Last week, on Tuesday, October 9, at 6 pm, a dear friend passed away after ten months in Duke University Hospital, receiving two lung transplants a few months apart.

My friend's name was William Stephen (Steve) Keel. He was 67 years old.

My parents had been friends with Steve and his wife Nancy since before I was born; and their 7 kids are my age or there abouts. Their family and my family, and many other families in the community, lived near each other, grew together, ate together, learned together, played together, sang together, suffered together, and existed side by side for my whole life, and continue to do so.

In recent years I began working for their family, caring for their adult daughter with a mental handicap. So my life became even more closely entwined with theirs. Their children got married, had kids, life happened. And I was close at hand to witness it.

Some years ago, Steve was diagnosed with IPF - pulmonary fibrosis. For whatever reason, his lungs were slowly beginning to fail him.

I have watched over the past four years or so, as with each passing season, it seemed to worsen and become a heavier and heavier burden... until last fall, when when he was told if he did not get a lung transplant, he would die very soon. I was there the day they returned from a visit to the doctor with this grim prognosis. He needed to get on a transplant list, and sooner rather than later. Usually the transplant process takes several months of physical therapy and waiting "in line" behind other folks also needing transplants.

And yet, being people of great faith and trust in Almighty God and his healing powers, they and the family, along with the whole Christian Community stood and believed in great faith that he would be approved for the transplant and ultimately, healed of this horrible disease.

The reality of the situation truly hit home for me personally when we were called in to the home about a year ago, and Steve told my husband what his burial wishes were. He wanted to be buried on a hillside in the woods behind their house, in a plain brown box. He laid out all the specifics for my husband, so that in the event of his death, his wife would not need to make these arrangements. He knew that Kevin had the tools, the know how, and the leadership to take this task upon him if the time came.

In November, a few weeks before Thanksgiving, he was approved for transplant, and put on the top of the transplant waiting list at Duke. He moved to a friend's home in Durham to be a quick few minutes from the Hospital when the word came that lungs were available.

He never returned home.

At the time of his moving to be loser to the hospital, my life really changed a lot. I not only took care of the daughter, now I was sitting at their home with Nancy's 96 year old mother with dementia. There is a staff of about five of us who took shifts around the clock, staying in the home and caring for the invalids there, and undertook the running of the household. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping, phone calls, anything and everything, we did. Around the clock.

We got the news that a lung was available on January 31, 2011. It was a match. He received the lung transplant and all went well. He even recovered well from the operation and it seemed like the healing was well on it's way and he would be able to come home.

Then there were setbacks. Problems, issues. It became evident that the second lung would need to be removed, right away. Once again, he had to wait for another lung, while his life was in the balance. A prayer vigil was held when it seemed like all was lost, and the very next day, a lung was flown in and the second surgery performed.

But he never recovered from the second transplant. He spent months in the ICU, connected to a ventilator via a trac in his neck. He was unable to eat, or drink. He was on a feeding tube. He became skeletal, as he lost weight and muscle.
I went to visit Steve around this time; in the ICU. He was frail, and weak. Thin, and aged. But his eyes were still bright, and his countenance was hopeful. His voice was weak as he told me the doctors had told him in 30 days he should be out of ICU and maybe after that, able to come home. 

He recovered somewhat and was released for two weeks, and they stayed in Durham to be close to the hospital in case anything went wrong.
After two weeks, he was back in the hospital, and only went downhill after that.  

Being in the home all these months, practically living there, I got the daily updates; the emails, the calls from Nancy on a daily basis with the medical updates on Steve. I knew how she was feeling; how she was coping  - or not coping. I witnessed her sorrow, her fear, her despair, as well as her faith in God and strength to endure this incredibly hard time. I, and my co workers, were deeply involved with the whole process, and emotionally invested in the whole ordeal.

There had been many close calls with death, many times when I thought it was going to be the end of Steve, and always it seemed he found the strength from somewhere to pull it together and live another day.

I got a call on Monday last week from Nancy that the Doctors had told them that the Vent was prolonging his inevitable death and not preserving his life; and the decision was made to remove him from the vent and let him go to be with the Lord. The family were all on their way. The time was set for Tuesday at 3 pm. Not many people knew what was going on.

Tuesday, 3 pm came, and oh how I felt a heavy weight of sadness and sorrow for the family as I knew what was going on at that time.  It was my day off and yet my heart and mind were right there. I went to a business meeting with Kevin and my Dad, and at 7 PM, my co worker and friend Cara texted me to say that he had passed away.

I felt an immediate relief for him - he was free from the unimaginable pain and suffering; but such a heavy grief for his family who had just lost their Husband and Father so soon, it seemed.

The funeral was held at the home and many people were in attendance. It was the most deeply spiritual celebration of life service I have ever attended.

As the gathering sang the hymn "Fairest Lord Jesus", a butterfly fluttered over the heads of everyone there, sitting in a circle in chairs on the lawn. I watched as the butterfly flew all around, and then soared higher and higher into the air above the trees until I could no longer see it.

The graveside service was extremely emotional. I have only ever been to one other graveside service before.

Steve was buried in the Jewish tradition, with friends and family helping to shovel in the dirt. With each family member who stepped up and shoveled in earth, my tears flowed heavier. My friend John Howell stepped up to shovel in some dirt as he began singing a hymn, and before he was finished, broke down into mournful sobs as friends Jerry and Ruffin enclosed him in their arms in comfort.

Antion, who had lived with them for ten months, and who I had become good friends with during that time, stepped up to shovel in his portion, and after the first one, couldn't stop - sobbing, he shoveled in ten or twelve more shovels full. As each friend stepped up, the shoveling in of the dirt was like a last and final offering.

Through the whole experience of the past year, I have been struck by the great love and deep connection our families have for one another. (The families in our Christian Church community here locally.)
I can go months - sometimes a year or so! - without seeing some of these friends, and when you meet up again, it is as if no time has passed at all. There is no catching up or getting to know one another all over again; you simply pick up where you left off. That is how steady and unified we are as a community and as the Body of Christ. Perfect? Heck no.  But it is the unconditional love for one another that covers the "imperfections". I thank God that I am privileged to be a part of such an awesome group of people. These friends are Brothers and Sisters in Christ, and we are one big family. And this past week we lost a important and dearly loved member of our family; he will be so greatly missed. The loss is painful and deep. But I rejoice that he is with The Father and is no longer suffering with a diseased and broken body.

I will see you again, Mr. Keel. And we will have so much to talk about.

On White & Wearing It After Labor Day

 Just a random old photo I found in some obscure file on my laptop.

