Going The Distance

OK, I admit it. Squeezing into a tight black girdle, zipping up a neon yellow jersey that practically glows, securing fingerless gloves, and shoes that click when I walk make me feel just a little like a super-hero. Add the finishing touches of an aerodynamic, shiny grey helmet, a camelback full of chilled grape-flavored Gatorade, and an indestructible paper number fastened to my back to identify me in case I'm injured or lost in the battle, and I'm ready to conquer...conquer the coast.

It's been a year since one of my early posts about coming in last place for Conquer the Coast, one of Corpus Christi's growing popular sports events that features a 65 mile ride around the Bay of Corpus Christi. To refresh my followers' memories...I met my goals last year of safely getting over the Harbor Bridge, and making it to the halfway point of the ride in Port Aransas (where I learned of my last place standing). In addition to my goals I enjoyed the excitement of being picked up by the sag wagon, being dropped off 10 miles from the finish line, and finishing the ride...again, close to the last place.

This years ride was no less thrilling, and it started months ago when I needed to set a new goal to shoot for. At the risk of sounding too introspective, my goal was to "go the distance". To me that meant doing the best I could, and hopefully going further than last year. I honestly dreamed of finishing the ride, but doubted my ability to do so.

Like all special events marked on your calendar with a Sharpie, months, even years in advance, the time for Conquer the Coast arrived far more quickly than I anticipated, and it was a tempting time to ponder all the goals that went unmet in the last year. I never lost weight, never put my extra pennies aside for that really cool expensive bike, never joined that Saturday morning riding group, etc. I came very close to concluding that I had just waited too long to get ready, and skip the ride this year and hope to do better next year. Instead, I dug deep to remember all the lectures I've handed out to my children over the years and decided to "do the best I could with what I had."

I traded my expensive Trek hybrid for the $200 Schwinn from Target that my son bought with his own yard work money, and hit the neighborhood streets. My goal was to build endurance and my strategy was to ride my regular walking route over and over again until I was riding for two hours without stopping. This was not a scientific approach but amusing to the neighborhood yardmen and effective.

The day of the ride arrived, and like last year, I began the long day with my son, Holden, by my side. We were much calmer this year, not as nervous, and pleasantly relaxed as we went through the motions of gearing up for a day of riding. It wasn't until I emerged from the last minute Port-A-Pody stop at 7:29:30, with 30 seconds until the start that the adrenaline began to surge and keep me going for the rest of the ride. I quickly joined Holden who had found my dad among the other 800 riders, and the three of us eased into a long day of riding. A helicopter hovered overhead to watch the start, and Justin Temberlake's "I'm Bringing Sexy Back" thumped through loud speakers.

The next 6 1/2 hours were some of the most fun and memorable hours I've ever had. I was thrilled that the Schwinn was able to keep up with my dad's fancy Signature bike, and we spent the entire ride together. We rode close behind Holden and his buddies, and we enjoyed catching up to them at every water stop. The "toughest 18 miles in Texas" didn't seem so tough with my dad by my side, Holden just 1/2 a mile ahead of me, and Robert Earl Keen's, The Road Goes on Forever, And The Party Never Ends, playing in my head. I got over the JFK causeway (a much steeper and scarier bridge with small guardrails than the Harbor Bridge) out of sheer terror, pedalling harder and faster than I thought possible as I stared down at the pavement and prayed to get over the thing. I kept up with the guys pulling the ice chest with the stereo speakers. (Their song choices this year weren't as good as last year.) I pushed through leg cramps with two miles left to go, and burst out in embarrassing tears when I spotted the "One Mile Left!" sign.

65 miles, 6 1/2 hours later, I crossed the finish line. For you math enthusiasts that calculated that we went 10 miles per hour, I'd like to point out that we cruised at 12,14, even 16 m.p.h. (a thrill for me!) The seven water stops and ferry ride, (another thrill), ate up the rest of the time. I'm proud of myself for reaching my goal, and am already looking forward to next year's ride. My "new" goals for next year are to lose this weight, put my pennies aside for a new bike, and join that Saturday morning riding group. And "going the distance" isn't a bad goal to hang on to either.

