Cousin, Cousin

My cousin, Eunice, passed away this fall.  She was the oldest living descendant of Samuel Harvey Morrell, my grandfather.  So now I am the patriarch of the clan, if primogeniture has any bearing.

Once about every third whip stitch a meme pops up on fb reminding us that our cousins were our first friends.  And that may well be true for many people, but not all human experiences are shared by everyone.  There are, for example, those whose parents had no siblings and thus they have no cousins. Or, in my case, I have forty-eight first cousins, some of whom I never met and never will, for some of them are gone now.*

The circumstances of various lives determine friendship and acquaintanceship.  In my case, the parents moved from the community of my nativity when I was but six months old.  Moved a good long way away, too.  Most of my father's siblings either stayed in that locale or moved themselves a good way away to somewhere we weren't.

My mother's people all packed up and moved to California when I was about five years old, and there went that opportunity to develop a "best friend" relationship with any of my maternal cousins.  Over the years I met all those cousins and even developed friendships with some of them.  To this day there are three of them who are facebook friends and another three or four who are "Christmas card" cousins.  But all of them reside on one coast or the other.

During my early years there were three of my dad's siblings with whom we exchanged visits and I came to know their children.  Uncle Wayne and his family even lived in the same town we did during my teen years.  Uncle Ben's son is a fb friend and his sister and I correspond on occasion.

Otherwise the familial relationships were characterized by a cousin whom I met via the expediency of stopping in his town while on a trip several years ago.  When I was met at the door by his wife it was clear that she had little interest in who I was or what I wanted, but she did call her husband to the door.  We made arrangements to meet in a restaurant for supper after BBBH and I checked into a motel.  We met, neither of our wives joined us.

During the course of the visit he remarked, "We Lacys aren't very sociable."

Pretty well summed it up, at least so far as family interactions are concerned.

*Thirty five on Dad's side, 13 on Mama's side.

The Unopened Gift #T

A certain young man who grew up in America's heartland served in the military, an officer who faithfully executed his duties on behalf of the nation. More than a decade passed, and this officer had been posted to far-flung lands.  For reasons unknown to us, and we have no need to know them, the relationship with his father had cooled over time, and the emotional distance between them was perhaps as great as the geographical distance.

The father died.  The officer was granted compassionate leave and traveled a quarter of the way around the world to attend the obsequies, and to tend to the affairs of the decedent.

Skip ahead a few days.  The services are over, the grave has been closed.  The young man and his siblings enter the father's house, the task at hand to sort, clean, and prepare the property for sale.  And what should our officer find in his father's bedroom?  On a dresser top, a brown box, perhaps a bit over a cubic foot in volume, sat unopened, exactly in the condition it was in when the postal service delivered it; exactly in the condition it was in nearly a year prior to this day when the officer had carefully wrapped and packaged the Christmas gift he had thoughtfully selected for his father, the postage stamps properly affixed and cancelled.

Have you accepted the Greatest Gift ever given?

Diggin' Up Bones #T

Old papers, letters, notebooks, clippings, accumulate over time.  One stumbles onto occasional reminders of the past he has lived.  I came across a "Li'l Fat Notebook," 4 x 5.5., in which I had scribbled numerous things several years ago.  There are recorded therein a number of chess games I played with friend Marvin long ago.  And near the back, I found this little nostalgic piece.  This was written eleven years ago.  So this is today's layer of nostalgia painted atop nostalgia of yesteryear.

*Third page, fifth line, "reminiscences."
^Third page, last line.  I've not "done it again," though I talked with three or four of the people within the past week.

What Have You Done for Me Lately?

Is the relationship based on love, or is it based on symbiosis?  Referring here to all sorts of relationships, husband/wife, parent/child, friend/friend.

What did you ever do for me?
Well, I raised you, fed you, clothed you.  I supported your college education.
That's ancient history.  What have you done for me lately?
I bailed you out of an awkward financial situation last week, and took care of your children while you dealt with the matter.
That's ancient history.  What have you done for me lately?

It is not enough that you have done infinitely much for me in the past; that is history.  What have you done for me lately?
This relationship is based on symbiosis.  The "child" is in it for what she can get out of it; the parent is in it for the eternal hope of appreciation.

This is not working.

I suspect that too often we attempt to maintain the same kind of relationship with Jesus.

What have you ever done for me, Lord?
I gave my life to atone for your sins, that you might have eternal life.
That's ancient history.  What have you done for me lately?

That relationship is not working, either.

