I’m no scientist but even I know a life without some good vittles can drag on and on. I’ve traveled places where a person couldn’t get a hot biscuit with a wallet full of dong (Vietnamese currency). A meal of wild boar, cooked but not skinned, sure seemed to last an eternity.

To the casual observer I may not look it but, in truth, I’m actually a very health-conscious woman. I begin every morning with weight-lifting exercises. Yep. That’s right. I crawl out of bed. Then, I sup on an energy-boosting drink: coffee with a hit of Irish Crème. At least 5 times a week, I crank up the treadmill and hit the rubber running.  I follow that with 300 to 400 crunchies. Yet, in spite of such a Bustamonte workout, I could easily qualify as one of those pathetic souls in need of an “extreme makeover.” 

My mate, however, was born with the metabolism of a South American soccer team. Tim could eat all the fried food in Alabama and not gain a pound. At age 45, he wears the same size pants that he did when he was 25. When he wants to cut back, Tim eats one pound bags of Reese’s Pieces instead of two. Yet, he’s so athletic-looking that a man actually stopped him in the grocery store the other day, searching for an autograph.

“Excuse me, sir. You look an awful lot like John Stockton,” the fellow said. “Stockton is my wife’s favorite player. Are you …”
”No,’ Tim replied. “I’m his older brother.” 

“You’re kidding, right?” the fellow said. “About being older?” 
”I’m kidding about being related to Stockton, but not about being older. I’m several years older than Stockton is,” Tim replied.

“NO WAY!” the man said. “You sure don’t look it.” 

Girls lucky enough to land Tim for a teacher are always getting crushes on him. They are shocked to learn he has four kids – in college.

The last time somebody told me I looked like a celebrity was right after Martha Stewart was indicted on federal charges. Apparently, I possess that certain haggard, frazzled look common to women who forgo chocolate for cucumbers.

After living 25 years with skinny little Jack Sprat, I’m convinced that Dr. Spindler’s findings are accurate. Thin people probably do live longer. And, if my husband’s any proof, they sure look younger. 

However, that’s not necessarily the result of caloric restriction. Tim doesn’t take in fewer calories than me. His body simply metabolizes calories differently. Yet, in the sake of health, I’ve cut back. After all, doctors claim just losing 10 pounds can drastically improve one’s health and potentially lengthen one’s life. 

Still, I’m still not convinced a life void of barbecue ribs and mess of snap beans is worth living. Cover me in grits but bury me with my biscuits, please. 
 

Because I consider shingles to be a private health issue, akin to say a hemorrhoid flare- ups, I am not going to divulge this particular historian's full name. I'll just call him Mr. Dan. 

I swear by my laptop (not an unusual event) that this intellectual claimed he came down with a debilitating case of shingles twice in his lifetime and both times it was due to politics, specifically, conservative politics. 

"The first time was in November, 2000, when Bush was elected. 

The second time was in March, 2003, when Bush decided to invade Iraq," Mr. Dan said. 

Recognizing a pattern of illness, this fellow's physician inquired, "Dan, have you been under any undue stress?" 

"Boy, have I!" Mr. Dan replied. "I'm absolutely enraged by this administration!" 

Without any prompting whatsoever from the conference moderator, Mr. Dan continued to lambaste President Bush, Republicans as a whole and conservatives in particular. Mr. Dan said he was so fed up with Bush's foreign policy and his decision to invade Iraq that he and his wife had considered moving out of the good ole USA, "which we love dearly." 

He never did fully explain what's stopped him from making the move, but apparently it isn't family ties. 
Mr. Dan told the audience he hadn't spoken to his sister since he'd gotten into a shouting match with her during the last family reunion. Over politics, of course. 

"My family is notoriously conservative," he explained. Mr. Dan is a flaming liberal. 

Politics has put good people at crosshairs with one another long before anyone used the terms liberals and conservatives. 

Perhaps the most infamous brawl occurred in 1856 when Preston Brooks, a delegate to the South Carolina House of Representatives, barged into the office of Massachusetts Senator Charles Sumner and proceeded to beat the man about the head with his cane. Brooks was disgruntled over a speech Sumner had given on the Senate floor regarding the issue of slavery. Sumner was put to bed for nearly a year and never did fully recover. Brooks, on the other hand, was lauded for his boldness and dozens of Southerners sent him elaborate canes to replace the one he broke whoopin' up on Sumner. 