Holding Barb's Hand

The Saturday morning, 8:00 a.m. sun was already baking the asphalt, when the petite, female athlete breezed into the final two miles of her early morning bike ride. With the wind at her back, and experience in her legs, she sailed along comfortably at an impressive 25 miles an hour. She passed a fellow bike rider and quickly put 150 yards between them. The biker's eyes followed the small athlete and he watched in horror as a dark pickup swerved into her bike lane, shatter the small but strong body of the female athlete, and change her life and the lives of those who love her forever.

5 days, 20 broken bones, 4 surgeries, and one halo flight later, Barb Savell lies in the ICU of Brooks Army Medical Hospital in San Antonio. Family members from around the country have traveled to be near her. Most of them gather on the soft sofas in the waiting room as they wait for the few opportune moments when only two are allowed in her room at a time. And friends wait longingly to hear updates on her condition as word filters out of the hospital and into e-mails, texts, twitters, and through the pages of Facebook at Praying for Barb Savell.

I had a previously scheduled trip to San Antonio that I used as an opportunity to see Van, Barb's husband. I brought my good friend, Shereen, toting lots of healthy snacks for Van, and we entered the front doors of the hospital in the wee hours of Thursday morning. I didn't have much hope of seeing Barb, because I knew that visiting a patient in ICU was as difficult as touring the inner chambers of Fort Knox. And I was afraid we might not even get to see Van.

To my amazement, every potential roadblock in our search for Van was met by a friendly nurse, and we found ourselves deeper and deeper in the innards of one of our countries' finest hospitals. Finally we found ourselves standing in the ICU unit, and I waited to be escorted from there at any moment. Van appeared and quickly showed us where to wash our hands. I kept thinking that we needed to leave the area, and when I was washing my hands it finally occurred to me that I might get to see my dear friend, Barb.

The hand washing station was to the left of the large entrance to Barb's room. I washed my hands and felt awkward as I offered Shereen's gifts to Van when my attention had already been drawn to and was locked on the figure in the hospital bed. Shereen and I walked toward Barb and we each took a side of her bed like parents tucking in a small child at night. I tried to take it all in quickly as I knew we could be asked to leave at any moment.

The first thing I noticed were her legs. The left one was in a full cast, making it appear larger than Barb's normally petite self. The right one was in "traction"... a treatment I know little about but looks uncomfortable. I took comfort when I looked at her feet. They were clean and the well manicured toenails assured me that the figure I was looking at was in fact Barb. Some sort of support, like pillows, lined her sides, and her arms rested on them. I knew instinctively that her hospital gown covered her most serious injuries of broken ribs, vertebra's, punctured lungs and liver, and injured spinal column. Her right arm was wrapped in a temporary splint to hold her broken wrist still, and her left arm was covered in large scrapes and scratches covered in ointment. Her hands and knuckles were also covered with injuries. Her neck was held straight by a brace, and her face pointed straight to the ceiling. Small tubes had been inserted into her nose, and a larger tube, part of the ventilator, was in her mouth. Her eyes sans her usual glasses, opened, and she was only able to look at the ceiling.

The ventilator hissed softly and caused the rise and fall of her chest. It was calm and quiet and I was afraid to speak or touch her. We began to talk to her, and I looked at her eyes for her reaction. It was hard to read her eyes as they looked at the ceiling, but I couldn't help but get the feeling that Barb still couldn't believe that she was there. It seemed that there was still a hint of fight or flight in those eyes, and definitely a sense of coping with pain. She began to move her hands as if to communicate with us. She moved them simultaneously to the right and then to the left. I could sense her frustration in trying to communicate, and I desperately wanted to help her. Finally, her left forefinger began to write letters on the pillow that rest beneath her hand. T-U-R-N What did that mean? What could I do to help her?

Right then an anesthesiologist appeared to ready Barb for her scheduled surgery on her hip and wrist. He introduced himself to us as if we were family, than calmly began to talk to Barb about the upcoming procedures. He started asking questions that only Van could answer, so we swapped places with him, and settled ourselves outside the door to observe. I thought that my brief time with Barb was over. I felt so helpless, and wanted so desperately to be helpful in some way to her and her dear family. I just stood there and watched as Van conversed with the doctor. I marvelled at the skill of the nurse that attended to Barb. I silently prayed for all of them and just watched.