And that is not the fault of the Savior.

I wrote this little piece two or three months ago, then parked it over on my private blog.  I feel now is the time to place it here.

We Need Each Other

Yep.  Sometimes you just feel like you need a hug.  Lucky Hedgehog, has a whole coterie of pals to make him feel wanted.

Lord, Forgive Me

The clerk was a lady of fifty-something.  The item was seventeen dollars, plus tax at seven per cent.  While she used the calculator to figure the tax, I said, "Eighteen dollars and nineteen cents."  She finished her computation and said, "You're good."  Chuckling, I said, "I've done a lot of arithmetic."
Then I handed her a twenty dollar bill and twenty cents in coin.   I am not making this up.  She used the calculator to figure my change.

Had she been a girl of seventeen, or even a young woman in her twenties there would have been no surprise; but even fifty-year olds are young enough to have been raised in the totally-electronic-commit-nothing-to-memory age?  Guess so.  Oh, wait.  They have to remember how to punch the buttons on the machine, don't they?

I am trying to find a Sunday School lesson in here someplace, and as I prayerfully pondered the implications of this,  I arrived at this conclusion.

I am entirely too critical.  The woman was merely doing her job, and doing it, no doubt, within the framework of her training.  We completed the deal, I got my product and she got the company's   money.  So in what way was she lacking?  She was competent (able to work the machinery) and pleasant (she smiled as she handed me my penny and the two one dollar bills.)  If there is a fault here, and there is, it was not hers.

Jesus said, " Love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.  This is the first and great commandment, and the second is like unto it.  Love thy neighbor as thyself."*

One cannot maintain a loving spirit toward his fellow-man if he harbors a critical spirit which picks at every little perceived short-coming.

Oh, Lord, forgive me for my critical attitude and teach me love and caring for others.  Make a change in me.  Amen

*Matthew 22:37-39

Helen Continues Her Story

I always felt a little sorry for my father.  It seemed my mother never warmed to his family, and I only recall two occasions on which she visited any of his family with him.  Dad's sister, Clara, married Uncle Ned.  He had a yacht and Mother and Father went to Long Island once to cruise on his yacht.  Later when he retired, Uncle Ned bought a farm in Stockbridge, Massachusetts and I believe my parents visited there once.

*****

My father's sister Julia married Uncle Clifford.  They had two sons, Clifford, Jr. and Herbert.  Herbert went to college and was involved in a fraternity hazing incident and had to be committed to a mental hospital where he remained until his death.

Uncle Clifford had an optical supply store¹ and after he died Clifford Junior managed his mother's affairs, and my father bought the business of them.  Later, when Father got out of the business, he sold to a gentleman who had been a long-time employee of Uncle Clifford and himself.

Clifford the Younger later ran afoul of the government.  I don't know that he was culpable of any criminal intent, but he committed suicide.  His children, who were our cousins, rather dropped out of sight.  I think one or two of them moved to Michigan and we lost contact.

*****

I knew Uncle Steve quite well as he maintained a room on Grandma's floor in our house where he frequently stayed.  He never divorced his wife, but he had a long-term mistress by whom I believe he had children.  He used to receive mail at our house addressed to Mr. Olsomer.²  I don't know if that was the name of the woman with whom he lived or if it was perhaps just another name he used.

Helen's daughter Ellie remembered Uncle Steve, too, as he boarded with her parents when Ellie was quite young.  This was before Dick was born, and when the baby arrived they needed the extra room for him, and Steve moved out.  Ellie remembered Uncle Steve's little white moustache, his psyllium seed on his cereal which got her into a fine fix once,³ and his magnificent chess set, which he wouldn't let her touch.

¹Both the optical supply store and the Knapp family home were located in Harlem.  The time frame is the first two decades of the twentieth century.
²Looking at some family history in later years, I discovered what I believe to be evidence that the woman Steve lived with was named Olsomer.
³Ellie, at breakfast, once insisted that she should have psyllium on her cereal, too.  Her mother assured her she did not want it, that she would not like it; forget it.  The child insisted, mother gave in and sprinkled the stuff on the child's cereal.  Then the real conflict began upon the taking of the first taste.  Ellie was still sitting at table well past lunch time.

Helen is mother of Ellie, my late second wife.  Helen's stories begin here. 

Boyhood Chums, and Others

Those of you who have been with STSTT for awhile know that I have revealed things about myself, intentionally or inadvertantly, particularly with regard to my childhood experiences making me Who I Am.

