are the recipient of some pretty awesome gifts, too. Our Christmas gift arrived more than 2, 000 years ago, an enduring promise that never loses its luster.

Here in these wonderful United States, we go to sleep each night knowing that we live in freedom, thanks to the bravery and courage of men and women who defend our right to do so. We have access to plentiful food, the worlds’ best health care, and places of worship that deliver much more than a spot to park your bottom on Sunday morning.

This Christmas, I wish you and your family the kind of gift that I found in my mailbox —dollar bills are nice, yes, but I mean something more than that. I hope that you discover a sincerity of spirit that transcends the trappings of materialistic indulgences. It can be as simple as a smile, as comforting as a hug, as touching as three simple words written on a Post-It note: “For the children.”

2007-10-19T19:23:00.000-05:00

Nothing But Blue Skies

Makes for Great Therapy

A couple of weeks ago, our family of four headed to the Gulf Coast for a day of fishing and crabbing. I grew up on the Gulf Coast, in Long Beach, about a mile inland. Memories of my treks to the beach on foot and bicycle over the years still lend a therapeutic touch when life is rough and unkind. To see that distant place where water gives way to southern sky is to feel the years and worries softly melt away.

When we walked out on Moses’ pier in Gulfport, I reveled in the warm breezes of a late September day and watched the fishermen trolling with baited lines. The brown pelicans dipped into the surging waters, great silent flocks of them that had, years ago, all but disappeared. They perched on pilings, vigilant, real and present survivors of the ecological nightmare of pesticides now banned from use. The pelicans of perseverance. I took comfort in their miraculous return.

My husband baited crab traps and my daughter lowered them into the murky depths. We waited in camp chairs, studying the horizon for sails, mesmerized by the lulling slosh of waves and familiar call of gulls overhead. My son and a friend tried their luck with new lures and live shrimp. There is no substitute for the sun and wind, no other remedy that works so well as to hear and taste and see and touch those things that reassured us in our youth. It is all the more pleasurable that they are the very things that time cannot alter, cannot remove or make less than spectacular.

We moved our operation to a pier in Ocean Springs, caught a few more crabs, and watched the boys pull in a little of everything but no keepers. I stretched out on a concrete pipe protruding from the shore as the late afternoon rays filtered through amazing clouds that eased past like a parade. Blue skies wrapped my spirit in soothing stillness. Whispering reeds and pampas grass nudged my thoughts toward all that is good and right in the world. Laughter, music, evenings spent in good company with sand pipers and herons, dolphins and fiddler crabs, these are the glad tidings that those gulf waters bring.

My children are teenagers. They are finding their way. In their time, they will see with adult eyes the things of their youth that made them happy. They will feel pain and sense loss and experience disappointment with a grown up perspective. Hopefully, they will find themselves immersed in an incredible day at the beach, full of the wonder of life, and share it with their families. And perhaps the pelicans will take flight just as the sun glints weakly from the western horizon, reminding them of a calm September evening spent in the company of their mom and dad. Then, blue sky memories of my south coast home will bring them the joy it has always brought me, the healing power and endless comfort found only in the natural world.

2007-09-21T08:56:00.000-05:00

Lavern Always Got the Last Laugh

I once worked for someone who said she “demanded” respect from her employees. I didn’t work for her very long.

Respect emerges of its own volition, elicited by folks of all ages and backgrounds, all ethnicities, faiths and genders. They are people who are sincere, highly capable and usually gifted with enduring character and a fantastic sense of humor. They “command” respect easily. People like Lavern Smith come to mind.

My first day on the job as public relations director at Wesley Manor Retirement Community can only be compared to a roller coaster ride through every emotion known to the human condition.

I was:
Happy to land a great job

Sad because my parents had died

Angry because, well, my parents had died

Hopeful because I love to work hard at something that matters

There was the usual anxiety that comes with unfamiliar territory and the fear of failure. But all of it melted away to a blissful sense of satisfaction when I met the residents, particularly Miss Lavern.

She rolled up to the front desk in her scooter and barked that she needed to see “Kristen.” I’m certain all of Forrest and Lamar Counties heard her. Subtlety found no common ground with Lavern.

“I’ve come to show you something,” she announced as she hobbled from her seat to the chair in my office. She plopped down a stack of papers featuring photos of crafts she’d made over the years. She tossed out an American flag pin made of beads and safety pins. By the time she was finished and staggered back to her electric ride, I knew that Lavern Smith was one of a kind. And I knew that I completely adored her.

Three of her friends, Esther, Madeline and Laura, patiently tolerated her loud interruptions when we discussed an upcoming train trip on Amtrak. She voiced clever ideas on how to raise money by making and selling crafts and raffling prizes. Lavern made us laugh, gave us reason to consider how very rich and wonderful and challenging life is. She suffered from polycystic kidney disease that forced her to spend hours in dialysis at least three days a week. Still, she persevered.

My daughter Katie knew she had to meet Miss Lavern. The two of them bonded instantly. She taught Katie in a very short time how to craft festive needlepoint notepad covers and jewelry from ordinary items. They discussed holiday décor and money-making ideas. Lavern, who never had children, told me that following her first visit with Katie, she received something no other kid had ever given her, a thank you note that made her cry. And so, Katie came away with the invaluable, the gift of friendship and gratitude.

There are friends at Wesley Manor the likes of which I cannot describe except to say they are angels. When Lavern passed away, she did so of her own accord. She chose not to continue the dialysis because her health had finally become too fragile and fragmented to do what she loved to do. Her friends showed up with cakes and cookies, moving boxes and smiles. Joyfully, fearlessly, Lavern accepted the end of life with the kind of courage and dignity only heroes fully understand.

Last week, Esther stopped by the front desk with one last Lavern tale. Shortly before she died, friends and family were packing her things for the move to her brother’s home. Lavern sold her TV to a friend upstairs and gave special instructions to her brother. Just days later after her memorial service, Lavern’s brother took all the friends to lunch—on Lavern’s dime.

“Isn’t that just like Lavern?” asked Esther. We all nodded, eyes brimming. Laughing out loud, calling the shots, and treating her friends to a good time…that was Lavern, a woman who commanded respect in life and in death. We will miss her dearly at Wesley Manor. Godspeed, sweetheart.

Visit our webiste at www.welcometowesleymanor.com

2007-07-27T11:02:00.000-05:00

Sock It to Me

Getting older is really cramping my style. I developed a bad case of plantar fasciitis, a painful condition of the foot that often strikes us fortyish folks. As part of my ongoing treatment and recovery, I had shock wave treatment of my heel. While I heal, foot exercises that stretch the injured fascia are essential. Enter the Strassburg Sock. www.thesock.com

In his deep desire for my full and speedy recovery, my husband seemed overly eager for me to try the Strassburg Sock, a contraption obviously designed by someone who shares his wicked sense of humor. He came home from work with a special package.

“I brought you something you’re going to love.”

Some women get flowers while they recuperate from a medical procedure. I got a sock.

“Well, doesn’t that look interesting?”

“Try it on,” he beamed. “The guy at the foot store said it will work wonders.”

Ah, yes, the foot store. If only I could buy a healthy 20-year-old foot to replace my dysfunctional 42-year-old appendage. I slipped the long, white sock over my tender foot and calf. It featured a long tongue of Velcro down the front and around the top. I adjusted the sock per the enclosed instructions. I felt completely ridiculous.

“You know, I think I’ll take it off for now and put it on at bedtime,” I said. A couple hours later, I joined him in bed.

“Where’s your sock?” he asked with a fevered pitch.

“Oh. The sock. It’s right here. I’ll put it on.” And I did. I lay there, both legs exposed, the sock drawing the toes of my left foot in an obscene arc toward my face.

“I feel like the kid in ‘A Christmas Story’ with his arms stuck in his winter coat,” I told him. “I can’t put my toes down!”

“I’m sure you’ll get used to it,” he sputtered.

“I’m sure you’d never laugh at my expense, either,” I said while he howled. “You know, I think I know why you wanted me to wear this so badly.” I stretched out the stark white support hose, stroking it seductively, my toes frozen in a come-hither position. “It’s nothing but sexy.” The contraption mocked us both. Suddenly, he was snoring and I was nose-deep in my book.

Time will tell if the sock helps or not. I am hopeful that it and all the pampering I’ve done to this foot will pay off. I have thought a lot about folks who face the daily challenge of walking with canes, walkers or those who move about in wheelchairs. I'm afraid the ones I know handle it with much more grace and dignity than I would. My sore foot makes me cranky. And this crazy sock makes getting ready for bed an exercise in Velcro tolerance.

"Are you wearing your sock?" my husband will ask sleepily as I turn out the light.

"How about I give you a little kick and you tell me?" In the darkness, his shins retreat as he feigns sudden slumber.

Yep, next time I come home from a medical procedure, I bet I get roses.

2007-07-05T15:17:00.000-05:00

Paul Potts Sings a Humble Song

When I first viewed a video of Paul Potts singing, goose bumps gave way to curiosity. Potts, 36, recently won on “Britain’s Got Talent,” the original European version of “America’s Got Talent.” He sang “Nessun Dorma,” an aria from Puccini’s opera, “Turandot.” Votes cast in favor of the gap-toothed mobile phone salesman launched him to instant stardom as a professional vocalist and landed him a lucrative recording contract fostered by judge and music producer Simon Cowell. Everyone wants to know about Potts. http://www.paulpottsofficial.com/videos.html

As much as his beautifully powerful voice stunned listeners, his humility and effusive gratitude for their approval brought tears to the eyes of British fans and those watching online from around the world. Potts told reporters he planned to spend his winnings to clear debts and fix his teeth. His stage presence, a mixture of hesitant confidence and quiet wonder, belies the bold and captivating sound of this mild-mannered tenor. To watch his final performance on that talent show is to witness the makings of a silk purse from sow’s ear. An underdog wins to the unbridled joy of his newborn audience.

Talent like Potts reminds me of how perfectly wonderful is the music delivered by a gifted singer. To see someone find his way through the maze of heartache and disappointment, to endure the daily grind of regular life and pursue his goal of performing on stage for the multitudes proves terribly inspiring. That he is a common man, married, working in sales while tirelessly seeking opportunity to break away into a career fulfilling his heart’s desire justifies every poet, every lyricist, every artist and writer who dares to harbor the belief that dreams do come true. His song is that of the creator who respects the liberating validation brought by sincere applause and recognition.

Last week a man named Louie Lawent wrote to me about a song he composed and asked that I share it in a column. He wrote the lyrics, another artist, Billy Livesay, recorded the song. First, I read the lyrics, words that reflect on the fleeting satisfaction of fame for a pop star in the face of Armageddon. Then I listened to “Pop Star,” the song. http://free.napster.com/view/artist/index.html?id=12351878

I liked it. There’s that. Mentioning it here may get him a few listens. Who says it’s good or it isn’t? I’ve heard plenty on the radio that I wouldn’t pay a plug nickel to hear again. Some of the best music I’ve heard is online, performed by independent artists who sing, play and record simply for the love of music. Their talent is undeniable, their dedication to the music, commendable. Their desire to move people with music is essential, even though few make much money in the process.

Anyone who has worked in the creative arts for many years will verify that finding a financial windfall in the way of a big contract evades the majority. Most who start out with illusions of grandeur quit. Many who tire of the sting of rejection fall away. But there are a few who remain true to the best reason of all to create: because they can.

Martina McBride sings a favorite song of mine, “Anyway.” The song commands that when storms destroy what we have built and those we love reject us; even when dreams seem impossible and doubts surround us and songs of joy escape us, we should build, love, dream, and sing anyway. In spite of injury and setbacks, Paul Potts aspired to sing for all of us. His is a gift he was destined to share. Something tells me he would sing anyway. Perhaps that kind of perseverance is the greatest talent of all.

2007-06-19T17:08:00.000-05:00

They Should Sell a Patch for That

A couple of weeks ago, the unthinkable happened. We suffered an Internet outage. Our fast access turned no access for four full days and nights due to a “maintenance incident.” I maintained that it was a ploy on the part of my husband to get a few things done around here.

I work from home as a freelance writer. My fondness for the Internet is no secret. I love the fact that I can research anything and everything at any given hour.

Do bluebirds nest more than once per season? Yes! How do I know that? We have a pair in our front yard that have done so, but just to confirm, I can read all about it and look at photos at www.bluebirdnut.com.

What’s the name of the song with the lyrics that go “If you ever go across the sea to Ireland?” That would be “Galway Bay.” Found that at Lyrics Depot at www.lyricsdepot.com.

What’s the best price on an Xbox Live 360? Lost my breath at www.pricegrabber.com. We did buy one. When the Internet access was out, the 15-year-old son experienced Gears of War withdrawal so bad he actually showed up for dinner the first time I called him.

Without Internet at home, I discovered that I could get a week’s worth of housecleaning done in a couple of days. I could read one of the countless books that stand ready on the shelves. Meals were ready early. There was more lap time for dogs and talk time for kids and listening time for spouses. At the end of the day, I was bone tired, the house was in order and I craved email so badly, I developed a debilitating tic.

“I can get online at the library,” I told my husband. “Tomorrow, if we don’t have internet, I’m going to turn on, log in and drop out from 9 a.m. until 5:30 p.m. Wait. Tomorrow’s Thursday. They’re open until 7:30!”

He regarded me with open disgust while checking work email on his Blackberry. “McDonald’s has WiFi right now,” he mumbled.

We were parked at a booth sipping Diet Cokes and basking in the glow of a laptop in less than fifteen minutes.

“I didn’t know you could drive like that,” said my white-knuckled husband.

“I didn’t know that was a turn lane, honest,” I said as the energy flowed from my Web mail and into my trembling fingertips.

None too soon, our Internet access returned at home. I caught up on email, read articles from a half dozen newspapers and checked the price on tea in China. OK, not really, but I could have checked on literally anything. Somehow, it just wasn’t the same.

The dogs looked like they lost their best friend. The beds weren’t made and the dishes sat in the sink. Postal mail sat neglected on the kitchen table.

Instead of reading a piece on underwater basket weaving, I got up and got busy. It felt good to get things done. I had left so many things for later.

Cormac McCarthy called my name from the cover of “The Crossing,” the second of a trilogy I started reading offline to soften my Internet cravings. His “All the Pretty Horses” took me to Texas and Mexico and reminded me of why I love the language, the beauty of timeless writing.

Books were meant to be held, pages flipped in the afternoon sun. A scrap of paper as a bookmark assures an easy restart should the impulse to write or cook or visit a neighbor arise. No logging in or out required.

Some things are best enjoyed away from a computer monitor, but sudden withdrawal can be a bit harsh. Somebody should make a patch for that.

They say tragedy can bring out the best in people. Perhaps an Internet outage isn’t a true calamity, but it can feel like it when you rely on it too much. Like anything, too much of a good thing can be bad. At least, that’s what I tell the dogs after so much belly scratching. When you want information, it’s good to be able to Google it. But when you want to live, the best of life is definitely found offline.

2007-06-11T12:20:00.000-05:00

For Father's Day, Grab His Nose

Late one evening as my dad was grading papers, I gave him something he never forgot. As I eased past his recliner, I grabbed his nose between two knuckles and squeezed. Hard. To this day, I have no idea why. I giggled devilishly, and he levitated from his chair.

“Good Lord!” he shouted. “What’d you do that for?” The tip of his nose had already turned crimson.

“Oh, wow, Dad, I’m sorry,” I choked between chortles. “I didn’t mean to squeeze that hard. I was just playing around.“ I felt bad, but not terribly so. This was the man who had horsed around with us kids millions of times with “horsey bites a pumpkin” moves on our knees, “turkey peeps over a log” tugs to our neck hair and the old “I’ve got your nose” trick. Admittedly, I took his a little more forcibly than was necessary.

He rubbed his inflamed nose and continued to mark papers.

The next morning, he bellowed from behind the bathroom door.

“Kristen Long!” My surname included. I was in trouble. Maybe it was just an empty toilet paper spindle.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, cowering in the hallway.

The door opened and there stood my dad, razor and shaving cream in hand. The urge to sing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” proved nearly impossible to suppress. Dad had a perfect scarlet circle on the very end of his nose.

“How I am supposed to teach class with this?” He pointed at the offending mark. I tried to throttle a deep-seated need to laugh like a goon. The vision of him teaching college students with a big red dot on his nose didn’t help.

“Ummm, we could try some make –up,” I gasped. We studied the contents of my cosmetics bag. We tried a little Cover Girl. We put on a dab of powder. Now he had a pinkish-beige dot resembling ice cream residue or cake batter. He rubbed it all off with language as colorful as his nose. He headed out the door mumbling something about a bandana. I imagined his students held hostage by a masked instructor, lectures delivered from behind a smuggler’s kerchief. It’s shameful how hard I laughed at poor Dad’s expense.

He taught his classes, conducted his labs and bore the brunt of “red dot clearance sale” jokes all day. For the longest time, he flinched whenever I got near him. But he never punished me, never tried to get even. In no time, he laughed at the entire ordeal. He said he never saw such rapt attention as the day he taught school with a Rudolph nose.

This will be my first Father’s Day without Dad. So much of my daily routine reminds me of him. Silly songs, rambling rhymes, and memories made deeply bittersweet in his absence challenge my ability to smile instead of cry. He was the epitome of a teacher, always showing us kids a better way, the kind way, the way of a wonderful man with admirable character and a brilliant mind. To say I miss him is like saying I’m hungry after an insufferable fast.

What helps more than anything is to recall the example he set as a father. In times of sorrow, he persevered. In times of joy, he laughed loud and long. In times of suffering, he called on his faith. And in everything, he loved with a heart too big for words.

For the dads reading this, I’ll remind you of something no Sunday sales ad will. Whatever gifts you receive today, do not let this day get by you without telling your children what a gift they are to you.

Because when all of the ties hang untouched in the closet, when all the tools rest idly in the workshop, when the sound of your father’s voice rises only in your memory, that is what your son or daughter will cling to on Father’s Day. As the ideal thank-you, give them the heartfelt expression of a father’s love and a gentle tweak to the nose.

2007-05-21T14:32:00.000-05:00

Jimmy Choo Shoes and I Don't Care

Unlike a lot of women, I hate to shop for clothing. Online retailers get much of my business. I can order pretty much anything I need from the Internet with a quick Google search. But I have a daughter. She loves to shop. Her estrogen levels peak with the words “sale” and “new arrivals.”

Unfortunately, the downside of online shopping is shipping. It takes at least two days for delivery. My husband and I were invited to a party where the suggested attire was “festive wear.” The closest thing I had to that was a lime green and yellow muumuu my aunt bought in Hawaii a hundred years ago. I needed party pants, and I needed them fast. So off I went to shop at local stores with my daughter and her fashion guru friend.

“Miss Kristen, try this on.” It was a request I heard repeatedly from Katie’s friend, a young man with impeccable taste who knows Jimmy Choo shoes and is visiting the highbrow fashion district of Highland Park Village in Dallas for his summer vacation.

He dangled a dress for my inspection, noting the price tag at the armpit.

“It’s a 14 Wide,” he announced. “I think it will fit you.”

“Look, hon, the ‘W’ is for ‘Women,’ not ‘Wide,’” I corrected him scornfully.

“Well, it means ‘Wide’ in shoes. Speaking of shoes, you need some new ones.”

We spent hours like that, carting outfits to the dressing room, Katie and Mr. Picky waiting to see the results.

“Do you have it on? What does it look like? Let us see!” they implored.

