Dena just sent me this.  I know that Lorena and most of you will appreciate the irony.  I certainly do…

Just in case you ever get these two environments mixed up, this  should make things a little bit clearer.

IN PRISON……….you spend  the majority of your time in an 10X10 cell.
AT WORK…………you spend the  majority of your time in an 8X8 cubicle.

IN PRISON………you get  three meals a day.
AT WORK………..you get a break for one meal and you  have to pay for it.

IN PRISON……….you get time off for good  behavior.
AT WORK…………you get more work for good behavior.

IN PRISON……….the guard locks and unlocks all the doors for  you.
AT WORK…………you must often carry a security card and open all the doors for yourself.

IN PRISON……….you can watch TV and play  games.
AT WORK………..you could get fired for watching TV and playing games.

IN PRISON………you get your own toilet.
AT  WORK……….you have to share the toilet with some people who pee on the seat.

IN PRISON……….they allow your family and friends to visit.
AT WORK…………you aren’t even supposed to speak to your family.

IN PRISON……..all expenses are paid by the taxpayers with no  work required.
AT WORK…………you get to pay all your expenses to go to  work, and they deduct taxes from your salary to pay for prisoners.

IN PRISON……….you spend most of your life inside bars wanting  to get out.
AT WORK ……….you spend most of your time wanting to get out  and go inside bars.
 
IN PRISON ………you must deal with sadistic  wardens.
AT WORK………..they are called managers.

Now get  back to work. you’re not getting paid to check  emails!

Michael in Stephenville.  We had another great conversation with Lorena, and the girls and I have really been missing her.  Night before last, Lya insisted on getting Bedknobs and Broomsticks and Rescuers Down Under.  Then she and Stephanie insisted on a family night — in my bed, watching movies until the wee morning hours.  Part of the time we watched the movies, part of the time, the girls provided ad libbed lines to the movie with the sound off, and part of the time, we were treated to a manic memory fest of watching the movies years ago, and watching other movies, and almost watching movies, and what we did as a family, and what we wanted to do, and what we almost did, and it was wild.  At 3:30 a.m., I ran Stephi to her own bed, and we finally got to sleep.

Then yesterday, the girls started going through Lorraines hope chest.  I haven’t laughed as hard in years as I did listening to the girls rehashing memories of different toys, books, people, mannerisms, baby sitters, playmates, etc.  It was hilarious!!!  Next time they start doing something like that, I want to get the movie camera out to record them and their antics for Lorena, for themselves, and for posterity.  If I haven’t mentioned it lately, I love my daughters dearly — and I am very proud of them.  Lorena, you did a wonderful job with three beautiful girls…

Gina (and everyone else out there), feel free to pass this address along to anyone and everyone who might be interested.  Darlene, welcome!!!  Come on in and make yourself at home!!!

Thank you all for your support.  We love you.

Herb and Marion Wooten sent me the following link that I thought might bring a smile to your faces.  It is worth the time to load.  Eric Idle is a creative genius…

http://www.care2.com/ecards/p/8020-3532-10346-2209

Last night was another sweet-and-sour night at the Chinese restaurant called Casa St. Thomas.  The sour part wasn’t really sour; it was just bittersweet, and it occurred during our phone call with Lorena at about 11:45 p.m.  For the first time in far too long, we were all here for the call, and it featured much laughter seasoned with the salt of a few tears and the saccharine of many beautiful memories and longing love.  All of us were telling Lorena how much we love her and miss her – and we were ordering her to WORK HARD AND GET WELL!!! 

