From Your Sad Publisher & Executive Editor:

“O LORD, make me know my end
and what is the measure of my days;
let me know how fleeting I am!
Behold, you have made my days a few handbreadths,
and my lifetime is as nothing before you.
Surely all mankind stands as a mere breath!
Selah
—Ps. 39:4-5 (ESV)

“You can’t see anything properly while your eyes are blurred with tears.”
C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

Many of my friends and fellow Welchkins are grieving a loss. In fact, we all are. Let’s face it, it’s always a tragedy when a person passes from this world in a traffic accident. It’s more painful when that person is young, and the promise, hope, and potential of a full life of possibilities passes with him. It’s just plain excruciating when the one who goes was the much-loved, all-around swell guy Justin Berry was.

And I say that as a person who, unfortunately, did not know Justin. That is to say I don’t recall ever meeting him, and from what I have learned about him these last few days, I doubt I could have forgotten if I had met him. Since the news of the accident began to spread via Facebook, I have had opportunity to learn about him, talk to some of his friends, read things about him, and look back at his Facebook wall. It appears to me that he was, as his obituary says, what God intended a true Southern gentleman to be. And that must surely mean that our loss is heaven’s gain.

And it strikes me that if I, knowing only of Justin, can feel this deep sense of loss, those of you who did know and love—and were loved by—this exceptional young man, must be in agony as you grieve. As much as I wish there were something I could do or say to ease your pain, I know there’s nothing I can offer you. Nothing I type here, nothing I say on a live audio webcast, nothing I sent upward in prayer can do anything to so much as make you feel one iota better about losing your friend. And then it hits me. That’s a darn good thing. Your pain tells you this is real. He was real. His love for you was real. Your affection for him was real. And it’s still real. It is that pain you feel that stands up and shouts in your soul that you loved your friend. No one mourns a deadbeat. We didn’t shed tears when Hitler, Saddam, and Bin Laden left us—in fact we made them go. But there are some people in our lives, and we are blessed if we know just a few in life, who make us better just because they exist. I’m learning that Justin Berry was one such man.

So what can I say? What should I say? Well, because I agree with what C.S. Lewis wrote in A Grief Observed, which he wrote following the death of the wife he loved so dearly, that “You can’t see anything properly while your eyes are blurred with tears,” I want to ask those who I know hold a degree of guilt in this loss to let it go. From visiting with some of you, I know that because Justin was on his way to play ball with you at the time of the accident you feel a twinge of guilt or some level of responsibility. I beg of you, please don’t.

If I can offer any advice, and I hope that maybe I can, it is that Justin seems to me to be the type of man who would have wanted to leave this earth doing what he loved.

After all these years and all the advances of science and technology, the death rate is still 100%. Not one of us gets out of here alive. And I think maybe deep down we all have some fantasy of leaving on our own terms, in the way we’d like to go. If that’s true, knowing what I have recently learned of Mr. Berry, I feel relatively confident saying he would be glad that when his time came, he was found in the midst of the life he loved, on his way to be with his friends he loved and who loved him back.

You all are seeing in ways no book or teacher could ever teach you that your lives matter. In the book of Timothy in the Bible, the Apostle Paul wrote to young Timothy, “Let no one despise you for your youth, but set the believers an example in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith, in purity.” I’ve heard this mis-preached by some who think it means that young people are worthy of no criticism, and we all know that’s not true (young or old, we’re all worthy of some pretty big criticism). What Paul is advising Timothy is that he can disarm those who would dismiss him for being young by how he talks and acts and believes and loves and lives. I’ve become convinced that Justin Berry knew what that meant.

For you young friends of ours, I don’t know if you can even fathom the hope and dreams many of us have when we look at you. I’m not related to any of you, and I love you so much that I’m sitting here tearing up while I write this. I can’t even begin to understand what your parents must feel for you and the aspirations they must have for you.

This is the reason we tell you to do well in school. It’s the reason we cheer while you make your best efforts in sports. It’s why we want you to have good schools, and pay our taxes so you will. It’s why we beg you not to make stupid decisions now that could derail your futures. It’s why we implore you not to put alcohol and other crap in your bodies. It’s why we tell you to slow it down and don’t text when you drive and call us when you get there. It’s why we hope you’ll be married to the love of your life before you start making babies. It’s why we admire you for being responsible, caring people who stand up for those who can’t stand for themselves. It’s why you have a special place in our hearts when you give it all you have, whatever ends up on a scoreboard. There’s a life for you out there, and Lord, how it needs to be lived! And with everything you have and are.

Your late friend has shown you, and in fact is still showing you, how much one single life can mean to those it intersects. I don’t have to tell you how much our world would improve if we all lived more like Justin Berry did.

And so in this loss, my grief is comforted by the fact that Justin’s friends and family saw in him—felt from him—a faith that said He knew Christ. In that we can be sure of his destiny. What we cannot be certain about are our own earthly fates. Some of us have years to go; some of us may have days left here below; most of us have spans that fall somewhere in between, and it all boils down to a question of Will we be found ready when it’s time? From what I am learning about your outstanding eternity-living friend is that he was ready. There’s just something about knowing someone like that that makes me want to be ready, too.

So, kiddos, it’s about more than Have we been to the cross with its cleansing power? and Are we washed in the blood of the Lamb? And that’s this: if we have been to Calvary and we have been cleansed by that flood, our lives will look like it because we will live. Lord, how we will live!

While Justin begins his newest adventure above, it remains for us below to live—and those of you who knew Justin, those of you who loved him, those of you who grieve so bad right now that it hurts to breathe and you can’t see clearly through the tears in your eyes, you keep Justin alive by living like he did. Drink from the Living Water like he did, then invest your lives in those around you like he did. Like his Savior did.

You do that, and I think we might just all be OK. In fact, I know it.

Ed.

I am wounded, but I am not slain.
I will lay me down to bleed a while, then I will rise to fight again.
—Irish Proverb

Print this entry | Print this page

From the Redneck Diva:

When I think about being a woman, I think how absolutely blessed I am. Along with the fact I am prettier, I also can pass off all major decisions to my husband. Now that we are the proud owners of two teenagers, when one of them (or both! ACK!) wants to go to a party I get to recite off that “Daddy’s the head of the household” speech and therefore take all weight off my own shoulders. It’s the ultimate “good cop, bad cop” scenario and this time, I get to be the good cop. When it comes to homework and chores, it’s always me that plays Mel Gibson (crazy and unstable) to his Danny Glover (level-headed and calm), but in a party/social event situation, I can swoop in and say, “Oh honey, I know. It isn’t fair…(insert heavy sigh), but Daddy is the head of the house and ultimately his decision is final,” making him the heavy when in all actuality I am going “YESSSSSSSSSSS” inside. Hey, don’t judge me. I never said I played fair.

We, as women, can cry for no apparent reason whenever we want to and really, no one thinks too much of it. In fact, my husband has come to expect it and is training our son the fine art of laying chocolate at my feet while mumbling words of adoration and apology even though he probably hasn’t done anything wrong. The kids don’t think one thing if I cry, they just solemnly hand me the box of tissues. If Daddy cries? Everyone starts looking for the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

Of course, there are downsides to being a woman. Our legs aren’t expected to be hairy—even if that’s how mine are most of the time, especially this time of year. I considered trying to start a national movement to be more like the women of Europe, but decided if it took off, all the men would move to another country (certainly not Europe), so I let the ruckus die down.

