The Smart Girl

     I took this photo in 1983 during regional competition of National History Day; I used a Kodak disc camera.  If I were taken back to Model Lab School on the campus of Eastern Kentucky University, I could take you to the exact spot shown above.  I had no idea when I snapped this photo of a girl I hardly knew that her story would become such an inspiration in my adult life.  She was the smart girl then, and she is the smart girl today.  Let me explain.

     Teri Branson.  Remember that name?  I'll give you a minute.  Teri Branson was my sixth grade language arts teacher, and she changed everything about my educational experience once I encountered her force of grammatical perfection and fierce belief in the power of the spoken word.  Our textbook was named Expressways.  It was blue, and in the back, there was an index of our language's most frequently used verbs written in precise conjugation.  My classmates and I wrote those lists to the point of pain, and she demanded their proper use.  She was unlike anyone I had ever seen in person.  Her hair was modern, youthful, and trendy.   Her makeup was flawless yet dark.  Her penmanship was outside the box yet beautiful.  She wore huge earrings and bracelets that "bangled."  Her grading system consisted of simply five numbers.  Your work earned a one, two, three, four, or five.  No more. No less.  She would never accept less. 

      Teri Branson did not think I was fabulous.  How blessed was I to live a whole 11 years on this earth before I experienced that emotion? Teri Branson didn't want me at the front of the room.  She didn't care if I liked her or not.  She didn't acknowledge my pleading for attention without saying a word.  Nothing I could do garnered her approval.  But the smart girl shown in the above photo earned the approval.  Earned.  Key to this note.

      The girl shown in this picture was a student of Teri Branson before my class.  As we switched in and out of our open concept designed middle school classrooms, I skipped the traditional lap around the library and went straight to the corner room because English was my only hope.  Let me rephrase that.  I liked English.  I hated math.  I liked English, and I wanted my teacher to like me.  I wanted her to pick me.  I wanted to be the best.  I wanted her to keep me and talk to me after class.  I wanted her to coach me to win History Day spoken word competition divisions.  I wanted her to laugh and smile and encourage me.  I wanted her to light up when I walked in the room.  Those were her responses to the girl in the picture. 

       The difference in the girl shown above and me is quite simple;  she did the work.  I only did what came easily.  I wasn't willing to give up time on the phone.  I wasn't willing to give up socializing with anyone and everyone who'd take me in like a stray pup wanting to be fed.  I wasn't willing to STOP thinking about everyone else and START thinking about my own education.  The girl shown above was not a follower.  The girl in the picture worked hard.  She studied hard.  She spoke like an adult.  She wasn't a trivial middle school aged tween with aspirations of winning any popularity contests.  She was smart, and Mrs. Branson knew it.  She knew it, and she found an outlet for the girl's intelligence.  If memory serves me right, that outlet came in the form of speech and maybe debate at a very early age.  Look around you.  How many 12 year olds do you know who have the wits about them to stand behind a lectern and support a side without bias?  That's what I thought.

       After this picture was made, the girl advanced to high school, and I still had another year in middle school.  That divide is one that lasts one calendar year but creates an eon of difference among peer groups during adolescence.  The rise of 8th grade royalty falls to the climb created by being a freshman.  But when this girl became a freshman, and again, if my memory serves me correctly, another shift happened.  Teri Branson would no longer be my language arts teacher.  This girl went to high school and  Teri Branson went, too.  I got one year off.

        Teri Branson didn't follow.  She didn't lead.  I believe with all my heart the position became available and the timing was perfect because both were part of a divine plan.  Stick with me.

         The time between 1984 and 1988  is greatly captured on my film but a little fuzzy and absent from my memory.  The girl jumping a permanent hop scotch board shown in this picture remained just as beautiful and just as smart.  Her dockside shoes, pen striped jeans, and Members Only jacket were traded in for whatever the trend demanded at the time. (Forgive us for acid washed jeans; for we knew not what we were doing.)  Despite my efforts to take pictures of all our lives, I lost her.  This is the only picture I have.  I lost her because by age 14 I stopped caring about being the smart girl.  I stopped following the smart girl.  I had lost my direction on what mattered.  I didn't make good choices.  I didn't care if Teri Branson cared.  I let go of wanting to be a smart girl.  How. Dare. I.

