Ted and Ginger and Dianne

My grandfather served on the USS Salute in 1945. That year, on June 8^th, she sank, broken in two pieces after striking a mine in pre-invasion activities off Brunei Bay. Each year since 1985, the sailors of the Salute meet during the week of that anniversary. They bring their families, exchange tall tales, and tell the stories of their childhood and their service to a historical volunteer. The last couple of years the interviews were filmed. We sit in the meeting room and watch the stories unfold, each the same and each quite different. As the years pass, the men age and are slowly lost to sickness or to time.

For the last couple of years, they held the reunions here in Oklahoma. I’ve been close and lucky enough to attend. This year we all traveled to Bartlesville, an oil-boom town in the northeastern part of the state. My grandfather and my mother grew up there, my father and I just across the county line to the east. It’s familiar country, a place sprung from Delaware and Cherokee Indians, hard-scrabble pioneers, back-breaking work and the bounty of a part of the state deemed “Green Country”.

I’ve never been close to my grandfather. Ted is a small, handsome man who’s led a hard life, mostly by his own choice. When he tells stories of the war, he speaks of women he chased through California where he was stationed, the buddies who accompanied him, and his repeated instances of being absent without leave, which he casually refers to as “jumping ship”. His first wife, my grandmother, was Californian by way of Illinois. Ginger, as she was called, caught rheumatic fever as an adolescent. Her heart badly damaged, her parents moved the entire family out west for the sunshine and the clean air. That’s where they met. He tried to marry her when she was just seventeen, but her father blocked the union. Ted went to war. Ginger waited.

When the Salute sank, my grandfather sustained a head injury, spent about two weeks unconscious, and woke up state side. With his medical discharge in process and a keen sense of his own mortality, he picked Ginger up, took her to Arizona and married her there. Ginger stood four feet, eleven inches with blonde hair, pale skin, and light eyes, a lovely, tiny young woman. My mother was born in California in April of 1946. By May of 1949, Ginger’s rheumatic heart failed. She died at the age of twenty-two leaving behind her husband and a three-year-old daughter.

My grandfather quickly remarried a woman who preferred to pretend his first wife did not exist. I know very little about Ginger, only hearing how my grandparents met for the first time last year, after the second wife died. Ginger is a cipher, a beautiful face in a black-and-white photograph, an almost entirely unknown quantity.

My daughter, at twenty, stands about five feet, two inches tall, with blonde hair, luminous pale skin, and hazel-green eyes. She is a lovely, tiny young woman. In the hotel this past June, as the reunion group lingered over breakfast, my daughter came to visit. I was upstairs in my room, still preparing for the day, so she went down to the lobby with the old sailors and their families. My mother asked my daughter questions about college and my daughter, an animated student of theater and French, began telling stories. My grandfather watched her with obvious delight. When I came into the room a bit later, she rose to hug me and the conversation lulled. My mother overheard my grandfather say to the sailor next to him, with a smile on his face, “She reminds me of my first wife.”

My daughter, unbeknownst to her, gave my mother a precious gift that day: an idea of what her mother may have been like. It’s a sweet and precious debt, one that will never be repaid.

Bob Dylan at the Brady

Set List:


Gonna Change My Way of Thinking
The Man in Me
Beyond Here Lies Nothin'
The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll
Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum
This Dream of You
Cold Irons Bound
Po' Boy
Honest With Me
I Feel A Change Comin' On
Highway 61 Revisted
Workingman Blues #2
Thunder on the Mountain
Ballad of a Thin Man



Encore:


Like a Rolling Stone
Jolene
All Along the Watchtower

A view of the "Old Lady on Brady" from Brady Street.

A view of the west side box office entrance from the car.

The marquee.

A single production bus on the west side, stage left. We watched the caterers load their vehicle here as we left after the concert.

Production buses on the east, about 5pm. By 7pm when the theater doors opened, they were gone.

We arrived early, parked the car in the Brady's small lot and walked to The Mexicali Border Cafe for a quick dinner before the concert. After eating, we walked the half block back to the Brady. The crowd had arrived, forming lines at both the east and west doors. To say the crowd was an eclectic mix of people is an understatement. The youngest fan, aged about eight, seemed just as excited as the oldest fan in the crowd. We saw another mother-daughter there. Just in front of us, a pair of sisters, we thought, and to our left a charming older couple who were seeing Dylan for a second time. We saw a tattooed, pierced, flamboyant couple aged around 25 in the center section enjoying the show just as much as the old-timers who were a little slow getting to their feet when the up-tempo tunes began. One young man with a head of curly hair and a pretty face clearly had his eye on our lovely daughter, though her mother's presence probably inhibited his approach.

