Winter Is on Its Way

Cold weather, wind blowing, leaves falling like snow.


Chicken is simmering on the stove, filling the air with its fragrance.

We are sitting in front of the fire, toasting our toes, and looking at the lake through the window.

Quilts are on the beds.

Warm houseshoes have been found where they were hiding in the depths of the closet, and sweats, warm, cozy, comfortable, are the attire of the day.

Clouds blow across the sky, with patches of blue sky and sunshine peeking through now and then.

The pantry is full; the freezer is stocked.

The harvest is gathered in.

Our hearts are filled with thanksgiving.

She Has Her Mother's Sense of Humor

Conversation between daughter Jeana and her eldest, Katoushka, age 13:

K: Why are you wearing a Christmas sweater in October?

Jeana: It's not a Christmas sweater.

K: Yes it is, it's red and green.

J: No, it's red and shades of grey, see?

K: Red and grey? What kind of Christmas sweater is that?

What's REally Important

Yesterday I wrote about the stuff stolen from the cabin.

Tomorrow Wick will have surgery on his arm.

The stuff that was taken was just stuff. As Wick said, a year ago he was just praying that I would live one more day.

Today I am praying that the surgeon will have the skill to restore Wick's hand and that he will regain total function.

Compared to the risk of losing each other, stuff pales by comparison.

As the Bible says, our true treasures are in Heaven, where no rust corrupts, no moth consumes, and no thief can steal what is truly valuable.

Tomorrow... we have been hoping for two weeks for this surgery to be scheduled, and now it is less than 12 hours away. Jeana will go with him, since I still can't drive. I will stay here with the grandkids, and pray.

Break-in

We were away from the cabin for more than two weeks after Wick's incident, and apparently, while we were gone, we had uninvited guests.

Unwanted guests.

They took Wick's air compressor, a satchel full of tools, the computer printer, and a digital camera.

They also took most of my jewelry. Not the junk. No, they are much too discriminating for that. They only took the good stuff.

The pearl necklace Wick gave me when I graduated from high school.

The ruby ring I got when I finished my PhD.

My grandmother's opal ring.

Things that have comparitively little monetary value, but to me were priceless.

Banking on the Kindness of Strangers

Last week Jeana took us to see a surgeon regarding Wick's arm. We had to drive a long way, on unfamiliar roads, and for a long stretch we were on a toll road.

As we approached the toll road, I said I needed to make a pit stop. With all the meds I take, that's a pretty frequent request.

Unfortunately, the lead-up to the toll road is rather desolate--no convenience stores, or fast-food places, or anything else that we could see. Finally, the last exit before getting on the toll road, we saw a bank.

I told Jeana to pull over at the bank. She said, are you going to ask to use their restroom?

I said, any port in a storm.

As I hobbled through the door with my cane, a lovely young lady with a charming smile asked, how may we help you today?

I said, may I use your restroom?

She could have just pointed, but she walked me across the lobby, past the tellers and the glassed-in offices, to a door leading to a hallway where the restrooms were.

With a gracious Vanna White motion, she said, Please let us know if there is anything else we can do for you.

Wow. How lovely, to be treated as a welcome guest, even though I did not have any legitimate bank business to transact, and don't even have an account at that office.

Aren't people kind?

Drugs, Mayhem, and Chihuahuas--The Saga of Little Bob

One night Jeana and I were talking about our friends Bob and Deen. I happened to mention their little dog, Bob. Jeana wanted to know why they would name the dog the same name as the owner.

So I started telling her about Bob, who is Frankie's only doggy friend.

Now this is an East Texas story, which I pieced together from different sources. I can no longer remember who told what part of the story, but the most noticeable feature of all the narrators was the sense of place--the East Texas way of telling a story, rambling from one thing to another, from one person to another, and all told in that deep East Texas vernacular.

I have consolidated all those voices into one narrator, and tried my best to reproduce how those voices sound.


Wall, y'all ain't been in the neighborhood long enough to know who is who and what is what, but y'all know that house that's right opposite y'all's house on the circle? [We live on a road that makes a full circle.] The one with the fenced yard?

They's just somethin' about folks as would fence up their front yard. Don't seem very welcomin' somehow, does it? Like they don't really want you to come visit. Don't set out on the porch, nor in the yard, nor come 'round nobody else's place neither. And they had a big boy, nearly growed up, and he don't go to school, nor work, nor nothin', far as any of us could tell.