I can never talk to Lorena about that without remembering how she (thank God!) ordered me around after Stephanie ran over me in the Pinto.  For those of you who are not familiar with that moment in history, for a moment I will limp down memory lane with you…

A few years ago, Stephanie was helping me check my headlights and turn signals on the Pinto before I took it to get it inspected.  [Remember that this is Mr. Reliable Pinto that has driven all over the US and Mexico, has been stolen in Amsterdam, and broken into in Frankfurt, Rome, Paris, and Dublin (Ireland, not Texas.)   To help friends financially by avoiding customs duties, it has carried goods into Spain, Andorra, Portugal, France, Italy, Switzerland, Austria, Yugoslavia, East Germany, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and Romania.  It has had a really tough life, and is now close to 350,000 miles – and still going.  Of course, my daughters detest it, and they love to lift up my front floor mat to prove to friends that the pavement really is visible through the front floorboard.  It really has been a phenomenal car.  It has taken not one but TWO cruises across the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean from New Orleans to Bremerhaven, Germany, and then, a decade later, back to New Orleans.]  But I digress in praise of my Pinto…

Stephanie was helping me check the turn signals, and this caused a problem because the key had to be on for the turn signals to work.  This in itself was no problem, but the alarm was buzzing since the poor car thought that some fool (namely me) had left the keys in the car again so it was gratingly screaming in an effort to get me to remove them…  (Remember that this is a ’78 Pinto so this poor car is all too aware of the ignominy of having wire coat hangers probe all of its orifices as a very experienced (if not skilled) technician (again, me) tried to unlock the door after locking the keys inside.  Repeatedly.) 

To add insult to automotive injury, the poor Pinto does not have a headlight alarm to warn a fool driver (again, specifically me) when I have left the lights on, so it has had to suffer the embarrassment innumerable times of being sneered at and pitied by a parking lot full of sexy, sleek, young models watching it be manhandled by a gasping, wheezing, sweating, grunting, straining middle-aged man who would push it desperately up to trundling speed, hurl himself awkwardly into the driver’s seat in order to push the clutch, engage first gear, and then jerk his foot off the clutch in an effort to use the transmission to start the engine.  Of course, the option was to have some sleek, sexy model pull alongside so that jumper cables could be hooked up like automotive defibrillators to get poor, humiliated Mr. Pinto going again…

I was in front of Mr. Pinto, Stephanie was in the driver’s seat operating the headlight and turn signal switches, and Mr. Pinto was shrilly screaming like an asthmatic mosquito suffering from emphysema.  (To say it was annoying would be analogous to saying that Jimmy Carter shows a bit of tooth when he smiles…)

Stephanie got tired of Mr. Pinto’s incessant screaming, so she tried to remove the key.  However, she did not know that the key to removing the key was the key release button on the opposite side of the steering column from the key.  Since she was not pushing the key release button, the key entry would not release the key so the screaming would not stop.  So she tried turning the key.  This caused the starter to engage.  This is a ’78 Pinto we are talking about and was therefore equipped with no safety devices to keep the transmission from responding immediately if the starter was engaged, and since Mr. Pinto was parked in first gear simply because), Mr. Pinto, with the speed of a rattlesnake and the sound an 80-old-offensive linesman would make as he hit the line when a play was snapped, Mr. Pinto leaped forward and pinned me to the garage wall.  Just as quickly then, realizing that it was biting the hand that fed it (or, rather, crushing the legs that put gas in it), it slunk back a bit, thereby allowing me to crash into a writhing, leg clutching mass on the floor, much as that 80-year-old offensive lineman would do after he had crashed that line when the football was snapped…

[Thank God, the car did not start.  Had it started, I would be two feet (and quite a bit of leg) shorter than I am…]

I immediately began imitating our tornado sirens, periodically interrupting my hysterical screaming to calmly and rationally instruct Stephanie to go call Mommy – in a very loud and frenzied voice.  Thereupon, Stephanie began screaming harmony to Mr. Pinto’s baritone and my falsetto soprano and raced into the house for help, crying, “I just killed Daddy!”  This brought the whole family out now screaming a full choral arrangement. 

Several emergency room trips later, exacerbated by my discovery that I am allergic to hydrocodone, and several weeks in bed and on crutches with each different doctor I saw making the observation that “it would have been much less painful and would have healed faster if you had just broken it instead of crushing the muscles.”  (Thanks a lot, Doc!!!)  The best description I can give for the way it felt was that it felt a million times worse than the worst cramp I ever had – and it went on for about six weeks.