The Brady Theater is a 1914 Western Classic Revival building with a spot on the National Register of Historic Places since 1979. It seats about 2,800 in an auditorium and balcony. The acoustics are magnificent, and there isn't a bad seat in the house. Our lovely daughter purchased tickets before sale to the general public began and our seats were quite good, one section from middle toward stage right about eight rows back and right on the aisle, just as the floor starts to rise. Whether we were standing or sitting, we had a great view of Dylan all evening.

We entered as soon as the doors opened, bought souvenirs (a sweatshirt, a t-shirt, a poster, and a keychain), and found our seats. For about 45 minutes, we watched the crowd and waited. As the auditorium filled, taped music played in the background. The stage was set and lit an ethereal blue. Right on time, the house lights went down, the stage lights darkened, and the announcer said, "...the poet laureate of rock-n-roll, the legendary Bob Dylan". As the music started, we stood, we clapped, and we yelled. The atmosphere was electric.

Dylan began strong, enthusiastic and energetic. During the set, the bulk of the audience stood, only sitting for perhaps two songs early on. Stage left on keyboards, he sang as only Dylan can, and if you weren't familiar with his lyrics, it might have been tough to identify the song. Every piece was restyled, almost unrecognizable, yet still somehow familiar. It is a testament to the man as a musician and a writer that regardless of the arrangement, the songs still impress.

The stage lights were cut between each song; the pauses were long enough to shift positions and instruments without time for anything else. Music rose, fell, and rose again in a satisfying, regular rhythm. Five musicians took the stage with Dylan, two on guitar, one on bass, one on percussion, and one on keyboards. Enough instruments for ten musicians graced the stage. Dylan sang, played keyboards and an electric harmonica (or perhaps just a miked harmonica) but never touched a guitar. The band was simply fantastic. And oh, did Dylan sing. Up front with just the harmonica and his famous throaty, scratchy voice, Dylan bobbed his head in that familiar way, smiled, danced and distinctly fed on the energy of the audience. I've often heard him described as a musician, not a performer, but I'd have to disagree. The man entranced the full-house audience without ever saying a word. When the lights when down after a spectacular Ballad of the Thin Man, I could have gone home happy.

The audience whooped, hollered, clapped and stomped to an empty, dark stage for a good five minutes. Grown men could be heard yelling "Bobby!" Someone beat the arm of a chair or a wooden column, producing a hollow, regular thump. When the band re-took the stage, the applause was deafening. Dylan introduced his band, thanked his friends in the audience, and tore into a completely unfamiliar, absolutely fabulous rendition of Like a Rolling Stone, moving seamlessly into Jolene, then racing into a fantastic All Along the Watchtower surely influenced by the Jimi Hendrix cover. The lights went down briefly, and when they came back up, Dylan stood center stage, all in black, flanked by his band in taupe suits and black shirts. After a moment, the house lights came up and the crowd went wild. Including our lovely daughter and me.

Picture notes: All of the shots here are by me except for the poster, which was lifted from the Brady Theater website. We have a shot of Dylan on stage, but it is in our lovely daughter's camera which remains, at this time, in Tulsa. Will share it later if it is any good. Cameras were not allowed inside the theater. Somehow, our little one made it inside concealed in a high-heeled cowboy boot. I'm not saying whose.

ice, ice, everywhere

We are having a big ice storm. The deluge started Saturday night with freezing rain followed by sleet and a few snow flurries. On Sunday morning, before the roads were too bad, my husband drove me to the grocery and the hardware store for supplies. I loaded up on kiddo food and canned goods plus milk, eggs and bread. We bought de-icer, ice melt for the sidewalks and driveway, and a key for the gas fireplace at the hardware store. The kids were out of school on Monday, and they're out again today. We are lucky; Monday morning the news programs were reporting 137,000 customers without power in the state. Now, that number is up to 500,000, but our power is still on. (Knocking wood as I type.)

My parents have no water or electricity and are staying at a hotel for the next two or three days. We haven't been able to reach my husband's mother, but we're fairly sure she is with his sister. The power outages are particularly bad in Tulsa this time. The Tulsa International Airport was completely without power on Monday and is expected to be today as well. One of the water processing plants has no power and Tulsans have been asked to conserve water.

