The truth is, I intended to become an English teacher, but dropped out of college after one semester.  It was expensive, and oh so far away from my future husband, so I opted to go into the workforce instead.

But I’ve always wanted to write.  As a fourth grader, I looked forward to summer because it meant I could devote entire days to sitting at the typewriter, pecking out the stories that were swirling in my head.  I used notebook paper and yarn to create a book of writing ideas, and hung it on my bedpost so that I could jot down thoughts that came to me during the night.

As a young mother, I was accepted into the Children’s Institute of Literature.  It was a mail-in writing course, and to be honest, I’m not sure anyone with a credit card has ever been denied admission.  But before the days of internet possibilities, this was the only step I knew to further my writing.

And then, twelve years ago, somebody took a chance on me.  I was at a local festival, taking pictures with my state of the art digital camera…remember the ones with the floppy disks?  A man came up to me and explained that he was starting a weekly newspaper, but his camera had died.  He wondered if I would be kind enough to email my pictures to him.

In the course of the conversation, it was revealed that before this new endeavor, he had been a high school English teacher.  I agreed to send him my pictures, and requested only one thing in return.  I wanted his professional opinion on a couple of stories I had written.

A few days later, I received an email that still makes me giddy when I recall the moment I first read these words, “Decide on a name for your newspaper column.”

Tony Cotten was the first person with which I had been brave enough to share my writing, and he believed in my ability.  I had no clue how to go about being a newspaper columnist, but he helped me cut my stories from 2500 words to a more reasonable 750.  He gave me solid advice like, “Don’t fill in every detail. It’s okay to leave some things to the readers’ imagination.”

Initially, I called my column “The Honeycomb.”  It was based on a Proverb that states, “Pleasant words are as a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.”  I told Tony that my desire was for my articles to be pleasant, and give people a break from politics, editorials, and negative news.  He caught my vision, and whenever he saw me veering from that path, he would caution, “Are you sure you want to publish this?  Is this really what you want to say?”

And the times when there was negative backlash that neither of us had anticipated, he encouraged me, “The entire world doesn’t hate you. It’s more like a few hundred.  You can pull it back around next week.”

Because of Tony, the dreams of my fourth grade story teller’s heart came true.  Most of the papers that run my column are because he touted me to his colleagues. He took the initiative to enter my articles in contests, so that I can label my work as “award-winning.”  And it was he who introduced my work to a publisher, who subsequently offered me a book contract.

Tony passed away last week, at the young age of 47.  My heart hasn’t stopped hurting, and my little 750 word article cannot be a big enough tribute.  He was not only my mentor, but a friend to my entire family.   A few weeks ago, I got my last email from him.  “I wish I could see Nathan and you just to chat- familiar faces mean a lot.”

Someday, we will have that chat.  In the meantime, those of us he left behind will press onward, buoyed by the memory of his enthusiastic encouragement, and willingness to take risks, not only on his own dreams, but on the dreams of those who were privileged to call him friend.

1965-2013

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It was with great anticipation that we went to the audition this past Sunday. Our team was rounded out by my dad David, my son Alex, cousin Michelle, and young cousin Robert. We wore our Sunday best, and joined hundreds of other families all vying for spots in the summer episodes.

Waiting in line with my dad, my son, and a handful of pickles!

My devious aunt boldly slid our application under the stack, so, when they flipped it over, our name was called first. I was reminded of all those times my mom had remarked about her twin sister, “Shirlee makes things happen. She’s not afraid of anything.”

Aunt Shirlee-my mom’s twin sister!

It might have been a good idea to be at least third or fourth, just so we could see how things worked before running willy-nilly in front of the camera.

The rules were clear. Team Captains were instructed to know who their family members were before attempting to introduce them. We were also told to smile, clap, jump, high five, loudly encourage one another, and shout, “Good answer!” no matter what came out of our teammate’s mouth. And one other important rule: no spinning. Never have your back to the camera.

This all seemed simple enough, until they actually turned on the camera. I’d never seen true stage fright, but my aunt was a textbook case. Suddenly, we were a row of strangers standing next to her. She looked at Alex and said, “This is uh, uh, my um gr…great-nephew.” She didn’t actually mention his name. By the time she got to the second great-nephew, she was apologizing to the camera for not being accustomed to using the term “great-nephew.”

