Easter with Bebe.

Long before Strasburg for Children became available within driving distance of Middlesboro, I had three options for an Easter frock: Ann's Fashions in Middlesboro, the Yum Yum Tree in Halls, and my mamaw Addie's sewing machine. For the first several years of my life, my Easter dress was made from fabric my mamaw found at the flea market and pieced together (better than Dolly's coat of many colors) to make a dress frilly enough to be southern and appropriate enough to honor the Easter holiday. The best part about Mamaw making my dress was the fact I never had to try it on in a store. I could ride my bike down the road to her house, try it on, and head right back to the mud puddle I left in the first place. I watch television shows about Fashion Weeks in New York and Milan, and I shake my head in humor. If the world's top designers want a real challenge, bring them to Appalachia and ask them to design Easter dresses to please a Southern Baptist momma. Designing Pippa Middleton's wedding dress (should she ever need one) would be a lot easier.


My Easter dresses were never allowed to be red. As I got older, my mother shared this scripture with me from Matthew 27:

28And they stripped him, and put on him a scarlet robe.
It didn't take a lot of time for me to start understanding that my Easter adventures with Mom were an opportunity for her to teach me the true meaning of the holiday.

As I got older, I learned of a magical place where a castle stood. Well, not technically a castle, but close. This magical land was called Asheville, and once upon a time, a family named Vanderbilt lived there. Their house was the type that fairy tales were made of, and they called the castle Biltmore. Not too far from Biltmore, after winter had passed and the crocus began to peek through the grass, hundreds of dresses would burst into spring in every possible color with the perfect pleating, bows, ruffles, and gathers. Those dresses were designed by Ruth, and her last name must have been, "of Carolina."

When my mom could stand a road trip with me long enough to go over the river and through the woods in our little green Maverick, we'd travel to see the works of Ruth of Carolina, and I would wait for hours while Mom delicately removed each and every dress in my size from the rack to examine its poofiness potential.

It's at this point that I need to explain something to you. You need to know that my mom wasn't searching for a dress for her daughter to make me look any cuter than I already was. My mom and I were on a pilgrimage of sorts because Bebe Campbell was looking for a dress to honor the day the stone was rolled away.

Whether the dress came from North Carolina, Knoxville, or Middlesboro, the quest was always an opportunity for teaching me more about our faith and the importance of Easter. Every single piece of my "Easter Ensemble" had a spiritual purpose. Why did I "need" a new dress at Easter? I didn't need it, but I needed to learn the lesson attached to clean, white cloth at Easter:

Matthew 27

59 And when Joseph had taken the body, he wrapped it in a clean linen cloth,
60 And laid it in his own new tomb, which he had hewn out in the rock: and he rolled a great stone to the door of the sepulchre, and departed.

My little purse. Every year, I had a tiny little satin purse to match my Easter dress. Sometimes the purse would be covered in lace and pearls. Sometimes it would be simple and smooth. I loved having a satin purse because it felt like my favorite silk pillow, which I was never allowed to take to church but surely wish I could have. My papaw Steve played the major role with my little Easter purse. That should shock none of you. Each Easter, he'd give me a plastic sandwich bag filled with 30 quarters and secured at the top with a bread tie to take to the offering as my "30 Pieces of Silver." Why you ask? Because....

Matthew 26:14-16 (KJV)
Then one of the twelve, called Judas Iscariot, went unto the chief priests, And said unto them, What will ye give me, and I will deliver him unto you? And they covenanted with him for thirty pieces of silver. And from that time he sought opportunity to betray him.

And, based on what I've read, thirty pieces of silver was the price, the lowest price you could pay, for a slave according to the Old Testament (Exodus 21:32). Which, as I've gotten older, makes the story of 30 pieces of silver mean even more to me.

So, let's see here, dress? Check. Purse? Check. 30 pieces of silver? Check.

You know, those little purses were tiny, and I had to keep a death grip on them to make sure my papaw's silver didn't fall out. I guess he knew that and that's why he always put the coins in a bag with a bread tie closure. He was always watching out for my best interest.

Shoes. Shoes. Shoes. You don't wear white shoes after Labor Day, but you may wear white shoes on and after Easter. Again, modern designers who argue that southern tradition should do their research. If you want to know where the "white at Easter" rule comes from, read this,

Matthew 28

2And, behold, there was a great earthquake: for the angel of the Lord descended from heaven, and came and rolled back the stone from the door, and sat upon it.
3His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow:

My mom took me to Premiere Shoe Store up in the Junction to buy my Easter shoes. When you walked in Premiere, there was a big red goose in a coin operated machine on the right. If you put a quarter in the machine, the red goose would hatch a golden egg for you. Inside the egg, there were all sorts of goodies: gum, rings, and stickers. The deal was I had to be cooperative during shoe shopping in order to get my golden egg. Mom and I would wander through the aisles of Buster Brown and Stride Rite. Someone would measure my foot to make sure the pending white patent leather purchase would have enough growth room to last from Easter until the Sunday before Labor Day. After measurement, I had to try on both shoes with my new ruffled bobby socks that Mom had in her purse. Sometimes, chilly weather required I wear tights, and that was always a disappointment. Ruffled socks were way more fun. I remember carefully stepping up and down those dark, heavy wooden floors while Mom inspected my trot. If the patent leather was shiny enough, if I didn't walk like a Clydesdale in them, and if there was absolutely no heel on them what so ever, I was allowed to take the Mary Jane style shoes home....with a golden egg.