Ice is dangerous and brutal. There have been twelve deaths as a result of traffic accidents since the ice started just in the Oklahoma City area and another death from exposure. Monday morning I heard that the Oklahoma Highway Patrol and the OKC police had responded to more than 100 accidents. I'm sure by now it's many more.

Our neighbors two doors down lost one of the big trees in their back yard. Luckily, it didn't fall on their house or the shop. I spoke to my father, who lives about 140 miles north of us, and he's lost so many trees on his land that he thinks he'll have about twelve ricks of wood to cut when the storm and its aftermath are over. It's no wonder the trees are coming down.

The ice is thick on everything. When I took the dogs out Monday morning in the ice covered grass, I laughed so hard I nearly cried. Jack gingerly picked his way across the yard, refusing to pee until we found some soft grass under the blackjack oak. Maddy didn't really walk across the yard. Once we were off the patio, she jumped and hopped. I think she was trying to get across the ice, thinking if she hopped just once more, things would return to normal. It was one of the funniest things I've ever seen a dog do.

Our yard backs up to a hay field. We haven't yet put up a fence, so the back of our yard is still marked by barbed wire. Just behind the fence there are little trees and bushes. They are all covered with ice and glistened in the little bit of sun that broke through the clouds.

The ice is on everything. I couldn't open the doors of my car this morning, even with de-icer. I had to resort to heat and a windshield scraper. Icicles hang in a thick fringe from the eaves. We had to pull one of the trash cans inside the garage and let it thaw just to take the trash out of the house. The little bushes in the front yard are so heavy with ice they are bending to touch the ground.

More freezing rain was forecast for Tuesday, but at 11:30pm the temperature in the Oklahoma City metro was 34 degrees F. It looks like the worst of it is behind us. For this storm, anyway.

My lovely daughter turns seventeen years old today. She told me she thought the weather turned at just the right time. Late enough that school was called off . . . so she gets a snow day for her birthday.

Our Town

The play was really wonderful. All of the kids were fantastic in their roles. Kevin, the young man who played the stage manager and narrated the play was amazing. Sometimes when you see kids take on a play as sophisticated and stylized as "Our Town", the result is lackluster. But this young man committed himself to the role and had no inhibitions about the way he might appear onstage. He set the tone for the whole play. I was impressed.







The play is staged with minimal sets and no props. Our lovely daughter came down a set of stairs to the raised platform holding a table and chairs that served as her home. She pantomimed her way through making breakfast as Kevin narrated the scene. When she called to her "children" halfway through the scene, I was startled by her voice. She had changed her intonation and meter, and she sounded almost matronly. My husband leaned over and said, "She sounds just like you."





Apparently women spent a lot of time snapping beans at the turn of the century. And cooking. Other than attending her "daughter's" wedding and funeral, our lovely daughter and the other young lady playing a mother were cooking or snapping beans most of the time they were on stage.

A heart to heart with her daughter, about falling in love. (They talk while snapping beans, of course.)

The mother of the bride had a little monologue. Standing on stage in the spotlight, she voiced her concerns, worries and hopes for her daughter's impending marriage.

I don't have a good shot of it, but one of the most poignant moments in the play, for me anyway, came during the funeral scene in the third act. My daughter had no lines, but she was grieving, held in the arms of her daughter's husband. I could see her shoulders shaking. She was clutching at the young man's shoulders as he held her and seemed to whisper in her ear. I was quite surprised how much emotion she was able to convey with her back to the audience.

It was only later that she told me the young man spent the entire time telling her that he had killed his wife, and how, varying his method during each funeral scene. She was laughing, and trying desperately not to laugh out loud.



When the poor, dead girl left her grave and returned home to re-experience her twelfth birthday, it was heart wrenching. I have to admit to shedding a few tears.


"Way down deep, there is something that's eternal about every human being." Indeed.

This shot is of the entire cast and the crew. Our lovely daugher is middle left in her mama costume.

small town traffic court

Today was judgement day for our lovely daughter. She was summoned to court to answer for running into a school bus.

We arrived half an hour early, so we walked to Java Dave's for a warm drink. Even though we live in a large, metropolitan area, the suburb we live in is not that large and has a wonderful small town feel. The brick sidewalks are lined with lovely little shops selling clothing, antiques, gifts and art. It was a beautiful morning, cool but promising a warm afternoon. If it weren't for the fact we were downtown for court, I think we would have enjoyed it immensely.

We entered the municipal court and asked which of the two court rooms held the traffic court. The room was only a third full as we walked in and found a place to sit in the old style theater seating. As we waited the room filled up and we were grateful for our seats. The defendants with representation were heard first.

