Thanksgiving

It is popular to tear down traditions. People do it with glee. There isn’t a holiday on the calendar that hasn’t been derided by some group or another. Thanksgiving is a popular target. From PETA to groups that decry the cruelty of colonialism to atheists who claim there is no One to thank, people love to tear it down. They even love to tear down the family. “A real family is made of the people you love.”

The family is God’s creation. God commands us to honor our parents. He doesn’t say to honor our parents if they deserve it. God says children are a blessing. Yes, even the ones that drive us crazy! God gifts us with our family. Sometimes He gifts us with new people, friends and neighbors, giving those who have no one a place where they are appreciated and belong. That’s a good thing. But that does not mean we can abandon father and mother, sister and brother. Yes, every family has a member or two who are difficult, perhaps even more than difficult. Some of them may be (and I am beginning to hate this catch word) toxic, and in some cases, distance can be helpful for a time. Perhaps that difficult person is you. Or me.

But God created the family. He created it for our good. He created it to be a place where people look out for each other, where the unlovely are still loved, where the unkind are shown kindness, where charity and mercy are practiced daily. Everyone loves people who are nice to them, who agree with them, who are easy and fun and supportive. Family is the training ground where we learn to love the unloveable, to forgive what seems unforgivable, and to spread God’s grace and mercy and peace to flawed humanity.

Thanksgiving is a time of gathering. We gather as friends and family. As neighbors and congregations. Thanksgiving is a time of working out differences. Of good-natured arguments over food or football. Of sharing with and caring for those in need. But mostly, Thanksgiving is a time to count our blessings and to be grateful to God for all His good gifts. And while we should be thankful every day, the food and the customs of this day connect us as a nation, connect us to past generations and to the future.

So yes, we can talk about conspicuous consumption or the value of the turkey as a main dish or pumpkin as a dessert. We can argue about politics or climate change. We can bluster about Commanders or Cowboys. But then we can bow our heads and spend a few moments thanking God for all that He as given us, to ask His blessing on those in need, on our nation, on friends and neighbors, and on the flawed people He has gathered together called our family. We can thank Him for His faithfulness when we were unfaithful, for being a Father to the fatherless, for loving us and forgiving us when we were unlovely. We can thank Him for sending His son Jesus to atone for our sins and for adopting us into His family by grace through faith.

My Taller Half and I wish you a very Happy Thanksgiving from Pixley. May the Lord bless you today and always.

Extraordinary moments

Tall Cat wanted to go outside, but when I opened the door, he stopped, looking out to see if there were any threats, looking in to see if there were any treats. I couldn’t stand there all day, so I shut the door. My Taller Half (MTH), who was busy making breakfast in the kitchen, called out “he’s only window shopping.”

By the time I turned on my computer in the office, Georgy Girl by The Seekers was playing in my head.

You’re always window-shopping
But never stopping to buy

I was just getting up to go thank MTH for the ear worm when I heard him whistling Georgy Girl from the kitchen. The song popped into his head, too, without him realizing why.

We share a common song bank from the ‘60s, ‘70s, and ‘80s. Nothing surprising. It was just a simple moment. Nothing out of the ordinary. But in that instant, we were on the same wavelength, and I felt a rush of contentment, knowing there is no one else for me, no where else I would rather be. I was home.

People are always chasing the Big Thing — important jobs, fat bank accounts, faster cars, bigger houses, monumental events, over-the-top romance. More, more, and more. But people on the whole aren’t that happy. And because they aren’t happy, they chase the Next Big Thing or turn to alcohol or drugs or some other substitute to dull the pain.

The secret is to understand that life is a gift from God. When you know Him, when you are grateful for His good gifts, your eyes are opened to the extraordinary all around you. Those who seek Him have the opportunity to find joy everywhere. Alone or in marriage. In poverty or prosperity. In perfect health or in a sick bed. You can even, like the Apostle Paul, find freedom in a prison cell.

It is a simple concept but not easy. It takes discipline to look for those ordinary extraordinary moments of joy and contentment and thank God for them. In His grace, God sends a Helper through Christ to strengthen and encourage us in our faith. The more you look for things for which to be grateful, the easier they are to find. Reach for your inner Pollyanna and find reasons to be glad.

Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. 1 Thessalonians 5:16–18 (ESV)

This is the day that the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it. Psalm 118:24 (ESV)

Wishing you joy and contentment this day.