Why all the fuss about Easter shoes? My momma's daughter was going to appear in church on Easter Sunday with new shoes to keep me firm in my foundation of faith which was still a work in progress as a little girl.

Hair bows. The hair bow industry has grown into something that almost scares me. I am so very thankful that so many options weren't available for my long locks back when No More Tangles was as high tech as my hair product ever got. Most Easters, I had a hair bow to match my dress. The bow was a simple piece of twisted yarn or satin, and Mom used it to finish off either one pony tail or two. Sounds so sweet and innocent. Sweet and innocent stopped with the shoes.

Since I had long, stringy hair that stretched almost down to my buttocks, Mom HAD to get the situation under control for Easter. The Easter enemy lived in the hallway closet. The enemy lived in a shoe box. It stayed under the cover of darkness for 364 days a year, but the night before Easter, that box came out and I tried to hide under the bed, in the basement, and even under the car outside. You 40-somethings know what was in that box. The pink sponge rollers. The color is so misleading. Such a lovely shade of pink. Bright. Cheerful. Festive. They're as wicked as the Big Bad Wolf in Grandma's clothing.

I don't care what tradition says about the Easter Bunny. Here's the only Easter Bunny story you need to know.

I'm sure technology didn't allow for the actual sponge part way back when the Easter Bunny thing got started, but I'm sure there was a similar torture device. After a daughter had her head scrubbed until absolutely no flake, no dirt, nor fleck of dust was to be found, she had to sit still and let it dry straight by the fire. In order to bribe said girl to sit still, the desperate mother came up with the idea of the Easter Bunny. So, with thoughts of candies, colored eggs, and a yoyo or jump rope, the silly girl sat still. A little brother walked by while the girl's hair was drying, and heard the tale, so he got sucked into the Easter Bunny broo-haa-haa. Fair is fair. Dad shaved brother's head, perhaps. After the girl's hair dried, the rollers surfaced from a hidden location, too. Each section of hair was evenly divided. With great care and the strength of a giant, the mother pulled each section straight as an arrow and rolled it up so tightly on the girl's head that the follicles beneath the rollers were wet because they, too, were weeping in pain. With each roller, the girl probably protested, and the mother threatened her with the Easter Bunny. By the time the entire hair rolling escapade ended, the girl was out of tears, had no feeling between her ears, and just lay down for the night in pure exhaustion. Her mother probably just searched around the house for a few goodies to leave as compensation for the inflicted pain....must have had plenty of eggs in the hen house is all I know. That's how I think we got the Easter Bunny. Moving on..

I spent many Easter Eves cringing in pink sponge rollers. Every time I dared to start to complaining of hair pain before bedtime, here's what my mom would tell me from Matthew 27:

26Then released he Barabbas unto them: and when he had scourged Jesus, he delivered him to be crucified.27Then the soldiers of the governor took Jesus into the common hall, and gathered unto him the whole band of soldiers.
28And they stripped him, and put on him a scarlet robe.
29And when they had platted a crown of thorns, they put it upon his head, and a reed in his right hand: and they bowed the knee before him, and mocked him, saying, Hail, King of the Jews!
30And they spit upon him, and took the reed, and smote him on the head.
31And after that they had mocked him, they took the robe off from him, and put his own raiment on him, and led him away to crucify him.

And after she explained that scripture in words my childlike mind could understand, I knew I could wear those pink sponge rollers if Jesus wore a crown of thorns. And I snuggled up to my silk pillow and drifted off to sleep knowing what the morning would bring

We didn't have chickens, but if we would have, they would have still been asleep when we got up way before anything that cackled or crowed on Easter.

Mom always let me take the pink sponge rollers out of my hair, and that made me feel so grown up. I'd sit on a stool in the kitchen and unroll the masses of hair while she perfected each strand. The rollers would go back in the box NOT TO BE SEEN for another year. I would sit down and watch Cas Walker, Jay Bazel & Miz Mull while Mom got everything but her dress ready for church. She kept her bathrobe on while I got ready because there was always potential for bloodshed, and A.D. Campbell's wasn't open on Easter morning for her to get a replacement dress.

First, ruffle bottom bloomers were a fashion must. They were our "little secret." Had I shown them in public, she would have whipped the ruffles flat. I was always careful to conceal them, but I was proud to wear them, too. After the bloomers, came the slip. The slip had always had a skirt that was fluffy with layers, but not so many as to make me look like I should have been clogging in Silver Dollar City. After the slip, she carefully took my dress and pulled it over my head, which was actually numb by this point because the blood had stopped flowing to my hair follicles at some point in the night. She patiently raised the zipper, closed the buttons, and tied the bows. No detail left unattended.

