Her name was Rosie. We briefly considered Ruthie, but Rosie was the only name that suited her and the only one she ever answered to.

The puppy belonged to a family who rented space on our farm for their trailer. She was a somewhat stocky black and tan creature with an adorable face in which each side mirrored the other. A single off-white line ran down the middle of her nose, cleanly dividing the identical halves. With matching tan splotches centered above her milky brown eyes, she appeared to have eyebrows that gave her a constant look of surprise, or at least of polite interest. She was very symmetrical.

Adopted, or purchased, from somewhere around Guntersville, she was supposed to be Australian shepherd, but I suspect she only walked past a dog of that breed once or twice. Admittedly, her coloring suggested that lineage, but nothing else about her did.

The two children in Rosie’s adoptive family must not have been nearly as entertaining to her as my husband, who became her fast friend for horse feeding duties or the occasional under-the-truck oil change. I think her favorite was the truck work, which put her on eye level with her bestie. With unerring accuracy, she could discern his truck engine slowing for the turn, giving her a head start up the gravel drive to the hallway of the barn. She always got there first, the stump of her tail wagging her entire rear end from side to side as she steamrolled hissing barn cats in every direction.

Halfheartedly shooing her away, he was fooling no one, least of all Rosie. She loved him long before he loved her, but he came around with time.

Not at all mistreated, she was still clearly destined to be a mama of puppies who would also be labeled Australian shepherd and traded among the community of Mennonites. At worst, she would end up quick roadkill or die of worms. At best, she would be overlooked as she outgrew the cute puppy stage, living under the trailer porch and chasing trucks for entertainment until she finally chose the wrong one. Either way, the end result would likely be a short life.

But that day in June, she chose the right truck to chase. Glancing in the rearview mirror as the pickup gathered speed, Jenn noticed little Rosie, trying to keep pace with the truck but losing distance no matter how much she pushed herself. The truck belonged to her best friend, and I guess she had just decided to once and for all join the family that was not her own.

“Mom, if you want that puppy, you’d better do something now. She’s chasing the truck and going to get run over,” was all it took.

I gathered up what cash I could find, $50 in all, and met the girls at the farm with an open dog crate in the back of the SUV. I was hopeful and determined.

Little Katie met me in the front yard, scooping Rosie up in a challenging one-armed stance as I asked her if she would think about letting me buy Rosie. She seemed to consider it briefly, maybe just to please me, before shaking her head no. I tried another tack.

“Is your mom home?”

Susie lumbered down the trailer steps to stand beside Katie and exchange pleasantries before we got down to business. Katie again refused to consider giving Rosie up, as Susie simply eyed the cash that was fanned out in my hand. After reminding Katie that she very much needed a new pair of shoes, Susie closed the deal and Katie really didn’t seem to mind. Rosie left the farm for the last time, this time inside a vehicle instead of kicking up dust behind it.

She joined a backyard pack of two other dogs, none of which we paid for. We’ve never been short on dogs but Rosie is the only one we’ve actually paid money for in quite some time. She was also the only non-purebred, unless anyone actually believed that she was Australian shepherd. Tucker, the border collie, was a gift from a cow herding friend, and Duchess was a retired bird dog. Rosie was just glad to be included and to sleep in her own kennel at night.

With time, we lost Duchess to heart failure and we scooped Charlie up from the ditch into which he had been deposited by someone with a heart ten sizes too small. Charlie gave Rosie a run for the money in the cloudy lineage area, pretty well matching her in the devotion and gratitude typical of dogs who somehow believe they really don’t deserve what they have.

Never a morning went by when she was let loose from her kennel that she didn’t fling her little fat self at my face and shower me with Rosie kisses, most landing in one or both ears. Her nose was the perfect fit for an eye socket, as well. Like it had been formed for just that purpose. All I ever had to do was to ask for more Rosie kisses and she was happy to oblige.

She had an art of blending in, so that she appeared to be nothing special. When the others collected on the patio to howl at approaching sirens, she followed suit, adding her shrill wail to the mix. When movement at the fence attracted attention, she was deep in the mix of noses to the ground and flinging of dirt. Her short stature ensured that she was sometimes even lost to sight amidst her much taller yard mates.

Probably her favorite activity of all time, other than throwing Rosie kisses, was eating. I don’t raise skinny animals, but I probably should have stopped long before I did where Rosie was concerned. Occasional walks in the park with frequent rest stops became her somewhat exercise regimen, resulting in a dog so fit that she could actually jump up onto the car floorboard from ground level with no assistance at all.

Rosie earned her keep for life the day Duchess and Tucker found an opening in the backyard fence and vanished. By the time I knew they were gone, the only remaining backyard occupant was Rosie. She was probably too fat to fit through the break in the fence but I’d like to believe she was just that loyal.

With little Rosie on a leash and tracking, we crossed a couple of ditches to a wooded area several lots away. Through the underbrush I caught sight of Tucker, the purebred border collie on seizure medication who reads minds, determined to do the exact opposite of what you’re thinking. Unable to coax him out of the weeds, I channeled the Pied Piper and turned Rosie for home as if we really didn’t care. She played along, like my magic flute, and all we had to do was leave the gate open for the stragglers to mosey on through. And then we fixed the hole in the fence for good.

While we were fixing things, I wish we had also underpinned the porch on the high-dollar dog house—or outbuilding—as State Farm prefers to call it. Rosie was again not a player the day Tucker and Charlie mercilessly cornered an errant possum who sought refuge under the porch of their home. Becoming wedged between the floor joists under the porch with the possum, they couldn’t back up and they couldn’t go forward. The possum, of course, could come and go as he pleased. Rosie just hung out on the topside, keeping them company while waiting for help, I suppose. That help came from a very aggravated husband with a skill saw who cut an opening through the porch, positioned just right and just large enough to heave each dog through. We patched the floor and underpinned the dog house for the first and last time, with anchored concrete pavers reinforced with still more stacked concrete. Grass doesn’t grow there anymore.

The aggravated husband was quick to point out that his Rosie had been too smart to join the fray either time. I think she was just too fat to fit under the porch or through the fence, but he can believe what he likes.