A Little Romance

Love is not affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person’s ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.

C. S. Lewis

Our third-anniversary approaches, so I guess it is time to share the story of how My Taller Half and I came to be.

My youngest child graduated high school a couple of months before I moved to Pixley. I had planned to leave the city I had lived in for fourteen years for a place that was quieter and more affordable. Unfortunately, the friend who was planning to drive the moving truck for me had conflicts, and I was without a driver only six weeks from the move.

I am nothing if not resourceful. I had noticed that a friend from a social media site mentioned on his profile that he drives a truck. We grew up in the same approximate area but several years apart. We both frequented state history pages and political pages. We had messaged a few times, very platonic chats, but that was the extent of our relationship. I needed help, so I decided to take a leap. “Can you really drive a truck?”

“Yes, why?”

“Would you be willing to do me a favor?”

Understand that, at the time, MTH lived in a larger city a couple of hours away. We had never met in person or even had an in-depth conversation. But he agreed to drive the truck. Problem solved.

I enjoyed a few moments of relief before the anxiety set in. I didn’t really know this guy, yet I was inviting him to come to our apartment to help with the move, to be around my stuff, my adult children, and me. So for the next six weeks, along with work, packing, and a trip to Pixley to work on the house, I pestered him daily. I wanted to know all I could about him. He wasn’t used to long messages or online conversations. He usually ended our chats with, “Go away, child.”

I learned a lot about his life. We talked about music. We reminisced about life in the area in the 30, 40, 50 years earlier. He told me about the long battle with illness that nearly took his life. We talked about the faith we shared in Christ. I knew I annoyed him with my constant questions, but you can never be too careful. I may have worked into the conversation how I have a concealed weapons permit and was a practiced shot.

The move was a bit of a disaster. I wasn’t as prepared as I should have been. Things didn’t fit on the truck the way I believed they would. My kids and I worked hard to get things together, and MTH helped put some order in the chaos. I felt awful. He hadn’t signed on for anything but driving, but he seemed to enjoy himself. My daughter and her friend were convinced he was sweet on me. They “shipped us.” I was pretty certain he wanted to throttle me.

A mixup with the appliance delivery had me abandoning them for the house. My youngest and MTH headed up later with the truck. We unloaded and then headed out to deliver the truck to the rental office. After a very long drive back to MTH’s place, I headed back to Pixley. I had to work the next day.

A day or so later, a planter with flowers arrived at my door, a housewarming gift from my friend. We had gotten in the habit of daily chats, and these didn’t stop after the move. A few weeks later, I drove my youngest to college in the same town where MTH lived. We met for lunch before I headed back to Pixley.

A couple of months after moving to Pixley, The Big Storm hit. I was alone, so MTH stayed on the phone with me, chatting with me, teasing me, distracting me, and praying with me while huge trees outside my window rocked. Then the phone went out, and he had no idea what had happened. The storm deserves its own story, so I will just say that I was without a car for three days, without a phone for four days, without power for six days, and without internet for a month. I telecommute. After about a week of working from Panera in another state, I accepted the offer of some good friends of mine to come to stay with them and use their internet. So I began working there during the week, heading back home for the weekends. My friends live about 30 minutes from MTH’s old place. We all got together for meals occasionally. It was during these little visits that the ritual of the flashlights began.

Not long after the internet was restored, I was scheduled for surgery. My kids were all busy, and I had no one to help me after the surgery. MTH rode over two hours on a bus to meet me for the surgery and to tend to me afterward. Then there were the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners that we shared with my family at a restaurant in the city where he lived because two of my kids were living there. He also invited me to a big family gathering in honor of his niece’s birthday. These weren’t dates. We never actually dated. We were friends whose time together involved meals and errands.

After the holidays, there was a bit of a lull. I didn’t see my son again until Spring Break. Not long before I was scheduled to pick my son up, I was chatting with MTH online, when he wrote, “So, do you think Pastor X should do our pre-marital counseling?”

I had to read and re-read that a few times.

“Did you just propose?

“Well, I think he would be a good choice.”

“It isn’t a proposal until you ask me to marry you in person.”

When I picked up my son for Spring Break, we met MTH for lunch. No proposal. Maybe he was kidding?

