A simple country girl and a simple country boy left their homes and went to town for college. After we cut the apron stings, moved, unpacked, and mastered our culinary Top Ramen skills, we united in the mayhem of marriage, err, I mean holy matrimony. In our newfound collegiate adulthood, we gained higher levels of knowledge, but occasionally we came across an educational opportunity outside the brick and mortar school walls.

And in at least one such case we were the professors…

.

One laundry day we left our clothes swirling in soap and water, and instead of reading textbooks during the wash-n-spin cycles, we wandered around the mall. We always found ourselves in the same place and that day was no different; our collective drool dripped down the pet store display case. As we stared at a litter of black lab mutt pups, an pet store employee wrangled another box of puppies and dumped a heap of Rottweilers in with the cute Labradors.

.

Immediately, a small lab pup raised up, crawled over the others, and stood before the newcomers, as if she was the self-appointed guard dog for her baby brothers and sisters. She growled, a little, yet effective, guttural threat at the obnoxious Rott-tots. They backed up in wide-eyed dismay at her daring ferocity.

.

“Why look at that!” I exclaimed.

.

“Yeah. That one black mutt is protecting all her kin,” my husband said.

.

“She’s little, but she’s fierce.”

.

“And she’s dang cute.”

.

I sighed and fixed my eyes on my man. “Hey, she reminds me of me. Does she remind you of me?”

.

“Yeah, whatever.”

.

“We gotta have her,” we said in unison.

.

We looked at one another, I smiled lovingly, and then we began a frantic search for money. We emptied our pockets, we pawned our car’s spare tire and my husband’s belt buckle, and instead of using the quarter-hungry machines to dry our wet clothes back at the laundry mat, my husband dragged three sacks of soggy laundry to our rig. And I grasped one bundle of store-bought, wriggling puppy mutt. The three of us wagged and gave out sloppy kisses whilst my husband drove us home.

.

Because I always wanted a dog named Elvis or Earl we had a couple days of heavy debate before we agreed upon a name. Since the pup turned out to be a she instead of a he, my favorite names were nixed until I had the bright idea to insert various letters in front of both names to come up with a gender-friendly girl name.

.

We test-drove our alphabetical options: “Here Pelvis! Here Pelvis!” didn’t sound so good but we tried again; P + Earl = Pearl. Bingo! Our first dog was a precious black Pearl.

.

Fast-forward a few months. Autumn had sprung. It’s always my favorite time of year, but the serenity of bright blue skies and crisp leaves was shattered by the couple who lived below us as they intensified the training of their mighty, papered, and registered hunting dog, aptly named “Hound.” Secretly though, we were privy to his lack of know-how so we secretly called him “Blockhead.”

.

The dog. Not the man.

.

Anyway, one afternoon my husband and Pearl snored in our makeshift sleeping bag bed on the floor as prepped potatoes for the oven. I heard the neighbor man’s wife leave and five minutes later he knocked on our door. Pearl rushed toward the rude awakening with a menacing growl, but stopped short once I opened the door and she saw her wagging canine buddy on the porch with his master.

.

Our neighbor convinced my husband to take the dogs for “a mock grouse hunt” in the nearby field. Basically the man wanted to show-off his dog’s dummy retrieving skills and his response to both voice and hand signal commands.

.

So my husband followed the man and his pedigreed dog with our eager mutt, who sleeps on our bed, lounges across the backrest of the couch, routinely eats wicker baskets, and who sometimes walks around in t-shirts (cause I think a dog in clothes is funnier than without).

 .

.

Because  it’s been said that these here blog posts should be around 1000 words,

you will need to stay tuned for the continuation of this saga on another day.

You’ll come back ’cause you don’t wanna miss the primary lesson do ya?

 Oh forget it! This is my place and I’ll ramble on and on if’n I see fit.

And if’n you see fit to keep reading, look below.

If not, come back another day.

And look below. 

.

.

Within an hour I heard the man put his barking dog into the condo unit below. Our door flew open, Pearl wagged in, followed by my husband, and before I shut the door, the neighbor man squeezed through. He stood stoic and white-faced as he leaned against the entryway wall. From behind his back, my husband then produced a dead grouse and a poorly stifled grin.

.

“Hey, honey, look what we got!”

.

“Uh, I thought he was only practicing with Hound today,” I said as I nodded at the man.

 .