Probably the worst downside to womanhood—besides the sneeze pee—is chin hairs. Oh yes, I’m going there. See, I never had chin hairs until a few years ago. I honestly and truly believe I made fun of my mom and sister’s chin hairs one too many times and God said, “Alright then, young lady, we’ll just nip this right here,” and, poof! I had chin hairs. I must have made fun of them a lot, too, because I don’t just have a hair here, a hair there. No, I have a patch here, a bigger patch there, a straggler over there. Oh, and you can’t forget the lady-stache that accompanies the chin hairs. Well, of course you can’t forget it—it makes you look like Tom Selleck!

The first time my husband caught me plucking chin hairs, he walked down the hall to find me standing in a ray of sunlight in the foyer with a hand mirror in one hand and the tweezers in the other. He stopped, cocked his head to one side and said, “Whut are you DOING?” I explained that in order for me not to look like a billy goat I have to pluck the lower half of my face occasionally. He shrank away from me like I was suddenly coated in toxic waste and said, “I could have lived my entire life without ever knowing that!” Now it is simply unspoken. It’s the “don’t ask, don’t tell” of facial hair.

I know I’m not alone in my hairiness, though, because at a couple’s retreat a month ago we had to fill out surveys about our spouse. The survey asked things like “What is your spouse’s favorite movie?”, “If your spouse could have dinner with one celebrity, who would it be?”, and the like. One question toward the end of the survey was “What is the one thing you know about your spouse that they think you and the rest of the world don’t know, but you really do?” Now, we are a pretty open couple; we have been together 19 years and know each other probably better than we sometimes wish we did. I didn’t answer that one because I honestly couldn’t think of a thing. Oh, my husband answered, though. His answer was “CHIN HAIRS”, written just like that, in all caps. Of course, this made every man at the table cringe and avert his eyes. It made every woman at the table bust out laughing and then we got sidetracked for the next few minutes discussing and comparing growth patterns. The men were apalled. We women, though? We bonded.

I’m not perfect. I know this. However, I do know that I was fearfully and wonderfully made by my Creator and I am a masterpiece! I might be a chubby, wrinkly, hairy masterpiece, but I am one all the same. In spite of the gray hair, chin hairs, wrinkles, cellulite (and that extra weight I’m still blaming on the kids even though the youngest is a month shy of turning 10), we women need to remember we are amazing. We are beautiful. We need to embrace the dark circles under our eyes from lack of sleep, the aching back and hips after we try playing “Just Dance” on the Wii and discover all too late it was a bad, bad, bad idea, the un-manicured fingernails, and the sloppy ponytail that has become part of our uniform. We need to remember that paying the bills, scheduling and re-scheduling a family of five, and doing the endless laundry is important to the running of our household. We should know beyond the shadow of a doubt that our job—whether secretary, assistant, nurse, police officer, doctor, stylist, teacher, mechanic, dispatcher, clerk or one of the countless other jobs we do—is important and it matters.

So ladies, now that we’re all empowered and have read the last half of this column toying with any errant chin hairs that escaped the last tweezing, I urge you instead just to sit back and breathe a sigh of accomplishment. You’re awesome. Really. You are.

(And here’s a hint: if you avoid direct sunlight usually no one can see ‘em.)

Diva

Kristin Hoover is the Redneck Diva. A local blogger and stay-at-home mom, Kristin has won Okie Blog Awards for her humorous take on the rural life of a natural-born diva who married a redneck and produced three offspring. Visit her online at http://www.theredneckdiva.com.

Print this entry | Print this page

From the Redneck Diva:

When we found out we were going to be parents we came to an immediate agreement: I was going to stay home with our kids. Shalom. Amen. It is well with my soul and all that. It was never even discussed that my husband would stay home, what with him being a redneck and all and thinking that beef jerky is a food group and totally okay for a 4 month old as long as you “hit it real good with the blender for a few seconds.” No, I was the nurturer, I was the caregiver, I was the prime candidate. It had been set forth in the stars many, many moons ago when the great wooly mammoth tromped across the barren tundra with my ancestors. I’m pretty sure my 20x-great-grandmother Oggina was a nurturer, too. I had babysat since I was 14, told anyone who asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up that “mommy” was top of the list, and just generally wanted to take care of my home and babies just as my mom and both grandmothers had. My husband has always worked hard to take care of us. Sure, we do without some things because one income isn’t always easy these days, but we have never regretted our decision.

With the said agreement of my domestic occupation also came other parameters, rules, and guidelines. One of those rules was that my husband would take care of the outside of our house and I would take care of the inside. This wasn’t a huge issue when we lived in town and had a yard the size of a postage stamp, but now that we live on 40 acres, I am totally thankful I am not in any way bound to mowing—whatsoever. This rule also included trash duty, although he has tried many times to push that boundary saying that technically the trash is inside the house. A few times of me setting it outside and a neighborhood cat or coon tearing it apart set him straight real quick-like. I mean, seeing as how the yard is outside and, oopsie, now so is alllll that trash.

One of my domestic occupational responsibilities is sick kids, or as we call it Couch Duty. Couch Duty has morphed and evolved over the years from Newborn Duty, otherwise known as “Our Child Doesn’t Sleep Through the Night, But You Don’t Have a Job to Go to Tomorrow and Can Take a Nap in the Afternoon Duty, So You’re Up, Slugger” of yore. Oh, of course, there were times I would lay our newborn child in my husband’s arms as he confusedly yawned while asking why I was sobbing uncontrollably, and I would tearfully snap something like, “Because YOUR son has decided that screaming is better than sleeping and I am just so tired I think I may vomit, so you HAVE to take care of YOUR son right now or you may wake up dead in the morning, just saying!” and I would go lie on the couch for awhile until that screaming son of ours had screamed for what seemed like hours lying next to my snoring husband, seemingly undaunted by the shrill cries emitted from his progeny. Since I wasn’t getting any sleep what with the irrationality of sleep deprivation telling me that if someday he fails Algebra it will be my fault because I let him cry one night just a little too long and a neural pathway didn’t connect somewhere in his little brain, guilt would take over and I would do the unthinkable: put our son in bed between us where he would promptly stop crying, sigh deeply, and go right to sleep. Then, finally, I would drift off to sleep and dream of all the articles in the parenting magazines relating the pros and con of co-sleeping, the greatest pro of all being SLEEP.

Couch Duty is different than Newborn Duty. Newborn Duty, while exhausting, is more of a “meet their basic needs” issue, rather than “make sure they don’t, you know, die” issue. Now, die may seem like a horrible word to use, but if we’re all honest, I don’t think there’s a parent out there who hasn’t worried about that very thing at 3 a.m. when that fever is 104.8 and your baby is as limp as a dishrag and you can’t do a darn thing for them other than pray. Couch Duty is a completely different kind of exhausting.