Never seen his daddy hit a lick at a snake with a stick, don't know as he ever worked much either.

The mama, now she had a whole passel of them lil ol dogs, you know them little Mexican dogs, like that'un on the Taco Bell ad, that always said Yo, Key Arrow Taco Bell [yo quiero Taco Bell]?
Them lil dogs ain't big as a minute, none of 'm.

Wall, she had a whole herd of them lil dogs, and she sold'm to folks as wanted one. But then they fell on hard times. Couldn't even pay the light bill. Said they just couldn't afford to feed so many dogs, no matter how little, and just opened the gate and turned 'm loose on the neighborhood.

Wasn't long after that the laws showed up. Just went right in through that open gate, busted down the door, and hauled 'm off to jail.

We always suspected they was dealin' drugs or somethin'

Lots of folks took one of 'm, just picked 'm up off the road. [We are back to the dogs now.]

But a few of 'm hung around, all skinny and scrawny, and lookin' pitiful.

Joyce, across the road, she felt sorry for 'm, and she took up with lil Bob. He was so skinny an' poor lookin', she just had to feed him.

Then, o'course, he kep' on comin' round to her house, lookin' so pitiful, she just couldn't turn 'im away. But you know she's got two dogs already. That big 'n, the one with the crazy blue eyes, that she calls Sonica cuz they found her at the Sonic, and that little'n that looks sorta like them Mexican dogs, that she calls Puppy--that Puppy is mean as a snake, she'd as soon bite you as look at you.

Anyways, she couldn't keep lil Bob cuz of her dogs, she was scared they'd eat him up, so she calls Bob and Deen and asks 'm to take lil Bob.

Now Deen, after her chows Sam and Pam died, she said after somethin' happens to Tabby, that lil black cat, she ain't havin' no more animals.

But she seen lil Bob, and he didn't weigh but two pounds, just skin and bones he was, and she couldn't turn 'im down.

She carried him home, and took him to the vet, and fed him up til he weighed more 'n five pounds--real plump he is now.

Bob, he didn't care much for havin' a dog with his own same name, so they tried to change it, but he wouldn't pay them no never mind no matter what they said, unless they called him Bob.

Wick said it would be easier to change Bob's name than to change the dog's name.

So we call him Bobby, or Little Bob, and he just loves on everybody that comes around, licks on 'em, and wants to sit in their lap, and just wags his tail til he nearly wags hisself off his feet. Cute as a button, and real smart. Hardly ever barks, except at the cows.

He's a good little dog, that Bob. If you like them lil ol' bitty dogs.

Not an Early Morning Sort of Person

I've never liked getting up early. I need time to wake up, to gather my thoughts, to drink coffee, and pull myself together.

When I worked, I liked to get to school about an hour early, to get organized and ready for the day ahead.

I still get up early, to have time with Wick before he leaves for work, but he doesn't expect much more than minimal communication, a little snuggling, and a few kisses before he goes out the door.

Morning at Jeana's house is different. Saturday morning.... I was not at my best.

First, I had to get up earlier than I wanted, because Frankie insisted on going outside at the crack of dawn.

Then everyone else was up.

All those kids' smiling faces.

Paul Simon's Graceland playing in the background.

Jeana making coffee.

Scott chirping like the early bird who gets the fat, juicy worm.

All that cheerfulness--it's downright depressing.

What Next?

On Nov. 7, we will be looking back a whole year at the beginning of my hospitalization. I am still far from where I want to be, but still making slow but steady progress.
We have been talking about my progress, and how our relationship with each other has grown during this year, and how much closer we are for having this experience.

Thursday morning, my cell phone rang before 9 a.m., which is unusual. When I answered, a woman's voice said she was calling from the school where Wick teaches.

This is not a good sign.

And I was right. She was calling to tell me that Wick was being loaded into an ambulance as we spoke. He was pushed through a plate glass window, by a student. He was bleeding copiously. The paramedics were applying pressure to try to control the bleeding on the way to the hospital.

So far, up to now, not being able to drive has been just an inconvenience, mostly a matter of waiting for Wick to have time to take me somewhere. Now, I wanted--needed--to get to the hospital to meet him at the emergency room, and I couldn't.

I called Jeana, who agreed to meet him at the ER, find out what his status was, and call me as soon as possible.

It was a long wait, which I could only fill with prayers for his safety, and the skills of the people treating him.

I called his cell phone twice. The first time he sounded fairly normal, even though I could hear the paramedics in the background, questioning him and talking to each other.