I miss those Rosie kisses. The kisses that never dry. I prefer not to think about the day the veterinarian advised us to take her home to say our goodbyes. She explained that advanced kidney disease never has a good outcome and even catching it earlier wouldn’t have changed anything. We might get another month with her, but it wouldn’t be a good one for her, so of course we made the most painful decision in any dog lover’s life. We let her go. After 12 incredibly short years, we let her go.

But not before I asked for and got one more Rosie kiss. And this time, I gave her one in return.

The only measuring cup my mother ever owned, at least until both of her children were out of college and on their own, was a warped tin cup with quarter measures on one side and tic marks for third measures on the other. That’s all she ever needed. It is absolutely the only thing I ever saw her use.

It’s not that she couldn’t afford to buy another cup, or even a set of cups, it was just not necessary. The simplicity of it all is mind boggling.

On the other hand, I’ve opened my kitchen cabinet more than once to an avalanche of cups of various measures and designs. There’s the set of measuring cups where each resembles a cat with feet sprouting from the bottom. The curved tail is the handle. There’s the set of metal handled cups, and even the collection of orange Tupperware. Some sizes are missing from each set, but collectively, I have every single measure from 1/4 to a full cup. I suppose that’s all I’ll ever need, although why just one cup isn’t enough, I really don’t know, now that I think about it.

I might argue that it’s difficult to measure such things as shortening in a single cup, but my mom had that covered, too, thanks to her Magnolia Chain education at Mississippi State College for Women. If the shortening measure happened to be ¼ cup, for example, just fill the little tin cup ¾ full of water and then plop the shortening into the water until the water line hits the one cup mark. She put her college education and math skills to very practical use in her kitchen, applying the theory of water displacement like a pro while ending up with a measuring cup that needed very little cleaning since the shortening was never smushed down to whatever measure was necessary.

On the other hand, I smush shortening down into whatever measure is necessary in whichever of my 48 measuring cups is appropriate. But then, I have a dishwasher.

Her most used measuring spoon was a tin tablespoon that had at one time been part of a set, but for as long as I was acquainted with it, had been broken at the handle so that only the spoon remained. It always rested in the silverware drawer, conspicuous in its lack of handle so it was always easy to find. Surely, she had other measuring spoons, but for the life of me, that’s the only one I remember.

There were four members of my family, so we had four plates and four bowls. A few were chipped but definitely usable. Then the Spur station started giving china place settings for gas fill-ups, which is when our inventory expanded. One rolling pin was all she needed and all she ever had. For as long as an item would last, that’s how long she would keep it without replacement.

And the thing is, she didn’t need to be that frugal as my parents could well afford more than one measuring cup and one rolling pin. But how many rolling pins could you use at one time? And what was the purpose of duplicates of anything?

That question is far too simple for a simple answer.

I’m not sure where I was during my growing-up years, but I’m thinking I should have paid more attention. I had one Barbie doll and one Francie, although I always wanted a Skipper. I did learn that it’s OK to want something and not get it. All of their clothes were stuffed into a well-worn red cardboard box that had once housed a coffee percolator. And all of that fit underneath my bed for easy access.

On the other hand, my daughters were charged with two plastic totes full of Barbie dolls and accessories and a huge pink Barbie townhome with a spiral staircase that definitely wouldn’t fit underneath a bed.

My Barbie had long brown hair with blue eyes and a green headband and legs that cracked at the knees when you bent them. Her name was Barbie, because there was only one. In my daughters’ Barbie totes rest far too many dolls to remember the names for. And no one doll is super special.

I think there’s a lesson in there somewhere—probably that less choice and more simplicity is a good thing. My mom knew that without knowing it. She had what she needed and she used what she had and she was happy. Simple.

I may not have paid attention to a lot of things growing up, but I’m a lot wiser now. My daughter got the idea of monogramming a canvas Land’s End tote with a mantra that meant something to her. She chose “Always Tired,” which I’m not sure I’d be especially proud of but most likely fits most thirty-somethings who are blessed—or cursed—with too much to own and too much to do. Mine, on the other hand, would be “Close Enough” as most things are out of my control and while I might give it my best shot, most of the time I have to settle for just close enough.

And that’s OK. That’s what the wisdom of a longer life will do for you. Well, that and a few less measuring cups.

I love Boston. Certainly not for its politics or masses of people who are always in a hurry to get somewhere they’re not. No, I think it’s the character and quirkiness and of course its history. I have a feeling it has always just been out there, both in geography and behavior, unafraid to go it alone. Unafraid to dress up like Indians and pitch a bunch of priceless tea into the harbor, completely ticking off the most powerful country in the world. I respect that.

Just about anytime in the Northeast is nice, but a chilly December weekend is especially attractive. With low-cost airfare and off-season rates at the Parker House, my youngest daughter and I splurged on a couple of days of Christmas shopping and strolling recently.

There’s nothing quite like twilight and holiday lights along the Commonwealth, especially if you couple that with a steaming hot chocolate from L.A. Burdick. Just us and the dogwalkers in amongst the glittering multimillion-dollar townhomes and the statues of serious people long forgotten. You can do a lot of dreaming along the Commonwealth.

We checked Zillow later just to see how much one of those abodes would cost. None were listed and I’m not surprised.

One thing I didn’t expect of that weekend was any sort of environmental awakening, as that’s not usually the way shopping goes for me. I do recycle when I can and I try not to deplete the ozone with too much hairspray, but none of that coincides with shopping. Or that’s what I used to think.

It all started with Lush. The store is a sort of homemade Bath and Body Works, with a whole lot of creativity and free spirit involved. You can smell it from the street, just like a mall Cinnabon bakery, before you even see it. Except Lush is clean and soapy. It makes me happy.

It’s a place you can stroll through, sampling its pastel wares amid the glistening porcelain sinks and very well-informed clerks. I wish I could remember what the first helpful employee was suggesting, but I was totally distracted by counting the number of piercings in his nose. There were five, including the nose ring. That’s not at all a problem. It was just interesting.

