Carnton Mansion: A Lesson Learned the Hard Way

It should go without saying that light and art do not mix. I know this. If I were to ever take another art test and the question were posed about exposing artwork to natural sunlight I would always mark that it is wrong. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Yet, a little less than five years ago when John and I moved into our home we went right ahead and slapped our favorite print on a wall which receives ooodles of natural light. And somehow, over these last fifty-four months, the consequences of doing such failed to catch my attention - until just the other night.

In 1989, John, my husband the history buff, participated as an extra in the filming of a historical documentary in Franklin, Tennessee. The subject was the Battle of Franklin and his scenes were filmed at the beautiful Carnton Plantation. He played a wounded soldier. Alas, new to the whole acting thing he made the mistake of looking at the camera and his scene found itself on the cutting room floor.

When he returned home, however, he was almost as excited about a limited edition John Black print - Carnton Mansion - he had seen for sale as he was about being in a "movie." But, he said it was way too pricey to even consider purchasing. We were newlyweds. I was in college. He was the only one working (a real job). It cost $100. But I knew I had to get it for him. It would be a Christmas gift.

I had it shipped to my mom's house and later took it to a local frame shop. I picked out the frame and a trio of mats and was told it would cost around 75 bucks. So, I saved the little money I received from a college work-study program and when the time came to pick it up, it took every bit of the seventy-seven dollars I had in my wallet. But I was thrilled. I went directly home, told John to come to the car, and gave it to him on the spot. It was only November but I couldn't wait one minute longer.

Carnton Mansion was the first "grown-up" gift I ever bought my husband and because of that it has always held a dear spot in our hearts and been featured in prominent spots in our homes.

My purchase was also a good investment, as the print is today worth about twelve times what it originally cost. Well, it would be worth that had someone (myself) put a little more thought into its current placement.

Isn't it lovely? This is how Carnton should look.

And this is what we're left with today. Four years of sunlight through the three very large, high windows in our living room has reduced it to this.

Needless to say and too late to matter much I guess, but the print will be coming down within a day or two and placed somewhere else in the house. I know it may sound super trivial but it feels almost as if we've lost a piece of our history and I feel quite sick over it.

Chocolate Gravy

Every so often I will surprise myself and cook breakfast. We're mostly a cereal and pastery family even on weekends. However, for the past few days I have been thinking it might be nice to get up one morning and make some chocolate gravy.

I remember my mother making it for me from time to time growing up and also having it at my grandparent's. I have to say I was not a huge fan of it as a child. To me, there was something a little wrong in taking a commodity as great as chocolate and putting it on an ol' biscuit.

Like many things from childhood, though, it becomes more well loved as it becomes more nostalgic.

While it's not something we would want to eat (or could eat) every weekend, we like to have it three or four times a year. So, this morning I made my family chocolate gravy. You all know there's no way I could do it any other morning of the week. I'm late to work and church everyday as it is...throw in something like cooking breakfast and I wouldn't be able to show up until noon.

Now, many of you have probably had this kind of gravy before, especially if you were raised in the south. However, if you haven't you should try it one day.

CHOCOLATE GRAVY

1/2 stick of butter

2/3 cup sugar

2 tablespoons all purpose flour

1/3 cocoa

2 cups milk

Heat butter in skillet over medium heat.

Add the sugar, flour, & cocoa in a little bowl and whisk to blend.

Then add the dry ingredients to the butter and stir. Will be clumpy.

Slowly, add the milk. Whisk to remove lumps.

Bring to a boil for just a minute, stirring constantly so it won't stick.

Remove from heat and pour over hot, buttered biscuits.

Enjoy!

Have a great weekend, y'all!

image via

because I was too busy eating my breakfast to take pictures of it. ;)

My Little White Church

No spot is so dear to my childhood
As the little brown church in the vale.

The above lyric is from the song "The Church in the Wildwood" written in 1857 by Dr. William S. Pitts. It is a song my congregation still sings from time to time and there is never a time I sing it or hear it that I fail to think of my own church. While we are not in a valley, nor are we brown, we are little and it is most definitely a dear spot from my childhood.

