My grandmother lived and died in a little green and white bungalow with a wide front porch in Dennis, Mississippi. She moved around a bit in her married life, but in widowhood she returned to the house with the inviting front porch and never left it. Shaded by massive water oaks that allowed only minimal sunlight, the porch bordered a sloped yard that sported mostly just a dense green spongy moss covering, broken up occasionally by wisps of anemic grass shoots, ever hopeful but consistently disappointed. When they built the house in 1925, she and my grandfather optimistically planted those well-placed water oaks and they grew to do their job beautifully, ensuring no grass to deal with and a shady setting for afternoon naps and watching the world go by.

She did a lot of watching her world, most often in late afternoon after all else had been put in order. The front porch swing was usually reserved for visiting relatives or passersby, as her favorite perch involved a broad rocker with wide arm rests and peeling white paint. I loved the swing for those sweltering afternoons when nothing but a pillow and an ages old Grimm’s Fairy Tale book would suffice. That faded and tattered book was actually the only one in the house that was even slightly interesting for children to read, and even that notion is in serious question when you consider the theme of many of those fairy tales. Better informed than Walt Disney, I know that the real wicked stepsisters actually cut off their toes to fit in the glass slipper. I know that because I had access to Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Not light reading, I can tell you. As a scholar in the truest sense of the word, my grandfather had collected Greek, Latin, and Calculus tomes, which were the only other choices in the house—again, nothing appropriate for a young girl, so the fairy tales and well-worn swing were what often lulled me into afternoon oblivion.

We still own that house, along with a smaller ramshackle board house across the pine thicket, occupied rent-free by a guy who looks after the “big house,”, or at least dutifully reports any limbs or power lines down, and each winter trims the crepe myrtles. A local historical group recently pictured the smaller house in a photo collage of abandoned houses, and just the slightest bit offended, I informed them that the house was not actually abandoned but was definitely worthy of inclusion in the history annals of Tishomingo County. It’s not easy to maintain sites of historical interest, but we’re doing our part.

The porch swing that graces my grandmother’s front porch has been in the same place, on the same rusty chains, for well over 60 years. Its slatted seat is perfectly molded, with just the slightest dipped center on both sides, to accommodate two people sitting side by side, and at exactly the right height off the ground to ensure minimal effort to achieve a gentle glide. On top of that, there is just a tiny bit of give so that when you sit down, the swing sinks a bit but recovers nicely, as if to remind you of who is actually in charge of the seating situation. It takes a lot of years and a lot of rear ends to get a swing that perfect. You just can’t buy it at Lowe’s and that one is certainly not for sale. It’s priceless.

An old swing is the first indication that a place has been a well-used and well-loved home. Not a house, but a Home. If the swing has an age-worn seat, molded from years of use, and is adorned with flaking paint and questionable chains, you can be sure of it. That’s true of most front porch swings, at least those that grace older homes that have welcomed and sheltered families through decades of ownership. I napped on the same swing in the same place where my dad courted my mom on those Saturday afternoons so many years ago. I like to think it’s where they planned their future. it’s the same swing where Aunt Ruth enjoyed her afternoon coffee when her family visited from Texas, and it’s the vantage point from which Big Mama watched her grandkids hunt Easter eggs in the pine thicket every spring. It’s where we gathered after weddings and funerals or for family reunions in later years, and it’s where I still picture just about every good thing that happened in that house. I have a cousin who travels from Baton Rouge each year, in part just to sit on that swing and while away an afternoon. It’s that appealing.

In fact, I’d go so far as to say most old porch swings, and that one in particular, are very much like family, with an open invitation to sit and visit a while. Time is of no concern, they’re always glad to see you, and their embrace is warm and comfortable and familiar.

My dad and I returned to the little green and white bungalow today, just to check on it as we do every so often. While he waited in the car, I wrestled the back door padlock into submission and pushed open the heavy wooden door to the enclosed back porch. The cold immediately assailed me–the dank heavy motionless November cold of a house that is in quiet retirement, with no more family to support. I wandered through the unused rooms noting nothing out of place, and then I spied it. There, in the midst of all those scholarly epistles was the unmistakable tattered green cover of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, as out of place as ever but still perfectly capable of drawing my undivided attention.

Plucking the fairy tale collection from the dusty bookshelf, I determined to thumb through it later, relieved to rescue my prize from the oblivion of the corner bookshelf. Anxious to complete the walkthrough and return to the relative warmth of the waiting car, I rounded the corner past the front porch and just couldn’t help it. Like a siren song, the worn white swing beckoned out of the corner of my eye. How could I refuse? Mumbling something to my dad about the need to check the front porch, I made a trancelike beeline for the family swing, Its crusty peeling paint, warped seat slats, and customary “give” as I settled my weight were thankfully expected and unchanging. Had I been alone, I have no doubt a pillow and a fairy tale and a nap would have been involved.

And I also have no doubt that I would have been immeasurably happy. Because that’s the way it should be when you spend time with family.

I grew up longing for a horse. My favorite book was Golden Prize and Other Horse Stories, which was chock full of tales about horses and their young owners. I remember one that centered around a city dweller who won a horse in a lottery and then tried to house his winning mare in a midtown apartment. Another described a horse that would only turn left, unsurprisingly named Lefty, causing chagrin for her young owner until she somehow proved to save the day with her left-turning skill. I may not remember a page of Edith Hamilton’s Mythology, but I know my Golden Prize. Most stories were all about a girl and her horse, which is what I longed for—what I dreamed to be. A girl in love with her very own horse.

As a suburbanite, I never got to own a horse, even though I lived out the fantasy in books and an occasional spin on whatever horse Uncle Wayne owned at the time. Either he was not too selective in his horse purchasing or I was a horrible rider, as I don’t think I ever stayed on any of his horses for a complete ride out and back. I grew pretty familiar with ground rush, but I suspect I was the problem. So, a horse was not in the cards for me, but that all changed when I married into a farm-owning family. At least, it all changed for my daughters who shared the unfettered rapture of most young girls where horses are involved. There was no excuse for not experimenting with horse ownership, so we waited for the right time. I just might get my own horse, after all.

We first met her at Alli’s trainer’s barn. At that time, my youngest was enamored with Saddle Club, a TV series featuring a group of preteens living the equestrian dream on a trainer’s ranch in Australia. We found a place for lessons and Alli enthusiastically settled into barn life at Ms. Mary’s, relying on borrowed mounts for instruction each Wednesday afternoon. Before long she had us convinced, though, that nothing would do but to have our own steed at the barn. Then, on a day much like any other, we met Fanny, the headstrong copper red mare that was destined to teach Alli to win, lose, cajole, acquiesce, lead, follow, socialize, and apologize, while at the same time to perfect the emergency dismount stylishly. She also learned patience at the lead of the red mare and came to appreciate the importance of maintaining a steady supply of cinnamon apple flavored treats and soft peppermints. It was just a girl and her horse, and it was enough.

It’s interesting how the most mundane of days can hold immense promise. We really had no idea how much our lives were to be affected by the nondescript horse who was just passing through the trainer’s barn that afternoon. She was supposed to be there only temporarily but was having a tough time proving her worth to potential buyers. There were apparently a lot of headstrong red mares on the market, but most displayed better manners than this one. That fact became apparent as she continued to be returned to the barn after multiple trial periods at other farms. She might spook on a trail ride or refuse to load on a trailer or commit some other act of defiance. When we least expected it, we’d arrive at the barn to find Fanny back in the paddock hanging out with the others after yet another failed attempt at rehoming.

