The Highway Maker

Photo property of Erik Johansson 

http://erikjohanssonphoto.com/

    The road to the city was once a four lane interstate that deteriorated over the years under the weight of big trucks.  While I was not invited to the Highway Department planning meeting, I learned late that the road would be replaced.  One day the highway was there and then suddenly it wasn't.  Giant equipment moved in like something out of a Dr. Seuss book and broke concrete, stirred dust, ripped out the highway and carried it away.  It seemed to happen overnight.  I still question where one carries off an entire interstate to, but I'm certain there is a mountain of concrete around here somewhere. 

   The southbound lanes are now shared for traffic coming and going and all of us can watch as the other side of the highway is carried away and is now being rebuilt.  It is a strange sight to see miles of dirt where once a highway stood.  But the most amazing thing is the giant machine they brought in, that we have named The Highway Maker.  It appears that as this monster machine slowly moves forward, it spits out a freshly poured thick slab of interstate.  Much like the EZ Bake oven, there is nothing on one side and yet magically, a perfect product rolls out the opposite side of the machine.   It's nothing short of magical. Insistent that we capture a photo of this giant wonder, I pressured my children to hang out of the car windows with cell phones in hand as I drove precariously close to a concrete retainer wall that separated us from oncoming death, screaming, "Did you get it? Did you get it?" My son gave it his best, but we were unable to capture a decent photo of this machine in its full glory as we drove by at reduced speeds in single file.  Had we taken the picture below, it would be proof that we had made a wrong turn and were currently driving in Portugal. 

Picture by www.GOMACO.com

    I am incredibly intrigued with the idea of being able to drive a machine that spits out a new road to anywhere.  The power of such a tool is endless. I picture Dr. Seuss's Sneeches with stars on their bellies driving The Highway Maker over mountains and through deserts and possibly across oceans at very high rates of speed. Before long, we would have a spaghetti bowl of highways and byways and exits and more.   People would be coming and going and crossing each other's path until it was a giant maze of confusion. The road making would never cease because the Highway Maker, properly known as the Slipform Paver, is wider than the road itself, so it obviously would have to keep making road to continue forward to anywhere. It's mind boggling when you think about it.  

    With half the highway gone, we now drive on the left and share lanes with oncoming traffic.  I have always been happy knowing that we drive on the right.  I find comfort in that simple rule.  Upset that constant and things begin to get strange.  My daughter is most concerned about this as she has always had some internal formula for determining if traffic is coming or going and while we've found no logic in her assessment of travel patterns, she is undoubtedly certain which side is coming and which side is going. On our way to the city, on the wrong side of the highway, she declared that we were "going."  The people on the other side of the concrete wall were "coming."  I asked if we would be coming or going when we were on the other side and she was quick to let me know that we would obviously be going. It leaves me bumfuzzled.  

    The Highway Maker is definitely going and will be in a perpetual state of "going" as it lays down an endless road of concrete to new and wondrous places.  Trapped by the nature of it's own existence, it will never be coming or returning, as a road once traveled is all the Highway Maker will ever know. 

   I wish for just an hour or two that my kids and I could jump aboard this fantastic machine, sit under the cool umbrella, shift the gears, raise the flag, mold some concrete, sip on a cool drink and lay down a new path at 105 feet per minute.  It would be empowering! 

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Thank you Eric for letting me use your very cool photo! -m

Dog Days of Summer

   As a hurricane nears ours shores and a faint, cool breeze blows the remnants of summer away, the Fall football season is upon us and with that comes football games, cheerleaders, and a strong need for a professional organizer and a personal dry cleaner armed with a "Tide To Go" stick.  Let me explain...

 
   My daughter is one of those cheerleaders and great effort has gone into preparations for our Fall kick off event known as "Dog Days" where kids are given their first opportunity to take to the football field and show the world their skills.   After selling hundreds of dollars worth of ads and bulldog magnets, securing just the right outfits with matching bows, t-shirts and rain gear, and paying for private lessons with Cirque du Soleil to perfect a tumbling pass on the sidelines, we were ready for Dog Days and all the joy that comes with it.    

   The afternoon of the event, my child was missing in action as she and her father were tooling around town running errands, sipping on snow cones and enjoying their afternoon without a care in the world.  They are much alike and operate in their own timezone, not shared with any other people that I know. Like a crazy woman, I tracked them down and redirected them back to our house so we could get ready and go.  In minutes, she was dressed, packed and out the door.