Okay, Labor Day has come and gone, so it is officially time to quit wearing white shoes, my dear Southern Belles. Or white anything, really. Unless you're getting married. I think it is acceptable to wear white after Labor Day if you're wearing a white dress to get married in.

Lol. 

I don't know if it's a worldwide fashion law, or if I have just been stuck in the rural Old South for so long that I am just out of touch with the modern world - but I was raised believing that you started wearing white shoes, etc. on Easter and no earlier, and quit wearing white shoes, etc. at Labor day, and no longer.

It says so, in The Southern Belle Handbook.

And that goes for white, or linen, or straw bags, open toed shoes, sundresses, etc. 

I know a lot of people say that it doesn't matter anymore; that the whole "No white after Labor Day" rule is hogwash.

I still adhere to the "law" because I guess I have a deeply ingrained fear, drilled into me from girlhood, of being thought of or said to be "tacky". Nobody who was raised Southern wants to be tacky!

I wish my fear of tacky had been stronger in my teen years; because I was guilty of a lot of tacky in those days, unfortunately. 

 I really don't own many white things, come to think of it. I guess I figure if I just eliminate white from my wardrobe, that lessens my chances of accidentally venturing out the door sporting something white after the official cut off date.

So, it's time for me to do my big wardrobe switcheroo, and put away the white and such, and drag out some cardigans and long sleeve shirts and maybe a couple pairs of pjs suitable for chilly evenings.

It's time for me to have a pretty big wardrobe overhaul, too. Many of my long pants are "plumb woe out", (since we're discussing Southern-ness here) and my pjs are ratty and stained on the cuffs from feeding the chickens in them in the mornings because I am too lazy to get dressed till the last minute; my favorite casual flats actually have a hole in the toe; I have a total of two decent cardigans, and I threw out so many tops this past Spring -  I find I now have next to nothing to wear for chilly weather! So, yay for me, I get to do some shopping here very shortly.

But I won't be buying anything white, noooOOOOoooo. I wouldn't want the cashier at the store to think I was fixing to commit a desperate act of tacky. 

Have a lovely day, dears.

:)


PS - I do not think you're tacky if you wear white after Labor day. It is a personal choice; this post is in complete jest. Please take no offense, if you do wear white all year round.

Horse Trading in 1916

I found this little book some place. I don't even remember where it came from. Probably some box lot from an auction, or stashed in a box of postcards dug out of the attic when we moved in, or who knows where else I could have gotten it. Today I peeked in it and realized there was this letter stuck in it's front pages and I never knew it. It reads:

Louisa, VA
May 11, 1916

Dear Robert.
I want to thank you for the many nice things you have done for me lately. The box got to Louisa with Gipp all right. She looked so pretty. After Hugh Goodwin knew he would buy at $135 he backed out after I got her here. I think he thought he would get her for $100 but - he didn't. 
Suppose Mr. Covington told you all the Lousia news. J.W. got home yesterday. Tad is also expected soon and Josie comes latter part of the week. Would be glad to have you come to see them any time. 

Very Sincerely,

Mildred -

I figure Gipp was a horse - a pretty mare. So she arrived in a "box" - I figure, a truck with tall sides on it, that they  used to transport horses in before horse trailers; or a box car on a train. Nearest I can figure.
Hugh wanted to buy her, but Mildred wouldn't come off of $135; so Hugh left empty handed. And Mildred sounded pretty proud of herself. Robert had probably advised her not to take anything less than $135 or she'd be a fool.
Or. I thought, maybe Gipp was a dog. A dog could arrive in a "box". But I can't see anyone paying $100 or even $135 for a dog in 1916. That amount of money seems more reasonable for a horse. 
So I am sticking with the horse story.

I just love things like this. I only wish there was a photo to go along with it - so I could see the pretty Gipp and her gutsy owner, Mildred.

Sorry I have been kind of absent from here; I am working like mad to finish up my summer - long front entry hall project! The floor is done, the walls were painted yesterday, the tape came off of everything this afternoon, and the furniture is being moved back in place.

Gotta run and put more books back on the book case! No telling what other neat things I may find in the process.......

The Time Is NOW.

Excuse me while I give myself a little pep talk, here....... 

I think I am a natural procrastinator. Or, maybe that's just a cute way to say I am naturally lazy. I like a relaxed lifestyle, with no drama, no pressure, just kind of spontaneously going about my days doing whatever comes to mind, free of expectations and rules.

I've been pretty blessed in this,  because hubbs and I are childless for the foreseeable future; and even though we both have full time jobs, we pretty much do live spontaneously, free of the constraints and restrictions that come with having offspring. This has enabled me in my *ahem* laziness.

I like to put things off, stop in the middle of things, talk about doing stuff and never get it done, or make an excuse like "I am too busy right now to do so and so" or "I am so stressed out with work right now to finish so and so" or "I just don't have the energy to do so and so", and on and on.

Not that I never get anything done; because I do - I mean, just look at the projects I've posted on this blog.

But as I've gotten older, I've gotten more set in my ways, and I find myself putting off things or making excuses for not doing them more and more. A year ago, everything about my life was messy and unorganized. My work schedule, my family activities, my home; even the tack room in the horse barn. I felt like my life was a swirling vortex of disorganized, chaotic messyness.
No, I'm not a hoarder. Yes, I did clean my home. All the time. But I would clean and tidy things, or get a grip on my schedule, and then I'd sit back and let it all go back to the way it was. So my home would be clean and organized one day, and a week later, falling apart around my ears in a swirl of pet hair, dirty clothes, and piles of "stuff" needing to be put away. That couldn't be attended to in a timely manner, because of work. 

Sometime last year I started noticing the cycle and I didn't like it. I decided the only way to change it was to change me, and the only person who can change me is me. Or God; and while He could just change me in a sweeping, life changing miracle, I think in this case, He'd want me to make the changes myself, and be a better person because of it.

So, sometime around the beginning of the year, I resolved to do things - and live life - a little differently.

And I started with my kitchen. Dish towels, my plastic storage containers, and cleaning supplies were jumbled up in the cabinets below my salvaged, vintage, white enamel, double drainboard farmhouse kitchen sink - the kitchen sink we designed out kitchen remodel around. (Our half-completed kitchen remodel, I should confess.)

I sorted, cleaned, and organized everything under the sink, and made a personal vow to keep it that way all year. And I have.

My pretty vintage silverware was in a complete jumble in the drawer. My kitchen gadgets were equally as messy in another drawer. I sorted, cleaned and divided all the items into neat little trays that I thriftily picked up at a Goodwill store. And I vowed to keep it that way all year. And I have.