My husband said, “Oh, they practiced all right and Hound did a pretty good job until the last dummy toss and retrieval. Hound landed on top of an unsuspecting grouse. The grouse finally freed itself from beneath the dog’s belly and took off.”

.

“What did Hound do next? And where was Pearl through all this?” I asked.

.

“Oh, Hound barked, chased his tail, and drooled a lot,” my husband said. Near giddy with excitement, my man continued with his story. “And the last time I had seen Pearl she was somewhere across the field following her nose. Anyway, when that grouse took flight, she ripped across the hillside at full tilt, jumped six feet off the ground, and caught that dang bird by the tail feathers.”

.

“Yeah, well, she doesn’t have a soft mouth like my dog. She broke its leg,” said our neighbor man in a huff.

.

“Well, there’s that. But dude, did you see her run? And what about that jump?!”

 .

“I did. I did. And you are right, it was spectacular,” said the man as he focused on the floor.

 .

“So, I’m assuming you have your bird hunting license, right?” I said to the man, who by the way, was enrolled as a second year law student.

 .

“Uh, not exactly.”

.

“Counselor, did you go grousing without a license? Well, at least you had permission from the landowner, right? I reckon you could get kicked out of law school over something like this.”

 .

The man shook, his knees buckled, and his lower lip quivered just a bit.

.

This moment proved to be our first lesson in the School of Country Folk Common Sense. Well, actually it was the second lesson because as I later found out, my husband had already taken to the lectern with instructions on how to put the injured grouse out of its misery.

.

Although neither of us had time to make a syllabus, draft an outline, or prepare a handout, we effortlessly continued with our country-tainted, real world instruction.

.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, just leave the evidence here. The oven is still hot from some potatoes I baked. My husband will dress it out, I’ll cook it, and you two can eat the proof. And if we play our cards right, no one will ever know what dastardly dog deeds went on in that field.”

.

My husband walked the pale man outside and returned to make the dead bird edible.

 .

I baked a foul fowl and later that night as the two men ate grouse and ‘taters, they discussed the varied nuances and diverse methodologies of basic dog rearing and birddog training.

.

Soon thereafter, I took the feathery trash out to the curb and a saw movement in the downstairs window. The great and mighty hunting dog stared at me with frightened eyes from the cushions of the once-forbidden couch. He wore a white t-shirt and had a party hat strapped to his big, black blockhead.

 .

Simply Darlene, is there a moral to this story? I don’t know for sure, but I squeezed out two for ya.

 .

One:  not all schooling needs books, but all learning needs some sense.

 .

Two:  it doesn’t matter if your pooch is pampered, papered, pedigreed, or pinstriped, he’s only going to catch what he’s got a mind to bite. Just like us, aye? Whether we comfortably fall in with simple folks, country bumpkins, city slickers, saucy suburbanites, or worldwide wanderers, we’ve got to exercise some mental acuity in our choices to follow God.

 .

Otherwise, all we are collectively gonna do, is wear dorky t-shirts and chase our little waggy tails.

..

* PLEASE HELP!!

.

do you know?

can you say

the exact time

and place and day

.

that God bent your knees

broke your heart

and

gave you a big, big chance

at a fresh

born again

start?

.

did it fizzle?

whiz

or bang

you down?

.

did it drizzle?

drip

or spin

you around?

 .

did you land

on your belly,

face down in the dirt?

 .

did you lift

up your eyes

and admit

all your hurts?

 .

did you take

to give?

 .

did you die

to live?

.

like Jesus

did

.

Alrighty then. Last Sunday I wore these socks to church. With a skirt. Oh yeah, baby. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Since it says “pepper” across the top of the socks, I reckon I was hot. Or at least my feet were hot. Well, so were my legs because these are actually some funky snowboarding socks my 8-year old son gave me for Christmas. And since I have not taken to the slippery slopes of the ski mountain one time this year, I figured I needed to wear the socks someplace else. Like to church.

.

Well, why not?

.

And since I most definitely am not a girly-girl, if I am gonna wear a skirt, it’s gonna be a memorable event.

.

.

You’ll have to excuse the first image’s blur factor. I was trying to take the picture before the puppy bit into my stripy feet. He spent some time getting his head caught in my skirt too so that was a bit uncomfortable. For both of us.  I took to the wooden glider porch swing in the living room for the next image. A porch swing in the living room? Yessiree. Did I ever say anything about normalcy around here? Reckon not. Anyway, I propped up my feet and snapped the second shot before 11-week old canines ripped into my gastrocnemius muscles. Again.