   As we arrived at the field, my daughter hopped out of the car with great excitement.  Before I could exit the vehicle, she had rounded the hood and was coming at me like a freight train with that look on her face of complete panic.  I've seen this look many times before and knew that it meant we had either forgotten something vitally important, I had just run over a kitten, or that I was about to be introduced to    some type of problem that would require precision time management skills and a race to some store twenty miles away. 

   This time, it was simply a bow we had forgotten, and I raced home to retrieve the black and silver hair accessory that went with her crisp, white uniform.  I had five minutes to drive ten miles and decided it would be wise to entertain moving closer to the school and save myself a nervous breakdown sure to be drawn out slowly over the next five years of school.     

   Back at the stadium again, the girls in white, ran off to practice and we took our places in the stands armed with a variety of cameras, zoom lenses and mobile upload devices.   It was sweltering hot as it had been all summer and the occasional hint of a breeze was a welcome relief. We had been in drought conditions for the past three months and I would like to state that the odds of locating a puddle of mud were a million to one, unless you were my child and you were dressed in a bright white, shiny uniform with matching bow.  It didn't take long before I spied her coming at me, once again, like a steaming freight train, seeking me out in the midst of a crowd, wearing that same look of panic.  I took a deep breath and waited to see what impossible task was about to be thrown at me in hopes of a quick resolution.  I heard the panic in her voice and sensed a tear in her eye as she called out "Mom!"    She looked perfectly fine, so I couldn't imagine what could be wrong, until she turned around and it was clear to all that she was covered in mud from the bottom of her skirt to her neckline.  "How?" is all I could muster up.  It had been over a hundred degrees for months.  There was no water anywhere around.  And yet, somehow, she had managed to tumble right into the only mud puddle within 500 miles.  With a precision landing, her feet stuck firmly in the small body of watery goo that instantly shot mud splatters straight up the backside of her crisp, clean uniform.   

   With no time to race home, I pulled her into the nearest restroom, stripped her of her muddy white uniform, hand-washed it in the sink, beat it against my own jeans to try to dry it as much as I could and sent her back out on the field.  No one would know that her uniform was soaking wet. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for me, as I took my place back in the stands looking like I had been hosed down from my waist to my knees.   Eventually, Dog Days began and as the band marched around the field and the teams took their places, I looked out and saw both of my children, all of their friends and a sea of proud parents, none of whom would be focused on my child's wet uniform.  I settled back and settled down and enjoyed the show!

   Before the first game is upon us, I know that we must come up with a better plan that places both of us in the same timezone with a pre-flight checklist we should review before leaving the house.  I cannot continue to race against traffic or take over public restrooms without prematurely aging and knocking off years of my life.  It's time to truly get in the game.

   

Moose Cleaners Doesn't Clean Moose

   There is a small business in town which goes by the name Moose Cleaners.  The name, alone, brings me happiness and while I have never actually taken any clothing to Moose Cleaners, I enjoy knowing such a place exists.  We have passed by Moose Cleaners a million times as it serves as a landmark that sits on our path from the bookstore to Olive Garden.  

    Just this weekend, we turned that familiar corner on our way to get tasty Italian food and discovered, much to our chagrin, that Moose Cleaners was no more.  It had been replaced by Asian Nails and a Liquor Store.  We all stared in silence as we grasped the fact that change had come and our favorite cleaners, that we never used, was now gone. My daughter spoke up from the back seat and said, "Where will people get their moose cleaned now?"  This question begged more questions like, "Really?"  and "How many people do you know that have a moose... a moose that needs to be cleaned?"  She smiled and said, "Yeah, but wasn't it nice to know you could clean your moose if you wanted to."  I realized that my child did not truly think one could clean their moose there, but had grasped the fact that change had taken something away, even if it was just her belief in the possibility of something very cool.  Perhaps we should have supported Moose Cleaners and dropped off some dirty laundry there.  I could always do with less laundry.   Of course, an interesting thought crossed my mind.... what if I toted in a basket full of wrinkled shirts and pants only to discover that they only cleaned Moose.   That would have made my day! 

7Q8GH4AK5FUQ

In Search of Downy Goodness

If ever an intervention was needed, it would be led by a group of concerned friends and family as they tackled my large appliance issues.  I am currently on my third washing machine in a year as I cannot find one that actually cleans clothes and leaves them smelling Downy fresh.   