“That’s okay!” we shouted encouragingly as we cheered and high-fived. As a matter of fact, I got so excited that I broke the spinning rule. While my big ol’ polka-dot covered behind was facing the camera, some enthusiastic family member high-fived me in the back…with both hands. My face was momentarily shoved into the armpit of my 6’6” son, but I quickly recovered with a deep breath, one fist in the air, and a “Woo-hoo!”

Finally, it was time to answer the first of two questions. “Name a European country that people want to visit.”

My aunt hit the buzzer. “Spain!” she called out gleefully.

The question was ours! Italy, Sweden, France, we shouted down the line.

The pressure was on my cousin, but she had it. With both hands in the air she screamed, “MEXICO!”

I hesitated only momentarily before remembering the rule. Jumping up and down, I yelled, “Good answer! Good answer!”

I know she knows Mexico is not in Europe, but it was an intense situation. Besides, ever since we were little bitty girls, I’ve always thought every word out of her mouth was a good answer. I just made up for all those times I didn’t actually shout it at her.

For the second question, we had to huddle while the other team answered, “Name a food that people eat in slices.”

We thought of all the possibilities: pizza, cake, bread, pie, cheese, tomatoes. But when it came our turn to steal, there was only one answer we could give. PICKLES!

I’ll let you know if made the cut.

Wouldn’t you like to be a Pickel too?!

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I have found that aging is actually kind of fun because all of my peers are doing it too. I’ve always been susceptible to peer pressure though, so when my 25th class reunion rolls around this summer, I’ll be on my guard if they start passing around the Geritol.

Once I hit thirty-five, I began to realize that nearly every life experience is universal. This is why old people just sit back and smile when the young folk get all up-in-arms about some issue or another. They’ve been there, done that, and got the t-shirt to prove it.

And even though there are some things that, as young people, we swear we will never do, they are inevitable. For example, when I was nineteen I moved in with my widowed grandmother. The two of us would sit at her little kitchen table, and she would say, “I just can’t eat bell peppers anymore, they make me so gassy.” This was punctuated by covering her mouth with the back of her hand and releasing a small burp.

I swore no matter how old I got, I would not give up my favorite foods due to gas, nor would I apologize for eating them. Then, a few months ago, I went through a serious burping stage. It got so bad that hubby started remarking, “My goodness, woman! What is wrong with you?”

The bad thing is, I never felt it coming. I’d be talking along, and halfway through a sentence, bwaaaah, out would come this huge, man-sized burp. I’d cover my mouth with the back of my hand and say, “I just can’t eat onions anymore, they make me so gassy.”

I also said I would never avoid sitting on the floor if my excuse was that it would be too difficult to get back up. But once again, I find myself channeling my grandmother. If she wanted to play games with the kids, or help put their puzzles together, she would place them on the foot of her recliner. I don’t have a recliner, so I make do by pulling the coffee table closer to my chair. In the words of my grandmother, my father, and every other old person I’ve ever known, “It’s not getting down that’s the problem; it’s getting back up.”

When my parents were about the age I am now, they started going to the tanning bed. I thought it was silly that old people would put that much effort into trying to look good. I mean seriously, when you’re that old who cares what you look like?

Hubby and I are tanning bed regulars now. I have never seen him with a tan before, and I gotta say, it’s very, very pleasant. It became more pleasant after I convinced him to start tanning with his socks off.

I don’t run because it hurts my hips. I don’t drink caffeine after 4 p.m. if I want to sleep that night. At bedtime, I wear a wrinkle cream that smells remarkably like my great-grandmother.

I have changed the color of my hair dye to blend the gray rather than cover it. I squint at people in the store, to determine if I recognize them or not. When I do wear my glasses, I push them onto my forehead while reading, and move them back down to see the T.V. Recently, I found myself perusing a selection of eyeglass chains, but am not quite ready to make that commitment.

In a crazy fit of trying to prove God knows what, I attempted a cartwheel in the backyard. Medical attention probably would have speeded my recovery, but I was raised on the philosophy that people who get hurt doing stupid stuff don’t deserve to go to the ER. This is why I will never make it to eighty-six.

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It’s a good thing I haven’t been wearing a mood ring the past few weeks because the color would be amber, and that simply does not match anything in my wardrobe.

Amber signifies nervous, mixed emotions, and an unsettled feeling. It started last month when my sixteen-year-old daughter was accepted into a foreign exchange program. I was secretly hoping for Canada or Arkansas, but in August, she will be leaving for an eleven month stay in Australia. In case your geography is a little rusty, that is clear on the opposite side of the world.