The purpose of this story, though, was that I had just about lost complete use of the leg by the time I started rehab.  There was NO WAY that I was going to be able to extend it or put weight on  it or …  You get the picture.  But Lorena wouldn’t hear, “No.”  She would stay with me through each rehab session, cajoling me, coaxing me, comforting me, trying to get my mind off the pain, trying to get me to laugh, constantly cheering me on, sometimes treating me like the child I was being.  But she got me through it.  And now she is the one in need.  We are the ones saying, “Work hard and get well, Lorena.  We love you, and we need you!!!”  And she is.  Thank God.  She is.

Michael in Stephenville.  Lya and I went out to Dena’s and Craig’s last night for some grilled steaks, corn on the cob, salad, and other such tribulations.  Needless to say, everything was great.  We visited with John, a pilot for American Airlines, and enjoyed a plethora of stories from him, Craig, and Dena.  All of this, of course, sitting out on their back porch looking down at the lake behind their house where we watched egrets and a raccoon seek prey along the bank.  Above our heads, clouds of hummingbirds battled for territory staked out around the hummingbird feeders.  I really enjoy listening to their little Disneyish twittering and watching their acrobatic maneuverings.  It was a most enjoyable dinner.  Again…

Afterwards, future singing superstar Sierra ripped on my guitar.  I suspect that she is going to somehow blend acid rock with punk rock and country…  (Sierra, if you remember, is my little, four-year-old personal manicurist and pedicurist who has found a most ingenuous and compelling way for me to meet new people — by painting my fingernails and toenails all different bright fluorescent colors so that I forget about the way it must look until people ask me about it, usually with a very wary look in their eyes…)

Anyway, Sierra began wailing on my guitar, and immediately the coyotes began wailing their accompaniment just up the draw from where we were.  It was wonderful.  I assured Sierra, of course, that the coyotes were singing because her music was so wonderful, not that they were howling for any OTHER reason…

Later, we sat and watched a HUGE, brilliant, orange moon rise through binoculars, and then picked out a couple of the moons of Saturn.  Good stuff.  It was good to fellowship with them again.  It was even better to have Lya home again.  I miss my women…

Diane, Dr. Phil, Aaron, and Jennifer are back from Hawaii — to their intense dismay.  They had a wonderful trip, so be sure to ask them about it…

Happy Birthday, Mikelah!!!  Woo hoo!!!

One last note:  the word for the day is Aibohphobia — the fear of palindromes…

Take care.  We love you…

Michael here in Stephenville.  Lorena (or her nurse Pachuco(?) who
spoke no English) called last night, and we had a good talk.  Lya
got to talk to her for the first time since she returned from Tyler,
and that was wonderful.  We really miss Lorena, and I find myself
getting depressed thinking about her and the bills and what she and the
girls and I am missing.  This entire experience has really made me
empathize with the families of MIA’s and other folks who have
disappeared, with families of Alzheimers victims, and, especially, with
families of those like Terri Schaivo who cannot laugh and spell or
respond in any way or show any form of love and appreciation — but who
are not dead.  God bless them and help them…

As I cleared the desktop of my computer today, which, in many ways is
very similar to cleaning a horse stall, I found the following document
that Lya apparently wrote for school.  [Gina, by the way, operates under the xanga ID of fyestygoat.]

My Favorite thing:  Max

I was walking down the stairs, the
long, oh, so long stairs, dreading what was going to happen.  My Aunt Gina was going away to join the
Navy.  I saw her standing hugging my family
in the doorway.  How could she go?  After she had hugged my dad, she looked at
me.  She was the youngest in her
family.  I was the youngest in my
family.  I couldn’t believe that she was
actually leaving.

          She looked at
me, smiling sadly, and handed me a medium sized bag.  I hardly looked at it because I was more
focused on her leaving.  I hugged her as
long as I could, but finally my mom told me it was time for her to go.  As I watched her leave, I remembered all the
good times we had had, and my heart cried. 
There was nothing she could give me that could make up for her being
gone.