She had attitude and she was independent. Just like Alli. Maybe that’s why they forged such a lifelong attachment that began that Tuesday in May when we offered $2,200 to take her home. I had just received payment from a publisher for my first textbook, Practical Computing, so we briefly, and not very seriously, considered giving her the same name as the book, but of course, she could never be anything other than just Fanny. Or Frances, as Mr. Roger dubbed her. She still had a slight problem with manners, but somehow our girl and Fanny connected in such a way that any behavioral issues grew to be less distracting and much more forgivable. Or maybe she just needed the right touch. I sort of think the same could be said of Alli, as she grew and learned and matured right along with Fanny, who apparently had just the right touch herself to keep her independent human charge humble and occupied and earthy.

We think we own animals. But in a lot of ways, they own us. With perfect execution, they get us to feed them, shelter them, love them, and put up with them. And somewhere along the way, many of them return the favor by unintentionally teaching us. Many people insist that sports, particularly team sports, build character, engender trust, and encourage both graceful winning and losing. I know that’s true, but not being much of a team player, I’d suggest that just as many lessons are learned by simply caring for some living creature other than yourself. Especially when that relationship is a team effort that involves competition, the learning goes both ways. And yet I’m fairly convinced that most of the teaching is done by the four-legged teammate who gives every appearance of doing all the learning.

Fanny was a master at teaching patience. It was her forte. She began those lessons early, by refusing to load on a trailer, which was a nonnegotiable for Alli when an offsite show or practice was involved. On more than one occasion, we stooped to first loading another more amenable horse buddy just so she would follow suit. She and her paint horse friend, Skip, made a few road trips together before she trusted us to ferry her safely. Skip learned that treats were involved, so he was a willing participant in the ploy. And Fanny learned trust.

Closely akin to learning patience was the study of humility, which any horse owner picks up in quick order. There’s nothing quite as humiliating as going airborne without permission or cleaning a horse’s rear end, both of which were occasionally on Fanny’s lesson plan. Any touch of pride was quickly dealt with by an unexpected downfall, often quite literally.

Fanny’s career as a show jumper and sort-of-eventer involved a lot of hard work. Alli hated cross country and Fanny despised dressage, so they met in the middle and agreed to work on show jumping. Alli memorized difficult jump patterns and Fanny carried them out to perfection, tucking her slender legs tightly under her chest as she took flight, even taking home top honors at 2010 Rally in Kentucky. Alli learned to win big that June day. She also learned to lose on most dressage courses, raking in lots of helpful advice from judges but seldom leaving with a ribbon. At the end of the day, win or lose, it was just a girl and her horse, and that was enough.

We trailered for practice and competition at Wolfgap, Moontown, Redstone, Double Trouble, LaGrange, and Percy Warner, among others. Fanny competed against high-dollar horses from Texas as well as local Friesians and Warmbloods, who were bred for her sport. As a maybe Quarter horse with a not-so-flashy name, she never quite fit the expected mold, so the horse and her girl had to work hard and expect little, in the process proving that Fanny was not such a simple horse with a simple name. She was a winner more often than not.

For a few years, her social calendar was filled as the ribbons mounted up. She hung out with the girls of the Pony Club, fraternizing with Skip and Sable and Circle, as their girls suited up in the shiny black riding boots and Charles Owen helmets. She and the horse club trailered to Rally each year, dragged through traffic by moms and preteens in Suburbans. At less structured events, she donned Tinkerbell wings and a green blanket for a local farm’s Octoberfest celebration, and she dutifully lined up in red reindeer antlers for the family Christmas photo.

Her retirement to the farm brought little fanfare, as she didn’t protest at all the days spent grazing and sunning and bossing her fellow barn occupants. Only once did she leap the fence to explore the neighbor’s front lawn, which was uncomfortably near a major four-lane highway. School was out for her in never ending vacation, but I don’t think she ever stopped teaching us. In her leisure time, she perfected the attitude, slyly encouraging infractions from her pasture buddies so she could quickly remind them who was boss. She knew, and we knew, that she would never leave the farm. And we all knew who was boss. She had bought and paid for her retirement and she was family and she was happy. Work done, it was just a girl and her horse, and it was enough.

Among her final lessons was that of just living each day. During Fanny’s final years, with Alli studying out of state, I finally got my own horse. We might not have saddled up too often, or at all, but I brought Fanny peppermints and made sure she had plenty of hay and water and good conversation. Jenn picked up the slack as well, taking care of her sister’s horse as her own, noting her stiff back legs and keeping her exercised. Her copper coat still gleamed in the sun, even if the ribs showed through a bit. And each day was a new day, with more green grass to nose through and constant shade to enjoy.

I firmly believe in Godsends, or God Winks, or whatever you want to call them. Oklahoma State University is nowhere near home, but this past weekend, Alli flew home on a whim and spent much of those two days enjoying time with Fanny. The 30-year-old horse and her girl hung out that final afternoon until time for the return flight. About the time the plane lifted off, Fanny grew ill, which led to an emergency vet visit, which didn’t end well. But God had arranged for the goodbye time so there is peace. And Jenn made sure she was never alone, as you do for family.

Golden Prize and Other Horse Stories is missing a great story, although it is one that will never be recorded there. Without much fanfare, I’d call it A Girl and Her Horse. It would be a simple tale of lessons learned and life lived as a girl and her horse grow up together. I’m not sure, though, how the story could really tell the tale. You had to be there.

It was just a girl and her horse, and it was enough.

She loved Barney. It got to the point where she couldn’t go anywhere without him. She had the Barney doll, the Barney hat, the Barney tapes, and Barney pajamas. If we left for the babysitter’s but forgot Barney, we simply turned around and went back to get him. No questions asked and no need for any audible sighing on my part. Barney was her best bud. Every weekday afternoon, at 2:00, we watched Barney on TV, singing along to the I Love You song. She’s 27 now, but Barney is still somewhere in residence. I could give away most other childhood effects, but not Barney.

For me, it was Monkey. He is a baby-sized brown and yellow stuffed chimp in elastic suspenders and yellowed tennis shoes, with gnarled plastic hands and a dish face wearing a perpetual grin. He was my favorite. He held a pliable banana molded to one hand that would just fit in his grinning mouth so that I could actually feed him the banana. I loved Monkey.

I also loved my little pink cardboard stove. My older brother and I had no other siblings, so we had to settle on each other for entertainment occasionally. While I busied myself with cooking on the cardboard stove, frying up those plastic eggs, he busied himself beating up Monkey. He was a fan of Saturday afternoon wrestling and took out that play acting on poor Monkey. In those pre-video-game years, imagination was for real—not confined to a fast-action monitor. Although his stuffing is now permanently rearranged somewhat, with one arm in a sad dangle from which he will never recover, Monkey is still with me, still grinning, and in a much better place.

I know stuffed animals and dolls don’t have emotions and can’t hear you, but I’ve watched Toy Story a few times too many and find it just about impossible to give any of ours away. It doesn’t help that my oldest daughter is just as sentimental as I am, and very attached to remnants of her childhood. If an item doesn’t have a face, she’s OK with rehoming it, but heaven forbid that an inanimate object with two sad eyes is carried out. I probably shouldn’t have read the Velveteen Rabbit to her as many times as I did years ago.

“It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real, you don’t mind being hurt.”

I just heard a heartstring break.