I settled on a jar of lotion and some lip gloss. At the checkout, the clerk with the orange hair described in detail the recycling program that Lush is involved in. If I bring back the clean lotion tub later, I get a dollar. If I bring back five tubs at once, I get five free face masks. That’s because Lush recycles all plastics in house, working to save the environment. And I could be a part of that.

I also learned that all Lush products are cruelty-free, which very much appealed to me. I’d hate to buy something with any sort of cruelty involved, so I’m all in.

“This lip gloss is amazing,” the clerk gushed. “It goes on a bit sticky, but is quickly absorbed. You’ll love it!”

I wondered just how he knew that, but then, I obviously wasn’t in Kansas anymore so I just thanked him and handed over my credit card, mentally tamping down any preconceived ideas of gender appropriateness. It’s a new world and none of my business.

Total acceptance and unfettered creativity and a green earth. All in one stop. I picked up a whole lot more than soap in that store.

“Would you like a bag for that?”

Well of course not. I quickly declined, both because I’ve learned that in Boston, bags aren’t free but more importantly because I very much wanted to be part of the earth movement. And I couldn’t stand to disappoint the checkout guy.

“How about a receipt?”

Again, no. That involves paper. And trees.

With both products safely tucked in my coat pocket with no receipt, I regretted just a bit my earth worthy stance. This must be how shoplifters feel.

Each time we go to Boston, we vow to do something different. This time, we planned to visit the U.S.S. Constitution. Instead, we bought oyster sweaters. It was definitely different.

We found the selections at Long Wharf Supply, a family-owned business that creates sweaters by recycling oyster shells and water bottles. A bit of cotton is also involved, resulting in the absolute best fisherman sweaters ever. You have to like some blend of blue or cream, but if that’s in your color wheelhouse and you don’t mind contributing a bit more cash for the cause with a pricy sweater purchase, then Long Wharf is your place.

Each sweater sold reseeds 30 oysters and naturally filters up to 1,500 gallons of seawater every day. All that in my simple blue waffle weave oyster sweater. Hear me roar.

Probably what I’m most proud of, though, is the bright red and white Tuba Christmas toboggan. It’s the most unexpected purchase of the shopping weekend. Actually, we weren’t even shopping on the Saturday morning of the tuba concert. We were on the way to the JFK Museum but got sidetracked.

Right downtown, on a riser above the train station was the most festive group of musicians I think I’ve ever seen, giving an impromptu concert and accepting donations. Several were decked out in Santa hats and beards and they were all happy and in key. The back couple of rows waved tubas beribboned with garland and aluminum streamers. My favorite was the one that sprouted what appeared to be a Halloween ghost made over into a snowman, whose bony fingers gripped a cardboard Christmas tree positioned over the mouth of the horn. It was art.

And it was cold. One of the Santas met me at the merchandise table where I bought a $15 toboggan, contributing an extra $5 to the arts with a $20 bill. He didn’t have change, but the end result was the same and I felt even better about my expanding purpose, now including the arts.

To cap it off, I learned that the week before we got to Boston, Prince William was there to collect an Earth Shot prize. I’m not sure what he did to deserve that, but I’m probably not too far behind. At least I’m available and in line. And obviously committed if that counts for anything.

In the meantime, I’m thinking of starting a compost pile out behind the barn. And I’m figuring there has to be a way to convert horse manure into a line of apparel I mean, if oyster shells can work…

I found it on the floor of Daddy’s closet in the final sweep of the house that we were preparing to sell. It is literally the very last thing we carried out, a tiny, long forgotten remnant that hadn’t seen the light of day in years. Maybe decades. And it seemed altogether appropriate that it had held on to the end, carried out only when the house echoed with emptiness.

More than all of the combined photos, more than every piece of clothing, more than each carefully preserved letter, the little keepsake metal button resurrected from the closet floor is priceless in its simplicity but deep beyond measure. On the front are the words “Korea Veteran” with the dates 1950-1953 and a map of Korea. At the bottom it reads “Forever Proud.”

He probably got it as a thank you for subscribing to the VFW Magazine. A cheap, mass-produced memento that had no purpose other than to recognize, if just for a moment, the sacrifice made by so many. It probably cost no more than fifty cents to produce.

I thought about tossing it.

Daddy was only in Korea for a couple of years. Yet, you’d swear it was for a much longer stretch, as embedded as it was in his very existence from that point forward. In fact, it was the cornerstone upon which rested much of his identity throughout his life. It was a defining moment. He had been a soldier. He hadn’t asked to be. He hadn’t practiced it or dreamed it certainly.

And he’d be the first to say he wasn’t a very good one. But he went when called. And it became part of him forever.

His dad had joined the same army in Europe during WWI, returning to the family farm to pick up where he had left off as soon as possible. Were it not for the mustering out bond that he spent each fall to buy new shoes for his children, his family would never know he had been to war. Either he wasn’t all that affected, or he simply wanted to forget. Probably the latter.

Unlike his dad, mine talked about it, telling vivid stories that made you feel like you had been right there with him. More than once, I heard him laugh about how when WWII was winding down and he had just turned 18, the Army found him flatfooted and ineligible for service. But when Korea fired up, his flatfooted problem just disappeared. He was exactly what the Army needed. He was suited up and on his way in no time. Front and center.

Of all his friends, he always knew who had been in service. The man who hired him in 1958 to teach at Florence State College had been a fighter pilot in Europe during WWII. One of the first accounting instructors Daddy hired had almost frozen to death in Korea. His best friend at church, Gene Pickard, was a WWII veteran. As Mr. Pickard began to show signs of dementia later in life, Daddy made sure to help steady him down the aisle to his seat during the church Veterans Day service, as comrades do.

They could pick each other out in a crowd.

Like most veterans who were lucky enough to come home from a combat situation, he built a family and made a career doing what he loved, spending about 10 times longer teaching college kids than in the Korean mud during his relatively short stint as a soldier. And yet, he was defined by that time of service in a bone-deep sort of way. It gave him depth and substance and somehow a larger place in this life than he would have had otherwise.