It wasn't long and I noticed that Barb's finger was spelling again. The nurse was gently attending to Barb's wires and tubes and didn't notice. Finally she caught the motions of her fingers and began to note the movements. F-R "Oh let the word be FRIENDS, I thought." I so desperately wanted to spend more time with her. I-E-N-D -S I gasped! She knew that we were there, and she wanted us by her side! The nurse sweetly motioned for us to enter, and again we took our places by her sides. I overcame my fear of touching her, and softly put my fingers in her waiting hand. Her skin was warmer than usual, and her hand was swollen from the extra fluid from her I.V. As she gently wrapped her fingers around mine, I looked at her, and she closed her eyes, and seemed to relax. I quickly wondered what I would want to hear if I were her, and Shereen and I instinctively began to coo of her children.

We spoke of Matthew, Jonathan, Daniel, Sarah, and Hannah. We spoke of how they were spending their time, who they were playing with, what they had requested for dinner. We assured her that her house was fine, that people were taking care of and loving her children. And Barb just lay there with her eyes closed. At some point I thought she had fallen asleep. But Van asked as he gently laid his hand on the top of her head, "Sweetie, are you awake?" And she opened her eyes and nodded, "Yes". We spent more time with her than I felt we deserved, as two attentive nurses, and a doctor readied her for surgery. We decided to pray, and dear Shereen's voice began to talk to our Lord. I was overcome with emotion, and silent tears erupted and streamed down my face. Shereen paused, giving me an opportunity to join in, but no words would leave my throat. Instead, thoughts rose from my heart...The only praying I could muster at the time.

Finally, the doctor indicated that Barb was ready for surgery. It was time to let go of her hand and go. Shereen and I leaned toward her and assured her of our love for her and promised to continue to care for her children. I looked at her face, her eyes open and still facing the ceiling, and saw her mouth the words "I love you." I'm not sure if the words were for Shereen and me or for Van, or for all of us. But the three of us touched her one more time then watched them wheel her away.

We lingered longer with Van and Barb's parents in the comfortable waiting room that was now Van's home away from home. I embarrassed myself when the tears kept coming as I hugged Barb's mom...feeling comforted when I wanted to be the comforter. We listened as Van recounted the events of that previous Saturday, and I sat there almost dumb founded. We fell silent when Barb's mother spoke, "Oh, there she is." We silently watched as they wheeled Barb by the waiting room windows, then through a doorway that led to the operating rooms. The last thing I noticed where her clean feet, and pretty toe nails.

I'm not sure how much Barb will remember of these days. But I will never forget the time we spent at the hospital that day, the emotions I felt, the things I saw, and the wonder that enveloped me while holding Barb's hand.

(For more information on Barb Savell's biking accident, prayer requests, scheduled blood drive, and updates on her recovery, please visit the Facebook group "Praying for Barb Savell".)

Helpless

A few days ago, I posted on my Facebook that I knew what it meant to "feel helpless". I had been enjoying the beautiful, sun-shiny days of Corpus Christi, when my son called from college in Denton, Texas. He had wanted to let me know that he was in the midst of a tornado warning, and that the clouds were a beautiful shade of green. As we "oohed" and "aawhed" over the beauty of the storm, a loud siren on his end of the line screamed at both of us. I asked if he and his roommates had a bathtub, he yelled over the siren to let me know that they were heading that way, and that he'd call me back. Click.

Not only did I "feel" helpless, I was in fact helpless to do a thing to ensure the safety of my son. Long story short, he and his roommates weathered the storm, no pun intended.

That wasn't the first time I had dealt with feeling helpless in my 21 years of parenting, and I knew it wouldn't be my last. But I certainly wasn't expecting the Governing Force of my life to dish up another round of helplessness so soon!

It all came about yesterday, when I was enjoying yet another sun-shiny day of Corpus weather, but this time with my toes in the sand, and the crashing waves of the Gulf of Mexico only feet away. I was sharing the moment with my good friend, Shereen, and we were soaking up a beautiful afternoon while our young teens and a handful of their buddies enjoyed the sand, sun, and surf.