“I’m going to need scissors to get out of this,” I growled, immobilized in a tight-fitting nightmare.

“But how does it LOOK?” they cried. And I cried, too. I felt far from festive trapped in a twisted tunic of glitter and taffeta.

By some miracle, we found a pair of black flowing pants and a spaghetti-strap top that didn’t look too bad.

“The sash bothers me,” I worried aloud. “I’m not certain it works with the top.”

“Are you kidding?” Pro-Sash Man exclaimed. “It’s works! And look. You can take it off easily. It’s only tacked on, not sewn down the full longness of it.”

“I think you mean ‘length.’”

“Longness, length, whatever. Use your seam ripper and take it off. We need to look at shoes!”

My feet ached, my back throbbed, and my credit card fell limp. I had something to wear to the party, and I wanted to go home.

“I already have some shoes. Let’s go.”

A look of horror crossed his face. My daughter retreated in disgust.

“Miss Kristen, you aren’t planning to wear those same black pumps, the ones you wore to the Christmas party, are you?” The puppy dog eyes filled with terror got to me.

“Oh, all right,” I conceded. “We’ll go to one shoe store, but that’s it. These dogs are barking, and they have no desire to squeeze into four-inch heels.”

Off we went, the two of them chattering about stilettos and snakeskin, while I braced myself for more retail exposure.

“Try these on, Miss Kristen.” Three pairs of shoes greeted me with menacing smiles, the slender heels and pointed forms taunting my pinky toes with sadistic suggestions.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I said. “Those would effectively hobble me. This event is at a horse farm, for heaven’s sake. I have to actually move around, preferably on my feet. Haven’t they got anything lower that doesn’t require blood-letting?”

Much to the chagrin of daughter and friend, I found nothing I liked better than the shoes I had at home. We left empty-handed while the teenaged shop-a-holics lectured me on the essential nature of women to desire lots of shoes, purses and jewelry.

I tried to enlighten their young minds with a lesson in “need” versus “want,” a soliloquy on the beauty of minimalism and the basic concept of home economics. But, they rolled their eyes and tuned me out with iPods and cell phones, suddenly very tired and eager to go home.

2007-05-02T09:57:00.000-05:00

How to Say NO to Canine Cuties

“What kind of dog do you have?” someone will ask. This usually follows my own inquiry into what kind of dog is at the end of a leash or pictured within a frame on a desk. When you have a pack of five dogs like our family, the explanation gets a little complicated.

We used to be a one-dog family. Her name was Winnie. She was absolutely the best dog who ever lived. She came from questionable lineage. Her mother was a full-blooded yellow Labrador, but her dad was a hot-blooded stranger in the night. Shortly before she died, our dog Spottie the orphan appeared on the scene.

Tailless with black-and-white spots, Spottie resembles a cross between a Dalmatian and an Australian cattle dog. For all we know, he could be from a champion bloodline of some rare canine breed. Likely, he’s all mutt. My brother David says he’s a sweet dog, but ugly as a mud fence. We think he’s beautiful. But then, come to think of it, I’m not sure that we have ever seen an ugly dog. And therein lies the story of our four poodles.

If you have never seen a poodle puppy with its voluminous coat of shiny curls, tiny ears and weepy brown eyes, then you have never witnessed the epitome of cute. It is the kind of cute that induces supposedly reasonable adults with a perfectly wonderful dog to lose all good sense and establish a poodle kingdom. It is also the kind of cute that fades in its intensity at 2 a.m. when the insufferable little whiners insist on human contact 24/7.

Honey and Scooter comprised our first pair. We bought Beignet because of his stellar pedigree. We intended to establish a profitable poodle breeding empire built on the cute factor. Only, we found out soon enough that cute is a relative term.

Honey and Scooter gave rise to three pups that survived the birthing process. Beignet simply stood around and looked confused. In spite of round-the-clock feedings and as much maternal nurturing as I could muster every two hours, only the runt, Daisy, made it. Somewhere between the completely disinterested mama dog and my sudden incarnation as a wet nurse, the cute factor disintegrated faster than you can say “pipe dream.” We had all four neutered and spayed and vowed never to contribute to the poodle gene pool again.

My brother-in-law visited over the weekend. He graciously tolerated the poodles, and they returned the favor by announcing his every move.

“Good morning, Mike,” we’d say.
“Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!” the poodles answered.
“Let’s go grab a bite to eat, Mike.”
“Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!”

It didn’t matter that they sat on his lap and he scratched their heads and called them by name. If Mike entered the room, he was re-introduced with a canine chorus every single time.

“He’s going outside!” (yap, yap, yap, yap, yap)
“He’s coming inside!” (yap, yap, yap, yap, yap)
“He’s, he’s, he’s, just sitting there!” (yap, yap, yap, yap, yap)

Sometimes we try to remember what it was that possessed us to lay claim to four poodles. All I can figure is that temporary madness can be blamed for a lot of things. I was looking through some old photos and I remembered all too clearly. Hordes of baby poodle pictures featured the face of a little angel and the hypnotic stare of a miniature master manipulator.

My daughter and I stopped by the pet shop to buy some supplies. Like complete idiots, we visited the puppy cages. There they were, two Pugs intent on stealing our hearts, a Basset Hound imploring us with woeful brown eyes, a trio of Schnauzers schmoozing through the glass and a couple of identical Schipperkes that I would swear mouthed the words “take us home.”

We never left a place faster in our lives.

2007-04-17T12:16:00.000-05:00

No More Plastic Wrap and Moving On

On January 26, my dad died.
Thirty-seven days later, on March 4, my mom died.

Grief descended on us long before their passing. With the ravages of Parkinson’s disease and stomach cancer prevailing, our family felt the tide pull away. We sensed the ebbing of their time here.

On their front porch, on each side of the doorway, two pots of ivy guarded the entryway. One died in January, the other simply faded, a subtle yet undeniable metaphor for my parents’ passing.

It is the natural course of events for children to lose their parents. At ages 67 and 70, Mom and Dad left far sooner than I anticipated. A dear friend of the family, Betty Malone, referred to us three kids as orphans at my mother’s memorial service. The word, in its brevity and definition described exactly how we felt. Orphaned.

Yet, we understand that our grief, while deep and extraordinarily painful, is not the only grief in the world. Everyone loses someone, eventually, to death. There are blessings to be found in the relief of suffering, in a return to our loving Maker, in finally securing that understanding that surpasses all understanding. We who are left behind have to grieve, but we do not have to wallow in it. We can choose to rejoice, in time.

My dad hated plastic wrap. He cursed its very existence. He never won the battle of the tear strip. He claimed it never stuck when it was supposed to, and always did when you wished it wouldn’t. Of all the things that occurred to me when I said goodbye to Dad, plastic wrap emerged as just one of the many insults of life that he would no longer have to fight. When I see plastic wrap, I think of Dad.

My mom loved peanut butter crackers. Ritz, creamy peanut butter and a tall glass of milk were her standard indulgence on Sunday evenings until the cancer took her taste away. A master in the kitchen who tantalized our taste buds with rich, complicated Southern recipes, her love for something as simple as peanut butter crackers evokes memories of Mom that both comfort me and make me want to hug a jar of Jif.

If we are smart, we will grieve like little children. They ask the hard questions outright. “Where did they go?” and “Why?” and “How can we live without them?” They find the answers, too. “They are in heaven.” and “Because God needed more angels.” And “We will see them again some day.”

My niece Anna Kate pulled it all together for us. She discovered Dad’s glasses on a table after he passed away.

“Oh no!” she said. “Paw Paw forgot his glasses!” There he lives, in the memory of his grandchildren, still needing his bifocals to work crossword puzzles. Nana, no doubt, is smiling. She knows he doesn’t need them anymore.

An anonymous quote says, “Do not be afraid that your life will end. Be afraid that it will never begin.” Mom did not fear death. She missed my dad. They started a new life together back in 1961. I like to think they started another in 2007, without plastic wrap, with plenty of peanut butter crackers and the knowledge that here on Earth, they were loved more than words can describe.

I am trying hard to move through the grief, to rejoice in the kind of life they taught me to love. While I falter on a daily basis, there remain solid footholds for the future:

In the splendor of the daffodils, camellias, and daylilies Dad loved.
In the crisp coolness of autumn that my mom cherished.
In music that we savored and books we devoured and stories we told with sidesplitting laughter.
In the memories made by a family cultivated by two people defined by kindness, compassion and love.
In the lesson they exemplified, that God is good, all the time, even when you have to say goodbye.
Especially when you have to say goodbye.

2007-04-09T10:36:00.000-05:00

Update...

My mom, Mary Chapman Long, passed away March 4, 2007 due to stomach cancer.

People use the expression "good grief." There is nothing good about it. It is miserable. Grief, in all its twisted stages, proves to me that you can never fully understand how very much you love and care for someone until they are gone.

But...there is comfort and joy in the fact that my mom no longer fights with stomach cancer. She did so courageously, with every intent of winning. We enjoyed the blessing of more time than she would have had without that fight. Her time to leave this earth came, and we were there to see her off.

They died within 37 days of each other, Mom and Dad. Certainly, that is not enough time to grieve for one, then lose the other. We were extraoardinarily close, deeply attached and our family continues to struggle with weekends, the time we almost always gathered at their home in Poplarville to eat, laugh and enjoy time together.

People warned us that Easter would be difficult. Really, not so much more than any other day. If there is any time of year that should remind us of the release from suffering into unbridled happiness that God promises, Easter is it. And the chocolate helps.

As I grieve, I try to mine the memories of our our lives together. I try to recall those moments in time when I felt most loved, when I laughed hardest, when tears came in a flood and finally receded, only to leave me stronger, wiser and glad to be alive.

Mom and Dad. A pair of one-of-a-kinds. Much loved, much admired by so many people.

Good grief, bad grief, I miss them so very much.

2007-02-25T10:36:00.000-06:00

Checking in...

For those who follow my newspaper column, let me just say that I hope to write it again. My editors at the American have always been very understanding when I need a break. Or maybe they're relieved?

I am on hiatus while I grieve the loss of my dad and help my mom as she courageously endures the final stages of stomach cancer. These are days filled with emotion, heartache and wonder. Mostly, I wonder how to get through them.

Thank you for your prayers and words of support. For those of you who have lost loved ones to incurable illness, please know that your wisdom and sympathy have provided amazing comfort during this difficult time.

Meanwhile, mend your fences, hug the unhuggable, love like there's no tomorrow and remember those who have passed before us. Embrace all that makes life so wonderful and laugh, laugh, laugh. When your time comes, you'll have no regrets and your family will have a beautiful life to remember.

Enjoy this day...

Kristen

2007-01-25T09:00:00.000-06:00

God Bless the NFL

It started out as a disposable relationship. When I needed him for a good time, he was there six months out of the year. Weekends, Monday nights and the occasional Thursday evening, we would meet with friends but seldom alone. The attraction had little to do with him. It was the crowd he could assemble, with chips and beer, laughter and high spirits.

Those were my early years with the NFL.

My friend, Lori, gave me a placard that reads, "We interrupt this marriage to bring you football season!" I resented football. Always, somewhere on cable or satellite or radio there was an NFL game that interfered with my husband's diaper duty or ability to converse in complete sentences.

"Yes, I understand your frustrations with dealing with the kids all day ... Whoa! Did you see that? They got a safety! They got a safety!"

Many weekends have been spent rooting for or commiserating with the New Orleans Saints. My Aunt Ora got us hooked as babies. We've run the gamut from Archie Manning to Bobby Hebert and Morten Andersen and every player who has ever given die-hard fans a splinter of hope that some day the Saints would make it to the Super Bowl.

Watching the NFL games lost its luster because life got hectic. I resented the NFL because it seemed like a huge waste of time to sit glued to the tube for countless hours watching grown men run around in pursuit of that insufferable ball.

Times have changed. My son discovered the male bonding experience that is the NFL. He served as commissioner of his own Fantasy Football League. He can run stats like a bookie.
Ask him about any player today or even some of the retired guys and I guarantee you, he'll know more than is sensible. Through this football junkie kid of mine, I came to know the game in a different light.

When my mom found out she had cancer and as my dad's health took a hard turn for the worse, football season started. Sam delved into team rosters and schedules. He watched games to see how his Fantasy players performed. When the Saints played well, he rejoiced in high fives with his dad and called Aunt Ora as the Saints continued to beat the odds.

Meanwhile, the ups and downs of ailing family members threaded through the season. In hospital rooms and lobbies, John Madden's familiar voice comforted like that of an old friend.
Surprisingly, I found myself more than ready to sit and watch. The NFL and I, we go way back.For once, football felt right. In spite of worry and stress, there was laughter and gladness. Most amazingly, there was hope. The Saints had made the playoffs.

When those NFL players suit up and take the field, I imagine they focus on the job at hand. They have work to do. They face injury and frustration, pain and disappointment. A lot of people depend on them to bring home victory, to take us away from our troubles for awhile.

What I have discovered about my old flame, the NFL, is that in each team's pursuit of a Super Bowl ring, the rest of us find escape and a welcome respite from life's hardships.

It feels fantastic to see your team's running back catch a Hail Mary pass in the end zone.

It feels great to see the underdog win.

It feels downright euphoric to see your 79-year-old aunt jump to her feet and shout with unbridled pleasure while your son does the same, a pair of football nuts gone mad every time the Saints score.

While the Saints marched into their second playoff game, it felt like miracles are possible. And I know they are. Because now I can say that I truly enjoy watching football.

God bless the NFL.

2007-01-17T08:13:00.000-06:00

Sail Away with Captain Dad

Our daughter beseeched us to entertain her.

"Can we do something, like play cards? Watch a movie? Go somewhere?"

My husband and I lay motionless atop the bed covers. It was Saturday. It was cold out, the skies were gray and it seemed obvious to us that the only reasonable form of entertainment would be to leisurely watch the back of our eyelids.

She persisted.

"Come on. I'm bored. Get up. We need to do something."

Somebody groaned. The dogs whimpered. They already were piled high on the bed with us in various states of unconscious indulgence.

"I tell you what," her dad offered. "Let's play 'Boat to Boat.' "

She stomped off, disgusted, while we erupted in unbridled glee and recalled the birth of the best game ever invented.

Her dad concocted "Boat to Boat" many years ago when our then 3-year-old daughter insisted that nothing would do but an activity that involved Dad. He is clever in the ways of creative play.

He taught her to hammer nails into a block of wood. She'd say she was building a fort, a doghouse, maybe a barn. He gave her a rod and reel and showed her how to cast a rubber worm. This worked great until the line got caught.

"Boat to Boat" came about one of those lazy Saturdays when the week at work had left him ready for nothing but some serious R & R. He stretched out for a nap. Katie arrived, wide-eyed and eager to play.

"Whatcha doin', Dad?"

"Oh, I was just thinking. Thinking about a nice long nap."

"Dad, I wanna play. Let's play something. Whatcha wanna play?"

"I have an idea," he said sleepily. "How about we pretend this bed is a boat."

She pondered the proposition.

"OK, we're in a boat. Now what?"

"Uh, I think we'll need some stuff for our boat. How about you go get us some stuff?"

She squealed delightedly and he retreated to his quarters. She had an open invitation to drag everything she owned from her room to ours. Her dimples popped like those of a game show host, and she ran off to raid her toy box.

Hours later, I discovered them charting the depths of some faraway ocean. He had donned an authentic captain's hat. They were taking drags on huge plastic cigars and resembled a pair of mobsters who had just looted Toys R Us.

"What in the world happened in here?"

Capt. Dad replied with incredulous surprise.

"Well, we've been playing 'Boat to Boat,' of course," he informed me.

"Yeah, we call dis 'Boat to Boat,' Mommy. It's wots and wots of fun." The first mate snuggled up to the captain.

"And who is going to swab the deck, I mean, clean up this mess?"

Just like that, they both fell asleep, oblivious to everything except the soothing sensation of their seaworthy vessel rocking atop the deep water of some calm and gentle sea. It was the first of many "Boat to Boat" adventures where Capt. Dad always seemed to sail into the Bay of Lost Consciousness.

On that more recent Saturday, we discovered that "Boat to Boat" has since lost its appeal with the first mate. The captain now sails with a crew of poodles. Sometimes, the call of open water fills me with a serious need to join them. When they've settled into a satisfied slumber, I set the anchor, take a deep breath of salty air, and sail away, too. I agree with the captain. It's one of the best games he ever invented.

2007-01-08T14:21:00.001-06:00

2007-01-08T14:17:00.000-06:00

Running is for Those Who Can

I am not a runner. I know people who run, like Gerald Miller. He’s a longtime family friend and has likely logged more miles than the collective drivers of NASCAR. Gerald was featured in a NIKE ad. A photograph taken at the end of a marathon showed him peeling a pair of strategically placed Band-Aids from his sweaty chest. He was smiling.

Charles and Audrey Jackson run. They are fit and happy. They extol the virtues of running, and my eyes glaze over. I have soggy joints and a bad history with running. My physical education instructor in college can vouch for that.

When I was a freshman, I enrolled in Sissy Beacham’s Fitness and Conditioning class at what was then the Jefferson Davis Campus of Mississippi Gulf Coast Community College. My dad taught there. Sissy and he were good friends, so it was with great trepidation that I entered her class that first day, all lumpy and out of shape. I knew that my progress would be monitored with particular interest.

Our class included students of varying degrees of fitness. Some were runners. It was the era of Jane Fonda and videotaped aerobics. Many of the females showed up in cute pink tights and leg warmers, bouncy ponytails and lip-gloss. I dressed out in an old tee shirt and sweats. To my credit, I was eager to tone my muscles and burn fat, boost my metabolism and eat properly. As soon as Miss Beacham got out the calipers, though, my eagerness turned to flat out despondency.

She pinched the fat on our stomachs, our underarms, and our thighs. She measured our unhealthy indiscretions with a wicked device that revealed to the tenth of an inch the blubber we carried on our fleshy carcasses. She calculated our BMI, a ratio of weight to height used to determine your level of fitness. Oh, the inhumanity of it all! If I could have run fast, I would have bolted right then and there.

But I stuck with the program. We worked out on the stage of the gymnasium, following Miss Beacham’s lead while we lifted legs and crunched our abs and stifled moans of agony. I started walking every day, the one exercise that has never failed me. I lost weight and I felt better. There was a problem. To complete the course we had to run. Did I mention I am not a runner?

At the end of the semester, I took Miss Beacham’s timer with me, the kind you see sports officials use at the track. I had to run a mile, record the time it took me to complete it, and report to Miss Beacham.

Out on the lonely road, dodging cars and a serious need to collapse, I ran. I ran as fast as I could. I called up every incentive I could muster to will my legs onward. The Little Engine That Could cheered me on. The thrill of the fabled “runner’s high” taunted me. Finally, I rounded the corner for the home stretch and finished that fearsome mile with a final click of the timer.

Miss Beacham was sitting behind her desk when I delivered the news. I’d like to think someone had just told her the joke of the year, something that would make her laugh like a chimpanzee on a truckload of bananas. But it was the timer.

“What’d you do? Crawl?” she cackled in her distinctive Southern drawl. Because I know her to be a kind and wonderful woman, because she is a perfectly sound and knowledgeable expert on fitness and health, and because I know I stink as a runner, I laughed, too.

Since then, my seasons of running have been limited to those times when I reflect on my belief that the best reason to run is because you can. I think about those who wish they could walk, run, even crawl a mile, and I feel the need to pick up the pace. Sometimes, I even smile.