.

And I learned a lesson. Stripes that encircle the leg in this manner make me look like I have ginormous tree-trunkish legs. Yikes. It’s a good thing I generally wear Wranglers and wool socks to church. Hey, did I mention that we attend a home church and that I offered the home-owner a ride in my socks? If he dared. He dared so I’ll take these beauties along and we shall see if he will really wear them whilst he preaches Sunday. I’m  not taking my skirt Sunday. No ma’am. Once outta the closet a year is all it I can handle.

.

I am serious. I cannot make up this sorta stuff. I don’t have the imagination for it.

.

Since I reckon you fancy my footwear diatribe, below is another somewhat related piece that originally appeared online last year at a place called All The Church Ladies. The website had been disbanded so I am taking it upon myself to share my ATCL pieces at Simply Darlene. Hey, maybe I should do one of those drawings here where you can put your name in a hat for a spin in the socks.

.

Kidding. They are mine and I don’t share with just anyone. Besides, my husband was so  thrilled when I climbed aboard the church wagon Sunday morning with my striped legs crammed into my 22-year old giant Sorel winter boots that he muttered something about a rodeo clown. He must be looking forward to summer. Whadda man! Anyway, I’m keeping the socks since they elicit such good thoughts for him.

.

.

Hang tight ’cause here’s the ATCL piece of writing:

.

.

One Sunday morning I went to church with my fellas. As usual, I wore Wranglers, I clipped my hair back with a wooden barrette, heck, I even wore a shirt with buttons; and although I am not much of a make-up sorta gal, I even managed to pencil on some eyebrows. Due to a recent job relocation and a couple of moves, my family was fairly new to the little country church that sits just off the highway in eastern Washington. The rural community is nested amid dirt roads, rolling wheat fields, and is twelve miles from a town with a gas pump.

.

During our first visit there we learned that the church is the oldest First Christian Church in the state. In fact it also has a tower with a bell almost as old as the church itself and as per tradition, an attending child rings the bell before each Sunday service. The kiddo grabs hold of the ragged rope and pulls with fervor (and oftentimes with the assistance of an adult) to announce the commencement of singing, preaching, praising, and praying.

.

Like most families, sometime we arrive early and warm the pews while the neighborhood rooster crows, while at other times we arrive just as the old church bell begins its song and dance routine. On this particular spring morn we arrived as the bell began to clank, so we parked partly in the ditch and scrambled to gather our bibles, coats, water bottles, notebooks, and wallets.

.

“Hurry. Hurry! Hurry!! I said.

.

My husband and son got out and bee-lined for the door. With bible and coat in my hands, I sat still and stared at my feet. My husband rushed back to see what had happened. He gave me that raised-eyebrow look and pointed to the church. I gave him the same raised- eyebrow look and pointed to my feet. He looked down, laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and pulled me from the truck.

.

At the door we were greeted with perfume-tainted hugs, smeared cheeky lipstick kisses, and friendly smiles. My fellas each took a bulletin, weaved their way through elderly knees and ginormous purses, and settled mid-way down a curved wooden pew. I stayed back because I still held the hands of the two perfumed ladies. I must have alarmed them with not only my bone-crushing grip, but with my wrinkled brow and refusal to move along.

.

All at once their faces contorted and they barraged me with their concern:

.

“What is it?”

.

“What’s happened, Darlene?”

.

“Is everything okay?”

.

“Do you need something to eat?”

.

“What can we do?”

.

“How can we pray?”

.

My only response was to shake my head back and forth and point down to my slippers. Yes, my fuzzy-wuzzy slippers. They didn’t giggle. They didn’t even gasp. They just ushered me toward my boys. As one gently pushed me along she said, “It’s okay, darlin’ because hardly anybody will notice.”

.

As the other gal pointed to the many blankets of soft yarn scattered around the pews, she leaned in close and said, “Yeah, we’ve seen worse. Let’s just say if you come to church wrapped only in a towel, we’ll give you one of those.”

.

I gasped. And I giggled.

.

Then they looked at one another as if they had shared a nice little secret. Together they lowered their heads close to mine and one of them said, “Cause a person gets mighty cold in just a towel.”

.

Despite being a tad embarrassed for wearing my slippers to church, I finally scooted in and sat down between my cowboy-booted fellas. Even though our old-fashioned, little bitty church has cows, chickens, and three longhaired yaks for neighbors, the parishioners take seriously the church’s motto of Love God, Love People.