It probably helped that his experience was a bit more tame than it could have been. Unless he was keeping some stories to himself, there didn’t seem to be much to need to forget so he didn’t bring home a lot of wartime scars. At least I don’t think so.

His family and his career in education occupied a much larger chunk of his years on this earth. Yet, most of his stories revolved around the two spent on the other side of the world. Stories that were awe inspiring in their gritty details, no matter how often they were repeated.

And he repeated them. And he wrote them. “Korea Remembered for Allison,” is on the cover of one three-ring binder of stories and photos, while “Korea Remembered for Jennifer” evens the score for another granddaughter. Then there’s the book of letters he sent home and photos that are each painstakingly labeled. I don’t think there’s much I don’t know about that chapter of his life. And I’m so glad that’s the case.

The grainy black-and-white photos of Korean women leading barely clad children through bombed out streets, and Korean men harvesting the contents of outhouses for rice paddy fertilizer share photo album space with those of army buddies that he spent every waking moment with for a couple of years and then promptly lost touch with afterwards. We’d occasionally take the photo album down and he would narrate its contents, but he always took far more interest in it than we did. I think you had to live it. Those were years spent in black and white, not color, anyway.

During his brief military career, he not only collected photos and memories, but life lessons. He’d be the first to say he grew up in a hurry, probably because in the early twenties there’s a whole lot of growing up to do. When he disembarked in Japan from the Army transport ship, he reported to an office for his assignment, fully expecting front line duty. Instead, a soldier to whom he had been kind when serving as his supervisor in the States suggested that Daddy be assigned to a personnel audit team, one that headquartered in Pusan—just about as far south in South Korea as you could get.

At that point in the memory, he’d always pause and say, “The moral to that story is be careful who you step on when going up the ladder as you just might meet ‘em on your way back down.”

He learned raw empathy and the art of figuring out what to do in a tough situation when he and his fellow auditors “adopted” a starving Korean orphan who wandered into their compound on the island of Koje Do one freezing winter day. Hu Sung Hang tearfully begged to work for food and shelter, as his entire family had vanished during the push from the Pusan perimeter. He was hungry and cold and alone and scared to death. And just ten years old with nowhere to go and no one to care.

They got him the smallest Army uniform they could find, cajoling the supplies officer with a vague threat of an upcoming audit to get him to comply, and then put Hu Sung Hang to “work” keeping the tent organized and swept clean.

They found a local school for the boy and gave him a billfold with a few pictures of the audit team. More than once, they spied him out with friends from school proudly showing off the billfold pictures of his camp family, the only one he had. He belonged to the U.S. Army, as far as he was concerned.

Hu Sung Hang probably survived the war and maybe lived a long and happy life in South Korea. At least that’s what we like to believe. We’ll never know as Daddy left abruptly on emergency leave when his younger brother broke his back in a farming accident. By the time the crisis was under control, his enlistment was up so he never went back.

From that point on, though, he was a veteran. He apparently didn’t like it well enough to reenlist, but like Hu Sung Hang, he would always belong to the U.S. Army, even when he didn’t.

For about the last ten years of his life, his most favorite cap was black, with the U.S. Army emblem on the front. A gift from a cousin, the cap got him more than a few free meals and door openings and appreciations for his service. People are good about that. It’s the one thing most of us can agree on.

I took another look at the little button in my hand and turned it over. “Never Forget” was etched on the back.

Thanks to Daddy, that is not an option.

I put the button in my pocket, turned off the light, and closed the door.

It’s not exactly a dig store, but it’s close. I was introduced to Dirt Cheap a few years ago when our youngest was furnishing a small apartment for her first semester at Mississippi State. My Starkville cousin led the way down aisles crammed with all sorts of mostly useless items, some with damaged packaging but all neatly arranged and if not dirt cheap, pretty near it. She had obviously been there before and knew her way around. It was a good day at Dirt Cheap. We found a very cool tweed side chair in a tasteful neutral color and some bathroom accessories, all for less than $25. Her tenure at MSU lasted longer than the chair’s upholstery, but it served the purpose at a bargain price.

You’d think such an experience would convert the whole family to the bargain and thrift store life, but I’m a holdout. Not a snob, I hope, but a holdout. I blame it on Bents and Dents.

Bents and Dents was a dig store. It was located alongside Highway 43 in Greenhill, just south of the Tennessee line. Fronted by a dusty gravel parking lot, the warehouse was filled with long wobbly wooden tables piled high with all sorts of disheveled clothing and household textiles. With much more inventory than each table could accommodate, treasures hung precariously off table edges in a tousled heap of material like so many mangled body parts. If an item caught your eye, you just grabbed and pulled, rearranging the mauled heap afterward if you felt like it, or for those less civilized patrons, leaving the pile of dislodged items on the concrete floor for someone else to dig through. You could drag out all manner of towels, packs of dishcloths, t-shirts, sheet sets, and mismatched pajamas, pawing several layers deep to unearth a sought-after size or color.

Bargain-seeking women circled tables in sync, abiding by unwritten rules of dig store conduct. Counter-clockwise, not overly aggressive, patient with others, and never snatching away an item that someone else was eyeing or had a good handhold on.

Toward the back of the space was the home décor section with a large selection of ash trays, juice glasses, table lamps, and spice racks. Tabletop figurines and discontinued Home Interiors wall arrangements were hot items, but not for my mom. We might take home a discounted sheet set or collection of bamboo bowls, but everything had to have a purpose if it left with us. She loved the thrill of the hunt and the money in her handbag she always left with. I spent much of our travel time suggesting alternate roadways into Tennessee—anything but Hwy. 43.

So even today, I pretty much steer clear of Bargain Hunt or Dirt Cheap or Big Lots or any roadside thrift store. The same goes for flea markets. I’m just partial to well organized items hanging on easily accessible racks with no contention with fellow shoppers and not a lot of discussion. Even if it costs a bit more. Now that I’ve said it out loud, I realize I very well may be a shopping snob with no sense of adventure. Oh my.

But that all took a temporary turn at the Groovy Coop.