She took me to her organ stool where I sat so she could put my ruffled bobby socks on and make sure the seams were perfectly straight across my toes. Afterward she would delicately remove my little white patent leather shoes from the box and slide them on my feet. She knew exactly how snuggly the buckle had to be tightened. It was at this point I started squeezing my hands in delight because the whole ensemble was coming together and it was almost time to go to church. I hopped off that organ bench and my whole dress bounced with me. The curls were perfect. One dash of spit on a hankie and my face was spotless. My fingernails were free from dirt. And then my mom disappeared to finish dressing herself while I rejoined the Cas Walker crew in the den. I was to sit on the little wooden chair from Junction School and not wiggle because Mom had cleaned it for me the night before. I had to sit on it to avoid fuzzies, stray hairs, and dust attaching to my dress. Anxiously I waited while I listened to what would be on sale at Cas Walker Market the following week.

"Let's go, Danda Bug." I turned off the television, hopped the stoop from the den to the dining room, and saw the most beautiful woman of God standing before me. He dress was never as fancy as mine. Usually, she bought a spring suit which had a jacket that could serve a dual purpose at work. Our colors usually matched though, and her shoes were prettier than anything Cinderella ever dreamed to have. Her nails were painted to match my dress, and she held my little hand as we walked around the kitchen counter.

No need for breakfast on Easter...too much risk of spillage. The refrigerator, however, was a key component to our Easter tradition. Again, I gripped my little fat hands together so tightly in anxious anticipation. From the refrigerator, she pulled two boxes that frosted over as they came into the warm air of our home. From the tiniest box, she pulled a bundle of little bitty pink roses adorned with yet another perfect bow. I stood perfectly still while she leaned down to put my Easter corsage on my dress as its most beloved final touch. I tiptoed toward the bathroom so I could admire it in a mirror while she put the orchid Dad had sent her on her jacket lapel.

Beside the front door lay my pink Bible I'd had since birth and my little purse. You'd think that would be the what I grabbed first, but no, I grabbed my momma's hand. With the other, I got my belongings and off to East Cumberland we went in our green Maverick. We stopped at my mamaw's to pose with her purple creeping "flocks" of flowers for a few photos. Afterward, we made our way off Balmoral and toward the light that is now at the end of the tunnel. We parked on the side of Ethel's house, went in the back door, and we trudged up the stairs to Sunday school. After Sunday School, my seat depended on the instrument Mom would play. If she played the piano, I sat with Wilma Ely. If she played the organ, I sat with Gigi or Helen and Elisha Greene. But no matter what instrument she played, when she stopped playing, I sat with my momma!

And I forgot to even look to see if the Easter Bunny had come back at home...

Matthew 28 says,

19Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost:
20Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen.

God chose me to be the daughter of one of His greatest teachers. She has observed all things whatsoever He has commanded her to do, and she continues to do this with every breath she takes in her classroom, during her piano lessons, in her church and especially in her home.

Mom, this is my Easter gift to you.
Proverbs 22:6
6Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.

Love,
Danda Bug

with a heavy, humble heart

As I sit here battling intestinal flu, I feel low as a snake's belly because my intimate relationship with the Tidy Bowl man fails in comparison to what "Dad, Mom, and Sis," are fighting with in California.

I seek refuge in hellofuzzy when I feel like my guts are eating me from the inside out...flu or not.

This may very well be the longest entry yet, but there's something to be learned here. This is the first time I am writing something for either Mr. B or Mrs. B. that isn't a lesson plan.

The reason I didn't venture into the "business" world during college is because I can't have "just work" relationships with the adults who surround me every day. I need them to be my family.

I have to feel connected to those around me. As I made that transition from student to teacher, I found myself searching for people to fill the empty spots in my life. Larry became my boat captain of circus peanuts and bulldogs. Little Debi became my mentor and encourager. Holly became the chef and Jeopardy champion. Janet Russell became the strong, solid role model. Linda Rowe taught me structure and kindness. Mata reminded me how big this world is and how far above it our spirit soars. Leigh Anne taught me the importance of hanging on to hope. Alisa taught me that raising three kids and teaching school can be done and done well, while Lisa did the same with her daughter and son. Bennie and Carolyn should have a movie made about their adventures. Thelma and Louise could learn a thing or two.

And then there was Lynn...Lynn Barnard became my father figure by my choosing. Had he been given an option, I am absolutely sure he would have declined, but he was stuck with me for 17 years. Technically, he chose to keep me around, but I know there were times he would have liked to have put me on a slow bus to anywhere but Tazewell.

Today, Lynn and Janet are weighing heavily on my mind, so I find myself here at hellofuzzy hoping to share a few memories while asking you to call upon your God and ask him to heal the body of the mind belonging to the woman whose dedication to education in Claiborne County will forever reign supreme in my mind as the gold standard until her retirement just a few short years ago.