The judge was probably in his late forties or early fifties, and he handled the proceedings with kindness and humor. There was one youngish man who went before the judge for public intoxication. It was obvious the judge was familiar with him. Even though he handled most of the cases with hushed tones, we were near the front and could hear most of what transpired. I heard the judge say, "Do we have a special program for him, something like frequent flier miles?" I wanted to laugh, but repressed the urge. He asked the young man how he wanted to plead and was rewarded with a shoulder shrug. "Young man, I am trying to get you out of jail. How do you plead?" The answer was too soft to hear. The judge looked down at some paperwork, looked up at the young man and said, "This has to be some kind of record. You have 74 arrests for public intoxication." The woman to the judge's left informed him that the young man had been arrested 74 times this year. "There is really nothing I can do for you here, son. Bail is set at $10,000." The judge seemed upset about the whole situation.

After a while, those with representation had all been heard and the judge began to call the rest of the room. Our lovely daughter was the first person called who had actually bothered to show up. She froze, so I said, "Present", and we walked to the bench and stood before the judge. Keep in mind there was nothing at all intimidating about this judge or this court room. The bench wasn't raised, the room was small, the judge was personable. "Young lady, you have been cited for careless driving. You were involved in an accident, is that correct?" A head bob from my daughter. "You're sixteen?" Another head bob. "May I see your driver's license?" She hands him the license, which he looks at, then lays down on his desktop. "At your age, I should probably suspend your license temporarily. Tell me why you think you should be allowed to continue driving." Silence. Tears. I lower my head and speak softly, encouraging her to say something. Anything would do at this point. He hands her a tissue and tells her not to cry. As she continues to do just that and remain mute, the judge says, "I am going to keep this temporarily. Go sit back down and think about why I should give it back to you. And don't tell me because you won't do it again. I'll call you back up."

We sit back down and he continues on through the alphabet. After about 45 minutes of hearing people get fined and sentenced for speeding in a school zone, failing to wear a seat belt, or ignoring a signal, he calls her again. She almost immediately tears up.

"Young lady, do you know why I do this?" She manages a "no, sir". "Because your parents put you into a vehicle and trust that you will be safe. The absolute worst thing that can happen is that you are hurt in an accident. Was anyone hurt in your accident?" Another, "no, sir". He finally realizes she is never going to be able to get a whole sentence out of her mouth, let alone a defense of her driving skills. He looks at me and smiles, then says, "How are your grades, dear?" "Very good." "What is very good?" She tears up and chokes. I tell him she has seven classes, six As and one B. "Excellent. If I give this back to you today, do you promise to keep those grades up and work on making that B an A?" "Yes, sir", she says. I am praying he is almost done. Handing back her license, he says, "Alright, your sentence is deferred. If you do not receive another ticket in the next 90 days, this offense will be removed from your record. The fine is $244. Young lady, I do not want to see you in here again." She looks up at him and smiles and says, "Yes, sir, I won't let you down. Thank you, sir." Finally, he knows she can fashion a complete sentence.

We got into line and she paid $100 on the fine. We decided to make her pay it herself, thinking it would be a bit of a deterrent. We made it to the car before she started sobbing. "Mom, I'm so glad it's over!" I softly told her she got off easy, and that the judge was kind and gentle, and she was lucky we were living in a small town. She looked at me with disbelief and said, "If that was easy, I can never do anything illegal again. It will kill me."

My immediate thought was: Good.

on the run

Our lovely daughter called after school to say her truck wouldn't start. After I made sure that she remembered to put it in park before trying to start it (really), she revealed that perhaps she'd left the lights on all day. Well, crap, was all I could think to say. How's that for a positive and supportive mother? She had play practice after school, and a full dress rehearsal at 6:30pm, so I waited for hubby to get home, for company, and because I just don't like jumper cables.

About 7:15pm we drove our VW Passat to her high school, jumper cables in the trunk and Jack in tow. This isn't the first time I've had to rescue her, so I knew just where her assigned parking spot sits on the enormous school lot. After hubby hooked the cables up, he said we needed to charge it a while and I should take Jack for a walk. I hadn't brought his leash, but we were in a completely fenced parking lot. There is a thin sliver of grass running between the curb and the chain link fence, a perfect place for Jack to walk. So I got him out of the back seat of the car and sat him down. He was off like a shot, going in the wrong direction (toward the street), but came right back to me when I called. I picked him up, turned him around, and he ran for the corner. I walked leisurely along, knowing the fence would keep him in. That is, would have kept him in, had it been intact.