When I took my son back to school after Spring Break, we all met for lunch. Unbeknownst to me, he asked my youngest son for my hand while I was distracted by a call. I had to drive MTH back to his house before heading back to Pixley, but he needed to stop to get cat food. In the pet food aisle of my favorite grocery store, which also happened to be a convenient, air-conditioned spot, MTH pretended to find a ring box on the shelf and asked me to marry him.

Reader, I married him. Three months later, and about a year from the time I asked him if he would help drive that moving truck, we married in his church using the liturgy from my church, in the company of our families and dear friends, some of whom we also met online. Over the next few weeks, My Taller Half, along with his rescue cats, settled into our little home.

I don’t really know how it happened. MTH and I are an unlikely pair. He rescues cats. I’m a dog person. When I was 17, I was a nerd on the Brain Bowl team at my high school. When he was 17, he had been living on his own for years, traveling all over the country, doing any number of jobs, and spending an inordinate amount of time at rock and roll shows, giving very short girls a better view of the stage from his shoulders. It helps to be 4’31” tall, but he professes that he thought he was bulletproof at the time and wishes he had taken better care of his spine. (He has drawn up plans in his mind that will allow anyone to give the vertically-challenged a fair chance to see the stage without injuring a backbone. Look for the Kickstarter some time in the next 1-30 years!)

As I grew to know him, I grew to love my gruff, tender-hearted friend who rescues animals, gives me flashlights and pocket knives, calls to check on me while I make long drives so that I don’t get lost, and who prayed with me during The Big Storm. He will pray with me through all life’s storms until death do us part. I still irritate him, and he still occasionally says “Hush, child,” but we are happy. Life together is an adventure .. even in Pixley.

Love and Spiders

My father was an entomology technician with the USDA. On a few precious days during the summer, I went with him to the lab. I examined spiders and snakes in specimen jars, watched the angelfish in the office aquarium, and listened to the men talk. Not being sexist here, but the lab was populated by men. I think there was a secretary somewhere, but she didn’t work in the lab. It was probably the spiders and snakes that kept her at a distance.

I listened while Dad’s boss and co-worker chatted during downtime. Dad was always off doing something – prepping for the next experiment, observing, cleaning up. He wasn’t good at being still or idle. Neither am I, but I listened and watched and scribbled on a yellow pad, trying hard to be still and quiet. The reward would be lunch at the A&W Drive-In.

I loved being in the lab. Those visits fostered my love of both science and of creepy crawlies. There are exceptions — cockroaches, fleas, ticks, mosquitoes, and fire ants, to name a few. Spiders are not one of the exceptions.

I did not get my admiration of spiders from my mother. She once worked for the state department of agriculture. She picked random samples of leaves for examination. She was good at it, she said, because she was afraid of spiders. Rather than cherry-picking the leaves, she would reach in and grab without looking, all while hoping to avoid any spider that might be hiding in the tree.

My Taller Half (MTH) discovered an interesting spider outside last night. The web was anchored on one side to an overgrown ligustrum. The other side was anchored on a tree about 10 feet up and about 15-20 feet away from the ligustrum. He took photos, but when I looked for the web during the day, I didn’t see it.

We went out together tonight, and the spider was busily rebuilding. While I’m sure the bright flashlight was disturbing, she didn’t stop building … except when a flying bug attracted by the light hit the web. She took a break to wind him up then returned to her building. I believe she is an Eriophora ravilla, a tropical orb weaver. From the photos I found, she might be a juvenile. I found this on the IFAS site:

Orb webs of adult female E. ravilla have a widely spaced spiral and may be over 1 m across (see photograph in Levi 1977). The bridge thread supporting the web may be 6 m long (M. Stowe in Levi 1977). The web is constructed after dark, and the orb is taken down before dawn. The bridge and frame threads are probably left in place (Levi 1977). The web probably catches many moths and other night flying insects; these spiders may be particularly beneficial along woodland borders of field agroecosystems and within orchards. It is known to occur in citrus groves in Florida (Mansour et al. 1982). All stages apparently occur throughout the year, but little else is known of its life cycle.

https://edis.ifas.ufl.edu/publication/IN568

That explains why I couldn’t find the web. Very cool. We named her Enola. Enola is alone backwards, as we were told by the title character of Enola Holmes. Orb weavers seem to live solitary lives.