I have many good memories from attending church over these past 41 years but the yearly Christmas play acted out by the children of the church is among the most fond. Most years we did (and still do) some rendition of the original Christmas story. You know, that one found in Luke 2.

Now, as a youngster my favorite role to play was Mary. With a flowing nightgown and shawl, she had the best costume. Plus, Mary never had to memorize any lines (which was good because memorizing anything seemed
too much like school work to me). She just had to sit there by the manger and look good. I always thought having long brown hair, and since I was the Pastor's kid, would make me the obvious choice to play her each year. However, in the name of fairness, we had to switch it up some, so I spent my fair share of time playing an angel, too. I'm also pretty sure I played a shepherd one year - which stunk because in those days all the shepherds ever wore were bathrobes and towels on their heads, although they did get to carry some pretty cool tobacco sticks as their staffs. The wise men had it a little better. They still had to wear bathrobes, but theirs could be more brightly colored, plus they each wore a crown made from tin foil.

This year, one of the plays the kids did was an interpretation of the song "The Friendly Beasts". Ren was Mary and John-Heath was the donkey. Mary was still silent but John-Heath did have a line, which he quickly learned a few weeks ago and said with gusto...

"I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown,
"I carried His mother up hill and down;
I carried her safely to Bethlehem town."
"I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown.

Of course, he did pronounce mother as mudder, which made me think of the camp song "Hello, Mudder. Hello, Fadder".

The other little skit performed tonight was based on the song "The Christmas Guest". I love this song! It's a great song with a great meaning but I love it best when recited by Grandpa Jones, who always reminded me of my Pa Frazier. Anyway, the kids were awesome in this one, too.

In addition to the play itself, an equally fond memory from the evening of the church play is of my father standing by the door passing out sacks to everyone in attendance as they were leaving to go home. In each sack there was always an apple, an orange, and some candy. My father was raised during part of the Great Depression and has always spoke of what a treat it was at Christmas to receive even a piece of fruit, so I think this may have been what prompted him to begin doing this. We still do it to this day. It may seem insignificant but I just can't imagine the night of our Christmas play without those brown paper sacks.

P.S. The story behind the song "The Church in the Wildwood" is quite charming. You can go here to read about it or read about it in the book Then Sings My Soul Vol. 2, which tells the stories behind some of the most loved hymms.

The real Little Brown Church.

The County Fair

What one does at the county fair can often depend on the age, gender, and interests of one's children. One of these days I fancy that I might like to enter something from my garden in a contest and win myself a blue ribbon. Of course, I would probably produce something that would give Aunt Bee's pickles a run for their money.

Our county's annual fair was held this past week and and we were there on Thursday evening -first, to support Ren in her attempt at the Teen Fairest of the Fair crown and then, if he promised to be good during the pageant and sit somewhat patiently, to take John-Heath around to ride some of the rides.

Ren wore the same dress she wore in the Strawberry Festival and, although she came up a little short this time, still looked beautiful and did such a good job. A couple of my friends from school were there and one of them said that was not the Ren he knew.

She decided to go down just a smidgen in her heel height this time from low to extra low. When you're almost 5'11 you don't need a tall heel. I also chose not to spray paint these shoes gold to better match her dress as I had her old ones. I don't think it made a big difference, though.

If there's one thing I wish I had done differently, it would have been done months ago when we bought the dress. We bought it off the rack at the shoppe. I have learned since to ask the store to order one in the correct size, and not be suckered into keeping the one they have on hand. The store took a large-sized dress and said that it would be faster to just alter it to fit. Being new to the whole pageant thing I didn't think it would make a difference. It does. Even though it's a beautiful gown and looks lovely and graceful on her, it still just looks too big in some areas.

I wish I had a picture of her with her fan. The fair board gave all the girls old-fashioned "church fans" to use in an attempt to stay cool as they waited under the tent to go on (the heat index was 100+ that day). We knew how hot it would be and how much our daughter sweats (like the proverbial mule). So we purchased her a portable, battery-operated fan and it was the best $8.99 I've ever spent. Another of the girls had one just like it, too. It reminded me of something Suzanne Sugarbaker would have done.