All the way from our house to the school, about a fifteen minute drive, hubby held Jack in his arms with the window rolled down and let Jack feel the wind on his face. He loved it, closing his eyes and craning his neck to catch as much of the breeze as possible. Maybe that's what put the idea into his head to run.

There is construction at the school, and the fence is down, but it's recent, and I didn't know. I yelled for Jack. He looked over his shoulder at me and in that instant, I knew he wasn't coming. I took off in a dead run toward him, which Jack saw as his cue to run faster. He veered left and ran up toward the auditorium. I cannot stress how large this parking lot is. I don't run a lot anymore because of a bad knee, but I can walk an hour on my treadmill at 4 mph with no problem. I ran flat out until I couldn't run anymore, then resorted to calling Jack. Every time I would stop running, Jack would find an interesting place to pee. I think he was just letting me catch up so he could make me chase him a little more. I finally caught up with him, not because he let me, but because he ran himself into a corner where the wings of the old and new buildings meet and couldn't get out. I picked him up and put him on my chest, his front legs over my shoulder, the easiest way to carry him now that he's too big to be tucked under my arm. Then I sat out on the two mile trek back to the truck in the parking lot. I'm really not kidding.

As I walked past the auditorium, I saw a blue light and was drawn to the open exterior door. Across the large foyer, the door to the auditorium was propped open, probably for the cool night air. Standing there outside with the dog in my arms, I had a perfect view of my lovely daughter from stage right, pantomiming a scene from "Our Town". She was in full costume with her ashy blonde hair piled on top of her head, my Capezios peeking out from under the full skirt. It was quiet, and I was winded, so I stood there and watched the silent scene.

I watched maybe five minutes before it occurred to me that hubby probably wondered where the hell I had gone. I started at a fast pace back toward the parking lot just to see him, in her truck, coming along the path Jack and I had run. He was quite amused and quipped that he would have liked to see me chase Jack. Smart ass.

We retrieved the VW and parked her truck near the auditorium under a streetlight. I drove hubby around behind the auditorium to show him where I spied on our daughter. We watched for a few minutes from the car as she poured transparent liquid from a non-existent pitcher into imaginary glasses. I felt calm and serene, sitting in the dark with my husband and our dog, watching her in that ethereal blue light.

Jack almost always comes when I call him. I like to think there was a reason he didn't tonight. Without that little wild chase, I would never have seen her like that, bathed in blue light, blonde hair shining, pale skin shimmering, her performance peaceful in a way it will never be when I can hear her words.

sometimes . . .

it sucks to be me.

Yesterday was one of those times. The morning started nicely. Hubby was off work as it was his birthday (happy birthday sugar). We slept in and the children got themselves up and ready for school. Such good kids! Hubby and I had a leisurely breakfast and lingered over coffee (him) and tea (me). He had golfing to do and I had shopping to do. I left the table first to shower and dress. When I returned to tell him the shower was his, I got a terrible look.

"That was your daughter's principal." Why is she always MY daughter when he's unhappy? I politely ignored the incorrect pronoun and asked why. There was an accident. Our lovely daughter hit another car in the truck my father gave her. Well, not another car, exactly. A bus. A schoolbus. Full of children. With her brother in the front seat.

I got into my car and drove to the high school. The ladies in the office sent for her. She started crying when she rounded the corner and saw me looking her way. She wiped her eyes. I told her she looked pretty good for a girl who had an accident that morning. Her response, "Well, this is really good mascara, Mom. It's waterproof." We got into my car and drove over to her parking lot (it's a pretty big high school). My husband had been told it wasn't a bad accident. I was expecting a dented bumper.

What I saw: a passenger door that wouldn't open, a cracked headlight and annhilated turn signal cover, a crumpled hood and hanging bumper. That was when I started to cry. Not one, but two of my children were inside when it was hit. Or, more accurately, when it hit something.

We did some serious talking and I told her things would be ok, then sent her back into school. I started making the necessary phone calls. First, Daddy. I told him what happened, that I was sorry, that she was alright. My father, who almost literally hit the ceiling when I had my first accident, said, "Baby, it's just a truck. Drive it home to me and I'll get it fixed." And I started to cry again. Daddy then reminded me of his birthday the year I was sixteen. When I wrecked his truck. Caved in the back of the cab with an oil field motor. With two of my cousins inside. And he laughed. I can assure you he did not think it was funny at the time.