I’m currently in the midst of a decluttering frenzy and really don’t need to revisit that Velveteen Rabbit quote. And yet, there it is, playing in my mind like a record that’s stuck in a loop as I consider the 40-doll Barbie collection that has lived with us for more than a few years. “Then you become Real. Then you become Real…”

From Beanie Babies to Barbies to Bitty Babies, we have them all and they’re apparently going nowhere. As I prepare for house painters and a bit of remodeling, I stare down the stackable totes still stored in those closets, brimming with half-naked Barbies and plastic animals that have definitely seen better days, I know they really need to go. And I also know that they’re most likely not going anywhere. Legos might take a hike, but Woody and Buzz and the multiple Barbie families are permanent residents. I might rearrange them a bit, and they may even end up packed away in cardboard boxes to be rediscovered, or maybe even discarded, by a new generation, but if an item has a face or a name, it will not be shipped off to the Island of Misfit Toys. At least, not if our oldest daughter is within knowing distance.

I think the deal is that over the decades, we’ve just collected more stuff, which makes it a whole lot more difficult to deal with. I have the only two dolls my mom probably ever owned, and they really don’t take up much space. I owned three Barbies and one Francie, having never collected a single Ken or GI Joe or Skipper. And their entire wardrobe fits in one carboard Corning Percolator box. But it’s another story when you consider the nameless dozens of Barbies, the Fisher Price double-decker dollhouse and residents, Barbie Townhouse, Barbie jet, and Barbie VWs that inhabit the attic and spill over into bedroom closets. An entire top closet shelf is a stuffed animal nightmare, exploding with tangled limbs and yarn hair. Chucky is probably even up there somewhere.

And yet, here I am, alone in the empty nest, attempting to sort out the well-loved items ahead of the painters who oddly enough demand a clean palette on which to work. And I’m well aware that even if I give away half of what I see, those items won’t be missed. And yet…

Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But those things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.

At least Legos don’t look you in the eye as you’re closing the lid.

The days go by slow, but the years fly by.

I’m still a young mother of two preschoolers. Except that I’m not. I’m still planning summer outings and packing peanut butter sandwiches for our vacation days at the pool. Except that I’m not. I no longer mediate disagreements between siblings or serve as a cab company at all hours and all distances. Those endless days of monotony and routine, the school pickups and the weeknight suppers, the hubbub of activity amid the cluttered kitchen and strewn-out science projects, the aggravation and stress of work deadlines and school parties and final exams actually does have an expiration date. I just somehow missed the notice. Maybe it was under the label somewhere that I never peeled back. I always knew it would get here; in fact, I’m pretty sure I banked on it. But just not today. Not this year and not this summer and certainly not today.

The slow motion of those early days that I enjoyed, occasionally tolerated, but always hoped would speed up somewhat, took me at my word. I thought Jenn would never reach the one-year-old mark and be out of that walker and on her own two feet. Well, she did. And then she turned 21. And she’s on her own two feet now.

The ordinariness of family life that I knew would change course in due time—in fact, the progression that I would have sworn was the reason I was putting in all of the effort— got here a lot quicker than I thought it would. Not only did our children evolve into educated responsible adults who thankfully still check in pretty often, but my parents and cousins and brother also outpaced me in the years. I see pictures of former classmates and coworkers and I barely recognize them. They look nothing like their younger selves, and I’m puzzled because I know I sure haven’t aged in that way.

In fact, one of the most fulfilling awards of my life was the “Changed the Least” designation at my 20-year class reunion. Obviously, my stash of awards is a bit slim. With the advantage of a few more years of hindsight, however, I’m not sure that I should have been so pleased with that backhanded compliment. At high school graduation, I know I hoped to change in a lot of ways from the sweet shy girl with the bad haircut. It’s probably best not to lose the sweetness, so I hope I’ve maintained that, but the haircut had to go and even now, I work on the shyness. I had actually hoped to change a bit more in 20 years. I certainly hope I’ve picked up the pace since that reunion, but in all the right ways.

Regardless, change occurs. But just as I was too busy or myopic to notice the change in height, the change in interests, the change in friends, the change in dreams, even the change in wardrobe of our daughters from one day to the next, the seasons of life blurred by anyway, without my permission or even much notice. Fall pumpkin parties gave way to Christmas Eve excitement, followed closely by Easter dresses and backyard pool parties and new school backpacks with plenty of #2 pencils and lined paper. And then, steadily increasing in speed like fiendishly out of control flash frames in a slide projector, rolled first cars and exit exams and college admissions and—how did that happen?—college graduation and graduate school and first jobs and apartments. One, two…twelve…twenty-five.

But the days. Those days were incredibly slow and uneventful. I can account for the days but what elude me are the years.

Meanwhile, one career for me evolved into another, with new projects and employment at my alma mater. The space in our everyday lives vacated by the children is now filled with days that are routine in other ways, like refreshing and reinvigorating the homestead. All the things a husband loves to be involved in. He accuses me of being bossy, but I assure him it’s just that he’s the last one standing and a mom has to care for someone, as old habits die hard. It’s not bossing, it’s caring.

The one thing I will not do is clear out the bedrooms. I’ll continue to dust around the trophies and the kindergarten queen crown and the video game boxes. The full set of Thoroughbred fiction, selected by a pre-teen in love with the world of horses, remains on the hand-painted bookshelf, flanked by framed photos of the horses she went on to own and compete with. The space is theirs to do with what they want anytime they’re back in the house. It’s not a shrine or a time warp. It just means they are always welcome.

We may be in a lull right now, with more exits than entrances, but it’s OK, because that’s likely to change. In fact, the lack of routine and predictability is sort of nice, and in a very unexpected way, liberating. We’re free to accept more dinner invitations and to begin or renew friendships that took much less priority when family life was more demanding. I’ve even considered taking piano lessons and learning conversational Italian for the dream vacation to Italy. At the very least, we’re taking on some joint projects that require the same partnership that we began so long ago, and we still make a pretty good team.

It’s the circle of life, but I must admit that I was a bit more excited on the Simba end, with a world of possibilities, maybe even adoration from the masses, ahead. In a much wiser state, a bit further along that continuum, I know that every beginning has an end, but that it’s usually followed with another beginning. And so the circle goes. Which is why our door is always open and most often revolving.

Still, as my husband and I settled in for a round of Hallmark Christmas movies in July, we smiled as we realized that at that very moment our youngest was participating in a professional seminar, building her resume and plotting her future, probably too busy networking to notice the beach outside. We’ve done that already. We don’t just gaze out at the beach from the plate glass conference room window, although for years, that was our plight. We throw off our shoes now and sink our toes in the sand. And when the sun sinks over the beach, we’re there..

So now, with less predictability, some days are far too short but valued beyond measure. On a recent visit home, Alli and I went to a concert in Nashville. We drove the luxury car I bought for myself that I was always too responsible to get when I had a family in tow. Having bought tickets at the last minute, we were relegated to the nosebleed section, but were also lucky enough to draw the attention of a concert staffer handing out passes to the pit beside the stage. So we spent the entirety of the concert closer even than the first row, almost in the lap of Michael Buble’s orchestra and soaking up the entire experience. I can even tell you what color his socks were. They were light blue and they matched his suit. That’s the closest I’ve ever come to being a groupie but it was purely by default. A few of our co-pit people, though, had obviously passed the groupie quiz earlier and were in rare form.

We laughed, we reconnected, we certainly made a concert memory, and we even stopped in Franklin for a midnight McDonald’s cheeseburger and fries. I can tell you, that was a day that went far too quickly. It didn’t crawl and I’m sorry for that. In my Mufasa wisdom, I’ve learned that the most unexpected, the most unpredictable days, the most valued days, are those that fly by. And sadly, those are the ones that you wish would never end.

Some days just don’t last long enough. They practically whiz by. But not nearly as fast as those years.