.

One Sunday morning I went to church wearing my slippers. Because I had held the hands of two church ladies who love God and His people, I learned the meaning of our new church’s motto. I reckon they’ll keep on loving His people with their perfume-tainted hugs and handmade blankets.

.

What about you? Ever go to church wearing your slippers?

.

.

* We’ve moved since that slipper story was first published, but the folks at our new Sunday home don’t seem to mind when I show up being me. I reckon anyone can Love God and Love People and not get all worked up about slippers, socks, and other such nonsense.

* GUESS WHAT?! Although he left his shoes on, he wore the socks and blessed us with bright stripy ankles.

.

.

.

.

.

.

 … certainly not when it’s withered, dried, and on it’s side.

.

.

.

.

We’ve been studying prayer at church for the last few weeks. And about a week ago I read something Oswald Chambers had to say about it:

“Whenever the insistence is on the point that God answers prayer,

we are off the track.

The meaning of prayer is that

we get hold of God,

not of the answer.”

~ “My Utmost for His Highest;” February 7 devotional reading

Below you will find my study notes, from both church and His Word, written out as a poem. Sometimes things stick better this way for me, a simply country girl trying to make it in God’s big, big world.

..

When I talk

to God

I fill heart

and soul

holes

from above.

.

For He

has no

need

.

Of my

voice,

my begging

pleas,

or my

desperate cries.

.

Rather

it is I

who has

a multitude

of reasons

.

Why

I ought

hear

Him say,

.

“Child,

not your

will,

but Mine.

 .

I want

your

heart

 .

More

divine.

 .

In your

prayers

cease not

and

praise

a lot

 .

Ask for wisdom

for it shall

be

given.

 .

Cast another’s

sin far and

away

 .

Just as My Son

did one wretched

blessed

day.

 .

Seek

My strength,

for you are

way too

weak

 .

To go

it

alone.

 .

Then praise

My name,

and seek My

kingdom

 .

Give

Me honor

devotion

and give

Me glory.

 .

For this is

how

you

shall find

 .

A soul

tender and

knit together with

Mine.

  .

For when you

pray,

it’s not

really about

 .

How you

want

Me

 .

To rule

your

day,

 .

But about

how

you

should tip

your heart

 .

Back

My

way.”

 .

.

* What does prayer do for you?

.

Dearest L.L.,

.

I have bad news about my brand spanking new copy your book, Rumors of Water. Sharp puppy teeth have disfigured chapters twenty and twenty-one. At the time of said incident I hadn’t even had the book for one full day.

.

Saturday, at 5am, our 9-week old, notorious clothes rack raiding fur ball stole a sock, two pairs of underwear, and a washcloth. He displayed blatant disregard for not only my family’s laundry, but for our one day a week ability to sleep beyond the darkness of night. And since I was the only lucid witness to his misbehavior, I had the joy of reprimanding and distracting his wayward puppy mind.

.

I dragged a flashlight, some dog toys, your book, and the dog into the bedroom where I set-up camp on the floor. At first we only stared at one another, but soon enough we did our own thing and made at being quiet and nice. Distracted with Rumors of Water, I did not see Calder Bean leave, but when twenty pounds of puppy flesh pounced upon my lap, I jumped several feet into the air. At least while I was up there I saw the hiding place for another pair of escapee underwear.

.

Thankfully as I landed I was able to grab ahold of the garment. The pup thought this was a riotous game of tug-o-war. As he wagged and pulled, I yanked. Then he growled. Frustrated, I growled back at the beast. And that’s when it happened, Calder Bean sank his defiant canines into Rumors of Water. I shrieked and shined the flashlight into his scared, fury face.

.

“Mister Bean, unhand it. I mean un-tooth it. Just let it go! It’s mine!”

.

After I flicked his nose, he relented. I won! I had the book and a riddled pair of my husband’s underwear. And the last I saw of Mister Bean he was doing that proud puppy walk with both is head and tail held high. He fled to the living room.

.

Now where did I put my flashlight?

.

Mister Bean spreading his love around.

.

* Part of L.L.’s On, In and Around Mondays.

* Here’s the book link: Rumors of Water.

.

. .

Romance.

.

Intense. Exciting. Mysterious. Love affair. These are some descriptives that I found in the dictionary behind the February word “romance.”

.