The Groovy Coop in McKinney, Texas is a cool place to shop if you’re in the market for tarot cards, off-color refrigerator magnets, or a mood ring. Incense is also a possibility, as are vinyl records and vintage clothing. The sign dangling over the awning at an off-center angle suggests the devil-may-care attitude of the management, promising free-spirited nonjudgmental entry and love for all. Peace out.

I’m not sure whose idea it was—certainly not mine—but it was a laid-back sort of morning, and the Groovy Coop just seemed to match the vibe. My little group of middle-aged ladies, having just enjoyed some overpriced cappuccino at the Coffee Fox, were feeling pretty bold on this frigid day in January, so we stepped right through that dingy glass door into the dim and overwhelmingly fragrant interior. I didn’t figure we’d be there long.

Giving the others time to check out whatever there was to check out, I began browsing through self-help books and bumper stickers and hand-knitted berets until I found myself in the vintage clothing annex. And there it was, fairly glowing amid a sea of ratty fur coats and hand-sewn smocks. Totally misplaced for its grandeur, on a nondescript metal rack in a head shop on a side street of a Dallas suburb, draped a single glittery navy-blue sequined designer dress. It was floor length with cap sleeves and a scoop neckline. Demure, but tasteful. Elegant. Not too flashy or frilly, it fairly screamed “I’m your mother-of-the-bride dress! Pick me!”

I checked the size and I checked the price, expecting something not to work. My size for only $80. And the only one on the rack.

Designed by a designer who had long ago retired or otherwise moved on, there would certainly be no chance of finding this one modeled by anyone else near the church where our youngest was getting married in a mere two months. In fact, this whole trip to Dallas had been for the purpose of getting her bridal gown fitted. Acquiring a mother-of-the-bride dress was not in the plan. Yet here it was. Staring at me in Texas. Maybe.

Dress draped over one arm, I located the lone curtained dressing room just past the pottery and ginger jar collection. On the back wall was a huge Elvis poster, conveniently serving as a landmark for the dressing room. All the underaged clerk had to say, never looking up from his reading material, was “Just look for Elvis.” And so I did.

Without even requiring hemming, the dress fit like a charm. Just like Cinderella’s slipper. I’m far past the age and nowhere near the future magnitude of Cinderella, but it was a special moment, nonetheless. At least it was for me and Elvis, who oversaw the whole thing. Literally. Stepping out of the dressing room into view of my daughter and her future mother-in-law and aunt-in-law, I expected somebody to point out an obvious splash of discolored stain or maybe a ripped-off section of sequins that I had somehow overlooked in the dimly lit dressing room wall mirror, but only got encouragement to go for it.

I have to admit, the thrill of finding such an unexpected bargain in such an unexpected place was pretty intense. I suppose it was the thrift shop high. Or in this case, the vintage hippie store high.

All the future bride had to say about it was “It doesn’t smell musty, does it?” Sniffing the cap sleeve, I concluded that it smelled just fine but I assured her I’d run it through the cleaner’s first. I might not can help a lot of things, but I refuse to be a musty smelling mom.

So the dress left with me, inspiring the groom’s mom to match the saving spree by recycling a dress worn by her sister years ago. She hadn’t worn it since, and no one would remember if it showed up at yet another wedding in another state. She effectively began our new relationship by one-upping my $80 bargain, but I don’t mind. I really don’t. It’s not a competition and I hardly noticed.

Between the two moms, exactly $80 was spent on our apparel, which is pretty cool. Admittedly, it hardly offset the other wedding costs which were nowhere near bargain basement, but it is a bright spot and a bragging point. My only bragging point, but I’ll take it.

So I AM a bargain shopper.

Groovy.

I’m not a fisherman, but I should be. Whatever gene makes somebody love fishing—passionately, wholeheartedly, love casting and reeling in and then doing it again, regardless of whether anything is on the end of the line—skipped a couple of generations. I’m pretty sure all the fishing passion of my grandmother, Mama Belle, was collected in a metal bucket for a few decades and then dumped headlong on my daughter’s head. Jenn will fish in the rain and in the sun. She doesn’t mind whether it’s daylight or dark. She’ll fish off the pier; she’ll fish from a slow-moving kayak; she’ll fish off the back of a bass boat. She’ll go fishing here or there. She’ll go fishing anywhere.

She and I got the kayaks out yesterday, on a stunningly gorgeous fall day, just to float and fish. Well, she fished, and I floated. I was a whole lot more successful in my leisurely wildlife sojourn, catching sight of at least one turtle slipping off a sunny log and a whole gaggle of geese noisily taking flight from a standstill, than she was. It’s a whole lot easier to be good at something that has no real purpose and requires little effort. But I did get a lot of thinking done. She probably did, too, as she cast and reeled and cast again. Yet not a single bite. Even so, like all good fisher people, she wasn’t openly disappointed. One thing’s for sure, those who fish are patient people. Like a gambler who might lose today but is certain that tomorrow will be different, fisher people know that tomorrow is another day, too, with a fresh start promised. I’m deciding that fishing is a whole lot deeper sport than people give it credit for. And it’s absolutely hereditary.

Mama Belle loved to fish, especially after she lost my Papa and pretty much lived in the old farmhouse alone. She wasn’t a permanent resident there after her family was gone, but most stunningly gorgeous afternoons, and even a few that weren’t so lovely, found her on the bank of Uncle Dean’s lake, reeling in the pond catfish from the rickety wooden pier that was missing more than a few slats. The lake was across the road from the farm, through the pear trees and down the brushy hillside, dug out of a useless hollow many years earlier. Rimmed by sky high pines, the old secluded lake was her private pleasure. I’m sure she did a lot of thinking and solved a lot of problems as she quietly studied the red-and-white bobber on the end of her cane pole. With no need for a tackle box, she just made sure she had plenty of worms in the can of dirt and some sturdy fishing line. And then she reeled them in.

Uncle Dean was a catfish farmer long before the trade became one of Mississippi’s biggest crops. He grew huge catfish, supplying the Country Squire with most of what it needed to satisfy hungry patrons of the restaurant. I remember helping him feed the catfish on the days when I was around, the water bubbling in a frantic feeding frenzy as we tossed the pellets off the end of that same rickety pier. As one of the older grandkids, I had Uncle Dean to myself most weekends we visited. That gave him plenty of time to teach me how to wink and how to snap my fingers. But he never taught me to fish.