There has only been one time in our 15-year career as parents where my husband shared in Couch Duty. It was the time all three of our kids had a violent, horrific, Stephen King end-of-days novel type stomach virus, and I simply could not do it alone. At the time, our youngest was not much more than a year old. Our other two were four and six. The boy had started puking long before bedtime. The oldest began shortly before bedtime. The baby, well…she just likes to do things her own way and what we found in her crib that night was something nightmares are made of. After a quick bath to clean her up, I draped my husband in a sheet and a towel, handed him a trash can, plopped the baby into his lap and made it to the couch just in time to squat in front of it, a trashcan in each hand, as our oldest two children proceeded to hurl. That scenario repeated all through the night. Somewhere around 3 a.m., both of us veritable zombies, he with a sleep-sobbing baby in his arms, me leaning wearily against the couch with sleeping, pale-faced kids behind me, he said, “I don’t remember this being in our contract.” I looked up, blinked a few times, and said, “You got a contract? I wasn’t aware there was a contract!”

For those of you newbies out there, who are blissfully expecting or are currently childless and ignorant of the joy that awaits you the first time your child meets up with a dastardly germ from a Walmart shopping cart, here are my pointers for a successful bout of Couch Duty:

Couch Duty consists of, firstly, draping the sofa in a protective covering, usually that sheet in the back of the hall closet that, if ruined, is okay to throw away. It’s easier to wash a sheet than it is a couch cushion. That lesson I learned the very hard way. It’s also easier to just throw away a sheet than a couch as well. That epiphany came to me courtesy of my husband. His ability to think while sleep-deprived is just a perk I discovered well after I married him. He gave me that nugget of wisdom as he saw me crying over the washing machine, alternating sobs with gags at the wretched smell emitting from it. He also bleached the washing machine for me after he threw away the sheet and tucked me in to get some sleep and checked on the sick kiddo. He’s good people.

The second part of Couch Duty is procuring the barf receptacle. Some folks use a brown paper grocery bag. A friend from church uses a big bowl that is eternally designated as the “puke bowl.” (It makes me leery of large salads at her house.) We just use a trash can with about five Walmart sacks in it, plus a layer of paper towels in the bottom for extra reinforcing absorbency. Also, you must drape the already draped couch with another protective towel that is strategically placed directly under the sick child’s pillow and extends to the floor and under the barf receptacle. This is to protect the protective covering AND the carpet. Or maybe my kids are wild, rogue pukers, I guess, but better safe than sorry.

A wet washcloth must also be placed somewhere within the child’s reach. This is mainly to prevent the child from hollering at you as soon as they barf, asking you to hand them a washcloth. They probably will holler anyway and you will gently remind them that they have one right there and then they will probably burst into tears and you’ll go ahead reach over to hand it to them, but it’s nice in theory. One of these days I’m sure it will work.

After the child is settled into his or her protected end of the couch, it’s your turn to make your little nest on the other end. When they were toddlers and preschoolers, my nest was nice and roomy. I actually had room to stretch out and sleep somewhat comfortably—albeit, usually awakened every thirty minutes or so. But the naps were moderately comfortable. Now, my baby is a long-legged little thing and my oldest is taller than I am. This means that these days I find myself crammed into the corner of the opposite end of the couch, my feet placed on the ottoman, which moves every time I do, as I sleep sitting up. Well, I would sleep sitting up if sleep were possible in that situation. I usually end up refreshing my Facebook feed every 30 seconds on the iPod, seeing who has insomnia or a drunk ex who is stalking them, or if there is another unfortunate soul crammed in the corner of their own couch with their own puking kid.

How do you think this story got started? School’s been in session a little over a month, and I’ve already had Couch Duty twice.

If you’re pulling Couch Duty, the perk is that your kid isn’t going to school the next day and you aren’t working either. This means a day of cartoons and naps! Well, between the puking episodes, of course. Couch Duty is also how I justify cobwebs in the corners, either piles of laundry in the hallway and dishes piled shoulder high in the sink. Of course, those things obviously were works in progress long before the virus secured its grip on your child’s guts, but if you and your child look pitiful enough, your husband will overlook the obvious and let it go. If he looks like he’s on the border of really calling your bluff, just take your child’s temperature again. And as you look at the readout on the thermometer, shake your head and, if necessary, grab that gigantic Portable Pediatrician from the shelf and look very worried as you thumb through it.

The good thing about Couch Duty is that it is completely temporary and usually within 48 hours you and your now-aching back can go happily back to your own bed—which will soon very likely have its own trashcan sitting next to it because the Domino Theory is alive and well. Especially in homes with school-age children.

Diva

Kristin Hoover is the Redneck Diva. A local blogger and stay-at-home mom, Kristin has won Okie Blog Awards for her humorous take on the rural life of a natural-born diva who married a redneck and produced three offspring. Visit her online at http://www.theredneckdiva.com.

Print this entry | Print this page

From Your Melancholy Publisher & Executive Editor:

When the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, took place I was living in Claremore and working at OSU in Stillwater, with quite a commute each day. It was on that commute that I heard the first reports of the attacks on the World Trade Center. I was at work in Stillwater when I saw the towers fall. It’s a day I’ll never forget, and I don’t think we ever should forget.

Blogs didn’t exist then, but I did capture my sentiments at the time in two writings that were posted on my personal website at the time. I think the tenth anniversary of 9/11 is a fitting time to share them with you here (in the original, unedited form).

On Evil
By Tyson Wynn
September 15, 2001

Evil exists. Let no one deny that fact. Shortly after the foundation of this world, evil, in the form of the Evil One, entered into this realm and has been here ever since. There have been times in history when the Evil One has chosen to thrash about, and we have just experienced one of those times. On September 11, 2001, the Destroyer again decided to visit his presence on this world, indeed this very nation. As thousands of God’s children, both lost and found, were arriving at their work on a beautiful Tuesday morning, the fiery wrath of darkness split the spacious skies over the fruited plain and our symbols of freedom were wounded. Our brothers and sisters in freedom were deprived of their lives, their liberty, and their pursuits of happiness. In a period of a couple hours, the United States of America lost more lives than it did in the cowardly sneak attack upon our Pearl Harbor in 1941, the Desert Storm War in the 1990s, and the dastardly attack of terror upon Oklahoma City in 1995—combined.

Yet, in the aftermath of the acts of war, Americans have emerged stronger and more resolute than I have seen them in my lifetime. I have often said that my generation of Americans lacks unity, focus, and patriotism because it—we—have never faced a common enemy. Terror. Cowardice. Murder. Evil. Now we stare a common enemy squarely in the eyes. Rather, we seek the identity of evil personified so that we may make him look us squarely in the eyes as we annihilate his brand of evil from the face of this planet. We seek his identity, and we shall find it. Then we shall find all others of his nefarious breed of cowardice. Justice shall be swift and sure. Indeed, evil will continue to exist to the end of the age, but this embodiment of evil shall cease.

In the coming days, week, months, and years, we as Americans will be called upon to sacrifice for the prospect of eradicating this evil one. This will be the true test of our resolve. Will we be as committed to this war on evil when the repercussions of this evil are not as fresh on our hearts and minds as they are at this moment? Will the sting of the tragedies of New York City and the District of Columbia ever dissipate? I pray they do not. I pray that we will have our collective resolves renewed afresh each day by the remembrances of the feelings of September 11. I pray that God will grant us the grace to endure this current sadness, and I pray that He will help us guide this quiet anger into His justice and His vengeance. Just as my generation has never had a common enemy, we also have never had to sacrifice in order to see that enemy engaged. Only with the help of the Almighty One will we endure this call to give of ourselves, whether that be our lives, our fortunes, or our sacred honor. We must endure.