        Over two decades later, a lively little girl in my fifth grade reading class told me all about her cool aunt.  She glowed when she spoke of her, and at some point between fall and summer, she asked if I knew her because we had both grown up in Middlesboro.  I stopped in my tracks and the first words out of my mouth were, "so smart."  That's what I remembered.  I had never let it go.  I may have stopped looking, noticing, and trying...but I never ever stopped the automatic association with the best adjective ever created to describe a young girl: smart. 

         Indeed, I had found Dr. Leah Shannon Cobb, if only by name. 

         That fifth grade niece is now a beautiful, smart young lady.

         Tonight, I sat behind Dr. Cobb while she was the guest of honor at the Claiborne County Adult Education Program's GED graduation ceremony.  She stood before our graduates and their loved ones and she told them her story.  She spoke with the most humble and encouraging voice.  Her words floated from her heart through the air while lending the encouragement we all need to hear regardless of occasion.  She stood before an entire graduating class of adults and reminded them that she once sat in their place. 

         As I listened to her gracefully compare and contrast the impact choices had made on her life then and now, I saw the girl in the picture again.  All the pieces of my puzzle came together.  Teri Branson knew she had found a brilliant, beautiful mind with a spirit to match.  A spirit that could not be contained.  Teri Branson was one of the best teachers I ever had, and I think the girl in the picture would say the same.  Teri Branson had found a student who would become the teacher.  As an educator, I know how brightly that diamond in the rough can shine, and what light it emits when it happens!  Now, I understand.

         Thank you, Dr. Leah Shannon Cobb for spending your evening with us.  I am absolutely sure Teri Branson would write down a five as your score.  A hard-earned and well deserved five. 

         

    

Dogwoods, Baseballs, and A Nasty Cat.