It was a clear bright day and would have been too hot, had it not been for the constant and strong breeze off of the Gulf. The weather man probably would have described the surf as consisting of three rows of three foot waves. But the observant mother watching her children wrestle with those waves would have called it more like an aggravated washing machine, with waves of at least eight feet tall. (How do you measure a wave anyway? From the base of the wave to it's tallest point? Or by how many feet it towers over your 5' 9" son?)

The Gulf seemed angrier than usual with it's tall and constant waves. The wind was a little stronger than average, and the undertow was jealous for attention. The 1,240 foot long, reinforced concrete, "storm proof", Bob Hall Pier loomed to the west of us. After three hours at the beach, we had observed the surf long enough to predict how close our children could get to the pier before they needed to head for shore and safety. Finally and unfortunately, our children tested our theory.

My son Holden, and Shereen's son, Jake, both able bodied and strong teens, took to the waves, each hanging on to the same long surfboard. It was apparent from the moment they entered the water, that not much surfing was going to take place because the two of them seemed content to hang on the board and kick out as far as they could go. Shereen and I sat, relaxed in our beach chairs, and lazily looked on as our boys enjoyed the water. Danger crept up on us as we realized the boys were quickly drifting toward the "danger zone"... the area next to the pier where the water seems to suck you harder toward the unforgiving concrete pilings of the pier. We knew the boys would have to start swimming toward the shore soon, or they would be in a fight with the angry Gulf, with the pilings looking on and with no intention of moving out of their way.

Shereen and I were on our feet. Shereen has cornered the market on the emotion of "calm", leaving little left over for the rest of us moms. She was using every ounce of it as she slowly walked toward the pier, leaving me to wrestle with my insides and try desperately to remember what numbers to dial for 911. I followed her and never took my eyes off of our boys. We both watched them and waited for them to respond to their situation. Finally... we could tell that they were aware of the danger. But it was too late. There was no time for them to get to shore. The strong and towering waves were intent to wash our children into the pilings. What could I do? Do I go ahead and dial 911 and get the rescue teams heading our way?

Like all cheesy movies with a high intensity scene, things began to fade for me. The roar of the wind, the crashing of the waves, and the speed of our children's impending doom all slowed and left me dull. I could faintly hear Shereen's voice ask, "Do you have your phone?" I knew we were in trouble, then, since she thought we might actually need it. Her voice somehow reached my ears again with, "Don't worry. Jake is very calculating. He'll figure out how to get through."

How to get through!? So it's true! They are not going to swim to shore last minute! They have to figure how to get THROUGH the concrete pilings, driven by crashing waves, and not get killed in the process!!! Again, Shereen's soft voice, "Do you have your phone?"

We stood there and watched. The waves rose and fell taking our boys out of our sight rhythmically. And finally, quietly, they were swept through the pilings, and on the other side of the pier where a waiting life guard had observed the whole frightening experience with his fingers probably poised over 911.

My first instinct was to march down the beach, grab my son the minute he emerged from the water, then kill him for scaring me to death. But the ever-so-calm Shereen tucked her arm in mine, turned me back toward the direction of our beach chairs, and softly cooed, "They're safe. He took care of them."

And He did.

It wasn't long, and the two boys, sheepish grins splashed across their faces, calmly walked up to their grateful mothers. I fought the urge to use too many words, and told myself to never complain about feeling helpless again. I would hate to get another lesson in that too soon.

Stress Buster

Stress.  We all have it.  And I know some would gladly trade their stress for mine any day.  But by 5:00 p.m., today, I had had it.  The weight of stress pressed down on me until finally, fat, hot crocodile tears streamed down my face...the kind of tears I used to cry into my pillow as a child.  I was finally overwhelmed with tip toeing through interpersonal relationships, meeting all the home school goals, wondering if the math in the checkbook was correct, making sure the bathroom was clean, hoping my children had gotten some vegetables into them today, and sadly coming to the realization that my weekend was already full, and the prospect of rest was slipping further from my grasp.