Since our soil was attacked, I have had many occasions to wonder just what these shadow-lurkers must think and feel as they see the reports of their acts. Is there a seething evil pride deep within? Are there smiles and congratulations all around? Is some devil celebrating the loss of American lives? All the while I know the answers to these questions must be in the affirmative. However, I also wonder if the so-called mastermind has that quiver in his chest that always exists when one knows he is trapped. That feeling of horror that happens when one knows he has gone too far. Is it beating there next to his coward’s heart? Yes, our terrorist must be proud, but he must also be scared. Just like his master, his vanity will be his downfall. He and his kind will be swept from their places of respite. Forever.

And so, as this week of phenomenal events draws to a close, we are called in the same two directions we always have been. It’s just that the calls are louder and more urgent. Shall we go the way of evil by choosing not to respond? Or shall we show ourselves to be equal to this and any task in the name of goodness and mercy? These are the two roads that diverge in the snowy wood. Which choice will we make? And will it make all the difference? Yes, evil exists, but Goodness exists eternally more abundant and full than evil can even fathom, and that Goodness will see us through our task in His name. Evil will be ended; Goodness endures.

###

Two days later I wrote this:

On Resolve
By Tyson Wynn
September 17, 2001

We are a nation poised on the brink of war. It has been declared on us, and we are preparing to make war back. It is a campaign for which most Americans have joined together in the call for action. In times past, this nation has been known to split into factions and fractions over whether war was prudent. This is no such case. Now, the far greater portion of the American people are united toward this one goal: Freedom. Especially freedom from fear. In all the comparisons that have been drawn between the recent events and the attack on Pearl Harbor, we have been lax to remember Mr. Roosevelt’s admonition that “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” We will not be afraid. War is the only means to the realization of that goal.

From the moment this nation was suddenly and deliberately attacked, both broadcast and cable television networks have poured forth the news, opinions, and theories about September 11 and its necessary consequences. Our President has begun to prepare this nation’s civilians for war and the price of it: Sacrifice. Sacrifice is simply stated as love; it is much harder to realize. We are told that no man has more love than one who lays down his life for his friends. Some of us will give our lives; others will be required to give much less. We all will be called upon to be uncomfortable for the purpose of ensuring future generations the comforts of Liberty. We may endure higher tax rates, reduced personal freedom, seasons of seeming defeat, possible retaliatory strikes on this land and her civilians, and most unfortunately, further loss of American lives. These are indeed very high prices to pay. However, they are not too high. Can there be too high a tax when its revenue funds a battle the outcome of which is safety and security for a new generation of Americans? Can there be too much damage to Americans’ property when we know that that damage is caused by the death throes of demonic evil? Can any amount of spilled blood be too much when it is commingled with the innocents’ of the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and the heroes aboard United Airlines Flight 93? War is war. It cannot be entered into lightly or without sufficient resolve to see it concluded to our satisfaction. We cannot indulge the second-guessers and naysayers that will certainly call for an evacuation of troops and resources before the goal is met. Just as we must resist the fear of terror, we must also resist the pacifists that cry for peace at any cost. That cost is too high. We shall have peace, but it will be a peace that emerges in the wake of a demonstration of strength, not cowardice.

Already come the voices of television’s talking heads that question the leadership of our President. If any president has ever deserved the loyalty of his countrymen, it is this President in this moment. Some of us saw the greatness of this good man previously; many are just now coming to know it. Either way, it is there, and it demands our respect, trust, and loyalty. The battle is clear, yet we need the battle plan. The goal is evident, yet we need a coach. The end is attainable, yet we need Commander in Chief. Pray for his guidance from and dependence upon God Almighty as he contemplates the future of the world, this nation, and freedom.

There are dark days ahead of us. We will stop and wonder if it is worth the costs. At these times, let us recall the devastation of this present hour. Let us recall the disruption of our lives and consciences on September 11. Let us always be mindful of the innocents who came to a premature end because of hatred. They are our constant cheerleaders in this endeavor, their blood crying out to us to save others from their fate. They are the best of America. They are making us the best of America. They are urging us to be made in their image, and we must be.

No war has ever been cheap or without losses—grave losses. They are no less necessary. Let us believe fully in that necessity. This legacy we shall leave our posterity: There once was a nation that so loved its freedom that no price was too high to ensure its preservation for you and your children.

###

May we never forget—or fail.

Ed.

Print this entry | Print this page

From the Redneck Diva:

After a hastily spent summer filled with church camps, trips to see family in The City, sleeping in more mornings than we didn’t, Vacation Bible School, the procurement of two new puppies, and a float trip to round it all out, things are finally settling back into routine here at the Redneck Diva Headquarters. My vacation was appreciated and my editor assures me I still have a home here at www.WelchOK.com. I guess if you’re reading this, he wasn’t joking.

This year I have one child in elementary school, one in middle school, and one in high school. This will only happen one more year. There’s no award for such an accomplishment, but it sure makes parent/teacher conferences a joy what with all the running to three different buildings. I guess I should probably count myself fortunate that we live in a small district and I’m not finding myself running across town to separate campuses altogether.

I’ve thought a lot lately about my years as a fourth-, seventh-, and ninth-grader, and some of those thoughts bring back smiling memories of my carefree youth. Others bring back cringe-worthy moments. Some bring back tears. Most make me very thankful I am an adult now.

In fourth grade I had a curly perm. And not a pretty spiral perm with bouncy curls and ringlets. No, yours truly sported a ‘fro that would make Little Orphan Annie jealous. And I’m talkin’ the 1982 version of Annie, where Annie petitioned Oliver Warbucks to love her all the while looking like a young Carrot Top, not the 1999 version where Annie apparently had a Chi iron at the orphanage. Fourth grade was the year I thought my mom had forgotten I was supposed to dress up like Martha Washington for some assembly thing at school and made myself physically sick over it and ended up having to be picked up by my mother who had been home all morning furiously sewing said Martha Washington costume. It was also in fourth grade when I slid across the wooden bleachers to chat with my friend Kristy Fink and ended up with a three-inch splinter in the back of my thigh and had to have it removed by a doctor. Fourth grade ushered in a three-year period I now refer to as “The Chunky Years,” during which I became a pro at eating my feelings. My fourth grade teacher had been my mother’s fourth grade teacher. She really liked my mom. I like to think she would’ve liked me even if she hadn’t taught Mom first. In fourth grade I tried desperately to lisp when the lady from the speech lab came to do speech testing, but she totally saw through me. Fourth grade year, I also had a 110 camera and took a lot of dumb pictures of my dog.