2007-01-04T11:46:00.000-06:00

Here's the ordering information for Ken Murphy's second edition of My South Coast Home and his new title, Mississippi:

Email the author, Ken Murphy, at kenmurphysouth@aol.com
Tell him you found his book info on my blog!

Contact your local bookseller or any online bookseller with the following information. They can order from the distributor. Quantities are limited, but a second print run is in the works.

My South Coast Home
2nd Edition 2006
ISBN 0-9788450-0-5
ISBN 978-0-9788450-0-1

Mississippi
ISBN 0-9788450-1-3
ISBN 9-780978-845018

Barnes and Noble in Gulfport, MS will carry both titles, initially. Contact them at:

Barnes & Noble BooksellersGulfport
Gulfport Shopping Center
15246 Crossroads Parkway
Gulfport, MS 39503
228-832-8906

Or use this link to order signed copies of Mississippi from Lemuria Books in Jackson, MS and view an online gallery of photos:

http://www.lemuriabooks.com/index.php?show=book&isbn=WFES305519

2007-01-03T09:17:00.001-06:00

2007-01-03T09:09:00.000-06:00

Ken Murphy Captures the Real Mississippi

To say Ken Murphy takes Mississippi pictures is like saying William Faulkner wrote Mississippi stories. In my years freelancing for newspapers and magazines, I have developed an affinity for truly gifted artists, so much so that I am tempted to seek an interview more for the interesting conversation than for the byline and paycheck. Talking with Ken Murphy always makes me glad to be a writer.

“My South Coast Home” is a coffee table book of photographs from Ken’s home beat, the Mississippi Gulf Coast. He is a native of Bay St. Louis. Yet, one of the things I like about Ken is that he pays no mind to boundaries or county lines or city limits. His eye for the beauty and spirit of his coastal territory obscures everything but a continuity of land, water and sky.

His first coffee table book literally took my breath away. In it, the images transported me to places I knew well growing up in Long Beach. They are all the more precious now, these pictures of churches and restaurants and local landmarks, most of which Hurricane Katrina wiped from the face of the Earth many months ago. Still, my favorite photographs are those of coastal bayous, pelicans and panoramic views of a fading sun on a watery horizon, the things that even a killer storm couldn’t destroy.

Ken’s second book, “Mississippi,” will be available to the public January 15, 2007. Trust me. You want to save a little Christmas money for this. Because I had the great fortune to edit and write copy for this book, I got a sneak peek of the 165 photographs that fill its pages. I am a sentimental sap. Needless to say, when Rick Dobbs, the designer, sent previews in email, I sat at my computer and cried. Never had I felt so proud to call Mississippi my home. I was awestruck. From serene pastoral landscapes to a rapturous view atop Mount Woodall, the images portray our state as the natural wonder and culturally diverse destination that I wish outsiders could finally, once and for all, understand.

We hear about statistics that tell us we are at the bottom of the barrel. I know, too, that statistics don’t reveal the true nature of things and that economic indicators may not accurately reflect the potential of a place. What I do fully comprehend is that Mississippi is a state much maligned and misunderstood. We have come far. We have made significant progress. We have healed many of the wounds that the civil rights era dug so deeply over 40 years ago. People like Ken Murphy and the books he has masterfully created should serve as a wake up call. Just look at our state and see how very much of it is innately and undeniably spectacular.

Another thing that makes Ken a top-notch artist is his appreciation for the people who helped him along the way. He is eager to please, dedicated to his craft and feverishly passionate for making every image count. He listens when people tell him for the millionth time that he really should get a picture of this or that. But I have to say, the images that draw me in and make me want to stay are those that are clearly caught out of serendipity, the ones that present themselves when man and camera and light just happen to be in the right place at the right time.

I have never believed in coincidence or luck. Neither has anything to do with the photographs of Ken Murphy. I think there’s a reason that sometimes, the sun is in just the right position, and the clouds are just where they need to be, that for just long enough, the gulls catch a downdraft and the mullet eject from the surface and the sparkle from their spray disperses a rainbow while a solitary man, who has waited for hours, catches it all on film.

Still, whether it’s divine intervention or luck of the draw, living in Mississippi should make you feel fortunate. To see Ken Murphy’s books is to witness the enduring reasons it’s nothing but a good thing to call Mississippi home.

2007-01-03T09:03:00.000-06:00

Live Like Dumpling, Glad Not Sad

Eulogies intrigue me. My friend Kel sent the link to one delivered by Reverend William Sloane Coffin of Riverside Church in New York, ten days after his 24-year-old son died in a car accident. www.pbs.org/now/society/eulogy.html

The words are far from sad. They are deeply powerful. Coffin’s sentiments echo perfectly my belief that the will of God has absolutely nothing to do with death and misery and everything to do with a desire to see us embrace grace and unconditional love.

If ever there were a time you want somebody to get the words just right, I would imagine your memoriam would be it. Thinking about your own eulogy feels a little morbid, perhaps frightening, but it is an effective incentive to take a personal inventory. What will people say about us when we die?

“He sure knew how to pinch a penny.”
“She was great at getting her way.”
“He worked every waking hour.”
“She was always so…thin.”

When we recall the lives of those we love, seldom do we mention the things that society values so soundly, like ambition or wealth. The memories tend toward the goodness and mercy of people. We talk of the times we laughed and cried together, first dates and weddings, road trips and better times.

When my friend Teresa died last year, her friends and family stood to share the spirit of a woman who never gave up, who laughed right up until her final days. Smiling bravely, breast cancer survivors told us how Teresa’s courage and humor inspired their recovery, how she celebrated their remission. I cried like a baby, out of sadness, yes, but also in appreciation of her validation. Life is good, people, I heard Teresa say. Make it good.

Regardless how successful we are in setting ourselves apart from others, there is one inescapable commonality: No one leaves this Earth alive, except for astronauts. Biblical teachings speak of jeweled gates and crowns of gold in heaven. I am hopeful that is an analogy to the bliss of going home. I tend to imagine that our passing takes us to a place that smells of fresh apples and new grass, a warm and wonderful place that suddenly makes all the sense in the world.

Dumpling, one of our childhood pets, taught me an early lesson about dying. She was a big, happy mixed breed dog. She loved to eat, loved to be outside chasing cats and kids, loved to sprawl in the hot sun until her black fur felt near combustion. When she got sick, I got angry. I loved that dog. It felt hugely unjust that her time was up. I was a young hormonal girl, wanting so desperately to make sense of why anybody has to die.

On a white wicker couch on our back porch, I sat next to that big dog and cried. Loud. I emptied my soul, and scraped the sides, sobbing because I felt so helpless. She took her last breath and I cried some more. I learned about grief, but I also learned about peace.

Over time, I accepted the lasting lesson, that although loss of a loved one hurts, the pain can and does diminish. What eases the grief, to some degree, is to know that they lived as Dumpling did, contented and glad. She heartily enjoyed outdoor romps, good food and friendly faces. To see her was to know that life is very good, not counting tomorrow. Some of us get more days than others, and while that might seem unfair, the most regrettable injustice is when we take precious time for granted, like reruns and good health.

What will people say about me when I die? I hope it will be along the lines of what I said to Dumpling as a brilliant blue sky heralded her departure.

“Oh, man, I’m gonna miss you. I love you. I’ll see you again one day.”

2006-12-11T09:09:00.000-06:00

Original Christmas Had No Tinsel

A friend of mine was sharing her melancholy over missing her grandmother at Christmas. She grieved over how the family no longer celebrated together over a big meal at grandma’s table. The collective traditions of yuletide cheer seemingly passed away in her absence, and a nagging emptiness replaced the familiar feelings of excitement and anticipation that my friend and her family had always enjoyed.

My own family has seen better times. It is difficult to face the unsavory challenges of life, when hardships make us feel vulnerable and confused. Christmas, we know, should be full of hope and joy. But peace escapes us, and we struggle to find the warmth and wonder of the season. We long to feel like we did as children, waiting breathlessly, sleepless in our vigilance to detect the faintest jingle of Santa’s sleigh bells or perhaps the voices of angels.

Our Sunday school teacher prayed that we might recall in the midst of all the craziness of Christmas the true meaning of the season, that we would find a way to keep Jesus somewhere within the heart of our holiday endeavors. And while it may not be politically correct to say so, I think we’d do ourselves a major favor if we got back to the true grit of Christmas. After all, Joseph and Mary weren’t exactly on a pleasure cruise when her time arrived over two thousand years ago. In fact, they had it pretty rough.

Joseph and Mary weren’t married. She was pregnant. At the Roman emperor’s command, all people had to return to their place of birth to register for a new tax. Joseph and Mary had to trek several days from Nazareth to Bethlehem. Angels gave them guidance, yes, but can you imagine riding through the desert on a donkey, ready to deliver, and the uncertainty of finding a decent place to rest much less give birth? I’m thinking that was a miserable time, wrought with a lot of misgivings and more than a little fear.

So in those moments when wretched depression and anxiety lend a somber note to what should be a happy holiday, perhaps those of us who feel less than cheerful should cast aside the ephemeral joys of tinsel and temporary insanity and find instead a way to revisit the original cause for celebration.

When lives are lost every day to war, illness and accident, we are fortunate, those of us who have our health and have something to look forward to. While the focus of Christmas leans toward the exchange of gifts and retail indulgences, the fact remains that Christmas emerged as the birthday for a baby boy who held great promise, a living reminder of the goodness and light that fills the hearts of those who rebuke the perils of losing faith.

Pain and suffering do not take holidays. They carry on, through Christmas, on birthdays, when they are most unwelcome and spoil the fun. Yet, in great adversity, we often discover the deeply magical rewards of human compassion. In our shared struggles, we can always find something, a little spark of hope, a renewed belief that no matter what, there is always a reason to celebrate.

A child was born thousands of years ago to a pair of young and faithful servants, parents to the Prince of Peace who arrived not in comfort and blissful surroundings but in the lowly place where lambs are born. His humble birth launched the transformation of entire nations and inspired stories of glorious victories over all that is dark and dreary and insufferable. In the wake of that first Christmas, it is impossible to deny the enduring message that peace, love and hope are the greatest gifts of all.

Whether or not you believe in the Christian history of the Christ child, you have to agree that Christmas began with a family mired in difficult circumstances. In our loss, among our worries, we’d all do well to remember that and welcome the warmth of Christmas.

2006-12-06T08:20:00.000-06:00

Surprise Them With the Gift That Keeps on Giving

Most everyone expects to get gifts at Christmas. We make wish lists so friends and family shopping on our behalf know what we want. It's all fairly predictable. I think the element of surprise adds something special to gift giving, but some people don't like surprises.A couple of enlightening encounters at home indicate my husband may be one of them.

He was measuring the width of the kitchen window, a pencil in his mouth, the tape measure stretched atop the curtains. Clearly, he was engrossed in the task at hand and of the opinion that he was alone in the room. Had he known anyone was handy, he surely would have asked for help. In that moment, I realized I could either speak up and scare him to death, or I could exit the room and enter more noisily. "What are you doing?" I asked. He grabbed the walls, inhaled the pencil, and choked out an unintelligible greeting.

"Sorry," I apologized when the laughter subsided and I could breathe again. "Did I startle you?"

Maybe it's the adrenaline rush of surprising someone so thoroughly their hair stands on end. Maybe it's the chance to add some spice to your life. Maybe it's the pleasure of laughing hysterically at someone else's expense. I'm not sure exactly why it appeals to me, but I definitely enjoy a good surprise. I think the spouse feels differently.

He thoroughly enjoys his naps in the recliner with his favorite poodle, Honey. They kick off their shoes, cover up with a comfy blanket and fall easily into deep slumber, belly-up and oblivious to the world. One of them snores contentedly while the other snoozes on stand-by. The disturbing thing about sleeping with Honey is that she barks at the slightest provocation. She alerts us to doorbells on TV, dust bunnies coursing beneath the sofa and imaginary footsteps. So, if you watch this napfest for any length of time, you are sure to witness a most satisfying display of unmitigated surprise.

I happened to luck up on one such Honey eruption recently. Who knows what set her off? It could have been the clanging of moth's wings or the melting of butter, but in the midst of an extended recliner session, Honey went into full throttle siren mode. While she bounced around on all fours, delivering the news from La-Z-Boy central, her partner levitated with eyes wide and mouth agape, looking like Scrooge on his tour of Christmases past.

It's likely sinful how much I enjoy a good surprise.

Yes, I've been on the receiving end. We had a mouse in the house on two occasions. Both cats yawned, uninspired, while I sunk my nails into the ceiling. Once, when I thought I was home alone while my family shopped, my daughter materialized from around the corner and I nearly vaporized on the spot.

And, every Christmas, we hang the Singing Wreath in our foyer. There's nothing like padding to bed in the dark, only to freeze in place to the screeching tune of "Deck the Halls" and the flash of illuminated eyeballs. The wreath once regaled my aunt on her return from the kitchen in the wee hours of the morning. Come to think of it, she hasn't spent the night with us since.

Maybe you want to surprise a loved one this Christmas. You could sneak up on them when they least expect it with a bunch of mistletoe or a box of chocolate. You could call someone out of the blue to wish them a happy holiday. Whatever it is, don't underestimate how the element of surprise can make this Christmas one they'll never forget. Lasting memories are the ultimate gifts that keep on giving.

Catch Kristen's columns at every Friday in The Hattiesburg American at www.hattiesburgamerican.com

2006-11-20T10:35:00.000-06:00

2006-11-20T10:24:00.000-06:00

Thanksgiving Turnip Greens Need Big Pot and the Little One

Preparing the Thanksgiving meal for your family proves to be a daunting challenge, at any age. The first time my husband and I hosted the big dinner at our home, our kids were little bitty and our plans grandiose. We wanted to fix everything ourselves. No, don’t bring a thing, we instructed the family. We’ve got it all under control.

My dad had grown a beautiful mess of turnip greens in his garden. In addition to the traditional sweet potato casserole, turkey and trimmings, I decided that one of our green vegetables should be a big pot of those tender greens. He agreed, and after some instruction on how to harvest the leaves, I got to work collecting what I needed for our Thanksgiving feast.

My Aunt Ora V got wind of the plan. She reminded me that greens cook down. What appears to be a truckload of turnip greens will reduce to the volume of a cereal bowl. With all those people heading to our house for Thanksgiving, I would need a wheelbarrow to cart a sufficient amount. I kept this is in mind as I made my way down the rows of Dad’s garden.

Picking greens is no picnic. You want the tender leaves, not the leathery old ones, but you also want to leave the baby stalks, so that there will be more greens later. Dad helped me, and when we had a couple of grocery sacks full, he suggested that was enough.

“But Dad, greens cook down!” I reminded him. He inquired if I had been talking to my aunt. I kept pulling leaves as he departed, saying something under his breath about turnip greens for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Finally, with my back screaming and sweat dripping from my brow in the cool November air, I hauled my harvest home, bags and bags of greens. And they all had to be washed.

It was the day before Thanksgiving. I had desserts to bake, dressing to make, and homemade rolls to mix and a young ton of greens to wash. I plugged one side of the sink, filled it with greens and flooded them with cold water. Over and over, I plunged the leaves beneath the icy bath, rinsing away grit and plucking out the occasional fat, lime-colored worm. It seemed the more I washed, the more I found undesirable debris.

With buckets and bowls of freshly washed greens waiting for the stovetop, I put a big pot on the eye, fried several slices of bacon, and poured in a “goodly” amount of water. I seasoned it with salt and pepper. While I chopped and mixed and assembled other menu items, I kept adding greens to the pot.

The pot was way too small. I dragged out a big Dutch oven and transferred the greens. They did cook down. But I had enough greens to feed our guests twice, and still, there were more greens.

Out in our garage on a high metal shelf was an aluminum pot designed to cook gallons of gumbo, the type of thing an Army chef employs to feed the troops in the field, a vessel that will accommodate bushels of potatoes or a sea of soup. I extracted it from its perch, scrubbed it twice with soap and steel wool and planted it on the red-eyed stove. I heaved the steaming greens to the lip of the tub, spilling them into the depths. And finally, I added the last of the leaves. It was 10:00 at night. The next day, we glutted ourselves on greens, and the next day, and the next.

This Thanksgiving, I will be thankful for a lot of things, but mostly for the blessings of living in the greatest country on Earth. I will say a prayer of gratitude for the sacrifice of those in the military who are far from home, who defend the inalienable rights of humans to pursue happiness and live in peace. And, should they ever need me, I can cook enough greens to feed all four branches of the armed services and their families, with leftovers.

Happy Thanksgiving, to you and yours.

2006-11-15T11:56:00.001-06:00

2006-11-15T09:29:00.000-06:00

2006-11-15T09:26:00.000-06:00

Do Tell? It's Chicken Rotel

As is often the case, a recent family discussion turned to the topic of food.

My brother Andy and I visited with our mom at the hospital during one of her chemo treatments, and even though her appetite had gone the way of the evening sun, we found ourselves considering favorite foods we hadn't had in a while. Not surprisingly, most everything mentioned was from Mom's repertoire of home cooked fare.

"I like coconut custard pie," I said, wistfully.

The nurse arrived to administer Mom's next round of drugs.

"Now, these three medications will make you sleepy, so get ready for a big nap," she advised. Andy and I halfway listened, engrossed in our digestive indulgences.

"Nope, coconut cream," my brother disagreed. We studied Mom's face for signs of slumber. She was wide-awake, eating ice chips.

"I like coconut cream, too," said Mom. "But these days, nothing sounds good." The metallic taste from her treatment had altered her taste buds. Andy and I seemed to have discovered enhanced ones. Talking about food might have been insensitive, but Mom seemed interested enough to stay awake.

"Coconut cream is good, but I think I like the custard better," I said. "Ooo, what's that casserole with the corn tortillas and chicken?" I asked.

"You mean Chicken Rolet?" Andy offered.

"It's the one with green chilies, I think, and it's spicy and has bits of tomato?"

We glanced at Mom, thinking by now she would have slipped off with the Sand Man.

"No, that's King's Ranch Chicken," she corrected. "It has cream of chicken soup and Rotel tomatoes."

"Yep, that's it! Too bad you can't get that in the drive-thru." My brother wrinkled his brow, squinting in deep thought.

"Wait a minute," he said. "Chicken Rolet has Rotel tomatoes. Are you sure that's not the casserole you're thinking of?"

Now, plenty of things confuse me. But not the casseroles I ate for years and years, 95% of which featured some shape, form or fashion of chicken and cream of something soup.

"No, I know it wasn't Chicken Rolet. That has spaghetti noodles in it. And English peas. And I don't like it. No offense, Mom."

The nurse returned to gauge Mom's vitals.

"Good grief, you haven't gone to sleep?" she asked. "I don't know anybody who isn't knocked out after getting that round of drugs." Mom closed her eyes, but only briefly.

"You don't like it?" Mom asked, incredulous. "I didn't know that!"

"I LOVE Chicken Rolet," my brother chirped, like a good boy.

"Well, it's OK," I said, rolling my eyes. "But I wonder why they call it Chicken Rolet?"

"Maybe 'Rolet' is French for something," Andy said.

"Well, 'poulet' means chicken, doesn't it?" My mom stirred, her eyes sagging a little while I tried to conjure high school French.