It seems like such a little thing - and maybe it is to someone who is "OCD" about organization, or someone who stays at home all the time and has endless amounts of time on hand to organize dish towels; but for a woman like me who has a full time job, a small business to run, a farm to do chores on, and 11 horses to train/ride/manage/care for, plus likes to find time to spend with family and friends, not to mention maintain a relationship with My Man, keeping the towels organized is a huge step.

I still have the same amount of time I had before. There are still the same amount of hours in the day. But the difference was in how I personally chose to allot those hours I have at home.
When I folded the dish towels, sitting on the couch in front of the TV watching Gabby Douglas do back flips on a balance beam during the London Olympics, I made the effort to get up in the next commercial break and place the towels in the basket under the sink - instead of my old cop-out: leaving them in a stack on the dining room table for days and days, then getting mad because my cat Brutus took a nap on them and shed out half of his fur on my clean towels.

This may seem like second nature to the "OCD"  housewife, (and I say that lovingly, because I have a sister who is OCD about housekeeping - ) it is a big deal for me, when what I really want to do is leave them on the table for the cat to nap on because I've worked 12 or so hours at a draining job all day, or dealt with nasty customers in my online shop, or handled some kind of family crisis, plus mucked out six horse stalls and schooled two naughty horses, and I just want to vegetate and do nothing for a minute and watch Gabby Douglas fly around the uneven bars like a squirrel. I don't want to be bothered with putting the towels away under the sink, I can just get them halfway there (to the dining table) and get them the rest of the way (to the basket under the sink) tomorrow. Because, after all, tomorrow is another day (said in my best Scarlett O'Hara southern accent).

Yes, it's just towels. or silverware. But it signifies something else entirely; something life-wide. 

That first step in the kitchen really motivated me in other areas of my home and life. I started stripping off the floor paint in the front hall of our old house, like we've talked about for - well - ever since I moved in here with My Man. I stripped off the paint from the staircase and re-did that. Okay, so it's taken me all summer, and I still have just a smidge left to do before it's all the way done; but hey. Self-done home remodels don't happen overnight.

I decided to quit complaining about my naughty, beautiful mare, "Nell"-  and do something about her behavior, including get help from a trainer, and take the time to work her myself in my expensive round pen My Man bought me for Christmas. Okay, so it's taken most of the summer, and she's not 100% fully "broke in" yet, but horse training doesn't happen overnight, either. And, I'll be in the saddle by week's end.

I started getting serious about saving money out of each and every pay check, and really blew myself away with what I saved in two months by cutting spending and really evaluating wants vs. needs. By budgeting only on  less than half of what we collectively earned.  I saved over $3000, in a separate account from our checking. And now we can pay our hefty tax bill, without help from the bank. And still have cash left over. (Ok, a little brag, there. LOL)

I want to nurture the entrepreneur in me, and start another business (besides my Etsy business). I've been taking steps in this direction. The other day I got in my truck to go on a little "business trip" having to do with my  new business idea, and was compelled to say these words aloud as I drove off: "Today, I am taking steps to change the rest of my life." I can't tell you how empowering saying those words aloud to myself was!

 The time to do it - whatever  "it" is -  is now. The time for saving money is now; even if it's just $20 a month. The time to ride horses is now, even if I want to watch the Olympics on TV instead. The time to change the way you eat is now; don't buy those doughnuts (Ahem.... My Man)! The time to organize my time and my home is now. The time to take that college course is now. The time to change my bad habits is now, so I can enjoy the rest of my life and not reach my senior years  regretting the time I spent running around in a frenzy mopping up the results of my laziness and procrastination, weary from a life of disorganization and chaos.

My life goal is to reach the end of my life and be satisfied. Satisfied with the life I lived, the things I was able to accomplish, the relationships I built and maintained. I want to be able to come to the end of my life and be able to say without a doubt that I did everything I ever wanted to do - and then some. That life was full, fun, and without regret. 

The time is now. 

A Quick Trip

(The house photos above are just of some random, ramshakle house near where Kevin was working in the afternoon that I thought had great character.)

(The pier above was destroyed during one of the last hurricanes - I think it was Irene? - last summer.)

I went on an impromptu trip with my husband this weekend, a little work (for him) and a little play. We headed over to the coast of North Carolina where we stayed at the vacation home of a work colleague of his, on the Albermarle sound, just a short drive to the Outer Banks. The OBX, as they're sometimes referred to, are barrier islands that make up the coast of North Carolina. The Sounds within the barrier islands are like lagoons.
Lucky for us, we live just under 4 hrs. from the OBX, and Kevin goes there, often, for work. We just don't always stay.
I've been to the OBX many times before; straying in Nag's Head mostly. I love and adore the North Carolina Outer Banks, almost as much as I love and adore Florida beaches. 

The wire box in the last photo is a crab tap. You stick bait in the middle and toss it in the water for several hours. The crabs climb in but can't get out. I've gone crabbing before, but never with traps; when I went crabbing it was with family in Louisiana; and we used lines and nets. You bait your hook and line, and toss it in the water; crabs flock to it and you pull them out with the net and toss them in a bucket. Except when I went crabbing, the alligators were vying for the bait along side the crabs. Once you have an alligator jump out of the water and bite off your line that you're holding in your hand, it kinda makes you want to never go crabbing again.

I find the trap method much nicer. And you get to keep your hands. That's a plus.

These are blue softshell crabs, which means these crabs have lost their hard outer shell and are still pretty soft. They're only in season from April - Sept. When I took the photos of the ones above, I was quite a distance off (pretty nice zoom on my camera) and they were eating the algae off the rocks.

A gorgeous storm rolled in across the sound, with stunning clouds. I didn't get enough photos to do it justice....





We got back home today and it's back to the ol' grindstone of working and ... well, working. And working and working.....

*sigh*


PS.... OMG. I Just realized, this is my 501th post on this blog. Wow.

:)

A Regular While

Southern expressions are quaint and sometimes puzzling; especially if you haven't lived here for long. I'm a Southerner born and bred, so I am used to it. I use these expressions myself without even thinking about it.

My talkative, older neighbor came by  the house this afternoon to drop off some squash and zucchini from his garden and we discussed plants and recipes and canning for  awhile.

He was explaining to me how he goes about canning stewed tomatoes.

"I bring them to a bol (with a southern accent, 'boil' is just one consinant, pronounced without the 'i') and I turn down the heat an let em cook down for a regular while, then I hot pack the jars and can'nem."