When I first started teaching, I tried to be very sophisticated and drink coffee. Stupid. I hate coffee. But every day I'd wander up to the cafeteria and get some, and one one particular day, I spilled it all the way down the hallway to my room at the end of the new 8th grade edition. Behind me, Mr. Barnard was swishing a mop back and forth, huffing and puffing, while I just kept slinging coffee and whistling "Dixie." When he reached the end of the hall, he looked at me like he could whack me with his mop, and I just said, "Why, that was so nice of you." He was not happy, and I was plum tickled. I haven't consumed coffee since.

Did I make him mad? Oh, yes, I made him mad. There's a little community organization called Junior Pro Basketball that you may have heard of. Junior Pro is a wonderful weekend activity for young people to play basketball, but each school used as a facility must have school employees present to open up, turn on the lights, provide equipment, etc. Junior Pro was also played in the most freezing time of winter. Well, a colleague of mine (who will remain nameless) and I completed our requirements on FRIGID Saturday morning and locked up the building. We returned to our homes and graded papers, averaged scores, and such until Monday. But oh, when Monday came!

Monday came to find Mr. Barnard's full head blood red, and I stood my distance for fear that blood would shoot out his ears. Apparently, my co-hort and I had allowed an innocent dog to wander through the front door, past the concession stand, and into the gym locker rooms where, sadly, the dog froze to death. I can raise my hand to Santa Claus and swear I never saw a dog come in the building. Well, not a four legged one anyway. Mr. Barnard was beside himself with confusion and desperate for an explanation. My co-hort nor I could offer him any peace of mind or explanation as to how the pup got in the building much less froze. The drama of the scene escalated to quite a heated exchange, but the dog never thawed out. After discovering a hole under the building, Mr. Barnard and Dick Fugate deciphered that the dog had dug in but couldn't dig out. The dog was laid properly to rest, but that story stands in my mind eternally as one of my favorites.

I have made more than my share of mistakes in my career as an educator, but he always gave me time to acknowledge them before he (sometimes loudly) corrected them. Did we always agree ? Nope. Did we sull up and pout? For record periods of time. Did I always know he'd be there to help me? Yes.

I read about family members bringing up deaths of loved ones, and I cringe. I don't think I'll ever be comfortable with telling the story of my loss of the love of my life. However, despite your experience with Lynn Barnard as your teacher, coach, or principal, here's something I think you should know because I do believe it speaks volumes of his core.

May 5, 2009. That's the date. Mr. Barnard let me leave school to come home and see why my husband wasn't answering the phone, and in the living room floor, I found my husband, and I knew why. I remember calling the police, and I remember calling SMMS in a blood curdling scream for Lynn to come help me. He and Debi Brogan beat law enforcement here. My own dad had been gone for 8 years. Daughters call their dads when they're in trouble. Lynn was all I had left. He burst through my kitchen door and took over. He handled it like a professional in a manner I hope I never have to see again. And when the time came for my husband to leave this house, Mr. Barnard asked the paramedics to please not cover my husband's face. Then, as they moved him out the door and down the driveway, Mr. Barnard held H's hand until they loaded him on the ambulance. That defined their friendship but in a way for which there are no words. How do you thank someone for treating your lost loved one with dignity simply by carrying him down the driveway?

Memories aside...today...tomorrow...and in the weeks that come...."Mom, Sis, and Dad" are in California seeking the best medical care for "Mom." There is a You Tube video available for you to watch if you'd like a further explanation

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x4NJTNLq3xw

Lynn had to tolerate the majority of my madness from day to day, and I'm thankful he never locked me in the furnace room when my lunacy got to be too much. In a sense, he taught me a lot about family. We'd fuss. We'd make up. We'd fuss again. We'd pout longer. He'd holler. I'd holler louder (never in front of kids). He was always right. I was always right, too. Many relationships with dads could be described the same way.

But if you have finished reading this, and you live in Claiborne County, please say a prayer of thanks for Dr. Janet Barnard's home run she hit during the surgery today. Based on what I've read, she has done very well.

If you were a toddler with a book in your hand in pre-school, a first grader learning how to read with the absolute best materials in elementary school, or a middle school student with access to the best technology available to help you learn to read even better before 2009, then you might want to remember Janet Barnard in the days and weeks ahead as she heals. In my opinion, she was the leading force who brought literacy to this county with an army of support troops behind her.

Dolly Parton might be the the engineer for Imagination Library, but Janet Barnard has been feeding the imaginations of Claiborne County's children for decades, and it's time to use that literacy to summons up prayer for quite possibly one of the most dedicated educators any of us will ever meet in our life time.

Romans 12:7 “If your gift is serving others, serve them well. If you are a teacher, teach well.” (NLT)

God knows I have ample cause to plea for forgiveness for my own sins, but today, I sincerely hope he hears my prayer of healing for Danielle's momma.

do. not. gawk.

Whitney Houston. Don't you dare stop reading what I know in my gut to be true. Her life gave us musical time references like no other, and her death better matter to your core if you live within hitch hiking distance of the Cumberland Gap Tunnel.

This is one of many times that hellofuzzy will become a bull horn.

