People from Tennessee do not share this sentiment with me.

In fact, I would say that the term that applies to the fine folks here is “scared to death of snow and ice.” Last night, before a single flake of snow had fallen or flurried, the mere thought of snow had schools cancelled. This is how it has been here for the duration of the time I’ve lived here.

Schools have been cancelled tomorrow due to the threat of refreezing. Logically, I understand this. There are plenty of winding roads and hills and valleys here. Buses cannot safely travel them and if you can’t get kids to school safely, school should be cancelled.

What I don’t understand is the mad rush to the grocery stores to buy necessities? At most, the snow will last one day. I don’t know of anyone that doesn’t have a days worth of food in their home. Those that don’t have food don’t have the funds to mad rush Kroger.

When I lived in rural Arkansas, storms knocked the power out for days and it couldn’t be restored. They had a genuine reason for fear. In the Metro Nashville and surrounding areas, we generally don’t experience this phenomenon.

I’m not knocking my TN folks. I love living here and the people are second to none. I’ve just lived in different conditions. We’d go to school in 6 inches of snow. Teenagers, myself included, drove in it. Nothing was canceled and even when there was little heat in the schools, we went. No, I didn’t walk in 3 feet of it, smart alecks. But we did have the old school radiators and it was cold!

I just think it’s kind of…wimpy.

There. I said it. I think it’s wimpy.

I want enough snow to make forts like we used to when I was a kid and lived across from a church. They would plow the church and the entire small neighborhood would choose a side of the plowed area, dig into it and we’d have serious snowball fights. We’d sled down the 8-10 foot forts for hours. When we were done, we’d go into the house, have some hot chocolate, warm up, and be back out within the hour.

As I got older, and had older friends, we took it to the next level. There were bigger sleds and bigger hills at the park. One friend had a house in a rural setting and four, yes four, of us went down a hill at a time. I remember being between Rich and Chad and the sled tilting as we crashed into trees. I had a huge scrape on my cheek, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

Or Dave and I power sledding down what we thought was snow, but was really ice on the largest hill in the park. That was a huge mistake.

Or James and I attempting to snowboard down the hill behind his house and me biting it and vowing that I would never faceplant again because I was “never doing this crap snowboarding” again.

Or Jenny and Rachael throwing snowballs at me while I tried to get in the fort more quickly.

Or Olivia sprinkling Reindeer food on the snow so Santa would come.

Yes, please let it snow. I want my son to have memories like mine, too. Even if it’s just 2 inches of snow to make angels in or some flurries.

It never occurred to me that the people I’d left along the way weren’t really gone. For the longest time I was such a black and white thinker that I’d written those relationships off as lost to me.

And then I found Facebook. Because I’m an introvert, social networking draws me like flies to honey. I can speak to people quickly and efficiently, which also hits my firstborn tendencies, and feel like I’m connecting without losing the energy that I lose in face-to-face interaction.

And then I started exploring.

And found the little girl from down the farm road that I used to play with often. I road my green bike with the banana seat to her house frequently. And not only did she remember me, but she was delighted to hear from me. We still had the connection that we had even then.

And I found the first friends I had when I finally started elementary school. And then those when I moved to a new town.

I found my first group of friends from middle school. We were so close for those four years. It was like we picked up where we left off. The best friendships are always like that, aren’t they?

I found my high school best friends and my college best friends. I found people who weren’t best friends, but that I like more as adults than I did as children. They have grown into amazing people that I love.

Through other social networking sites I have found people that I love more and more each day.

For me, I think it was just a reminder that, though there are times I feel alone and have certainly felt alone in the past, I never was. They were with me. They missed me. They were there.

And they still are.

The last gift I opened said “This certificate redeemable for one puppy of your choice!”

Oh, the excitement and joy! I knew exactly what I wanted: a blonde cocker spaniel. My mother, who tends to hate animals, stipulated “this is an outdoor animal” while I cajoled and begged and pleaded.

On New Year’s Eve, we finally found him. The most beautiful blonde cocker spaniel puppy there ever was. He hid from everything and because of his introversion, I called him my little “Shadow.” Later, I realized that it was a name mostly reserved for black animals, but I was 11. Cut me some slack.