The summer before seventh grade I had managed to drop about 30 pounds, thus beginning my junior high career as less of a social leper than I had been the previous few years. My seventh grade year was the first year we could wear shorts to school. It was also the summer my mom had spent furiously sewing my sister and me pair after pair of “jams.” I started my seventh grade year wearing a white t-shirt, a pair of red jams covered in tiny teddy bears, and a pair of Keds with hand-painted teddy bears on the toes. I began my junior high career with a mullet—a lovely, “feathered” lady-mullet. My favorite outfit that year was a pair of loud, floral jeans, a forest green plaid shirt, and a pair of slouch boots. I think it goes without saying that fashion and my own personal sense of style was very important to me, even while it was insanely hideous. I started the year with braces and ended it with a retainer. Michael J. Fox adorned the walls and door of my locker, and he had Bonne Belle lip gloss prints all over his face. The new girl, Lottie, in the locker below me had the same passion for him I did, and when she mysteriously checked out of school one tearful afternoon not knowing where she was going or why, she sobbed as she solemnly taped her favorite poster of him into my locker and hugged me good-bye. I still think about her from time to time. I tested for the gifted program and got in by the skin of my teeth. It wasn’t that I wanted or needed an intellectual challenge—I was just scared of a mean girl in P.E. and knew if I could get out of the gym I might make it through the year with all my teeth. That year I thought boys were stupid and kissing was gross.

My Freshman year is kind of blurry. I don’t have a lot of specific memories from that year of school. I look back at pictures from that time and cringe—a lot. Sun In was a popular thing to do to your hair during that time, and I did it with much gusto and fervor. Essentially I dried my hair out with so much peroxide and lemon juice that it was not only the color of summer hay but also the texture. I finally grew out the mullet by my freshman year and began my first set of baby mall bangs, not knowing that by the time I was a senior I would own those six-inch high bangs and be the envy of underclassmen. Freshman year was the first time we could eat off-campus, and one day while chugging back my Diet Coke as I ran toward the building as the bell rang, I swallowed a yellow jacket who had just wanted to partake of the diet-y goodness himself. I was the talk of the school for about four hours because my tongue swelled up to science-fiction proportions. Freshman year was the year I finally realized I was never going to be any good at playing the flute and moved to the percussion section where I put my seven years of piano lessons to good use by playing the bells [Editor's note: bells are a sort of marching xylophone, for you non-band types]. That is, until the bass drum player quit, and I was recruited to haul around a giant drum my 5’2” self couldn’t see over, around, or past. I saw a chiropractor for the first time that year. I learned to program the VCR so I could record Saturday Night Live and decided it was the funniest show on earth. I also got my first kiss. I still thought it was gross.

Now with my own children at these ages, I take great parental satisfaction in sharing the photos of myself and my friends from those times in my life. They moan and groan and cringe some along with me, declaring that they will never regret their fashion decisions, which right now are shirts with a giant cartoon character’s face covering the whole front, sloppy buns piled high on top of their heads making them look like homeless ballerinas, long basketball shorts and tall cowboy boots, socks with sandals, and wide plastic bracelets with sayings like “AWKWARD” and “I <3 sparkly vampires” on them. They watch a kid-friendly show full of sketch comedy and quotable skits, and instead of having to manually program a VCR they just fill my DVR up with episode after episode of “So Random.” My kids have had their fair share of bullies and rather than begging and pleading to have their intellect tested to avoid the conflict, they have all met the challenges head-on and are better people because of it. Granted, my son had to serve a Saturday school for boxing a kid in the face when he was cornered, but funny, that kid doesn’t bother him anymore. Principals are still grumbled about, teachers are still “unfair,” and algebra is still hard. Friends are still fickle, the cafeteria food is still iffy, and the bathrooms still smell the same: a combination of industrial cleaner, heavy floral air freshener, and hormones.

I can’t believe my daughter, who mere years ago was a Pre-K dropout, is walking off-campus with her boyfriend, away from the scrutinizing eyes of teachers who only wish to squelch any exchange of kissy-face or tonsil hockey, and is eating Cheez-Its and convenience store chicken strips for lunch. I plead with her to eat a piece of fruit occasionally, for cryin’ out loud. She just rolls her eyes and digs the toe of her cowboy boot into the carpet, but I’m pretty sure she’s really wondering if I will enforce a mandatory fruit rule and dock her some coolness points by adding fiber and antioxidants to her diet.

I look wistfully at my son’s orthodontically embellished mouth and think that soon after that metal comes off, he will start shaving that little boy face and will start thinking about tonsil hockey even more than he does now. I also get a little misty-eyed when I think back to last winter when my husband and I told him that rubbing his upper lip would cause his mustache to grow in faster. The kid walked around for a week with his finger continually to his face before his older sister spoiled our twisted glee. He’s not always going to be so innocent and gullible. He does have a pretty sweet right hook already, though.

That nine-year old of mine has no Little Orphan Annie curls to speak of, but the homeless ballerina bun on top of her head will be giggled and groaned over just as much someday. She will soon be met with the challenges her older siblings have faced already, as well as generations before her. She’ll have her own bullies, fashion faux pas, orthodontia and, much to my chagrin, she will more likely than not receive her first kiss from some boy who will probably be wearing something stupid like socks with his sandals. Or maybe by then the trend will be underwear on the outside. It wouldn’t surprise me.

Schools may have started out with the purpose of educating, of molding young minds into the people who will change our future, of helping youth find a purpose and a meaning for their lives, but today it has morphed into a place we send our fashion-conscious children for seven hours a day so they can learn how to plank, send a text message without ever looking at the phone they have stashed in their hoodie pocket, and become champions at playing tonsil hockey while their friends are on the lookout.

Really…things haven’t changed. Much.

Diva

Kristin Hoover is the Redneck Diva. A local blogger and stay-at-home mom, Kristin has won Okie Blog Awards for her humorous take on the rural life of a natural-born diva who married a redneck and produced three offspring. Visit her online at http://www.theredneckdiva.com.

Print this entry | Print this page

From Your Increasingly Frustrated Publisher & Executive Editor:

It has now been over ten days since Ruth Rice was murdered. And I say murdered because we all know she was. The Craig County Sheriff won’t say she was murdered for a fact. The Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation won’t say she was murdered for a fact. The state medical examiner won’t say she was murdered for a fact.  But she was, and we all know it. CCSD and OSBI are considering and “presuming” it to be a homicide, but no one has any good, solid answers about anything. The beauty salon and cafe talk offers the odd tidbit of news, but officially we have radio silence. We’re all just supposed to wait patiently. And I, for one, am sick of it.

No one expects our local and state law enforcement officials to solve crimes with the speed and efficiency of a CSI episode, and considering their track record in this community, many don’t hold out much hope of investigators solving this case at all. We do, however, expect—and I believe we’re entitled to—status updates and the periodic release of information that is not damaging to the case.

We know it was murder. We know we’re waiting on the OSBI to process fingerprints and chase down leads. We know we’re waiting on the M.E.’s office to release cause and manner of death. And we also know that because there was a murder, we have a murderer still on the loose—likely in our midst. Further, we know we’re supposed to hurry up and wait. And all the while, nothing. No news.

Both the OSBI and M.E.’s offices have public information officers, and they have been reasonably responsive when I have called and emailed. But, in the end, everything is initiated by me. No touching base from their end to say they know we’re concerned and want more information so here’s the latest we can tell you.