If you have ever watched Dorothy click her red heels, then you know this addiction problem has been around Hollywood longer than the famed sign on the mountain. My feeble mind can recall Judy Garland, Ray Charles, John Belushi, Richard Pryor, Michael Jackson, and now Whitney Houston all making the news for their talents and their demons. There are countless infamous names one could add to such a list. Its title? “Dead Addicts.” Harsh? Yes.

Now, if you live in Middlesboro, look at the cross on the mountain behind Dairy Queen and know that everyone who can see it knows someone affected by the same addiction, and you are extremely far from Hollywood.

If you live in Tazewell, we don’t have a cross on the mountain, but we have enough loss to addiction to warrant building one as a lasting memorial to those who are dead and those who are slowly dying one hit at a time.

If you are frustrated by those of us locals who are mourning Whitney Houston, then let me clarify something to you. Our grief has nothing to do with her or her voice or her sense of celebrity. I, as one of many, could care less. Many of us are mourning Whitney because we are relieved she is the “person from our life” who has died from addiction within the week instead of our neighbor, our colleague, our friend, or even worse: our family member. Those of us who wake up every day and hope that the addict we care about is still alive are most thankful that it’s Whitney who is gone instead of the addict we will get one more chance to hug, encourage, beg, and nurse.

Of course “we” have enough sense to know better than to actually mourn a celebrity. I’m not mourning the woman who housed and released the greatest voice of my generation. I’m grieving because out of all the characteristics that connect us in this human experience, it’s darn addiction that has made those of us in this neck of the woods understand what her daughter, her mother, and her other relatives are going through. We can’t relate to the Grammy’s. We can’t relate to the stardom. We can’t relate to the millions she has supposedly squandered. However, we can, without question, relate to the torture of addiction. Whether it is her legal cause of death or not is irrelevant. Addiction robbed this country of one of our greatest works of art because "it" stole her talent.

If I were to play the odds and gamble on which would be cured first, I’d select cancer over addiction by ten fold. Some may have no sympathy because addiction is often perceived as a disease of choice. That’s fine. Ignorance is a disease of choice, too, and you’re welcome to suffer from it to your heart’s content. At some point, someone gave Whitney a pill to prevent pain. In time, she discovered that such a pill would also prevent emotional existence, and she chose to live in that fog instead of coping with the emotions it masked. The “fog” is supposed to be reserved for those who are dying, but those who seem to be living the largest covet that fog more than they covet an Academy Award.

Nothing about Whitney Houston’s death is about her career. Her voice will live infinitely through iTunes and other digital media. Your grandchildren will know “The Greatest Love of All” just like we know “At Last” by Etta James.

Don’t use the upcoming weekend’s memorial service as an opportunity to gawk at celebrities as they enter the church in New Jersey where Whitney’s life will be honored. Use the time as a chance to reach out to someone you know who is surviving addiction as the addict or as the one who loves an addict. Give them a trustworthy ear if nothing else. Those who love addicts are desperate for someone to listen to them speak just as much as Whitney was desperate for a new generation to listen to her sing.

"From Buttons to Mabel and All in Between"

To the right, you'll notice a very spoiled dog and two very proud owners. They are my Papaw and my WoWo. The dog is Buttons. Buttons was a local celebrity in their neighborhood...well known for her love of eating Rolaids. My WoWo never met a critter she couldn't love, and that love trickled down to her daughter, Sandy, and her grandkids, Jill, Steven, and me. Mom says she is just too tender hearted to get attached to a dog at this point in her life. She prefers 4th graders.

Through the years the names have ranged through Snoopy, Spiffy, Tiger, Benji, Rusty, Shelby, and on and on. Pixie and Little Man are on guard here now in Tazewell. In Lexington there was Cinnamon, Ginger, Sheba, and now Buffy and Daisy reign supreme. Homer holds his fort down and Rudy has Eastern Kentucky in line as well.

Despite the geographic distances among my family dog members, my heart has been stolen by a total stranger, and it was love at first sight. Her name is Mabel, and in December, she was a 67 pound beagle.

I borrowed this photo of Mabel from WBIR.com.
According to her Facebook fan page, she is five years old and should weigh about 25 pounds. Mabel has been adopted by Dr. Angela Witzel, a veterinarian at the University of Tennessee College of Veterinary Medicine in Knoxville. The part of the story that melts my heart the most is that Mabel....bless her soul...is in fat camp. This is no joking matter.

Apparently, Mabel has eaten a lot of human food, and in her story, I thought about my WoWo and Papaw and got so sentimental. It's difficult for me to talk about my WoWo and Papaw because I did love them the absolute most, and I would have loved to shared Mabel's story with them. As you could see with the photo of Buttons above, my WoWo loved to feed her table scraps. And you can see my Papaw didn't object to Buttons having a snack at the family table.