A Regular While basically means "an appropriate amount of time", varying according to whatever it is you're doing, or where you might be going.

For stewing tomatoes for canning, A Regular While of simmering is about 20 minutes.

For driving distances, A Regular While is open to interpritation.

If you're from someplace else, but have been living in the South for A Regular While, you might be considered an honorary Southerner, like my husband, who has been living in the South for 12 years.

The neighbor and I shot the breeze  about getting the deer out of his tomato patch,  methods of cooking okra, how I like my brand of canner, Kevin's work schedule, hay field yields for the first cutting, and of course, canning stewed tomatoes. Before I knew it, an hour had passed.

Or, I should say, A Regular While.

Stuff... And Nonsense

As I left for work this morning I fondly looked over at my vegetable garden popping up in neat little rows and wished I could just stay at home and forget about all this working and making money and paying bills stuff.

 *sigh*

I've been feeling the need to simplify my life recently. Some things I don't have control over - like my suck-ing work schedule. I'll be glad when this lung transplant episode is finally over and I can get back to my normal schedule - my work from home all day schedule. I decided sitting with the elderly is not what I want to do with the rest of my life.

Some things I do have control over - like managing the times when I am not working to be more productive and not just waste it with Netflix, Hulu, Pinterest, etc. etc. Like staying in control of my spending habits (yesterday's post). Like keeping up with house cleaning and yard work. And I do have control over the stuff in my house.

 I have friends who have packed up and moved long distances, several times over; and their "stuff" didn't hold them down. One friend sold off practically all their worldly possessions before moving; then just started over with new stuff when they got a new house. Their "stuff" didn't have a hold on them the way my "stuff" has a hold on me.

I've never had to move all my "stuff". I've never had to reduce the amount of things in my house to fit a storage unit, or a moving van. I've never been forced to let anything go. And I'm grateful for that. My life, since marriage, has been really deeply rooted.... I left my parents and my childhood home with several boxes of my meager little possessions, and immediately started setting up house on my husband's farm. It's been four years now, and I seriously have a problem with "stuff"! Having a "old stuff" type of business doesn't help. I sell a lot, but for every one item I sell, I bet you I keep two. Or three.

My drive to simplify is helping me let some of my things go. Things I don't wear, don't use, keep packed away and never look at.....I have to let some things go. I've purged before, but not like I have in the past few weeks. I've let go of some things I thought I never would. If I don't do it now, what will my house look like in 10 years? In 20? The thought makes me shudder.

Some of it's going in my Etsy shop - mainly the vintage clothes and purses and antiques and collectibles that are easy to ship.

Plus, this weekend I am having a 2-day blow out yard sale.

It's going to be a good one. There might be crying, and kicking, and screaming, as I let some things go...

But there is one thing I have learned about "stuff":  There is plenty of it in the world. There is more than enough stuff to go around. If I sell off all my stuff today, there will be twice as much stuff tomorrow.

Crazy Stuff I Did As A Kid

When I got to work at 8:30 this morning, it was already 70 degrees out; sunny and pure gorgeous. My place of work is a private home perched on a huge hill out in the country; surrounded by cow pastures and the Dan River beyond. There is a red Radio Flyer wagon on the porch, and when I saw it, I had the sudden urge to get in the wagon and go careening down the hill as fast as it would take me.... like I used to do as a kid. That got me thinking about all the crazy, and sometimes dangerous things I did growing up.

I spent my childhood in a rural, farming community of North Carolina; and we did "country" things to amuse ourselves. This was 20 plus years ago.... so my sisters and brothers and I didn't have cell phones and iPads to play games. There was not Facebook and Twitter, and my parents didn't believe in video games. Or TV. We watched movies (on VHS!) but that was it. My parents were old school; and my Mom was a hippie holdover from the 70s, so they believed in the power of imagination and the health benefits of playing outdoors.

In addition to riding our Radio Flyer wagon (gift from Grandma who believed in old fashioned toys like those Radio Flyers from the good ol' days) down hills at insane speeds, and very often crashing in a heap at the bottom (those Radio Flyers didn't have the best steering), we did things like.....

- Roll down the hill over and over until we were dizzy and puked, plus covered in grass and dirt
- Roll down the hill in a rusty metal barrel we dug up in the woods someplace (tetanus, anyone?)
- Ride our bikes across the river to the cornfield and play hide and seek in it's 20 + acres. Plus, we ate the corn, and if you've ever eaten corn meant to be cow feed, you know that it can make you sick sick sick. yeah.
- Ride our horses out in a thunderstorm on purpose; while Mom thought we were at the barn cleaning tack or mucking stalls or something
- Race our horses in John Scott's hayfield, helmet-less
- Swim in the farm pond (The memory makes me cringe. It was like a glorified mud puddle. Both my sister and I got ear infections afterwords. Eeeeeeewww!)
- Swam in the creek while it was flooded and barely made it out. We removed our clothes and tied them together, then tied them to a branch, to give us something to hold onto to get back across to the "home" side. (We swam in the creek fully clothed.) I lost my shorts and walked home in a towel
- Walked up the creek a mile and a half to the huge rock cliff in the creek bend, climbed up 15 or so feet, and leapt off into the murky waters
- Jumped off our friends' boat house roof and  into the lake
 - I snuck up and rode the neighbor's horse bareback, and he bolted for the barn. I fell off and one of his hooves clipped my arm - I made my sister swear not to tell our Mom and Dad and never did it again
- Rode horses on the highway and even raced traffic sometimes
- At the park we'd get on the "big swings", pump as high as we could, and then jump off. Man, when your pockets got stuck on the seats, it was a bad fall. I am surprised none of us broke our necks
- Went sledding late at night after the snow had melted slightly and re-froze, making a slicker surface... for hours we would do crazy sledding stunts with the neighbor kids, very often crashing into things and whacking out heads on solid ice. One night I fell off my sled and hit my head so hard I saw stars. I never told my Mom, and chances are I had a concussion from it. Later in my life, when I had  several serious concussions from horseback riding accidents, I remembered that after hitting my head on the ice, my head felt the exact same way as when I hit my head falling off horses over jumps.

My parents aren't to blame! They didn't know what was going on behind their back. I know that If they knew half of the crazy stuff we were doing out there, they would have stepped in with a "How about let's not do that, ok?"
 
I also did normal things like play with dolls and decorate doll houses. Plus, my Mom made me learn embroidery and I spent a lot of time doing that; even as a kid. I loved it. And I read books all the time. So I enjoyed craziness - and normalcy. I guess I have been this way my whole life... the best of both worlds.