When it was all said and done, she placed as the 2nd runner-up. Here she is with the other winners. See what I mean about the dress being a tad big?

And here she is with two of her very best friends.

And with my niece Megan - Ren's personal make-up artist. Megan has many titles and tiaras to her name, including the 2006 Fairest of the Fair.

Finally, it was time to get out of the dress and just sit back and relax while watching the Miss division of the pageant. Here's Ren with my aunt and cousin who were there to watch the pageants, too.

And, last but not least, it was John-Heath's turn to have some fun. John got him started and I caught up with them a little later. He loved the slide and rode it over and over and over and ov...

How can you go to the fair and not ride the carousel?

And since he's nuts about planes anyway, he had to give them a whirl. But I think his favorite part of the night was getting to go inside the portable command center set up by the city police. They stocked him up on plenty of sticker badges (one of which made its way onto one of my kitchen cabinets) and ID kits.

My little girl left happy. My little boy left happy. It was a good night.

P.S. I usually try to proofread before posting, but I'm tired. Getting back into the routine of things these past two days has hit me hard. I'll try to correct mistakes tomorrow. So if you should find some tonight...well, if you're as tired as I am you won't notice them. Goodnight, friends.

Summer of the Swimmer

My little water dog!

Last year, we had a choice to make - go on a vacation or purchase a pool. We decided to stay put and swim. And let me tell ya, with the heat we've been experiencing in Middle Tennessee these past few days I think we made the right call. Now, I would have loved to put in an in-ground with some fantastic landscaping (Wouldn't something like this be just too cool?), but John reminded me how permanent that would be and how there may come a day when we no longer need one (i.e. kids married and/or off at college), so we went with a large above-ground. And, again, during these suffocatingly hot days our bodies don't mind one bit that it's above sea level, so to speak.

This summer is just another reminder that my little boy is growing up, as this is his first summer to swim without the use of his vest. He absoluetly loves it and thinks he's all grown up now, what with swimming with no vest and going into the first grade. Why, he's practically ready for his driver's license.

Well, I think I need to get off the computer and get in the water. What about you? Does your family enjoy swimming in the summer?

Jumping with Renny. She loves swimming but has her limit. John-Heath, on the other hand, would stay in it from morning until bedtime if we allowed him, which makes it hard to find time to finish staining the deck.

Doing the "frog". We call it this because it is how a frog we once found in the pool looked when I tossed it out.


Taking a moment to just relax and take in some rays. Those are Ren's feet at the top of the picture.


Perfecting his cannonball.

Happy being together and not fighting - a rare sight to behold.

Fond Memories of Gunsmoke

It’s funny sometimes how seeing something crawl across the bottom of the screen on a news channel can bring back a wave of memories, leaving it to hang in the air so heavy you feel as if you have been transported back in time and all the old sights, sounds, and smells are, for a very brief moment, in the present again.

Last night, we stopped to visit with my parents for a short time, as we do many times on our way home from points south before going the final 10 miles of whatever trip we are on - Wal-Mart, Kroger, Nashville, the Gulf...

Anyway, as we sat talking and taking in a bit of the news, I noticed where actor James Arness had passed away at the age of 88. Arness, as I’m sure you all know, played Marshall Matt Dillon of CBS’ long-running show Gunsmoke.

By the time I was a preteen the show had already ended its regular run but was found in syndication. My grandparents, particularly my grandmother (Mammy Sophie), were big Gunsmoke fans. Me? Not so much at the time.

In our area, the series came on every night at 10:30 immediately following the local ten o’clock news on WTVF, or as we locals just call it, Channel 5. This was before cable when most televisions could only pick up three channels. Ours were 2,4,and 5. And, if you were really lucky your antenna or little set of rabbit ears might be able to capture channel 17, too.