I was reminded of Brooks' frighteningly irrational behavior as Mr. Dan continued his diatribe of "us" and "them" semantics. He finally summed things up by referring to popular conservative columnist Ann Coulter as "a moron." 

For the record, I am no fan of Ms. Coulter or her brand of inflammatory journalism. Truth is, I'm not a fan of any sort of media that seeks to divide and conquer. 

And that's what I stood up and told Mr. Dan at the end of the session. I told him about a visit I made last year to a national museum in Vietnam. Located in Hanoi, the facility is directly across the street from the last remaining statue of Lenin. Hundreds of school children, all with red scarves tied about their necks, were run through the museum during my hour-long visit. Each child marched past a black-and-white photograph of American anti-war demonstrators, taken during the 1960s. Underneath was a caption that read: American Progressives fight against the American Aggressors war in Vietnam. 

"Sometimes we are our own worst enemies," I said. "The Vietnamese people don't harbor anger over war the way we Americans do." 

"That's probably because they do yoga or something," Mr. Dan remarked, wryly. 

Perhaps, but I suspect we could all avoid a bad case of the shingles this election year if political pundits spent less time angrily pontificating about our differences and more time pensively pondering our similarities. 

     I’ll spare you the gory details with this exception; I gave birth that day to two babies. The  first, Shelby, was born in the hallway, near the nurses’ station. Her identical twin, Ashley, was born several minutes later in the delivery room. I distinctly recall those moments as the most out-of-control 13 minutes of my life. My husband would echo that sentiment, I’m sure.

     Understandably, the last 22 years have flown by in a frenzy of familial events, not the least of which has been a bevy of birthday celebrations. By their first birthday the girls were walking but not yet ready to let go of their infancy entirely. They nursed several times a day. If you’ve never witnessed a woman nursing multiples you’ve missed out on one of Creation’s most practical triumphs. It ain’t an easy task, let me tell you. But as it turns out, feeding the girls and keeping them cozy and clean was the most burdensome part of raising them. 

     They have enriched my life in all the usual ways. Like mothers the world over, I have a drawer stuffed with colorful hand-drawn cards, my favorite of which reads: “You’re the best mom, love your dotter.” But it’s in the unusual untold ways that Ashley and Shelby have truly made me strive to be a better woman. 

      I’d grown up battling my own mama at every turn. I half-expected them to do the same. I consciously prepared myself for that day when one or the other flew into a rage and declared: “I HATE YOU!” I assumed it to be a rite-of-passage for all mothers of teenage girls. If so, it’s a moment I was spared.

      I remember the first curse word I ever said in front of my mama. I made a cake one afternoon and when my brother and his buddies came in from a day of harassing the neighbors, they wolfed the whole thing down. When Mama got home from work that night, she asked what I’d done with the cake.
       "Those damn boys ate it!” I yelled.

       Mama laughed at me for swearing. That was probably a mistake. Ashley and Shelby are forever admonishing me about my “potty mouth.” Despite having grown up in a society where the f-word is routinely used as an adjective, I’ve never heard either girl swear. Ashley and Shelby carry themselves with grace and dignity at all times. I envy them that. 

        They’ve made other smart choices, as well. Hard choices. No sex, no drugs, no alcohol. Sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it? It’s certainly not something I modeled for them, which is why I admire their decisions all the more. 
       About the biggest problem they’ve encountered to date has been figuring out who they are and what they have to contribute to the world. Above all else, my girls want to leave the world a better place than they found it. To that end, both plan to pursue post-graduate educations. Ashley in law. Shelby in creative writing.

      Back in 1982, when I learned I was pregnant with twins, a female family member callously remarked, “That’s the last thing you need.” As it turns out, it was exactly what I needed.

    Ashley and Shelby have taught me what it’s like to be a woman unencumbered by wrong choices. 

    It’s a freedom lesson of a different sort. One taught this old broad by her Independence babies. 
 