The second time, he sounded tired, almost drowsy. He didn't know if they had given him something for pain, and I was afraid he was suffering from the blood loss.

Finally, Jeana was able to call, to tell me more details about what had happened, and what was being done in the ER.

Apparently, the student in question had been a behavior issue even before school started that morning, and Wick was taking him to the campus police officer to discuss his attitude and actions. The student didn't want to go. He struggled with Wick, finally pushing him hard enough, and catching him off balance enough to send him through the window.

He had several cuts that needed stitching up, and had lost a fair amount of blood. The worst news is that some tendons in his right arm were severed, and affected his ability to use three fingers on that hand.

His building principal and an assistant superintendent from the school district came to the hospital to see how he was doing, and to tell him they supported him. His principal brought him out to the RV park, where Jeana was to meet me.

Jeana brought us to her house to stay until Wick sees the surgeon, and we know what is going to be done. Right now, his right arm is in a splint, thickly covered with gauze and ace bandages from shoulder to fingertips.

For a "one-armed" guy, he manages pretty well, but I am having the opportunity to return in very small portion some of the help he has showered on me this past year.

So here we are, staying at Jeana's again, only this time is for Wick, instead of for me. We are hopeful that he will recover full use of the arm and hand, and be able to go back to work after surgery and physical therapy.

Not exactly where we thought we would be, a year ago. Praise God for keeping Wick from bleeding to death, or being injured much worse than he was. Thank God for the people at his school who tried to stop the bleeding, for the paramedics who got him to the ER so quickly, for the nurses and doctors who stabilized him and pieced him back together with all those stitches. And most of all, thank God for Jeana and her family, their willingness to take us in, take care of us, share their home and time and family worship with us.

How do people get through scary experiences, if they don't have God to talk to?

A Fishy Story

For the past few years, our daughter and family have invited us to join them for a couple of days of their vacation at a condo on a lake. It's always fun, and we usually do something special while we are there, such as going to the wildlife sanctuary or visiting the diosaur tracks in the river nearby.

This year, because I am still not as strong as I hope to be eventually, we just hung out at the condo. The condo has two decks; one is at the level of the sliding glass door, and is lovely for sitting outside and watching the moon come up.

The lower deck, down a flight of steps, has a boat slip, and plenty of space for chairs. The kids spend a lot of time there, swimming and fishing.

Jeana's husband told the kids to keep the small fish they were catching, and later they would use them for bait.

Lolly was excited about catching fish, even tiny ones, but when it came time to cut them up for bait, she got a little teary.

Since I still have trouble with stairs, Scott brought one of the little fish up to show me. As he stood over me (he was standing, I was sitting), the little fish, which we thought was dead, suddenly leaped out of his hand and went right down my cleavage.

Predictably, I squealed and started digging for the little fish, which was squirming his way right down my shirt.

Scott, Jeana, and Wick were laughing so hard they had tears in their eyes.

I finally had to go take a shower and change clothes, because I was so certain I smelled like fish.

I'm telling you, I couldn't make this stuff up!

Coincidence?

Several weeks ago, I wrote a post about memorizing scripture, and how meaningful it was to me to "hear" those words in my head during my long illness. I set it to auto-post on Monday, 17 August.

At the time, I did not know that on that day I would be back in the hospital, having a defibrillator/pacemaker implanted.

I may have mentioned here that anxiety has plagued me since the long hospitalization last winter. Just thinking about having an i.v. put in pushes me into a full-blown anxiety attack, crying, shaking, wailing...it's not pretty.

Because of this, the surgeon gave me something to take the night before, and again that morning, to "take the edge off" my anxiety.

It did not work.

When the anesthesiologist came in with the i.v. equipment, I went into full melt-down. I ended up in the fetal position, sobbing uncontrollably, with the sheet pulled up over my head. I was shaking so hard there was no way he could get a needle in a vein.

Wick finally asked everyone to leave the room, so he could talk to me. He rubbed my back and my arms, stroked my face and hair, whispered nonsense phrases, and as he talked, suddenly my voice of comfort emerged from the haze of fear, saying,

Peace. Be still. Be still and know that I am God.

He motioned the anesthesiologist back into the room, who gave me a shot of something, and in a few minutes, the i.v. was in place, and I was drifting into unconsciousness.

But that voice of comfort followed me into the darkness.