          Later that
night, I found the bag where I had laid it down when I went upstairs and
cried.  I opened it, and there inside was
the cutest Pound Puppy ever.  I
immediately named him Max, and Max became my best friend.  That was years ago, and I still sleep with
Max.  When my Mom had her stroke, Max
would soak up my tears and comfort me. 
Since he became part of my life, 
he has gone everywhere with me, all over Mexico
and the United States.  That’s why my favorite thing is Max.

Lya
still sleeps with Max the Pound Puppy, but he has been surpassed in her
affections now by Max the Poopy Puppy.  (To be fair, I must say
that Maximus Stupidus is actually very intelligent and HOUSE BROKEN!!!
[ Thank you, Lord!!!])  I just wanted to post this for Lorena,
Gina, me, and any other sentimental fools out there.  Here, again,
are Lya and the new Max...

And here is little sis Gina.  We love you, Darlin’!!!

Take care of
yourselves, and, please, if anyone knows of any leads for spinal
cord/cerebral injury stem cell research being conducted anywhere,
PLEASE LET ME KNOW!!!  It may be something that I am not familiar
with.  Thank you so much…

I just received this email from Kay Black, and I want to post it here
for all the relatives to know.  One of us needs to run with this
ball…

I would certainly like to get something together, but it will have to
be fast.  Please send me your thoughts ASAP.  Does anyone
have a mailing list for the family???

Kay and Bill, congratulations!!!  I envy you immensely, but I love
you, respect you, and admire you even more.  I am so blessed to be
part of a family with folks like you in it.  Thank you!!!

Michael in Stephenville where Stephanie and Lya have checked back
in.  Stephanie has learned that there are worse dads out there
than I.  (She had the honor of meeting one of her friend’s dad
today, who, when she was introduced to him and extended her hand to him
to shake hands as any civilized person would, was pointedly
ignored.  She was not impressed with his boorishness, to say the
least.) 

Lya came back into town and started IM’ing me.  It was amazing how
much I missed her, and the two of us talked so much mushy stuff that my
keys got all sticky from the sugar oozing from my monitor.  It is
so good to have her back for a few days.  Shortly she leaves for
church camp at Cisco for a week again.  My little social butterfly
flits around everywhere, but as long as she comes back occasionally
and smooches me, that is okay.  I am amazed at how well she is
handling Mommy’s situation.  We still have copious tears now and
then, and we have road trips down memory lane together with lots of
tears and laughter, but she is amazingly versatile.  She is a
tough little cookie.  Except I think in her case that should be
“kookie.”  (Gotcha, Darlin’!)

The other night Marly, Alisha, and I went out to Dena’s and Craig’s
where we had a wiener roast (with plenty of marshmallows, of course)
with Dena, Cody, Sierra, Mikelah, and Tedi.  We had a beautiful
evening of hotdogs and marshmallows, stargazing and satellite seeking
(with memories of watching for Sputnik way back when [and I was the
lonely rememberer -- drat all these young uns]), singalongs accompanied
by the autoharp (with plenty of memories of Mom) and Sierra’s little
toy guitar (that ate my fingers up but served admirably.)  [Dena
informed me today that the kids enjoyed the roasted marshmallows (which
they consider finger foods) so much that the front door and half
the things in the house are now sticky...]  Of such things are
unforgetable childhood memories made…

It was another truly memorable evening, and I realized anew how
isolated I had become trying to cope with school, bills, Lorena’s
illness, and being mommy and daddy simultaneously.  I really had
become estranged from my family: my siblings, my aunts and uncles
and cousins, and my own daughters.  This WILL change.  Last
Sunday at Jerome and Ruth’s with Dena, Cody, Sierra, Marly, Bobby, and
Bill was incredibly magical, as was the wiener roast at Dena’s. 
We have recently had some wonderful evenings at Steve and Julie’s,
Diane and Phil’s, and Dena and Craig’s.  Family is so crucially
important.  (And Gina, I wish so badly you could be here with
us.  And Eric.)  Christy and Dale, you are going to have to
come up some time.  We really do need a reunion this year, however
limited it might have to be.