In a rule that I still think was completely moronic, I was required to spend an hour a day with Shadow. I didn’t mind the hour, but there were days it was freezing outside and this was not an easy task. When it was at the freezing point or raining, I could bring him into a shed we had in the back yard or into the garage. I remember holding him in my lap and stroking his long, soft ears for so many of those hours and, though he was an incredibly hyper dog, he let me.

My time got shorter as I got older and became more involved with school and work. I took my first real job at 15 and I had to “make up” the time on the weekends, when I could. This led to some days where I would attempt to entertain Shadow for four hours at a stretch and he grew weary of me.

As he grew older, the gate in our backyard did, as well, and he grew more mischievous. He began to break free of his jail more and more frequently and somehow, no one had enough time to fix the gate. I spent hours searching for him and thankfully, because he had a collar, we always managed to find him.

Until early one morning over the summer of my 18th year.

The phone rang and woke me out of a sound sleep. It was my grandmother and asked me if my dog was missing. I had no idea and looked out the backyard where I could see the gate standing wide open. We’d had a storm the night before and I had no idea how long it had been open. I swallowed the lump in my throat and said that yes, I thought he might be.

Her voice quivered and said that her neighbor had called and said a dog had been hit in front of her house. It had been grazed by a car and was still breathing, but it wasn’t going to make it. It wasn’t bleeding, but the collar had my name on it. Was it mine?

I couldn’t speak.

My grandmother said that animal control had been called to come get the dog and not to bother coming to see him. He wasn’t going to make it.

I still regret not coming to see him. I was such a coward. He lay there alone.

30 minutes later, I heard a knock on the door. A tall man stood there and gently removed his ball cap. His eyes filled with tears and he said, “I got your dog in my truck. He got hit by a car. He didn’t make it.”

I nodded mutely and stared at the words forming at his mouth.

“He ain’t bleeding or nothin’. He looks fine. You can see him if you want to.”

Tears spilled down my cheeks and I shook my head head softly from side to side.

“I’ll take good care of him, miss. They don’t always take good care of these dogs, you know, but I knew he was special, this one. You took real good care of him and groomed him and everything, didn’t ya? I’ll take care of him, myself. I’ll make sure he’s ok, miss.”

I tried to smile and croaked out a thank you as the tears continued to roll from my eyes. He nodded slightly and backed down the concrete steps. He took one last look to the back of his truck, where I knew my dog lay.

I couldn’t close the door until the truck was out of sight.

All dogs go to heaven. I can’t believe in a heaven that doesn’t have them. They are the most pure hearts besides children and if there is an all-encompassing creator, surely He loves the pure hearts. If He doesn’t, then what kind of heaven would it be? I don’t want to be anywhere that doesn’t have my dogs.

Sometimes I dream of petting long, soft ears…

This is the post that you should be reading regardless of all of those things because even if you don’t think it’s YOUR problem, it’s OUR problem and I’m seriously worn out by it. The only way to fix it is to pull together and collectively decide we’re done and that we are going to publicly shame and shun for this offense and quit letting people slide. The only way to help that is to create stronger messages. And, chances are, you know someone who has a problem with this and, chances are, you are shaking your head and getting ready to close the window on this post. Let me explain myself.

Before my 18th birthday, I’d lost several friends to drinking and driving. I’m not talking about people I’d heard of through the grapevine. I’m talking about living, breathing people. One was in the band with me. One could hug like you wouldn’t believe. One shyly told me in the 6th grade that he wouldn’t mind dating me at all (ah, 6th grad boys). One was the quiet guy in the corner that never said a word. Those are just a few. By my 21st birthday, the numbers went higher and higher.

Less than a month ago, I received word that a boy from my hometown was killed. He was adamantly against drinking and driving and involved in some of the same groups that opposed it that I was involved with in high school. This 19 year old was also the nephew of my junior high best friend, so I’d spent a lot of time with him in his younger years. He’d had many health issues and struggled so much just to have a normal life. What I remember most about him, at that age, were these gorgeous, huge eyes that stared at me, and a beautiful smile that wouldn’t quit.