It's been more than two weeks now, and everything seems to be working fine with the pacemaker. My incision is healing. My shoulder is not so sore and painful. I am still sleeping a lot, but for me that is part of the healing process.

Was it coincidence that my post about scripture auto-posted on the very day I was having the implant? No. I think it was God's providence, a reminder that He is with us in all things.

I called upon the Lord in my distress, and He answered me.

Bible Verses

When I was in high school, I had the privilege of taking a two-year Bible study class for credit.  Our teacher, Kenneth Istre, was not only our preacher, but also a true student of scripture.

He believed strongly in the value of memorization, a concept that has fallen out of fashion in our schools today.  We memorized the books of the Bible, the names of the major and minor prophets, the kings of Israel, and Bible verses.

At the time, I mostly memorized because he required it, and because I wanted to do well enough on the final test to get credit for the class.  I also appreciated the poetic beauty of the King James version, which I prefer to all others even now.

As an adult, I have come to appreciate the value of memorizing scripture.

When I was so sick last winter, I couldn't even read.  I was too sick, too doped up, to make sense of anything I tried to read.

I had trouble following conversations, or understanding what the doctors and nurses were telling me.

But inside my head, like a never-ending tape, I could hear the verses of comfort I had memorized.

"I lift up my eyes unto the hills;  whence cometh my help?  My trust is in the Lord"

" He will give his angels charge over thee, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone."

" He took me out of the pit, and lifted me from the mirey clay.  He set my feet on a rock and established my path."

An unending stream of comfort and love, bathing me night and day, every waking moment.  All because one man expected me to memorize scripture.

Hummingbirds

Wick hung up a hummingbird feeder out on the deck a few weeks ago.  We have enjoyed watching the tiny birds zoom around, and have discovered that they have personalities.

One is very aggressive.  He apparently feels that the feeder is his personal property, and whenever others show up, he chases them away, twittering loudly.  He then returns to the feeder, perches on it, and chirps, as if to say, I won again.

Another is quite cautious.  He flies in circles around the feeder, finally landing, but can't seem to sit still long enough to drink.  He keeps jumping into the air, turning himself around in circles, as if watching for the aggressor.

I've read a little about these birds.  They are attracted by the color red.  They "know" how long a blossom takes to refill its cup with nectar after a feeding, and won't return to that blossom until it has had time to refill. 

The little aggressor doesn't know that we keep the feeder replenished, and that whenever he returns, there is always more nectar.

I guess sometimes we are like that with God;  our human nature can't encompass the unending bounty of God's love and care for us, so we worry and fret, instead of waiting on the Lord to supply our needs.

His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

First Monday

We went to First Monday in Canton Saturday.  First Monday is the biggest "garage sale" in the world.

It started in Canton many years ago, when farmers came to town on the First Monday of each month.  Court was in session, and while people took care of their legal business, they could swap for fresh butter, eggs, and produce, and then by a natural evolution, they began to swap for all kinds of other things.  First Monday is now a huge tourist draw.  

We are lucky enough to live close.  We went Sat. morning, poked around for a couple of hours, and had lunch before heading home.

I have missed going to First Monday since I haven't been able to walk far.  I still couldn't walk from the parking spot to the first pavillion, but Wick got me a powered chair, and it worked great.  He loaded it into the back of his pickup with a couple of ramps, unloaded it when we got there, and presto, I was able to keep up with him and our niece all morning.  It was great.

We didn't buy much, but got a lot of ideas about decorating the cabin when we get to that stage.

We lookked at life preservers, ship's wheels, fishermen's floats, old nets, everything from fine antiques to pure dee junk.  It was fun just to look and browse, and watch people bargaining.

If you have never been to First Monday, it's worth the trip.  There are all kinds of places to stay, and even if you don't buy anything, it's an adventure just to make the rounds.

Of course, buying stuff is sort of the point. 

