IT ALL COMES DOWN TO GRACE

I sure have enjoyed seeing pictures of the fresh-faced 2012 graduates in my mail and on Facebook over the past few weeks. From kindergarten to college, there is something so special about a beaming smile shining beneath mortar board and tassel.  Family, friends, and spouses peeking over their shoulders. Everyone bursting with pride and accomplishment.

And rightly so. Graduation is one of the Rites of Life. Passage from one stage to the next. Victory worth celebrating.

So why is it when graduation rolls around each year, my palms get all sweaty and my stomach gets queasy???

It's a conditioned response that goes back to the years when I was responsible for orchestrating the slide show for our church's High School Senior Banquet.

Creating a slide show today is a virtual walk in the park, what with all the digital tools at our disposal. But in the 80's and early 90's...? Not so much.

Old school slide shows consisted of turning photographs into 35 mm slides which were placed one by one in a Kodak carousel and projected onto a large screen, hopefully in some semblance of synchronicity with the the sappy pre-recorded music blasting from a jam box cassette. The entire production was unbelievably time consuming and full of potential glitches.

All because of those pesky little 35 mm cardboard slides.

I would spend hours collecting the photos, getting the slides developed, putting them in order and selecting just the right music to tug at the fragile hearts of parents who would be watching their sons and daughters bloom to life on a projector screen.

Yet, no matter how much love and hard work I put into those slide shows, there remained the ever-present threat of a rogue slide sticking in the carousel and stopping the show. Slideshow Interruptus became my greatest fear.

I went through so many trial runs that my eyes looked as though they were bleeding. I made sure beyond a shadow of a doubt there were no upside down slides, or worse...an empty slot in the carousel which would create a burst of light bright enough to burn the retina right off your eyeball.

Regardless of my preparation, I unfailingly developed a case of the 'trots' on banquet night. While the seniors and their families enjoyed the lovely meal, I would check and re-check the equipment between mad dashes to the restroom.

And then, the Big Moment would arrive. The lights would dim and the room would hush in anticipatory silence as I nervously pushed the 'play' button on the jam box. As the syrupy sounds of child-rearing songs filled the air, I would cross my fingers, toss up a prayer and slowly squeeze the remote of the projector.

I had 'em from the first slide. Few things get to a Mama like seeing the face of her Pride and Joy immortalized on a 15-foot screen. Sentimental slices of life captured in Kodachrome. An idealized past shining from a snaggle-toothed photograph.

Egged on by the “ooooohs and awwwws”, I would continue to methodically click the remote from slide to slide in perfect unison with the music. The strains of “Friends Are Friends Forever...” played to the background accompaniment of parental sniffles. My confidence built as graduate after graduate grew up before our eyes.

And then...

And Then.....

AND THEN, THE NEXT FREAKING SLIDE GOT STUCK IN THE CAROUSEL!  NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Just like that, the love spell was broken. The audience would giggle nervously.

Like a pissed-off ninja, I would quickly grab my trusty butter knife and frantically dig the renegade slide from the carousel. Gouged and bent, the insolent slide would be chucked to the floor as I frantically whispered another prayer and shakily resumed the slide-show. At which point, the audience would usually applaud politely, having more faith than me in my ability to get the show back on track.

Grace shining through.

*** *** *** *** *** ***

As my thoughts wandered back to those perilous days of High School Senior Banquets, from the perspective of distance I couldn't help but view the entire production as a metaphor for life.

How clearly those slides represent the times we would like to 'freeze-frame' for a moment. Stop and examine. Give the appreciation it deserves.

Appreciate it, then go onto the Next Phase.

Go on to the Next Phase.

Go on.

GO!!

Hmmmm...it seems we have somehow gotten STUCK. Crap. Completely inconvenient and totally annoying. And a HUGE waste of time until we finally come to the realization that we are not going to get UNSTUCK without some help. No way. No how.

OOWWWWIEEE! OUCH! Why were we NOT informed that getting unstuck could be painful? Could even leave a scar?

Permanent reminders of tough times in the carousel of life.