"You know, they really should have called it Chicken Rotel," he said. "Heyyyyy, wait a minute…"

Two light bulbs went off above our thick skulls. My mom groaned, but not from anything the nurse was doing.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she howled, rolling her eyes. "It IS 'Chicken Rotel.' There's nothing French about it. Whoever gave me that recipe copied it down wrong. It's Chicken Rotel, not Rolet."

In that moment, I realized that a Long family tradition had gained notoriety under a false identity. There was no such thing as Chicken Rolet. For decades, we had cooked and eaten and carried Chicken Rolet to the sick and bereaved. It was Chicken Rolet that sat frozen in my parents' deep freezer, lovingly prepared by Andy's wife, Mandy.

All my life, I had hated Chicken Rolet. Now I knew why. It was all a faux-French farce, a calorie-dense casserole imposter. We laughed out loud at how obvious the transposed letters should have been.

"It'll never taste the same," Andy said, with a sigh.

"Good riddance," I replied.

Mom just shook her head, obviously disturbed.

We turned our discussion to more important matters, the fact that our stomachs were complaining loudly. We sought satisfaction in an outstanding Seattle Drip frappe, which in French means, "blended iced coffee, hold the Rotel tomatoes."

2006-11-15T09:22:00.000-06:00

Revel in the Soundtrack of Your Life

Life really stinks sometimes. I don't care who you are or where you live or how much money you have in the bank, everybody has days where everything you touch falls apart, everything you hear is bad news, and everything you see makes you wish you had remained beneath the insulating covers of your bed.

One of the things I have found that helps me when those days come crashing down is to listen to music. For my birthday, my son assembled a collection of 18 tracks of some of my favorite songs and burned them to a CD. It's amazing how therapeutic listening to those lyrics has been.

Don Henley sings "It may be raining, but there's a rainbow above you." A line from "Desperado," those words capture the sentiment of bad times, when difficulties cloud our view of better days to come. Looking up proves nearly impossible when we find ourselves mired in misery, but man, what a cool thing it is to see that rainbows continue to emerge in spite of our circumstances.

Louis Armstrong croons, "I see trees of green, red roses, too. I see them bloom, for me and you, and I say to myself. 'What a wonderful world.'" Again and again, this song has served as the soundtrack of life for thousands of people. As complex as the world seems to be, the everyday joys endure. Hold a baby, smile at a stranger, sing because you can. Do these things in remembrance of what a wonderful world it is.

Axl Rose of Guns N' Roses rocks away the tension with "Sweet Child O' Mine." Like a lot of rock songs, it's not so much the lyrics but the smoking guitar and searing vocals that strengthen your resolve not to let the buzzards keep you down. "Where do we go now?" wails Axl. It's the question often asked but seldom fully answered. Journey's Steve Perry sings about the Wheel in the Sky and "I don't know where I'll be tomorrow." Maybe, instead of feeling lost, we should just admit to being confused.

Elton John begs "Don't' let the sun go down on me." I think about the people who are there, lighting the darkness, in times like those when "All my pictures seem to fade to black and white." This song bemoans the disabilities of complacency and indifference. It's an obvious but endearing promise that in life, the sun also rises.

There will be more editions of "Mom's Music" compiled, I am certain. I need to hear Billy Joel sing "Son, can you play me a memory, I'm not really sure how it goes. But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man's clothes." Like the Piano Man, I like to play the memories that compel others to feel all right. And, I want to shout with the gospel of "God is Trying to Tell You Something:"

Can't sleep at night and you wonder whyMaybe God is trying to tell you something.Crying all night long, something's gone wrongMaybe God is trying to tell you something.

So if you are hurting. If you are full of despair. If you have lost your way. If you fear tomorrow. If you feel lonely. If you ache with loss. If you need a hug or a kick in the rear. Listen to music. Sing yourself a song. Turn up the volume on what makes each day more bearable, perhaps even happy.

Revel in the soundtrack of your life.

2006-10-31T14:45:00.000-06:00

Pinatas Make the Party

If you have ever been to a toddler's birthday party, you know that some parents take leave of their senses when it comes to reasonable and appropriate celebrations. It was a piñata at my son Sam's third birthday that made us lose our minds.

I planned for weeks, compiled a lengthy invitation list and offered up ideas for entertainment to my husband Steven, a man who subscribes to the idea that cake and ice cream constitute a wild party.

"What about a magician?" I asked from behind a tri-fold brochure.

"A magician?" he replied. "Won't that scare those little kids?"

"No, of course not," I squealed. "They'll love it. How about renting a ball pit? It comes with no fewer than 50,000 balls!"

But he wasn't listening anymore. The dollar signs were distracting him.

Finally, after perusing dozens of marketing packets on how to dazzle wee ones on their special day, I settled on the magician, a Tigger cake, a dozen games with fabulous prizes and the ultimate party energizer, a piñata.

"Do we really need a piñata?" Steven asked. "Isn't the magician with the fake rabbit enough?"

But I wasn't listening anymore. The carnival supply ad with dozens of high-strung papier mache' animals had me at "Kids JUST LOVE a piñata!"

The big day arrived and we nearly killed ourselves arranging balloons, crepe paper streamers and food for half of Harrison County. As the guests arrived, Sam led each one out to the tree house in the backyard. The weather was warm for November. The sky sparkled blue and crisp, and a gentle breeze nudged the remaining pecan tree leaves. Boys and girls raced around the yard, avoiding full frontal lick attacks from the dog and taking turns on the swing. Everything was as it should be for a birthday boy. But then his mom got involved.

"Hey, everyone, do you want to see some magic tricks? The magician is here!"

They stopped their outdoor revelry to look at me like I had announced liver and onions refreshments.

"No! We no go see magic!" declared Sam. "We wike it out heah!"

"But the magic is great! You'll love it! And I got him for $50 off!"

Reluctantly, the gang ventured indoors, smelling of baby sweat and fresh air. The magician greeted them with a booming voice and immediately sent half the audience to their mother's laps. From there, it was downhill all the way.

The music the magician played indicated he was still in Halloween mode. It was creepy and made the kids squirm. His tricks were lackluster at best, and one kid made it his duty to reveal the true nature of each one.

"Hey, that came from up your sleeve! And that's not a real rabbit! That came from Wal-Mart!"

Thankfully, we had the piñata.

"OK, kids, one at a time. Put on the blindfold and try to hit the donkey as hard as you can with this stick. You get three whacks!" Somehow, the violent nature of this activity didn't occur to me when I read the flashy ad.

"I can't see!" the first kid screamed. She turned 180 degrees and knocked her dad squarely in the shins.

Each child took his or her turn. No one hit the donkey.

"OK, let's try it without the blindfold, and you keep swinging until you hit the donkey!"

It was like striking a dangling tombstone. The donkey smiled, unaffected.

After countless rounds, the crowd on our sun porch dwindled to a bunch of frustrated parents who wanted their own shot at the donkey. The kids ran crazily around the yard, glad to be free of the torture chamber. Steven released the donkey from his tether and took it outside to the patio. He unleashed a furious assault that brought applause from the adults. The donkey, no longer smiling, lay ruptured and hemorrhaging lollipops and bubble gum on the bricks.

And strangely enough, he agreed with me.

"You know, Kris?" he said, grinning. "This piñata turned out to be a good idea, after all."

2006-10-13T12:29:00.000-05:00

Lessons for my son

Sometimes, he escapes me, the boy who has grown taller than I, fourteen years old and full of his own ideas of how the world should turn. He asks hard questions, not just matters of math and literature, but confounding inquiries like, “Just what have you ever taught me?” I struggled with that one, tossed to me as we waited in line at the grocery.

What, indeed, have I taught him?

My first response was sarcasm, a lame and useless retort about how I had obviously taught him nothing. It felt raw and full of hurt, not what I really wanted to say. Having reflected on it, though, I think I have a better answer. I think that sharing it here might somehow remind all of us what moms do teach their children.

I taught you when you were very small to love and learn from the dog. Your first dog, Winnie, groomed you well in matters of loyalty, laughter and appreciating the great outdoors. She and I both taught you that dog food is just for dogs.

I taught you, as has your dad, to love willingly and fully, to show compassion for others and that kindness is, more often than not, reciprocated. I taught you that cartoons are worth every minute you spend laughing at them and that the philosophy of Calvin and Hobbes should rank right up there with Aristotle and the Dalai Lama. I taught you that a sense of humor, whether silly or dry, could be both your most effective weapon and your greatest defense.

I taught you that humility rewards us with character and grace, and that our faith is what sustains us. I taught you that anger is a drain on your energy and depletes your desire to form truly spectacular and lasting relationships. I taught you that regrets are those things we wish we had done, but didn’t. I taught you to try to have no regrets.

When you were just starting school, I taught you about seeing the big picture, that it is not the end of the world to land a bad grade. Making mistakes is what life is really all about, but it is our duty to try not to repeat them. I taught you that mom and dad won’t, can’t and shouldn’t teach you everything. That is not our job. I taught you that everyone, even old mom, knows a few things that warrant your understanding. Along with your dad, I taught you that being a good listener is the first step to learning anything.

If you recall, I was the one who taught you to sing your first songs and write your first rhyme. Remember Bimbo? I taught you that not everyone is an artist, and that stick figures are woefully underrated. I taught you how to bake cookies and that women love a man who is comfortable in the kitchen, especially one who knows how to load the dishwasher and mop the floor.

What have I ever taught you, child of mine? I have taught you that you should never stop learning, no matter how tired or old or sick you get. I have taught you that even when you pour your heart into something, it doesn’t guarantee success or just rewards. It does help prevent those nasty regrets, though. I have taught you, or am trying to do so, that “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you” can work better than WD-40 and duct tape at fixing things.

I know that when you and your sister have seen me for years as part of the furniture, a writer mom whose greatest joys arrived 12 and 14 years ago, it is difficult for a boy your age to remember that I graduated college and worked for many years at things that even you would find complicated and technical, challenging and important.

One day, your son or daughter will ask, “Just what did you ever teach me?” And if I have taught you as I think I have, in partnership with your dad, you will be able to answer as I have, with absolutely no regrets.

2006-10-03T12:53:00.000-05:00

Insurance Customer Service Heads Due South

My mom and I were on the way to Houston when an 18-wheeler deposited the wiry remains of a shredded tire on the interstate, and I ran over it. Minutes later, a sickening moan issued from the front end of our van, and I hobbled across three lanes of traffic to the shoulder. My left front tire was in shreds. The right one was hissing. And so I called our insurance office.

"I am sitting on I-12 headed west toward Baton Rouge, (La.)" I said. "I hit tire debris from a truck. My left front tire is in shreds. Can you help us?"

The voice on the other end verified we in fact did have roadside service.

"What do you want me to do? "Do you want to be towed? Do you have a spare?" she said.

"Yes, I have a spare," I answered. "Can they just bring a tire and change it out?"

"Well, I have no idea if they can do that or not," she said. I waited for instructions, but the voice seemed a little bothered by my questions.

"If they can bring a tire and change it, I guess that's what I need," I surmised. She said she'd check, while my mom and I hunkered down beside three streams of high-speed surge, bobbing in the draft of countless 18-wheelers. Finally, she called with the news.

"The first guy I spoke with said he doesn't do that at all," she said.

"Do what?" I asked.

"He said he can come out and put on a spare, but he can't bring a tire. Besides, your roadside coverage doesn't pay for that," she said to idiot me. "We can have you towed. Do you want to be towed?"

I considered my options. It was 4 o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon. We needed to get to Houston - six more hours.

"Just call a wrecker," I said.

"Well, I will have to know exactly where you are," she said.

I am geographically and directionally challenged. It was only by the grace of God that I knew where we were.

"I saw a highway sign about five miles ago that said 'Baton Rouge, 11 miles,' " I said. "So, I'm just east of Baton Rouge."

She hung up, called back.

"The man I talked to said you must be west of Baton Rouge, not east," the gal said.

"No, I'm headed west," I said. "I'm headed to Houston. I haven't got to Baton Rouge yet. That has to mean I am east of Baton Rouge."

"Well, you don't have to yell at me," the woman yelled. "I'm trying to help you, but yelling at me won't help."

I looked at my mom. She checked our bearings, confirming we were headed due west. Neither she nor I had raised our voice.

"I am sitting on Interstate 12, about six miles east of Baton Rouge, headed west," I reiterated through clenched teeth. "If you can direct a wrecker here, that's what we need. If not, please just give me the number of one. I will call them myself." I knew where I was, knew I wasn't yelling, and I had Mom to back me up.

The wrecker had no difficulty finding us. From that point on, we spent an hour or so at the Firestone of Denham Springs, La., where manager Brad Smith demonstrated the true meaning of customer service. He and his team stayed well after hours, replacing all four tires on my van and reassuring two decidedly nerve-wracked women that the ride from there on out should be fine.

As for yelling at the insurance clerk, I did no such thing, although I feel I had a right. My husband and kids say they know that voice - the one that says I mean business. It is the one I will use to politely but firmly cancel our policy with this insurance company since their customer service has obviously headed due south.

2006-09-13T08:38:00.000-05:00

Send an email to kristentwedt-subscribe@yahoogroups.com and receive a weekly reminder to visit this blog. Columns appear every Friday in The Hattiesburg American. Write to Kristen at krinzgal@yahoo.com.

This is a season for living

Sometimes life throws us curve balls. My mom landed one a couple of weeks ago. She was diagnosed with stomach cancer. Our family has rallied around her. We have tried to make sense of what to do. There have been sleepless nights and concern for her comfort, endless prayers on her behalf for God to intervene with some seriously good news.

While her doctors decide the best course of action, we cling to the hope offered by cancer survivors who have graciously extended the kind of encouragement that only a cancer veteran can. We have suddenly become inexplicably tuned into both the fragility of human life and the amazing strength born of adversity. In the wake of her frightening diagnosis, my mother has shown a determination to fight and a will to live that has bolstered the rest of us. And it is this courage that has convinced me that whatever lies ahead, she will face it with a renewed appreciation for the simple joys in life.

It is funny, in a bittersweet way, how times like this make us reconsider the direction of our lives. Isn’t it strange how the seemingly insurmountable frustrations of yesterday pale to insignificance when today emerges as an endangered gift of time? I spend my days and nights thinking differently about those things I yearned as essential to my happiness. How odd it is to look at them in terms of what my mother now faces. They are so completely inconsequential and frivolous, microscopic now on a horizon full of monstrous unknowns.

So, while we all handle unhappy news with our own methods of defense, I want to remind my mom and anyone who will listen that life is not measured in minutes or hours or days or years. Life is measured most accurately in how we use the time.

Since my mom learned she has cancer, I have seen my dad exhibit amazing fortitude and boundless love. The limitations of his Parkinson’s have somehow given way to a freedom of hope and the call to duty. She has noticed, with deepest gratitude. Together, they make a formidable pair, a couple of seasoned adventurers forging ahead on uncharted waters. I am stunned by the grace and commitment of their bond. One morning, as my mom and I headed to the clinic for tests, my dad waved to us from the front porch like a madman. She blew him a kiss. And I discovered a new sense of resolve, forever reminded of how love conquers all.

My parents, who prefer matters of a sensitive nature to remain private, may chafe at this public proclamation of their current struggles. But, it wouldn’t be the first time they wished their daughter would shove a sock in her mouth. It is from them that I learned early and well that the power of prayer and the perseverance of the human spirit can accomplish great and wonderful things. I am asking anyone who reads this and feels the same to add my mom to their list of those in need of God’s healing wisdom.

To those who have suffered the brunt of cancer, I want you to understand how fervently I hope and pray for your peace and recovery and that researchers find the answers they need to unlock this disease’s dark mystery. I will continue to find solace and hope in the hands of physicians who amaze us with their abilities and talents and in the sincerity of kindness and invaluable skills of those who work in medicine. From the mouths of pastors and the deeply spiritual come words that supply their own healing salve.

Meanwhile, I will remind my mom that there is a season for all things, that the verses from Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 tell us that while there are times we break down, weep and mourn, there also are these: a time to love, a time to laugh, a time to dance and a time to heal. This is a season of difficulty, worry and pain, I know, but it is also a season of living with better days to come.

2006-09-13T08:35:00.000-05:00

Because It's Still Home:
One Year After Katrina

When I turned five in August 1969, we Gulf Coast folks had just suffered the fury of Hurricane Camille two days prior.

When I turned 41 in August 2005, we had no inkling of the onslaught Hurricane Katrina would unleash ten days later. Had I known what was coming, I would have celebrated my birthday differently. I would have gone home.

I would have taken hundreds of photos. I would have tried to capture the essence of where I grew up. Somehow, I would have tried to chronicle those special places before they ended up the scarred and ransacked leftovers of a catastrophic storm. I should have known it would happen. Living inland for so many years as an adult lulled me into a false sense that those photographic opportunities would be there forever.

Growing up in coastal Mississippi, I knew that everything I treasured could be lost in the matter of hours. August and September always meant that the Gulf of Mexico could deliver another Camille, a killer that showed no mercy for the sensibilities of humans.

Now I rely on photos taken by strangers to remind me of how things used to be. It is a deeply disturbing fact that many of these newcomers never heard of Camille until Katrina arrived. For thirty-six years, the people of the Gulf Coast rebuilt their lives and restored what Camille devoured. And now, on the one-year anniversary of Katrina, they persevere. Heroic volunteers have bonded with the natives as friends. Some of the visitors have decided to stay. And together they wield a powerful weapon in the face of ongoing recovery. They call it community, a place that feels safe and hopeful, a place to bravely call home.

No matter how long I am away, I feel the pull of that salt air and the vibrant warmth of the people. While we all have the usual daily struggles, these south coast folks have dealt with all that plus the thick, suffocating layer of loss that remains. On a recent trip to Gulfport with my mother, we didn’t feel so well. She has been very sick, and I have been very worried. When we arrived at Highway 90 that stretches along the beach, a familiar lump of disbelief rose in my throat.

Clumps of broken concrete still dot the sites along the seawall, but mostly an open landscape gapes at the southern horizon. Ghosts of familiar buildings haunted me as I tried to get my bearings. I missed the turn for Memorial Hospital on Broad Avenue, a road I have taken a hundred thousand times. It’s a sobering experience, to see the ragged remnants, unable to recall exactly what was lost. There is no way to fathom it.

But, the signs of rebirth bolstered a hope that new homes and businesses will indeed rise on those empty lots. Here and there, construction has begun. From condos to raised cottages to homes fortified with concrete and steel, the new face of the Mississippi coast is emerging, slowly but surely. Battered and broken, the coastal live oaks stand vigilant. They remind everyone of the strength and beauty that endures in spite of Mother Nature’s assault.

As the sun lowered itself behind the outstretched arms of those oak tree sentries, the clouds broke into an artist’s dream, a panorama of ruby reds and glittering golds atop the shifting waters of the Gulf. It was the kind of sunset that I remember from my youth when I strolled the beach at low tide in fervent anticipation of the promising years ahead. What does the future hold? I wondered. I suppose it is a question that never leaves us, one that is particularly poignant when your past has washed away.

I pray for the people there. I hope they can look into those brilliant sunsets and recall the unique and fortifying pleasures that are found in a sense of place. To truly appreciate those pleasures is to comprehend the reason these survivors continue to love the very waters that nurtured a savage storm. It is where they belong. It is a place like no other. It is home.

2006-09-13T08:33:00.000-05:00

Dog Whisperer Shares Power of the Pack

The Dog Whisperer can do amazing things with any naughty dog, from Pit Bulls to Pekingese. Cesar Millan is the Dog Whisperer whose show airs Monday nights on the National Geographic channel. (Comcast Channel 109 for this area). He is the “Super Nanny” of canines, the enforcer of discipline and acceptable behavior among dogs.