And, as we’re now nearing two weeks without an arrest, I surmise that no one has the foggiest idea whodunnit. If they did, the suspect would already be cooling his and/or her heels in the clink—with or without the M.E.’s final report on the autopsy. And if that is true, that means this community, which still stings from the 1999 double-murder and double-disappearance in the Freeman and Bible case, this community which is still left to scratch its collective head at the 2008 unsolved double-murder of the Hulses, this small, rural community where widows are frightened and parents are afraid to let their kids sleep in their own beds, this community we call home is just supposed to be satisfied with being sitting ducks because everyone knows you can literally get away with murder in Welch, Oklahoma.This is one duck who is tired of sitting.

Lots of people, myself included, love this town, and we work very hard to make it a better place to live. People serve through their churches and civic clubs and organizations to improve the overall quality of life in Welch. We have a school system in which the teachers and administration labor to produce full heads and strong hearts. We’re a community of kind folks who are just downright neighborly to one another. And some of us think those are great selling points when we encourage people to come enjoy small-town life with us here. And then all that hard work is undone by a perpetual black cloud of multiple unsolved brutalities just overhead.

We want information, and we’re entitled to it. Not because we’re gruesome cads, but because our law enforcement agencies obviously need help solving this case before it goes cold, if it hasn’t already.

On top of that, the Town of Welch just renewed its contract with the CCSD to provide local policing. That is another reason Sheriff Sooter needs to be the chief informer of the public in this matter. He’s our sheriff and he is also the means of whatever thin blue line we have in Welch. As a community, we need to have a serious conversation about how we intend to see law enforcement done in our town. It may be time to make the investment in some sort of a local force, and it is definitely time for some community policing efforts and/or a community watch. At its most basic, personal protection of our families lies with ourselves. I know I have recently taken extra measures to ensure that Jeane and I are protected, and every family should do the same.

I was quick to ask people not to jump to conclusions and not to speculate wildly so that the officials could do their work. I am still no fan of conclusion leaping and wild speculation. I am also no fan of brutal crimes that go unsolved—and I am really not a fan of being kept in the dark by the investigating agencies. Lots of Welchkins aren’t comfortable with the notion of patiently continuing to wait because, you see, we’re still waiting for answers in Freeman/ Bible and we’re still waiting for answers in Huls. We wait and we wait. And there are no answers. And so, to the agencies who keep saying to us, “Hurry up and wait,” we say, “Hurry up and solve a crime in Welch, Oklahoma, for a change. And keep us informed along the way.”

Ed.

Print this entry | Print this page

From Your Sad Executive Editor and Publisher:

We’re saying goodbye. Our community is collectively mourning the loss of a man who was almost universally admired and respected. I’m honored that I was able to call Delbert Lovelace my friend.

I didn’t know Delbert the way many others did. He wasn’t my coach or teacher. He retired as superintendent before I transitioned from the grade school building to the junior/senior high building. He was a member of my church, but I didn’t really know Delbert and Betty until I married Jeane Burgess.

The Burgesses were friends with the Lovelaces…and the Sooters…and the Smiths, etc. We were very blessed that in the ‘60s a great many people came to Welch to live and teach school–and they stayed. Many of them attended the same church. They became friends and fixtures of the community, and I benefited from that when I married Jeane. I’ve always hung out with folks older than me (I assigned myself to the youth group at church before I was a “youth,” and most of my good friends are older). The same is true for many of our friends now.

We’ve spent many an evening at card parties and visiting with our elders who we’re glad to call friends. Delbert and Betty Lovelace are just such a couple. Many has been the Sunday night when we’ve invited ourselves over to the Lovelace home for a game (or two or three) of pitch after church. Betty would buzz around setting out snacks and pops on TV trays next to the dining room table before she and I would take on Delbert and Jeane. I’d get frustrated that Jeane would play so badly, especially if she and Delbert won, and Delbert would be tickled at how personally I took it.

We’d laugh. Oh, how we’d laugh. Delbert liked a good joke. He delivered some good ones himself. In fact, when we visited him in St. John’s last Sunday, though he was laboring for breath and we all knew there wasn’t much time left, Delbert cracked a couple good ones. He and Betty have sat in the pew behind Jeane and me forever. While visiting with Delbert, Jeane told him that though no one else may know it, she sits in front of him at church and she knows he can sing really well. Betty replied that he should have sung a special, to which Delbert said, shrugging with that mischievous gleam in his eye, “It’s too late now.” As I write that now, it seems very sad, but in that hospital room, at that moment and the way Delbert said it, it was hilarious. He had also told us when we arrived that he was ready to go home, and he didn’t mean Welch. Jeane told him when he got to heaven he should find her mom and say hi. I joked with him that he might have to look for her for a little while. Without missing a beat even though he was on oxygen, he said, “I’ll just listen for her.” Some of you know just how truly funny that was.

But there were more than those jokes between us in that hospital room. It’s rare that we get to say everything we want and need to say to someone before they leave. My wife and I got that opportunity last Sunday. Jeane cried as she told Delbert how much he meant to her. I got misty eyed as I told him it was an honor to know him and to be his friend. He looked up and told us to take care of each other and love each other, and we reassured him that we would—and that we’d also make sure Betty was looked after. Though talking was a struggle, he told us he knew she would be because Welch was a wonderful community to live in and the people here really care about each other. We agree.

It was a heartbreaking thing for us walking out of St. John’s knowing that Delbert was leaving very soon. Our friend was going to the home that he wanted. And we’re staying here in the hometown he loved so much. I posted an update to Twitter that lamented that we’re having to say goodbye to lots of friends, which is hard, but I am sure glad that we don’t mourn like those with no hope. And I am. Oh, we mourn, and we hurt, but we don’t mourn and hurt because it’s an end. We mourn and hurt because our friend is gone for a while, awaiting the day when Christ reunites all of us who trust Him by faith and are eternally His. That Hope sucks all the power out of mourning, hurting, and death.

Delbert Lovelace was a classy guy. He was a smart, honest, trustworthy gentleman who taught us how to live well long after he retired from the school system. And he loved retirement. I remember hearing him tell of some administrators’ meeting where he learned they were offering early retirement. He got out of the conference as soon as possible, found Betty at the hotel and said, “We need to talk.” And that was that. He was good at his job, and he was really good at retirement. He loved the golf course, and I played a few rounds with him. I’m terrible at golf and quit going because I hate slowing it down for everyone else, but he never grew impatient with my lack of ability.

All week long I have kept coming back to one part of Scripture over and over. In the Bible, Phillip wants his pal Nathaniel (also called Bartholomew) to come meet Jesus. John 1:47 (KJV) says, “Jesus saw Nathanael coming to him, and saith of him, Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom is no guile!” Jesus proclaimed Nathaniel to be guileless, and that’s the word that keeps coming to me as I think on Delbert. To be guileless is to be without deceit. I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone who was as utterly guileless as Delbert Lovelace. There wasn’t an ounce of deceit in him. He was who he was, and he felt no need to impress anyone. That impressed us greatly. He was who he was, and in being so, he was admired and respected. So much so, in fact, that our church would have made him a deacon several times, yet each time he was approached he graciously declined. Ironically, it was that humility in declining that probably made him an even better choice to serve. For many, the notion of turning down such an honor would be unthinkable. For Delbert, it just wasn’t who he was. He knew it was deceitful to pretend to be something or someone you’re not…even for a good purpose. Guileless.