The applause goes to those who don't stay stuck. Big, big applause to those who keep on going – scars and all. Slightly damaged, but oh so brave.

Metaphor, indeed.

And here's the kicker:  Throughout this arduous, unpredictable process, some of us are just silly enough to keep on believing that our story will end in Happily Ever After.

Maybe not today, or even tomorrow, but eventually...happily.  Ever after.

Because even though we ride like fools through the carousel of life with our sweaty palms and our trusty butter knives...even though we want to believe that we are producing this show, that WE are in control...

When the carousel stops...

                And the lights come on...

                                    We suddenly remember...

                                                       It all comes down to...
                                                                    

                                                                                  GRACE.

A Legacy of Love

Tomorrow is Mother's Day. A day set aside to honor all mothers, be they living in this world or beyond, be they young or old or carrying an itty bitty zygote.  A day to celebrate women and their capacity for love.

How ironic is it then, that our deepest, truest lessons of love are learned in retrospect?

When I was 11 years old, my Aunt Betty Bob gifted me with a little golden razor. She took me into her bathroom, taught me how to lather up my legs with soap and gently glide the razor along the skin of my embarrassingly hairy legs. Left to my own devices, I cut the crap out of my legs with that razor. But I will never forget how grown-up and feminine my Aunt Bob made me feel.

We were the best of buddies and loved to go shopping together. She was always on top of the latest trends and fashion. She was that person who always made me feel infinitely special.

When Dickie asked me to marry him, my Aunt Bob was the first call I made after telling my parents. She whooped and hollered her congratulations across the phone. A few days later I received a beautiful and outrageously expensive crystal cake pedestal from her in the mail. She said she wanted to give me a totally impractical gift, one that would remind me of her each time I used it. It was my favorite wedding gift of all. In 35 years of marriage, I've never even glanced at that cake pedestal without thinking of her.

Still, I didn't realized how much my Aunt Bob loved me until I became an aunt, as well.

I remember peeking around the corner of the living room, spying on Mama as she visited and sipped coffee with her friends. I would wait until she was totally absorbed by the conversation, then I would stealthily make my way to her chair and sit at her feet. I knew that if I sat very still and was as quiet as a mouse, before too long Mom would put her hand on my head and begin playing with my hair, distractedly running her fingers through the length of it. I coveted the touch of my Mom's hands in my hair.

Though I always felt her approval, she seldom gave me compliments. One afternoon, I came busting through the screen door after a busy day at school. I couldn't wait to show her my new note from the cutest boy in 3^rd grade, telling me I was a 'pretty gril '(his spelling, not mine).

“Do you think I'm pretty, Mama?”

“You're cute enough,” She said. “Pretty Is As Pretty Does.”

I understood that it was more important to her that I be pretty on the inside rather than the outside. Therefore, it became more important to me as well.

The day Dickie and I found out we were pregnant, we didn't know whether to be scared or ecstatic. On the drive home from the doctor's office, we decided to wait awhile before sharing the news, just so we could absorb our little secret in private. As we walked into the house, the phone was ringing off the hook. I answered “Hello?” in my best trying-not-to-sound pregnant voice.  Mom's loud voice blurted out, “Are you pregnant? I just have this feeling that you might be pregnant?”

Clairvoyance aside, I never realized how much my Mama really loved me until I had children of my own.

As Mom tells it, the bond between my Grandmother Flodie and I was immediate and true. In fact, Flodie was the one who suggested I be named Robin. It was the name of a beloved character in a book she happened to be reading at the time.  Thus, Robin In Da Hood was born.

She let me make funny shaped biscuits out of her leftover pie dough. She made tiny little dresses for my dolls and taught me the basics of sewing. She was the best listener I have ever known, and had a way of making you feel as though you were the most interesting person on the planet.

In her last few years, she developed senile dementia and was often confused when taken from her familiar environment. On her last earthly birthday, we loaded her in the car to take her out for dinner. As we drove away from her group home, Flodie reached for my hand and nervously asked, “Robin, do we know where I am?”