Obsessions, Compulsions, and General Craziness

I'm not really obsessive/compulsive. But, like most people I think, there are a few things that I really have to do.
1. Folding things: t-shirts, towels, sheets, pillow cases, underpants...all have to be folded into thirds.
2. Stacking things: all washcloths have to be stacked so that the nice fold is on the outer edge, and the edges of the washcloths are to the back or side. Same with sheets and pillow cases.
And towels.
3. When I fold socks in pairs, I alternate the folded edge, so that the stack stays even, not lop-sided.
4. I count things. Like steps. When I go up stairs, or down stairs, I count the steps. If I walk on stepping stones, I count them. If the ceiling tile has rows of dots, I count them. If we are at a football game, I count the number of players on the field, the number of girls in the drill team line, the number of kids in the band playing percussion.
5. When I eat M & Ms, I lay them out in rows, sorted by color. I eat only one at a time, starting with the color of which I have the fewest. I suck on each M & M (if it is only one, is it still M & Ms, or just M?) until it melts before I put another one in my mouth.
6. When I eat dip and chips, it has to come out even. If I have dip left, I need more chips. If I have chips left, I need more dip.
7. I sit on the back deck every morning and drink coffee with lots of cream and a spoon full of Splenda in it. If, for some reason, we have to leave early, and I don't have time to sit out there, my whole day seems off.
8. I don't check my e-mails every day, because when I check, I have to answer anything that needs an answer right then. I can't stand to leave one unanswered. So if I know I don't have time to answer, I don't read.
9. I like for my shoes to match my outfit. If I don't have a pair of shoes that match, that's okay, but if I do, I have to wear them. I can't just wear another pair. I have to wear the ones that match.
10. There are certain blogs I have to read, if I am on line. I don't necessarily comment often, but I do have to read them. It's a good thing there aren't too many of them, or I'd be on line all day.
Well, there you have it, the general nuttiness of my day to day life. Could be worse, I guess. At least none of it hurts anybody else.

Ten things Meme

Diane, at Diane's Place, posted a meme. Since I haven't been thinking of much to blog about, I thought I'd answer her questions.

1.] How come I can never find: my glasses. my scissors. my cell phone. my memory.

2.] I wish I'd never started: getting pedicures. I love them, and they used to be one of my "life's little luxuries", but now that Wick has to take me everywhere I go, I won't ask him to sit there for an hour while I get my toes painted and my feet massaged.

3.] I wonder why: sometimes I can't think of a thing to write about, and other times, I can't find time to write down all that occurs to me.

4.] Mama always told me: to always wear nice underthings, in case I ever had to go to the emergency room. Naturally, the night I got so sick last November, I had on my oldest, tattiest underthings.

5.] There's this one thing in my closet that I just can't seem to get rid of: shoes. I love shoes. I've worn the same size since I was fourteen. I keep buying them, but hardly ever et rid of any.

6.] My favorite guilty pleasure is: chocolate. Chocolate cake. Chocolate cookies. Chocolate chip cookies. Chocolate ice cream. Mocha Java Chillers from Sonic. Mocha Moolattes from Dairy Queen. Chocolate Thunder from Down Under at Outback. Chocolate ice cream. Chocolate sundaes. Hot fudge sundaes. Chocolate. Did I mention Chocolate?


7.] I always forget to: get a bulb for the reading light in my bedroom. It's an odd size, and I need to take it with me to make sure I get the right one. I keep thinking I will get it as I walk out the door to go to town. But I haven't yet.

8.] I have never: been to Europe. Or the Orient. Or Australia. Or South America, central America, or Canada. I have, however, been to Mexico, Grand Cayman, and Jamaica.


9.] I'm obsessed with: oh, now see, if we are going to talk about my OCD tendencies, we need a whole post. Or maybe a series of posts. Because while I am pretty laid back and easy going about most things, there are a few things about which I am Obsessive. Compulsive. or maybe just Crazy.

10.] One of my favorite memories is: when our children were young, and we used to spend cold Sunday afternoons sitting on the rug in front of the fire playing board games and laughing like loons.

Traumatic, Life-Altering Events: Musing

I've been thinking about traumatic events in people's lives, and how it affects them, mostly because I recently experienced a traumatic, life-altering experience.

I have known for at least all my adult life that people experience traumatic events, and are forever changed afterward. I myself have had a few of those experiences. But never before have I felt as fundamentally changed, different, no longer my own self.

I can't explain in what ways I have changed, other than that my writing is not as funny as it used to be. I only know that I'm not me any more. I don't know who I am. I don't react the same way as I used to.

I cry more easily, and more often.

I spend a great deal more time alone.

I have a strange reluctance to be where there will be large numbers of people, and when I am with a lot of people, even people I love, I feel uneasy, and find it very stressful, to the point of needing a two-hour nap afterward.

I often have a sense of dread, as if something really bad is about to happen, and I don't know what it is or how to stop it.

Anxious. I feel anxious.

Tomorrow is my birthday. My darlin asked what I want. I told him I don't want anything; I am just thankful to be alive.