Many times Pa would have already helped my grandmother to her bed (they had separate rooms) earlier in the evening with strict instructions to get her up again when it was time for all her favorite characters from Dodge City to return. And they would sit in their favorite chairs for the next hour watching Marshall Dillon deliver his brand of frontier justice to the likes of Charles Bronson, Victor French, and Eric Braeden.

Even though as a youngster spending nights at their house I would have rather been watching something else, like maybe Friday Night Videos, what I wouldn’t give to sit through another episode with Mammy, gone since 1988, and Pa, since 2000, just one more time? We really do fail to realize just how precious some moments are - until they are no more.

I Was an Abacist (a.k.a. The Post in Which I Talk a Lot About My Friend Angie)

That's right. I was. And I was only 6 years old!

Actually, I didn't know until today that someone who uses an abacus - that old fashioned calculator - even had a name. An abacist. I don't know about you but that almost sounds naughty or, at least, unhealthy. This one was a gift from my friend Angie. She and I went to school together, graduated together, and now we teach school together smack dab across the hall from each other. If my memory is correct we even had a college class or two together before she transferred to another school. Years ago when they were trashing surplusing a lot of old stuff she managed to save this little gem from an uncertain future. I can't be 100% positive as to if it's the same one, but it's identical to one we had in our first grade class (Angie and I were in the same 1st grade class).

Miss Ruth Carter was our teacher. She was a good teacher and even though she spanked me because I didn't know how to use a broom correctly (Angie did and was asked by Miss Ruth to demonstrate), I always thought her a kindly woman. I believe ours was her last class before she retired.

To have been only six at the time I do remember a lot from that year. Some of my best memories include...

using the abacus, of course

Miss Ruth's pantsuits

being amazed at how fast Angie could finish a math assignment

Tracy L. taking his glass eyeball out for everyone to see

casting votes on the board in our classroom in a mock presidential election. I voted for Ford. I felt to not vote for the sitting president would somehow be disrespectful.

learning how to sweep

One last thing about Angie...with only one house between us, she's my neighbor.

Sometimes They Call Me Twyla

You know it must be a slow news day when you blog about your name but here goes. A new friend, Heather over at Love and Life at Leadora, was a little curious about mine.

It is somewhat unusual I guess. For years I was the only Tyla I knew. In fact, I thought I was the only one. On the planet. Ever! Then a friend got a computer that was hooked up to this thingy called the Internet and told me you could find just about anything on it. You could even search for people.

So one evening I sat at my friend's computer and, in the process of trying to locate my long lost friend Ursula, I decided on a whim to type my name in the search window. I was shattered. Really, people. I almost cried. I wasn't the only Tyla. In fact, there are thousands of us out there.

How could this be? I was always (and still am) the most average person you'd ever meet. I wasn't a straight A student. I wasn't an athlete. I had done nothing incredible. In fact, the only thing special about me was my name. And now it wasn't even special.

My mother's friend, Ms. Effie, is the lady responsible for my moniker. She herself the bearer of a great name had read the name "Tyla" in a novel and suggested it to my mom and the rest, as they say, is history.

Over the years 91% of people have mispronounced it when first addressing me. It is pronounced Tie-la, with the 'a' in 'la' having a short 'u' sound, as you would hear in luck or duck. A few, like a former, legendary, beloved boss, never pronounced it correctly. Ever. He, as so many others, called me Twyla. Our first phone conversation went something like this...

Mr. Brown: Hello. Twyla?

Me: Yes, this is Tyla.

Mr. Brown: Twyla, this is Mr. Brown at your hometown school. I have a 3rd grade spot up here if you want to come teach for me.

Me: Oh, yes. I would love to teach for you.

Mr. Brown: Well, okay then, Twyla. Now, I'll need the spelling of your name and your social security number. So, how do you spell that?

Me: Well, Mr. Brown, it's Tyla. T.y.l.a. Tyla.

Mr. Brown: Okay, then, Twyla. We're glad to have you. Just come on up and stop by the school when you get a chance.

Me: Thank you, Mr. Brown.

Mr. Brown: Sure thing, Twyla. We'll see you in a day or two.

Bless his heart, he never did call me by my actual name but I didn't care. He was an awesome boss!