By all accounts, this boy turned into a young man, was succeeding in life. The man who hit him survived. The family is devastated. Shouldn’t they be? Wouldn’t you be?

If it were AJ…I don’t know that I could be rational.

So, when does it stop being acceptable? When do we stop allowing our friends to drive when they insist they are ok to drive? When do we push the cabs on them or make sure there is a DD before we serve them? I’ve never had a problem being DD being that I’m not a big drinker. Surely, I’m not the only one out there? Many restaurants offer to pay for cabs. Many bars do as well. How many of you would turn down someone if they called asking for a ride? So why isn’t this happening?

Why is it, when we find out someone has committed this offense, that we write it off as just another mistake? Is it not, and I’m going to say something extreme here, so please brace yourself, techincally attempted assault, at the very least? Attempted harm to another person? Suicide is illegal. At the very least, attempted harm to oneself? Attempted murder? What makes this any different from someone who actively goes after another person? Or someone who is going after multiple people wielding a weapon weighing over a ton? I’m aware they are charged with DUI, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Especially when many people are allowed to slide after multiple DUI’s for reasons such as knowing the judge in a small town.

Yes, I KNOW they think they are fine to drive and who are you to tell them they aren’t? They are impaired. It’s what alcohol does and why people like it so much. If it didn’t make people feel uninhibited, they wouldn’t drink it. Some people are fine to drive. Some people aren’t.

When do we stop giving them a free pass?

Livvy was born three weeks before my junior prom. As such, my mother didn’t have time to go dress hunting with me or even see me before my junior prom. Thankfully, my aunt stepped in and green eyes and I had a fine night. I think. I don’t remember much of it because there was so much emotional turmoil around that time, both with his absence and Livvy’s health.

Livvy eventually came home and green eyes eventually drifted away and a new normal came to me. It wasn’t without much resistence on my part, however. I lost 30 pounds simply because I wasn’t interested in eating. I was depressed and had lost interested in most everything and everyone around me. I was starting to finally feel like myself when I developed what felt like the worst cold ever. My nose started dripping like a faucet and I’d rubbed the thing raw. My best friend, at the time, was a boy we later determined was related to me somehow. He and I went to Wal-mart, where I worked (I have SO many stories about that place) and saw the new guy stocking the shelves. A cute new guy. One I’d only seen in passing while we were zoning the area at night. I’d been lucky enough to help him a couple of times.

I’d never been a forward kind of girl. I’m shy, especially where my looks are concerned and even with the weight loss, I was sure he wasn’t interested in me. Nevertheless, I went up to him with my dripping, peeling nose and started talking to him. He talked back and seemed amused by what I was saying. Eventually we made a date. One date turned into several and we dated on and off, though mainly on, throughout my senior year of high school. He was a few years older than I was and was very different from the guys I went to school with. He introduced me to “No diggity” (which is still one of my favorite songs) and was probably one of, if not THE nicest person I’ve ever dated. He also took me to Olive Garden for the first time in my 17 years.

I don’t know anyone that didn’t like Aaron. He made friends with all of my friends and the people at work adored him. The girls at work really adored him. He kept his eyes on me. I felt adored. His sister and brother felt like my family. I thought a lot of them and still do. I have no idea what my senior year would have been like if his kind spirit hadn’t been a part of my life. My family was dealing with a lot of issues, not just a new baby. He was there for me and I will always appreciate that about him.

He was also my prom date that year. Strangely enough, I remember most everything about that night. I remember sitting in the chair at my salon and watching my stylist place mini-flowers in my hair and wondering if they looked Asian enough. Would Aaron like them? Was it too much? Were my bangs too high? The answer to the bang question was YES, THEY WERE TOO HIGH.

I remember the moment he saw me and the smile he gave me. I remember that his hands are really strong and when he held mine to walk me into the convention center that I couldn’t stop smiling. We sat with our friends and there was much dancing and laughing. When prom was over, we went to a friend’s house and, in my typical party animal fashion, I promptly fell asleep on the couch.

I’m a winner.