When I caught my first episode of the Dog Whisperer, he was attempting to rehabilitate a service dog from attacking other dogs. The woman who handled the dog suffered a severe form of panic anxiety. Are we surprised? Obviously, a dog that lunges and snarls viciously at others does little for calming nerves and fears. The Dog Whisperer worked his magic, and by the end of the show, the dog performed flawlessly for a service evaluation. What proved most remarkable was how the woman had changed, from cringing wallflower, to assertive, commanding leader.

The Dog Whisperer’s “Power of the Pack” premise showcases how dogs look to their pack leader for guidance and discipline. We humans, if things work as they were intended for domesticated animals, are the supreme commander. But, too often, the little pistol of a Chihuahua will run the household, snapping at ankles and attacking beneath the bedcovers. In one episode, the Dog Whisperer trains two tiny Yorkshire terriers to mind their leader, who just happens to be a policeman. “They’re so little,” said the officer as the Yorkies attacked the vacuum cleaner with a vengeance. “I guess I was afraid of hurting them.”

We have experienced some distasteful behaviors on the part of our four poodles, mainly Honey’s unprovoked barking and Beignet’s pitiful wailing at the back door. Both have since been zapped with the Dog Whisperer’s approach. We nudge them firmly with feet or fingers and make a sound that mimics that of a hissing cobra or a testy mother-in-law. We assume a stance of “calm assertion” that the Dog Whisperer uses when hanging out with his 30-plus pack of dogs. Amazingly, it has helped. Honey now hides from us when she has to bark, and Beignet simply cusses under his breath.

On a recent trip to the veterinarian, we learned that our cat was “morbidly obese.” Actually, we were well aware of the fact that he easily outweighs a toddler. His name is Puffin, but as my dad observed, he now appears to be fully puffed. He and Matilda are a perfect example of how genetics affect weight. We had the cat food in a self-feeder. They shared the same opportunity to eat, the same diet. Matilda, who is older than Puffin, has remained a fit and svelte kitty. Puffin looks like he swallowed a turkey. The vet instructed us to restrict the amount of food available by removing the self-feeder. In the weeks since, Puffin has picketed in the kitchen, demanding the veterinarian’s head on a plate, with a heaping side of tuna.

We love our pets, and it is easy to fall into habits that indulge bad behavior. But, if we truly love them, we will provide them a proper diet, exercise and a safe place to thrive. Our cattle dog, Spottie, is the oldest. He, like Puffin, could stand to lose more than a few pounds. He is getting arthritis and loves to lie down at the food bowl. I want to be a better role model for them, but like Honey hiding while she barks, eating ice cream in the closet isn’t really the best approach.

The message I get from the Dog Whisperer is that we should model the behaviors we want to see in our pets. Healthy actions help us to have healthy bodies, minds and attitudes. It encouraged me to see that even the Dog Whisperer understands that we all need a little scratch on the head or tummy rub, a little positive reinforcement for resisting the call of the wild or that self-feeder we call a refrigerator. Poor Puffin thinks we’ve all gone to the dogs.

“Scratch what you like, I want food!” he spits. Is it any wonder there is no Cat Whisperer?

2006-09-13T08:26:00.000-05:00

Jerry Sutton Had Courage to be Kind

Every year when my children return to school, I think about Jerry Sutton. It’s not that I purposefully conjure his image. I see my kids join yet another set of classmates and teachers, some familiar and some not, and I immediately hope for the kindness of strangers. That is what makes me think of Jerry.

When I was in Mrs. Moran’s fourth grade class, Jerry sat two rows over from me, near the front. He was shorter than most boys his age. He was funnier than all of them. Jerry had the kind of charisma that landed him lots of friends and a solid spot as teacher’s pet. We didn’t mind. We all loved Jerry.

Mrs. Moran began each day with a writing and art assignment that I loathed. We had to copy a poem from the chalkboard, in cursive. Worse, we had to transcribe it very neatly. I struggled with handwriting. Mine resembled the garbled combination of English and poorly done hieroglyphics and ranged in size from microscopic letters to huge words better suited for a billboard.

Beneath the poem, we were to illustrate the meaning of the verse with crayons. Most of the time, I would end up wearing a hole through my paper, trying to erase my attempts at drawing a plausible likeness to a human or a dog or a tree. I hated every last one of those insufferable poems.
One particularly challenging assignment nearly had me in tears. The poem was long, the visuals were many, and I didn’t feel so well. Somehow, as I commenced with the transcription, I flipped the pencil point up from the page and impaled the lead deep within my right palm. Stunned and horrified, I watched as the yellow Number 2 pencil dangled from the center of my hand. Then, I threw up.

When you have taught as long as Mrs. Moran had, things like vomit tend to lose their shock value. She stepped into the hall, called to the janitor and calmed the masses all while insisting that everyone continue working. Meanwhile, I slowly raised my head from my injury-induced stupor.

Few things alienate you from your classmates faster than upchucking on your desktop. I never did care much for the girl who sat in front of me. She always cut in line, spread gossip and insisted that God never intended for women to have careers. So, the fact that I had splattered the back of her head with something unspeakably disgusting didn’t disturb me much. But, I dreaded the backlash from everyone else: the finger-pointing, the relegation to alien status as “the girl who threw up.” Fearing the worst, I lifted my eyes to gauge the reaction of my peers. And there was Jerry Sutton.

Jerry was looking at me like he would a lost puppy. His face was full of concern and compassion. As the janitor arrived to clean up the mess and I headed to the bathroom, he mouthed to me, “It’s O.K! It’s O.K.!”

And, it was. I went home and returned the next morning feeling fine. Not one word was said of the events from the previous day. As I slaved over the next exercise in penmanship and creativity, I glanced up at Jerry Sutton. He had drawn a beautiful landscape of golden sun and globular green trees dotted with huge red apples. He looked up and smiled at me.

Every year when my children return to school, I think about Jerry Sutton. I like to believe that there are still plenty of Jerry’s out there, offering comfort instead of ridicule, kindness instead of rejection. I don’t recall the names of classmates from fourth grade who were most popular or best dressed, but I do recall with great reverence the boy who reassured me when others might have mocked me. It’s a lesson I am grateful to have learned early about the indelible mark left by special souls who have the courage to be kind.

2006-08-07T15:32:00.000-05:00

Check out the July/August issue of Mississippi Magazine for an article I wrote about Larry Ray and his captivating gourd artistry. You won't believe these incredible works of art once hung from a vine!

Send an email to kristentwedt-subscribe@yahoogroups.com and receive a weekly reminder to visit this blog. Columns appear every Friday in The Hattiesburg American. Write to Kristen at krinzgal@yahoo.com.

They Could Call It Snipe and Swiff

Sometimes what I want to say and what I do say are two completely different things. Like years ago when I worked as a veterinarian’s assistant, I would often refer to a dog’s “flick and tea” problem.

Or, there was the time in the genetics lab when one of the technologists said “lymph noids” instead of lymph nodes. I have since been annoyed with the habit of saying “noids.” And once I asked the receptionist at the doctor’s office for the “stubber ramp.” It was shameful how we laughed hysterically in front of all those snifflers and sneezers.

As is customary this time of year, I shopped for my children’ school clothes. I stood in line at the mall with an armload of tops and bottoms and remembered the sales ad that mentioned a promotional gimmick.

“And how are you, ma’am,” said the clerk.

“Oh, I’m good. How are you?”

“I’m great. Is all this stuff yours?”

“Unfortunately, yes. By the way, do you have any of those ‘Scratch and Sniff’ cards featured in the newspaper?”

The young man looked at me like I had sprouted wings and tap shoes.

“Uh, well, we have these cards where we scratch them to see what extra discount you will receive on your purchase, but I’m not sure about the sniffing part.”

Of course, as soon as the words escaped my lips, I knew I had committed yet another of my bumbling blunders. And then the laughter ensued.

“Ho, ho, ho, hee, hee, hee, oh, man!” I chortled. “Yes, of course, no sniffing required.”

Then the clerk, who apparently was long overdue a break, joined me.

“Heh, heh, heh, ha, ha, ha, whoa, whoa, whoa,” he snorted. “Let’s see. Maybe we ARE supposed to smell them.” He lifted the card to his quivering nose. “Yep, smells like money! Hahahahahahaha!”

By this time, I expected the people waiting in line behind me to be less than amused with our giggle fest. But, the three women had joined us, tickled to the point of laughing out loud.

“I really think you’re onto something,” said the clerk.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said, “It could be the next great promotional tool. If your card smells like strawberries, you get 50 percent off your next purchase!”

“No, no, not strawberries,” corrected the clerk. “Too many people think strawberries and raspberries smell the same. It would have to be something like…”

The woman behind me cleared her throat. I think she had finally recovered and was eager to finish her shopping.

“Like peanut butter?” I proposed. The women behind me were still with us, because they nodded in agreement.

“You know, my roommate in college didn’t smell very good,” said the clerk.

Of course, what he meant to say was that he didn’t smell well. I envisioned both a stinking dorm room and a student with impaired olfactory abilities.

“He could smell spicy things, though. He was from New Orleans.”

My mind reeled with smell versus taste. How does one smell spicy?

“Anyway, those scratch and sniff cards. If you made them smell like hot sauce, they just might work.”

Much to the relief of the captive audience behind me, the clerk loaded my bag and asked if I would like him to call for the forklift.

“No, I can get it, but thanks,” I said. “By the way, how much of a discount did I get with that card?”

He dragged the small piece of cardstock beneath his nostrils.

“Smells like 10 percent,” he said.

“I expect you to call corporate office with our brilliant new concept,” I told him.

He had moved on to the next customer, saying something about “smelling nutty.”

When I joined my husband in the parking lot, I shared our “Scratch and Sniff’ discount card idea. He tried to listen but was deeply distracted by the overpowering smell of burning plastic. Which gave me another great idea:

Credit card companies should consider a “Swipe and Sniff” feature, a strong but gentle reminder of what that bill smells like a month later.

Perhaps they could call it “Snipe and Swiff.”

2006-08-01T11:17:00.000-05:00

On the Road to Kentucky

Last week I drove to Ewing, KY to visit family with my aunt and daughter. It is a drive of about 700 miles. Now that I’m back, I would like to state for the record that we did not get a speeding ticket, did not wreck and did not get lost. Well, except for that accidental detour through the heart of downtown Lexington.

Before we embarked on our adventure, there was some debate over whether to take the interstate or travel the scenic byways. My husband insisted we stick to the safety and efficiency of the interstate. My aunt recalled fond memories of driving in full view of the lush countryside and the local markets boasting fresh corn and peanuts. Both my aunt and husband reminded me of how often I have managed to get lost on even familiar roadways. I secretly gave them a very special driver’s salute and tried to memorize the map.

We compromised. We hit the interstate until the overpowering presence of eighteen-wheelers induced a desire to exit six lanes of roaring traffic and ease onto quieter, more scenic routes. We lasted about 30 minutes. Where Mom-and-Pop cafés and fruit stands once offered periodic invitations to stop and browse, national retail stores and outlet malls stretched from one town to the next. Traffic clogged the narrow arteries where tired, solitary pickups once chugged alongside the fertile farmland. The stop-and-go of multiple signals and speed zones set at “crawl” had us trudging back to the rush and relief of the 70 mph limit on I-65.

I could tell Aunt Ora, or “Wee Wee” as we call her, trusted my driving implicitly. She stomped her right foot on the floorboard frequently, obviously in agreement with my flawless braking capabilities. She signaled feverishly, clearly filled with enthusiasm for my ability to careen across numerous lanes of swerving traffic, just in time to make the exit ramp. She seemed completely captivated with our van’s speedometer and cruise control capabilities. The sight of a highway patrol car nestled in the median elicited the kind of explosive excitement I’ve witnessed only at births and beauty pageants.

Just before the trip, we purchased a portable DVD player so my daughter could watch movies on the road. It is undoubtedly the best $149 we have ever spent. While she watched the first three seasons of “The Andy Griffith Show,” my aunt and I enjoyed a peace I never thought possible with a pre-teen girl in tow.

During those hours on the road, I found the view to be deeply moving. The rocky terraces and green foothills of Tennessee were beautiful, as were the long, sloping pastures and horse farms of northeast Kentucky. Even more than the expansive pastoral scenes of Mississippi and Alabama, the view I enjoyed most was from the mental images gleaned from the stories Wee Wee told as we sailed toward Kentucky.

She shared childhood tales of dressing a calf in a black raincoat and bell that left her mom and Aunt Katie certain it was the devil himself who galloped crazily across the back forty. She described the time her friend Tommie shot a raccoon and prepared it with vegetables for their dinner. After waiting several starving hours for the meat to stew, Wee Wee announced, “I don’t believe I care for coon.” Neither of them ventured a bite.

When we finally arrived in Ewing, my Aunt Eddie Lee announced that they wore the window out looking for us. Through that window is an enticing view of the signature green of picturesque Kentucky, a vibrant vision of the comforting cycle of bountiful growth and harvest.

I looked at my daughter, her eyes wide with an earnest attempt to file away memories of family we rarely get to see. My Aunt Eddie Lee, Uncle Brownie and cousin Iris gave the window a rest, and we all enjoyed the view of familiar faces over a home-cooked meal. It is in those moments, however few and far between, that distance matters little and minutes matter a lot. Regardless of how you get there, the embrace of loved ones seldom seen always makes the trip more than worthwhile.

2006-07-24T16:41:00.000-05:00

Real Winners Claim a Prize Called Character

Have you ever won anything from the code inside a cereal box? Has yours ever been the winning selection from a million paper slip entries? Do you know of anyone who has scored a major prize from a soda cap, candy bar wrapper, Web site or telemarketer’s survey? Yeah, neither have I.

Believe it or not, there are people who have won large sums of money in lotteries and never claimed the cash. A quick Internet search of unclaimed prizes shows that awards in excess of $200,000 still wait on the winners for pay out. Sometimes lottery companies hold the money for a few months, sometimes for a year. Then, the funds go back into state coffers or to special accounts, like the Court Appointed Special Advocate Program, which provides assistance to abused, abandoned and neglected children.

Somehow, I am pretty sure that if I were the official winner of major bucks, I would go to the trouble to claim the prize. In fact, if I were to win so much as a pair of movie tickets, I would likely celebrate like a showboating running back with both feet in the end zone. The only contest I have ever won on luck alone was at a shoe store. You had to name the company mascot. I came up with “Chauncey.” I received one pair of running shoes that made a deeply disturbing noise when I walked. My one and only time to win, I was still a loser.

Winning on luck and winning on skill are two different things, of course. I have entered writing contests. The few times I have done well, it felt great. When I have lost, which is often, it felt like someone dropped a ton of bricks on my ego and crushed the remnants of my self-esteem into the ground with their evil, dream-killing boots. At least when all you have at stake is a box top and a postage stamp, losing isn’t such a big deal.

As a parent, I try to help my kids understand that winning isn’t really what life is all about, even though it sure can feel that way much of the time. The world loves a winner, a grand prize, a trophy engraved with “First Place.” We hail our champions and forget second place, even if only a millisecond or a hundredth of a point separates them. Those are the winners hailed on TV and in the press. I like to think about the ones I see in less conspicuous places. They are the ones I hope my children remember, too.

Every day, someone you know will cross an unseen finish line. They will complete chemotherapy. They will read their first book. They will learn to walk again. They will claim 30 days, clean and sober. They will get up, every day, and tend to a dying loved one. They will serve their country. They will smile at a stranger simply because they recall how good it felt when someone smiled at them. They will win, again and again, in the silent obscurity of everyday heroes.

I know plenty of people who reach lofty places through deception and less than honorable means. Lots of folks see them as winners. This is one of the hardest lessons to teach my children, that just because you claim the prize doesn’t necessarily make you top notch. In the contests that truly matter, character always wins. Contrary to what society often promotes, it isn’t where you finish, but how you run the race.

“You can’t win if you don’t buy a ticket,” they say. I’ll buy that. I have never known a cereal box winner, never ridden in a car with the magic key, and never claimed so much as a consolation prize from a scratch-and-win card. But I have known real winners. They purchase their tickets with hearts of gold and never fail to claim a prize called honor. No matter what the scoreboard says, they always come out on top.

2006-07-24T16:06:00.000-05:00

Old Rock Rolls Nicely on iPod

My son bought an iPod several months ago. Since that time, we have revisited some of the greatest songs to rock, crank, schmooze and snooze the music scene of the last four decades. On his current playlist are artists as diverse as Louis Armstrong and Lenny Kravitz, Steve Perry and Brad Arnold. If you don’t know who Brad Arnold is, just ask the folks in Escatawpa, MS about 3 Doors Down.

Lots of things happen when middle-aged mamas and daddies listen to the music of their youth. One of the more remarkable results is that their children are forced to endure lots of air guitar solos and sad attempts at dancing. The look on their faces resembles a mixture of pain and unmitigated mortification, which is not far removed from the expression on our faces when we try to bust a move.

Sam’s iPod has brought about another phenomenon. His dad introduced him to Led Zeppelin. The kid took to it like Jimmy Page on a Gibson guitar. Now the two of them bob their heads in unison to tracks like “Whole Lotta Love” and “Living Loving Maid,” oblivious to the fact that they’re cruising in Mom’s seriously uncool minivan. Recently at their parents’ place in Virginia, my husband and his brother faced off in a round of “Name that Tune” of nothing but Zep. Most of the time, all they needed was a single note to rattle off the song and album title. It’s a skill that my son is developing with amazing alacrity.

The more we download, the more I realize what a huge influence music has on what we remember and why. I hear “Desperado” by Don Henley and recall dancing with my dad on my wedding day. “Groovy Kind of Love” by Phil Collins reminds me of college weekends on the Coast, hanging out at Gorenflo’s. Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” brings back memories of high school and days spent wondering what the future would hold.

And now each time “When the Levee Breaks” pulses from the iPod, I always think of how Katrina rocked our world here in the Gulf South and how Led Zeppelin brought a new level of understanding between a dad and his son. Leather Lungs can still work his magic.

Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis bridged the gap of two generations, one steeped in the conventional and the latter charged with the rebellious roar of rock and roll. My parents loved the music, and so did we. And now with online downloads of music made before they were born, today’s kids are finding out that those about to rock have been doing so for a very long time.

Sam has observed that some artists produce “one hit wonders” then simply fade away. One of our favorite songs is “Spirit in the Sky” by Norman Greenbaum. Curiosity had me look him up. At www.spiritinthesky.com, Norm is still creating and reports that he continues to write songs, another lesson in how the joy of music is in the making, not necessarily the fame and fortune.

Several years ago, my daughter and husband created a CD mix of songs by artists like Roger Miller and Patsy Cline. They sang loudly and passionately about trailers for sale or rent and walking after midnight. There is no doubt that when that girl of ours marries, somebody will request a Roger Miller tune at the reception, no matter what the in-laws think.

Thanks to computer technology and music lovers online, we can compile the soundtrack of our lives. When my son sings along with an old Kansas hit or jams to a little ZZ Topp, it’s like time travel. I remember how that music set the tone for my youth, how the lyrics sometimes felt written just for me. I am glad to see that the rockers of my generation hold their own with today’s hottest musicians.

So, as Mr. Bob Seger suggests, just take those old records off the shelf. But don’t sit and listen to them by yourself. Today’s music may not have the same soul. Give your kids that old time rock and roll along with some memorable riffs on the air guitar.