On the heels of this, my twenty-year-old daughter announced that she is applying for a study abroad program in Morocco. Morocco has been deemed the safest of the North African countries, so she is not the least bit worried. She’s thinking Casablanca, and I’m thinking guerilla warfare.

Also, in August, our eighteen-year-old son will be leaving the nest. Thankfully, Purdue University is right here in good old Indiana, but his bedroom will be empty for months. In order to keep a semblance of normalcy about my mornings, I will probably wake up every night and litter the family room with empty ice cream bowls, dirty socks, and crushed Coke cans

I still have two little ones, so technically I’m not dealing with empty nest syndrome. I try to remind myself that with texting and Facebook, it’s almost like my daughters won’t even be out of the country. Half of our communication is through text anyway. I’m guilty of texting instead of hollering up the stairs to let them know dinner is ready.

But there are many changes on the horizon, and it leaves me nervous and unsettled. Amber.

I knew the kids had to grow up, I just didn’t realize it would happen so soon. Back in the late 90s, somebody tried to warn me. Who was it? Oh yeah. It was the old ladies at church.

Keeping my little ones quiet and still during the sermon was an exercise in frustration. Each week, as I dejectedly herded my bedraggled little crew of misfits to the van, a wrinkled hand would rest upon my arm, and an earnest voice would encourage, “These are the best days of your life. It goes by so quickly.”

Sometimes, I wanted to punch them, but I didn’t because they were elderly.

And we were in church.

But I was exhausted, and most of the time I felt as though I was failing as a parent. It was not encouraging to hear that was as good as life would get.

Soon I realized that the first times were fading, and the last times were going unnoticed.

When was the last time I read a storybook to my now sixteen-year-old daughter?

When was the last time my eighteen-year-old son reached up to hug me instead of bending down?

When did my twenty-year-old daughter stop making us check her bed for spiders?

Oh wait. She still does that whenever she’s home.

The old ladies were right. The time went by so quickly. Soon, those three babies will be leaving for Australia, Morocco, and West Lafayette. For the most part, I will trust the Lord to guide and care for them. But since I’m human, I know there are times when I will forget to trust, and my mood will become amber. In the meantime, I intend to relish every moment with the two little ones. And next year, when my entire brood is home again, I might buy a mood ring, because blue goes with just about everything in my closet.

One of those rare days when we were all under the same roof!

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Turn to page 126, and sure enough, there is a story that I authored!!

I am unbelievably excited!!

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When I was a child I always knew grandma would be waiting for me on the front porch when I came to visit. As she got older, she would greet me at the door. When she started to become frail I would let myself in, but she was always anticipating my arrival and her beautiful face was the first thing I’d see. This was the first time in thirty-three years that she wasn’t there to greet me.

As I was vacuuming, I saw a small pill buried in the carpet. I dug it out and held it in my hand, remembering all the times I would move her chair and look for pills she thought she had dropped.

As I sat in the dining room floor, eating the lunch I had packed, I remembered hiding under the table and playing peek-a-boo with her. And another time I hid there because I was afraid of a thunderstorm. But she sat in a chair next to the table and sang, “Oh, Jesus is the rock in a weary land, a shelter in the time of storm.”

As I swept the upstairs I remembered sitting on the edge of the bed with her and crying over some old photos we found shortly after my grandpa died.

My grandparents with their first baby-my daddy. 1950

As I cleaned the downstairs bedroom, I remembered the morning we found my grandfather had passed away in their bed. And I remembered holding her hand when for the first night in forty-four years she went to bed without him.

As I wiped out the kitchen cabinets I removed the different items that had been taped inside. The recipe for friendship bread, the list of foods she couldn’t have on her renal diet, and an old “Hello My Name Is” tag that my grandpa had stuck there after some event he attended. He passed away fourteen years before she did and she never had the heart to take it down. Now it was my responsibility.

As I vacuumed the room she used for storage I picked a Christmas ornament hook out of the carpet. The Christmas memories came flooding back. We baked hundreds of cookies every year. She kept tins of every child and grandchilds’ favorite Christmas treat. Mine was the Peanut Butter Blossoms with the Hershey kiss in the center. Even though my parents were quite poor, I always got the one item I wanted most for Christmas. Roller skates, fancy jewelry box, Dancerella doll…she made it all possible.

As I sat on the front porch listening to the birds and smelling the fresh after-rain smell that takes me back to childhood, I remembered when she brought my little table and chairs outside and we had a fancy tea party.