Before The Big Storm hit, I had a beautiful golden silk orb-weaver in residence. I enjoyed visiting him, seeing his web each day, telling him how beautiful he was. The night before the storm, he had fortified his web impressively, and as the winds began to pick up, he stood defiantly on his new web. I told him it would not help, that he needed to go into the eaves or find someplace safe. He didn’t listen to me. Stubborn. After the storm, I looked for him, but I never saw him again. He probably had quite a ride.

One of the things I loved most about Dad was that he never expected less from my sister or me than he did of our brothers. He believed we could be or do anything we wanted. He talked to me about bugs and plants. He brought home baby ducks and puppies. He warned me about the dangers of a possum bite while he hand-fed a possum jellybeans. I miss him.

One of the things I love most about MTH is that he sees the world a lot like I do. He will stop to marvel at a spider building a web. He’ll send me photos of that spider at night while I’m sleeping because he knows I wouldn’t want to miss it. He will tromp through the weeds and sit on a fallen tree trunk to watch the cardinals with me. He’ll turn the car around to take another look at a magnolia in full bloom. He comprehends the wonder of God’s creation.

One of the things I love most about Enola is that she weaves these memories together as skillfully as she weaves her web. Tonight, I thank God for the men He put in my life. For Mom. For love and spiders.

Collards and Cornbread

For three months now, I’ve been babying my fall garden, including two collard green plants that survived my initial incompetence. Can you believe that while My Taller Half and I were out shopping, my neighbor harvested my greens and cooked them?

Of course, this was an act of kindness, not thievery. MTH loves collard greens. I’m a decent cook, but I didn’t even know how they should taste. How would I know if I was making them right or tell a good recipe from a bad one? Our next-door neighbor, a lifelong resident of this part of the country, said that’s one thing she knows how to make. In truth, this fine lady can cook and makes many good things.

While we were out, I called to ask if I needed to bring home anything to make the collards. She told me they were already done. She said to be sure to get the fixin’s for cornbread.

When we arrived home, she brought us a big pot.

“Are you sure you don’t want to keep some? It looks like there’s plenty.” She said no, but her grandson came in, smelled them, and had a big spoonful before she could tell him those weren’t for them. She promised to make him another pot later.

The greens smelled heavenly. I started to put them in containers in the refrigerator so that I could wash and return her pot. MTH said he couldn’t wait for cornbread and ate a little bowlful, confirming that the collards were excellent. He texted her the same, and she replied, “I know that’s right!”

Next fall, I need to plant a lot more collards and maybe some mustard greens, too. We still have broccoli, cabbages, and carrots to harvest later. Those I know how to handle. For now, I need to make some cornbread and ask God’s blessings on our sweet neighbor.

First Breakfast

My Taller Half and I are both under the weather. No, it’s not COVID. It’s just aging or genetics or paying the price for past carelessness. Normally, we’d be in the Bigger City to the south, listening to our pastor preach a great sermon. After church, we’d do our regular Bigger City stock up run to all our favorites stores, grab some lunch, then head home for a nice nap. But we haven’t made that trip for a few weeks, and while we still have The Pig and Wally World nearby, it’s just not the same.

MTH fixes breakfast most mornings, so I decided it was my turn this morning. He likes his eggs on the softer side, while I’m the kid Ron Popeil envisioned when he invented his In-the-Egg Scrambler. One compromise we both enjoy is a scrambled egg concoction in my cast iron skillet. It’s a bit like a crustless quiche. Into the skillet go the vegetables, chopped meats, whatever I have or need to use, which I usually sauté, then I pour in the egg mixture and top with cheese. I pop that into the oven until it is firm and the cheese is melted.

But without shopping much lately, the cupboard is getting a little bare. We have mushrooms — always a good start — some shallots and some garlic. I could cook up some frozen broccoli, but my personal energy reserves were a bit low, so if there wasn’t any ready to go, it wasn’t going to happen. We have some sausage and maybe a few slices of bacon, but again, too tiring. We have an open jar of sun-dried tomatoes — into the pan they went. It would be good, but it really needs meat to be perfect. The sun-dried tomatoes had me thinking Mediterranean, those blue waters off the coasts of Greece or Italy I’ve seen in pictures. In the pantry, I found a can of sardines.