The tears brought some relief, but I knew it was time for a breather.  I decided the biggest break I could afford would be to take my children to the movies.

The announcement that I was taking the kids to the movies was a welcome wave of excitement.  We don't frequent the movies often now that four of my five children are really considered "adults" at the movie theater, and we could drop an easy $80 in just one trip.  I struck a deal with them...I pay for your ticket, you pay for your popcorn.  "You're on!"  was the unanimous response, and the flurry of activity to get us all out of the house and on with our stress buster ensued.

This just so happened to be the opening night for the long awaited "Monsters vs. Aliens", so the only thing we needed to decide was when to go!  Thanks to texting and cell phones, the "When will you be home?" and "How long will it take to get there?" and "Which one are we seeing, 3-D or not 3-D?"  began to fly through the air waves between me and my children that were out shopping.  It began to feel complicated as the "I need to be home by so and so," and the "But I haven't found a pair of jeans," and the "How long can we drive with the 'Low Fuel' light on?" began to flow my way.

The shopping children brought it to my attention that an opening night movie at the peak time might sell out, so maybe I should look into that as they were heading my way to pick me up.  We had settled on a show time that was fast approaching...We could make it if the kids got home in 5 minutes, we swung by the store for our Jr. Mints, (sorry, we take our own) and get to the theater!  I quickly looked into Fandango.com.  How hard could that be? 

The stress that I was trying hard to dissolve began to build.  My fingers quickly ran across the computer keys to find the right movie and time.  Then...I had to become a member!  Why must I always have to be a member?!  I found all of the necessary information and felt some relief as I realized the movie hadn't sold out.  Fill in debit card info, get it right, then print!  Oh no.  The wrong page prints out.  "You have just qualified for $10 off your next purchase!" flashes across the screen!  Ugh!  Where is the ticket I was supposed to print out?

Just then the kids burst through the door!  "We're ready!"  There is a flurry of activity behind me as I continue to figure out what to print.  I know I just spent $41, there must be something to print out!  Finally, I find the ticket, press print, and "You're out of paper."  No joke.  The kids are scrambling to the car, 20 minutes left before showtime!  I know it takes at least 10 to get there...No Jr. Mints then?

I slip a piece of paper into the printer, hit print and we're in business!  I race to the car to join the eager bunch, start the car, and the "Low Fuel" light screams at me.  How long has this been on?  Oh, ever since we were out shopping!  The plan changes just a bit as I add 'put gas in car' to the immediate to do list.  Thankfully, the grocery store and the gas station share the same parking lot.  I slowly pull up, throw a $10 bill at two children, drop them off, then head for the gas station.  I quickly get some gas into the tank, the two children with Jr. Mints show up, and we're off!  Only five minutes before show time!  There is a ten minute drive ahead of me, so I calmly head toward the theater knowing full well they play at least 20 minutes of trailers.

I pull into the parking lot and can't quite remember when I've seen so many people there!  Thankfully we have our handy dandy Fandango ticket and walk right in.  The crowd inside is worse than the one outside.  We quickly come up with a popcorn plan, and divide and conquer.  My job is to get our youngest child an Icee, while the others gather the popcorn.  I don't think I've ever noticed anyone getting an Icee at the movies before, but tonight, every 5th grader in town is there, and ordering an Icee.   The previews are well under way, the popcorn gatherers are ready and throwing glances my way.  The compliant 10 year old offers to go without an Icee, but NO!  We rarely frequent the movies, and this is my stress buster, and I'm not going to go without the Icee!!!!

The stress continues to mount as I realize we must all enter together because our Fandango "ticket" is for all five of us!  We finally gather the Icee, head for the ticket taker, and I notice one of the five is missing.  Of course, it is the social butterfly that has found someone she knows in the throng of movie goers!  Where is she?!  We approach the taker, still no butterfly, and hand over the large printout "ticket" and go in.  Finally, the fifth wheel of our outing sprints toward us, shouts, "Does he know I'm with you?"  "He does now," I mumble, and sweep her into our fold.  We quickly trot into the theater, 18 minutes late!  The movie is only just beginning.