Yesterday was my birthday. It was a “decade” birthday, but like most women, I’m not offering details on exactly which one. And any well-bred man or woman would never ask. At one time, it might have bothered me to begin a new numbered decade, but now I’m just glad to have reached this one. I figure if I live to 100, I’m now middle aged, so you figure it out. Or I could be lying about my age as most women are prone to do.

Although I’m not at full-scale war with signs of aging, I’m a regular purchaser of anything Olay. If it promises wrinkle delay or reversal, I’m all in, and I’m a firm believer in the power of sunscreen. It’s amazing that although my grandmother at this same age was so very old, I haven’t followed suit. How could anyone my age be so young? After all, if Christie Brinkley can still appear on the cover of Sports Illustrated and Kathie Lee Gifford can begin a whole new career, then I’m sure I can do the same. Well, maybe not the cover of SI, but I am open to a new career.

I’m thinking that what keeps me so young is the farm and animal life that I’m immersed in. Our daughters are officially in the rat race of building careers and completing degrees, so the farm is no longer a priority for them, much as they’d like it to be. Because I’m not working this summer, I spend many mornings rearranging horses, picking stalls, and making sure no one goes hungry. I get plenty of exercise climbing over locked gates and lifting incredibly heavy forkfuls of horse manure into a wheelbarrow or pitching it out of sight. It’s definitely a workout but probably no more than a yoga class and a whole lot less expensive. I have the fresh air, free weights, and even a bit of space for meditation in my alone time.

Part of what I ponder in my solitude, especially this week, is how fortunate I am to continue to have birthdays. Actually, that’s true for anyone, no matter what age, as no one is promised tomorrow. But you really don’t think about that when you’re less than 10 years old, like, say, 8 ½. In fact, that begs the question, “When do you stop adding the ‘and a half’ to the year?” At some early point in life, we all feel we’ve reached the pinnacle, I think, and stop adding fractions to the age. We just wisely realize that we’re fortunate to keep having birthdays and count them in whole units. I’m certainly not looking to add fractions anymore but I also won’t protest the continued sunrises which hopefully add up to another year at some point.

The only downside to my birthdate is that my husband’s is the very next day. That means that it’s far too easy to agree to the old “If you don’t get me anything, I won’t get you anything” deal. Or maybe, “Let’s just pool the money and take a trip later,” which actually isn’t a bad idea at all, come to think of it, so it’s usually what we do. Later this month, we’re going to toast a July sunset at Sunset Point in Fairhope, and wish one another happy birthday, so I’m pleased. I’ll spring for the key lime tart and call it my birthday cake. I’m perfectly fine with that. And it’s sort of nice to have a birthday buddy.

What’s not so nice is any sort of shared birthday cake so we stopped doing that long ago. I’m not selfish about many things, but I can get bent out of shape with joint names on a birthday cake.

The one thing I miss greatly is spending part of the day with my mom. She always made sure I took sole billing on a birthday cake, as only a mother would. For the past four years, I’ve been without her, and I think I miss her more on my birthday than on any other day. After all, she was with me on my very first birthday and I had hoped she’d be with me for many more than the multitude of years I was given. And yet, when I put that into words, I realize how very special that length of time really was. I had better than I deserved, I’m sure, and more than what many ever get to enjoy.

She was the one person on this earth who always made sure I had a gift to open or at least a card in the mail. And it was always on time. She was my anchor—predictable and ever present. My birthday seemed to be just as important to her as it might have been to me. She always remembered and celebrated just me. No one can do that quite like your mom.

In fact, part of the joy of motherhood is celebrating your children, so I completely understand now. My only hope is that they come to view me as an anchor, as well, and not a dead weight. At this point in their financial neediness, they are much more dead weight than I am, though, and I hope they remember that fact if I ever get old and infirm and we switch positions. Not that I’m keeping track or anything.

Before a few miles separated us and before I reached double digits in age, my mother routinely hosted backyard neighborhood birthday parties where we gathered around the metal-framed picnic table to dish out cake and cherry Kool Aid, always blowing out the exact same number of candles as our age. She was particular about that. With enough kids in attendance, which was usually the case where cherry Kool Aid was involved, we’d finish up the party with a lively game of Drop the Handkerchief. That’s where we all stood in a circle with hands cupped behind our back, while the person who was “It” circled the outside of the group, stealthily dropping a handkerchief in a player’s cupped hands. The player with the handkerchief then chased the dropper around the outside of the circle, hoping to make contact before the circle was made. If that happened, the dropper had to be It for another round. I pitied those kids with non-summer birthdays who had to settle for Musical Chairs at the Royal Avenue Recreation Center on some rainy Saturday afternoon in November.

So, as my birthday approached this year, I was especially mindful of the new decade I was entering and determined to stare it down. Which is why, when my daughter with the new jet ski asked if I wanted to ride with her, I hesitated only slightly before climbing aboard, gripping the handholds, and taking flight—literally, on occasion, as she zipped over the wakes of other boats and swerved in and out of deep and not so deep spots. On the rare moment when I opened my eyes and her ponytail wasn’t whipping me in the face, the scenery was actually beautiful. And when we rounded a curve into a shady corner of the creek, the noticeably cooler air and the midsummer aroma of clear water meeting moist earth and heavy greenery was awe inspiring and well worth the effort to stay upright that long. And I was glad I said yes.

I was also well aware that even if I somehow didn’t stay upright, a jet ski has no propeller so I would most likely not be chopped to pieces, and the life jacket should keep me afloat long enough for rescue. I was prepared and psyched and much younger than the calendar says I am. Or so I think I proved. It’s certainly how I felt.

And that is exactly the point. If we’re lucky and healthy and don’t do stupid things, we’ll most likely continue to have birthdays. Maybe even a lot of birthdays. I read a beauty article recently that suggested that a great smile is the best way to showcase your inner beauty, regardless of age. It’s a free and natural facelift. It might not be much, but it’s certainly an easy habit to continue so I plan to smile a lot this next year.

Even so, I’m sure I’ll continue to do my part to keep Olay in business. And I’ll never turn down an offer to jet ski. Because young is as young does. And that’s what I always want to be.

Take the Vacation. Those are the words of advice passed along by a 90-year-old friend at his birthday party recently. I can’t believe Mr. Howard is 90 years old, but that’s the way it is with people who just never seem to age on the inside. Sure, he can’t hear very well and walks a bit stooped over, but he has one of the sharpest minds I’ve ever seen and I very much want to follow his advice because he must know something I don’t. Especially if it’s as simple as taking a vacation. Well, if you insist.

Mr. Howard enrolled in just about every senior adult computer class I taught for many years. He thought there was always something new to learn. And he was right. I’ve never known anyone so intent on learning and yet with so many deep questions. He ponders the size of the universe and wonders how atoms work. He muses about the Bible and imagines eternity. Obviously, I’m not equipped to answer most of his questions or even engage in intelligent conversation, but I have taught him how to google, so he looks up much of the info himself. Some questions even Google can’t answer, though.

Take the Vacation. Simple words from a very complex man, but words that stress the value of kicking back, disconnecting, and spending quality time with those we love. This complex man, who served in the Navy and earned a pilot’s license, flew a Cessna a few days ago in celebration of his 90^th birthday and intends to skydive with his wife on their next anniversary before renewing their vows upon landing. I don’t think she has agreed yet, but I can tell she wants to. You can find him most mornings at McDonalds having coffee with the retired crowd of tall tale tellers. He mostly just listens.

Live Life. That’s a paraphrase of the advice given by Aunt Ruth, my mother’s sister, during the last couple of years of her life. At the last family reunion she was able to attend, when she was already slipping down the one-way path to dementia, she and I picked up a milkshake at the local drive-thru. On the way back, she mused out loud about her happiest moments. “You know,” she softly said, as if to herself, “we often didn’t have two nickels to rub together, but we lived.” She smiled, mentally revisiting a happier time when she and her husband traveled the world and grew a family. “We lived.”