    Spring in this part of the world inspires my neighbors to head for the hills and hunt for chickens that don't look a thing like chickens, cast for fish that are for photos more than food, and follow each other like a line of boy scouts along Lovers' Leap trail behind a groom on the morning of his wedding day.  Winter, especially its end, was bitter for hellofuzzy this year, and I'm trying to give spring the benefit of the doubt.  I'm festively optimistic.
    This time last year, I was buzzing about the tri-state area like maniac in search of the perfect place to snap a picture, on a mission to get to any and all classes on time, and trying to find just the right parking place among a crowded field shared by those who loved what I did for so long on weekends.  I stopped looking at the clock and only looked at the calendar.  I didn't have time to acknowledge minutes and hours.  I barely had time to complete the days.  My mania came from my own design.  There is no one to blame, yet I don't deserve any credit.  Until this past New Year's, I couldn't decide if I was running to or from.  Now, I know.  Now, I know it's time to slow down.
    I was so "busy" (doesn't that word make me sound important) last spring that I couldn't take time to photograph the simple white dogwoods shown in the photo above.  The blooms have been my friends for almost two decades.  I've glowed in pride before their pristine white colors while a happy couple, or two, or more, smiled for my camera.  The pictures were first born from film and later the digital age allowed me to capture and process these dogwoods in a much more timely manner.  I felt as though they deserved a prompt reply after they presented me with such a simple reason to smile.  I like being outside among these dogwoods when pretty dresses flaunt and priss before them.  I can't believe I didn't have time to photograph these simple blooms last April.  The fault is all mine.  The time was there; I just didn't prioritize it.  I shall not make that mistake again.
   Cameras have been my constant companion, sibling if you will, since I was old enough to use a shutter finger.  My papaw kept one handy on the screened in back porch and posed everyone in the junction on his back steps,. which were laden with marbles to spell out initials of his daughters. I'm very fortunate because most of my life was captured on film because someone made me a priority just long enough to snap a picture.  In the blink of an eye...literally...I was stopped and made timeless.  My papaw retired from two professions and made pictures of his dogs, his cousins, and flipped over trains,  yet I couldn't find the time to photograph dogwoods last April.
     Shame on me.
    At this time of year when everything seems to speed up, I've decided I must slow down.  I must take photos of dogwoods.  I must stop on the way to my mom's house and photograph the children and grandchildren of people who watched me grow up.  I must not celebrate a  lively friend's life at his funeral; I must acknowledge it with more than a "LIKE" on Facebook while I watch his lightning fast little boy dash up a gridiron with no fear of being touched before he is in the zone.  I've got to remember that the people who worked with me, for me, and loved me are the ones who pushed me through that tunnel to make something of myself with the people who work with me, for me and love me on the other side.  I've got to stop saying, "I wish it were under better circumstances," when I see my childhood friends.  I want to see them under the best circumstances.
     Doing so means I must come out of my cave.  It means this big ol' bear has to stop hibernating.  It means I am willing to acknowledge we are all more alike than we are different if you'll meet me half way.
   Hellofuzzy can't be a place to only acknowledge grief, sadness, or loss.  I can't come here and write what I'm too afraid to say.  I can't hide behind this keyboard in my floral mu-mu (don't judge) while I eat bon bons and peck out words to tell "you" how much I care and always have.  I used to write, yes, actually write, book after book of journals.  I realized they were all full of gloom and doom, so I burned them one day in Mom's back yard.  I destroyed an amazing Saturday Night Fever garbage can, but I got rid of all that hurt.  For some reason, about twenty years later, I got a hankering to put the same kind of hurt here.  This ain't the place for that.   I've got to rise.  I've got to make you smile.  I've got to give you some reason to be glad you took the time to read this madness because we sure don't need more reason to cry than we've had since baseballs started being knocked out of Heaven last week.
    So, I'll leave you with this thought about what's happening in my life right now.  It is not literary.  It is not gracious.  There is nothing about it right, but I have to just put pride to the side and do the right thing.  I live at this house with four critters.  There are two on the outside and two on the inside. The outside two are beautiful beasts of no burden.  One of the two inside is domestic.  The other is the child of satan.  I live with two felines: Harpo and Alley.  Alley was here first.  She's a typical domestic short haired punk who wakes every morning to do me harm.  I brought Harpo home to combat Alley's evil ways.  Harpo is a lovely long haired feline.  The article in the paper claimed she was Persian.  I'm not so sure about that.  A friend of mine says she's a natural blonde because it says so on her birth certificate.  Well, my birth certificate says I weigh six pounds.  Harpo's birth certificate says she's a Persian.  You dig?  Thought so.
     Well, Harpo is a mess.  She is knotted up and looks like some poor old English sheep dog left to fend for herself in a beauty shop full  of poodles.  Harpo needs some professional help.  Now, in order to make that happen...think about the phone call I'd have to make.  "Hello, my name is Danna Smith, and I'd like to make an appointment to get....um.....my......HARPO groomed. 
     Yes.  That's it.  Groomed.  NOT shaved.  Groomed.  (Please let this person know what a Harpo is.) " 
     I practiced saying "Harpo" instead of that "c" word ten times before I made the call.
     I couldn't say "feline" on the phone.  I can write it, but feline isn't a word that should ever really be said out loud.  It doesn't even feel good when you say it.
     Finally, today I got up the nerve to make the time to make the appointment. 
     I called and managed to make my request without laughing like a 12 year old.  When the conversation with the vet tech was over, I was so relieved.  Thank goodness she didn't ask if I wanted my Harpo bedazzled, which I hear is quite the craze these days.
     So, in a few days, I'll be taking my feline to get her shaved.  It is long overdue.
    ....hellofuzzy....
    
   

Dear Buster...

    

A quiet, gentle soul amidst a storm of dirt

A level, wise driver beneath his familiar cap.

A precious gate keeper in turn four,

Our Buster carefully counted every single lap.

Husband to his dear Angie for most of her life.

Together they traveled thousands of miles side by side.

Every state line added to a collection of storied images

Kicked back with each other trying to enjoy the ride.

Friend to all and partial to none.

Working feverishly to make an informed call.

Entangled among the voices of protest

Tempted to put a cheater behind the wall.

First on the scene when metal grew twisted.

Shovel and extinguisher readily at hand.