Three weeks later, I broke up with him for a guy who truly believed that there is a dark side and he was a jedi knight. I still have a lot of guilt about this and I’m so, so sorry, Aaron. It was among the most stupid decisions I’ve ever made. I’m a firm believe that things turn out the way they should, though, and I’m really glad that we are still friends. You were the best prom date ever.

Perverts. I’m not telling you about that. It was a special moment and you can go make your own.

The brown-eyed girl smiled and took his hand. From the other room, she heard his friend yell, “Did you kiss her yet? Have you asked her out? Is it official? C’mon man, I don’t have all night. Just do it!” She laughed and blushed, as did he.

Days turned to weeks and over the winter holiday they spent much time together. They had the same group of friends, so they were able to spend time apart without it overwhelming them or feeling threatened, as so many do at that age. However, they found it hard to find time alone and decided to get creative.

Just outside of town was a farm area that sat atop a hill and next to a wooded area. The snow was crisp and she would slowly pull her crimson colored car to the edge of the woods. He would sit on the hood of her car and she would lean against him as he held her. They would make up stories of wolves and ax-men and all of the things that might be in the woods. Really, it was an excuse to look at the stars and the trees and the beautiful, snow covered hilly area. Never in her life had the brown-eyed girl been happier.

However, all good things must come to an end. At the end of the holiday vacation, Green eyes called her. It was clear from the tone of his voice that he’d been crying. He told her that his father had been relocated and that they were moving in less than a month.

She was crushed. She was losing him just as she’d found him. She was also losing her best friend.

Their parents were very supportive; Perhaps moreso than they should be have been in a situation with teenagers so young. You don’t need to know the details, but they tried to make it work. They tried desperately, but with over 600 miles separating them, and before free nights and weekends, it was not possible to maintain the relationship. Reluctantly, the brown-eyed girl said good-bye.

Both moved on and found happiness elsewhere, but years later, with the accessibility of the internet, found one another again. The brown-eyed girl was newly married and the green-eyed boy was, again, miles and miles away. They agreed to keep in touch.

And they do.

Some connections remain, regardless of time and circumstance.

He was into alternative music and she loved mainstream pop. He embraced the baggy clothes style of the mid-90s and she was a prep through and through. He was quiet and sweet-natured and she was outgoing and acerbic, though, later, she would realize that her true self was also quiet, as well. What they had in common, however, was their ability to just be together and enjoy the company of each other.

The girl liked the boy, but because he was friends with the boy she’d dated, she didn’t allow herself to feel everything she wanted to feel for him. One night, they drove around their small town and stopped by a store. There were beaded bracelets that came with the comment that if you made a wish on them and placed them around your wrist, when they fell off, your wish would come true. The boy, with a sparkle in his eye, suggested that the girl get the one in green. It matched his eyes exactly.

She shyly bought the bracelet and made a wish. Not for him, but that she would feel loved. There were many days in that time that she didn’t. She placed it around her wrist and waited. It was October.

A month came and went and the two remained friends. She showed him the places that she liked to go when she needed quiet and they did the things teenagers do. They went out and explored private property that had warnings like “If we catch you, we will shoot first and ask questions later.” They weren’t the smartest teenagers in the world. They explored places like cornfields and lay on their backs looking at the stars. He gave her piggyback rides through the rows and she laughed like a child.

One day, the two were at a school assembly and were, of course, sitting together as they always did. They were the best of friends and their other friends had noticed that they had become consumed by one another. In the middle of the assembly, she felt a tug on her wrist. The green bracelet fell off her wrist and she looked up into his bright green eyes. He smiled his easygoing grin and removed his hand from her wrist. “Now,” he said, “whatever you wished can come true.”

She blushed, because she was the shy sort at that time, and looked away. She may have mumbled something like, “We’ll see” and left it at that. He asked her to come over later that night and she replied that she would after her homework. When she got to his house, he was going down the hill on his makeshift snowboard with one of his friends. The powdery snow coated everything, like a wintery fairyland.

As she watched them go down the hill, she began to grow cold and couldn’t prevent her teeth from chattering. He walked up to her and softly moved the hair from her face and put his arms around her to pull her close. This wasn’t something new to her. He often held her close, as friends do. Something felt different about this time. He put his head into the small of her neck and told her that after the last run they would go inside and talk.