The mind wanders over the plains of nostalgia and climbs the mountains of memory this morning. I am wondering what happened to some of the contemporaries of my childhood.

Tommy. Tommy was two years my junior and he had a brother, Chet, who was my age. Twilight games of Kick the Can or Hide and Seek often included these boys, as well as others. At eight years of age, Tommy was a thumb-sucker. Imagine if you can the merciless teasing and name-calling to which Tommy was subjected because of this habit he seemingly could not, or would not, give up. How did this small facet of his young life affect him in later life? I wonder.

Chet, as I remember him, had no outstanding traits or characteristics. He was a kid, tougher than I, confident in himself, jovial enough, but not particularly noteworthy. I have no idea whatever happened to these boys.

I have mentioned my best friend Wes on occasion. I pretty well had him figured out and I have a clear notion of how his early childhood served to mold his character. We remained close friends until his dying day. But a block north of Wes there lived a "tough kid," a blue-eyed towhead who was in fact a half-year younger than I, but he was a bully. Clifton was physically strong, had a mean streak as wide as the Missouri, and made it a point to ensure that everyone knew he was tough. Reflecting back, I think perhaps I did not like Clifton (not "Cliff." That could get you a bloody nose.) Now, sixty-five years later, I wonder what ever happened to Clifton.

I've not mentioned girls. Well, Daddy cautioned me about girls, just as though he imagined that I would be bold enough to approach any of them. "Girls," he said, "are to be looked at, laughed at, and forgotten." This did not exactly inspire me to confidence in my dealings with the fairer sex.

Then there was Clyde. Have to love the people in the 30s who named their kids Chester, and Clifton, and Clyde. Oh, where are you now, Chappies? And Carl, who once beaned me with a rock. Where are you now?



Image of Derrick and Onion by Ray Billingsly

Sunday in Orange Grove

Park Church service is at 8:40 on Sunday morning, and while this is a bit early for our taste, we both managed to be there in plenty of time with happy smiles on our faces!

The choir was in fine voice, the minister gave us an uplifting message from Paul's first letter to the Thessalonians, chapter five. Our friend Arnie played a medley of great songs on the concertina, including Amazing Grace and How Great Thou Art. It was a service worth getting up for.

On the way out of the hall, we were stopped by friend Linda who wanted to take our picture. Later in the day, she stopped by to deliver a copy of it to us. I decided it would make a great profile picture, especially since the previous one was now three months old; we have aged since then!
Thanks, Linda.

Arnie and Arlene asked us to go with them to Denny's for a slam, or whatever happened to be our brunch choice. This was a great thing on several levels, the first being that we had the pleasure of visiting with these friends for a nice long time. The second notable item was the food itself, for it was abundant, tasty, and served just right. The coffee was good, too. And finally, the restaurant gave a fifty percent discount to residents of Orange Grove and the two of us ate for under ten dollars. Hallelujah!

The afternoon was spent reading and dozing. Ah, Sundays!

Then there is ice cream at the activities center in a few minutes, and BBBH has baked a beautiful cake which is just asking for a good slicing.

Ethics 101

In The Divine Conspiracy, Dallas Willard writes, “A leading social commentator now teaches that despair and rage are an essential element in the struggle for justice. He and others who teach this are sowing the wind, and will reap the whirlwind, the tornado. Indeed, we are reaping it now in a nation increasingly sick with rage and resentment of citizen toward citizen. And often the rage and resentment is upheld and justified in the name of God.

“But there is nothing that can be done with anger that cannot be done better without it.”

Willard goes on to point out that the evil twin to anger is contempt, for “it breaks the social bond more severely than anger... In the course of normal life one is rarely in a situation where contempt is not at least hovering in the wings.

“Recently cultural observers have noted the overwhelming rise in the use of filthy language, especially among young people. Curiously, few have been able to find any grounds for condemning it other than personal taste. How strange! Can it be that they actually find contempt acceptable, or are unable to recognize it? Filthy language and name calling are always an expression of contempt. The current swarm of filthy language floats upon the sea of contempt in which our society is now adrift.”*

Dallas Willard is a professor at the University of Southern California’s School of Philosophy.

*The Divine Conspiracy, pp.150-152

The Other Side of the Coin

"Charlene, what makes you come so far in the winter?"

"Have you ever spent a winter in Minnesota"?

"No, but I was in Minneapolis once, first week of April one year. Went to the stadium to watch the crew paint the grass green for opening day. The snow mountains in the parking lot were ginormous."

"Was it cold?"