It was the best way to grow up - I wouldn't trade it for all the electronic stuff kids do today for the world! There is a lot to be said for a good, old fashioned, country raisin'.  

Random Moments Of Abundant Joy

 Do you ever see or hear something that just fills your heart with so much joy you think you're going to burst?

 I confess I have more moments of irritation, stress and even anger that make me think I am going to burst. Ha.

The other day I was driving home from someplace and I got behind a slow moving school bus.

Instant vexation.

I followed behind for several stops, irritated.

Then it stopped in front of a picturesque house on the 2-lane road deep in the rural farming community; and an adorable little girl jumped off, in her pink coat and princess backpack.
 Her older brother followed, with his blue coat and some super hero backpack.

 As they approached their driveway, a black lab puppy, maybe three months old, came from behind their house and bounded towards them with all the energy and enthusiastic affection of a puppy and the little girl ran to meet her puppy and then there was this priceless moment of puppy hugs and little girl kisses...

 And I practically burst into tears right then and there as my heart joined in their Moment Of Abundant Joy. It was like I was watching a scene from some Hallmark movie or something.

 In the dreary winter time, and the nasty political climate weighing on American's minds right now; plus the pathetic economy and turmoil elsewhere in the world, occasional bright moments of pure joy and carefree, childlike love and affection really mean a lot.

If you keep your eyes and your heart open you never know when you will be blessed with a Random Moment Of Abundant Joy!



(The photo above is from last Spring with my puppy Dodge and nice Alana.)

Don't forget to enter the Cameo Necklace Giveaway; it ends Friday.

Getting - and staying - organized.

Getting organized is probably one of the top ten New Year's resolutions in this country, right up there with loosing weight and eating healthy and all that.

Getting organized is not my problem; it's staying that way I have an issue with.

I know just how to get organized, and I do it. But then as the days and weeks go by, the stuff takes over again, and I have the piles of mail, magazines and mess on my desk. I have the freezer burned steak shoved in the back of the freezer behind the bag of frozen broccoli and ice cream. The clothes start piling up on chairs and shoved into drawers. My crafts stuff just stays in a jumble on my dining room table where I do in and dig around till I find what I need for whatever project. If Kevin smashes a digit and needs a bandage, I have to dig through three or four baskets of stuff in the bathroom just to find the box of band aids.

The problem extends even to my barn, where my feed room is piled with dirty horse blankets and empty Purina feed sacks and those annoying plastic bags the stall shavings come in; with baling twine strung everywhere; saddles and pads all jumbled together in the tack room with bridles a tangled mess and peppermint candy wrappers on the floor crunching everywhere I step on the floor in there.

I have come to the conclusion that staying organized does not come naturally to me; so I am going to have to make a special effort to do so.

Which is really hard right now with my complicated work schedule. I am not as home as much so when I get home at night, all I have time to do is make dinner for us, tend to the pets and livestock, and crash in an exhausted, frumpy, irritated heap on the couch for a few hours with Kevin, then go to bed, and get up in the morning and rush right back out the door.
My few hours of time away from work during the week are taken up with family responsibilities, farm responsibilities, errands, shopping for groceries and such, and taking care of business things like getting orders from my website shipped out in a timely manner.

So staying organized is going to be a huge chore for me this year. But I am determined to do it.

Here is what I decided to do so far:

For one thing, I am bringing less stuff into the house. I am simply buying less. I have gotten strict with myself about what I can buy as shop inventory, too - so less storage space is being used.

I went through each room in my house and tossed everything that could be tossed. Even in the fridge and freezers; pantry, and bathroom. If I can keep the stuff down to a manageable amount of things I use and need, then I won't feel buried and overwhelmed by it so much.

I am also trying to de-clutter and put things away daily or at least every other day when I can - when I am at home to do it.

I've realized that it is less about what you do to organize, or how you do it; it is more about taking the time to do it; making the time to do it. That is where my difficulty lies. I can't even make the time; because I don't have the time. It is frustrating but I am trying.

What do you do to get organized and stay that way? I need inspiration.

Encounters at the Thrift Shop

As you probably know by now, I frequently - very frequently, like three or four days out of the week - shop at my favorite area thrift/charity shops; one or two per day, depending on where I am and my work schedule.

Because of my frequent visits, I have had some interesting encounters at these shops; with the employees who have kind of gotten to know me, and with some interesting fellow customers.

There are several categories of folks I have "met" at Thrift Shops;Unwanted Shopping Buddies, Shopping Moms, Stalkers and Braggers.

First of all let me just say that I like to shop alone. I do not shop to be social, unless I am out with friends, or my Mom, or my sisters. I do not go to shops to make new friends; although I have made buddies of some shop employees. Which can help me out sometimes. (Wink, wink.) I prefer to just be alone in my own little vintage treasure hunting world as I shop in the thrift.

The Unwanted Shopping Buddy is most common thrift shop encounter, for me. It's other people - ladies, mostly - who just start talking to me as we shop near each other. And I mean talking to me like they're my sister or something; and I have never seen them before in my life. "What's the 'tag color' of the day?" one lady asked me this week. (This shop has different colored tags on everything and on any given day, they pick a color, and everything tagged in that color is only one dollar.) "I have no idea," I said to her, keeping my eyes fixed on the rack of skirts in front of me. "I will go find out, okay?" she offered. Off she goes. Then she comes back. "It's yellow. So everything with a yellow tag is a dollar! Look at this. This is gorgeous. But it's a blue tag; darn it...." and on and on and on.... I politely smiled and nodded and drifted off to the housewares dept. I have people ask me "What is that?" when I have an unusual item in my cart; especially the older stuff people don't see anymore. And I even had a woman "rent" my shopping bag for $2. One store has special fabric shopping bags printed with their logo. You buy the bag for $3 and on the special sale day, you can cram anything you want in the bag and get it all for $5. So there was this woman who was staring at the sale sign when my Mom and I walked in. "Pardon me, what is this all a bout? What red bag do I have to buy?" she asked. So we explained the concept of the "bag sale" to her. But the store was out of the red fabric bags; so she came over to Mom and me and asked to "rent" my bag. Which I let her do. her daughter filled it up, they took their stuff to their car, and then she brought my bag back to me, with $2. So with her $2 and only $3 of my own cash, I got a whopper of a bag full that day.