2006-07-10T11:38:00.000-05:00

People Get Ready

One of the sad things about going on vacation is that it ends. My husband and two children visited family in Virginia last week while I tackled an extensive painting project in the kitchen. In the resulting quiet, I had a lot of time to think while I scraped and scrubbed and painted. I recalled the times when I was glad to see the end of things, when it felt good to know closure had come.

We tend to dread endings, especially things like birthday celebrations, Christmas, summer vacation. I’m the sort that will see a great expanse of time before me and arrive at a million ways to use it. Before I know it, it’s all done, and I can see that my expectations were far greater than circumstances would allow.

Such was the case in the kitchen. You’ve seen the home makeover shows. Here’s a word to the wise: things do not happen in real life like they do on TV. In between that shot of a tired, dirty kitchen and the panoramic view of the glistening, remodeled one is a long stretch of hard work, failed attempts and probably a lot of cussing. Not that I would know about that.

What got me glad about endings was the wallpaper border that encircled the five million miles of wall space above our cabinets. Apparently the man who hung it had a death wish for whoever had to remove it. Lucky me. It was applied with Gorilla Glue, I am certain, with a splash of Elmer’s, just for good measure. After two hours of hard labor, I had removed exactly one foot of wallpaper and half my hair.

So, it’s 2 a.m. and I’m bruised and sticky and three days into my project that has been severely handicapped by the super glued nature of that cursed wallpaper border. As I sat on the countertop in my crippled stupor, some abstract song faded on Music Choice and then one of my favorites broke out like a brave reminder. “People get ready, there’s a train a-comin’. You don’t need no baggage, you just get on board.”

"People Get Ready,” a 60’s gospel tune recorded by the Impressions, is the ultimate regenerator. If you haven’t heard the song, then you don’t know what you’re missing. It is a soulful and energetic piece that always makes me fall front and center when I feel like there is no end in sight. I recommend Eva Cassidy’s version on her CD “Songbird.” If you listen to that without something stirring deep, I don’t care to know about it.

“All you need is faith to hear the diesels hummin’. You don’t need no ticket, you just thank the Lord.” The lyrics talk about the end of life, when we leave this Earth and meet our maker. Far from a dirge, the rhythm, rhyme and searing melody had me considering how endings can be pure bliss. When you’re tired and weary, this song about death is a real picker upper. I know because after I listened to it, I made some serious headway on wallpaper removal.

Let’s just say that when the last of that begrudging border was scraped from the surface of my kitchen, I was beat up, exhausted, and still mad as the dickens that so much time had been spent doing nothing but taking care of the bad stuff. I had such grand plans! But now I can look at those chiseled walls and see that the end is in sight. My freshly painted cabinets look new again. My “Rain Lily” paint will cast the bright hue of sunshine in a big room where a somber, lifeless color has bothered me for years.

Things didn’t go as I had planned, but they went. And now I am off to the airport to join my family that I am aching to see. Don’t ever doubt it’s good to see some things come to an end. It’s just life’s way of delivering new beginnings, a chance to see that what’s a-comin’ could be simply glorious.

2006-07-07T08:12:00.000-05:00

Politically Correct Leaves You Lonely, Hon

Something troubles me about the way we communicate with each other these days. I have been trying to put my finger on it. When I was growing up, the people I encountered on a daily basis used terms of endearment without flinching.

“Here you go, sugar,” said the librarian.

“Honey, you’ll find the syrup on aisle nine,” said the cashier.

“Sure, sweetie,” said just about anybody’s mom. “Have another cookie. I’ll make more.”

Today’s American way is to eliminate the friendly proclivity to share terms like these. They have been called offensive, trite and deemed as a form of sexual harassment. I once sat through a miserably dry presentation on how not to address coworkers.

The PowerPoint narrator said something to the effect of “Using terms like ‘babe,’ ‘honey’ and ‘doll’ when addressing a fellow employee is not acceptable and grounds for written reprimand and even dismissal.” Kind of makes you wonder what it would cost you to call your boss “dogbreath” or “backstabber,” doesn’t it?

Don’t get me wrong. I fully understand the potential for abuse of these terms. Sexual harassment in the form of a “babe” or a “sugar” to elicit intimate responses is surely as vile as tossing out expletives or physical groping. Delivered with salacious or vindictive intent, most words can be deemed inappropriate in any setting. It is the effective and solely harmless use of a “hon” now and then that seems to be in order for a country where we consider ourselves more than civilized and kind. I confess to grieving the fading custom of sharing a momentary but sincere concern for the comfort and disposition of others.

Maybe you are the sort who chafes at a waitress who calls you “sugar.” Maybe you are the kind of gal who insists you are nobody’s “sistah.” You might be a grown man who squirms when the VIP refers to you as “son.” But personally, I like it when the waiter asks, “What can I get for you, babe?”

I realize how politically incorrect that is. But I also realize how very distant and self-absorbed and sensitive we all have become thanks to the fear of appearing, well, insensitive. We greet each other with stone faces and respond with handshakes, never hugs.

Surely everyone should bear the right to say, “Please don’t call me ‘honey’” and have the request honored. I am the first to defend the protection of personal space and freedom of speech. Yet, I like to think that there remain people in this country who find pleasure in a pat on the back and a heartfelt, “Way to go, darlin’!”

Once while working as a second grade teacher’s assistant, I overheard two of our students in covert conversation.

“Yeah, I like Ms. Twedt pretty good,” one reported. “But for some reason, she thinks my name is ‘Hon.’”

After that, I dropped the “hon” and used their names consistently, until one of the more timid children nudged rocks on the playground with her toes and asked, “Why don’t you call me ‘Hon’ anymore?”

Recent studies by the National Science Foundation as well as Duke University and the University of Arizona indicate that loneliness is a rampant problem in our nation, an unhealthy condition that contributes to heart disease and depression. We are cultivating a culture of people who are intensely aware of what not to say and deeply alone because of what needs to be said.

So maybe there is a balance that we need to achieve, somewhere between the all or nothing. Perhaps there is room in our daily interaction to extend a greeting for the “babes” and “sweethearts” in our lives. Chances are, you know the people who will not take kindly to such and will avoid rocking their world.

For the rest of us, a “Thanks, hon,” is music and medicine for lonely hearts and ears.

Send an email to kristentwedt-subscribe@yahoogroups.com and receive a weekly reminder to visit this blog. Columns appear every Friday in The Hattiesburg American. Write to Kristen at krinzgal@yahoo.com.

2006-06-26T13:47:00.000-05:00

Recalling the Downside of Pop-Up Camping

A friendly family chat turned dark when my sister-in-law hit on a sore subject.

“What happened to your pop-up camper?” she asked. We fell silent.

“You dare to speak of that which is forbidden,” my daughter murmured. We collectively flinched and darted our eyes to see if my husband had heard her utter the unmentionable.

“We unloaded that thing on a couple of fishermen years ago,” I explained, careful not to call it by name.

“But you didn’t like it?” asked my sister-in-law. “I mean, we love to go camping! We’re thinking about buying a fifth wheel.”

“And a diesel dually to tow it,” added my brother.

“Yes, fine, that’s a great idea,” my daughter and I agreed, a little too eagerly. “Just as long as it’s something that you park and plug in.”

“But what was so bad about the pop-, uh, it?” inquired my sister-in-law. I looked at my daughter, her eyes wide with the horror of recollection.

“The last time we went camping in it, my mom took my brother and me on a long, long walk so Dad could set it up,” she said. “We heard his screams from a mile away.”

Reluctantly, I recalled preparations for camping in the p-word. It went something like this:

Remember what supplies are already stowed in the pop-up.
Pop the pop-up because you cannot remember what is stowed in the pop-up.
Make list of needed supplies.
Buy supplies and groceries for three-day trip to the wilderness.
Answer the kids for the 100th time that yes, you will bring the TV and VCR.
Remind children that the idea of camping is to get away from modern conveniences.
Tell children to mind their own business as you pack the laptop and a dozen of their favorite videos.
Close pop-up, hitch to overloaded van and head out in Friday rush hour traffic.
Arrive at campsite and immediately embark on mission to find bathrooms with kids while Dad pops the camper.
Explain that “dump site” is for RV’s, not for people.
Pray out loud for the menacing black cloud to hold off until popping is complete.
Seek shelter in laundromat while deluge passes.
Return to campsite and find drenched husband cussing a dead battery and a manual crank.
Explain to children what “hernia” means.
Take children on scenic stroll with flashlights.
Remember that you forgot the bug spray. And the cortisone cream.
Return to campsite and joyfully enter popped camper at approximately 10 p.m.
Explain to children that campfire food is woefully overrated and that even the pioneers ate peanut butter.
Sink into bed to the sound of crickets and the aroma of fermented canvas.
Sleep fitfully between nightmares of rabid bears and endless grit between the sheets.
Rise with the sun or the pre-dawn departure of the jet engine RV next door.
Spend two hours trying to remember how to flush the toilet and convert the kids’ bed to the kitchen table.
Head to nature trail for outdoor adventure.
Head back to pop-up to zip canvas walls due to impending downpour.
Enjoy intense family togetherness and record rainfall within canvas cube while watching kids’ videos.
Laugh hysterically because even 300 miles from home, perched on a damp mattress beneath thrashing pine trees, your family of four still ends up watching TV and asking “What’s for dinner?”
Pack up a day early, head for home and sell “that of which we never speak its name” to a couple of diehard outdoorsmen who would sooner wipe with a pine cone than take a TV camping.

2006-06-26T12:55:00.000-05:00

Dad Did Right Even When He Did Wrong
(Father's Day column published June 18, 2006)

Fortunately for us, my dad did most everything right by us kids. My brothers and I might disagree about what are his greatest contributions to our development, but we all three agree that he is a wonderful father. A short list of what he might have done differently illustrates that even when he made some mistakes, how he handled them taught us a lot.

Things Dad Did Wrong:

A TV, a Magnet and a Boy: Dad allowed one of my brothers to have a big magnet, which under normal circumstances should have been harmless enough. But what Dad didn’t consider is that the boy would apply his super magnetic field to everything. Including the new console television. My brother rendered our picture completely scrambled by depolarizing the picture tube or something like that. I never fully understood what happened. But Dad saved the day. He flipped the magnet over, swiped the screen, and voila! We could watch “The Brady Bunch” to our hearts’ content.

Home Brew in the Trunk: My dad made great homemade root beer. I can still smell the rich aroma of fermentation and recall its sweet refreshment when the frothy beverage reached the peak of flavor. My dad had the idea that the trunk of the car would make a great place to carry out the fermentation process. It was hot, dark and convenient. The only problem with making homemade root beer is that it has a tendency to explode as gases build inside the containers. Thanks to one sticky eruption, our car smelled like Barq’s for a year.

Five Bazillion French Fries: One of the many crops our dad grew on the back lot of our Long Beach property was potatoes. In an effort to fully utilize a particularly bountiful potato harvest, Dad decided we would cut them into French fries, bake them and freeze them for later consumption. Most of what I can remember of that experience is that we had a truckload of French fries in the deep freezer, but everybody was so sick of them, nobody wanted to eat them. It was a long lesson in the value and convenience of mass produced food.

Rhodie’s Babies: Another attempt at growing our own involved a brood of Rhode Island Red chickens. Rhodie the hen and Lester the rooster gave rise to a flock of baby chicks. We named every last one in the brood and played with them daily. We fed them, and they grew.
One day our family of five sat down to a very unsettling Sunday dinner. The look on my mom’s face could only be described as pure disgust and trepidation. Soon enough, we kids put two legs and two legs together and came to the horrific realization that Rhodie’s babies were perched on our plate in Southern fried perfection. I think that was the day Dad came to the conclusion, once and for all, that his kids would have starved in the Depression. We could no more eat anything that had sat on our lap than we could swallow the story that all those pullets simply ran away from home.

My dad knows he’s a special man, if for no other reason than he survived raising us. But he is the wisest, funniest and most endearing, forgiving man I know. Of all the things he might have done wrong, there are multitudes of those he did just right, like bone crushing hugs and heartfelt letters on your pillow and dancing like no one is looking to a rousing rendition of “It must be jelly ‘cause jam don’t shake like that.” He continues to do right by us, reminding us that it is those moments of joy found in music and laughter, friends and family, that strung together over time make for lasting pleasure when infirmity and discomfort seem intent on ruling the day.

Of all the things my dad does right, that he loves us unconditionally, openly and completely, is my favorite thing of all. Well, that and the fact that he didn’t make us eat Rhodie’s babies. We love him in more ways than there were French fries in our freezer. Happy Father’s Day to a man we are so glad to call Dad.

2006-06-12T12:17:00.000-05:00

Life is Just Better With Dogs

(Photo by Mary Ann Chance)

(Portrait by Richard Larson, Tifton, GA)

When Darren sent the news, our family of four sat in stunned silence.

"Darren got a dog," my son reported. We let the words seep in, incredulous that finally, the Chances had claimed a puppy. We have known them for 10 years, and nearly all that time, they considered the possibility.

While we accumulated five dogs and two cats, they resisted the temptation. We assumed they opted out.

Last Sunday, Darren sent a text message announcing the arrival of a six-week-old Labrador Retriever-mix. Sam got to the Chance's house first. He called, breathless, confirming in their garage was a fat, black and beautiful baby dog. The remainder of us set out on foot and arrived like Magi, eager to see the spectacle of wonder. She lay sleeping on the cool concrete, an irresistible package of canine contentment.

Mary Ann explained how the neighbors had dispensed seven of nine puppies with new families. Somehow, she bought the pitch, too. I think it might have had to do with the furry one's completely captivating charm. Darrell, her husband, met the scenario with what you might call subdued enthusiasm.

"I picked her out," Amy said. "We named her Haley."

"Haley, as in the comet?" asked her dad. "Like you could see this coming from a long way off?" His expression read something like, "Lord, why me?"

Obviously, Darrell is wild about the dog - in his own way. I shared the story of how I called my husband at work one afternoon to confess a surprise adoption of a poodle puppy.

"You won't believe what I just did," I cooed, nervously.

"Did you get a dog?" he asked, clearly clairvoyant.

"Oh, but just wait until you see her," I gushed. "She's a little black poodle, all fluffy and cute as a ..."

It was the first and last time my husband ever hung up on me.

The best part of the story is that the dog, Dootsie, won his heart. Their favorite place in the world was watching NASCAR from a recliner together. I'll spare the details of when she died, except to say that dogs teach us large lessons in love and loss.

In case the Chances need reassurance, our dog Winnie was a lab mix, too. She was our hero. She was also my first "baby," the puppy we bought for $5 in Ocean Springs when Steven and I were newlyweds. When our children were born, when they went off to school, when we celebrated births and mourned deaths and endured the hardships and treasured the pleasures of living, Winnie was there. She loved us like no one has.

Because of Winnie, evening walks proved to be grand adventures and sharing a meal meant cooking spaghetti more often, because that was her favorite. Because of Winnie, my children learned early and well about unconditional love and the invaluable gift of devoted companionship. They felt secure in her presence, a fringe benefit of deep trust and the bond of family. When she was nearly 11 and cancer claimed her, Winnie taught us how to say goodbye with grace and gratitude.

Though the first weeks with puppy can be challenging, the rewards outweigh the inconveniences. In Haley, the Chances will find what we and other dog lovers discover.

Life is just better with dogs, especially the kind like Haley. To see her embraced by children who waited so long to love her brings tears to my eyes. From her chubby face and floppy ears to her sighs of satisfaction, Haley is already at work, casting her spell, winning favor, winking at Darrell.
I can tell already, he's her favorite.

Send an email to kristentwedt-subscribe@yahoogroups.com and receive a weekly reminder to visit this blog. Columns appear every Friday in The Hattiesburg American. Write to her at krinzgal@yahoo.com.

2006-06-05T14:27:00.000-05:00

How Not to Catch a Thief

To protect their flawless reputations as astute and sensible residents of the close-knit town of Ellisville, names of the couple featured in this column have been changed. We will call them Lucy and Ricky in this story, a fateful tale that demonstrates the finer points of how not to catch a thief.

Lucy and Ricky were sleeping when there arose a clamor of unrecognizable origin.

"Lucy, did you hear that?" croaked Ricky as he sat stiff and vigilant among his pillows.

"Hear what?" answered Lucy.

"That noise," Ricky said. "I heard something. Or somebody. I'm getting the gun."

Ricky eased soft-footed to the stashed pistol and motioned for Lucy to remain quiet. He tiptoed downstairs, in search of the culprit. He crept about the interior of the first floor, finding nothing.

"Do you see anything?" called Lucy.

"Not yet," whispered Ricky. They both listened for the telltale sound of a predator.

"What did it sound like?" asked Lucy.

"Shhhhh!" commanded Ricky. "I think I hear something outside. Hold on while I check it out!"

Deep in the night, when the world is sleeping and sinister trespassers lurk beneath the cloak of darkness, it proves difficult to remain cool, calm and collected. In the haste to protect our loved ones and possessions from possible vandalism or attack, we may become oblivious to our surroundings and our own personal safety.

Ricky found himself in just such a predicament.

Peering through the French doors to the moonlit lawn, Ricky searched the perimeter. He gripped the gun with one hand and the doorknob with the other. At that moment, he realized that the only thing between flesh and foe were his skivvies, but Ricky pressed on.
Outside in the shadowy open, Ricky crept across the carport, gauging his steps and stopping to shield himself with protective cover at critical points of surveillance. He stalked to the front yard, inwardly impressed with his ability to move silently in the night.

Then, a rustle.

"Lucy!" he half-shouted in a hoarse command. "I need the light!"

Responding with unprecedented agility and speed, Lucy flipped the switch for the floodlights, the ones that mimic the blinding brightness of a Broadway stage. And there stood Ricky, in full, Fruit-of-the-Loom glory, clutching his weapon and the dismal shreds of his dignity, an illuminated icon in the style of Barney Fife, frozen in place by the unmistakable grunt of stifled laughter and the brilliant beacons that blazed from the roofline. He responded in due time, with grace under fire.

"I meant the flashlight, Lucy."

Ricky never solved the mystery of that thump in the night. Whoever or whatever caused the disturbance must have masterminded a subterfuge of perfect design.

Sometimes the greatest lessons we learn are what not to do. Perhaps when responding to the call of protecting life, limb and property, the first and most important rule is don't lose your head. The second might be don't forget your pants. Finally, call 911 but don't shoot your wife. Hysterical laughter is never adequate grounds for using a weapon in self-defense.

Just for the record, a visit to a local pharmacy might allow you firsthand recounts of this and other adventures survived by Lucy and Ricky. A group of like-minded individuals gather there daily for coffee and fellowship, as grandchildren, golf games and citizen arrests allow.

Send an email to kristentwedt-subscribe@yahoogroups.com and receive a weekly reminder to visit this blog. Columns appear every Friday in The Hattiesburg American.

~Write to Kristen at krinzgal@yahoo.com~

2006-05-27T13:33:00.000-05:00

MONDAY IS MEMORIAL DAY!!!

Old Guard, New Veterans Help Us Honor the Fallen

Since 1948, soldiers of the elite 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment, known as the Old Guard, have honored those who died in service to our country with an annual "Flags In" ceremony at Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia.

On the Thursday prior to Memorial Day, every available soldier in the 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment participates in the event by placing an American flag in front of more than 220,000 grave sites. Flags also are placed at the Tomb of the Unknowns by the Tomb Sentinels, and at the cemetery's Columbarium where cremated remains are interred. The soldiers complete the process in three hours.