My dad used to eat sardines out of the can when I was a kid. It grossed me out. He also used to eat Vienna Sausages out of the can. Dad was in the Navy through two wars. It hardens a man … and his stomach. The only canned fish I ever buy is tuna and occasionally salmon. But one day, MTH came home with cans of smoked oysters and smoked fish.

“Here,” he said, shoving a fork bearing an unknown substance toward my mouth. I obeyed. We’re still practically newlyweds, so I give him a lot of leeway. It was some sort of fish, and it was good!

“What is it?”

“Smoked herring,” he told me, and I promptly forgot.

So the next time I was in the canned fish aisle, I tried to remember. What was it? It wasn’t anchovies, the little fishes that people put on pizza. Sardines? Yes, It must be sardines. So I brought MTH home a can of sardines, informing him that I bought more of the fish he enjoyed. “Those are sardines. We had smoked herring.” Sigh.

So this morning, with my head full of visions of fisherman on the Mediterranean, I spied the little can of sardines. How bad could it be? So into the pan, along with the sizzling mushrooms, shallots, garlic, and sun-dried tomatoes, I added the sardines. They looked pretty good! I poured in the eggs scrambled with seasonings, topped it all with some shredded white cheddar, popped it into the oven, and started the coffee.

When I presented it to MTH, he looked a bit skeptical. He took a bite, then asked for a napkin.

“Are you going to spit it out?”

He mimicked gagging into his napkin then chuckled. “No, silly.”

I tried a bite. “I would definitely make this again. It’s good.” I looked at him, trying to read his opinion. He’s hard to read.

“It is good. Especially the sun-dried tomatoes.”

“I’ll add more next time.”

MTH humphed in agreement.

“I think it will keep well for lunch. I’ll eat the rest later.”

“I will, too.” It is a lot of food, and we’re not at our best. Second breakfast.

After breakfast, our phones started sending weather alerts. A tropical storm is heading our way. I am not too concerned. After our breakfast, we’re ready for anything.

Preferably a nap.


A Hot Time in the Old Town

Yesterday, just before 4:00 p.m., the power went out. That isn’t a terribly unusual occurrence, so we waited a breath to see if it would come right back on.

Two breaths. Three.

It was 91 degrees. Actual degrees, not heat index. The heat index was close to 101 °F. In a matter of minutes without the fans and window a/c, the house was a sauna. My Taller Half and I both have conditions that make us intolerant to heat. I was beginning to be nauseated. I looked over at our neighbor’s house. Her car was gone. I texted her to let her know the power was out, so not to hurry home.

My UPS was chirping a warning that my backup power was dwindling. I navigated to our power company website. They expected the power to be restored in an hour or two. We flipped the switch for the porch light and jumped in the car to take a blissfully cool drive. As we left town, we saw no lights. Police officers directed traffic at our busiest intersections. The team from Sonic gathered outside the restaurant, while one waved away cars from the drive-thru.

We headed over to Slightly Bigger Town, taking the long way. We stopped for a bite to eat. My Taller Half and I chatted over the everything from politics to entertainment to how that one rest stop on the highway was FINALLY open after The Big Storm that hit here nearly three years ago. It’s much smaller now. Clean but too practical. No character. I love long rides with my honey.

About two hours had passed when we drove back to Pixley. The traffic signals at the busier intersections were working, but not all the signals were. I suspected those signals had backup power. Everything was suspiciously dark and quiet. No porch light glowed in front of our house. The power company website stated that the power should be back by 6 a.m.

Let’s talk heat. My Taller Half and I are both natives and no strangers to heat. We grew up in homes without air conditioning. Our current home has no central a/c — only a couple of old window units, none in the bedroom. We use a lot of fans. We chuckle when we read news from the UK reporting that marathons were cancelled for temperatures in the low 70s. But as much as we hate to admit it, age and illness have taken their toll, and we both suffer from heat intolerance. Heat intolerance, a particular sensitivity to heat and humidity, has many causes. The very young and the very old are particularly susceptible. Heart medications, allergy medications, spinal cord injuries, diabetes, Postural Orthostatic Hypotension (POTS), Multiple Sclerosis (MS), Parkinson’s, Fibromyalgia, hyperthyroidism, and a host of other conditions can make temperatures that would ordinarily be merely unpleasant a potential danger.