I don't know a thing about Mabel's life before adoption, but I just wonder if she was loved by an elderly couple whose nest was empty like my WoWo and Papaw's. I wonder if she kept them company while they watched the Reds play baseball on television and if she got a Cracker Jack nibble once in a while. I wonder if she watched from the porch while someone mowed the yard and she ate the leftovers of his sandwich because it was just to do'wed hot to eat the whole thing. I wonder if she had ice cream cones on the screened in porch. I wonder if someone dug the seeds out of watermelon and let her take it all in. I wonder if someone put bacon grease over her Alpo. Mabel has brought back so many wonderful memories to me. I've had a constant reel to reel movie of my grandparents loving their pets playing in my mind since Mabel wobbled across the screen on WBIR.

At my core, I'm a teacher. I'm not a fancy educator. I'm a teacher. I'm old school thoughts with high tech gadgets to use in my communication.

Sure, I address the state curriculum standards for my students, but I also address the Mabel standards, as I now call them.

If Mabel were a child in middle school, the odds are that she'd be criticized. She would possibly be bullied. She might even be sad. There is a minority of children out there who are cruel to kids who look different like Mabel looks.

What are the Mabel standards? Be attentive when an animal is teaching you a life lesson. Support a creature who is struggling. Understand it takes teamwork to create a better life for yourself.

Mabel exemplifies all three of those standards.

Students need to understand how those standards apply to themselves.

My students and I are having so much fun with Mabel's story. We made her a greeting card and sent her a care package. She sent us the most precious thank you note with an actual paw mark autograph on it. Many of my students have joined her Facebook fan page and send her messages of encouragement. We're working on a secret valentine mission because no girl that cute should go without a valentine. Mabel has opened a conversation within the walls of my classroom that I could not have come up with on my own.

My seventh graders are genuinely concerned about Mabel. They ask about her daily, and I update them on her progress. We have a Mabel Wall and we're posting her progress. She will be the topic of our technical writing assignment in the spring. Her photo proudly hangs in our room. Students come up with great ideas about how we can help her and our local animal shelter at the same time. They're learning that kindness to animals is actually about compassion from people, and I think that's pretty darn fabulous.

It is my most humble wish that you have a Mabel to inspire you in the work you do each day.

If you'd like to know more about Mabel, please follow this link

http://www.wbir.com/news/local/story.aspx?storyid=201211

"600 Seconds"

On March 25, 2003, I was a giddy newlywed with a pink Hello Kitty Nokia cell phone. At that time, no cell phone signal was available en route to Tazewell from Knoxville until you made it to Johnson's Mill. At some point during the day, my phone rang when Loren's mom got service after Brogan's Holler, and I answered to learn that Thomas was going to have a baby sister in a few months. I am shocked that my squeal didn't crack my teeth, but I was so filled with joy that I just had to holler into the phone until I had no holler left.

Now, we all know that I'm not really good with warm and fuzzy baby stuff, but I was thrilled beyond description that this little girl was coming to the world. I wanted her to be girlie, prissy, and pink from head to toe simply because doing so would make her mother nuts. Little did I know then what an impact Loren Grace would have on not only my life but the lives of others in the years to come.

I had no clue that my life's greatest spiritual teacher would be a precious baby girl. When I am old(er) and gray(er), I will tell anyone who will listen that I learned about God from my mother, Preacher Herb, and Loren Grace.

Loren was born on August 5, 2003. Not since I had made a trek on Valentine's Day many years prior had I been interested in visiting a child on his or her actual birth day, but I loaded up my little Honda and puttered down the road to meet this little ball of happiness. Upon my arrival, I found her mother continuing to be responsible as usual....so annoying. I imagine if I had chosen to embark on childbirth, I would have eaten a wagon load of Quarter Pounders after the kid hatched. Loren's mother...ate fruit...and cottage cheese. Give me a break. Ever the athlete. Ever the responsible one. Ever the amazing mother. There she sat...eating fruit and cottage cheese. I was so distracted by her food choice that I nearly forgot there was a baby in the nursery nearby. I remember the nurse bringing her in. I remember her daddy holding her tight. I remember the nurse checking his number on his bracelett to make sure it matched, and I remember getting a chuckle afterward. I remember that beautiful baby girl and that room filled with grace. I remember what I thought "grace" meant then.

The following March brought a diagnosis that none of us found familiar. At first, I was intimidated by its name. Today, I can say Lissencephaly - Miller/Dieker Syndrome without missing a vowel. I say it, and I expect anyone who is listening to know what it means and why I care. If you are unfamiliar, I suggest you open another window and go to Google. When you come back, you will read the rest of this entry with a more humble heart than you woke up with this morning...

And speaking of this morning...

When you woke up today, did you complain about having to go to work? Did you fuss about the pending wet weather? Did you get frustrated because you overslept, locked your keys in your car, or lost your lunch money? Did you run out of hot water in the shower? Did you get detained by a flat tire? Did you forget your bus duty? Was the vending machine at work torn up thus denying you a beloved Honey Bun? Did you spill coffee on the front of your new sweater? Think about those issues as you read the rest of this.

This morning, Loren woke up just like the rest of us (if she slept any last night), but she had to get ready to make an appearance before strangers and convince them to grant her the assistance of a device that will simply let her breathe. An eight year old asking for air....

I'll give you a minute to process that.