"A bit."

"Spread the snow everywhere a foot deep, put some ice under that, and drop the temperature to twenty below zero."

"I get the picture."

Oh, yeah. South Texas is the place to be.

The thing is, though, all these people are older than dirt. No kids screaming and laughing as their sleds fly down the hill; (no hill, for that matter) no teens lallygagging around with their semi-innocent PDsA. Not even any professionals or workaday people bustling home for a bite to eat and a bit of rest before rushing back to work at dawn. The social interactions are largely lolling in the sun or in the pool, talking about what once was.

But it's not cold.

I am sure there was no "accusation," but it has been hinted that I might be "rubbing it in." I present today's post as the other side of the coin. Enjoy your family, your work, your winter wherever you are.

Sixth Grade Party Protracted

August, 1959. I walked into my classroom in an old school house in Brown Township. For the very first time, I walked into a classroom as the teacher, the teacher of the twenty-four sixth graders who would presently fill the seats in front of me.

November, 2011. I have been invited to a dinner party at a home in a village about fifty miles from my residence. Of course BBBH and I will be there, for the invitation came from one of the ladies who had been a student in that class fifty-two years ago.

The hostess, Sherry, had invited some of the other students whom I had taught at Brown Township School. Present at this wonderful reunion were Gloria, as I knew her, who is now called "Jeanie" and her husband, Craig; Jan and her husband, Dennis; Kathy; and Sherry. My spouse and I completed the group.

Sherry had prepared a wonderful meal which was enjoyed with much gusto! Kathy provided a marvelous dessert, two desserts, actually; and naturally I had some of each.

The catching-up, the tales of children, grandchildren, achievements, "what ever happened to" went on well into the evening. But we eventually had to take our departure. After all, we had an hour's drive to get home. And we really aren't as young as we used to be!

Picture Box

Pawing around in the loose pictures box yields not only images, but memories. This may be the principal reason for taking photos and snapshots of people. The examples here were taken in the fall prior to our marriage in February. The little lady checking her watch there in the kitchen may have wondered why I had yet to arrive. Well, as you can see, the refrigerator has morphed into a Dodge Caravan, against which I am leaning. I am enjoying a beautiful fall evening and who knows what I am thinking? I don't even remember.

This may have been the very evening during which she asked me to marry her. At any rate, it is all the beginning of something good, something exciting, and so far, something lasting.
Might I say it is all good? I might, but is there such a thing as any marital relationship in which it is all good? In this instance, it started out good and just gets better and better!

Auction!

Saturday we had the last CCF meeting of the year. This one is different. Instead of camping somewhere in Indiana for four days, we meet in a sort of central location (Marion, this year) and have a pitch-in dinner, or pot-luck if you are from those parts. The food is always fantastic, for everyone brings her, or his, best.

After we eat, there is an auction, for we have all brought a bunch of white elephants which are sold to raise funds for the activities of the group. I have been to four or five of these now, and it seems to me that some have a collection of items which they buy and resell the next year, rotating these around from home to home. But it is for a good cause. And a good time, as the saying goes, is had by all.

My best purchase was a baggie containing six chunks of homemade peanut butter fudge. I did a stint at "crying the sale" and a pretty poor job of it I did, too, notwithstanding my enthusiasm and strong-arm sales tactics. Oh, it must be that I was stuck with trying to sell the least desirable items!

The best part is visiting with friends, some of whom we saw a month ago at a camp-out, and some of whom we haven't seen in a good while. Most we will not see again until April, or even May if we don't get back from Texas in time for the April outing.

Another Trip Around the Sun

Isn't she adorable?! I have so much pleasure in thumbing through the albums we have built over the dozen years we've been together. I could post dozens that are just as cute, but these will be representative.

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart!

Oh, all right. She's seventy-something.

A Long Trek

This is post number one thousand on String Too Short to Tie. It has been an interesting journey for me. Today we will look at life's journey, three trips, actually, pathways diverging.

The snapshot was taken in 1943 in Canon City, Colorado. The three of us, my sister Vee, our friend Donald, and I are standing in Mystic Avenue in front of Donald's house. We lived in the parsonage, perhaps sixty yards behind and to the left of the camera.

We are embarking this beautiful summer day on a hike, destination the top of the Hogback, Skyline Drive. It was another time, and in truth another world. We were six, eight and nine years of age. Our expedition was not sponsored by, nor was it accompanied by, an adult. It was just the three of us. Oh, the parents knew where we said we were going, but their input and their participation was limited to taking the picture and advising us to be careful and that supper would be at the usual time. A different world, indeed.