By the time the organist struck the chorus of “I Surrender All,” every man, woman or child within earshot was heaving, rather loudly, under a burden of guilt and fear. Only the most decadent, eternally lost souls would dare leave the church without first plunging to the altar and washing themselves under the cleansing blood of Jesus.

I was no exception.

But that’s exactly why I won’t be joining the masses flocking to Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11. I have long sense wearied of the alarmist approach to matters of life and death and elections. 

There’s no denying the man is talented. A visionary, if you will. A persuasive yarn-spinner. And you know what sets apart the best of storytellers? They never let facts get in the way. 

Frankly, I think Michael Moore and his ilk are far more of a threat to this nation than any would-be terrorists. Propaganda in any form is still propaganda. The only difference between Moore's version and Bush's version is who stands to benefit from it. So far, Moore has garnered over $21 million, whereas, Bush may lose an election. 

Moore would make a swell revival circuit preacher if John Kerry should ever decide to run for Messiah. Unfortunately, that position has already been claimed by several different candidates, too. 

Frankly, we’ve all got problems enough trying to determine who’ll be the next president standing. The last thing we need is Hollywood’s intellectuals (an oxymoron if there ever was one) spinning “information” for us.

What worries me most about Fahrenheit 9/11 is the terrific leap of faith so many people are willing to take in order to ascribe some underlying familial or financial connection between Bush and Osama Bin Laden. 

These are the very same people who can stand on a mountaintop in Aspen on a clear day and declare amidst all the beauty surrounding them that the earth is just a random act of combustion. There’s no such thing as a Creator. 

Go figure.

For the record, I am opposed to the war in Iraq. As the daughter of a soldier killed in action, I understand something about the cost of freedom. Our family continues to pay that tab. 

I am also what political pundits call “a swing voter.” I supported Bush in the last election. I will not support him in this one. But I did not change my mind because of Moore’s myth-making. 

I can’t support Bush because he lacks good judgment. How else do you explain Rumsfeld and Cheney? 

Lose the losers y’all, and I might reconsider my vote.

Until then, like so many of my other fellow Americans I’m left to ponder, how is it that in this great nation of ours we got stuck with Bush and Kerry as our only two viable choices? 

This election year is like a joke gone bad, really bad.

Perhaps the hosts of heaven will yet grant us some mercy in that sweet November bye-and-bye to come. 

But s a person of faith, like Governor McGreevey, I've struggled with the moral and spiritual implications facing gays. I suppose every creator has to abide by certain standards and the Bible is full of them. Some are easy to dismiss, such as the one about "the man who commits adultery with another man's wife, the adulterer and adulteress shall be put to death." The gutters of Hollywood, and even Wentzville, Illinois, would be streaming with blood if that passage was considered as sacrosanct as "if a man lies with another man the way he lies with a woman, they shall be put to death."

That's one of those things I don't rightly understand: Why is it midstream Americans are so prone to embrace some biblical principles more vehemently than others?

Not surprisingly, McGreevey's confession that he's gay, and that he'd cheated on his wife, and jeopardized the governor's office, has polarized people.

Some say it shouldn't matter if he's gay, as long as he does his job well, he shouldn't have to resign. Others say, the deceitfulness displayed by McGreevey, who pretended, or perhaps struggled, to be a manly man, proves he
is unfit for office. And still others say that McGreevey showed real leadership by finally admitting to God and everybody that he's a gay American.

"Coming out is a deeply personal journey and Governor McGreevey today showed enormous courage," said Steven Fisher, a spokesman for the Human Rights Campaign, which advocated for gay and lesbian causes.

There's no question in my mind that McGreevey has struggled with his own sexual identity. I suspect that's not only because he's a politician, but because he's a professing Catholic.

Having never been tempted as he has, I'm reluctant to cast any stones. But my gut tells me that what Fisher says about McGreevey showing enormous courage just ain't right. If this were 1950, or even 1980, I could understand why McGreevey felt the need to hide his homosexuality behind the skirts of two wives. But in an era of Will & Grace, I am flummoxed by his decisions to marry, twice, or why he felt it was okay to father two children and include them in this tangled web.