I mentioned spending the night in a motel. Not a local motel — they had no power. My Taller Half said I could, but he would not leave the cats in the heat. I would not leave him in the heat. Neither of us brought up my poor dog … although she could have come to the motel. A couple of our cats love to loll about on a hot sidewalk and refuse to come inside when invited. I was pretty sure the heat wouldn’t hurt them. But I knew that, best case scenario, I would be in poor shape for work the next day if we sweltered all night. We entered the house. The UPS was silent. “I’m going to go buy a generator,” MTH announced.

We have talked about this a lot lately. It only makes sense with us living in a place that is fairly remote. It would be invaluable after another big storm, or when Jim Bob clips a power pole with his rig. And with heat intolerance, it’s a good idea to have a backup plan when you live in the South. We could afford it. Barely. But I didn’t know where we would store it, and it would put a big dent in our dwindling savings. I got online, and in minutes, I located an inexpensive (relatively), dual-fuel model that was highly rated. Now we had to drive to The Big City.

The route out of town was different than the one we took earlier, and everything was dark. The lights were out in our entire town. There were lights in the small town north of us. 170 days without an accident at the lumber mill. Well done!

The trip to The Big City was long but relatively uneventful. The most exciting part was struggling to fit the generator box in the car … and wondering how we would get it out again. We arrived home to a dark town and no porch light. The air outside was soup, and there was no breeze to stir it. The song of the frogs in the lot next door was almost drowned out by the thrum of generators running all over the neighborhood. It sounded as if the entire block decided to mow their lawns at once … in the dark. At least the moon was almost full. MTH went to gather flashlights. I ventured into the backyard to fetch the wheelbarrow. He began to work the generator box out of the back seat. We were working in the dark, in the heat, and mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds were snacking on My Taller Half. A feral cat who comes around looking for handouts was indignant that we didn’t immediately produce food. He hissed at me. Ingrate.

MTH managed to set up the generator while I fetched multiple towels to mop up his sweat, held flashlights, and did other very important tasks. He sent me into the house to fish the extension cord through the window and into the kitchen. He flipped the switch, and our generator added its blissful thrum to the neighborhood chorus. I was puzzling out how we would manage to plug in both the refrigerator and a fan when I heard the whirr of the window a/c and the telltale beep of the UPS. The power was back. I turned on the lights to signal we didn’t need the generator any more. I won’t repeat what My Taller Half said.

He hit the showers. I walked and fed my dog, then fed and watered the other assorted critters. The heat sent my heart rate a bit too high, so I decided to postpone my shower for a bit so that I could rest in front of the a/c and chronicle our adventures. We missed Trivia Night at work, but we survived, the food in the freezer didn’t melt, the temperatures in the house were now bearable, and we are prepared for the next disaster. Life is good.

Of Food and Flashlights

My brother sent me a beautiful essay by Celeste Ng.

IN CHINESE FAMILIES, you greet someone by asking if they’ve eaten yet. It is love expressed as concern: Let me take care of you, let me tend to your most basic need. And the response — I’ve eaten already — is an expression of love, too. Don’t worry, Mom, I’m doing fine.

The essay moves on to discuss the violence against Asian-Americans in our country, and it’s moving. But I was struck by the initial paragraph, because I saw this in my own parents. I would visit, they’d send me home with groceries, cereal, soup, whatever. It used to upset me. Do they think I’m irresponsible? Poor? Do they think that there are no stores where I live? It took me a while to catch on that this was their way of saying I love you, not them thinking I was too incompetent to grocery shop.

When My Taller Half and I were just friends, and I would visit, he’d check the air in my tires and offer me bottled water for the trip home. One time, he gave me a flashlight. A nice, fancy flashlight. The next time I visited, he asked me about the flashlight. I had no idea where it was. He grumbled and gave me another flashlight.

Odd. Does the man have a flashlight fetish?

From then on, every time I headed home, he’d ask if I brought my flashlight, and if I said I didn’t know where it was at the moment, he would shake his head and give me another. He gave one to my youngest son, too. He thought it was odd. Neither of us spend a lot of time thinking of flashlights. They are good when you need them but forgettable every other time.

In the days after The Big Storm but before we married, there were many trips to the REALLY BIG CITY seeking Wi-Fi for work. My Taller Half would always check the air in my tires, check the oil, ask me if I need water for the trip. Check to make sure I had a flashlight.