By now it's 11:00am and I haven't even started the shopping. I had a cake to make for the elementary's cake walk and cookies to make for the middle school's bake sale. (Does it never occur to the powers that be that a family might have children in more than one school? I actually have one child in each of those PLUS another at the high school.) At this point there is no way I can shop and bake and drop everything off by 3:30pm, so I do what any resourceful and harried mother would do: I fake it. I buy a frosted cake and two dozen cookies at my favorite local bakery, take them home, put the cake into the box the school provided, put the cookies on a paper plate, cover them with saran wrap, and proceed to deliver them to the schools as if I had made them myself. So sue me. I'd had a bad day.

And it wasn't over. I inadvertently locked poor little Streudel in the master suite with no food, no water, and no litter box. I have a lovely bathroom with a tile floor. He did not choose to urinate there. He did not even choose to urinate on the carpet. The damn cat peed on my bed. Twice.

I think that's about it. Oh, wait, I didn't even tell you about taking hubby to the after hours clinic. He played golf and pulled a muscle deep in his shoulder somewhere. On his birthday. He did get some really good muscle relaxers, though. I think I'm going to take one and go to bed.

the high school play

Lovely daughter came home with wonderful news yesterday. Actually, she called me from school because she was so excited. The she called her daddy and her grandparents and her friends... She has been cast in one of the main parts of this year's school play!

The high school is doing "Our Town". A bitty, tiny little girl with a sweet, adolescent voice has been cast as Emily. Lovely daughter, with her deeper voice and more grown up figure, has been cast as Emily's mother.

This is not her first play. She has had speaking parts previously in "The Odd Couple", "Amadeus", and a couple of student-written productions. She served as stage manager and assistant director, and the voice of Myra, for a production of Neil Simon's "Rumors".

But this is her first play at the new school. She is taking theater production this year. Her teacher had already spoken to her about the assistant director spot because of her current class and her previous experience, but after tryouts, the teacher called her in and asked if she'd mind being cast instead because the teacher thought she was "perfect" in auditions. Pretty cool.

As has been previously noted, our lovely daughter is somewhat dramatic. When she was little and became upset she didn't just cry. She worked up to it. First, she would check for her audience. Then she would begin by poking out her little bottom lip. Next, the eyes would fill with tears and her nose would wrinkle. She would screw up her tiny little face and start to sob quietly, then throw herself over, bending at the waist onto whatever surface she was on, whether it was the bed, the sofa, the changing table, or the tile floor in the kitchen. I can remember thinking she was going to give herself a concussion. Then the sobbing and wailing would begin in earnest. I used to put a blanket in her bedroom floor, lay her on it, and leave the room. Once her audience disappeared, it was quite amazing how quickly the sobs would stop.

Honestly, I'm grateful that she's found an outlet for all that drama. She's far too big for me to pick her up now.

Picture one: Lovely daughter is on the left in black and red, onstage in "Amadeus".

driver education (the practical kind)

My lovely daughter has been scaring the bejeezus out of us.

Daddy thought it would be a smart and grandfatherly thing to give her a vehicle for her sweet sixteen. He decided on a pick-up truck. It was just sitting around one of the farms and was not really much the worse for wear. Rather large, though. She is delighted with it.

I have cleaned it, washed it, buffed it and made sure it's full of oil and gas and antifreeze. I bought her an FM transmitter in order to run her mp3 player through the stereo. As Daddy would say, she's in tall cotton.

Having a child drive is really a terrifying business. Riding with her is nerve wracking and I make her quite nervous. Letting her go out alone is bone chilling.

Two nights ago she went to a friend's house to watch movies and listen to records. Believe it or not, she isn't the only 16 year old in town with a turntable. But I digress. There is an 11pm curfew for teenagers. It was the first time she drove in the dark. She could not find the switch for the headlights. Her friends could not find the switch for the headlights. (I am wondering about their collective common sense.) She drove home SANS HEADLIGHTS while her friend followed to be sure she made it. Her father made enormous noise about this. I am quite sure she won't do it again. Of course, it never occurred to me that she would do it once.

A couple of days ago I noticed one of her tires was a bit low. I put air into the tire with hubby's handy air compressor and told her to watch the tire in case it went flat. Yesterday she made two trips to the library, apparently without ever checking the tire. It was flat as a pancake this morning, and I feared it was ruined just from the way it looked. I made a quick trip for a can of fix-a-flat, put air into the tire, and woke her up at an unreasonable hour to drive to the tire store. They just called to say the tire was not ruined and the flat is fixed. She is a lucky girl. Her father would have had a field day with this one.

I think I'll just lecture her myself. And continue to pray.