I’ve been fortunate to have many friends in this life, and some were truer than others. I have known what it is like to be abandoned by people who were only friendly so long as it suited their purposes. I have known so-called friends who were strangely absent when the storms came. But, thankfully, I have also known friends like Delbert Lovelace, who stuck like a brother—and enjoyed it. I’m truly better for having known Delbert. I hope to honor his memory by reflecting some of his good qualities with my life. But for right now I’m just sad my friend won’t be stopping by for coffee when he walks down to get the mail.

Ed.

———————

Please use our comments section below to share your memories of Delbert Lovelace.

Print this entry | Print this page

From Your Appreciative Publisher & Executive Editor:

When I launched WelchOK.com, I said that I viewed my role as more of a ringmaster than an editor. The thought was that with so many people having cell phones, especially ones with cameras, that we could all be the best news team around. I am very thankful to each of you who has submitted news, pictures, and other information. So far, things are going well, and we’ve had great community response to the site. The more time I have to devote to the site, the better we do. And I try to spend as much time on it as I feasibly can. But I never want my covering events to take the place of community-contributed information.

Therefore, I am renewing my call for you, the readers and fans of WelchOK.com, to help make it even more of a success. We need your news. We need your photos. Please remember us when you see or hear things of interest to the whole community. It’s pretty common to jump on Facebook and share news with your friends. Please send it to us, too, so we can share with all our fans.

Here’s a reminder of what we need and how to get it to us.

• We want news, information, and pictures of news and information that is of general interest to Welchkins. Miami, Vinita, and our other surrounding places have their own news sources. Remember, we’re all Welch, all the time.
• Clubs and organizations, if you have reporters or public relations officers, please remind them then need to keep us in the loop.
• Anytime you have news that you distribute to the Vinita or Miami papers, make sure we get it, too. We’d even like to get it first.
• We don’t publish or distribute private information about people (i.e., information about their health, etc.).
• We publish death notices and obituaries received from the funeral home or the affected family only.
• The more advance notice you can give us the better. We’d love to add your events to our Community Calendar and put information on our site, but we can definitely use the advance time.
• For-profit items may not be posted to our Facebook page. We cover community groups, churches, the school, clubs, and the town government all free of charge, but we ask commercial ventures to support the site via our very reasonable advertising rates. When you’re an advertiser, we cover your events and news, so it will be seen by all WelchOK.com readers.
• The best way to get us info and pics is to email it to info <at> WelchOK <dot> com. We will give credit for anything you send us if used. You make it a lot easier to share your info if it’s complete and via email so I can copy and paste.
• Please don’t be offended if we’re not able to use what you send for various reasons. We’ll always be honest as to why.
• Please take the time to thank the advertisers who you see in the right sidebar. They make WelchOK.com possible.
• You can also drop news by our office on main street or mail it to use at P.O. Box 1, Welch OK 74369. It’s always a good idea to follow up via email or phone at 918-788-3200 just to make sure we got it.

We’ll do our best to keep making WelchOK.com better all the time, and we ask that you help us make it so. Thanks for your support. Thanks for reading. And thanks in advance for keeping us in the loop about news and information you see.

Ed.

Print this entry | Print this page

From the Redneck Diva:

My husband is 10 years older than I am—when we got married, I was on the verge of turning 20 and he was nearly 30. Neither of us had been married before; however, both of us had been engaged. He had lived on his own since he was 17 years old. I went straight from my momma’s house to being the mistress of my own domain. We were as different as peanut butter and lemonade.

As a teenager, my first “real” boyfriend came along when I was 15. He was 16. And oh, how we could fight! I don’t know why we stayed together for 2½ years because we argued all the time. Maybe it was fear of being alone after having known what it felt like to be part of a couple. Maybe it was stubbornness, a matter of who will stay hooked to the wagon longer, neither of us wanting to tap out. It doesn’t matter now. His enrollment in college took care of the storm that had been brewing. And there I was in the midst of my senior year of high school, single.

I didn’t date anyone steadily for more than a month. No matter who I dated, I argued with them. And now, as a wizened old 38-year-old woman, I marvel at this because I am not an argumentative person. I hate confrontation, and drama gives me the diarrhea. So why did I fight with every guy I dated back then? I’m going to chalk it up to immaturity. And insecurity. And the fact that I had real issues with males at that juncture in my life.

My husband no sooner slipped the ring on my finger than he got laid off from his job. I was working at the bridal store making minimum wage. We lived in his grandmother’s house rent-free, smoked a lot of cigarettes, ate a lot of macaroni and cheese and Hamburger Helper, played Nintendo all night and well, you know what else newlyweds do a lot of…

…we argued. What were you thinking?

The first big fight was over money. He didn’t like the fact that I spent it. He was infuriating and in an instant I was so enraged over a comment he made I saw red and before I realized what I was doing I hurled the checkbook at my darling groom. Now, if you’ve ever thrown a paper object, it seriously lacks flair and impact. Well, unless you’ve thrown an Encyclopaedia Britannica. Then you might make some impact. But as it was, the checkbook just kind of fluttered at him, hitting him squarely in the chest, the register flopping out, the ink pen dropping to the floor, ultimately doing no physical damage whatever. However, the anger it induced was phenomenal. I will never figure out to this day how he made a half-pound checkbook fly as fast as it did back at me and make a far greater impact than my lobbing of it had made on him.

Later that night we made up and did another thing that newlyweds do a lot of…

…we ate cookie dough straight from the mixing bowl while playing Super Mario Brothers. What were you thinking?

Fast forward about six years when we had a three-year-old and an infant. I was a stay-at-home mom, emotionally tired and physically worn out. He was working 60 to 80 hours a week at a physically grueling job. The kids and I never saw him. When he was home all he did was sleep. He was exhausted; I was exhausted. One night he popped off something hateful and stormed down the hall where he said he was going to sleep until he woke up. He was going to SLEEP? When I hadn’t slept a night through in over THREE YEARS? OH NO HE WASN’T! And before I knew what I was doing I gently laid down our freshly bathed, still-in-the-towel infant son, carefully capped the bottle of Baby Magic lotion I had been holding and threw it at my husband, the father of my children. It hit him in the small of the back. And to this day I cannot figure out the man managed to turn around as fast as he did, retrieve the bottle from the floor and hurl it back at me as fast as he did. And with such force for a man so tired!

It’s been years since we’ve thrown anything at each other. Thank goodness. We rarely even argue anymore. I think this is mainly because we both don’t care to exert the energy it requires to have a good fight. If he doesn’t like the balance in the checkbook he may gripe about it, but the checkbook never gets thrown. Snide comments are made, but objects do not go airborne. If I get tired of the little red beard whiskers he leaves on the bathroom counter and in the sink like DNA-wielding confetti, I just mumble and grumble under my breath and make comments about hygiene and pride in our house, but I never throw the bottle of Formula 409 at him.

Maybe it’s because we now have children who don’t gurgle and chew on their toes while Mommy and Daddy fight, but instead pay attention to every detail and every word thrown in anger. Then they go repeat those words to Grammy or their principal or (gasp!) Sunday School teacher. We have a teenager and another on the cusp of it. We have two daughters, one son, all of whom look to us for how they will handle their relationships as adults. If they only see us screaming and slamming and throwing, they think that is the only way to handle a disagreement. If they see us merely spraying cleaner and grumbling while we clean up the other person’s mess, or making snide remarks about someone’s inability to manage money, or how we used to eat more than grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner, then the kids are seeing that…well, they’re seeing how passive aggressiveness is applicable in an every day use. Hmh. Maybe those aren’t the best examples either.