I promised the girls that we are going to start going out and doing
things together and having evenings here once again AS A FAMILY doing
the fun family things and not just cooking dinner, eating dinner,
washing dishes, checking homework, grading papers, blogging, paying
bills, and going to bed.  I realize that I have neglected my
daughters badly, and I am deeply indebted to them and to those of you
out there who have pointed that out to me.

I was unaware, though, of how important this is to some of my other
VIPS out there.  Dena, I love you, and I am so glad we have made
this reconnection.  The way you and Marly, coming from such
diverse backgrounds, have made such an instant bond and KNOW,
REQUESTED, SANG, AND LOVE TO SING ALL THE SAME SONGS is almost
mystical, almost as if you are sisters.  (I am not sure my fingers
are going to survive you, though.)

Dena and the kids had caught a HUGE black widow that they had
imprisoned in a lidless jar (turned upside down to prevent escape) for
delivery to the Tarleton science building for ogling, oohing, and
ahhing by an adoring public — except that Dr. Phil, the TSU zookeeper,
is currently out of town.   She (the spider, not Dena) had
produced a large egg sac, and Dena, for some reason, did not want a
swarm of little arachnid femme fatales swarming out of the egg sac to
colonize her house, so
she (Dena this time, not the black widow) designated me the role of
executioner.  Instead, I became poor bereaved single-mom spider
advocate and found a
lid for the glass house our web-spinning friend is inhabiting and,
unbeknownst to Mikelah, Alisha, and Marly, loaded it into the
van. 

I was the designated driver since my passengers had had far too much
raspberry tea and lemonade in the course of the evening, so, for safety
reasons, Mrs. Widow was ensconced in her glass prison between my legs
in the driver’s seat.  However, I quickly learned that it is
awkward to drive with a black widow between one’s legs, so I picked the
jar up to ask Marly if she would hold it until we reached
Stephenville…  Déjà vu!!!  Another
magical animal!!!  Just as she did when she saw the toy snake of a
few posts ago, Marly, when she saw the itsy, bitsy spider, levitated
off her seat and almost out her window before she LOUDLY and RUDELY
informed me (1) that there was NO WAY she was going to hold a black
widow spider on the ride home, (2) she did not LIKE black widows, (3)
she would NEVER like black widows, (4) I was a complete and total IDIOT
for having a black widow spider between my legs, and (5) she was much
to cultured to tell me exactly what I could do with the spider AND the
jar…  Everyone else just laughed, but I quickly found a
alternate “safe” area for Mrs. Widow who is now enjoying her new resort
at Casa St. Thomas.

We get to call Lorena tomorrow night.  Hopefully I will be able to
give you a wonderful report.  Take care.  We love you all.

We would like to welcome all visitors to this blog — and we literally
have visitors from around the world.  Some folks have questioned
whether or not they were free to comment because they felt that they
might be intruding into a private family space.  We intend this
blog to be open to all, primarily to give access to our friends and
family around the world to news about us and, specifically, Lorena, but
also to give hope to others who might be suffering as we are.  As
well, though, maybe we can give you a grin now and then or a tidbit to
think about or, if nothing else, a glimpse into our own little private
bedlam…  So, welcome, all of you.  May you, somehow, be
blessed by stopping here…

Michael in Stephenville.  We are in a quandary
here.  We have had a couple of wonderful/tragic calls to and from
Lorena lately.  I have three teenage girls, and apparently I
make Lucille Fay LeSueur look like Agnes Gonxha
Bojaxhiu.  [In the vernacular, I make Joan Crawford look like
Mother Teresa.]  Fortunately, I have no hang-ups with this. 
[Unfortunately, the reason I don't have any hang-ups is that I
have broken all my wire coat hangers correcting my little lambs..]