Aunt Ruth would leave dirty dishes in the sink in a heartbeat if there was a cup of coffee and a front porch swing and a sunset available. She weathered rocky patches in her life with faith that there was another side and that there was always something more important and life-giving than any temporary current circumstances. She left one lifestyle for another, to share with her husband the joy of restarting a family farm—in her 70’s. She laughed often and she usually laughed first. She lived.

If You Cross the Bridge Before You Get to It, You Pay the Toll Twice. Life is definitely not always a picnic and there are all sorts of causes for concern. Anyone with children has spent plenty of frantic moments worried about their offspring’s whereabouts and imagining any number of poorly ending scenarios. In fact, you don’t even have to have kids in order to worry. From global warming to whether you left the curling iron plugged up, you can easily occupy your mind with angst.

I’m not sure whether he has always lived with his own advice, but my dad is quick to suggest that much is out of our control and that worrying won’t always help things or change an outcome. His mother-in-law, my grandmother, was probably the basis for his mantra. She spent a lot of time worrying. She was dead certain that someone would be hiding behind the evergreen bushes beside the walkway to our house, ready to jump out and grab my mom when she returned from teaching her night classes. Sitting bolt upright in the Naugahyde easy chair on the nights she spent with us, Big Mama stewed in obvious agony until Mama walked in the door, having survived any ill-intentioned attempt on her well being. Even so, my grandmother lived to near 90, so worry didn’t kill her, at least not for a long while. Still, if you’re going to pay the toll anyway, why pay it early and why pay it twice?

Don’t Burn a Bridge if You Can Help It. You Might Have to Cross it Again. Speaking of bridges, this one is almost too simple for all except the most hotheaded among us. Burning bridges is just not a good thing. It’s always best to leave a little wiggle room in case you’re not quite as smart as you thought you were. That’s how my father-in-law would break it down for his son when he knew he was headed to the point of no return, which was probably pretty often. That is, before I arrived to provide a bit of ballast for his boat. He’s on a pretty even keel now and burning very few bridges, thanks to a very smart dad and a very patient wife.

You Have Two Ears and Only One Mouth. That’s So You Can Listen a Lot More Than You Speak. More words of wisdom from a well-grounded father-in-law who left this earth far too early. I’m sure I could have learned a lot more from him. The art of listening is way more difficult than it sounds, but it can absolutely set you apart if you practice it well. I’m not certain why he felt compelled to emphasize to his only son the necessity of listening, as I’ve never found his son to be a poor listener. A little short on the uptake, maybe, but I think he hears me the second or third time, as is the case in most marriages that are in the double digits. And I’m a patient wife.

I don’t think my father-in-law finished high school, as he was called into service during WWII, but I can just about guarantee that his survival there was due in large part to listening well and saying no more than necessary. That, and most likely divine intervention and really good fortune. As a quiet person by nature, I’m pretty good at thinking before I speak, as I know that he was, but that’s just a gift of nature. Some, who are quicker on the draw (or tongue), just have to work harder at it than others.

Love. This one shouldn’t even have to be listed. It should just be nature. I have a friend from high school who has turned out to be one of the most optimistic, happy just to be here, people I know. Well, actually, what I know of him now I see on Facebook, but he’s still my friend. That’s what Facebook says. He often gently chastises those who are intent on espousing extreme political views and distaste for politicians by encouraging them just to love. I know it’s easy to hide behind social media so that your true self isn’t on display, but even if that’s the case, I take inspiration from his simplistic approach to just about every entanglement.

His most recent post was of sunset over the river. It read “Only boat on the lake. Sunset…Blessed…Love.” Just love.

You Don’t Always Have to be First. Like me, my mom used very few words. She knew you got in less trouble if you listened more and talked less, so she didn’t leave any succinct quotes to carry me forward. But she gave me advice nonetheless. Advice that I learned by simply watching her. I learned that it isn’t necessary to seek the limelight all the time. It’s just fine to be a supporting character. Being humble does not mean you’re weak. It just means you recognize that everyone has value and you’re not the best of the best all the time.

You can play backup to a spouse occasionally or even a lot. You can do kitchen duty on children’s night at church. You can cheer others on and hang out in the peanut gallery sometimes. You can inspire and encourage and serve and just be a safety net to those you care about. Quiet strength is not an oxymoron. She wore it well and we’re so much the better for it.

Laugh. If I could give just one word of advice, I think that would be it. It’s true that laughter is not always appropriate and there are a lot of things in this world that are not at all funny or inspiring or positive. But precisely because that is true, I think it’s pretty important to find humor wherever we can and not take ourselves too seriously. Having fun, staying positive, and being encouraging might be a better way to give the advice I’m trying to articulate, but I prefer just one word—laugh.

Laughter from the deepest part of your core; laughing so hard your stomach hurts and your face feels frozen in place is a very good thing. To the astonishment of our teenaged and older kids, my best friend cousin and I recently took a joy ride on a couch-shaped float titled “Big Mable,” a name I admittedly wasn’t too fond of, which was cabled behind a speeding jet ski piloted by my daughter. We laughed hysterically from the moment the rope tightened and we launched until we sailed back to the pier and stumbled ashore. We laughed so hard that words wouldn’t come, but I think we were still breathing. It was hard to tell. Whoever said laughter is the best medicine was really on to something.

Be Grateful. I’ve saved the best for last. If I could teach my children only one skill, expecting it to carry them the furthest in this life, I’d insist that they learn thankfulness. In fact, I’ve already done that. I only hope they listened. Just say thank you and mean it. No one is owed anything. No one has to open doors for you or pack your lunch. You’ve come this far in life because others cared enough to help you along the way and they’ll be a lot more likely to continue if you thank them for it. And yes, that does mean keeping nice stationery on hand for the requisite thank you note when it is called for.

Thanking your Creator for another day on this earth would be an excellent way to begin each day, as well. Living life to its fullest, loving others, keeping worry at bay, staying humble, laughing often, and refraining from burning those bridges is just about the best collection of advice I can imagine putting together and living by.

Well, that and taking the vacation. You should never forget about that vacation. Thank you, Mr. Howard.

I would never call myself a savory chef in the kitchen. If asked to bring green beans or peas to a church supper, I’d definitely have to look up a recipe. I can’t do anything in the kitchen by heart. Well, except for biscuits. I can bake biscuits without a recipe. It’s my one claim to fame, but I’ll take it.

If pressed, I’d have to admit that I can bake pretty well, which is not saying any more than most people raised in the South can say. Baking is our thing.

I’d like to be completely equal opportunity, insisting that both men and women are adept in culinary skills, and equally enthusiastic about kitchen duty, but I don’t like to lie. I really wish I had married someone who felt led to share with me the joy of meal preparation, but that’s just not the case. I don’t think he’s ever cooked a single thing in our 30-year marriage, although he claims to possess skill in baking cornbread. I’m still waiting. And he’s good at a lot of other household tasks, so I give him a pass in the kitchen.

At any rate, with the disclaimer that I’m well aware that cooking shouldn’t be a single-sex endeavor, I’m going to truthfully declare that most Southern cooks are women. Had I raised two sons instead of two daughters, I hope I would have encouraged them to learn all sorts of home management and kitchen skills, but in truth, I probably wouldn’t have put any more effort into them than I did in our two daughters. That’s a sad admission, but again, I don’t like to lie. I’m just not very proud of myself.