The way I see it, McGreevey's belated admissions are anything but courageous. I think if he could've figured out a way to continue to lead his double-life, he would've. But once he got caught with his pants down, so to speak, McGreevey could no longer run from his own true self. Sadly, his family that will bear the biggest brunt of his behavior.

McGreevey ought to be ashamed. Not for being a gay American, but because his real sin is being such a dishonest cad.

The Wild West is the perfect place for a bragger'n swagger candidate. And just like old Doc Holliday, Cheney came to town with both barrels drawn.

"This election could not come at a more crucial time," he told a roaring, standing-room only crowd gathered at Pendleton's Convention Center. Citing the 9-11 Commissions' report, Cheney noted that America's new enemies (read the same old terrorists) are "sophisticated, patient, disciplined and lethal."

But no need to fret (which begs the question of why bring it up in the first place), as long as Bush and Cheney are around. The two of them aren't the sort of fellows who are going to twiddle their thumbs waiting on some international posse to show up.

"We will never seek a permission slip to defend the United States!" Cheney promised The wrangler-clad crowd shouted back their approval: "U.S.A.! U.S.A.!"

Wearing a cowpie-eating grin, Cheney took a few moments to chaw on Kerry's voting records. "A senator can be wrong for 20 years without consequences to a nation, but a president casts the deciding vote."

Then, he tossed out some fighting words, the duke'em out till someone drops sort. "Senator Kerry's liveliest disagreements are with himself," Cheney said. "Kerry says he sees two Americas. Well, that makes the whole thing
mutual because America sees two John Kerrys."

"Flip-flop! Flip-flop!" cried the ready-to-lynch'em mob.

Perhaps the real problem for the girlie-man from Massachusetts is that he just doesn't understand the mind of terrorists the way Bush and Cheney claim to. "Terrorist activities are not caused by the presence of strength but by the perception of weakness," Cheney boasted. Again the crowd roared.

All and all, the event was full of everything you'd expect from a traveling road show - a bunch of hooting and hollering, some pretty fine women and crazy wild men, deputies wearing cowboy boots and toting guns, and grandpas and grandmas proudly waving red-white-and-blue flags.

There was even a country western tune blaring in the background, although I wonder if anyone paid attention to the lyrics of Pat Green's song, Wave on Wave. It goes like this: "Mile upon mile, got no direction. We're all playin' the same game. We're all lookin' for redemption . So caught up in pretendin' that what we're seekin is the truth. I'm just lookin' for a happy endin'."

extra-marital affair for several years. I had seen the writing on the wall and on the toilet stalls and on the backs of the couple's financial statements. I repeatedly encouraged my girlfriend to throw in the towel, the

dishrag, and a hot iron skillet directly at the louse's head.
 

But she'd married for better or for worse and as far as she was concerned it couldn't get much worse, might as well hang in there. If you ask me, she'd have been better off if she'd simply hanged him out to dry.
 

In her dazed state, my girlfriend, an only child, ran home to her mama.  Seeking the comfort of a mother's embrace is certainly a natural enough  thing for a gal to do in times of duress. But in this case, my girlfriend's mama was otherwise occupied.
 

"C'mere, honey," her mama said, patting the bed.
 

It seemed like an innocent enough gesture. A mother reaching out to console her grief-stricken daughter.
 

"I've something to tell you. I'm getting married."
 

My childhood pal didn't know whether to laugh, cry or spit. So she did all three -- at once. You might, too, if your mama announced at age 84 that she was marrying a man of 94.
 

Sensitivity has never been this mother's strong point. She went on to say that her new beau had tried to French kiss her and she had accidentally bit his tongue. Ewww!!! Yuk!!! I know. I know. Too much information.
 

One thing I can say for her mama's approach. It did get my girlfriend's mind off her own sorry situation.
 

"Blame it on Viagra," I said.
 

My girlfriend laughed.
 

"Seriously," I protested. "This is a dangerous new terror that threatens the very structure of family life as we know it."
 

Frankly, I'm kinda of surprised Viagra wasn't a topic of discussion during the recent presidential debates:
 

MODERATOR: Senator Kerry, recent polls indicate that Viagra is responsible for the uprisings in retirement facilities throughout the nation. If elected president, how will you address this problem?
 

SENATOR KERRY: This is a problem?
 