Then I noticed the hundreds of dents in the aluminum siding, just behind the old porch swing. I remembered how she would say, “We mustn’t let the swing bang the house or your Poppaw will be upset!” Then we would crash into it again because I wanted to go higher. And even though Poppaw was upset with all the dents in the house, it was hard not to giggle a little bit.

The porch swing hung on this side

I sat on the porch steps and looked out over the yard. There used to be a huge garden and a strawberry patch. I remembered when we were working in the garden and saving earth worms for my uncle’s fishing. She pulled one out of the ground and exclaimed, “I found a big one!” Then flung it across the yard because it was a snake!

We canned vegetables and jellies and jams. We picked gooseberries and raspberries and rhubarb for pies. We snapped beans while sitting in the porch swing. We made homemade strawberry ice cream on the side porch.

And then I saw the old abandoned shed where the good dog King had lived. I guess he’s been dead for about a quarter of a century now. So hard to believe!

I walked out to the mailbox one more time. Not because I thought there would be any mail, but because I walked it so many times with my grandma. She always wore one of her many head scarves when she went to get the mail and I always got to pick one too. My favorite was bright pink and she would tie it snugly under my chin before we set out.

The mailbox

The memories were overwhelming and precious. I felt deep sorrow and yet such thankfulness to God that I was blessed all those years with this wonderful woman as my grandmother. I hope the new owner of her house makes as many precious memories for his own family.

Coming up this winding road, my sister and I always tried to be the first one to see Mommaw’s house!

My family in 1976. I’m sitting to the right of my grandmother. I should wear red knee socks more often.

My sister and cousins hanging out on the beloved porch swing.
1991

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Let’s just skip right over the fact that my clever parents saddled me with the moniker of Gingeretta, and move on to the first phrase.  “You’d make a gorgeous model.”

I was fourteen that year, and I longed to enter Seventeen magazine’s “Model of the Year” contest.  My dad tried to help out by taking me to interview at the Barbizon school of modeling.  I am blessed with a daddy who always believes in me, even when the odds suggest otherwise.

In preparation, I spent hours choosing just the right blouse and skirt, and I packed on pounds of makeup.  The Barbizon people said they could teach me how to put my best foot forward, but they were pretty blunt about the fact that models are tall and slender.  I had already reached my full height of 5’4’, and my figure could best be described somewhere between plump and portly.  Plus, my face was still developing.  While I appreciated Jo’s enthusiastic encouragement, a modeling career was never in my future.

Thirty years later, Ricky Schroder, teen star of the 80s show Silver Spoons, still doesn’t know what he’s missing!   I don’t know exactly what I saw in the gangly kid, but I was smitten.  You might recall a short-lived show called, “Fantasy” hosted by Glenn Scarpelli.   The premise of the show was that people from across America would write and share their wishes.  Each week, someone was chosen to have their dreams come true.

While other people were wishing to being reunited with long-lost family members, or have their talents nationally recognized, I pulled out my best stationery and explained how my life would be complete if I could spend one day at Disney Land with Ricky Schroder.  I have no idea why I chose Disney Land, except that, besides Hollywood, that is all I knew of California.

I watched anxiously every week, daydreaming about all the fun Ricky and I would have riding roller coasters, and sharing cotton candy.  I plotted to pack off-limits clothing in order to avoid wearing the culottes that were a mandatory part of my young Christian wardrobe.  I felt certain that Ricky Schroder would not find culottes attractive, and was willing to risk having my picture taken in a pair of ungodly shorts.

Eventually, Fantasy went off the air, and so did Silver Spoons.  But who knows?  Maybe my letter fell behind a cabinet at the NBC studios, and someday it will be found.  I bet it will be passed on to Rick (he dropped the Y) Schroder, and he will surprise me by calling and inviting me to Disney Land.  People magazine will publish pictures of us together on the roller coaster, and at the same time the Ford modeling agency will decide that the “new look” is middle-aged women who are slightly overweight and undertall.  Once I’m famous, I could go by a single name like Cher or Madonna.  Now that I think about it, Gingeretta has a nice ring to it!

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“I shan’t subject myself to your unladylike writings any longer! You have offended my delicate sensibilities by using the word poop!”

“Why do you hate puppies and small children?”