Today, it seems I'm everywhere. I'm the Texas Young Lawyers' Association, an English rock musician, a sophisticated line of bikini wear, and now...wait for it...a Bratz!

I am Tyla and you'll be happy to know I finally found my long lost friend Ursula. She's alive and well and living somewhere really cold!

So Long, 2010!

So here we are on the cusp of another new year. Do you all celebrate this night in a big way or keep it more low key? New Year’s is John’s least favorite holiday so we usually just hang out at home or visit with some family to play cards (I adore playing cards, even though I kinda stink at it).

Tonight we’ll be partying at home with John-Heath. Ren has plans and will be spending the night with a friend, so it’s just the three of us.

I don’t know about you but I always face the dawning of a new year with a bit of apprehension, especially if the year has been a good one. Will 2011 be as kind to us as 2010? We didn’t win the Publisher’s Clearing House or anything like that (though I did read in the paper yesterday where a lady in a neighboring town won $15,000 from them and that was all the incentive my mom needed to keep buying their magazines) but we are still all together, and that’s what matters most.

So on this, the last day of 2010, I thought I would look back and remember the events that made this year special and jot down something new that each of us did this year. And by the way, this will need to take the place of the Christmas letter that I never got around to sending. Sorry about that, people in my address book. I foresee a resolution needing to be made.

John began the process of returning his family’s farm to its former glory. A few years before he passed away, John’s father, in poor health, leased out the land. It went through a few different people. Some were good tenants. Some weren’t so good. But none looked after it like my father-n-law had always done. For the first time in a hundred years no cattle roam our fields. This is a needed step in rejuvenating the land, which was over-grazed. We all are looking forward to the time when a herd at Dunroamin will be re-established.

My daughter Ren became a member of her high school football team, in the form of water girl extraordinaire. She absolutely loved it and can’t wait until practice for the new season begins. About a month ago the school held a football banquet and, as we were making our way to the banquet table, I leaned in and asked John if he could have guessed a year ago that we would be attending a FOOTBALL banquet so soon.

John-Heath began kindergarten this year. He too loves it. I kinda think he already thinks of himself as big man on campus. No wait. He thinks that of himself when he is visiting my school, the middle school. He’s in pretty thick with my bosses and thinks of himself as part of the administrative team, and he’s even got a tie and a walkie-talkie to prove it. You know that scene in one of the Austin Powers’ movies? The one where Dr. Evil creates a clone? Well, that’s what I think of when my son and assistant principal stand side by side (not to say that my AP is evil, though). I shall call him mini-me.

As for me, I guess my one new thing this year would be blogging. It’s become a very enjoyable hobby and I hope to continue. I can’t say it’s brought me fame and fortune, but it has allowed me to “meet” many great gals and, let’s not forget, it did render two sets of gorgeous dinnerware, which was awesome!!!!

I hope each of you has a wonderful, happy and safe new year!

Ren Van de Kamp

Ren presenting a project in one of her classes this year. Doesn't she look so Breeish in that apron?

If you know me personally you know that I was quite the spoiled child growing up. And if you don’t know me personally but have read even a few of my posts, you are probably clued in by now, as well.

Before I continue let me clarify what I mean and what I don’t mean by spoiled. The kind of spoiling my parents did was not with $$$. Unlike many kids today (including a certain lad of five I know) who feel entitled to something each and every time their dear mom or dad has to drop by some market for a gallon of milk, I wasn’t treated to toys or candy every time we went walked through the doors of the Big K or TG&Y. By the way, I realize I have clearly dated myself with the stores mentioned above. If you are younger than 30 you are probably thinking, “What the heck is a TG&Y? Some kind of yogurt shop?”.

I was spoiled another way. Because hers was a hard childhood, my mom wanted to make sure mine was easy. And it was! (In my mind I just sounded like Forrest Gump saying that.) She did absolutely everything for me. I rarely, if ever, made a bed or dusted or helped with cooking. My closets and drawers were magical places where pairs of socks and jeans routinely replaced themselves. I cannot recall even one time that I was without several clean changes of clothes. Come to think of it, I don’t even think I ever saw the bottom of any drawer in my dresser. And the same held true for towels. Never did I have to use an old, damp towel. Not only were there always plenty on hand, they were IRONED.