This miraculous, precious, beloved angel on earth - who doesn't communicate with me other than with those endless brown eyes and twinkling smile - had to appear before an insurance appeal board and figure out a way to convince two doctors, three lawyers, two insurance administrators, two state citizens, and one secretary that she needed their panel of strangers to grant her permission to have the ONE DEVICE ON THE PLANET EARTH that will help her simply breathe with less congestion.

I cannot imagine.

When I was eight, I depended on my parents to help me reach a book that was too high on a shelf. I needed adults to help me put air in my bike tires. I had the audacity to take tantrums if I had to get allergy shots. I "needed" adults to buy me Barbies. I needed the wheels on my roller skates to be rotated. I needed help with long division. I needed just five more minutes in the pool.

I never ever needed my parents to find a way to ask another human for help so that I would breathe as a result of their consent.

But today while the rain was falling in Tazewell, Loren, her mom and dad, and her oh-so-awesome Gramma were waiting in some big, cold, room with a drop ceiling and flickering cheap lights. To get to that room, they had to drive almost three hours. And once their turn came up, they were given a maximum of ten minutes to find the right words to say on Loren's behalf to that panel of experts. Ten minutes. 600 seconds. Can you imagine being given 600 seconds to appropriately ask for your child to have air?

Six hundred ticks of the clock, and their time was up.

Homework was done prior to the appearance. Adequate research and statistics were compiled in a document that, I'm sure, held a close resemblence to any advanced medical student's review of relevant literature. But despite all the research, despite all the statistics, and despite the information provided by the company that makes the actual device, her mother's love is what will make the difference as the panel reviews Loren's case. In all the world, that is one of the few things I know for sure.

I'm not writing this to open discussion about the ways and means of medical insurance companies. Let the editors who are real journalists do that. After much prayer, I know that approaching this type of situation from a place of bitterness and resentment about questionable corporate practices will not help Loren or the hundreds of other children whose lives may be changed by having access to this miraculous device should BCBST grant it. I approached today just like my own momma told me to do. Feel free to report that this teacher prayed in school today. You better believe I did. I didn't pray for patience, forgiveness, or snow. I sat at my desk and bowed my head and prayed for God to give that panel of reviewers true grace in their hearts. I prayed for God to give them courage to make a decision that might set the precedent for generations of children yet to be born. I prayed for Loren to be the little girl that changes this aspect of medical practice in Tennessee so that it might be shared by other states in the years to come.

No mother should have to ask for breath for her child, but today, my friend had to do just that.

As I've said before, when I grow up, I want to be like Loren's mom.

A Single Rose in Pasadena on Day 972.

Most of you know that my friend since childhood, Bridgette, made a donation to the Donate Life Tournament of Roses float in memory of my husband, "H." I should have come here to "hellofuzzy" then for proper explanation, but I was so overwhelmed and shocked that compiling complete sentences would have been a challenge.

I'm writing this today in hopes that at least one of you will be convinced to sign the back of your driver's license and become an organ donor after you read this blog. I'm not asking you to do it for me; I'm asking you to do it for the ones you leave behind.

Technically, he has been gone for 972 days. I can't stop the counting. Tomorrow I will wake up and know it is 973. I wish I could stop the counting, but I can't. Waking up is the worst, and that's when I will say 973. I say it to remind myself of how far I've come and as a tiny prayer that God will do something positive with my life during 973 like He has done today with 972 by sending us a warm smile while watching the parade.

Mainly, I hope to maybe write about our family's experience with organ donation to help you get a better understanding of what to expect for yourself and your loved ones. There was a lot I didn't know at the time, but now it all makes sense to me.

Time is of the essence, and gosh, it was difficult for me to keep composure. I was at a point where I wanted the world to stop, but H being a donor meant that the work ahead was crutial and there was no time to stop. Period. City law enforcement arrived first as with any similar situation, and the first question they asked was if he was an organ donor and where was his license. Once they read he was an organ donor, everything sped up to a rate that was so fast everything sounded like Charlie Brown's school teacher and I couldn't translate. Remember spinning on the merry go round at Ford's Woods and looking up at the sky while you did? That's how my head felt, and my heart was in a million tiny pieces. In fact, "fast" is about the only thing I can tell you I really do remember until my phone rang.

Someone from Tennessee Donor Services called and called and called. Holly very patiently handled that for me. Finally, she and others said, "You have to do this now."

After my husband left home, I hid here in my computer room with friends holding my speaker phone while I answered hundreds of questions about his social and medical history. I could not imagine being the person who has that job to call. Regardless of her salary, she earned it ten times over that day. The interview took an hour and forty-five minutes. Now, you need to put yourself in this analogy: a typical movie lasts a little over 90 minutes these days. Who in your family do you want to answer questions about you for that long after you are with God ? Please pick someone to do it. Pick several. Prepare them for the difficulty but encourage them to give the information because they will be helping to save lives within hours of hanging up the phone. The questions are blunt, personal, and scary. The truth must be told, and in the end, the gift of life can be given to a total stranger who may be the very person to cure heart disease, cancer, or birth defects...especially if the recipient is a child.