It might surprise you that in the twelve years I have been writing a weekly column, reader feedback has not always been positive. When given the opportunity, I correspond with the person who feels as though I am misusing my space in the paper, and I always learn something new. But anonymous complaints don’t even get my consideration. If you don’t believe enough in what you have written to sign your name to it, why should I spend my time worrying about it?

John Hancock set this example when he signed the Declaration of Independence with a signature much larger than the others. Maybe it was so King George could see it without his spectacles. Maybe he went first and thought everyone else would follow suit. Or maybe he was distracted by a text from his wife telling him that dinner was getting cold, and he needed to come home instead of hanging out with the boys.

There could be a number of reasons his signature dwarfs the others, but I like to think he was boldly declaring that he firmly believed in the words that had been penned, and he would not be swayed.

When I was in ninth grade, I followed his example. Our small school had a new yearbook advisor; an English teacher. She was a braggadocio, and had publicly declared that there were absolutely no mistakes in the 1985 edition of Reflections. When I got my copy, I found twenty-six errors. I was also extremely disappointed in the lack of candid photos. Every picture was staged, and every caption was written in excruciating detail. “After a three-week absence, Sally Smith sits in the second row of Mr. Jones’ third hour Geometry class, held in room 306, and thoughtfully chews the eraser on the end of her recently-sharpened, yellow, No. 2 pencil.”

I missed fun captions like, “No wonder Sally missed three weeks of school! She probably had lead poisoning!”

I don’t remember if I was the instigator of the band wagon, or if I jumped on with everyone else, but I was the one nominated to write a petition.

A petition is a great thing. It gives one a feeling of actually having power in a situation, and the satisfaction of bonding with other like-minded people who are equally disgruntled.

Our goal was to prevent the English teacher from continuing to hold the position of yearbook advisor. It didn’t occur to us that she had put in many unpaid hours of her time to ensure that we would have something by which to remember the 1984-85 school year. It only mattered that she said she was perfect, and we had black and white proof that she was not. She also lacked imagination, which could be a general downfall of grammar Nazis.

On the last day of school, every person whose name was on the petition was summoned to the principal’s office. I was accustomed to being called to see the Vice Principal, who was also familiar with my writing endeavors, but this was the big time. Thankfully, it was not the same principal that I later declared my love to in another unfortunate writing event.

In a surprising turn of events, my previously outspoken classmates suddenly became quiet. When asked who was responsible for writing the petition, every head turned toward me. I believed in what I had written, and like John Hancock, I would not shrink beneath the scrutiny of those who had the power to march me to the guillotine.

I stood up, and stated our demands. The principal peered over his glasses and made a comment that I had not yet been trained to recognize as sexist:

“I’m surprised that a girl as pretty as you could come up with something like this.”

He then folded the petition, tucked it into his suit pocket, and informed us that not only would the yearbook advisor retain her position, she would never know of our complaints.

I guess he thought girls could only write cream-puff pieces. He probably also thinks girls don’t p-o-o-p, and that we all have a natural affection for puppies and small children.

My 9th grade yearbook picture

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My chocolate addiction is bad. Very, very bad. Two weeks ago, on my blog, I gave away a pound of Valentine chocolate. Five days passed between the time I posted a picture of the frilly box and the winner was announced. It was the longest five days of my life. Every morning, I would spy the chocolates and think, “I could eat these, and buy new ones for the winner.”

But, it was the very last lacy, pink, heart-shaped box available, and even though it about killed me, I stayed true to the contest.

Hubby decided that February 14th would be the only day of the month that he would be out of town. So, I told him I expected the full Valentine’s hoopla in advance. I excused him from a romantic dinner, and I didn’t make him write a song, but other than that, I wanted it all.

Just before leaving, he brought a dozen red roses, a romantic card (because I had specified I did not want one featuring orangutans wearing lipstick, or a Hoops and Yoyo rendition of “Let Me Call You Sweetheart”), ten lottery tickets, a 44oz half Diet/half caffeine free Diet Coke (in a plastic cup, not Styrofoam), and a large, heart-shaped box of chocolates from my favorite local chocolatier.

The man got it right on every level, even purchasing a separate, smaller box of chocolates for himself so that I didn’t have to share.

He enjoyed a few of his candies on the drive to the airport, but I left mine at home. I resisted the urge to pluck one from his box, convincing myself that it wouldn’t kill me to wait until I could get my hands on my own.