PRESIDENT BUSH: Viagra is a rising threat to Homeland Security. I've asked Rumsfeld to personally handle it. Rest assured, we will provide blanket protection to each and every American threatened by this insidious evil.
 

I don't know about you, but I sure feel better knowing that at least one candidate has a grip on all of this.

Telephone pollsters keep calling.

"Who will you vote for president– Kerry or Bush?" they implore.

"I don’t wanna! I don’t wanna!" I cry back. "And you can't make me."

One pollster actually laughed. Who knew they had a sense of humor?

I’m a registered Republican, so you’d think the choice would be easy. What’s to debate? I’m a middle-class, aging, married woman. I don’t fancy to new things too well. I like the Republican party’s mantra: "The Way We Were." It’s as if the party is stuck in an Ozzie and Harriet rerun. Nothing is ever too unpleasant. As long as men work and women stay home and children obey and nobody’s gay or poor or sick, the world is a happy place.

That’s the nauseating part.

Because, of course, Republicans are living in a world in which there are gay people, and people, old and young, in need of medical care, and middle-aged mortgage-bearers without jobs. And those are just the problems here at Home Sweet Home.

Add to that equation, the godless, shameless, gargantuan list of evildoers, it sure makes sense to have a president who isn’t afraid to play a game of whupass when need be, doesn’t it?

That’s the other thing nauseating me.

I’ve never had much of a stomach for games that involve blood and guts. No doubt my weak stomach is the result of being the daughter of a soldier killed in action. It takes a helluva lot of resolve to stand at the graveside of one dead soldier – much less a thousand of them.

But what is really churning me up is that given Bush’s obvious leadership flaws – marching us headlong into war, alienating international partners along the way, and trying to mold his own set of absolutes into some moral compass for a nation – the best candidate the Democrats could come up with is John Kerry?

OHMYACHINGGUT.

A recent article about Kerry noted: "If Mr. Kerry is elected he and his wife will be the richest couple to ever live in the White House." (New York Times, Sunday, Oct. 10).

Now, I ain’t got nothing against rich folks, even if I did grow up in a 12 x 60, propped up on cinder blocks. I wasn’t the first person impoverished as the result of losing a father in war. And, sadly, I won’t be the last.

Fact is, I wouldn’t mind being rich myself one day. But, right now I have four kids in college, so relating to a man who gets to the ski slopes by helicopter is difficult.

Don’t even get me started on Kerry’s war record. I applaud his service, meager as it was, at least he went. Lucky for his daughters, he got to come home.

My friends, many of them Democrats, keep encouraging me to hold my nose and vote for Kerry. I’m inclined to do it, simply because the thought of four more years of Bush’s apocalyptic mindset terrifies me.

But I got a feeling that holding my nose and voting for Kerry ain’t gonna help alleviate this ache in my gut one bit.

It took Tim half-an-hour to unload the car and me an hour to put it all away. That doesn't even begin to count the untold hours it's going to take to cook it all. I'm worn out just thinking about it.
 

That noontime meal the local community college sponsors for the homeless or the hungry is looking better by the minute. If I can talk everyone into volunteering next year, it might be worth it.
 

OHMYGOSH! I just remembered. Who'll do the dishes? That's the other thing Tim and I never worry about now that the kids are all grown up. Since I don't cook and he doesn't eat, our clean up consists of stacking diet-coke cans and lining up the Snapple bottles. On those rare occasions when I do cook it's always because someone is coming over, or someone has passed on.
 

You might be surprised to learn how easy and appealing it is to be lazy. There was a time when Tim and I ate in shifts because we had so many kids to tend to. Dinner was a dreaded daily chore. While I nursed the twins, Tim would fix Top Ramen for our son. Then, he'd rock the twins while I ate a can of minestrone soup. And I'd put the kids to bed while Tim finished off Stephan's noodles and my soup.
 

There are benefits to our new lifestyle. Coffee doesn't have many calories, even if half the cup is creamer. And we shun most fast-food joints, so we eat a lot more raw goods. Nuts. Fruits. Cheetos.
 

I suppose if we lived in Israel we might even walk out the backyard and scoop up a handful of locusts for dinner. According to a news report, Israel is experiencing its worst locust invasion in 45 years. The varmints have come in droves, devouring every palm leaf in reach.
 