I did help with the dishes once. I was about 16 and my father was unhappy that I never offered to help out and seemed unappreciative of all my mom’s hard work. So, he was determined one evening that I would wash the supper dishes. As I recall, he even stood over me (or close by) with a certain leather strap, aka The Belt, in hand. Swallowing hard and bravely forcing my hand into the DIRTY DISH WATER, I pulled up what I thought to be the rag and there, draped over my dainty, clearly not-meant-for-manual-labor fingers, was a slimy tomato slice. I have been told that my eyes rolled back in my head and I passed out on the spot! If you want a clearer mental picture of how this would have looked just watch/remember the scene in Stand By Me where Gordie finds the leech. I was never again asked or made to do the dishes.

Yes, I led a charmed life. And it was fabulous! But then I went and got hitched. And for a while, I was found to be somewhat lacking in the domestication department.

Luckily for Ren, I am not as loving and caring a woman as my mother was. She cleans her own room and bathroom, helps with laundry, and is not afraid to fix something to eat should hunger pains strike.

One of our favorite shows to watch together is Desperate Housewives and a favorite thing to do while watching is to laugh about which character(s) we are most alike. Ren loves Gabby’s style but has said she would one day like to be like Bree, minus the dysfunctional family. Seems, according to my daughter, I am a mixture of Susan (who doesn’t cook) and Lynette (easily exasperated with her husband and offspring) and, give it a year or two, Ms. McCluskey.

Have a great weekend, everyone. I am Tyla and I am in the market for a housekeeper. Just kidding. But it would be awesome if I had someone to do my floors. I can pay in peanuts, with cashews thrown in for those willing to do baseboards.

My Daddy

Years ago at a yard sale my family was having at my sister's house I overheard my mother talking to a neighbor lady who had stopped by to browse our fine, bargain-priced castoffs.

At some point the conversation turned to relationships between parents and children and my mother described how my sister and I felt (and still feel) about our dad in the following way. Pointing at a backyard building she said, "If their father said that building could fly they would see the wings on it."

My mother wasn't too far from the truth. There have been few times that I have doubted my father and most of those times were as a teen when I wanted to doubt him, but somehow knew down deep he was probably right.

My father is, as my husband has said to me many times, my moral compass. And as the Bible is his moral compass I feel I am being led in the right direction, not that there haven't been times in my life when I have set aside this invaluable tool.

"Remember, God loves everyone the same. Don't ever think you're better than someone. You are no better than anyone else. You're just as good as anyone too" AND "Be nice to everyone. You never know when that person you think you don't like is there to help you out one day" OR "At least it's paid for" are just some of the mini lessons taught to me at various stages of my life - that last one referring to a 1956 two-tone brown Chevy truck he purchased new of which I was morbidly embarrassed to be seen in when I reached those teen years. It wasn't so new then.

So, here's a few lines about the man I know as Daddy.

Married my mother May 31, 1951.

Yielded his heart to Jesus many years ago and never looked back.


Daddy to two girls, grandpa to five, and great-grandpa to two more.

Always there for me, even when it would have been easier not to be.

Driven to do good.



Generous to a fault.

Eyes of blue (something passed on to my sister)

Navigational beacon in our family.

Eater of all things sweet (something he passed on to me unfortunately)


Happy Father's Day, Daddy! I am thankful, honored, and proud to be your little girl.

A Milestone

Today, my little boy, my sweet-as-a-pickle baby boy turned 5. I can't believe these years have gone by so quickly. Because everyone has been busy this week with VBS at church we're having a party for him on Saturday with family. He is soooo excited. I'll post pictures from that night for sure.

For tonight I just wanted to write down a very brief, somewhat humorous story from the day he was born.