Company E of the 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment honors its fallen comrades 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. They are the Tomb Sentinels, volunteers who undergo a lengthy indoctrination of educational and military preparation in order to earn the honor of a "walk."
The walk
A walk occurs between guard changes at the Tomb of the Unknowns where soldiers dressed in impeccable uniforms patrol in a cadence of 90 steps per minute. Each walk lasts 30 minutes in summer and one hour in winter and during evening patrols.

As a kid, I learned to respect those who serve in the military and to honor my country. Every school day, I recited the pledge. I learned the lyrics to the "Star Spangled Banner." My parents hung Old Glory from a pole attached to a pecan tree on patriotic holidays. Songs like "America, the Beautiful" often made me cry.

My sixth-grade music class performed a pageant designed for waving flags and hailing freedom. Thanks to one of those tunes, I can still sing the states in alphabetical order.
It wasn't until I had children I experienced that pang of patriotism that comes when you realize those who fought and died in service to our country were someone's son or daughter. Until you consider the potential sacrifice of your own flesh, the selflessness of military servicemen and women doesn't really hit home.

Randy and Debbie Rice of Oloh came close to knowing that loss. Their son, Lance Cpl. Aaron Rice serves with the Marine Reserve. Only 21 when he deployed to Iraq with the Ohio-based 3rd Battalion, 25th Marines, Aaron suffered numerous injuries and lost his left leg when a mine blast ripped through his Humvee while on a routine patrol. In the Dec. 12, 2005, issue of Sports Illustrated, S.L. Price wrote of Aaron and several other Iraq War veterans who have lost limbs. They ran in the 2005 Army Ten-Miler in Washington, D.C., on heroic determination.

I remember Aaron and his twin brother, Ryan, who joined the Marines exactly one year after Aaron. The Rice family of seven lived behind us in a rental house while they built a dream home. The boys once stood in my kitchen while Aaron delivered a persuasive soliloquy on how right it would be for them to baby-sit my son and daughter. The young men were 13 going on 35. I can still see them strong, smart and handsome, destined to be great leaders. My son credits them with being two of his favorite role models.

In the magazine photo of Aaron with his prosthetic leg, I see a compelling composite of those we remember on Memorial Day. Aaron and his fellow soldiers are the ones who remind us with living courage the significance of paying homage. It is our chance to acknowledge those who put their lives on the line in defense of democracy, freedom and the inalienable rights of humans everywhere. They are the Americans who make our country one worthy of honor.

2006-05-23T09:25:00.000-05:00

Mr. Gray Keeps Dreams Alive

Patrick Gray makes teaching feel like a good thing. I approached him at the end of the semester, requesting he show me the ropes.

One of my assignments as a student in the Teach Mississippi Institute for teacher certification requires 30 hours of classroom observation. Mr. Gray graciously took on yet another student, this middle-aged mother of two who is beginning a career in education.

I learned soon enough why the kids call him "awesome." Mr. Gray and his eighth-grade English and history students showed me the process of taking the Mississippi Curriculum Test that is administered each year to gauge the students' progress in math, language and reading.

They finished up the year with a lesson about the Kansas-Nebraska Act and the dramatic events leading up to the Civil War, as well as a deep discussion of the proper identification and use of adverbs.

Throughout the lessons, the students voiced concerns and shared ideas, respectfully and often humorously. As dry as grammar can be, Mr. Gray made it worthy of attention.

One morning, the teacher corrected a young man's "I did good" with an "I did well." The student grinned broadly and announced, "Sir, I did well. And I want to do well, just like you." His words echoed those of Mr. Gray when he shared some of his valuable teacher insight with me.

"Model the behaviors you expect from them," he advised. He does just that. Of course, I'm seeing the product of nine months of instruction and behavior modification. Having been in classrooms at the beginning of the year, I marvel at how teachers can take each group and mold them into obedient, responsive, enlightened individuals in spite of the efforts of some to remain completely noncompliant.

When I was growing up, I was a good student. I minded my teachers, did my homework and studied. But I had parents who bolstered me, encouraging my every attempt to make the most of my education. A lot of students do not.

One of the things I learned by getting to talk with Mr. Gray's students is that plenty of kids learn in spite of what must feel like insurmountable obstacles. I would think having a teacher who cares would go a long way toward a kid wanting to do more than just get by.

Teenagers like those in eighth grade still have a lot to learn, although many will attempt to convince you otherwise. They judge each other pretty harshly at times and offer some colorful commentary on least-favorite teachers. They haven't realized these are some of the best years of their lives. It can seem lackluster, but from this observer's point of view, the potential residing in each one of those desks is nothing less than stunning.

Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream that his four children would "one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character."

Watching and listening to Mr. Gray's students, I see the dream percolating, wanting to be a reality. I hear it in his voice, carried with the confidence of a well-educated man and steeped in the warmth of sincerity. I see it in his quick smile and ready wit, in the presence of a teacher who understands that his is an incredible responsibility.

But most of all, I see it in the content of his character, that undeniable ability to inspire others simply by being the best he can be.

Is it any wonder that just last week, Oak Grove Middle School voted him "Teacher of the Year?" Thanks to teachers like Mr. Gray, we are reminded how important it is to keep all our children's dreams alive.

2006-05-16T11:44:00.000-05:00

When the Sky Was Falling, Mom Was There

In the time I have known her, which is as long as I have been in the world, she has endured some challenges. For instance, when I arrived in 1964, she received an infant far removed from the Gerber baby. My dad admits thanking God for a healthy baby, in spite of my debut as a ball of red-faced discontent. The color faded, my attitude improved and they took me home. Ever since, I have known her as "Mom."

She had to leave her home in the Delta, a place that is foreign to me but remains special to her. Elvis once played across the railroad tracks from her house when she was a teen and he was a rock 'n' roll novice.

"I wouldn't walk across the street to see him," she said. I think it's a shame she missed that. We once watched an Elvis TV special together. He sang from Hawaii in bell bottoms and sideburns. She obviously had changed her mind about Elvis. Her smile said it all.

Married to a college schoolteacher, she marked time in semesters, summer sessions and night school. For six years, I had her all to myself. I remember homemade birthday cakes with pink and white roses; dresses sewn from Simplicity patterns and Captain Kangaroo.

Then, she learned she was pregnant again. Just weeks from her due date, Dr. Gaddy surprised her with news it would be twin boys. I have tried to imagine the emotions that erupt when realizing you will need not one, but two of everything, including more than twice as much faith in the premise that what doesn't kill you will make you stronger.

My baby brothers tried to kill her, unintentionally, of course. They never slept at the same time. When one was dry, the other was wet. They seemed to drain bottles and dirty cloth diapers by the thousands. While still in the crib, the boys developed thrush with seeping sores in their mouths and raging fevers and unspeakable material flowing from raw rear ends. My mom called Dr. Murphy, sobbing.

"All their teeth have fallen out!" she cried. The pediatrician calmed her. My mom administered ice packs to swollen gums as directed, only to see that nothing was lost except her last nerve.
My brothers also worked in concert to keep my mom's home life interesting. Together, they defaced a newly-upholstered red vinyl sofa. They secretly ate cat food and tried to swallow pocket change.

One rain-soaked afternoon, they commandeered the kitchen door, which led to the great beyond of our neighborhood. My mom still turns white when she recalls the terror of racing past overflowing ditches in search of her babies. God's grace took the form of two toddlers that day. They sat oblivious and completely safe in a rock garden as my mom's sky was falling all around her.

And then there are the minor trials of living with a family of five and a long lineage of pets. She dipped dogs, rescued cats and vacuumed tons of fur. In her quest to remain fashionable, she allowed my father to change her from brunette to blonde and to pierce her ears. Green hair and cockeyed ear holes pretty much eliminated my dad from any future makeover attempts.

My hormonal teens and first real boyfriend tested the limits of her tolerance. And as tough as it was to raise two boys in synchrony, seeing them leave home gave her time and space that echoed with a stunning "Who am I?"

She is an exceptional woman and mother. They say the hardest part of any job is showing up. She has done so, without fail, in a way that makes saying "Happy Mother's Day" an easy and heartfelt exclamation of love, respect and awe.

2006-05-10T12:32:00.000-05:00

Send an email to kristentwedt-subscribe@yahoogroups.com and receive a weekly reminder to visit this blog. Columns appear every Friday in The Hattiesburg American.

2006-05-10T12:01:00.000-05:00

Thinking of Julia and What Might Have Been

High school graduation beckons again. We alumni tend to reflect on our own commencement, back when we still claimed loads of energy and a million tomorrows. We remember friends, too, and what might have been.

Julia moved to my hometown when we were in middle school. She came from Norfolk, Va. She accused us of butchering the name with our deeply Southern twang.

Julia's family confused me. Their habits at home were nothing like the way my family did things. I witnessed raw arguments that made me squirm. Yet, they seemed to recover, laughing and joking in unspoken forgiveness.

Julia drew like a professional artist. There was an edge to her sketches that reflected an ability to chew on reality and spit it out in such a way that something beautiful remained. She read voraciously. She listened to lots of Rod Stewart.

To be on her good side was to have a champion for your every cause. To be on her bad side was to invite the devil to a dueling match. No one could defend a point better than Julia. Whenever she wore the perfectly tailored wool suit sewn by her mother, Julia embodied the living potential of a top-notch lawyer. If you didn't love her, you feared her completely.

She appeared destined for the Supreme Court. She applied herself to her studies and to having a great time. Simply being around Julia made you feel as if you could soak up some of the excess and use it for your own pursuits.

That's why what happened to her leaves me confounded. Her tragedy makes me want to challenge these masses of youth to go in earnest - be determined to make the most of what they've got, no matter what.

During and after high school, Julia waited tables at a steakhouse. She soon landed the position of manager. She attended college classes as she could afford them. In a Mardi Gras parade, she rode with coworkers, tossing beads from a float. Then, with the kind of surreal misfortune that defies logic, Julia fell from the back of a huge plastic cow as the procession advanced. She struck her head on the asphalt and suffered a debilitating concussion.

In the years following, Julia tried to prevail over her disability. Seizures and Phenobarbital prevented her from driving. The epilepsy from her head injury interfered with her freedom and independence.

The one time I saw her after the accident, she seemed driven as ever. But, her heavy reliance on others to help her had dulled her spark. She seemed tired and scattered, unsure of what to do with herself.

I can't remember who told me that Julia had taken her own life. I was a junior in college, thinking of my own future. I do remember the shock and overwhelming sense of confusion as to how this could happen to one of the most capable women I knew. Why had someone who offered so much to this crazy world been dealt such a losing hand?

Life is like that, full of inexplicable complications and obstacles. What happened to Julia could have happened to anyone. It's a lesson that if learned early can make the difference between spending your days chasing lackluster opportunities or listening to that voice that urges you to thrive and to push the limits of your comfort zone.

No one can speak for Julia. That voice was silenced more than 20 years ago. But the sound of hope resonates more loudly this time of year than any other. That is when our graduates speak of the future and the future answers not with a promise of success, but with an open door to those beautiful and challenging tomorrows.

2006-05-01T17:38:00.000-05:00

Teen Talk Could Replace Fossil Fuels

Whenever gas prices rise, so does the discussion of alternative fuel sources. The threat of depleting our crude oil stores makes gas-guzzling humans consider the serious need to harness other forms of energy. After spending the better part of a weekend on a youth retreat with 22 teenagers, I may have discovered a new source of power.

Middle school girls feature a unique and tireless capacity for perpetual motion. Most of them never stop moving their mouths. Wire one up to an SUV, and you could drive across Texas with one pack of gum or a serious conversation on any number of topics from Ipods to college to cute boys.

My own daughter is twelve. We have marveled at her ability to talk incessantly. When she was a baby, she said her first words at six months and could speak in complete sentences within hours. Her pediatrician warned me.

“Girls start talking earlier than boys,” he said. “They have so much more to say, so they need the head start. And they don’t stop. They don’t ever, ever stop.” I knew he had daughters without even asking. The scar tissue on his ears said it all.

Our son, who said enough as a toddler to let us know he was hungry, sleepy or tired of listening to his sister continues to be a man of relatively few words much of the time. In the 10 minutes it takes to travel from school to home, my daughter has informed me in exquisite detail everything that transpired during the course of the day.

Sometimes I feel I was there in the flesh, actually witnessing Susie in her pink Gap sweatshirt, French-braided hair and gold-glittered flip flops while she chewed out Cynthia in her rhinestone studded cropped jeans, white fuzzy tank top and cherry red nail polish with matching earrings for dissing her in front of Jack, the boy with perfect hair who tells THE best jokes about how grown-ups are so very, very lame.

I am female and I can talk. Get me on a subject about which I am passionate and I can go on and on until the cows come home and the chickens roost and my audience has long ago left me yammering away at nothing more than a glazed expression. So I understand teenaged girls’ ability to flap their jaws even when no one is listening. It just seems such a vast waste of viable energy.

When we first departed for our weekend getaway to Twin Lakes, I hauled a group of boys in the van and was surprised at their conversation. There was some. They talked a lot, in fact, about sports and music and food. They told stories and jokes and laughed. It was interesting to note they took the time to breathe between sentences and the overall noise level remained pretty much in a conversational tone.

After we stopped for food, the boys traded spots with a group of girls who entered the vehicle seemingly oblivious to their change of venue. One gal shared a most imaginative tale at top volume that could have put “The Never Ending Story” to shame. It included everything from mermaids to Jesus to a musical interlude courtesy of a sing-along with Shania Twain’s “I Feel Like a Woman.”

In defense of flapping jaws, teenaged girls have a lot to say about things that matter. Contrary to what movies and sitcoms portray, it’s not all about who’s dating who and what to wear. They share insight beyond their years when discussing dreams and visions for their future. They are smart and clever and full of potential to run a world increasingly influenced by the resourcefulness and character of women.

Whether scientists ever find a way to use those mouths in motion as an energy source or not, these teenaged girls offer one of the most valuable resources we have. They are talented in ways that make a middle-aged “girl” like me feel good about what’s on the horizon. And so do the boys. Spending time with them is both invigorating and comforting. Only my ears, it seems, could use a retreat of their own.

2006-04-24T13:40:00.000-05:00

Books: The Good, The Bad and The Classically Boring

A good book is not hard to find. But, once you have landed a bad one, it’s difficult to know what to do. My husband has been reading a groaner. By all accounts, it is supposed to be a great read. It’s a classic, one found on most recommended reading lists, one that I have not read but fully intended to, until he shared his deep discontent.

“This is supposed to be a great book, right?” he asked.

“Yep,” I replied. “It’s a classic. It’s got to be good.”

He periodically revisited the paperback over the last couple of weeks. He’d settle into his chair with a familiar grimace on his face.

“Still trying to finish, huh?” I asked.

“Trying,” he replied.

“Not exactly a page turner, is it?”

“I thought for sure it would get better by now,” he said, yawning.

“Maybe it would help if you stayed awake while reading,” I offered.

But he didn’t hear me. He was too busy forcing his eyes across the page.

Back in school, I always thought that the reason assigned reading was so distasteful was because we were made to do it. In the library, I could always find something that I would willingly read, unless, of course, it was for a grade. Assigned reading to me always felt a little like assigned eating. Some books are Brussels sprouts. Some books are a seven-course meal, a treat for all the senses. But now I know that assigned or not, some books are simply full of that regrettable Brussels sprouts aftertaste.

One of the books that most students read that I somehow escaped was “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Any decent Southern writer would be ashamed to admit that publicly, so I decided that at age 41, it was high time I read this contemporary classic. It was without a doubt the best book I have ever read. Harper Lee’s timeless story tells the captivating tale of young Scout and her brother Jem and father Atticus Finch taking on a lonely battle with racism and injustice in the small Southern town of Maycomb, AL during the Great Depression. If books were edible, this one would be the finest lemon meringue pie to be found on a café counter. In my book, it’s a must-read.

Since those years in high school English and college courses in composition, I realized teachers did me a large favor when they insisted I read Dante and Milton, Shakespeare and Poe. If nothing else, their intricate plots and complex theories and iambic pentameter of poetry showed me that the beauty of books is within the eye of the beholder but the character is in their content.

Some things we read because we must. Some things we read because we will. And some things we read because we should if we want to expand our horizons and learn from our history as humans.

Now and then, I try to read an author whom my English teachers might have recommended, like William Faulkner. I have a copy of “Light in August” shoved in my nightstand. I have read the same 45 pages a half-dozen times. I am told by Faulkner enthusiasts to just keep trying, that one day, the mile-long sentences and minute descriptions will fall away into a dreamy endeavor into fine Southern literature. My latest attempt ended in a deep catnap, which I am certain is a reflection of my inability to remain conscious on a lazy Sunday afternoon and not of the author’s ability to keep me entertained ― which brings me back to my husband’s latest wrestling match with great literature.

“Is it any better?” I asked.

“No, not really,” he sighed. “But, I’m almost finished!” About fifty trembling pages rested in his right hand, just below his sagging eyelids.

At http://www.classicreader.com/, readers can access 3069 works of literature by 320 different authors. Classics, because they have stood the test of time, warrant our attempt to read them. They connect us to invaluable stories of all the things we still struggle with today, like how to finish a bad book when it is all too easy to drift off to sleep and wrestle with dreams of Brussels sprouts.

2006-04-17T11:07:00.000-05:00

Maybe a Pond Would Do...

Like star-crossed lovers, our family and waterfront property prove destined to never meet. We fantasize about living on the blissful shores of a lake, peering out over shimmering waters and taking in the gentle breezes. We see ourselves swimming and boating and fishing and reveling like otter in the natural goodness of water-based living. But the reality is that like most folks, money and opportunity get in the way of our securing a spot on the lakefront. It’s not that we haven’t explored all our options.

“Where’s the lake?” we ask the real estate agent as we stand on high, dry ground.
“It’s right over there!”
“That’s not a lake,” we say, squinting. “That’s a pond.”
“There’s only one waterfront lot left,” warns the agent.
“Out of how many?”
“Uh, three.”
“Is there a limit on fish?”
“Well, if you catch both of them, it wouldn’t really be fair to the rest of the residents, now would it?”
“Do you have anything else?”
“That depends. Do you have a Swiss bank account?”

To our credit, which extends only so far, we have found a few places from time to time that meet our criteria, which are: on water that would fill more than a bathtub, priced within reason, and fixer-uppers are fine. But, we always seem to be a day late and a few thousand dollars too short. This, of course, isn’t the agent’s fault. Perhaps we should not want something just beyond our reach. But then, isn’t that how dreams operate?

We have pursued an abode near water for so long that even our kids can search Realtor.com and alert us to available waterfront real estate. Several years ago, after months of showing us potential properties, our real estate agent finally got it.

“You know, I’ll call you if what you need comes on the market, but don’t hold your breath.”
“Well, sure. Thanks for all your help. Remember, we’re not picky.”

We drove off to the sound of hysterical laughter or perhaps that of a real estate agent who has finally disposed of those time-sucking monsters they warn you about in “Impossible Clients 101.”

Fortunately, we love the home we have. It has everything we need, except the water, of course. So, when we have perused the market and come up empty once again, it’s nice to know that we have a place that suits us well.