My first choice for cleaning laundry was a matching set of front loading appliances that were energy efficient and saved on water.  It only took a few wash cycles to realize that a tablespoon of water, spritzed on dirty laundry and spun at high rates of speed, would not clean one's clothes. I sat in front of the tiny oval window of the washer and watched as my clothes were spun around for almost an hour and wondered when the water would actually fill the unit and begin washing away dirt and grime.  After 57 minutes of gaping through the window, waiting to see bubbly suds, I had a better understanding of energy efficiency and water savings.  It wasn't long before the Lowe's truck arrived to haul away my high tech washer and replace it with a Whirlpool Cabrio, top loading unit, that appeared to be built to fill with sudsy water. I suspected I had violated some unspoken appliance code by breaking a set as the delivery man looked at me in disapproval. 

  Satisfied with my new purchase, I loaded the new unit with shirts and shorts and all kinds of dirty laundry and waited for my clean clothes.  A locking mechanism in the lid prevented me from looking in to see if the unit was full of water.  It was the first red flag that I had no control over this washer.  If I stopped the unit in mid wash, it would drain the water before it would unlock and allow me to peer inside as if it was hiding some great energy efficiency secret.   No matter how I tried, I was never able peel back the layers of locks and drain cycles to see if my clothes were swimming in glorious suds.   After 57 minutes of trying to outsmart my washer, the lock finally opened and my clothes were ready.  As I pulled them out, I noticed that they felt almost dry and were so wrinkled that no fabric softener or dryer sheet could ever get them smooth again.  

  A little internet search led me to groups of angry people who detest the Cabrio washer and it's wrinkled clothes.  I was not alone in my despair. Over the course of several months, I attempted to jimmy the lock and gain a better understanding of the ridiculously high rate of speed in which my washer spins my laundry. It became a madness of mine to resolve an issue that Whirlpool would not acknowledge and to figure out how to wash clothes in a tub of soapy water and have them finish in a semi-dry state without wrinkles.  It's not a big thing to ask for, but it's been completely out of my reach for almost a year. I studied this washer and learned about the Coriolis effect and the centripetal acceleration that spins my clothes into a giant wad of wrinkles. Without a physics teacher living in my laundry room to solve this problem, and no help from Whirlpool, I accepted defeat and ordered yet another washer.  

  I went to the store, with a crazed look in my eye, and my clothes not quite Downy fresh, and asked for the most energy inefficient, non-locking, environmentally unfriendly tub of a washer that they had.   My requirements were simple:  Fill with water, don't lock me out, and clean my clothes.  My very basic, super size washer arrived this week.  The same delivery man was sent to my home and unfortunately, he remembered me.  As he hauled away the perfectly fine $800 washer and replaced it with a simpler, kinder washer, he gave me that same look of disapproval.   As he stood in my all too familiar laundry room of mis-matched appliances, he looked me in the eye and asked, "Why?" All I could say is that I have washing machine issues.  As he drove off, he said he would see me again in a few weeks.  Sadly, I knew he was probably right. 

  I was instantly thrilled with my new unit that washed an entire load of clothes in 22 minutes and left them smooth and looking good.  It's been almost a week of laundry satisfaction and then, just this morning, I pulled my son's clean shirt out of the washer and noticed the faint smell of his cologne still lingering on the shirt.  Instant panic sat in as I suspected that this unit, while full of water, doesn't actually agitate properly, leaving the washing process completely ineffective. I'm back at square one and afraid to tell anyone of my new realization, as they may think I'm crazy.  I'll sit in front of this washer today and watch to see if an acceptable level of shaking and stirring is occurring.   I do hope it was my imagination and that nothing is wrong with my washer, because my next and only choice is a river rock and rapidly flowing water.   It is with high hopes that I will wait to see if my agitator agitates, my washer washes and my dryer dries. 

Who Forgot to Bring the Pack Mule

    I've discovered, recently, that people get to the beach in a variety of ways.  Some take shuttles, some walk foot-trails through the mangrove and others step right out their door to the sandy shores. Our path to the beach, this summer, included a double digit number of stairs that led us to the water's edge.  Navigating this staircase would take some pre-planning and possibly some beta blockers to ensure I made it back from the beach alive.