As a fluke I think, our youngest daughter somehow picked up an interest in cooking, excelling in baking and even showing aptitude in cooking vegetables and full-scale meals. Our firstborn, on the other hand, is pleased that she can grate lettuce for tacos and use the stovetop to craft boxed macaroni and cheese. If it has a bar code, she’s all over it.

Anyone brought up around regular church dinners or funeral meals or even just hanging out in a Southern grandmother’s kitchen has probably developed a general idea of what to expect from the kitchen. But only those of us who loosely call ourselves cooks can honestly comment on what goes on “under the hood” and what is acceptable in a bona fide kitchen that would earn the seal of approval from a grandma.

Because I so miserably failed in imparting any sort of kitchen skills to my offspring, I’m compelled to spell it out for them. I figure it’s better to address my mistake now than to just brush by it as if nothing is wrong. It’s my own personal intervention, so here goes.

First, the biscuits. Because it’s what I know, I’ll tell you what I do. Frozen butter is my secret ingredient, but it has to be real butter. Frozen and grated into the flour mixture. No margarine is allowed. In fact, one of the first rules of cooking in my kitchen is that you never use margarine for anything. On the other hand, my mother, raised in the Depression, used margarine for everything. I never knew her to buy the more expensive butter. It was always margarine, or what she called oleo. On one occasion, she sent my dad and daughter to the grocery store with a list. When they got to “oleo,” they were stumped. “Do you think she means Oreos?” questioned my dad of his 8-year-old granddaughter. My mom had no better luck with her husband in the kitchen than I’ve had with mine. They bought Oreos.

Flour is also an integral biscuit ingredient, but not just any flour. It has to be a winter wheat blend, namely White Lily. Go ahead and splurge on the name brand. It really is the best. In fact, White Lily should be your choice for anything that calls for flour, be it cakes, cookies, or breads. And finish up that biscuit dough with a healthy dose of buttermilk, but not too much. With experience, you’ll learn exactly how the dough should feel. You’ll talk to your biscuits. Too much buttermilk, and they’ll be too flat; too little and they’ll be too dry. You’ll learn to communicate with your dough. Trust me.

For most stovetop and even baking tasks, use cast iron if you have it. In my grandmother’s kitchen, I found a round cast iron biscuit pan that I usurped for use in my kitchen. It’s just as important as the White Lily flour for a finished biscuit. A good cook needs the right tools, and cast iron is a staple.

For some things, a name brand isn’t that important. Like maybe toothpicks or napkins or matches. But I can just about guarantee that the tastiest chicken salad and the creamiest pimento cheese gracing the church fellowship hall countertop is not made with store brand mayonnaise. No, any cook worth her salt knows the value of Hellman’s or Duke’s in any dish calling for mayo. And a top-flight tomato sandwich requires just three ingredients—a tomato, of course, Wonder bread (although Bunny or Sunbeam will do in a pinch), and Hellman’s or Duke’s mayonnaise. Salt is an optional fourth ingredient, but one my tomato-loving dad would insist upon.

Speaking of salt, be generous with it. You’ll learn when to stop, although my family has let me know I’ve crossed the line too often. They fear I’m going to pickle myself and they’ll be collateral. What I know is that it’s criminal not to salt a cold watermelon, and if I liked tomatoes, I’m sure I’d have the same rule for them. I even like salt on apple slices and I’ve been known to salt bread after it’s baked and before I eat it. Come to think of it, I agree. I have crossed the line and probably need help.

Because a good cook should always be prepared, but isn’t always flush with time, you should freeze things whenever possible. You never know when you’ll be called upon to contribute a potluck item and you’ll want it to look effortless, no matter how little lead time you’re given. So, freeze plain cake layers and have on hand some canned frosting. Voila! Pound cakes, angel food cakes, and just about any type of Bundt cake would be perfect. While you’re at it, go ahead and freeze a casserole of lasagna. You may not be Betty Crocker, which is exactly my point. You can appear to be, and perception is everything.

In a few cases, reduced fat is OK. But in most cases, it’s not. I’d never want to discourage any weight watching, so take my advice with a grain of salt (my favorite!). When a recipe calls for cream cheese, it means cream cheese. Not reduced fat cream cheese. You might get by using skim milk instead of whole, but I’d advise you to use buttermilk any chance you get. Well, that or sour cream, not reduced fat, of course. I figure if you’re going to the trouble of baking an item, you want it to be the best. So go ahead and use real cream cheese for that Hummingbird Cake.

Let’s be honest, if you’re going to the church potluck or the company picnic, you’re not really watching your weight that carefully. No one will slow down for the steamed broccoli and carrot mix in the rush for the garlic mashed potatoes. And you can bet those potatoes aren’t instant. Which brings me to my final rule—no instant anything. That means no instant potatoes, no powdered milk, no instant coffee (unless it’s going in chocolate chip cookies, in which case, have at it, as it makes cookies to die for), and no boxed macaroni and cheese (unless you’re my oldest daughter or you just totally don’t care).

So, to my ill-instructed daughters, I suggest that it’s never too late to pick up the kitchen pieces. It’s probably also time to suggest that you do as I say, not as I do. But there are plenty of church and ladies league cookbooks that will set you on the right path. You can even borrow my Cotton Country, if you like. I doubt that I’ll miss it.

My youngest daughter is living in Oklahoma for the next couple of years as she finishes up a graduate degree. I remind her frequently that her time there is temporary. I’m hopeful that if I say it out loud often enough it’ll become a fact. We miss her here in Alabama but I’m not sure she misses us quite as much. I hope I’m wrong, but just in case, I take every opportunity to remind her of what she’s not getting to enjoy.

I’m usually pretty confident with throwing the weather thing her way. It might be hotter than Georgia asphalt here, with blanket humidity that puts the moisture wicking in our tank tops to the serious stress test, but at least I don’t have to check the wind speed and direction when I leave the house to determine the path of least resistance in which I should plan my day. Instead, unless one of those pesky tornadoes is bearing down, we have no wind to walk into at all. That’s right, no wind at all. And that’s a good thing, I tell her. A good thing. Zero wind speed and 90% humidity is a good thing. I just know she’s missing it.

I don’t have to waste money on any of that spray-on de-icer for the car locks in winter and I don’t know when was the last time I wondered where I left the ice scraper. Best of all, the average winter temperature here is a bit higher than Oklahoma’s negative 38.

She’s also missing the barn fun we’ve been having this summer. Well, barn chores are usually my alone time so I guess it’s really my own private paradise. With three horses housed in the barn, none of which I can claim, but that’s neither here nor there, stalls can get a bit challenging. Still, there’s nothing quite like the feeling of accomplishment when every stall is clean and every water bucket filled. Then I can retire to my open-air office behind the barn in my low-slung beach chair and enjoy the blue sky and stagnant—no, calm, maybe even refreshing—air. And I’m sure to send her a snapchat at that point of my leisurely morning. I just know she’s missing it.

I usually also include a snap of her 25-year-old mare that I’m meticulously caring for in her absence. A little guilt in the mix is never a bad thing. If you’re a skilled Southern mom, you can throw that guilt without saying a word. And I’m a skilled Southern mom. I don’t mind at all medicating the rain rot on her horse’s back. In fact, I rather enjoy the one-on-one bonding time with her horse, so there’s absolutely no reason to rush home. See how easy that is?

We have colorful and creative people here that I think Oklahoma is sadly missing. Just this week, I read an arrest report of a guy in Limestone County who had been making meth in his home and loitering around known drug establishments. What actually got him noticed by law enforcement, though, was the meth-crazed attack squirrel he was prone to unleash on intruders. Arresting deputies called in local animal control and also involved the Fisheries and Wildlife government people, who collectively determined that the squirrel should be released into the wild, as it was against the law to keep a wild animal as a pet. I’m not sure that’s what I’d call it, but at any rate, the druggie squirrel was returned to the wild to rehabilitate, I suppose. Match that, Oklahoma.