However, as anyone who has tried to snowboard realizes, the inexperienced often fall and he tumbled hard. As the wind was knocked out of him, she was already sliding down the slippery hill towards him, as was his friend. When she got to him, he laughed. She took his hand, helped him up and they went inside.

I remember helping plant potatoes as far back as walking age, though I don’t remember ever doing it correctly. Don’t think for a minute that I had to do any of the hard work. My grandfather loved me immensely and treated me like a princess. He asked me to help him to spend time with me, not to make me work. Kids on other farms work. This kid didn’t.

This kid played on dangerous wood piles. She ate strawberries straight from a field and so many peas from the pod that she’d get sick. Roosters chased her (filthy little beasts) and she got shocked by an electric fence on accident one time. She played in the barn, which was supposed to be off limits. She ran down the dirt road behind their house. looking for all the places to play that she was told to avoid. She ate mulberries and played in trees.

She also played in the chicken coop, which was VERY off limits. It was also where she found a mess of chicks that became her playmates. She named them and cared for them and played with them daily.

Until, one day, they disappeared. She was little, probably around 6, and couldn’t figure out why the chickens were gone. The adults carefully avoided her eyes at dinnertime, as the smell of fried chicken wafted through the house. There were many mouths to feed and times were tough. I never said she was the smartest child.

This kid had an evil older cousin, who, incidentally, has turned out to be a great adult. However, he was a pickle as a child and decided to ruin Santa Claus for multiple children in the family (deny all you want, you know you did). That particular day, his mean streak ran deep. He’d been in trouble and I’d been sad and mopey because I couldn’t find my chicks. He came up behind me and, in typical 8 year old fashion said, “We’re eating them for dinner, stupid! What do you THINK chicken is made out of?” I was mortified. Horrified. Stupefied and sickened.

And I didn’t eat chicken for 18 years, with the exception of Mcdonald’s chicken nuggets because we all know that in the 80s they probably weren’t really chicken, so they don’t count.

None. I was angry with everyone, including my grandfather. I’d seen our chickens slaughtered before that day. I’ll spare you the details. It’s horrific, but when you have the option of feeding your family or starving, you slaughter the chickens, even if you know it’s going to hurt that 6 year old beyond belief. Even if she stops talking to you and even if you wonder if it’s damaged the relationship beyond repair.

As an adult, I get it. But I often wonder if the 6 year old inside me ever got over it. There are still times, when I see a picture of a baby chick, that I get a pang in my heart and an urge to go play in a chicken coop.

Of course, with the excitement of a new relationship, the girl and the boy chose to canoe together, against the sage advice of the adults in the group. A man that the girl loved and respected very much warned her that the relationship wouldn’t last the weekend if they sat in that canoe. She smiled, hugged him and sat down with a smile. Because he loved her like a father, he kept his mouth shut and said no more.

All of the teenagers in the group knew the girl couldn’t swim well. She could keep her head above the water when necessary, but beyond that, she would have difficulty. Luckily, the boy could swim well and he assured her that if the canoe tipped, he would be well equipped to save her from danger. She trusted the boy and picked up her paddle and began to stroke. She never anticipated anything bad would come from the day. The sun was shining and she and the boy were doing well.

Until 2 hours later when conversation began to get heated. The boy had difficulty paddling and the girl was exasperated with this as her steering was flawless. The water was entering a difficult passage of particularly deep water and the girl was getting nervous with the amount of rocking in the canoe. The boy had begun to paddle with choppy strokes, due to his frustration, and the girl looked at the water with trepidation. She begged him to calm down, but he snapped at her and she snapped back at him and then…

She was in the water. It was cold and she couldn’t touch the bottom. She opened her eyes, though the water was muddy and she couldn’t see anything except a tree branch directly in front of her eyes. It was at that moment that she felt the branch grasping her ankle. She thrashed her head to the left and to the right, and realized she was in trouble when she saw the large tree to her right. She tried to move upward and, as she hit her head, she realized that she was under the canoe and her breath was running out. She jerked on her ankle over and over and couldn’t move. She heard shouting and realized that there were people coming for her, but they couldn’t find her and they might be too late. She’d had dreams of drowning, but never anticipated it to be like this. As her breath ran out and she began to feel dizzy, she twisted her ankle free and kicked away from the tree.