Apart from a Hollywood movie screen or the pages of a book, I think romance is for the hogs. Slop it to ‘em from a bucket and wash your hands of it as soon as possible.

.

Romance is fanciful. It is fantasy. It is fictitious. It is dangerous.

.

And by doggies, it ain’t gonna put food on the table or buy diapers for the baby. Oh, indeed it likely influenced the making of said baby, but it does nothing to clothe the mini-pooper-burper.

.

So tell me, what happened after the rings got shoved into place, you said the wedding vows, and you licked the last of the cake crumbs from the marriage plate?

.

.

You paid the pastor, the caterer,

the photographer,

the florist,

the dress-maker,

the baker,

and the candlestick maker.

.

Then you shared a two dollar burrito at Bubba’s Bean Shack because that’s all the money you found under the floor mat of the get-away car. And you dared not reach across the table to hold hands because it was covered in dried hot sauce and crusty bits of mystery meat.

.

Yes, that’s when you realized that Intense & Exciting & Love Affair had excused themselves from the room, never to be found again.

.

Oh you, you are a smart cookie! You just realized that Mysterious is still lurking about somewhere. I’m okay with this sneaky straggler because he has existed apart from Romance and has comfortably cohabitated within marriages for years. Who am I to oust this secret agent who brings inexplicable strife delight to couples?

.

• Mysterious are the ways of a husband’s dirty socks and wet towels that smell like the backside of a cow. 

• Mysterious are the ways of a wife’s mood swings and underwear drawers full of hidden chocolate candy. 

• Mysterious are the ways of how he rolls brand new toothpaste tubes and how she replaces toilet paper rolls. 

• And mysterious are the ways to recapture that romantic lovin’ feelin’ once you’ve been married longer than it takes to boil an egg.

.

I’m here to simultaneously let the air outta your balloon and burst your bubble. Ppfffffzzzzz.

.

Romance like you knew it in your single daze ain’t never ever, ever gonna happen again. What with all the baby-burping & wage-earning & manure-shoveling & homework-helping, that loving feeling is gone, gone, gone.

.

 Gone, gone, gone. Whooaaa-whooaaa-whooaaa. Oooh.

.

Despite my warnings, I am afraid there are a few Romance Renegades among us. I’ve seen evidence: bouquets of roses, cutesy greeting cards, and heart-shaped boxes of candy. Good night folks, haven’t you been listening?

.

Romance is all for naught. It’ll just rot. Go on, toss it out in the hog slop.

.

If you haven’t noticed the red flags and you still feel the need to feed the despicable Romance monster, just slowly hand over the chocolates. I’ll do it for ya.

.

Come on, you can trust me.

 —————————————————-  ~  ————————————————– 

.

.

Actually you cannot really trust me. Or  your very own self. Or your spouse.

..

You cannot trust man, or woman, to keep you on track and in-line with everything you thought, said, did, and vowed on your blessed wedding day. But you can and you must, trust God. His Wisdom & heart is way better than ours. 

..

Since I already spent myself on an attempted humor piece up there, I am leaving this section up to someone who succinctly said all the right stuff about marriage and love. While imprisoned in 1943, Deitrich Bonhoeffer penned these words as part of a marriage sermon:

.

Marriage is more than your love for each other.

It has a higher power, for it is God’s holy ordinance, through which he wills to perpetuate the human race until the end of time.

In your love you see only your two selves in the world, but in marriage you are a link in the chain of the generations, which God causes to come and to pass away to his glory, and calls into his kingdom.

In your love you see only the heaven of your own happiness, but in marriage you are placed at a post of responsibility towards the world and mankind.

Your love is your own private possession, but marriage is more than something personal—it is a status, an office. Just as it is the crown, and not merely the will to rule, that makes the king, so it is marriage, and not merely your love for each other, that joins you together in the sight of God and man.

…so love comes from you, but marriage from above, from God. As high as God is above man, so high are the sanctity, the rights, and the promise of love.

It is not your love that sustains the marriage, but from now on, the marriage that sustains your love.

.

.

May the God of love bless all that you do in His name.

.

* This post is part of Peter Polluck’s One Word at a Time Blog Carnival:

ROMANCE.

.

* It is also part of Jennifer Dukes Lee’s linky-thing:

This month, at The High Calling, we’re launching a series

exploring the joys and struggles of marriage,

broaching the topic from multiple angles

for the sake of helping,

healing, and considering.

.

See ya there.