“Yes, we know exactly where you are Flodie. You're here with us. You are safe.”

“Oh, goodie.” She replied. “I wouldn't want us to get me lost.”

I always knew I inhabited a special place in Flodie's heart. But I never knew how much she loved me until I had Grandchildren of my own.

I have only one Mama. And she's an awfully good one. But the essence of  who I am has been greatly influenced by three beautiful strong, and amazing women. A trinity of estrogen that shaped my soul.

I have always been gratefully aware of how blessed I was to have them in my corner. And as life has progressed, I have become even more in awe of the rarefied air that surrounded their presence...the gifts of strength and kindness and humor and love that they bestowed unto me.

Thankfully, I am not the only beneficiary of their largesse. I am not the only woman whose life has been shaped by this extraordinary League of Ladies.

Her name is Camille. She is my second cousin and Betty Bob's beloved Granddaughter.

Out of Flodie's nine Great-Grandchildren, she is the only girl. But she is enough.

The epitome of a girlie-girl, Camille was a cheerleader for the  infamous 'Friday Night Lights' Odessa Permian Panthers...a Mojo Princess who competed in beauty pageants and modeled for Teen Magazine, when she wasn't dressed in designer cammo and taking out an 8-point buck. 

And then, she went off to Baylor University and fell in love with a cowboy.

There was nothing in Camille's pre-marital resume that would have ever caused me to believe her life would turn out like this:

(Yes, I know...they are all ridiculously gorgeous.  I swear they have not been photoshopped.)

After having two beautiful (and very girlie) daughters, Camille and John went on to adopt a son from Guatemala, a son from the state foster system, and a daughter who had grown up in a Ukrainian orphanage. For all practical purposes, their lives were complete – or at least filled to the brim.  But God had other plans....

...and they named him Will Jackson.

On this Mother's Day, I especially want to honor my sweet cousin Camille...the one woman who shares with me the glorious distinction and dynamic DNA of the Fabulous Flodie and her daughters.

Camille and I both know exactly how blessed we have been to stand upon the shoulders of these incredible women who went before us.

My heart sings and my whole face smiles when I imagine how proud they must be of the legacy that lives on in Camille...the adoption ministry she helped establish...the amazing six-pack of children she has collected and nurtured into a family...the beautiful Godly woman she is today.

Happy Mother's Day to my Camilla Vanilla.  If you don't already know know how much you are loved, someday you surely will.

Birthday Blessings...

There are few events more affirming than birthdays on Facebook.  Never mind that 95% of my friends who posted greetings would have been clueless about my birthday had they not noticed the little reminder at the top of their Facebook page.  I choose to believe that every single greeting was sent with compassionate thought and heartfelt tenderness.  Especially the ones written in all caps and emphasized by exclamation points. 

Gratifying as Facebook birthday greetings may be, I am an even bigger sucker for Hallmark cards.  Particularly the sappy ones. It matters not that thousands of people all over the world might be opening the very same  card. The minute a carefully chosen Hallmark card is in my hand, I give over to the belief that it was written especially for me.

Some of my friends and family have Hallmarking down to an art. The Dickman is a card-giving maestro who never disappoints.   This year he gave me a birthday card with a photo on the front showing a tiny little boy kissing a tiny little girl, and inside were the words: 

I need ya. I got ya. I'm keeping ya. Love ya.

My Mama also has the golden Hallmark touch.  I have a big box filled with my very favorite birthday cards she's given to me over the years.  I love to pull them out and reread them...paying particular attention to the words she underlined or crossed out to replace with words of her own. 

The card she gave me this year may be my all-time favorite...strike outs, underlines, added exclamation points and all: 

HOW TO MAKE

A Beautiful Life...

Love yourself.

MAKE PEACE with who you are

and where you are

at this moment in time.

 

Listen to your heart.

If you can't hear what it's saying in this noisy world,

MAKE TIME for yourself.

Enjoy your own company.

Let your mind wander among the stars.

 

Try.

Take chances.

MAKE MISTAKES.