It took me just awhile to settle in, pass the popcorn back and forth, and enjoy the show.  There had already been quite a few "Thanks for bringing us, Mom,"  and the calm and smiles on their faces were well worth it. 

"Monsters Vs. Aliens" wasn't the best movie I've ever seen, but the inferences from some of my favorite movies like "Independence Day", "Men in Black", "Close Encounters of the Third Kind", "War of the Worlds", and others were appreciated.  Even the bad guy looked like "The Grinch That Stole Christmas."  The artwork was amazing and the music was fantastic.  The ending song was one of my favorite B-52 hits, "Planet Claire", and the grand finale was sitting in the empty theater listening to my children sing every word!

 

 

Definition of "A Bummer"

I was going to entitle this "Definition of Depression", but in light of the current economic crises touching the lives of most Americans today, it just didn't hold up. Nevertheless, I have defined "A Bummer".

"A Bummer" is when you order a pair of shorts off of E-Bay and they end up being a good size, maybe two, too large. You decide you don't want your blind purchase to go to waste, so you wear the too large shorts while you paint your kitchen green. The shorts are white, and you don't mind the occasional drip and eventually wiped finger marks on your shorts because, well, they are just way too big, and you'll never wear them outside of your house. The bummer grows when a year and a half passes and all of a sudden, the white, too large shorts are the only thing in your drawer or closet that fits. This, in and of itself, is "A Bummer."

It gets worse...It's smack dab in the middle of February. Despite the mild South Texas winters, it still just doesn't feel right to wear white in the middle of winter.

So today I am committing a major fashion fau pas that really lends itself to showing off the lovely shade of jade that I painted my kitchen, two sizes larger than what I really want to be. THAT is "A Bummer."

Robert Earl is Keen

Texas's own, Robert Earl Keen, breezed into Corpus Christi last night, delivering his frat-boy, sing along style to an eager crowd of fans. I happen to be one of them and occasionally my husband, Don, will pull out his sense of adventure and join me along with a throng of young Texas Aggies to cheer and whoop and sing along with the edgy singer.

Thanks to my brother Alan's Christmas gift of tickets, Don and I found ourselves nestled on the second row among a few fellow 40 somethings waiting for the entertainment to begin. The venue was a local gathering spot that is a cross between a Joe's Crab Shack and the legendary Gruene Hall of Gruene, Texas. A coveted cold front had just blown through so the shoulder to shoulder crowd was easy to tolerate. In fact it felt like a familiar family gathering to me as my memories of college concert days flooded my thoughts.

We staked our claim to the second row during the last songs of the warm up singer and didn't have to wait long for the main attraction to make his appearance. I was comforted to see that Keen and his band members had continued to age along with Don and me during the years since our last party together. Despite the graying goatee, Keen's main fan base is made up of fellow Texas Aggies that are currently enrolled at Texas A& M University in College Station, Texas. I found myself surrounded by little kids, waving beer bottles and half smoked cigarettes around my face and couldn't help but feel like I needed to remind these kids to not run with scissors.

The entertainment started before the band even had their instruments in hand. Front and center of row one was a couple already three sheets to the wind during the warm up. I watched and noticed the big white "T" on the man's baseball cap and was a little embarrassed that this was a representative of my own alma mater, The University of Texas. I was relieved later when I realized the "T" was for Tennessee. I was certain this couple was going to procreate in front of all of us or vomit on Keen's shoes before the night was over. I was secretly betting with myself which one would come first. In the meantime, I watched them worship the singer with every song, as if Jesus Himself was standing on the stage.

The entertainment continued as I watched two young Aggies do their best to swagger and sweep other fans out of their way so as to nudge my second row spot away from me. I wasn't too annoyed as I noticed these kids had produced two cans of Copenhagen from their hiding places and raised them above their heads like an offering to the singer. They knew every word to the song coincidentally entitled "Copenhagen" and twisted the lids off the cans in cue with the music to dip their snuff like a well rehearsed dance step. I was relived that this was the only song they needed to stand in the second row for and they swaggered of, dip in cheek, and happy to be moving on.