I've also had people admire items in my cart, and advise me as to how I can use certain items; or what would look good with this or that. That is more what I call a Shopping Mom. They're the advice givers, and seem to want to take younger shoppers under their wing and give them fashion advice.
Just yesterday I was at the Goodwill "superstore" in the city and I scored an awesome, full, wonderfully ruffled, RED, vintage petticoat. I dropped it in my cart and headed to the rack of skirts when a older lady walked right up to the front of my cart as I was pushing it along - I had to stop before I ran over her. She started fingering my petticoat and admiring it; how pretty it was. Then she advised me to get a certain kind of white blouse to wear with it; it would be gorgeous; she said. I didn't bother to try and explain that it was meant for wearing under skirts, not as a skirt. I just smiled and nodded and high-tailed it to another rack, before this Shopping Mom became my Unwanted Shopping Buddy.

Employees of the stores get used to seeing me on a regular basis now; and we greet each other like friends. Some of them have figured out my agenda. One time I was checking out with a pile of stuff... all vintage.
"This is old," the girl said, holding up a vintage, fur collared coat. She handed it to the other girl who was bagging.
"Yep, that is old, my Grandma had one like that," the other girl said, stuffing it into a plastic bad as I cringed.
"This is old," the first girl said, holding up a hat. Into the bag it went with the coat.
"And this is old!" she laughed, holding up a china platter with a floral pattern on it.
"Aaaaand these are old, too," she said as she rang up some screw-back earrings. "All them screw back things is old."
Then she looks at me and says "You like old stuff, don't you? You bought some old stuff last time you was in here."
I never tell anyone what I do with it. I feel guilty telling about how I may buy it for $10 and sell it for $50.... so when I find myself in these kinds of conversations, I just smile and say "Yes, I do love old stuff. I collect it."

I encountered a Bragger last week; in a Goodwill in a neighboring city. I was buying some hats and things. The woman in front of me was wearing a full length fur coat and fur hat. As the cashier rang up her items, she announced to the girl:
"I paid $5,000 for this coat."
The cashier made some admiring remark, with raised eyebrows of disbelief. The woman in the fur opened the coat and pointed to the inner lapel and said:
"See? That's my name right there, I had it stamped in gold right there; in case it ever got stolen."
Then it was my turn; but the fur lady just stood there, looking at all the items I pulled from my cart: black velvet flats, two vintage hats, a circle skirt, and a couple glass housewares.
"Do you wear hats?" She asked me, suspiciously. Like she didn't believe I was going to wear them.
"Yes, I wear them sometimes," I said. "But mostly, I just look at them."
"You look at them?"
"Yes - I put them around on hat stands, and hand them on the wall in my bedroom, and look at them." (Which is true.)
She thought about that for a second as I swiped my debit card. Then she rubbed her hand over her fur hat.
"I paid so much for this hat, I left the price tag in it," she said to everyone in the line.
Then she went out ahead of me. I thought to myself, "If all this is true, she has got to be driving a Jaguar; or at least a BMW...."
But she drove out of the parking lot in a 90's model van with "Val's Medical Transport" hand lettered on the side. (It didn't really say Val's; I just said that to protect their privacy.)
Hmmmmmmm. That was one of the strangest things ever.

And Stalkers - yep, the stalkers. They creep me out. Last week a guy walked by me and then turned around and said:
"I saw you here last week, didn't I? I did. And I saw you at the Goodwill, too. Yep, I see you at these places all the time. Isn't that funny?"
Well he thought it was funny but I did not. I did not remember seeing him but he remembered me and that totally gave me the heebee jeebees.
I was in a junk shop back in the summer and it was one of these dark, murky eerie places; they had a fish bait farm in the same building and so everything smelled like worms and fish and nasty slimy things.
I was being trailed by a guy who kept whistling some tune under his breath, and making lame comments to try and make conversation.
I picked up a blue glass insulator.
"A-HA!" He said. "You must be an antique insulator collector!"
"Not really," I said.
"Oh, all the little cluttery things..... all the junk you just can't live without...." and he kept going on and on.
Then I was looking at a tool box.
"Oh, look at that," he said. "You can't have too many of those, can you. You can put all kinds of goodies in there."
I decided I needed to insert the fact that I had a husband into this conversation.
"My husband likes these," I said.
"Oh, the hubbs. Does the hubbs collect too?"
"Yes, he collects things," I said. "But he collects things like guns, and tractors and things like that," I said.
"John Deere Tractors?"
"Nope, International Harvester and Farmall tractors," I said.
Then he started going on about a collectible International Harvester truck he owned.
"If your husband wants a International truck to haul around his International tractors, you tell him to give me a call," he boasted. I paid for my antique insulator and got out of there as fast as I could.

I have a category for myself, too: I call it the "Smile and Nod" shopper. Cause that's what I do; just smile and nod. Then get out as fast as you can before somebody figures out that you're buying things to sell on line. Ha, ha!

Thanksgiving Reflections - And The "Flaming Cheesecake" Episode

I really. really! despise how our Thanksgiving holiday has been overshadowed by "Black Friday" and even by Christmas itself. It seems like poor Thanksgiving just kind of gets shoved into the shadow of great deals on flat screen TVs, laptops for $200, and the like.

Thanksgiving is a uniquely American holiday; and it's a holiday specifically designated for reflecting on the blessings in our lives and for giving thanks for all the good things we enjoy.

Instead, many people just thing of it as a shopping holiday. And this makes me very sad.

I really do reflect on our blessing at Thanksgiving (and other days of the year too of course). I really treasure my husband, families, home, provision, freedom, and the peace and satisfaction I have with my life.

Plan A for Kevin and I this year was going to his hometown in Michigan to help his mom move into her newly renovated home; but the plan was nixed when she didn't get her occupancy permit in time for us to make the trip up. Ironically enough, she got it the Wednesday before.

Plan B was Thanksgiving with my Mom and Dad, who live locally. My sister Noelle was in from University for the weekend, and we got together on Wednesday to bake.



For me, Thanksgiving baking seems to always entail some disaster, accident, and general failure for some reason. I can bake successfully any other day or Holiday in the year with ease and success, but Thanksgiving has really started to be an issue for me. (You can read about my Pumpkin Pie failures here.)

This year was no different.

My sister came over for the baking: two pumpkin pies, a chocolate pecan pie, and a pumpkin cheesecake.

I made my pie crusts (I always make my own; they taste better) and filled my pies; and the darned pumpkin pies came out with black spots on the top. Drat.
So then we whipped up the pumpkin cheesecake, and that went in last. 10 minutes into the baking time, I went in to the kitchen to get some tea, when I noticed smoke billowing out of the burners on the stove. I opened the oven door and saw more smoke and FLAMES!