And she’ll be happy to know that the crazy guy from what we always called Crazy Corner, the little blue house in the curve of the road, is back from jail. He was arrested about five years ago—for what, I don’t know—but he was often found on the Nanceford Road bridge lecturing passing drivers and occasionally lunging from the rail in the path of oncoming cars. I have a suspicion drugs were involved and may still be, but he’s back, and the community is none too happy about it. And she’s missing it. I know she wishes she were here to once again play Dodge the Crazy.

I could be wrong, but I don’t think her area of Oklahoma has anything to compare to Blount County’s hayfield water park. It takes skill to create a water park in a hayfield, but just give us a challenge and see what you get. From the road, the water park seems to spring up like Dorothy’s Emerald City, only this one has sparkling water flumes and zip funnels, and toilet-bowl-style whooshing water tracks that hurtle screaming yoga mat riders to the final flush. Never mind that there is no creek or river within miles. Who needs one when you can just build your own? I don’t think Oklahoma can do that. They have no idea what a river actually is if they can in good conscience give that suffix to the Cimarron. And build a water park on dry land? Please. We’d like to see you try.

Predictability is not our strong suit, and I’m sure she also misses that, what with the stale Midwesterners she deals with daily. Take the plumbing supplies salesman who helped us choose new sink fixtures today. Well groomed, with shirt tucked in and belted, and little round glasses, he had a definite mild-mannered Walter Mitty vibe. We learned that the plumbing company has a pleasant Christian atmosphere, with fair and honest treatment expected, and even required, for every transaction. As we finalized payment, the discussion turned to the dishonesty of some private contractors. Walter Mitty recalled a contractor who had taken money for a job he promised to do, but then vanished with the money before even beginning the project. Sympathizing, I asked if he ever got his money back. “No,” replied Walter, “but he don’t walk the same anymore.” Oh. Well alright then. I think I slightly underestimated Walter. My check will definitely clear.

Having recently visited her in Oklahoma, I’m well aware that the OSU mascot is a “Poke,” and that the rival university is proud to be a “Sooner.” Whatever happened to naming sports teams for large and/or ferocious animals, or at least understandable entities? Were she at home, she could cheer for the Tigers, Lions, Bulldogs, or even the visually overwhelming Crimson Tide. Admittedly, Ole Miss is an island to itself intellectually, as only they understand exactly what a Landshark is. I’m glad they do, as the rest of us are happy to remain in the dark I suppose. But with that one exception, we typically are pretty upfront with team names. But a Sooner? Personally, I think that any mascot with a human face should not be allowed. And that includes cowpokes.

She will likely argue with my claim to all the fun people, those who are the most unpredictable and freeform. She will describe the Ag instructor at OSU who is determined to earn a place on the U.S. Agriculture rolls as the only pineapple farmer in Oklahoma. He who grows pineapples in his office and claims to be a farmer could be an exception to my rule, but I’m pretty sure he is not an Oklahoma native so we won’t count that one.

I really can’t throw shade on Oklahoma’s food, as we certainly didn’t go hungry during our recent visit. But what I can say is that it’s pretty generic. If you want anything beef, be it hamburgers or steak or anything in between, then you’ll be in the right place there. Cowpokes like beef.  But you can’t drop by the Dixie Queen for a fried chocolate-covered Oreo or a cone of orange-pineapple ice cream. I think sweet tea is a possibility, so that’s good, but otherwise the choices are just a bit more inhibited, I think, as if somebody might be offended by variety. It’s clear that nobody’s Aunt Dee is rattling around barefoot in the kitchen frying things.

It would be unrealistic to claim everything good. Oklahoma might not enjoy our weather, creative people, hayfield water parks, or unpredictability. They might be stuck with ho hum food and boring wide open spaces, but I’ll give them a pass on the gorgeous sunsets, tallgrass prairie, buffalo, and the Pioneer Woman. Their ranchers’ clubs top ours, I’m sure, and the cowpoke is sort of cute. Even so, those passes aren’t enough to tip the scale in that state’s favor so I’m sure she’ll be back soon. I know she wants to take over the care and feeding of her horse, not that I’d ever ask. I just know she misses us.

My grandmother’s name was Dora Belle. She was Mama Belle to us, which is a great name. It just has a nice ring to it, sort of like a real bell. Mama Belle.

I never understood, though, how her parents could have in good conscience named her Dora Belle, which sounds far too much like “doorbell” if you run it together, something that’s bound to happen. No one in rural Mississippi would draw out the pronunciation of Dora. It would just be slurred to Doorbell. “Hey, Doorbell,” would most certainly be followed by a snicker on the playground at recess.

I thought that must have been hurtful to her. That is until I realized that when she was born in 1900, there was no such thing as a doorbell, so it was sort of a moot point. Her parents couldn’t have known, and there was no way kids in her grade school class could have picked up on the doorbell thing to torment her with. By the time she was an adult, with doorbells in ready supply, she had become simply “Belle,” with friends too old and mannered to tease her anyway.

Double names are great. I’m not sure I have a favorite, but I heard just today of a celebrity naming her daughter Ivy Jane. That’s a new one to me, but I really do like it. In fact, I like just about any double name, unless it rhymes or is too hokey. An obituary I recently happened upon was for one of a set of twins named Sally 1. Her surviving twin is Sally 2. All I can figure is that the parents were a bit short of creativity or totally unprepared to meet a naming deadline or just done with naming kids when they were presented with not one, but two.

Before casting stones, however, I have to admit to what most might consider a two-name failure in my family. A second cousin carried the name Rhea Joyce, a name given by two very joyful parents. And of course, the name was never shortened. She was always Rhea Joyce.

My next door neighbor, the one closest in age to me and therefore my very best friend on the street, was Martha Jane. One thing I’ve noticed about double names in the South is that almost all of them are three syllable. I have a theory that it just happens naturally that way, as three syllables roll off the tongue best, and we’re all about things rolling off the tongue. Martha Jane’s youngest sister was Carol Ann. That family was partial to double names until it came to the lone brother, who was simply called Bubba, as were most only brothers in a mostly female family.

Guys are not immune to the double name fetish, though. My dad’s brother was named Edsel Wayne. I’m not sure where that came from, as to my knowledge no one before him carried either of those names, but again it’s three syllables that just roll right out there. At the time of his youth, the Edsel car company was doing pretty well, too, so there’s that. Who could have known the company would fail so miserably? That’s the chance you take when naming for a winning coach or a car company. He had two daughters, one of whom is named Dixie Lee. Such a classic name, but sadly she only goes by Dixie. What a waste.

Three syllables are not required. There are a lot of really nice names that carry more or less than that. Anything with Grace or Emma in it, or anything that ends in Lee is going to be over the top. And the name Mary is apparently making a comeback. Grace Ann, admittedly not three-syllable, is beautiful and absolutely acceptable. And the three-syllable Mary Lee has all points covered. Sort of like Dixie Lee.

Although I am pretty much alone in this assumption, I firmly believe that no matter what a child is called, he or she should carry a Christian name. That has nothing to do with religious conviction, it’s just what my 11^th grade literature teacher at Coffee High School admonished as a rule of life. I can still hear her clear, somewhat perturbed, tone echoing throughout that cavernous classroom, “You can call her Sally, but you name her Sarah! You give her a Christian name!” I cringed when a friend subsequently named her daughter Maggie Beth. Every ounce of my being wanted to scream, “What is wrong with you? You can call her Maggie Beth, but you name her Margaret Elizabeth!”