Anyway, we had a major meltdown over, among various
other things, an 11:00 p.m. curfew, a defunct romance, accusations
and recriminations and a flood of tears that spilled over into a
phone call with Mommy.  Mommy ended up singing lead
in our lachrymal chorus to the consternation of her nurse — who
called Lorena’s family members who apparently called a War Council
which called us.  The neat thing about this whole ordeal was that
Lorena ended up spelling for the nurse who called us back a couple of
time in true COMMUNICATION to tell us exactly what Lorena was
thinking — and we all ended up laughing and hugging, physically here
in Texas and psychically in Mexico and pledging our love for one
another anew.  The bad thing is that some of the family there in
Mexico apparently think that we are trying to destroy Lorena with
worry.  We will get through this though… 

This sort of ordeal, specifically the loss of a
parent, not to death, but to a purgatory of being alive but in many
ways inaccessible, of being psychologically debilitating because we
love her, we miss her, we are painfully aware of her condition, we
wonder if there was anything we could have done to prevent her stroke,
we constantly rue things we did and things we didn’t
do, and we are reminded of all of this constantly and
consistently through everything we do, everything we say, everyone we
meet, and in the very essence of our lives.

Lorena’s sister Angie called yesterday evening
wanting an explanation of what happened the night before, but that is
really between the girls and Lorena, so I let them handle it.  She
also said that Lorena has stipulated that she wants the girls down
there for at least a month.  The girls are aghast at the
idea.  They want to visit Mommy, but their grandparents are not
there anymore and, unfortunately, they have major problems with
several of their aunts and uncles.     Also,
of course, they have plans here with friends and family, they have work
obligations, and they have other obligations involving such
trivialities as orthodontics.  Lorena said if the girls do not
come for a month, she doesn’t want us to go at all because it will not
justify the expense.  To top it off, school is slated to begin in
early August.  [When the girls mentioned this to Lorena and Angie,
Angie's response was to ask which was more important:  school or
Mommy?]  I am really caught in a quandary here.  Pray for us.

Rainey is running around preparing explosions of
floral displays to see folks into the afterlife.  It seems
strangely ironic that all her life we  would bring flowers and
plants home to our botanical torture chamber to slowly (and
all too often not slowly at all) kill them in all sorts of exotic
ways.  Water is the crucial ingredient of life, and we seemed to
have a fetish for using water in bizarre and ingeniously
creative ways to murder plants, usually by drowning them or by
desiccating them.  Most often, we actually would starve them to
the point of actually being able to hear their pitiful little floral
voices pleading for water, at which point we would submerge them and
listen to those same little voices, now gurgling
piteously, pleading for carbon dioxide…

Now Rainey is actually preparing (to her immense
enjoyment) floral arrangements used primarily for funeral
arrangements.  I find it touching and poignant that we use
the beauty of flowers to send our loved ones away on that final
journey — just as ancient burial sites show that our ancestors have
done for thousands of years.  Beauty both for the deceased and for
the bereaved.  I find myself thinking about such things a lot
lately.  I guess this is just more of our
chlorophyllosophizing…  Rainey really does like the floral
business, though. 

Stephi is still reporting for babysitting duty at
times ranging from 5:30 a.m. to 6:30 a.m. — and she LOVES it
(not!)  The couple is going through a divorce, so she is caught in
the middle.  The young children are apparently brats, but she
feels sorry for them because of the way they have to live.  The
parents appear to be very self absorbed, and Stephi complains that
there is no food in the house for the kids.  (These are not poor
folks.)  She just told me over the telephone that the two oldest
boys (4 and 6 or so) have just cut each other’s hair.  Little
Stephi is just about at the end of her rope — and I am ecstatic about
this.  She is probably learning much more at the University of
Babysitting than she learned all year at school.  Before I hung
the phone up a moment ago, she very ruefully told me, “You don’t have
to EVER have to worry about me, Daddy.  After babysitting these
kids, I will NEVER have sex, even if I get married.”  I may have a
little nun in the making… 

Life is full of privations, and ours are so much
less than others.  As woeful as our situation may seem, millions
of people would trade places with us — including Lorena –
immediately.  On our American side of the family, some of our
ancestral lines arrived in America on the Mayflower while
other ancestral lines were already living here in the
Americas.   We know very little about our American Indian
ancestors, so I can only imagine what heartaches and privations they
suffered.  One of my great-great-however-many-grandfathers-ago
and two of his sons arrived on the Mayflower, only
to die that first horrible winter as did so many of their
shipmates.  Even in my worst nightmares, I cannot imagine what
suffering such privations must have entailed — and that is just one
little footnote in one little sliver of history, a footnote of minimal
importance and minor number.  It is dwarfed by millions of people
beloved by others who suffered unimaginably from violence, disease,
pestilence, and other privations, most often ignored by or unknown to
history. 