DONALD
I have mentioned Donald a time or two on STSTT. Other than my sister, he was my first playmate, as the bleak and remote Nebraska outpost from which we had moved was sorely lacking in social opportunities for the little kid. I was five when we moved to Canon, and Donald and I found each other rather quickly. He was my best friend until we left that town five years later.

Donald was a precocious child and by the time he started school, he was telling folks he was going to be an ichthyologist when he grew up. I recall riding the bus from Colorado Springs to Canon City to visit with Donald. I was perhaps 12 or 13. It was the last time I saw him before he moved with his parents to California. I stopped briefly in Redding more than forty years ago and saw him for a few minutes.

Donald's career path took him to the summit, university professorship, and publication of numerous books. Botany and photography are particular interests. He and his wife Janice have written extensively on our natural wonders. They also write and publish devotional material. Donald was, as the saying goes, a friend for a season.

VEE
Though three years younger than I, Verla kept up, from the day of the hike, and ever afterward. We lived in a parsonage with a dedicated mother who, I think, decided that if she couldn't make a preacher of me, she could prepare Verla to be a preacher's wife. I think it entirely possible that, while she was receptive to instruction and learned her lessons well, Verla was less than enthused with the prospect of being a minister's wife. She has been happily married to a preacher for 55 years.

In addition to "stand(ing) by her man" in the parsonage, Verla gave birth to and raised four beautiful children, each of whom is a credit to his or her chosen profession. While nurturing these offspring, Verla earned her bachelors degree and started a teaching career. Her husband's work took them to Indianapolis, Monroe, Detroit, and Kansas City. Verla stayed by his side and continued her career. She earned her PhD and her last post before retirement was as university professor, department chair. She is a published novelist. Her first novel is released and will be in stores on November 8.

Vee is my sister, but more, she is my friend, "a friend for a lifetime." She now lives perhaps forty miles from where she stands in the picture, and I live more than a thousand. We see each other on average maybe once a year, talk on the phone possibly once a month, but we communicate in the blogosphere and by email several times a week.

DAVID
David is the only one of the three tykes who started up that mountain that day in 1943 who has not held a professorship, who has not been published. Well, two out of three is not bad.

I jest, yet I say truth. I achieved my career goals; and perhaps I was wise in knowing my limitations, to set the bar where I could clear it. I fathered four children and appreciate watching them and their children in their accomplishments. I had a teaching career which was very satisfying, and when I aspired to move into administration, I accomplished that. Probably the most telling comment ever made to me was by the mother of four of my students, three of whom I taught in junior high school. She said, "It is too bad that they take the best teachers and move them from the classroom to the office." This is a two-edged sword, cuts both ways. I lapped up the compliment, her assessment that I was a "best teacher," but on the other hand, I have reflected on the underlying implication about my administrative work. Snicker-snee.

JOURNEY
Every life's journey is unique. Our lives intersect, join together, separate. But I often think of the lines from "A Psalm of Life" penned by Longfellow:




Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

Cherry Blossom Time

See the tree?

See the bee?

See the springtime?

Happy me!

The intent was for today's post to be a more-or-less wordless presentation. But you know me. Given a keyboard...

So here's the deal. My sister has a blog entitled Very Verla joie de vivre in which she conveys very interesting thoughts and experiences. Verla is a professional writer. She posts on Mondays and Thursdays. I think you would very much enjoy her work. Take a look.

Last Thursday, her article was about awards; but somehow she turned it into a plug for this blog. That is truly appreciated. What a sister!

CJ

My friend was known to one and all as "CJ." In fact, many people who knew him for years did not know his first name, and there were only a handful who knew his middle name. CJ was born the same year my father was born. Though there was a generation between us, we became close friends and confidants.

I first met CJ when I took a job in the school where he taught. I was 35 at the time, he was 59. We had work-related business together since his academic charges and mine were basically the same bunch of twelve- and thirteen-year olds. But we soon discovered that we had "leisure time" business, since we would meet in the gym after school hours for fiercely fought contests across the Ping-Pong table. Table tennis was a passion for us both at the time, and we were fairly evenly matched. He was older, but it has often been said that age and guile trump youth and enthusiasm. Well, sometimes. Often when he would lose a closely-fought point after a long rally, he would say: "Well, I'm a sad man."