Life can be is messy

and confusing at times,

but it's also full of surprises.

The next rock in your path

might be a stepping-stone.

 

Be happy!!!

When you don't have what you want,

want what you have.

MAKE DO.

That's a well-kept secret of contentment.

 

There aren't any shortcuts to tomorrow.

You have to MAKE YOUR OWN WAY.

To know where you're going

is only part of it.

You need to know where you've been, too.

And if you ever get lost, don't worry.

The people who love you will find you.

Count on it!!!

 

Life isn't days and years.

It's what you do with time

and with all the goodness and grace

that's inside you.

MAKE A BEAUTIFUL LIFE...

The kind of life you deserve.

(Thanks, Mom.)

EGGED ON...

Consider the egg...the incredible edible egg...one of the finest miracles of nature. Irrefutable proof of God's love for His creation.

Eggs, though exquisitely simple, are enormously complex. They not only contain the perfect ratio of protein, fats and carbs, but are jam-packed with vitamins. They are inexpensive and delicious. They are versatile as a food source, whimsical in an Easter basket and wonderfully explosive when thrown at an opponent.

Boiled, scrambled, poached or tossed...eggs make life better. Just as they are.

But...mash up the middle, add a few choice ingredients, put them on a pretty platter and BAM! Those tasty orbs of goodness become nothing less than everybody's favorite hors d'ourves.

I should know. I happen to be the holder of a blue ribbon that I won in the 3rd grade for my prize deviled eggs. Which, if I do say so myself, makes me kind of a big deal...


When I was 8 years old, my friend's Mom committed to leading a Junior 4H club for girls. We called ourselves the 4H Eager Beavers. I'm not sure who gets the blame but I swear, that was really our name.

Our sponsor, Mrs. Christian, said her intention was to teach us how to cook and sew. Looking back, I'm sure she also intended to keep us off the dusty roads of Goldsmith, thereby protecting us from rattlesnake bites or getting stuck in a cattle guard in our tiny West Texas oilfield camp. (Although, with a name like Eager Beavers, we could have just as easily fallen into a life of prostitution.)

Anyhoo...we spent all summer learning how to cook.

One day, Mrs. Christian informed our little group that we were to take part in a cooking contest with other 4H clubs around the area. She sent us home to decide with our Moms what food item we would enter in the competition. She also told us to keep in mind: not only were we to be judged on the taste and appearance of the food item, we would also be judged on table presentation.

I thought I was a goner.

My Mom absolutely hated to cook (which in retrospect, was probably why she signed me up for cooking class). Not only that, when I told her we had to make the table look all 'fancy', she started faking a seizure. Fancy was simply not in Mom's vocabulary.

We hurriedly called in reinforcements. My grandmother Flodie was the Cooking Queen. My Aunt Bob knew everything there was to know about being Fancy. We put our collective heads together and decided to blow the competition away with deviled eggs.

Mom brought home carton after carton of eggs for me to practice on. Deviled egg prototypes that did not end up in the trash, wound up in my Daddy's belly. It was a toss-up as to who produced more smelly gas during that summer: Dad or the Phillips Petroleum plant outside our back door.

Finally, the Big Day of the contest arrived. Mom woke me up early and helped me with the dangerously complicated task of boiling eggs. From that point on, she could only supervise. I remember stomping my foot with each hard-to-peel shell that dared to leave even so much as a divot on my egg. After all the prep work, I painstakingly placed each filled egg on the fancy dimpled platter borrowed from my Aunt Bob. I sprinkled the eggs lightly with paprika, gently tapping the little can of spice while Mom coached from the sidelines. Then I tucked parsley in and around the eggs, just as Flodie had taught me. Finally, I carefully dressed in my brand new deviled-egg-presenting blazer Mom had bought especially for the championship competition.

When we arrived at the contest site, I fussily set my table using Flodie's hand-embroidered linen tablecloth, Aunt Bob's china and very best golden vase filled with Mom's lovely artificial flowers. Then, I nervously waited, hoping the judges would choose one of the few eggs I had managed to peel without mangling.