I yelled to Noelle that the oven was on fire, while I grabbed my oven mitts to rescue my cheesecake from the fire. I suppose I didn't even think about the fact that the flames could have caught the mitts on fire and burned me when I reached into the oven inferno to grab that pumpkin cheesecake. I snatched it out and plopped it on the counter.

Noelle had run out into the yard to get some dirt - but there was no shovel or bucket within reach so that wasn't going to work. Meanwhile somewhere in the back of my mind I remembered reading that you can use baking soda to put out grease fires so I grabbed the baking soda from the pantry and started tossing it into the oven. The flames went right out; and Noelle and I were standing there coughing and sputtering in disbelief.

She took the cheesecake home and finished baking it in Mom's oven, while I cleaned up the mess in mine.

Kevin got home and took one look at the whole mess, and me in it, and immediately said we were going to dinner and oven shopping. Which was really nice.

The cheesecake turned out fine, despite the filling slopping out all over the box I had sent it home in with Noelle. She and Mom scooped the slopped filling back into the crust to finish baking it. It certainly didn't look like Paula Deen's version on the Food Network. But it tasted heavenly - a new favorite!

Despite the fact that I hate the way Black Friday gobbles up Thanksgiving's attention, I was bored and lonely the day after Thanksgiving (Kevin had to work) so Noelle and I decided to go to town mid afternoon and see the damage....and believe it or not, it was like any other day of the week.
There was no heavy traffic; and there was no debris in the stores from the fighting masses of shoppers thundering through to get x-boxes and Wiis; there were no angry throngs of people shoving and pushing their way through the isles. We went to Sam's club and looked at books, and didn't buy anything. All we did was buy ice cream in the snack bar.
Then we went to The Gingerbread House (a favorite of mine - a small local shop full of floral decor, gifts, gourmet food, and general loveliness)and sniffed the Yankee candles, and ogled over their new accessories department, and I was greatly inspired by the Christmas decor! I fell in love with some cable knit sweater Christmas stockings.... so we went to the Goodwill nearby where I bought a couple of funky old sweaters to try my hand at making some myself. I did leave there with a few Yankee votives to try, and a few other little things from their cooking and baking gadget section. Maybe if I buy more cooking and baking gadgets, my Thanksgiving baking failures will stop. Heh heh. Not likely...

We rented a movie from the Red Box, and we went right back home to Mom and Dad's for leftover turkey dinners. And that was the extent of my participation in "Black Friday".

Pickup Truck Adventures Part 3

As I said, I got a lot of interest in my truck. And when the truck was at the shop, the mechanic that worked on it fell in love with it. So when I got it back it came with an offer: he wanted to trade my truck for his truck, straight up.
His was a Ford F 150, newer, higher up off the ground, and more efficient on gas.
Dad and Mom said I could decide; so I had Kevin (we were engaged at that point) look at it before I committed.

I ended up with the newer truck, and I really did love that truck - my first Ford.
Nothing awful happened to me in the Green truck. (It was a lovely forest green.) By this point I was becoming a more seasoned, experienced driver. In fact, one cold winter morning I slid across an icy bridge on my way to feed horses, and remembered how to stay in control when sliding on ice. I made it across the bridge - and stayed calm the whole time.

When I got married, I left the green truck with my parents, and started driving Kevin's bigger Ford F-250. It is now more my truck than it ever was his. I love that truck. I feel safe in it. It has never let me down; it has never broken down; it is just a great all around truck. I rely on it. It's a 3/4 ton truck, with 4 wheel drive, so I can go pretty much anywhere in it, on the road or off. Thick mud, driving rain, slick ice, deep snow.... none of it fazes me when I am driving my Ford.

The green Ford was passed to my brother, and he drove it to it's death. It then sat in my parent's driveway for a few months, while Dad contemplated fixing it. Then one day this past summer, I was at their house during a thunderstorm, when I huge gust of wind blew over a huge tree in their yard; and as I stood there watching, before I could even yell "Uh, HEY! Daaaaad........" the tree fell right across the bed of the truck with a thunderous crash.

"Well, I guess I'm not going to fix it," Dad said when he came out to the yard with me.

My current truck is not without it's own little adventure tales. For one thing, I had to learn how to drive a 20-ft. flatbed gooseneck trailer, loaded down with 350 bales of hay, in that truck. And I have done it many times, without taking out a single mailbox or signpost. I will never forget my husband proudly bragging to someone that I had "loaded the hay, strapped it down, and brought it on home" all by myself. He was impressed. And I was happy to have impressed him with my hay stacking and strapping, and trailer driving skills. He is hard to impress.

In the second summer after our marriage, I was in the process of cleaning out some small barns and outbuildings on the farm. One barn was chock full of glass jars that took me over a week to sort out. I had several boxes of gallon size jars in boxes in the back of the truck, and I was going to back up to another building nearby and deposit all of the boxes in there for storage.
Parked all around the entrance to the bigger barn were various pieces of tillage equipment and other tractor accessories. There was a clear path to the door, so I eased the truck towards it.
My sister Noelle was riding in the passenger seat and just as she said "Uhhhhh...you're getting awfully close to...." There was a sccccrraaaaape at the door followed by a huge explosion. We both screamed and jumped. I leaped out of the truck and ran around the side to find I had gouged the paint on the door for about 6 inches, and I had backed into the blade of a plow I had not seen because it was covered with tall grass. The blade had sliced right into the thick 10-ply tire wall. On the brand new tire we had just had put on. And tires on this truck cost about $200 apice.
Kevin was standing in the driveway shaking his head in disbelief. I was terrified he'd be very angry with me; but all he said was, "It's nothing but a thing." (What is that supposed to mean, anyway? Nothing but a "thing"?)
I personally took the truck back to the tire company and had another one installed, and endured the jokes and jabs of the owner and the other employees, when I confessed that I had run over a plow blade with it.

Then last year, we were hauling two of our horses in the trailer on a one-lane road in the middle of nowhere when we topped a hill and the first thing we saw was another pickup truck headed straight for us. Kevin dove for the ditch and the other truck crashed into the front left quarter panel. Kevin said some not nice words as he threw open the door and thundered down the road to confront the other driver, while I checked the horses. The horse in the back was ok; but the horse in the front of the trailer had a cut over his eye. Just superficial, though.
It was one of the most scary things I have ever lived through. Watching as another vehicle heads straight for you and then crashes into you seconds later... and hauling horses just made the whole thing more terrifying. Horse trailering accidents are ..... bad. We were spared.
We got everything fixed as good as new, though; and so far there have been no more incidents in the truck.

I can tell you one thing: trucks are fun. And I look forward to many more years of having truck adventures.

Pickup Truck Adventures, Part 2.