Self-declared prophets have long identified locust invasions as a God-sent plague. Poor God, always getting the bad rap. But neveryoumind, those Jewish folks aren't about to be intimidated by black clouds of creepy-crawly things. In their typical chutzpah way, they are making the best of a bad situation by collecting the bugs and taking them home for supper. "Delicious," said one Israeli man, licking his lips after picking up a locust and eating it raw. "They're a delicacy fit for a king."
 

There's even a web site that offer recipes such as locust shish-kebab, locust chips, and stir-fried locust. Those more experienced than me in these matters say it's essential to cook the insects while they're still

breathing, otherwise they taste bitter. Who knew there was a test kitchen for this sort of thing?
 

And no need to worry about the religious aspects of eating locust.  According to Jewish tradition, the locust is the only type of insect that is kosher and permissible for consumption. Guess that means fried green grasshoppers don't qualify, heh?
 

Well, no matter what's on your plate this Thanksgiving, I wish you and your family a blessed day.

She was a smallish gal, not even tall enough to reach the car's hood.

But her bark was piercing, like a Chihuahuas.

"You failed to yield to oncoming traffic at the intersection of Auburn Way," she announced sharply.

"That's because I thought the guy in the truck had stopped to allow me to pass, " I replied. Bumper-to-bumper traffic is not uncommon along the four-lane road. Sometimes, a gentle soul will back out of an intersection and allow others to yield. I had apparently mistaken backed-up traffic for a generous gesture.

"Where you headed?" the Officer yelped.

"Hermiston, Oregon."

Even though there was plenty of light of day, the officer held a flashlight in my eyes.

"Did you know the people in the van you were following so closely?" she quizzed.

"What van?" I asked. "I don't recall even seeing a van, much less following one too closely."

Again the beam of the flashlights dilating my pupils.

"I need your driver's license, registration and current insurance," she demanded.

"I'm getting it, hon," I answered as sweetly as I could. There is an old joke about how southern women can say anything they want as long as they say it sweetly. "Idin't that nice?" is simply charm school colloquialism for the Yankee's more direct "ain't that a bitch?" I didn't go to charm school but I'm a quick study. I thought being demure would get the barking bitch outta my face.

I was wrong.

"WHY DID YOU CALL ME HON?"

"I'm from Georgia. I call everybody hon," I answered, honestly. "Besides I just figured if I lowered my voice, you might too."

"YOU CAN CALL ME OFFICER!" she yelled.

"Alrighty, then, OFFICER," I said, handing her my credentials.

"The insurance card is expired," she said, leaning halfway across the passenger seat, flashing her lights into my book bags.

"My husband has the correct one. The insurance is good, I assure you."

"What kind of medications are you on?" she asked. Again flashing me with her light.

"Thyroid and Lopressor."

"You take Lopressor for anxiety?" she asked.

"Nope," I said. "For a heart condition."

"What have you had to drink?" she pressed.

"Mocha Frapp, grande. Starbucks in Olympia where I just had a book signing," I answered.

I don't think she believed me.

"Are you willing to take a sobriety test?" she asked.

I laughed.

She didn't..

Like I said, I'm a quick study. I could tell this wasn't going well.  Getting asked if you're willing to take a sobriety test is like being asked when you last stopped beating your child. There's not an answer that will satisfy the one asking. If I declined, she could arrest me for suspicion of driving under the influence. If I agreed, she was the lone judge. And this woman was looking for a reason to find me guilty, of something, of anything, to make up for that "hon" remark.

This was, after all, Seattle, where terms such as "sugar" or "hon" are used solely as a means of hitting on others, not in the general course of conversation as is often the case in Atlanta.

Brother John warned me years ago that my mouth was going to get me in trouble. As I stood barefoot on coarse pavement, counting out steps, heel-to-toe, "nine, please, then turn", freezing my southern-fried-chicken arse off, I figured my brother's prophetic curse had finally caught up with me.

"Tilt your head back, close your eyes and tell me when 30 seconds have passed," Officer Fido commanded.

When I opened my eyes, she was staring straight up my nostrils.

"How did you do that?" she asked.