    At ten years of age, I would dart out that door to the beach with nothing but a bathing suit and a child-like excitement about what the day held in store.  In my 20's, I would grab some sunscreen and a cool beverage as I began my trek to the beach.  At 47, it's just not that simple anymore. I came to this great realization when I discovered that I had wedged myself between the front door and the staircase with a six foot raft and a foam boogie board.  One hand held an ipod dock, a bottle of sunscreen and the raft.  The other hand held a freshly made pina colada, a fluffy towel straight out of the dryer and my cell phone. A large bag full of snorkels, masks, chips, water shoes and enough medical supplies to perform surgery on the beach, hung from one shoulder.  One wrong move and it would all come tumbling down.  If I turned to open the door, the front of the raft blocked my exit. If I turned the opposite direction, the staircase caught the back of the raft and once again, my path of egress was blocked.  It was a vicious circle I had found myself in and there was no getting out until one of my kids flew through the door, breaking the raft free of its bonds, allowing me to leave without pouring a perfectly chilled coconut beverage all over myself.   It didn't help that I held my car keys in my mouth and was unable to yell for help. 


    Eventually, I did break free and made my way down the 57 wooden steps to the sea.  I'm certain I looked like some kind of peddler toting enough goods to set up a small convenience store on the beach.   Families rolled in with tents and coolers and wagons full of children all ready for a full day on the shore.  I sensed them eyeing my clever drink with frosty goodness and a tiny umbrella, knowing that the closest pool bar was twenty miles away.   Jimmy Buffett sang to me from my i-dock, the kids were slathered in SPF 30 titanium dioxide, and I settled back on my April Fresh fluffy towel to sip my drink and watch the kids.  I looked around at the small villages that we, as parents, had established on the beach to properly care for all the needs of our families and had to wonder who forgot to bring the pack mule.  Getting back up those steps of death would require assistance from a pack animal or a team of cardiologists.  I took comfort in my drink and left that worry for the day's end.  I was on the beach where worries disappear.   

The Magical Lure of The Emerald Coast

 

 

   There are some places in this world that are so wonderful that it's worth driving fourteen hours for, even if three of those hours are in bumper to bumper traffic moving at five miles an hour or less. This year's travel challenge is the Emerald Coast on the Fourth of July Holiday.  Families from all over the southeast made their pilgrimage to the Florida beaches for that traditional four o'clock check-in at one of the thousands of condos on the water.  Ours is situated between Destin and Panama City Beach somewhere east of pricey Seaside and west of Barrett Square, with it's cobblestone streets and picture perfect families on bikes. 

   On one of our many summer trips to Florida, I longed to be that family of happy cyclists and we loaded up five bicycles in the back of a truck that followed my car all the way to the beach.  As we took to the streets with no helmets on, I was quick to interpret the looks from fellow cyclists that let me know I was endangering my children who wore no protective gear, other than sunscreen.  We were from the country where kids drove all terrain vehicles before they could walk.  I think their heads were in much more danger then.  We made it about 200 feet from the condo when I began to hear the first complaint that it was much too hot for this.  I clung to that image of us rolling down the sidewalk with the breeze in our hair and happiness in our hearts.  We pushed on a few blocks more and stopped for t-shirts and water.  It was fast approaching a hundred degrees and nobody wanted to be peddling a bike around.  As we dripped sweat and gasped for air, I realized it was not happiness in our hearts, but possibly a blockage and lack of oxygen. I led us home, before one of us, most likely me, had a stroke.  We arrived safely back to the condo and never touched a bicycle again.  We now play a game called, "What's the cyclist really thinking?" as we drive past them in our air-conditioned vehicle headed somewhere in the cool.
    
   After coming to terms with who we really are, our condo selection fits us perfectly, now.  We are a few steps from the beach and a few steps from the pool, giving us immediate access to water activities all day long. In between the two, we have a balcony where we can sip tropical drinks and watch the waves roll in, my favorite vacation activity of all.  My bicycle is 600 miles away and I could not be happier. 

    The first day here, I sat on the beach and looked to my right where I could see Seaside and I looked to my left where I could see the towers of Panama City Beach.   I thought back to the many trips I have made to these beaches and one of the most pleasant ones was to the Sandpiper Beacon Hotel in Panama City Beach when I was ten years old.