As she came up for air, the first thing she saw was the boy. He was laughing. As this was a very strong-willed girl, her best friend stood between them as the girl was going to go show him exactly what she thought of him. Her friend said that the boy had rocked the canoe on purpose, and that he hadn’t realized she was stuck beneath the canoe. The sage father-figure was right. The relationship was over and the boy’s life nearly ended that day.

As such, the girl no longer trusted the boy, for good reason, and could no longer canoe with him as the urge to end him was strong. She needed a new partner to canoe and she needed someone who was even tempered and who would not attempt to drown her for laughs. A quiet boy, cousin to her best friend, volunteered with a “Hey, y’all, I’ll switch canoes. You don’t even have to paddle unless we need to turn a corner. As long as you talk to me and keep me company, I’ll do all the work.”

Sold.

Randy (not the boy’s real name) was a farm boy from a town about 70 miles away from where the girl lived. The girl had grown up on a farm, but had moved to a less rural area about 4 years earlier. She took a shine to his cheekiness and gladly hopped in his canoe. They were carrying one of the coolers, so his flipping the canoe seemed unlikely. There was something about him that seemed genuine and kind and she trusted him.

They talked all day. Early in the conversation, Randy looked at the girl and said, “By gosh, I think yer a real city girl, aren’t ya?” She laughed and said, “I’m no redneck, that’s for sure.” And City Girl and Redneck were born. City Girl kept her end of the bargain and paddled when necessary. Redneck used his farm boy muscles and paddled the whole way without complaint. Conversation never lagged and the canoe moved smoothly through the water.

Throughout the rest of the weekend, they stuck together like peas and carrots. Though they had little in common besides their ability to talk to one another freely and without judgment, the weekend went smoothly. As 15-year olds did, at the time, they exchanged addresses and telephone numbers. They did not have email and Redneck wouldn’t have used it if they did. He was too busy rebuilding cars and spending time with his faithful dog. City girl was technologically stupid.

They wrote back and forth for several years, but, as time often does, it got the better of them. They saw each other last when the sage father figure passed from a particularly malevolent form of cancer. The girl was broken-hearted. As she walked into the dinner hall, for the family meal, as she was considered family, she saw him. He walked up to her and hugged her tightly and held her. Then he softly held her back, looked her up and down, smiled that Redneck grin and said, “CITY GIRL! How the hell are ya?”

Yes, time moves forward, but out there in the universe are a Redneck and City Girl. Both are married with children and not to one another. It never would have worked because it’s not how it was supposed to be. But City Girl looks at a letter and a picture of a boy next to an old car and a dog, often, and smiles when she remembers how a Redneck gained her trust and her lifelong friendship.

And they both lived Happily Ever After.

The End.

P.S. None of these pictures are the picture the City Girl has of the Redneck. She’s saving that one all to herself.

I remember one time when my cousins and I were in my grandparents basement during a storm. Clearly, it had to be after Easter, as we had each dragged a bag of candy onto the bed downstairs and we were bartering candy to one another so that “no one would starve for the duration of the storm.” Melodramatic little beasts, weren’t we?

There is something about a good storm that appealed to my grandfather. I don’t think he could explain it, however, because I have inherited it and I can’t explain it, myself. Rain, thunder and lightening are peaceful to me. They soothe me.

It could be because they remind me of him. He’ll always be the father figure in my life and he’ll always be my hero. Maybe the rain reminded him of someone.

Maybe it just had the “cool” factor that it has for my son, AJ. He likes nothing more than to stand in the rain. He’ll curl up next to me and use his cajoling voice and ask me sweetly if he can wear his rain coat and boots and stand outside. I smile just as sweetly and tell him no. Most times.

But part of me, that part that is still the child on the porch, smiles sweetly back and, now and then says, “Get them on. You’ve got 10 minutes and if you see lightening, get back in here.”

There’s just something about a thunderstorm.