They went around the room, stopping to nibble and mumble incoherently at each hopeful offering. Finally, the judges came to my table. I knew I had done my very best, given my all to those deviled eggs. The rest was up to fate...and taste buds.

As the judges went off to compare notes with one another, my co-chefs and I wiggled impatiently beside our tables, anxiously awaiting the all-important verdicts.

I am ashamed to say I truly don't remember if any other Eager Beavers were victorious on that fateful day. I only remember the burst of pride that filled my soul and the Very Big Smile that split my face when one of the judges laid a beautiful blue ribbon upon my table, declaring my eggs a winner.

At the ripe old age of 8, I had found my special purpose in life. I was the Eggman. Goo goo goo joob.

I basked in the gloriously misguided belief that I was a culinary wizard, convinced that without my wondrous skills, one less carton of eggs would have never achieved their ultimate prize-winning potential.


A few days ago, I stumbled upon the photo of me and my eggs. As I looked into the smiling face of that little girl with the crooked bangs, a flood of memories washed over me. For the first time, I realized with startling clarity just how much effort had gone into winning the blue ribbon that I claimed as my very own.

Truth is, it took a village to help me win that blue ribbon. At the tender age of 8, I would have never been able to reach my full deviled egg potential all by perfectly ordinary self.

My 4H leader provided the inspiration. Flodie gave me confidence to believe that both me and my deviled eggs were worthy. Without Aunt Bob, I wouldn't have found my fancy. Without Mom I would have burned the kitchen down and gone to the competition egg-less AND barefooted. And Dad...well, let's just say that without my flatulent father, I would have never known for certain where deviled eggs got their name.



I believe that our lives are a series of parables...ordinary circumstances that become divine opportunities for God to shape and form our souls in ways we can't perceive or imagine. But if we are wise enough to trust Him and to seek His truths, the message will always find its way into our hearts.

I learned two very important lessons from that prize-winning platter of eggs:

1) Nobody wins a blue ribbon all by themselves.
2) Eggs were never meant to remain just eggs.

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. Psalm 139

SPRING CLEANING...AND STUFF

My Mom is the exact opposite of a hoarder. She has the purging skills of a surgeon. Anything that has no immediate practical use gets tossed to the curb. Even really good stuff like plastic butter containers and extra pages of her offspring's snaggle-toothed grade school pictures.

At any given time you can open her closet door and find an uncluttered floor with a sparse row of perfectly matched shoes arranged with military precision. Same with her dresser drawers - immaculate.

Clearly, Mom is in possession of an OCD gene that she did not pass along to her favorite daughter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Five years ago my brothers and I packed up all Mom's carefully organized belongings and moved her from Borger to Amarillo.

We knew it would be an emotional day; not only because we had grown up in Borger, but also because Mama's house was the last place our Daddy had lived and laughed and loved. His toothbrush and aftershave still sat in the bathroom cabinet. His favorite hats still lined the closet shelf.

Never again would we be able to visit her house with irrational hopes of seeing Daddy come home after a day of golfing, wearing his purple hat and beautiful smile.

It was the last time I would stand at the back door and look out into the yard, hearing echoes of noisy giggles...remembering the sheer joy of seven little boys running wild in a fierce hunt for Easter eggs.

There would be no more Christmas Eve memories to be made at Gran-MiMi's house, as she was relocating to a small apartment with no room for piles and piles of holiday stuff.

The toughest moment of the day came when Mom sadly asked my brothers not to load Dad's recliner into the moving truck. She explained that while she hated to leave his chair behind, it was old and worn and much too big for her new place. We all grew silent with shared memories of Paul Cooper kicked back in his favorite chair...darkly tanned hands folded across his big belly...contented snores coming out of his wide-open mouth.

My brothers loaded the last of Mom's stuff into the truck and drove away. She and I made one last trip through the house. With Daddy's purple hat sitting on my head, we stepped out onto the porch and locked the front door behind us.