"Do what?"

"Mark the time."

"The way Miss Penny taught me in kindergarten -- 1,001, 1002, 1003," I said, smirking.

Officer Fido had no sense of humor.

"Do you think you can repeat the alphabet to me from A to Z? And don't sing it." she ordered.

"Sure," I said. "Miss Penny taught me that too. A, B, C, D, E, F, G (pause, breathe) H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, (pause, breathe) ..."

And so it went. This acrimonious exchange continued for the next hour, while Fido waited for back-up, which included a specialist from the drug-task force.

Officer Sober'em up didn't bark or yelp or snarl. He just stuck out his hand, introduced himself and asked me my name, and where I was headed. I answered all his questions, sweetly. The way a southern girl always does whenever she's treated kindly.

Fido was not only sour with me, now she was sore with Officer Sober'emup. "Why aren't you being combative with him the way you were with me?" she demanded.

"Did you see the way he approached me?" I answered. "He introduced himself, shook my hand, stated his purpose and asked me mine. You have been barking at me ever since you rapped on my window."

The kindly, and oh-so-cute, officer asked if he could take my pulse. I was aching for him to put his ear to my chest, instead he just pressed his forefinger over my wrist. Then he had me do the same counting thing Fido did. He inquired about whether I was taking medication for depression. I wanted to say, "Not yet" but recalled Brother John's admonition and just said, "No, sir."

After I completed all tasks, he called a conference at the rear of Fido's patrol car. I was told to wait in my vehicle.  Two hours had passed since Fido had first flashed her snub-nose light into my car. She returned with my credentials in hand.

"I could cite you for lack of proof of insurance. That's a $500 fine, but instead I'm just giving you a verbal warning," she said. I suppose that was Fido's way of proving she can be a real pussycat.

"Thank you," I said, taking pains to leave off the "hon" remark.

Southerners beware when you enter Yankee territory. Failure-to-yield applies to more than just driving when traveling near Seattle's backwaters.

In the past three months, I think I've cooked two meals for my dearly beloved. One of 'em was last night. Today, in further pursuit of trying to capture the girl that my beloved married, I decided I was going to tackle

the ultimate domestic task - ironing. Truth is, I intended to iron my own clothes. You see, I'm packing for yet another road trip. Next stop, Lubbock, then Jacksonville.

In my defense, I never intended to be a best-selling author when I grew up. It's just the sort of thing that happens as one goes about the task of daily living. Kind of like an unexpected pregnancy. You know HOW it happened; you just never INTENDED for it to.

Don't worry about the fact that you didn't know I was a best-selling author. I didn't know it myself until a recent caller informed me. I was holed up in one of them swanky hotels in Chicago, trying to avoid all the paparazzi, who I figured were all waiting with bated breath in the lobby, which, no lie, had 15 elevators, each one with its own television. OHMYGOSH! Fox News is everywhere these days.

Anyway, this caller just happened to be the hotel's public relations person.  I'm usually lucky if the hotels I stay at have a cleaning staff, much less a public relations team. This gal was calling to apologize. She said, and I'm quoting here, "If I'd known we had a best-selling author staying here, I would've made sure you were booked into one of our best suites."  I didn't have the heart to correct her. Besides, I'm from the school of thought that says you are what everyone else thinks you are. So if other people want to consider me one of the nation's top authors, why rain on their parade, or mine for that matter?

To make amends for offending a noted author like me, the lady sent me a big basket of fruit. Then some wine. Then some cheese and crackers. And then another basket the next day. By the end of my three-day stay I had enough fruit to open up a roadside stand.

I told Tim I sure could get used to room service. And having my own driver.  Tim told me I'd darn well better write a bestseller if I wanted to get used to that kind of life. If book sales are an indication, you might understand why I'm still doing my own laundry.

I fully intended to get the ironing done, but instead, here I am sitting at the computer, writing about ironing. I'd be ironing but I couldn't get the new cover to fit over the ironing board. What is it about Americans that the last things we ever replace are the cheapest? Mops. Brooms. Ironing board covers. They can all be purchased for under $10. We buy $20,000 cars every two years, but a good mop will last us a decade. And ironing board covers even longer.