No fear nor regard for his own well being

When it came time to help a fellow man.

A loyal friend from day one.

A solid shake behind that worn and tattered glove.

A sparkle in his eye as he took you in.

So much about Buster a friend could love.

And in the speed of forty laps,

he'd stop us solidly with one request.

He spied a lonesome dog too close to the cars,

To safety, he carried them all by his chest.

More than once we lingered in the pits

as the drivers and cars left our sight.

Propped up on a truck bed he'd recall every race.

Sometimes we found ourselves teased by sunlight.

"Buster Cupp....Lone Mountain," he'd proclaim to my spouse.

"H  Smith....Cedar Fork," became the standard reply.

Two pals, once caught up in smoke and laughter,

Together stand shaking hands in the glory of  Heaven tonight.

As the sun came up and the dew stopped falling,

He'd take off his gloves and store them for a time.

He'd go to the pole, and turn out the lights,

And a quiet still crept across the finish line.

Despite the darkness he shifted toward us,

He never really wanted to leave the track.

He found comfort in the dirt he carried home,

And every week he anxiously came back.

Watch over us, sweet Buster, I humbly ask of you.

We are broken and our spirit is dark to its core.

We know we are not supposed to question,

So in our faith, we'll just love you a little more. 

We'll take care of your Angie,

And we'll watch out for your family, too.

We promise to be loyal in your absence,

And we know God is standing there with you.

Stand tall on those golden streets.

Let your wings ease the burden of your load.

Find those who have been waiting to see you,

Find peace like you have never known.

Shine down on us with God's favor.

Give us strength as we travel alone.

Raise us up from this pain and selfishness,

And we will see you when God calls us home.

Love,

Danna

Choir Leader.

    Once the giggly anticipation of my Christmas card delivery settled in my skin,  I knew I had to get myself straight before I went to my mom's house today for Christmas Eve.  It is a house of the Lord.  If you don't know this scripture before you go through the door, you will know it when you leave.

Matthew 18:20
For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.



    Earlier today I noticed that my friend, Lecha Rouse, had posted Whitney Houston's performance of "Do You Hear What I Hear?" on Facebook, and I froze.  I found myself shallowly thankful for YouTube and the technology to bring that authentic gift from God through my speakers while Whitney filled my space once again like she has for more than half my life. 

    When I was a child, I was taught about a choir of angels surrounding the Lord in Heaven.  I had a Crayola inspired image of what that choir must look like.  I'm sure I've drawn it a hundred times on Home Federal note paper in church.  If I drew in church, I had to draw spiritual pictures.  I saw yellows, whites, silvers, and golds all adorning child like figures while the air looks fuzzy as their voices rise.  Until today, that image never changed.  Until today, I imagined God's chorus to be one of simplicity.  Until I asked myself, "Do You Hear What I Hear?" today, I thought God's chorus might look like Charlie Brown's Christmas musical. 

    Can you imagine what it has been like in Heaven this week?  I've complained about alarm clocks, deadlines, evaluations, stress, and traffic here on earth for a month.  I've been equally cranky during the past week. Like many of you, I found myself before the television because I felt morally obligated to watch the people of Sandy Hook as they undoubtedly faced hell on earth.  But today, I stopped complaining.  Today, when I read Lecha's post, I stopped being sad about those babies.  I stopped questioning God. 

    Today, when I listened to Whitney sing, "Do you know what I know?" I answered, "Yes."

    As I sit at this keyboard tonight with music blaring from every possible speaker, not caring if I wake up Lightnin' or Orville next door, I have a new image of what the Lord's choir looks like this Christmas. 

    There are twenty children standing before their choir teacher.  Her silver wings rise with the volume and strength of her voice. Her robe is white and emphasizes notes with her body as she rises and falls with every note.  They are wearing little white robes, and their gold wings are tiny.  Their wings don't rise, but they flutter quickly when the notes get high.  They've been practicing since Friday before last.  She met them at the gates and welcomed them to her music class because they must never be afraid to learn or go to school. There are no auditions; everyone became a member.  Harps and trumpets are trying to keep up with their teacher, and a Little Drummer Boy is working feverishly to respectfully follow the teacher's lead.  In just over seven days, the choir is ready, and today, they have begun their performance.   