Mama Belle didn’t even try. I’m sure she would’ve been happy to if anybody had shown the desire, but it was her solitary sport and I think she sort of liked it that way. On a few occasions, I tried to get involved by traipsing down the hill after her, but one day of watching her nail a fish to a pine tree and skin it (hopefully, after it had left this world for another) was enough to convince me to find another interest.

So, I missed the fishing gene. And so did my dad, I think, although he was a lot slower to admit it. He retained the skill at baiting a hook and removing the flailing fish, much to the delight of his first granddaughter but I don’t think he would have ever voluntarily fished by himself. At the merest suggestion from that same granddaughter, though, he would readily accompany her to the much better situated concrete pier he had built on Shoal Creek, holding an umbrella over her head, when necessary, just to revel in her enthusiasm and her company. Probably the first catfish she ever caught from that pier, Harry S Truman Whiskers Jr., was hustled home in a bucket of creek water on the floorboard of her Pop’s Ford Ranger—all so she could show off her prize to Mimi. With more water sloshing around outside the bucket than in, the fish was not long for the world and the Ranger was pretty rank for a while, but Harry made it home in time for Mimi to admire him. And just like Harry, Jenn was hooked.

Mama Belle’s adult children knew better than to discourage her fishing habit. She might not be able to remain in her beloved farmhouse alone, but she darn well could spend an afternoon fishing by herself and she had a car she could drive to get there. So, her son dutifully built a set of wooden steps with a broom handle rail to hold on to so that she could safely cross the ditch on the other side of the road leading to Uncle Dean’s lake. Because she was going to cross that ditch, one way or the other. And then, on more days than not—with a can of bait in one hand and a cane pole in the other—she would strike out across the road, up the ditch steps, and out of sight down the hill. Happy and hopeful.

Yesterday, as we returned from the kayak fish/float, with the tackle box in one hand and myriad fishing poles in the other, Jenn struck out across the wooded lot to the cabin. As Mama Belle (I mean, Jenn) climbed the steps to replace the gear, she didn’t moan the lack of success. Instead, she marveled at the way the clicker bait had behaved and felt certain that in a few days the fish would return to a more normal feeding pattern. It was just a bit too cold for them today and they were too deep. At least, that’s what the most recent fishing podcast had advised.

If there weren’t so many years separating them, with the bothersome limited lifetime thing, I have no doubt Mama Belle and her great-granddaughter would be sharing notes as they shared space on the creek side (or lake side). Fishing pole in hand, Mama Bell would no doubt be teaching her a thing or two, and maybe even tuning in to the current fishing podcast. But mostly she’d be doing the teaching. And she’d do it all with a cane pole and a red-and-white bobber.

Because I can. That’s why I pray. Because I can.

I pray because others ask me to. I pray because most days I need to. I’d like to say I pray about the little things, but it’s usually the really big things that get my attention. This season, amid my little circle of friends and family, there are some really big things looming and I want them to know that at least one person who says “I’m praying for you” actually means it. And if one prayer turns the tide in their favor; if one prayer makes a difference, then let it be mine. Because if it doesn’t, it certainly won’t be for lack of putting it out there and asking for what seems to be the impossible.

I pray because I can. And I pray because I know that nothing is impossible. Absolutely nothing. Not what I can figure out. Not what some doctor might be able to do. Not what another expert advises. Not what would just never happen. With prayer, NOTHING is impossible.

Many, many years ago, during one of those interminable “big church” moments, I actually glanced at the bulletin. For whatever reason, out of all those sermons that sadly I dozed through, this one I remember. It must have been 45 years ago, but I can still see the title on that little bulletin that my brother and I usually took turns playing tic-tac-toe on if one of us remembered to bring a pencil. It read, “Is Your God Too Small?” This time I listened. I’m not sure of all the take-away points, but the one that I cling to, the one that resonates across all those years, is the realization that God is not limited to what WE can accomplish. In fact, God is not limited at all. Putting him in our little box of probability makes him way too small and is actually insulting. And it severely limits what we ask for.

If his presence is so great that Moses couldn’t even look him in the face for fear of dying from the sheer majesty of it all; if Daniel could do nothing but collapse in a dead stupor at the mere vapor of his presence over the water, then I figure that what we are dealing with requires a whole lot more attention and credit than we tend to give. We make God way too small in our attempt to fit him into our range of abilities. We really just have no idea.

And so, I pray. I pray for the impossible. I pray for peace for those who are walking through fire right now. And if they can’t pray for the impossible, then they should know that I can. And I will.

I’ll pray for the friend with a recent life-altering diagnosis that is too big to figure out alone. I’ll pray for the family that is battered on all sides in all sorts of ways. I’ll thank God for this hour and for this breath and for too many blessings to name in the time I have left to live. Whatever the gist of the conversation, the one thing I know is that my prayer will be heard by a God who is far too powerful to be limited. The God who moves mountains and splits seas is who I am counting on.

I’m not a total Bible scholar in that I can’t quote too many verses or give book and verse reference, but I do get the general idea of it. Somewhere in Jeremiah I recall a verse that paraphrases that God will be found when we look for him—when we pray. Somewhere in the New Testament is the advice to knock and the door will be opened; seek and find. We’re even given the right way to pray if we need a nudge to get started. Jesus prayed to God in the garden, asking for what was not to be, but knowing that with God, anything was possible. The only requirement was to ask. Isaiah promises that God will be with us through fire and deep water if we  expect him to be. Jonah yelled at God—well at least he prayed—and was spared a really bad ending. And yet, that only occurred after he realized the magnitude of God’s ability and intent. He had to understand who was in charge while he sweltered under the shade tree that withered overnight.

Hannah even bargained with God, promising to give little Samuel to the church if she could just have him for a while, and I’m not above doing the same—although not for a son. I don’t have much to bargain with, but I’m open. I would definitely bargain for a prayed-for outcome. Yet, that’s not expected, which is a really good thing as I have nothing to give.