The donation procedures before the visitation services limit what you can do at the memorial services. Depending on the types of donations your loved one is capable of giving, you and your family might need to make practical decisions about your loved one's viewing. Just take a deep breath and know that doing so is providing life. Knowing I'd see him again some day was my greatest comfort, but knowing someone was gaining life from him at that moment was a healing I never knew before.

After the services were behind me, and the quiet came, those were the days I found most difficult. The people at Donate Life know that. Soon, your loved ones will start getting the most amazing correspondence in the mail. Donate Life will make contact on birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays. In the fall though, your loved ones will get a very touching invitation.

Your family will be invited to a celebration of giving in Knoxville. They will be asked to bring a quilt square to represent your lost love one. The quilt squares are all assembled together and go on tour around the state to encourage organ donation. I made H's square from his blue jeans. One strip for every family member made the base and then a pocket on top. Leigh Anne took it and had his name and a dove embroidered on the pocket. Upon our arrival at the ceremony, I gave it to a volunteer to place on a quilt board for all to see.

You will hear testimonies from organ recipients. You will meet parents who lost their children but found peace in giving life. You will be surrounded by a kind of calm and silence I never knew until that day. Josh accepted a medal to honor his dad as a donor on that day during the ceremony.

The Donate Life organization does everything as right as is possible to bring comfort to those who gave and celebrate those who receive. At the end of the day's event, each person in attendance is given a note card to attach to a balloon. The balloons are released as guests depart from the ceremony. The sky is speckled with faith, hope, and love all directed toward Heaven.

My note read as follows:

I'm not writing this for sympathy. I'm writing it to hopefully enlighten you about the unknown and encourage you to have a very important conversation with your family about being organ donors.

Day 972 has been a wonderful day. The girl I met standing in the hallway while we waited to get on Bus 3 in third grade took the time to acknowledge my husband's gift of organ donation in the Tournament of Roses Parade about 32 years after I met her. My husband's name was attached to a rose on a beautiful float filled with families of children whose lives were lost in horrific tragedies but found a way to fulfill a purpose through the pain. The float and its story were beautiful and very humbling.

Fulfilling a purpose through the pain is what I think we have to do. Scratch that. It's what we're supposed to do.

If you need a pen to sign your organ donor consent on your license, let me know...I'll get one to you.

I wish you all a happy new year filled with peace of mind and spirit.

My Holiday Masterpiece.

Christmas cards always enlightened my days as a kid...especially if my name was on the envelope and impressively if my name was spelled correctly on the envelope. Mom had a ceramic Santa whose large green toy bag was opened to hold all of our cards, and I carefully stacked them according to size day after day as they would arrive. My favorite card always came from Mrs. Cohenour, my childhood art teacher. While other cards displayed humble images of a quiet manger, joyful children romping in the snow, Jolly St. Nick wiggling his nose, and Christmas trees being dragged across a snow laden field to a country home, Mrs. Cohenour's card always displayed a worldly piece of Christmas art from the Met in New York City. Long after my days of washing her brushes and filling the classroom kiln, I still receive my holiday greeting from Mrs. Cohenour, and I cherish each one a little bit more every year.





While the art displayed on Mrs. Cohenour's cards is from the hands of masters, the art displayed on my card this year is of the hands that raised me. Very rarely do I slow down long enough to take pictures of my life, but back in the fall, I simply asked Mom to sit down and play. I told her she didn't even have to smile, and I snapped this picture. In the time that it took for the flash to fire, I managed to take a picture that really needs no caption.





When I was in middle school, Mom's piano students started filing in and out of our home as she carefully guided their little fingers to play. Carefully, I listened as she encouraged each of them to make a joyful noise unto the Lord with every stroke of a key. As the holidays rolled around, she'd review her record books and order small statues of the great composers for each child. She kept a running list of which students had acquired what masters. To this day, I am convinced Cindy Collins Code must have the largest collection. The statues would arrive from the distributor, and Mom would wrap Bach, Beethoven, Mozart and friends with love in each detail of the pretty paper and bows. I'm now a middle school teacher instead of a student, and the great composers still arrive at Mom's house each holiday season as she assigns each a new home during the holidays.





This picture isn't just about piano lessons though. Those are the hands that raised me. You should put your hands together and aplaud her massive undertaking and success. Those hands hugged me, brushed my hair, tied my shoes, fluffed my dresses, tucked me in, and busted my butt. Those hands taught me how to count, read, write, and pray. Those hands checked my temperature, drove me to Clancy's, made me chicken and dumplin's and led me carefully through all the wonder that a child's life offers. Those are my momma's hands, and they've patted the head of at least a thousand students who passed in and out of her classroom doors through the years, too.





To be her daughter is my life's greatest blessing, and I should have thought to capture this moment long before now. Playing the piano fills her soul with joy like nothing else. After all the papers are graded, Sunday's music is practiced, the piano students are gone, and life falls quiet on the hill....listen very carefully on your porches. Not only should you listen for Santa and his sleigh....you should listen for my momma to play, "When They Ring Those Golden Bells."





Merry Christmas!