It came time to drop him off, and mysteriously, he left his chocolates in the passenger seat. We hugged and kissed, and I shed a few tears, knowing how much I would miss him during his 36 hour absence. As I pulled away from the drop-off zone, I absent-mindedly reached for a comforting chocolate. It helped, but it was really the second one that made my tears dry up. Or perhaps it was that third, caramel-filled one.

By the time I reached the on-ramp to the interstate, I had polished off a half dozen. I knew he would expect them to be intact when he returned home, so I quickly devised a plan. Stopping at the chocolate shop, I bought a second box, thinking I would replace the ones I had eaten. But when I got home, his original box was empty.

I faced a dilemma. Do I confess and give him the complete new box, or do I eat 3 or 4 out of it so that he thinks it’s his original box? I sat down with my own pound of chocolates, and thought long and hard. I enjoyed the gooey ones, and the creamy ones, and the nutty ones, and the ones I don’t like as much but I always eat anyway.

Hyped up on chocolate, and the caffeine from the regular portion of my Diet Coke, I made a decision. I will not be dishonest over something as simple as candy. If I am going to start a life of deception, I’m going to go big and rob a bank or plagiarize a novel.

So, the next morning, when hubby arrived home, he found an untouched box of chocolates waiting for him. There was no disbelief, or really even a hint of questioning, as he stated, “So, you ate your entire box and mine too.”

I owned my responsibility. “Yes, it is true. I ate nearly a pound and a half of chocolate in a two-hour period. But the good news is, even though you sometimes think I was dropped from a distant galaxy, I have proven that I am actually a human woman from planet earth.  Now, you will never have to rip off my face!”

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As I hung up the phone hubby asked, “What did you lose now?”

You’ve heard that old saying, “You’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached to your body?”

I would also lose my arms and legs if they weren’t attached to my torso. Seems the only thing I can’t lose is weight. At least not permanently.

I probably spend twenty percent of my waking hours looking for lost items. I try to stay organized, but it’s a futile effort. I’ve had this problem since childhood. I remember my mother standing in the middle of my bedroom, exasperated, “Your clarinet has to be here somewhere!”

As I see it, there are two reasons for losing things. One: the item has been inadvertently misplaced (or perhaps the wind has blown it into someone else’s yard).

Two: you put it in a safe place, but then you forget the location of the “safe” place.

The latter happens to me about 25% of the time. The other 75% of the time hubby says I’m just careless. I prefer to say distracted.

Our newly installed back door came with three keys. Hubby attached one to his keychain, handed the second one to me, and tossed the third one into the field since I would lose it anyway.

Keys are my downfall. Sometimes, they get lost and don’t show up until a week or two later. Several summers ago, I borrowed hubby’s keys because mine were on an extended mystery vacation. Apparently, while shopping, I laid his keys down somewhere in the store.

When I got in the car I looked everywhere! Emptied my purse, double checked my pockets, looked in all the grocery sacks. No keys. I went back into the store, retraced my steps and double checked with the clerk. No keys. I sat in the car and prayed, “Dear God, I know you care about the little things in our lives. Please, help me find these keys. If I don’t find them, I can’t get home and my husband can’t come to get me because that was our last set. I know you hate murder, but that is what will to happen to me when he finds out what I’ve done!”

A moment later, God inspired me to dismantle the console of the car. As I snapped the pieces off, I saw a glint of metal in the sunlight. I dug under the edge of the plastic and pulled out MY keys!!! I promptly thanked the Lord and headed home.

When I arrived, hubby was busy working in the yard. I stepped out of the car, held up my keys and enthused, “Look what I found!”

Hubby held out his upturned palm and said, “Great. You can give mine back to me now.”

Uh oh.

When I told him that his keys were missing, he stared in disbelief. I figured this was not a good time to share my excitement over the answered prayer.

What happened next can only be described as mad genius. Without saying a word, he took my keys and headed to the basement.

As I was putting away groceries, I listened to the sounds of sawing, hammering, and drilling punctuated with an occasional snort. Twenty minutes later hubby reappeared, proudly dangling a 2”x 6” block of wood with a heavy gauge chain screwed into it. Attached to the end of the chain were my keys.

Now it was my turn to stare in disbelief!

He made it quite clear that I was not to try dismantling my new handcrafted keychain, and for the next several months I never lost my keys. No matter where I left them they were always easily visible.

Eventually the keys came unscrewed from the wood, but I kept the chain attached. It was a nice reminder that God and my husband care about the little things in my life. And so do the neighbors of friends who live six miles away.

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