As I put the car in reverse I remember thinking, “This is gonna hurt”. Then I glanced over at Mom, my oh-so-resilient Mom, and realized the only real treasure inside that house was sitting beside me in the car.

I drove my treasured passenger away from the house - and my Daddy's leftover stuff - without ever looking back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am not a hoarder. But neither am I a Nazi Purger with ridiculous organizational skills.

My dresser drawers are confused, not immaculate. If you asked me the color of carpet in my closet, I could only offer a guess.

Rather than inheriting Mom's OCD gene, I was gifted with my Dad's ADD. Suffice it to say, organization and cleaning are not my Spiritual Gifts.

People (and by people I mean me) who are Right-Brained and have ADD should never be left in charge of organizing anything, except parties. I'm great at organizing parties. Need a pinata or a balloon bouquet? I'm your girl. Need your closets organized or your checkbook balanced? Go fish.

So while there is much about Spring that I appreciate...the warmth of the sun, the chirping of the birds, the Texas Rangers running around in their cute little baseball pants...I mostly suck at Spring.

At this very moment, my living room looks like one gigantic inbox. My bedroom looks like a yard sale. Every available inch of flat surface is covered with piles of paper and/or ill-fitting clothes. Piles and piles of stuff...mocking me, taunting me, begging me for action.

Most Texans spend the season cursing ragweed and pollen. Not me. I spend it thanking Baby Jesus that the Dickman did not marry me for my cleaning and checkbook-balancing skills.

I do, however, have other skills. I have mad skills as a Pilot. Uh, I mean...a Pile-It. I am a world class Pile-It, and can while away the hours moving my stuff from one pile to another before slowly drifting off into a catatonic state of overwhelmed helplessness.

Still, I try. Because it's important. If I can't find a place for my Old Stuff, there will not be enough room for my New Stuff. And everybody needs more stuff, right?

If only somebody would come up with a way to make sorting through piles of stuff a happy event. There must be a way to make a party out of Spring Cleaning.

Wait...did somebody say party??

There should be balloons!! And a pinata!! Because if shuffling important stuff around doesn't call for a pinata, I don't know what does.

This Spring Cleaning Party will require a great deal of creative planning.

Maybe I'll just put on my Dad's purple hat and think about it awhile...

WWJWD (What Would John Wayne Do?)

Back in the dark ages of my youth...I remember walking into the house one day and overhearing my Mom and Dad squabbling.

[Or more to the truth, I overheard Mom squabbling at my Daddy.]

I came through the door just in time to catch my Dad shooting the bird to Mom's retreating back. Finding his use of sign language interesting, I asked Daddy what it meant. He grinned sheepishly and told me the handsign meant 'rain on you'. I carefully tucked this wonderful new info into my fertile seven-year old brain and skipped merrily out of the room.

A few days later, my Daddy was in trouble again. I had been sent home with a note from my teacher, asking my parents to make sure I stop 'pointing my middle finger' at my classmates. I recall watching my Mama's face turn a deep shade of red when she read the teacher's note and then telling me I should never ever point my middle finger at anybody – EVER. She informed me that it did not mean 'rain on you', it meant something really naughty.

I learned two important lessons that day: 1) Daddy did not like being in the same room with Mom when her face was red, and 2) my middle finger was a powerful weapon.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Last Wednesday I found myself in Memphis, Texas, sitting impatiently in line at the Sonic drive-thru. Yes, the same iconic Sonic that proudly displays a really bad statue of John Wayne sitting astride a horsey.

[Only in the Texas Panhandle, folks.]

There were two cars in front of me and two behind me. As the first car drove off with their food, the truck directly ahead of me pulled up to the pick-up window, while I rolled forward to place my order. As I was screaming loudly into the intercom, all of a sudden a lady driving a small red car came out of nowhere and cut right in between me and the truck.

At first I was simply confused. Then I decided that someone would only do such a thing if there was an emergency....

As I mulled over in my head just what might constitute a Sonic drive-thru emergency, I began to feel a knot of anger brewing just above my diaphraghm. Still, I wanted to give the lady the benefit of the doubt. I rolled down my window and leaned my ear out to listen.