CJ served in the US Army during WWII. He fought in North Africa, and landed on the European continent at Anzio. Needless to say, he saw much action. He could still get into his uniform when he was in his seventies and eighties, and he enjoyed talking with interested groups about his experiences in the war.

CJ's wife, Sue, succumbed to cancer shortly after I met them, and he was left with the youngest of his four children, who was in junior high at the time. Whatever else he may have accomplished in his life, he raised his children in the way in which they should go, and all of them are very successful in their own right. CJ never remarried, but he had a blast traveling the world, literally seeing every continent and meeting many interesting people.

CJ took up tennis at about the time he retired, and while I could handily best him on the court at first, he was never satisfied to come in second. He worked at his new-found pastime, joined a tennis club so that he could play year round, and it was not long before I found myself on the short end of the score more often than I liked. Eventually, though, when he was in his late eighties, I made a miraculous comeback! Golf was another passion of this wiry old man. He always walked the course, and often "shot his age." I did not participate in this with him, as he had a cadre of buddies who were able to provide him better competition.

CJ moved to Macon, Georgia when in his early nineties to be near his son who was pastor of a church in that community. He was able to continue his active lifestyle until the last few days of his tenure on earth. I miss this old man. He was a good friend.

CLAVIS JEWETT HINSHAW, July 29, 1910-April 17, 2005 RIP

Cookson the Third

(Beloved Beautiful Better Half is today's guest blogger.)

I met my little guy sixteen years ago when he was two and it was love at first lick. He looked like an Oreo and we call him Cookie for short.

I read in the paper that a farmer had some Rat Terrier pups for sale. My son’s children wanted a puppy so they all went along to see them too. It was a chilly, wet, sloppy day and all of the dogs were out running around the yard getting muddy. I noticed a little twelve pound, black and white bundle of energy frisking around. No one had ever told him he couldn’t compete with the collies. The first thing he did was run up and put his dirty paws all over my slacks. He was so cute that I didn’t even get mad at him. I found out later that he was the macho pedigreed stud dog daddy of the puppies. They had two when I called, but only one left to sell by the time we got there. I could understand why when I saw them. They were carbon copies, in miniature, of Cookie. They both had the perfect marking of the classic Rat Terrier. Both dogs had great big eyes and pointy ears, with a white stripe down the forehead. Both had orange eyebrows, inner ears and cheeks. Among others, Cookie has a large heart shaped black spot on his back and dozens of smaller black spots on a little white body. The only difference is that Cookie has no tail, and the puppy's tail was about three inches long. Also, the pup hadn’t learned how to control his ears yet. He would stand them up but they kept falling down all crooked. It was hilarious.

In the meantime, while I was playing with Mr. Stud, my son said they wanted the puppy, not knowing it was the last one for sale, or so he said! Needless to say, I was a bit miffed at the time. The old farmer was watching me play with Cookie and he was amazed that the dog made right up to me. He said that was not like Cookie at all. He had kept coming home after being sold to his first owner. Finally, he got to stay home and become a daddy. In the end, the farmer let me take him home with me, as he wasn’t going to breed any more puppies. Much to Cookie's chagrin, we had him neutered and that was that. From that day forth he has been my constant companion.

He loves to burrow under covers or laundry to sleep. He lies on the back of the sofa and looks out the window, and lets me dress him up in jackets. Once I almost lost him when he tried to protect me from a German shepherd. He didn’t think he could possibly lose, as he’s the "man." I understand most of his doggy “talk” and he knows lots of human talk. When I tell him he can’t go and I’ll be right back, he sits down looking totally crestfallen. If I say, "Are you hungry?" he runs to his bowl. He thinks he’s people and would eat at the table if I would let him. He even likes fruit if we’re eating it. If I say,” Let’s go out,” he runs, or I should say jumps, to the door. He loves going in the camper and for car and bike rides. He loves taking walks with David and me, and chasing rabbits. If it weren’t a law to put him on a leash, he wouldn’t need it. He understands "Stay," " Come here," " Here comes a car," "Get down from there," and "Leave that kitty-cat alone.” He is the cutest, smartest little dog and we love him.

He sleeps more now; but he’s still pretty perky. He’s definitely a lap dog as often as possible. He’s a great little companion and I hope to have him for a long time to come.

©2011 Grace JoAnn Lacy

Remember and Honor

Fifty-five years ago today, this girl became my bride.
She is the mother of my children, Ann, Ivy, Delbert, and Ken.

Frieda Imogene Leamon Lacy "Jeanie"
17 February 1928 - 11 September 1980 RIP