One aspect of the sport that I could never quite “get” was sliding. It wasn’t that I tried and I couldn’t understand how to do it. It was that I adamantly decided, early on, that I just wasn’t going to do it. Period. End of story. No. No. No. I’m a team player, but that is out of the question. Where did this come from? T-ball.

Yep. I tried to slide in t-ball. Not just any slide. I tried to Petey into second base in t-ball. I’d seen it on TV. It’s what you were supposed to do.

I skinned the crud out of my hands and knees and would never try it again. It didn’t matter that this was irrational thinking. Sliding wasn’t my friend and I would just have to run harder or not steal, both of which I did in great amounts.

Now, we come to my adorable, precious child. A.J. wants to slide. He sees the other kids, who have been taught to slide, and wants to do it because it looks cool. Friday night, we had a scrimmage game and he ran back to second base. About that time, his coach and I both watch him ROLL over the base. When his coach yelled, “A.J., what just happened?” He said, “I was sliding back to second.”

I’m not making fun of my son, but he looked like a dog rolling in the dirt after a bath. Ok, I’m making fun a little. He just doesn’t know how to do it. Now we know that he wants to learn. His coach hid his face and said “No sliding back to second.”

Nope. No sliding. Sliding is hard. Run faster or don’t steal. Or learn how to do it properly. I think we may break the cycle with this one and learn how to do it properly.

Or continue to roll over the base.

This story, though, is about a high school teacher who did something extraordinary in a moment of frustration.

I was either a sophomore or a junior in high school and taking a required history course. I’ll call my teacher Mr. Smith, but he has an extremely distinguished name and he has done so much for the small community that I grew up in, that if you googled him, you’d find him. I’m not sure he wants to be found. He’s a small treasure to be sure. But this is my memory, not his memoir and so he is Mr. Smith.

Every day, Mr. Smith came in and tried to teach a room full of students, who were taking a required course, that history is fundamental, important and interesting. For the record, history is interesting to me, but I was 15 or 16 and had other things on my mind. However, I did look forward to Mr. Smith’s class every day. His personality was such, that you felt like you were in on some secret knowledge by listening to what he had to say.

However, our environment wasn’t the best. We didn’t have air conditioning in the school and we had old school radiators in the classrooms. Often, in the summer, it was sweltering and in the winter it was freezing. It was hard to concentrate and when the school had big events, like homecoming, prom, or big sports events, students had a hard time focusing on their education.

The day I’m thinking of was one such day. As usual, Mr. Smith had poured his heart into his class, and, for whatever reason, we couldn’t focus. I remember feeling more tired than usual and being irritated that the class wouldn’t be quiet so I could zone out a bit. After 15 minutes of attempting to gain our attention, I saw something that I had never seen before and I never saw again.

Mr. Smith lost his temper. In a big way.

He slammed his book down on the desk and wailed on us. This was our education and we couldn’t be bothered to be present in his class. He’d put quite a bit into his work that day and this information was going to be on our next test. However, we were being rude and insolent and he’d had enough. So, he was going to sit down and he wanted to know which of us would be willing to teach the class, because he wasn’t going to do it.

There were crickets in that classroom. No one said a word. Mr. Smith had never raised his voice, let alone throw a temper tantrum.

I looked around and 2 things occurred to me: 1/no one was going to volunteer 2/I was just enough of a smart-aleck to do it.

I raised my hand, stood up and went to his overhead projector. I heard him say “Jillian, excellent. It’s good to see that someone is willing to step up for all of you. I look forward to hearing what you have to say.”

This is a fatal flaw within myself. I still do it to this day. If a teacher asks a question, and no one in the classroom will answer, I will try, even if I fail miserably. I can’t stand letting the teacher hang or letting the class hang. I’m working on that first-born responsibility mentality.

Honestly, I don’t know what kind of job I did that day. I knew the material and I did my best.
After class, Mr. Smith came up to me and said, “Jillian, that was impressive. Have you considered being a teacher?” I told him I hadn’t, but that I enjoyed it. He let me know he was impressed with my moxie and appreciated what I had done with his class.

I never saw him lose his temper again and the class was attentive from that point on. My self-esteem received a great boost that day.