    I remember leaving my grandparents home, just after midnight, to make that long journey to the coast in a station wagon with my mother, father, brother and cousins.  There was a special place in the back of the vehicle where two tiny seats faced sideways. If you were small enough and could squeeze your feet between the suitcases and the Coleman cooler, you could make this a comfy spot for most of the ride, as long as you weren't prone to car sickness, vertigo, seizures, or simply bothered by seeing the country fly past you at 70 miles an hour.  You saw nothing coming and nothing going for ten hours, simply a blur of farmland and rice fields flying past in a continuous sweep of color that the eyes could not follow for too long.    

    While parts of the trip have faded from memory, I have snapshots in my mind of my family standing on the balcony of our hotel, happy and complete for the time being.   I remember our friend Bennie Hughes arriving in his brand new corvette, looking like Burt Reynolds. He was much like the favorite uncle who made everything wonderful and fun. Sandwiches and Kool-Aid were the menu choices for lunch and it didn't get any better. We learned that a non-sailing family should learn the difference in a shark and a dolphin before renting a catamaran and taking to the open water.  We moved as a large group and got air-brush t-shirts, went deep sea fishing, rode the rides at the Miracle Strip and went to Spinnakers nightclub, where I saw my first glimpse of a bar. The people in those memories are important to me and most have gone their separate ways now.   As I sit on the beach today and think back to the fun that has been found here, I wonder where these people from my past have all gone and hope that they still love the beach as much as I do.  It was magical then and still holds that same gift for those who are brave enough to face the traffic and the masses and make their way here, whether it's in a corvette, an air-conditioned SUV, or a truck full of bikes. 

    My children have the same love of the water as I do and our trips to the beach are just as great as a 1970's trip to the Sandpiper Beacon. Instead of grape Kool-aid, it is a pink-lemonade snow cone from Frost Bites that we crave. We still haven't learned to correctly identify dark objects in the water and confuse dolphins with sharks and seaweed with sting rays.  We continue to venture out into the open water, paddling our foam boards, knowing we look like seals and hoping the sharks fed early.  The beach and the water call to us, often from 600 miles away. I hope that one day my children take their place on the sand, early in the morning, with a cup of coffee in hand, nobody around, look east and then look west and smile as those snapshots in their mind come back one after another. I'm certain some of the faces in their photos will be gone, just as they are in mine, but I hope they understand the treasure that is held in those memories and know that it is greater than any loss can ever take away from them.   

 Panama City Beach

1970's

Not my family... but certainly could have been.

Someone, smarter than I, thought to catch it on film.  

Wingdings and Chain Gangs

    My son has been helping me create a video for a going away party at work.  He has crazy, good editing skills and my job is to sit in the background, providing snacks and chilled drinks while he works his madness with the photos I have provided.  He zips through screens, clicking and copying and selecting computer options I didn't even know exist.  While choosing the font for the narrative, we ran across an old friend... the "Wingdings" font of Microsoft Word.  I've never really understood what this series of odd symbols was used for.  While it has been rumored to hide anti-semitic messages and 911 references, I highly doubt that anyone is going to take the time to type out a cryptic message of terror in Microsoft word using wingdings and curly font. That being said, I have been guilty of using a few symbols in my text messages of fear sent to my children when they don't answer their cell phones.  "Call Your Mother NOW" is usually followed with a frowny face, an exclamation point and a man in a bathtub.  For the life of me, I can't figure out how anyone could find a way to tuck that icon into a message, so I choose to use it every chance I get.  I will follow it with "grrrrr" and a heart symbol to reassure them that while I'm mad, I still love them.  They will certainly be in therapy over all of this by the time they are thirty.  

    Back to the video....after selecting the perfect font, background music and precise layout of pictures, I chilled his un-sweet tea to the proper temperature, dropped a Russian tea cake in his mouth, spun around in the office chair a few more times and stopped suddenly when he announced the most disturbing thing.. "I think I'm supposed to be in traffic court today?"  What!?!    Two thoughts instantly came to mind. How could anyone wait until the day of court to wonder if it is their day in court, and, secondly....Did I send in the deposit for our beach rental? I realize that the second thought was random, but that is how one's brain works after they have twirled around in a chair for twenty minutes and are suddenly thrown against the proverbial brick wall with incomprehensible information.