So, I pray. Not only  because I can, but because I’m invited. I sort of think I’m expected. I don’t keep a prayer journal, I don’t have a prayer closet, I don’t count on any rosary beads, and I don’t keep Lifeway in business. But that’s not the roadmap. In fact, there is none.

I actually do remember a verse that I just cheated and looked up. It’s a quote from Psalm 116:2, “I love the Lord because he hears my voice and my prayer for mercy. Because he bends down to listen, I will pray as long as I have breath.”

So that’s why I pray. I pray because He listens. And I pray because I can.

I’m puzzled and a bit offended, I think. Scanning through my social media updates this morning, I came across a list of items that Amazon is sure I need, one of which is a Crazy Cat Lady Action Figure. She is dressed in purple pajamas with a pink terry-cloth robe and fuzzy slippers. Her hair is disheveled, pulled back with a purple headband—well, at least it matches—while one cat pokes his head out of her robe pocket and another is wrapped around her neck. The set includes a fun cat tower, with six more plastic cats of all colors positioned on various levels. And I recognize them all. There’s Toulouse, Tiger, Bandit, Smoke, Socks, and Pip.

Oh no. I can name them all. So that’s how Amazon is on to me. Maybe I’ve ordered a few too many cat habitats and Fancy Feast pallets. It all makes sense, but I’m certainly not going to order any stupid crazy cat lady figure, because I’m definitely not crazy. The very idea.

But I’m still offended. Why is it that people who choose to care for (OK, to collect) cats are called crazy? Why not people who collect dogs? We have a friend who lives on a farm in Columbia, Tennessee, who slows down for any dog on the road. If it jumps in the back of her pickup truck, she’s good with it. It has a home and a place in her Christmas card family lineup. But people call her cool, not crazy. No, she’s the Cool Dog Lady. The rough and tough farm owner with the pack of really cool dogs.

For once, I’d sure like to be Cool, not Crazy. My brother audibly smiles on our phone conversations if the subject of cats comes up. “You know, when Aunt Bea died, they found 19 cats in her basement. You don’t want to be like Aunt Bea,” he cautions. I assure him that my 19 cats are not in the basement, but on the farm for the most part, so I’m a bit tougher than Aunt Bea. My cats have a job to do. One that requires two Fancy Feast meals per day, which is not too high a price to pay for the return I get. But I’m not soft. We even have four rough and tough dogs in the backyard which pulls in a lot of cool factor. One is even a hunting dog. No crazy there.

I’ve never actually sought out a cat, although there’s nothing wrong with looking for one if you don’t already have 19. Boomer just showed up on our front porch, making himself at home over time. He’d wait out under the oak tree by the road until someone came home to feed him. I finally caved and ordered a heated cat house for him from Amazon. Once an animal has a name and a heated house on the front porch with his own food bowl, he’s a keeper. He stayed on the front porch for 10 years.

Ben, Buttons, Biscuit, Bolt, and Bandit have at various times occupied space and heated houses at the farm. We went through a phase of soul singer names, with Gladys Knight, Percy Sledge, Clarence Carter, and Marvin Gaye hanging out amid the hay bales. Marvin turned out to be incredibly tough to tame and even more of a challenge to get to the vet for parts removal, but it happened and he’s so much more mellow. He just sleeps and waits around for the next meal. Gladys Knight has her one Pip, and we don’t need another. So, it’s Gladys Knight and the Pip in the barn, which works well and is more than enough.

Our outliers include Sweet Pea, Puff, Toulouse, and even Sonic, who was rescued by our soft-hearted daughter from the middle of a four-lane highway in Starkville as she pulled out from the local Sonic. She’s such a softie. Bubblegum came from an equally soft-hearted veterinarian who had been asked to euthanize her because her hips were broken. Certain that they would heal, as she grew, he sent her home with the other soft-hearted daughter, so she now rules every big tough male cat on the back porch with her quirky stiff-legged rear suspension. One-eyed Puff has the same job at the barn, swinging her head around in full arc to glare at any offender with her single eye. It’s not exactly the Island of Misfit Toys, but close.

What’s becoming clear to me is that in this family, I’m actually the only one without a soft heart, which must be why I didn’t mind at all taking Bandit to the vet yesterday and returning with an empty carrier. Nope, that didn’t bother me one bit…

I just don’t understand why the guy with the million-dollar bass boat with the built-in depth finder and fish locator, along with a luggage compartment of Bass Pro Shop bait and lures is not called the Crazy Fish Guy. Or for that matter, why Crazy Cat Ladies are always female. Is it not possible to be a Crazy Cat Man? Even if that does sound like a sleazy, deranged, superhero. Put that one in an action figure box and it’d probably sell just as well as the pajama-clad wild-haired cat woman.

Apparently, Amazon knows me well, though. Smoke now requires Urinary Health food (canned, of course), while Toulouse is too small to stay out at night so he has his own screened habitat. Sadly, they even keep a history of purchases just in case you want to buy again.

And with cats in the double-digits, I’ll probably do just that, given enough time. But that’s not crazy. That’s cool, right? I’m the Cool Cat Lady. The Farm Cat Lady–the one without 19 cats in the basement.

And besides, I don’t even own a pink terry-cloth robe.

My daddy left us this year, after exactly 93 years and 2 days on this earth. If you didn’t know better, you’d think that was a long life. A life well lived. More than enough. And you’d be wrong. At least about the more than enough part. It was definitely a life well lived and I suppose it was long, given the best we know. But it certainly wasn’t long enough. Two months ago, I would have sworn he would make it to 100. I was even planning the party.

He had unexpectedly and without forewarning become my best friend during the past five years without Mama, a daily presence by at least two phone calls and frequent quick lunches or spur-of-the-moment side trips. The man who had always been one half of a married couple, my protector, my problem solver, my provider, was now my friend. If anything, he probably thought the tables had turned—that he depended on me more than I did on him, but that could not have been further from the truth. The most I think I did for him was go to the grocery store and stock his freezer with pot pies, the only thing I ever knew him to cook, but which he survived on these past five years. His favorite was beef, but he would tolerate turkey. Once I even tried Salisbury Steak and he was good sport enough to try it.