Excitement ebbed and flowed with each song, the drunk couple continued their own ebbing and flowing, and emotions erupted more than once. During one extraction of drunken fist throwing Aggies, the bouncer scooped the Tennessee lover out with the rowdy crowd leaving the partner oblivious. I almost felt sorry for her when she noticed that she was alone, front and center, and gave up the coveted spot to blindly seek out her partner. The spot was quickly filled by a wheelchair with a young girl as it's occupant. Justice, I thought. I kindly let the woman powering the wheelchair have a spot next to me assuming she wanted to keep her eye on the wheelchair and it's passenger.

Later in the evening, I noticed that the wheelchair driver and I had earned a spot on the front row. Robert Earl Keen was right in front of me to the right, the wheelchair driver to my left. Keen looked our way and kept his eyes on us just a little too long. "Maybe he thinks I'm pretty," fleeted through my thoughts as I glanced over at the wheelchair driver. The thought was washed away with a tidal wave as I watched the driver lift her shirt for the singer. "But she's a wheelchair driver!" was my first thought as I tried to reconcile what I had just witnessed.

The crowd could have held my attention all night long. I enjoyed watching different fans trying to fill in the words of songs they couldn't quite remember. I felt loved and protected by my husband as each fight broke out and he turned his attention to keeping me safe. I felt strong as I endured an elbow to the left eye as an eager fan tried to catch a flying Santa's hat above my head and I felt triumphant as I stealthily dodged a smoking cigarette whose owner had no clue that she was about to burn my face. I watched in relief as she accidentally put her weapon out on the baseball cap of the gentleman next to me.

Despite my interest in the crowd, the music of Robert Earl Keen more than satisfied my occasional need of a good-ole country, frat party sing along. From my standpoint I could easily observe each musician do what he does best. From Gringo Honeymoon, Christmas with the Family, Broken End, and the finale Road Goes on Forever...each musician delivered. The ease of every note played, the perfect timing, the swell and sway of a well tuned machine all help me appreciate the music and forgive some of the lyrics of Robert Earl Keen.

The night ended nicely as the hearing in my left ear slowly returned and laughter and hugs were passed around with brother Alan and sister-in-law Shannon. My brother and husband somehow produced the bass player after I mentioned that he was my favorite, and I gushed like a teenager, and showed my age as I bragged of my college aged bass playing son. We drove home happy, Gringo Honeymoon playing in my head, and I just didn't mind that we all smelled like ashtrays.

Ignorance is Bliss

Well, I did it. For the first time in my 45 years, I untangled a black, mysterious wire, and plugged in a "power supply" to my brand new computer. Only those of you who know me best can appreciate this. Unlike most 45 year olds in this country, I have comfortably been cruising beneath the "need to know how to use the computer" radar.

As I write this, my palms and fingertips sweat with anxiety as I secretly pray that I am not frying the delicate inerds of my new tool. I have been overcome with fear as I try to decide what the little red light in the upper left hand corner means. Isn't red bad? And the flashing green light next to it turns my stomach as I wonder what in the world I'm doing. As I manuver through this new territory I wonder how in the world I have gone so long not knowing what a "browser" actually is. (I'm still not entirely sure.)

I actually feel a little triumphant that no smoke is seeping from this little 11x8 inch, blue "notebook" that sits in my lap. And I have successfully dodged the first error message that said "Your browser's cookie functionality is disabled. Please enable JavaScript and cookies in order to use Blogger." Well, all new computer users know that a message like that can end up being a mysterious $50 a month charge to your credit card, so I handled it like the best of beginners. I clicked on the little orange square with a white X on it in the upper right hand corner, then started over, hoping the message would go away. It did. Success!

I'm sure most readers are wondering how I can function in today's world without knowing how to use a computer to its fullest potential, and the answer is easy. I have a brilliant software developer for a husband, and I have always enjoyed the "here comes my knight on a white horse" feeling whenever I can't get my e-mail to work. But I have a funny feeling he doesn't see it in quite the same romantic light as me. Who do you think gave me this computer?

So I'm off to read the user's manual knowing my damsel in distress on the computer days are nearing their end. And I look forward to finally knowing what a "cookie" really is.