He spent much of his life on the road and having a really good flashlight was literally a lifesaver. He has flashlights that will flash in case the car breaks down in the night. Red flashlights. USB rechargeable flashlights. I still don’t appreciate flashlights the way he does, but along the way, I realized that giving me a flashlight was his way of telling me he cares about me and wants me to be safe.

He really loves a good flashlight. He also loves a good pen. I guess that’s another thing we don’t always appreciate, but when we’re out, if he likes a particular server or salesperson or just some random person he meets and likes, he will give them a really good pen with the little rubber cap still on the tip. He appreciates the beauty of a pen that writes smoothly. He gave one to our wee doc. He’s given one or two to our pastor, whose stole he straightens every Sunday before or after the service. Pastor just smiles. He figured out My Taller Half much faster than I did.

Usually, if I make the long drive to the doctor, he goes with me, but yesterday, he was tired, and I went on my own. As I was heading out the door, he handed me three flashlights. Three. A red one, a flashing one, another one that did who knows what! I almost cried. He was telling me he was worried, to come home safely. He was telling me he loves me.

I frequently say “I love you,” and I mean it. People say that a lot, and they mean different things by it. I’ve started buying him pens. I know what kind of pens he likes, so I will pick up a pack so that he always has some to share. I don’t buy him flashlights. I leave that to him. I still don’t understand the wonders of a good flashlight, but that’s okay. He does.

After reading Celeste Ng’s essay, I fumbled in my backpack for the three flashlights and returned them, tearfully thanking him for caring about me enough to send me out with three flashlights.

Four.

Four?


Yes, I took one from your backpack after you got home.


He then asked me to return the car keys so I fumbled in the backpack some more. I didn’t find the keys, but I did find another flashlight.

Four?

No, five. He grinned.

Five!

Now that’s love!

A Valentine’s Day Sunday

It was a rainy Sunday morning, and My Taller Half and I were up early getting ready for the 45-mile drive to our church in Beach Town. I looked out the window to see if the neighbor’s Manx kitty was out front. He didn’t appear to be there, and I told my Taller Half so.

But the girls are.

I craned my neck to see a black hen and a red hen standing on our welcome mat. I hoped they didn’t leave any presents. He just washed the front walk.

It was Valentine’s Day, and a beautiful bouquet of flowers and a balloon graced the top of our upright piano. It was a big day. We were planning a trip to Red Lobster for lunch!

As we walked out the door, the girls were still out front, but when they saw us get in the car and pull away, they headed back to their home. There were three cars at the four-way stop, all going in different directions. That’s a traffic jam in Pixley. Everyone waited and waved for the other to go first.

Someone was out early, loading their horse in a trailer at the vet’s office. I hope they keep him covered and out of this cold rain, said my Taller Half.

It was in the low 40s. I’m pretty sure that horses are fine outside. Horses live outside where it snows.

You know I have a tender heart.

He does, and that’s why the neighbor’s cat and the other neighbor’s hens like to visit. And the pup next door. And all the birds at the bird feeder. It’s like being married to St. Francis of Assisi … if he occasionally had the mouth of Samuel L. Jackson.

There is a state highway that goes from Pixley to Beach Town. It’s a two-lane road, but they are making it wider. The prospect of the increased traffic that will pass from Other State through Pixley to Beach Town has many business owners very happy. We are anxious about it. The good side is it has done wonders for our property values, even in this terrible economy. By the time Pixley gets too big, we might be able to move to Bugtussle — if any town like Bugtussle still exists in the near future.

We prefer to take the back roads to church. As we crossed the overpass for the Big Interstate Highway, MTH asks, How many cars do you see?

I looked to the west. Six, and another three in the distance.

I have two trucks and eight cars, he reported from the east.

Pretty busy for a rainy Sunday morning. It’s a thing we do, like guessing the Days Without An Accident at the lumbermill.

On the back road, we pass the woods of a state park, homes, and farms. We always point out the cows and horses. Never gets old.

After church, a wonderful lunch, and errands, we headed home. We counted the cars on the overpass. It was busier in the afternoon. The hens came back to welcome us. The Manx dropped by, too. Time for naps. We have a movie night planned. It was another lovely day in Pixley. Contentment. That’s what I feel here. Contentment. It’s the feeling you get when you know there are many other wondrous things out there, but you can’t think of any place else you’d rather be, or anyone else you’d rather be with.