I’m personally partial to alliteration if two names are assigned. Mary Margaret is just classic, as is Billy Bob. I really wanted to name our second and last child Allison Ann, but was overruled by a husband who said he would only agree if the next daughter was given a name of his choice. We named her Chellie Allison. She thinks the monogram is a lot more classy than AAH would have been, and that’s absolutely what matters. And of course she’s named for her great grandmother which is incredibly important.

A lot of double names are just squashed up into one, like Annelle from the Steel Magnolias movie. Come to think of it, M’Lynn from the same movie was probably a weirdly squashed up double name, as well. I’m thinking most likely Mary Lynn. And If you can squash up a name so that it has both family connection and ease of rolling out there, well that’s just brilliant, like another neighborhood playmate who was named for both her dad (Donald) and mom (Juanice). Her name was Donice. Lovely. And I mean that.

To creatively include the dad’s name in the daughter’s, whether it’s a double name or not, is a challenge that many of us are quick to accept. My husband’s cousin, Barry, accomplished that feat beautifully in his daughter’s double moniker of Barri Elizabeth. Of course, that mouthful was promptly shortened to BB, which still carried the double-name intent but was a whole lot easier for her to letter in kindergarten. Win/win for all involved.

Part of the point is the way it sounds. Whether spelled as a squashed up name or an actual two-word setup, the end result is the same. We had in the family a whole set of sisters with the most melodic names. There was Pauline, Evelyn, and Catherine. But those on-the-surface ho hum names are actually double names in disguise, pronounced in rhyme: Paul Een, Eva Leen, and Cath Reen. What you see is not always what you get. So I take back part of what I said about not liking rhyming names. There can always be exceptions.

My first introduction to lovely double names were Billie Jo, Bobbie Jo, and Bettie Jo from the Petticoat Junction TV series, named of course for their Uncle Joe who was also in residence at the Shady Rest Inn in Hooterville. Bettie Jo’s daughter, Cathy Jo, carried on the two-name tradition. Ellie Mae also originated in Hooterville but moved with her hillbilly family to Beverly Hills. As far as early TV was concerned, double names were required for any woman living south of Ohio.

No matter how a name is chosen; no matter whether two-part or not, it could have a self-fulfilling result, so caution is advised. My husband’s double name is James Paul, ascribed by a mother who yearned for a Deepwater Baptist in the family; hence the two biblical names. I’m not sure that one turned out exactly as intended but he was once a regular in church training. And you can bet that anyone named John Austin is most likely on the way to Ole Miss in his dad’s BMW with the leather seats, followed closely by Madison Riley and Ava Ross in the brand new Land Rover. At the same time, Jim Bob is probably making a good living as a mechanic at Vic’s Automotive. Just proceed with caution.

My daughter with the nice monogram intends to name any future daughter Presley Belle, after her great grandmother and great grandfather. That would be nice. Both family connection and double name in one swoop. If that happens, though, she really shouldn’t marry anyone with a last name beginning with S, as the monogram would be PBS and that’s a TV station. It’s all about that monogram.

Do-it-yourself is something I wish I had more interest in, but I’ve done it myself enough times to know that it’s best not to. I no longer believe the HGTV promise that anyone can do it. I know I can’t. I’ve been disappointed too many times.

I have confidence in myself when it comes to a lot of things, but over the years I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m seriously lacking in a few life skills. I bumble around with most things mechanical, I don’t have a full plate of common sense, and math is not my best friend. In fact, we’re not even friendly acquaintances. I must have been distracted when they were handing out artistic ability, I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, and I’ve been called absent minded more than once.

Unless I’m totally committed, it’s far too easy to stop before I’m done with a project. That’s why I’m swearing off DIY. Well, that and the fact that I’m usually disappointed with the quality of whatever I’ve attempted. It’s just not fun and I’m at the point in life where if it’s not fun, I don’t have to do it.

I once thought I could paint walls. And actually what I paint is passable, but again, I usually stop before I’m finished. The two blue walls and two coral walls of my daughter’s bedroom testify to that tendency. I don’t even see the multi-color walls anymore. I’m calling in the professionals now.

If paint or sanding or a power drill are called for, count me out. I’ve also disabled two push mowers in the last week, so I’m swearing off yard work and really shouldn’t be trusted with anything motorized other than a car, and that’s only because I’d have to work too hard at damaging it.

We recently furnished a new farmhouse, buying most of the furniture online. I’m not sure what I expected, but a dresser in fifteen pieces in a cardboard box was not it. Thankfully, my more mechanically inclined husband shouldered the load of combining those pieces into something recognizable. Next time, if there is a next time, I’m visiting a furniture store.

I’m not an artist and I’m definitely not a mechanic, but I can hold my own in crafts. I honed that skill in Girl Scout meetings at the First Presbyterian Church where I earned my crafts badge by creating things. Among my most prized projects was a cardboard Tampa Nugget cigar box covered with glued-on shell macaroni. The whole thing was then spray painted silver. On the top left corner I attached a small plastic wedding doll figurine. For what purpose, I really don’t know. I apparently just couldn’t stop gluing things.

Girl Scout troop leaders and Vacation Bible School planners had a corner on the macaroni market, as just about every craft had something to do with shell or penne pasta. Strung together painted penne made a killer necklace, and I’m sure my mom appreciated the repurposed high-heel shoe she donated for the VBS project at the Baptist church. I coated the shoe with shell macaroni, including the pencil thin high heel, spray painted it completely, and attached a pink plastic flower to the tip. I think it was supposed to be a vase for the table. That or a weapon for self defense.

Following the macaroni phase, I progressed to more classic decoupage projects, producing beautiful collaged recipe boxes and wall hangings. Until it flaked off completely, I was pretty proud of my salt dough map of the 67 Alabama counties, and my mom seemed to prize every single clay ring holder or ash tray I gave her for those special occasions in her life while I was a student at Kilby Elementary. Paint-by-number was right up my unartistic alley and construction paper chains for the Christmas tree were in abundant supply.

In short, I’m a crafter. Sort of. But I will not attempt DIY projects that are of any critical nature. I have friends in the house rental business who do it all, from painting walls to refinishing floors. They laminate important documents and label everything that needs identifying with one of those embossing label makers. They even fix their own appliances. They apparently have a whole lot more free time than I do. I’m in awe.

I’m sure I could learn to be a bit more adept at doing things for myself, but I readily recognize my shortcomings and think it best not to. I’d rather work double time to make the money to pay someone else to do whatever needs to be done that requires any inkling of artistic or mechanical skill.

And yet, I can’t help marveling at those Pinterest projects and find myself inspired occasionally. You won’t yet find me on a Pinterest Fail board, though, because you have to try in order to fail. But still.

Actually, I did sneak a peek at Pinterest this morning and found a project that I really think might be possible. It’s an adorable centerpiece that only requires empty glass Coke bottles, dried beans, food coloring, artificial flowers, and colored tape. And I’m equally inspired by the one where you create a paint-by-number from a photo. Since I know I’m good at paint by number, that one just might be a keeper.

I think my daughter would be thrilled to get an original paint-by-number of her kindergarten graduation picture when she earns her graduate degree from OSU. How could she not? I’ll include a quote I also found on my Pinterest visit today–“She turned her can’ts into cans and her dreams into plans.”

Some can’ts can be turned into cans, but I know my limits. I’ve lived long enough to have too many, and I’m perfectly OK with that. I can’t help but be amused by that classic Nike ad campaign to accept no limits, to just do it. They obviously don’t know me.