    Tonight, as I sit in my little nerd cubicle,  I know that Whitney Houston is leading a choir of angels in Heaven.  Tonight, I have decided that her purpose was never to entertain you or me here on earth.  Her time here was merely practice.  Tonight, I am believing, because I can, her purpose, and the purpose of that powerful, timeless voice, has been to lead a choir of twenty angelic children as they praised our God and celebrated the birth of His son on this night in Heaven.  That image has allowed me to make peace with madness, to stop questioning, and to know that nothing I hear on earth will sound as beautiful as it will sound there.

     I found the lyrics to the song, and they read, "Way up in the sky, little lamb, do you see what I see?"  I'm sure those twenty little lambs had been watching that star dancing in the night for weeks before they were taken to grasp it.  Later, a lyric says, "Do you hear what I hear ringing through the sky, shepherd boy, do you hear what I hear?" I am sure the little boys from Sandy Hook can hear a song far above any trees and the voice that is big as the sea belongs to Whitney.

     "Said the king to the people everywhere, listen to what I say pray for peace, people everywhere! Listen to what I say."  I've heard the song for forty-one years, and the lyrics never resonated with me like they have today.  I never took the time to sit down and study their meaning.  I never took the time to give the lyrics any power.  It's hard to hear the text when Whitney's voice delivers the sound.  The song says we should pray for peace.  I don't think that is about war, conflict, or politics.  I think we are supposed to pray for peace in the hearts of Sandy Hook's residents and the people left behind.  For I know, if I know nothing else, the twenty angels are earning A+'s in choir tonight.

      In the end, Whitney sings, "He will bring us goodness and light."  Each of us has a reason to give in to pain during the holiday season.  We each awake on this day with some degree of loss.  We each awake with some scar of disappointment.  But, we still woke up.  This holiday will be what we make it.  And, I do believe, He will bring us goodness and light just like Whitney sings He will.

     Can you imagine growing up with Whitney as your mother teaching you the words to "Jesus Loves Me"?  Can you imagine her voice at a Christmas gift exchange?  Can you imagine that power, talent, and force filling your home each holiday season?  And then, can you imagine the silence this year?  Can you imagine the silence in Sandy Hook or in Whitney's home? 

      I can't hear that silence, but I can hear that choir of twenty angels working hard to please their teacher and their God. 

      Step out on your porch and look up.  Close your eyes.  Hold your heart.  Let me know if you hear what I hear.

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

     

    

    



The Making of My Christmas Card 2012

     "I know I gave birth to you, but I swear, when you get me into these fixes, I sometimes wonder if you came from under a cabbage leaf."  Mom said those words to me as she climbed in the bug to prepare for the day's adventure.  I've got pictures of so many people I love, but I sure don't have many photographs of Mom and me together.  Now, I don't think I need very many.  In fact, I think I might just need the one you see at the heading of this entry.  I really don't know how I could possibly design a pose to depict our relationship any better.
      I learned at an early age that Santa is a second string player in the whole glory that is Christmas.  My mom taught me about Jesus first.  She taught me to believe about a baby born in a manger.  That established the idea of what "believe" meant in my young mind.  After I knew God's reason for our most glorious season, then she got busy with Santa (no pun intended).  We didn't need an elf on our shelf.  When you live with Bebe and you know Jesus is on her side, you must be good.  Period.  Santa was never used as a threat regarding my behavior.  Jesus, the Ten Commandments, and switch were a promise.
     At some point in my adult life, the Joseph went missing from her manger scene and I still live in constant paranoia that she thinks I stole her Joseph.  I swear; I didn't.  Holly Cheek has shopped literally from Middlesboro to Italy trying to find a proper replacement for Mom's missing Joseph, and there isn't one to be found.  Every year at Thanksgiving, Mom starts talking about what she'd like to give me for Christmas, and then she says, "I'd get you something else, but I know you have my Joseph." This is my public plea for help.  Please, if you see Mom in public, tell her I don't have her Joseph.  No matter how well I try to behave, this Joseph issue comes up every year.
      So, I convinced her we would be darling.  I convinced her we would be divas.  I convinced her that I'd behave, say no bad words, and promised not one hair on her head would be out of place when we finished.  After our glam squad work, some costume fittings, and pose discussions, we finally looked into the camera and made up for a lot of lost time in pictures. 