I was tired of trying press seams around the scorched hole where the foam was poking out, so I got the notion to replace the cover. I bought a spiffy plaid one, one with "bungee cording for easy fit."

As far as I know ironing board covers don't come in small, medium, and large, so I still ain't certain why I couldn't get it to fit. Holding the nose of the board between my forearm and waist, I tried for half-an-hour to wrangle the easy-fit cover on. I felt like I was like trying to wrestle an alligator's jaws away from a small child. I was plum give out.

All you Domestic Divas take note. I think I've just discovered the newest trend in aerobic workouts: Stepping. Spinning. Ironing.

You’re a crazy southern woman,

Full of piss and vinegar,

But bless your sassy soul,

You never let no man own ya.

You’re stubborn as a mule but

Not nearly as weighty

I know Daddy’s proud you birthed

His three beautiful babies.

My parents met in 1952 at a county fair in Kingsport, Tennessee. Mama was 16. Daddy was 22. My father, a career solider, had already completed one of two tours to Korea. Mama was the youngest of six children and the only girl. A tomboy by birthright, she liked the things Daddy enjoyed – fishing on a muddy riverbank and making love under a tin roof on a rainy night.

I know this because he wrote about it in one of his last letters home from Vietnam. David Paul Spears married Shelby Jean Mayes on Feb. 13, 1953. They wanted to get married on Valentine’s Day but Daddy had to report back to base at Fort Campbell, Kentucky that very morning.

Mama became a soldier’s wife in every sense of that word. She enjoyed the routine of the military life, its traditions and its community. And she relished the education and experiences that such a career afforded.

Although my father was killed in action, leaving Mama widowed at age 29, I don’t think she has any regrets about the life she shared with Daddy. Theirs was not a perfect love. Or marriage. But their union was filled with more laughter than lamenting, more dancing than drinking, and more fishing than feuding.

After Daddy died Mama went back to school, where she earned a general education diploma, and, eventually, her registered nursing degree. She thought that if she could provide for us kids financially, the way a father would, we might not miss him so much. She was wrong about that, but I’m sure Daddy’s proud of her for trying to fill his boots.

Mama liked her beer straight from a can. Her cigarettes unfiltered. For many years, she kept cinder blocks outside the trailer door as steps because a wooden porch required more commitment than she could handle.

Despite her flaws, Mama’s love for us kids was like a fierce wind. Nothing could stand up against it. She might not have been a Hallmark sort of mother, but I’m proud to be my mama’s daughter. I hope one day my own children regard me with such tender devotion.

Over the past 26 years, I have sat through at least 26 commencement speeches. That's how long I've been married to a high school history teacher. Every June my husband, Tim, lapses into a melancholy funk. By
the time graduation day rolls around, he's nearly mute with grief. He refers to every senior class as a "great bunch of kids."

Many people come from homes where degrees and diplomas are commonplace.  They weren't in mine. My mother was the only child of six siblings to earn a college degree. She was 35 when she graduated. Up until then, education was considered a luxury. My father, a child of the tobacco-plot communities of East Tennessee, dropped out of school in the eighth-grade and joined the Army. Neither of my grandfathers could read or write. And the only thing either of my grandmothers read was the Bible. But after my father died, education became a necessity. Mama needed to find a means to support the family he left behind.

The fact that I make my livelihood as a writer is simply evidence of the miraculous grace of God. But if you were to ask my family, they might tell you it's a manifestation of God's sense of humor. Kind of like making the tongue-tied Abraham a spokesman for the Israelites.

This year Tim and I will sit through two graduation ceremonies, one at the high school where he works and one at Eastern Oregon University, where our twin daughters will be the ones collecting coveted sheepskins. All
total, we've had four kids in college for the past couple of years.

Getting kids through college is not an easy feat. It takes a whole heap of prayers and piles and piles of pennies. Okay, so thousands and thousands of dollars.

But with a lot of dedication and devotion on everyone's behalf, it can be done. I suspect Tim won't be the only one lapsing into a melancholy funk and tearing up during the celebratory march of mortarboards this year. As the wife of a public school teacher, and as the mother of four college-educated young adults, I am thankful to have lived to witness the remarkable, and to write about it.