During the entire length of my pregnancy with John-Heath the doctor was unable to detect his sex. And, due to some initial health issues, there were many opportunities. However, the kid just wasn't giving anything up. The closest we came was a time when a tech went somethig like, "Oh, wait. I thought I saw som...nevermind." That was it. Not really the evidence one is looking for prior to painting a room blue.

Of course, we wanted a healthy baby and its sex didn't matter as long as it was healthy. But, down deep, I was hoping for a boy. We had a girl. It would be nice to have one of each.

The day of the delivery, which was a scheduled c-section by the way, did not go as smoothly as I remembered from having Ren (who also ended up being born via c-section). For one thing, I don't remember the catheter being as uncomfortable in 1995 as it was ten years later. In fact, I remember thinking, "Heyyyy. This not having to get up to go to the bathroom is pretty cool." It was much less cool the second go around. Another thing - I was in a private room the entire time prior to Ren's birth. With John-Heath, because I was a scheduled c-section, they had me in some sort of semi-private prep room. And, because of some emergency deliveries, etc. my 10:00 a.m. delivery time got pushed back past 2:30. So there I sat... in a room that turned out to be less than private because they put another lady in there with me (a very loud lady, who didn't mind letting everyone in the entire wing know any time she had a pain) with a not so cool catheter that I wanted to yank out.

And, on top of everything, once I was taken in to the O R for the C-section it took FOREVER to get the spinal block to take. I don't know. Maybe it was my age but I was much more jumpy and nervous this time around. Of course, it could have also been that loud woman who made me more nervous.

But it all turned out okay and at the end of the day I had my little boy. And this is how that announcement went...

Dr. Caldwell: What did you say you have now? A girl?

Me: Yes. I have a daughter.

Dr. Caldwell: Well, now you have a son.

Me: Reeeealllly? A boy? -pause- Are you sure?

Dr. Caldwell: Well, he's got a penis. I'm pretty sure.

Happy birthday, baby boy! Mommy loves you!

H -or- Why I Think My Son May One Day Be President

I have had an epiphany. My son will be president. Yes, I know that's a bold statement to make about a boy who is only four. But isn't that what an epiphany is - a sudden perception of the essential meaning of something through events simple or striking?

John-Heath is having trouble writing his letters. He knows them all. He knows the sounds they all make. Ask him a word and he can give you the sound its first letter makes and tell you the letter. But he is just not good at writing them. There are two reasons for this (well, three, if you count the fact that we don't work with him on it like we should).

1.) He's a lefty. John and I are righties. It is hard to model the correct way to hold a pencil or form letters to a lefty when one is a righty.

2.) He has a tee-tiny attention span for things such as this. You know the line in the Bible that speaks of having faith like the grain of a mustard seed? Well, that's how much of an attention span John-Heath has.

The other night John and I were talking about this. We have told John-Heath that if he does not learn to, at least, write his name correctly then he will have to stay back in Pre-K another year. This causes great consternation for him..."But then I would be with the babies." Of course, he won't really have to stay back in Pre-K but we thought a little fear might make him more motivated to learn. Anyway, John said that we may just have to settle for John (or even J-H) for now and add the -Heath later. I commented that people who name their sons Bo and their daughters Lu are smart. Can you imagine naming a child something like Maximillian Bartholomew? Whew! Kindergarten would be a nightmare.

Ah, yes. Getting back to that epiphany. While reading the card the kids gave me for Mother's Day I noticed that John-Heath had simply signed his name H. I'm pretty sure he did this on his grandmother's card too. And it hit me. H. John H. Creasy. You know, kinda like W.

Now you may be thinking, "John-Heath? President?". But just how many of our presidents were nice, polite little children? Weren't most quite active and inquisitive and just plain handfuls for their mothers, grandmothers, or nannies?

If these truths (and my epiphany) hold up to be self-evident then, who knows, one of these days clerks from a previous administration may be taking the H's off all the computer keyboards in the White House. We'll just have to wait and see.

For his part he has already put in some practice for his future role. During the last presidential campaign he was a keen viewer of the television ads and took them as his opportunity to stand high atop a plastic tub behind the kitchen counter and declare, "I Rock ObaNa and I PROVE this message."