     Today, my aunt Sandy sent me an email and reminded me of an image I'd give gold to have on film today.  My papaw Steve loved Christmas as much as he loved fishing.   Sandy reminded me though that every year,  a small, crooked line of Christmas lights would adorn the hand built fence row that invited guests to enter through an antique gate like all of your grandparents had.  I had forgotten about those lights, and I try so hard not to forget.  I've tried to imagine what my papaw would think if he saw this picture.  I'm pretty sure he'd look at mom and say, "Well, at least you're a ten point."

    I have had a happiness headache for days waiting for the actual cards to reach far distant lands where my family members call home.  I've wanted to come here to ...hellofuzzy... and tell you about the happiest photo shoot of my life, but I managed to restrain from pointing and clicking and ruining a surprise.  This was absolutely the work of more than merely me.  Daniel England secured the location and shot the pictures for us.  I cannot thank him enough.  The wardrobe was supplied by another of Santa's elves, but I can't reveal those details for fear of ruining some magic for my young readers of ...hellofuzzy...  That particular elf and his wife know I'm thankful that they entrusted me with such a heirloom.  Mom was sitting on a stack of dictionaries.  If she sat in the actual seat, you could only see the tippy top of her antlers, and that just would not do.
     For as many laughs, giggles, and chuckles these images have provided you, knowing that our Christmas card has brought joy to a few homes has really filled Mom and me up with more pride and sparkle than two gals should be allowed to contain by law.  We've spent hours on the phone, texting, calling, and emailing each other while compiling US Post Office delivery stats, "Who have you heard from today?" while we compared notes regarding your responses to what we hope has been a very Merry Christmas surprise from us to you.

Now, here's a picture of Mom adjusting her "rack."  (again...no pun intended)

    And, in a moment of sincerity, know that I am thankful for my ...hellofuzzy... world and all of you who read my words and share my spirit.  As Christmas Day approaches, let us gather with those we love and hold them just a little bit tighter this year than last...simply because we can. 

    Merry Christmas from ...hellofuzzy...  and Bebe, too. 



   

    

If this Danna could love others like that Donna...