The most he did for me was everything.

His life was simple and it was enough. The only bad days in each week were Monday and Saturday when the Times Daily didn’t print a paper. Other than that, he was good. Well actually, he had a few bad weeks when they closed the local Jacks for remodeling, seriously disrupting his breakfast routine. But other than that, he was content with his life—what it had been and what it was.

What it had been was a long career in education, an excellent marriage, and two lovely well-behaved children who grew into somewhat successful adults and parents on their own accord. His golden years were mostly spent with my mom, sharing the same house they bought together in 1958, two years after they married. When he suddenly lost her in 2016, he stayed on in the same small house, with pretty much the same routine, except that she wasn’t there to keep him warm and well fed. Hence, the pot pies and my ready companionship.

During the past few years of just us, he and I often took field trips. We’d pile into his little blue Honda and head north to one of his favorite destinations, the Amish community near Lawrenceburg. We might pick up some sorghum or peanuts there, depending upon the season. He’d check out Danny Gingrich’s yard stand to see what they might be selling, always commenting on his long-standing relationship with the Gingriches. He had been buying sorghum from him for over 20 years, he guessed. We would stop back by Davy Crockett State Park if the maple trees were in color, winding up and around the wooded hillside and past the covered bridge that just begged for a photo stop.

Another time, I did take my camera along as we ambled down the Natchez Trace Parkway, just for the views. Passing by cotton fields, awash in white, he’d say “Just looking at those fields makes my back ache!” This from a man who grew up in a manually operated cotton field, earning enough money in good seasons to help put himself through college. Along with work as a janitor in the boys’ dorm, it was just enough.

He waited in the passenger seat as I attempted to capture the beauty of the Tennessee River span and the meandering Indian rock wall and the undulation of the never-ending fields of white. We estimated how many cars we would meet on the Trace before our exit, competing to see who would guess the closest, but always forgot to count.

Once, we went on down to the Carolina community in Itawamba County, where the manually operated cotton field had been, just to remember. And he remembered. From the front porch of the old farmhouse where he grew up, he remembered the way the cows were driven across the road each evening and where the barn had stood. He mused about how awe-inspired he was of the farmer who could spit clean through the slats of the old pot-bellied stove in the Conwill Bros. store. “It was nothing but net,” he’d smiled.

I took pictures that day of all that we saw. But what I couldn’t capture on film, what I knew but thought would last forever, was the real beauty of that day spent with him. It’s not that I was oblivious to it. I just knew that there would always be another.

We’re going through the little 1958 house now, not in whirlwind fashion, but slowly. Each day that I stop by to check the place, I pick up an item or two. They’re always things that mean something to me. Things that spark some special memory or that I know he would want preserved. On the last stop in, I wandered back to my old bedroom, the one he was using as a repository for the myriad three-ring binders of his writings. Amid the sea of nondescript white notebooks was a solitary brown-covered book, bound with a ribbon. The copyright is 1938. The title is Leaves of Gold.

And I randomly opened it to page 95.

Leaves of Gold. How fitting. Just like that brilliant October day last year. Looking back, I think it was the last “field trip” he and I took. Back in the Honda, heading west, we drove to Shiloh Battlefield. Because my mom had often taken her students from Farmington High School there in the late ‘50s, she knew it well and it had always been a favorite picnic destination for her young family. That was more than a few years ago. Just a bit. We usually found our way there on a summer Sunday afternoon. She would pack the picnic tote with peanut butter sandwiches and several cans of shoestring potatoes. Maybe a few Chips Ahoy and canned pineapple. We’d pile out at a picnic area across from the Shiloh entrance and settle on a sizzling, scratchy concrete picnic table bench for a snack. Then we’d head in to climb all over the cannonball monuments and marvel at the Bloody Pond. I’d stand beside that still water in the shimmering heat, with no doubt that the muddy depth was actually blood from those dying soldiers, drifting still. I just knew it.

On this golden October day with Daddy, I downloaded the Shiloh Battlefield app as you do now, and let it narrate every stop along the way. The sky was brilliant blue with drifting white clouds. Hardwood trees, especially those maples, literally fluttered in transparent neon. Shimmering jewel tones among the matte brown oaks, beautifully balanced each other. It really was a perfect day. One of those days that you don’t realize is so perfect until you wish it could be repeated, down to the last detail.

We followed the route, beginning where the skirmish took place near Shiloh Church, proceeding on to where General Johnston bled out under the oak, past the Bloody Pond which was no longer as bloody as I remember, and finishing up where the reinforcements came in from the river, ending it all. The beauty of the place belies the tragedy, but that’s not what we thought too much about on that day. We really didn’t think at all. It was just a beautiful day that stands out among all others. Just two friends out and about on a stunningly gorgeous fall day. One of many. One in a million.

He wore his bright blue zip-up jacket and the U.S. Army cap that marked him as a veteran. It wasn’t at all the reason he wore it, but it did sometimes earn him a free Jacks gravy biscuit if someone recognized the significance. Once, it was an entire Cracker Barrel meal.

On the last leg of the battlefield tour, the road winds down by the Tennessee River, past the Indian mound and up to the National Cemetery. It gets more heavily wooded and less traveled somehow, and that’s what I most remember. A gust of wind rattled limbs that were already tentative, loosening a shower of golds and reds and yellows, all skittering across the roadway in front of us, chasing one another like kids in a schoolyard. Happily set free and wild with abandon. Leaving this life for another. Leaves of gold.

A life of gold.

So, page 95. A page from a book that sat on our living room coffee table for decades without ever piquing my interest. But today, I open it to a poem called Away.

I cannot say, and I will not say

That he is dead. He is just away.

With a cheery smile and a wave of his hand,

He has wandered into an unknown land.

And left us dreaming how very fair

It needs must be since he lingers there.

Think of him faring on, as dear

In the love of There as the love of Here.

And so I will. Especially when the leaves begin to blow.