I’ve tried to pinpoint what it is about lakefront living that appeals to us so. I grew up on the Coast, not on the water, but near enough that the drift of Gulf air always filled my lungs and offered a sense of place. My Aunt Ora and her friend Tommie live on the Biloxi River. Standing on the pier, watching mullet jump, I feel I’ve returned to the real world, the one with close-knit ties to my childhood. My husband moved from Maryland to Ocean Springs when he was a kid. Their house perched above a canal that they navigated on a big yellow boat, all the way out to the islands. Homes on the water simply hold a special, familiar appeal for us both.

All this may sound as if we are missing out on something vital. Not really. As long as the water is there, as long as fish, pelicans, frogs and turtles continue to thrive in their watery world, we are happy. We can always visit them. My favorite waterfront is always those places that remain undeveloped, where pitcher plants stand tall among buzzing dragonflies and minnows scurry in the shallows, where a single fisherman can perch quietly among the sycamores and drop a line from a cane pole, undisturbed.

But, we still like to look. There is always the possibility that one day, all the planets will align and the price will be right and the view will be such that there is no mistaking we have found a new home. It’s a good dream, one that I don’t mind revisiting when I am feeling landlocked and dusty. Or deeply homesick.

Maybe a pond would do, after all.

2006-04-10T12:01:00.000-05:00

How Do Voles Fall In Love?

Journalist Christopher Mims wrote a piece for “Zoogoer,” a publication of the Smithsonian National Zoo about how prairie voles answer cupid’s call.
http://nationalzoo.si.edu/Publications/ZooGoer/2004/3/monogamy.cfm
Titled “Addicted to Love,” the piece shared how these rodents who resemble wild hamsters meet, mingle and mate for life in central North America.

A chance meeting of a male and female might go something like this:

Dude: “Hey, baby. You smell great. What is that? Lavender? Chamomile? Bath and Body Works Vanilla Spice?”

Chick: “Ooo. You know, you don’t smell so bad yourself. Come on over here and let me get a deeper whiff.”

With a life expectancy of about a year, prairie voles don’t have a lot of time for a long courtship. They inhale each other’s pheromones, secret scents produced by animals that overpower the senses and lead them to do crazy things like smell each other in unspeakable places. Before they know it, a prairie vole couple finds themselves mating, nesting, defending territory and birthing babies in less than a month’s time. At which point, a discussion deep in the underground vole den might go:

Husband vole: “What do you mean you spent $400 on a new sofa? We don’t need furniture! We’re prairie voles!”

Wife vole: “I knew I shouldn’t have married the first prairie vole to sniff my stuff! I’d go back home to mother if she hadn’t been eaten by a coyote!”

Scientists like to study creatures like prairie voles because they offer insight into human behavior and our own biological development. Because prairie voles are unique among their philandering rodent cousins as monogamous creatures, scientists sought to determine what makes them stay together.

According to current research, the hormones oxytocin and vasopressin play pivotal roles in maintaining prairie vole marriage. Susan Carter, a scientist at the University of Chicago reported, "Oxytocin is a hormone associated with emotional safety and security. It down-regulates stress hormones and encourages positive social behavior.”

While a release of oxytocin takes place in males and females in love, male voles also get a boost from vasopressin. Swimming in hormones, they mate for 24 consecutive hours after a brief wooing. Too tired to argue, the male vole agrees to meet her parents, buy a ring and set up housekeeping on the spot.

Scientists say that prairie voles have receptors in a part of the brain, the “nucleus accumbens,” that respond to oxytocin and vasopressin in a way that drives “social memory.” Their brains not only recognize that having a mate is a good thing, they establish that loving and sticking with a particular mate is a big reward. For the prairie vole, it’s not just any old Joe that will do. It’s that familiar scent, that knowing swagger unique to her prairie vole partner that makes wifey stick with the same guy. And maybe some open communication works, too.

Wife vole: “I sure do like what you did with the family room, Dennis. You have such a way with dirt!”

Husband vole: “Aw, it’s nothing. Just a bigger hole for my favorite prairie vole!”

Interestingly, although prairie voles do tend to stick with one mate to raise offspring, make their nests, and guard their home, they do stray. Maybe two holes away, a mother prairie vole will shelter a litter of pups fathered by two males. Maybe around the corner, behind that patch of brown-eyed Susans, a chance encounter with a delightfully aromatic female will result in Joe sharing more than a courteous “howdy-do.”

Then, they simply go back home to their original partner and live out their lives raising babies and avoiding predators like owls, snakes and divorce attorneys.

As I finished reading the article on prairie voles, I realized something about human behavior. We have a lot to learn from critters like that. Probably the most important lesson is that life is short, but we should always take time to stop and smell the roses of romance, and other things. Like our hearts and our “nucleus accumbens” tell us, true love is life’s greatest reward.

2006-04-04T10:32:00.000-05:00

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2006-04-04T09:34:00.000-05:00

Spring to life on Rails to Trails

We spent some quality time at Rails to Trails last Sunday afternoon. The kids brought two of our poodles. The dogs nearly hyperventilated, sniffing signposts and foliage draped in the perfume of budding growth and possum droppings. Every time I visit that renovated rail bed, I come away feeling rejuvenated myself.

Even the day a long black snake slithered across the path just inches from my bike tire, I went home experiencing renewed energy. Some folks call that an adrenaline rush. I have seen wild turkeys, hawks, loads of rabbits and deer along the trail. There is something indescribably therapeutic about whizzing along the scenic route of locomotives, beside bucolic pastures and gurgling brooks, taking in the sun, revitalizing your spirit and working up a sweat.

One morning, I rode out with contempt for the world. It was one of those despondent days, when it seemed all that could go wrong had. I was angry and conflicted. I was confused and sad. I was unappreciated and misunderstood. I felt old. I felt ugly. I felt forgotten. I felt lost and misguided. And I felt it was everyone else’s fault but my own that I found myself in an unmitigated funk.

Out on the trail, I put on my headphones and strapped on my helmet. My misery and I pedaled out beneath the outstretched limbs of sycamores and maples, the summer humidity soaking the thin cotton of my shirt. As athletic bikers passed in streaks of streamlined latex, I picked up the pace and listened as Sheryl Crow crooned:

“With broken wings we'll learn to fly. Pull yourself out of the tide and begin the dream again.”

She sang of Diamond Road, a place to rekindle dreams and start again. In a shallow valley, cool air descended momentarily like a whisper of spring. I made good time for a tired old gal and noticed I had pedaled farther that usual. Barbed wire fences spanned the miles ahead, framing endless fields of corn and cattle. The world appeared changed, less hostile and foreboding. The sun slid behind a thick cloud and eased the throbbing heat of summer.

The morning had been a day of reckoning for me. I need them, from time to time, those days spent figuring out what is wrong, what is right, what just is. I saw a cow and her calf. They looked content and carefree. Horses stood full of grace and good fortune. Out past Sumrall, I suddenly saw llama grazing and decided it might be a good time to turn around.

I rode long enough that I listened to a full circuit of the songs on my MP3 player. Sheryl chided me to join her on Diamond Road again.

“Don't miss the diamonds along the way. Every road has led us here today. Life is what happens while you're making plans. All that you need is right here in your hands.”

I don’t like to make plans much. It seems when I do, they simply fall through cracks of indecision and good intentions. Life happens, either way. But I can see the advantage to accepting those things I cannot change and mustering the courage to change those I can. Knowing the difference is wisdom, of course, which can emerge from something as simple as a bike ride in the country. That’s when serenity replaces the madness. That’s when wounds heal and hopes rise.

Last Sunday, as the poodles bobbed on their tethers and my family cruised on foot among the dogwoods and azaleas, life happened all around us. Poets romanticize spring, gardeners worship it, but nature delivers it in glorious fashion every season. Plans may run astray, but the rebirth of spring always arrives as expected. Visit your Rails to Trails and find your own diamonds along the way. http://www.railtrails.org

For more information on the Longleaf Trace, visit http://www.mylongleaftrace.com/.

2006-03-27T14:54:00.000-06:00

We Should Thank the Stinkin’ Vampires

Years ago, I crawled around the innards of a hospital working as a phlebotomist. Few things evoke rabid rejection faster than a gal in a white lab coat appearing in the middle of the night with a tray full of needles. Most patients were reluctantly cooperative. But then others could get downright ugly.
“You’re a stinkin’ vampire, that’s what you are!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Boondoggle, but I have to get a little blood for the lab.”
“And what am I? A pincushion? Can’t you get all the blood you need with one poke? I know your kind. You’ll be back, wanting more.”
“Thanks, Mr. Boondoggle. We’re all done.”
“ Uh, could I get a Bugs Bunny Band-Aid on that?”

Phlebotomists take a lot of grief for something over which they have no control. Doctor’s orders and lab test protocol determine who gets the needle and how often. But one advantage to the job is that you witness all the fascinating aspects of a hospital. It’s like having a backstage pass to “Gray’s Anatomy.” Not everybody begrudges your visit, and often you meet interesting people who understand that you wish you were delivering flowers, too, but somebody has to get the blood.

When I was a kid, I visited my Aunt Ora at John Elliott Blood Bank in Biloxi where she worked as a nurse. One of my summer jobs was in a plasma donation center. I have written articles about hemophilia. Here and there, over the years, I have learned about how blood plays a vital and indispensable role in saving lives. But it wasn’t until I visited my friend Teresa in Arlington, TX that I fully understood its value in terms of borrowed time.

Teresa passed away in January after losing her battle with breast cancer. She was 38, the mother of two and a great, great gal. She taught elementary school, loved animals and music. Her easy smile is what I will remember most about her.

In her last months, Teresa went to the hospital nearly every other day for blood transfusions. My friend Anne and I sat with Teresa on a Saturday while she received a bag of platelets and a unit of blood. It took just over six hours. We talked and laughed and reminisced. Teresa dozed some, but mostly she shared concerns for her family and their future without her. It was the single most bittersweet day I can recall, smiling through tears and hating cancer.

As the fluids dripped steadily through a catheter into a port on Teresa’s chest, I realized what an incredible gift someone had unknowingly provided her. When she needed blood, and she needed a lot, it was there because someone took the time and made the effort to donate. That blood bought her time with her family. It gave her the strength to make it through Christmas and New Year’s. And even though it could not cure or save Teresa, blood given by strangers made it possible for three friends to gather one last time. To pray. To hope. To exchange that unspoken final goodbye while Teresa still could smile.

Right you are. Needles are no fun. But when you consider the burden of those who need blood to stay alive or to cherish their dwindling days on this earth, a little discomfort and inconvenience pale in comparison to the powerful and lasting impact held within just one unit of blood.

And when you’re done and feeling good about saving lives, Mr. Boondoggle? Don’t forget to thank the stinkin’ vampires.

Go to http://www.unitedbloodservices.org/ for more information on blood donation.

2006-03-24T13:18:00.000-06:00

Periodically, fellow writers will share their work. I'm certainly no poetry expert, but I thought this verse to be well written and likely of interest to those of you directly affected by Hurricane Katrina.

Thanks for agreeing to share this, Ron!

Voices within the Hurricane
by Ron Moses, Hattiesburg, MS

Birthed in the warm ocean waters between
Africa and the Americas, testing her baby strength
By skipping across Cuba, then, as a teenager
Storming over Florida, denied the old fountain
Of youth, ranting in the dark as a woman scorned,
Typhoon Katrina spun into the Gulf of Mexico
And attacked at daylight, taking out the lights
Of a coast line which once twinkled with life.
She swept the sandy cities from the sea shore,
Tossed gambling casinos across highways,
Howled around the windows of the poor and rich,
Peeked in with her black and stormy face
At the terrified trying to keep their doors from
Shaking apart, floated soup bowls up into attics,
Then made a run North, the popping pine trees
Sounding like Civil War cannons signaling a charge.
Toppling the towers of communication and
Tilting the smokestacks of factory production,
She raged for a day and a night, “Know that I am
The Queen of Utter Destruction.”

But other voices can still be heard within
This hurricane. One says, “Fear not,
For because of the twists of my tornadoes
Rare seeds were cracked open,
And vine-like cities will flourish,
Will reach with long fingers toward the sun,
And grace us with flowers
No one has ever seen or smelled before.
Other horns will wail the blues to the moon.
All that once was will be given a new skin.
Know it is the agony and the blessing
Of humans to create again.”

Another voice says, “Now you have a choice
Whether to show us the rose of your angel, or
The thorn of your devil.
Will you help or hinder your neighbor
Couched upon a rooftop, or
Buried in a maze of splintered timber, or
Wading through sewage looking for water, or
Honking at tail lights as you wait in a gas line,
The telephone poles wrapped in tin?”

“But what of our loved ones?” the grieving say
Within the center of their whirling mass of black.
“What of those dear ones twisted up
Into the clouds rushing through the heavens?”
“They are being touched now by a Love
That passes all understanding,” say the breezes
Which still have leaves left to spin.
“Let them continue their journey to that tower
Of light where no wind will ever touch them again.”

2006-03-20T17:05:00.000-06:00

Montie Never Made it to the Mall

One day, with a fleeting glance at our saltwater tank, I noticed an eyeless pink probe fingering the sand from its hidden perch.

“What IS that thing?” I bellowed. The clownfish shrugged his shoulders and the starfish retreated on a million pod feet. I looked again, but the finger had vanished into the live rock.

So began the daily inquisition. We would each take turns at the tank, trying to catch a glimpse of the elusive stowaway. Our vigilance paid off. Using a red light to illuminate the water, we watched the fish and starfish and hermit crabs go about their scavenging and swimming, unaware.

We held our breath, mesmerized, as the bristle worm emerged from his hiding place.
It was like studying a creature from a science fiction flick. No head. No legs or arms. No eyes. The animal was only a slender retractable body with prickly projections along lateral lines that gave all of us the creeps. All of us, except Katie.

Not surprisingly, bristle worms fall into the category of undesirable tank tenants. My daughter made it her mission to capture the beast. She set a trap made of a plastic tube and a tasty morsel of lump crabmeat. Apparently, bristle worms have very expensive taste. They also seem to know a trap when they see, er, feel one. We suppressed victorious shouts when the bristle worm investigated the opening. But the creature was smart. He smelled, er, suspected a rat and withdrew into the safety of his rock.

Again and again, the worm foiled Katie’s attempt to entrap him. He teased her but never took the bait. We grew complacent and ignored him. The worm grew brave. Eventually, he ventured out to excavate new depths. And Katie was ready.

One night, the bristle worm wandered out and reclined fully exposed atop the sandy bottom. Katie grabbed her dad and he grabbed the net. Before he knew it, Mr. Bristle Worm found himself floating in a Tupperware container on our kitchen table. Katie suited up.

She donned dishwashing gloves and examined every segment of that worm. She measured him and recorded her findings. Her eyes bugged and her fascination grew as the mysterious invertebrate wriggled from her fingers. She assumed the detached and clinical approach of a serious scientist. That is, until she started talking to her specimen.

“Oh, you naughty boy!” she cooed. “I am naming you Montie. How do you like that?”

Something suddenly felt very wrong. Dr. Twedt had morphed into Nanny Katherine.

“I can’t wait to show you to everybody at school! And then I’ll fix you a nice tank all by your itty-bitty self. Is that OK with Mommy’s precious baby?”

My stomach turned. My daughter was making kissy faces with something that looked like alien offspring.

“Katie,” I pleaded. “Tell me that you are not planning to keep that thing. We have tried for months to get rid of it!”

Katie and Montie were too busy bonding to hear me.

The next day, Montie went to school. He met Ms. Smith’s sixth grade science classes and induced more than a few squeamish attacks among the boys and girls. I think I heard something about the cafeteria, but I choose to remain ignorant of those details. When school was over, Montie rode the school bus with Katie and her friend Madison to their friend Alex’s house. Montie enjoyed the remainder of that Friday evening outside in his plastic abode, waiting for the trio to return from a shopping trip.

Sadly, Montie went to Worm Heaven while the kids roamed their natural habitat at Turtle Creek Mall. Back at home, Katie solemnly paid her respects at the porcelain altar and granted Montie a proper burial by flushing him out to the septic sea.

Meanwhile, I considered how it takes a very special person to marvel over the lowliest creatures. Perhaps there was more to learn about a bristle worm than what science can explain.
I have to wonder why Montie allowed himself to be so vulnerable, to make his capture to easy.

Maybe he knew what a great gal is Katie.

Or maybe he just wanted to go to the mall.

2006-03-09T10:11:00.000-06:00

Wrestling Gives Mom the Glory

Parents understand that as far as awards for “best performance in a leading role,” the trophy goes to, well, there are no trophies for parenting. I love watching the Oscars, especially when someone stands at the microphone and tearfully thanks his or her mom and dad. I would imagine it feels pretty great to be internationally validated as the mom who changed the Best Director’s diapers. Most of us realize from the outset, though, that the rewards of parenting have little to do with recognition. It sure is nice, though, when someone happens to take notice.

My friend Kel Coleman-Potter lives in Poneta, Indiana. We both write columns for our local newspapers and try to incorporate worldly themes in our work, but we often end up writing about our kids. We have resisted being pegged as “mommy” columnists. The truth of the matter is that everything I find worthy of writing somehow relates to my children. Whatever our purpose in life, being mom always tempers our dreams and reminds us that even when editors reject us or agents rebuke us or the muse refuses to inspire Pulitzer material, our kids have a way of making us feel successful in the ways that matter most.

Kel shares tales of her two sons, Aaron and Ethan. They are close in age to my son and daughter. They are boys full of all that makes young men both a blessing and a challenge to parent when adolescence descends and blood pressures rise. Kel marvels at how the baby boys who used to cling to her with adoration and sticky fingers now relegate her to a less lofty position as dispensable old Mom, that troublesome woman who insists on a good breakfast and a decent bedtime. Sometimes, this parenting gig proves fairly thankless. But then, out of nowhere comes serendipitous gratification, an unexpected and complete verification that having kids is a magnificent endeavor.

Kel found hers at a wrestling match.

Wrestling, a sport older than the Olympics is a very big deal in Indiana and in schools throughout the Mid-West. Matches pit two opponents against each other. The winner is the one who either successfully pins his or her opponent to the mat or scores the most technical points. It seems Kel is always running to a practice or a match. There is the constant struggle to keep wrestling gear clean, accessible and in good repair. And then she has that gnawing, endless worry of impending injuries and the sting of defeat.

Ethan, relatively new to wrestling, embarked on his third match with two losses under his belt. Competition can be fierce, so Kel sat among the crowd of onlookers with a familiar knot in her gut, the same one that formed whenever her older son Aaron competed. Any parent who has perched atop bleachers and digested the churning ball of agony that forms when your child loses a game understands how sometimes it’s just too hard to watch. But within a matter of minutes, Ethan toppled his opponent and wrangled him into a position that landed the novice his first win.

The referee locked arms with the champion, as is customary. But he delayed proclaiming the winner until he located Kel in the audience. He positioned Ethan so that his gaze met that of his cheering mom among the throngs and, finally, threw her young son’s hand in the air.

Yes, we know that winning is not everything. In the grand scheme of things, a box of medals or a shelf of trophies ultimately means that you were acknowledged for winning in an instant. They are tangible ornaments of momentary glory. But the award presented to Kel by that referee was the kind of lasting recognition a mother cherishes for the long haul. “Here. Look. It’s your boy. Good job, Mom and Dad. You win.”

It’s not the trophy or the title that makes for lasting keepsakes. It’s the feeling you get when no one is watching, when you sit at your computer and try to write of consequential things, the very life of life. Our children, if we love them right, give us all the notice we need.