But there is something I want, and I don't think I will ever have it again: I want my life back.

I want me back.

But I think that me is gone forever.

I'm stuck with the new me, and I don't know who I am.

Child-speak, part 4

When Katoushka was two years old, she did not talk baby talk. She talked in complete sentences, in a very melodic voice, quite clearly, and not only seemed to remember everything she heard, but also to be able to use new words appropriately.

Her parents had a discipline plan, which I had not totally grasped yet, but it seemed to be working very well, and I had a great deal of respect for it, and for them.

So when they left Katoushka with us, I tried to do as I thought they would do. But one day Katoushka did something that she knew she wasn't supposed to do. I told her I was not sure how Mommy and Daddy would handle it, and we were going to wait until they got home and find out what they wanted to do.
She sat in the little red rocker quietly for a few minutes. Then she said, "Mimi, Mommy and Daddy say that those who love me chastize me."

I knew that chastizement meant some kind of punishment, so I called her to me, and gave her a couple of little swats on her thickly diapered bottom, saying, "Precious, I would not want you to think that your Mimi doesn't love you." She returned to the little red rocker, rocked vigorously for a few minutes, and wiped her tears.

I could hardly stand it. My precious little grandbaby was hurt.

But before I could say anything, she came back to my side, spread her arms wide, and said, "Mimi, can we reconcile now."

My heart twisted in my chest. I gathered her into my lap, hugged her, and we rocked until Mommy and Daddy came home.

Note: For clarification, I am adding Jeana's response: " We told her that we chastise her because we love her. I think the difference is important. We certainly do not expect everyone who loves our children to chastise them, nor would we be happy at all if they did."

Jeana wants to be sure there is a distinction between what they actually said, and what Katoushka and I thought she said.

Child-speak, part 3

Our first grandchild, Pie, wanted to talk, but frequently ran out of words. She was between 18 months and two years old, and her total repertoire included a number of isolated words, mostly names, please, thank you, no, and me (meaning roughly I will do it myself, thank you very much), and a few short phrases.

She often sat in my lap, and when I talked to her, she would respond with one of her words or phrases, whether it fit my comment or not--a steady stream of non sequiters.

When she had run the gamut of her vocabulary, she would stare at me intensely. If I said nothing, she would put her little hands on my cheeks and squeeze them together until my lips opened, and say, "Talk. Mimi. Talk."

I finally figured out that we were having a conversation, and I was falling down on my end of it. She had contributed all she could, and I was supposed to keep the conversation going, while she tried to come up with something else to say.

She is seventeen now. She still sits in my lap occasionally. But now I am the one who feels like saying, "Talk. Pie. Talk."

Child-speak, part 2

Speaking of children, have I ever told you about our son Scott? He was the most energetic, active, challenging child I have ever known.

When he was two years old, he decided that he needed to explore the larger world, outside the chain link fence surrounding our back yard.

Now this yard was the perfect yard for little children. Dozens of shade trees, lots of toys, stuff to climb on and ride on. But he longed to expand his horizons.

So he climbed the fence.

He went over a chain link fence, the kind with wire "spikes" on the top. He was two years old, so he received a series of bleeding scratches on his little tummy, but that didn't slow him down.

He then walked past our nearest neighbor's house, and found his way into the parking lot of the nearby convenience store, where he spent some time investigating the sucker someone threw down, the ice cream cone someone dropped, the chewing gum someone spit out. How do I know he did this? The evidence was all over his face.

He then decided to direct traffic as cars and trucks pulled into and out of the parking lot. That is what occupied his attention when we, his hysterical parents, found him.

And this was just the first time he "ran away."

No wonder my hair started to turn gray.

Child-Speak, part 1

When Jeana was small, she had a little trouble with certain words, such as mayonnaise. She pronounced it "bandaids."
She also had a little trouble with the word moustache. Her daddy has had a moustache most of his adult life, and all of her life.

One day we were looking at old pictures; we had looked at pictures of her grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins, talking about who they are, and how related. We came to one of her daddy, pre-moustache.

I said, who is that? She hesitated, then said firmly, Uncle Tommy (daddy's brother). I said, no, that's Daddy.

She looked at the picture, and at me, and then back at the picture, insisting that it was Uncle Tommy. When I held firm that it was indeed Daddy, she said, No! It not!

That not Daddy! He don't have no mattress on his lip!

It's a story we still tell, whenever one of the grandbabies has difficulty with a word.

Precious memories.