“Can I help you?" asked the Sonic worker leaning thru the window.

“Yeah. I called-in my order and came to pick it up.” said the lady in the red car.

WHAT??!! As the ball of anger zoomed it's way up from my diaphragm through my esophagus and into my brain, it exploded into a million tiny pieces. All of them thoroughly pissed off.

Instantly, the Doucheous Maximus sitting in that red car ahead of me represented all the people in the world who have somehow concluded rules do not apply to them. Who no longer play nice and embrace rudeness as the new norm.

That lady in the red car became every single jerk who is so neurotically focused on themselves and their immediate needs that they resemble nothing so much as an egocentric nine month old.

I tried counting backwards from 100.

I tried to imagine WWJD.

It wasn't working. I realized the odds were increasing that my family would be watching my arrest on the 5:00 news...

But then...I suddenly caught a glimpse of John Wayne sitting astride his horse, and my mission was clear. As clear as ol' John Wayne's southern drawl playing loudly inside my head:

“A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.”

I first tried to make eye contact with the ridiculously rude woman sitting in the little red car ahead of me. I gave her the best stink eye I could muster, willing it to penetrate 20 feet away through tinted windows and blinding her through her rearview mirror.

The lady looked everywhere but back at me.

So I opened the door, got out of my car, and marched myself right up to her car window.

The lady glanced up surprisedly at me and I said, “I just want you to know that it was very RUDE of you to cut in line like that. Why is YOUR order so much more important than the three cars behind you?”

She had stopped looking at me by then, so I gave her one more parting shot: “You know what? I'm busy, too. And I really DO NOT appreciate this AT ALL.”

I went back to my car with a swagger that would do John Wayne proud and loudly slammed the door shut.

[I'm just mature that way.]

Still seething, I waited another ten minutes for the outlaw to get her order. About the time my cortisol levels reached maximal capacity, the woman finally got her food. As she pulled away from the window, I honked my horn and shot her another laser-focused stink eye.

[I'm just mature that way.]

I explained to the perplexed Sonic worker what had happened and she expressed shock that the woman had cut in line. “She most certainly did. Right in front of God and John Wayne, she whooped her car right on in front of me.”

The Sonic worker hurriedly took my money and pushed my Vanilla-Diet-DP-with-easy-ice-and-medium-sweet-potato-tots into my angry hands.

I managed to calm down long enough to eat my tots, then drove off to meet with my next patient.

As I pulled onto the town square, I'll be danged if I didn't find Lil' Miss Red Car coming my way.

And I did it.

Just like my Daddy taught me.

It.Felt.So.Good.

Rain on you, lady.

[I'm just mature that way.]

Today is TEXAS INDEPENDENCE DAY.

Today is also the birthday of Dr. Seuss.

Coincidence?

I think not.

Robin's Ode to Texas
(Dr. Seuss-Style)

Of the Republic of Texas I'm proud, yes I am.
It's the fav-o-rite state of our dear Uncle Sam.

Our state is so big and so wide and so tall,
You'll be older than dirt before seeing it all.

The miles go for miles over deserts and streams,
Up mountains and down rocky canyons, it seems.

You will pass armadillos and bulls with big horns,
Who will gaze back at you with eyes full of scorn.

Bulls know what you pay to put gas in your truck
For those trips to Paducah and Happy and such.

And bulls wonder why you did not choose to fly,
In a plane and eat peanuts
And float through the sky.

Or you might, instead, choose to walk across Texas.
Then you'll want to wear boots and not mess with shoelaces.

If you do mess with laces, beware and be warned:
Bend over to tie them...you'll surely get horned
By the bull that you passed when you ran out of gas.

The only safe way - and the cheapest way yet
To see Texas is not from a car or a jet;
But at home on your couch in your comfortable sweats.
Watching reruns of Dallas and Davy Crockett.

Whether you see it from here or you see it from there,
There are miles and miles of Texas to be seen everywhere.

The Republic of Texas. None other as great!
Excepting for God.
And of course...George Strait.