So after the demise of my silver Mitsubishi truck because I was foolish and never checked the oil in it, I had to drive my parent's vehicles around for a while, until they bought me yet another truck.



This time, we bought our friend/farrier's (farrier = blacksmith. Horse-shoer.He trims our horse's feet and puts shoes on them...) old truck. This truck was a classic. It was one of those older model Chevy trucks, and they had tricked it out. Candy apple red paint job; the shiny metallic candy apple red. All kinds of little bells and whistles. Lowered down a few inches. His daughter Mandy had driven it in high school and they were selling it because she was working in town and needed something better on gas. So I ended up with it.
I used to get so much (unwanted) attention in that truck.... gas pumps, bank line, parking lots at stores... truck lovers would ask me all kinds of questions about it; including if it was for sale. And it wasn't. I think my Dad loved the truck more than me, in fact. He loves classic vehicles.

Once, I drove through a gateway at the farm and scraped the door. Dad was so upset... not mad, just upset. So he took it to a body shop and had them buff the scrape out and wax it that same week.

One day, I jumped in the truck and headed off to the feed store in town. Leaving town, there is a long, gradually inclining hill. I was driving up that hill when suddenly there was a loud clanging and thudding noise and the truck just quit right there in the middle of four lanes of traffic. I got as far over to the side of the road as I could, and put it in park so I could find my phone and call home for rescue. But when I took my foot off the brake.... the truck started rolling backwards down the hill into oncoming traffic. I stomped on the brake as hard as I could and scrambled for my phone. I called up and Dad was there!
"Dad!" I said. "Something happened and the truck just quit and it's rolling down the hill even in park!"
My parent's house is about 25 minutes from town, and the whole time I was waiting I was pressing my foot as hard as I could on the brake. After a little while my leg stated getting tired, and I was switching feet on the brake pedal, hoping I didn't loose all my strength, sending me rolling backwards down the hill into all that traffic.
Before Dad got there, some other guys stopped, because they thought I was ill or something. I explained that If I took my foot off the brake pedal at all the truck rolled back, so one guy took a look underneath my truck, and made several loud exclamations. He said my drive shaft had broken at the universal joint and was wrapped around my new exhaust system I had just paid to have installed. Which explained the rolling .... even in park. It was an older truck, after all. None of today's high tech safety stuff.
A policeman showed up; for which I was grateful. I was beginning to wonder if someone was going to run over me, sitting in the middle of traffic like that. With Popo there maybe I wouldn't get run over after all.
Dad and mom came, and Dad called for a roll back tow truck. Then I very carefully slid out of the driver's seat while Dad slid in, so there was no rolling backwards. The policeman and the other guys that had stopped pushed the truck the rest of the way up the hill. The truck got towed to a shop and eventually they found a part (apparently it can be hard to find parts for classic trucks).

When I finally got the truck back, it came with an offer.........

Pickup Truck Adventures, Part 1

We recently bought a new (used) car, for gas-saving purposes. For me, it was my first car.

Yep. All my vehicles, previously, were trucks.

I started driving late; I think I was in my very early 20s when I got my driver's license. I was terrified of driving; and was convinced I was going to end up a statistic in a Reader's Digest article about young people and traffic deaths. And I was bad at driving. It took me three or four tries to get my license, because I would get nervous when taking my driving test and mess up.

I have wonderful and generous parents who gave me my first vehicle to drive: a late 80s model Mitsubishi truck; one of those tiny little things. At the time I was teaching riding on our farm full-time, and working on another horse farm as well; so a truck was the most practical choice for me. It was silver, and it has no power steering. I got a great upper arm workout driving that truck.
It wasn't expensive, cute, or flashy; but it became apparent that my parents had made a wise choice in giving me this old truck, because even in my early 20s, I had the typical first-time driver / vehicle owner scrapes.

The first heart-pounding scrape of my driving career was with this truck. I had been watching a neighbor's cats, and one evening, I took my 18 year old brother with me to her house to feed them. The neighbor lived on top of a sloping hill, and I parked my truck on the quiet, one lane street that sloped downhill from there. At the bottom of the hill, the street ended abruptly next to some trees and a creek with steep banks.

You can tell where this is going, right? Heeheeheeee............

I parked, we got out, and started heading up the beck steps, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the truck start rolling. We both took off running as the truck rolled down the street, headed straight for my neighbor's new SUV! Apparently I had not put the truck in park; or I had not done it all the way and it slipped out of park. My athletic, soccer champion brother took a huge risk to his safety and jumped in between the vehicles just as they were about to collide, stuck his hand in the window, grabbed the wheel and steered my truck away from the SUV with inches between them. The truck instead scraped by a utility trailer that was parked behind the SUV, and ripped off the trailer light.

But the truck kept rolling as the hill got steeper, and my brother was running after it with everything he could muster, me not far behind. the truck went about a block and just as it went to crash into a wooden fence containing some goats and a mare and foal, my brother wrenched open the door, jumped into the driver's seat and stomped on the emergency brake.

The driver's side door was gouged; but the side of my brother's face was cut and bleeding all over the place from his close scrape between the vehicles, and his arm was bruised and sore as well. He had been somewhat crushed as the two vehicles had brushed by each other. We drove home (just down the street a few blocks) and confessed to my parents. I remember my Mom scolding my brother for risking his life jumping between the vehicles. She stressed that "it could have been much worse than just a cut and scraped head; he could have been run over and crushed; we should have just let the truck go and crash into the creek; the truck was replaceable; think of how close that was...!" And of course she was right. I felt really guilty as she drove off with him to the ER. (He was bruised, scraped, and cut, but was ok.)

I drove the truck for several months after that, and up until I killed it. Yep, I killed it. I was driving to a student's house one day to give her a riding lesson on her horse, and as I was headed up a tall hill on the highway that went through a huge game preserve in the county, it chugged, sputtered, clanked, and then..... stopped. I got it parked next to the road. No signal on my cell. Stranded on a barren 2-lane in the middle of a game preserve. Yay. I hopped out and walked up the road a little ways until I got some signal on my phone; and got Mom on her cell. She was pretty far from me, picking up my sister and brother from their high school debate club. I'd simply have to wait. And wait I did, for an hour. Mom showed up, followed by a tow truck. The tow truck driver looked under the hood and said "Yep. Motor's froze up". Mom looked at me and said, "Have you been checking your oil?" Of course I had not. I had never opened the hood. I assumed my Dad was doing it for me. The truck was destroyed; we sold it to the scrap people; and I had to borrow my parent's vehicles for a while.

My truck adventures were just getting started, however..........