.

.

* PHOTO CREDIT: my friend, Susan lent me the yummy photo.

Thanks so much!

Instead of a business card that tells folks

how to reach you,

.

why not leave a card that puts people

in touch with their eternity?

.

.

.

.

.

. 

.

.

.

.

It

descends

from

heaven’s

clouds

.

Peaceably

drowns

&

smothers

sin-noises

ever so

loud.

.

.

Whispering

blankets of

white

.

.

Swirl

twirl

heap

stack

pile

&

mound

 .

.

Upon the

ground

of my

greedy

grimy

God-hungry

soul.

.

.

.

.

* Photographs and Poetry

by Simply Darlene

*All of it inspired

by God

I meandered right on by the You Are Forty! pit stop about a month ago. Yes, I stopped for some ice cream and a couple of gifts, but I didn’t eat of any Woe-Is-Me Cake. Quite frankly I don’t know what all the “over the hill at forty” rhetoric is about. Who gives a rip-tooting-snort? I mean really, who cares?

I am not an actress so I don’t have to worry about a multi-million dollar decrease in pay. That’s a good thing cause I wouldn’t wanna be let down like that. And I am not a beauty pageant contestant, so whew, I don’t have to worry about the maintenance of lean legs, a ripped abdominal wall, and high-heels.

So, do tell, what other parts of America’s populace wink and nod when a woman turns forty?

Perhaps I’m not the typical Over The Hill woman. That probably has something to do with the fact that I’ve never really fit the jeans of my age, at any age. In fact, just last year I waited on the front steps of our little country church while my husband and son gathered coats and bibles from the pew. A new gal and her husband walked along the sidewalk so we introduced ourselves and talked a bit.

She said, “Oh, so that tall man is your dad and that cute little boy must be your brother, right?”

“Uh, no, that tall guy is my husband and that little boy is my son,” I said.

She looked mortified. I could not be certain if it was because of her aloud spoken error or because she thought my husband had robbed cradle when he landed me as his wife. In an attempt to deter the latter idea, I informed the nice woman that I have indeed been married to the tall guy for the last seventeen years. To top it off, I told her that I am older than him by fifteen months.

With a hand over her gasping and gaping mouth, she fled the scene. All in all, it was a rather uncomfortable conversation and I had no idea how to handle it. Apparently I didn’t do a very good job because she avoided me every Sunday after that.

One of many other age-related episodes occurred near the end of my college daze. I did my student teaching stint at the local junior high; I was twenty-three years old at the time. One day whilst I locked my bike in the stand, a seventh-grader asked me if I was a new student. She informed me that she would be more than happy to show me around campus. After I choked and gagged, I set her little teeny-bopper mind straight. The next day my husband confiscated my backpack and gave me a black canvas brief case instead.

Oh, it was grand, I looked older indeed and more professional, but as I pedaled my bike uphill to the school, that heavy bag wildly swung from side to side. The sight of me careening into and out of the ditch with a wayward bag brought more stares and hoots than my youthful appearance ever had.

People who know me out here in Blogland oftentimes call me “honey” and “girl” and “sweetie.” I reckon they think I am a youngster, but I happen to know that I am older than a good share of them. Why do they think I am but a wee girl still wearing the knickers of her youth? I reckon it’s because what is in a person’s heart eventually comes out in their actions. And their mouth.

Or in the case of writing, it eventually comes out in type. Yeah, the type of attitude shared with the world at large. No, really, I meant typed words, but I distracted myself there. (Maybe it’s old age setting it?)

Anyway… See ya on the sledding hill this afternoon, followed by a snowball fight in the field.

Happy belated Birthday to me,

Happy belated Birthday to me,

I can still climb a tree

And I am over forty

Yippee

Skippee

Happy Birthday to me!

Yes, ma’am I can climb the tree,

but I may  need a little help

getting back down

to the ground.

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(Speaking of snow-related activities I think it’s only fair to warn you: it’s best that if we ever go skiing together that we ride separate chair lifts cause sometimes I cry way up there, dangling in the sky. I don’t like heights. I’ve also been known to knock over my fellow chair-lift riders as we hoist ourselves off at the mountain top. Sorry son, mamma said it was an accident. And I’m sorry about those ski track across  your back. Once I shove off and fall down, I generally lay there in a heap until the chairlift master operator dude stops the lift and drags me to safety.)

What about you?

Do you have any age misconception stories you would like to share?

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