We had relatives who fought in the French and Indian
War, the American Revolution, every war that we have been involved
in.  Jean Gilliam, a cousin of mine who now lives in Louisiana,
recently sent me a letter from an ancestor who lived near present day
Rogers, Arkansas.  She was describing how Federal troops occupied
their plantation and forced her father to hide out in the woods for
weeks before they pulled out after torching the family home.  The
family came to Texas, having lost absolutely everything in the
War.  She [the letter writing ancestor, not Jean] ended the account by bitterly saying how the family always detested
Yankees and Northerners. 

I will never forget my reaction, as a freshman
signing up in a religious university here in central Texas in 1973, to
an incident I witnessed.  The girl registering us made a comment
to the student in front of me to the effect of, “Oh, so you are from
Indiana?” to which the guy responded “Yes, I am one of those
Yankees.”  The girl may have been teasing him, or she may have
simply blundered unintentionally trying to be cute, but I know by his
(and my) reaction that BOTH of us thought she was completely sincere
when she said, without a hint of a smile, “You left off the first word
of that, you know.”   I certainly knew to what she alluded,
and, judging by his reaction, I am sure the damned Yankee did, too.

Yet, my family consists of just about every shade
and creed represented in America, all of whom have experienced horrific
sadness and heavenly blessings.  We are no different, and we will
make it. 

Lorena’s parents would talk about Tepic back at the
turn of the century when they were young.  Yaquis would raid the
towns — where the townspeople would shutter their homes and cower
inside as the Indians killed and cooked donkeys and mules in the
streets, stole women and girls to help propagate the tribe, and
generally intimidated the populace.  Even worse, one revolutionary
force after another would sweep through the area, taking what they
wanted or needed, pressing males into their service, and, generally,
intimidating the populace.  To put down the chronic rebellions, to
keep their military ranks populated, and to finance those endeavors as
well as funding all of the governmental service (primarily that of
making the politicians rich and maintaining their power), federal
forces would then sweep through the area, making examples of anyone who
might have aided or sympathized with the revolutionaries, pressing
males into military service, exacting “taxes” from the inhabitants
while living off their largess (whether or not that largess was
voluntary), and, in general, intimidating the populace.

Well, my tribulations continue.  I must go
watch Sierra play T-ball.  Yesterday, the concession stand was
kept cool by the swarms of honey bees fanning the air and clouding
the building,
exulting at the wealth of snow cone syrup available.  I was
uncharacteristically silent because I had to keep my mouth shut lest I
aspirate a bee.  It was quite amusing watching concession stand
workers as well as clients doing intricate dances with swarms of honey
bees.  As artistically choreographed as any mating dance, these
had just the opposite intention, as they were dances of
avoidance.  I only hoped that no
one involved had an anaphylactically shocking  reason to be
avoiding the bees… [One of the little T-ballers suffered the
ignominy of getting a bee in her glove.  She definitely did not do
it silently...]  Then we got to sit
outside as we baked to a lovely golden brown while fire ants kept
us dancing a frantic jig of preservation.  (And I must smile here
so that everyone will know that this “privation” is one that I exult in
because I get to watch a beautiful niece and nephew grow up, I get to
visit with Dena and Craig, and I get to see tons of friends whom I
normally don’t have an opportunity to see.  Last game, I got to
get a beautiful, luscious hug from Heather Haile.  I reminded her
once again that I want them to buy the Bealls store.  I think I
would really enjoy shopping at Haile’s Bealls…)

Lorena would love it.  I only wish she
were here so she could!!!  However, her miracle continues. 
To God be the glory!!!  Thank you all!!!