So how do you fight effectively and without scarring your children for life? Do you ignore minor infractions and pretend that life is perfect? Do you just let it all out, going down that mental list of annoying infractions you began preparing while you scrubbed the dried toothpaste splatters off the bathroom mirror that morning? Do you invite Dr. Phil’s wisdom by way of the DVR, recording the episodes you think will just show that man the error of his ways? I just wonder if there is a truly “right” way to argue. I’m sure there is. I think I recorded an episode of Oprah about it.

The other night, the kids were in bed, my husband and I had just finished watching WWE Monday Night Raw and were talking about the drama that had unfolded during the night’s bouts. (What? You don’t relate your lives to the lives of the wrestlers on WWE?) I kind of chuckled and said, “Boy, we used to have some doozies back in the day, huh?” He didn’t say anything, just spit in his spit cup and nodded. I said, “Remember when I threw that bottle of baby lotion at you?” He smiled then and said, “Yeah. That really went all over me. I think I scared you at how hard I threw it back.” I agreed. I reached over and patted his hand and said, “Ya know, we just don’t fight like we used to. We hardly argue at all anymore. Why do you think that is?”

Again, he spit before he answered. “Probably because neither of us have the energy to put into that kind of fighting anymore. Plus, you ain’t changing ,and I ain’t changing. We’ve just learned to deal with each other.”

He hit the nail on the head: we’ve just learned to deal with each other. I love him with every breath that is in me, even if he still hasn’t gotten that whole raising the toilet seat concept down pat. He loves me even though I don’t run the vacuum as often as I should. I don’t understand why he can’t just put his boots in the closet, but then, he doesn’t understand why I refuse to turn his shirts right-side-out before I fold them. It’s those annoying little nuances that I find frustrating, yet endearing. If he was a big talker, I’m sure he’d say the same thing. Those little things aren’t going to change the fate of the free world, so why make them an issue? We agree to disagree, we back each other up, we get frustrated but we go on. And at the end of the day, we turn out the lights, check the doors to make sure they’re locked and the children are safe, then we go to our bedroom and do what couples who have weathered many a storm, who have seen the good and the bad, who know each others’ best and worst and love each other anyway do…

…we sleep. What were you thinking?

Diva

Kristin Hoover is the Redneck Diva. A local blogger and stay-at-home mom, Kristin has won Okie Blog Awards for her humorous take on the rural life of a natural-born diva who married a redneck and produced three offspring. Visit her online at http://www.theredneckdiva.com.

Print this entry | Print this page

From Your Still-Worn-Out-from-After-Prom Publisher & Executive Editor:

Tomorrow, we Welchkins have a purely local election. We’ll vote on the $2.75 million bond issue to add classrooms, revamp the dining area, and implement utility upgrades at our school, and we’ll choose who will serve on our town council and as town clerk.

We’ve provided all the bond issue information provided by the school as well as an audio interview with Supt. Clark McKeon here. Here’s the sample ballot for the bond proposal.

Now, after digesting the information, how should we responsibly vote?

The bond issue increases taxes. I know, the usual line is that because the bond issue extends an existing tax it doesn’t really raise taxes, but I don’t buy that argument. If we approve the bond issue, it will keep an existing tax from expiring. In my book, stopping a tax reduction is a tax increase.The bottom line is this: if the bond issue fails, the millage rate will drop when the bonds for the new gym all mature. If we approve the bond issue, the millage rate will remain fairly steady for an additional 16 years. We just need to accept that fact that the bond package before us is costly. The real question we must answer is whether the cost is worth it.

I have made it clear before that my default position on tax increases is no. That means I start out a no, and if and when those seeking the tax increase convince me that it’s for all our better good to approve a tax increase, then I’ll support it. In the most recent vote on the Craig County Community Center, I was never (and am still not) convinced it was a good idea, so I did not support it.

In the case before us now, I am persuaded that the improvements to our school are necessary and wise. The reason I’m such a stickler on the language as to whether it’s “not a tax increase” is this: we need to realize that there is a cost associated with the improvements and that the cost is worth it.

The notion that we can do large capital improvements without it costing us is dangerous. You may be tempted to believe that when property taxes are increased, only property owners pay the price. Many a tax increase has been thrust upon property owners by non-property owners in the misguided notion that those who don’t own land are getting a free ride. Property owners do bear the immediate cost of an increase; however, those increases must be recouped. If you rent, property tax increases get passed on into your rental price. Whatever is produced on land—be it cattle, crops, or cookies—will have its price inflated to absorb the price of taxes. The bottom line is this: tax increases affect everyone, whether they own property or not.

Taxing people should only be done for vital projects, and I cannot think of anything more vital to our community and school than the proposed improvements. The time has come for us to do away with the “temporary, portable” classrooms that house our youngest students. It’s time to implement a middle school. It’s time to make upgrades that will save on utility costs. It’s time to provide adequate learning space for our students and teachers. It’s time to bring the dining facilities up to date. In short, it’s time to make this large investment.

The proposed improvements to our school are not luxuries. They are necessary now, and they will grow even more necessary into the future.

So, when you mark your ballots tomorrow, I hope you’ll join me in voting yes on the bond issue before us.

Also on the ballot are elected town positions. Last year, we voted to expand our town council from three to five persons. Maxine “Shorty” Highsmith and Shannon Biggs ran unopposed for two seats, and will win by default. Tomorrow, voters will vote to fill two remaining seats for which there are three candidates. The top two vote-getters from among Edith Fox, Winston McKeon (the incumbent), and Henry Flanders will win a four-year term on the council. The position of town clerk is also up for election. Voters will select between Kenni Morton and Barry F. Oliver (the incumbent) for the unexpired town clerk term. Here’s the sample ballot for town officials.

I’m not making endorsements in these races. I will, however, share some of the thinking that goes through my mind as I weigh the choices before me. First and foremost, I want a sense that those for whom I vote are genuinely interested in our community and its progress. I want responsible persons who will give their best efforts to see that our town functions properly, openly, and efficiently. I’m not impressed by candidates who take a “what was wrong with the way things used to be?” mindset. Secondly, I want workers—both mentally and physically. Council members aren’t magic. They don’t just get to vote and all our problems fade away. The issues facing even our small town are often quite complex, and I want representatives who will do the hard thinking and the hard work necessary to find the best—not necessarily the easiest—solutions. Lastly, I want persons of character. I want council members who give us their best efforts, but I also recognize that councilors are both human and volunteers. Humans will make mistakes, and I am impressed by those who own up to their mistakes and look for ways to correct their errors. Volunteers can’t be expected to turn over every waking moment to town matters; therefore, I am impressed by persons who handle town business in an organized and efficient manner.

These are just a few things I’ll be thinking about as I vote tomorrow. Polls are open from 7:00 a.m.-7:00 p.m. If you’ve taken a few minutes to acquaint yourself with the issues and candidates before us, I hope you’ll go vote, too.

Ed.

Print this entry | Print this page