    I gathered my family, none of whom wanted to miss Joey's day in court, and headed out like a herd of turtles to traffic court. My family is incapable of moving quickly as a group, as someone has always forgotten something or we need to make stops for water, gas, or possibly chicken on a stick.  We made it to the courthouse with minutes to spare.  Knowing my family's curse of being unable to navigate through a security check point with ease, we cleared our pockets of cell phones, electronic gaming devices, pocket knives and nail files and entered the courthouse.  Of course, I was the one was brought down in shame as the security guard snatched my purse from the x-ray machine and shoved his arm into the depths of mystery that is the contents of my purse.  I stood frozen, not knowing what contraband I might be toting unaware, as he pulled out my government cell phone. Dang... I had forgotten about my second phone.  After giving me that look of disgust, he rummaged through a gathering of lip glosses, coupons, pony tail holders and feminine hygiene products to ensure I wasn't trying to bring in anything deadly.   I smiled kindly, as he invaded my privacy, and I remembered the dried up lizard I had pulled out of my son's pocket years ago while doing laundry. I wished it was in my purse even though none of this was his fault. 

    We made our way to the courtroom completely unaware that there were two courtrooms... one for criminal court and one for traffic court. And yes... we took our seats in criminal court, not knowing that the judge would soon be looking for the missing teenager two doors down. While waiting for the court to start, my daughter was demonstrating her one handed knot tying skills with pony tail holders. It was an impressive trick and I, of course, had to learn this skill immediately.  It appears I didn't have the finger dexterity of a child and pony tail holders were flying across the courtroom as they shot off of my fingertips.  Court was not in session yet, so, it was simply pre-court entertainment for the other traffic offenders, or so we thought.   I now understand why the man in front of us sat huddled over, head in hands, in great despair.  It wasn't because of flying pony tail holders, the small family circus I travel with or the threat of a traffic violation.  He was there for something much more serious. 

    The judge entered and it was the mother of one of my son's good friends.  We settled back in false hope that this might go our way.  The first person called to the stand had a last name that began with "A." This could work out nicely, as  we should be out early if they were moving in alphabetical order.  Unfortunately, the next move was completely unexpected and left us all with our mouths open, chins on the floor.  After Mr. "A" was carted off to jail, the bailiff brought in the chain gang!  My son's eyes were wide as saucers and my daughter sat frozen to her seat.  The group moved in unison steps as the chains that bound their arms and legs clinked across the courtroom.  I looked at my son and said, "See, that's what happens if you miss court."   He found no humor in that statement and was still in a mild state of shock. We listened to the tails of larceny, burglary and battery and I wondered where failure to yield came into play in this courtroom of non-moving violations.    As the criminals were escorted away, one by one, the room cleared and I assumed that our friend's mother, the judge, was possibly holding my son's case for last so she could visit with him privately and say hello.  I was clearly wrong as a new bailiff approached and informed us we were wanted in the courtroom next door.  We gathered our pony tail holders and sunken spirits from the floor and moved as a group to the next courtroom, clearly marked "Traffic Court."  I didn't feel too bad about our mistake as I knew our courtroom had been much more entertaining than what we were about to enter.  We opened the courtroom doors and I prayed that my daughter would not ask, once again, for all to hear, if this was Judge Judy's court.  The room was packed and we were forced to move to the front of the courtroom, making it clear to all that we were late, loud, and probably going down in flames soon. We took our seats quietly trying to disappear into the crowd. Suddenly, I heard my name being called in a whisper from three rows back.  More attention was the last thing we needed.  Surely, I didn't know somebody in court.  It was a former employee of mine and he wanted to let me know that they had already called my son's name. I thanked him and told him our story in few words and hand gestures, pointing to the other courtroom.  What I needed was a Wingding message that said, "We're idiots - The judge is going to kill us."   

Did you really de-code this?  Good for you! 

    It wasn't long before my son took his place in front of the judge and I have to say that he could not have been any kinder to my child.  Joey walked up with head high, shoulders back, took responsibility for his actions and followed every statement with "sir."  "Yes sir, No sir." While I could not hear everything that was said, I could make out a discussion about where my child would go to college and about bringing those new found skills back to our community some day. While I had new found skills of tying a knot with one hand, I'm certain I should not bring those back to the courtroom ever. 

    As we headed out the doors of the correct court, I heard the judge yell at the next person before him, "Stand Up Straight When I'm Talking To You."  I breathed a sigh of relief, said goodbye to the security guard and headed in the other direction than the pour souls in stripes and chains.  While everyone is entitled to their day in court, I know that I would prefer my day elsewhere and am thankful for the good children that I am blessed with.     

(Thank you Katie A for asking for another story)