Last Spring, I taught my first undergraduate class. I carried Mr. Smith’s words with me every day, especially on the hard ones. Most especially on the days my class was inattentive or the class was hot or cold.

Teachers…mentors…who has changed you life?

I have a pretty stellar work ethic (thanks, mom!), so I worked through the migraine on Monday and was going to attempt class Monday night. Nope, it wasn’t happening. Besides being dizzy and afraid of driving, the thought of throwing up in front of my classmates (ala 1st grade fears) didn’t appeal to me. Mmmm nothing says loving like your classmate hurling chinese at ya.

So, I came home and slept for the better part of two days. My family is pretty empathetic, though, all the way down to the dogs. Ever since we got Molly, this is her reaction to my migraines. It’s almost an “I’m so sorry you are dying like a dead cow” face. I think she’d shoot me to put me out of my misery if she could. Thank God she can’t. Who does she think she is to make my choices for me? Living will my white pillsbury biscuits.

A..J. is also sensitive, since he suffers from migraines as well. It almost killed me the first time I realized he was having one. There is nothing like the feeling and realization that you have passed something harmful on to your child through your genetics. As he screamed, I cried silently next to him and held his hand. So, when I have them, he gets the ice packs and checks on me frequently.

To celebrate the end of this “2 day bender” as we shall call it, A.J. decided to take a shower, which is one of his favorite things to do. Not only did he take a shower, but he was busting out the tunes. None of which I can identify. When I was a child, I made up my own tunes, and he does too. They often revolve around how incredibly awesome he is or how no one understands him or how they didn’t understand him until after the meteorite hit him and he was dead and it was too late and how they were all very, very sorry for not listening to him and giving him candy and letting him stay up as late as he wanted. That’s my sweet little self-absorbed baby.

Sometimes, it’s just good to have things back to normal.

Before all those silly things called rules (and if you can’t tell, I’m being facetious here) and safety belt laws and booster seats, etc., people like my mom allowed their kids to lay in the back seat and sleep on short car rides from town to town. Sometimes, I slept. I do love a good nap beyond most anything in life.

However, there was something mystical about looking out the back window, while laying in the seat and watching the stars and the moon. I could make out the face in the moon and I imagined a whole world where the moon was my friend and we frolicked at night. There was so much wonder in this world and what I never could figure out was how the moon FOLLOWED me from town to town. It just further confirmed that what we had was special and that the moon was MINE.

As an adult, I can analyze this and see the ecogentricism of where I was and even how the moon “followed” me. But don’t you pretend for one second that you don’t understand the magic, because even as adults we crave that connection to the sky.

Why do you think cars have sunroofs and car makers have convertibles?

I’ll never be without a sunroof again.

When is the last time you took a minute to look up at the clear night sky? What’s stopping you from connecting with the child who looked at the moon and wondered if there was really a man up there?

Things that made us happy then can make us happy again.

Like many little girls, I’d wanted a pony. Let me rephrase that: I longed for a pony like a heroin addict longs for a fix. If I didn’t have that pony, everyone was going to hear about it.

I named her Bambi, after the Disney movie that came out around the same time. We’ve clarified, repeatedly, in this blog that I’m not a creative person. Sorry to validate that it went all the way back to childhood. Bambi was an awesome pony. Caramel colored with a buttery mane, she was everything I wanted and more, but I was scared to death of her.

My family tells stories of a time that she knocked me off and my grandfather made her sorry. I don’t remember it at all. What I do remember is that Bambi didn’t live long. She was out to pasture one day and then suddenly, she was gone. I didn’t have her long enough to learn how to ride her properly. I never found out exactly what happened. I believe there was a problem with the grass she’d eaten. Either too much grass or something on the grass, etc., but the thing about it is that adults don’t tell children why pets die, just that they do.

At the time, my mother was dating a rather insensitive person who thought it would be funny to joke about the death of my pony while telling me about it. There are parts of me that would still like to whomp him in the face for that.

My time with my pony was short, but the scent of horses takes me back. For a small amount of time, I lived every 6 year old’s dream. I had a pony and a large pasture to ride her in.

It doesn’t get better than that.