     Today, I find myself awake and rattled because my home town newspaper, the Middlesboro Daily News,  has led me to a place of anger, disappointment, and sadness.  Throughout my life, I have sought refuge in taking and studying photos.  In sentimental times, I browse through Facebook and try to find photos that remind me of how I was raised, that show me faces of those who loved me first, and that encourage me to write with my mother's grace and my dad's lack of filter.  Let me just tell you how it is up front.  If I've ever made you smile or shed a tear after reading ....hellofuzzy..., my ability to do that with words has been instilled by my educational background, encouraged by my parents, and fostered by more than one person as shown in the photo above.  These are members of the First Christian Church in Middlesboro, and I stole the photo from Donna Greene's Facebook collection.  You should know that I am not a member of the church, but its walls store many pages of my life's story growing up in Middlesboro.  As I look at that photo, I see teachers, safe harbors, inspirations,  the little girl my mother loved first long before I came along, and my beloved next door neighbors who introduced me to their beloved friend, Donna Greene, when I was just a little girl and in the process, I gained yet another role model who set an example for the citizen I hoped to grow up to become.  Donna is pictured on the front row to the far left, and her smile and comforting words have encouraged and embraced me during every single milestone of my life.  
    Everybody knows Donna in Middlesboro.  When you say that about a small town, there are two connotations to the expression, "Everybody knows...."  I just clarify that everyone knows Donna by choice not by gossip.  Donna's family's roots run deep throughout Bell County, and those roots were planted in times of hard work and sacrifice by her parents and their ancestors.  Middlesboro has several characters known by their first names only.  My mother is one, and so is Donna.  To its benefit, the Middlesboro Daily News has used Donna's name during her hire to add a sense of credibility to its lifestyles section.  God doesn't make no junk and Donna never printed any junk.  Two facts I've known since I learned to sing "Jesus Loves Me."  Now, the Daily News has decided after twenty-seven years to fire Donna in an unnecessary and curt manner as of October 19.  My heart is broken for her, but more so, my heart is broken for the demographic who depend on her to bring highlights to their days.  Not all folks in Middlesboro are plugged into this Internet we use to seek our news.  The Middlesboro Daily News is the prominent source of news for many in my beloved home town, and most of the time, the only good news within its pages was compiled by my friend, Donna Greene.  I believe those to write good news that make us smile and forget about the harsh headlines that often make the cover are the journalists whose work we should honor first. 
      My personal interactions with Donna during my life on Balmoral are too many to list.  She is as a sibling to my precious Scott and Mary Ruth Coign and their son Jon.  She and her sister Beverly were Jon's first friends.  As I began to trot a worn path to the little white house next door when I was a child, I was often greeted by Donna's welcoming smile, and she listened to all I had to say with genuine interest and validation that some day the ideas I hope to write and the stories I hope to share would be read by the masses.  She also listened to me vent to Scott and Mary Ruth about stories that would have made the headlines of the Daily News fly off the shelves by the thousands, yet she watched out for me, understood my frustration as a child, and never once betrayed my trust by running stories about antics others would have paid far more than fifty cents to read.  A kid can learn a lot by sitting silently in a pawn shop.
      I hate conflict.  It takes the air from my lungs.  My mouth becomes parched.  My head grows swimmy.  I cringe and have literal physical reactions to it in general.  Today, I feel none of those things.  Donna's painful fate is not an issue of conflict, it is an issue of love.  She has penned the obituaries for my papaw Steve who taught me how whittle;  for my WoWo who taught me how to properly eat a Reese's cup; for my dad who told me a lot of secrets in hopes that some day I'd publish one hell of a book, and I will;  and for my beloved husband whose absence from my daily life has left a heart ache that Donna has written more than once to tell me she prays will some day be eased.  She organized the senior photo section when I graduated from high school.  She featured me in a story when my writing sent me like a bull in a China shop to a state academic competition.  When my dad finally stopped fighting cancer, she and Beverly came to the cemetery and stood within inches of me as I laid him to rest.  She has celebrated my accomplishments, prayed in my time of need, and shared her precious time with the Coigns with me when I know they didn't particularly want an awkward teenager interrupting their grown up conversations. 
      She is a living, breathing history reference for Middlesboro.  She has provided filters that few journalists would have had the courtesy to use.  She has taken time to acknowledge the sacrifice of veterans, praise the work of teachers, and encourage young people who are interested in journalism, sport, academics, and their love of life in general.  She has been a source of validation when it comes to the credibility of the Middlesboro Daily News. 
      I am incredibly disappointed in my home town newspaper.  Just a few short weeks ago, my mom was named "Best Person in Middlesboro" as a result of their Reader's Choice annual submission.  My mom was tickled pink, but she'll tell you without a remote hesitation that she'd share the title with Donna Greene.
      The Middlesboro Daily News has made a tragic error in judgment.  I have found myself listing the names of Middlesboro residents who have passed on to Heaven and would have smooth blown a gasket had they been here yesterday when this information was shared.   The Daily News thought it had reason for financial concern back in the days of fiery city council meetings and investigations into the wicked ways of the body of water of Yellow Creek that crawls along the Beltline.  To quote Doug Campbell, "You ain't heard it thunder yet."
      I love you, Donna. 

Secrets about the Beebster

     Today has brought about an event that has developed into a ...hellofuzzy... moment too good to pass up.  Someone, somewhere has decided my mother is the "best" at something, but the mystery source won't reveal any details.  Mom, of course, is curious yet reserved.  She's not sure if she's the victim of a practical joke or if a new reason to smile is coming her way.  Regardless, she shared this conspiracy with me while calling to see if I wanted her to bring me more Sunny Delight.  Much to her disappointment, I still have half a refrigerator full.
     After I ended the call with her this afternoon, I got so tickled.  Being the daughter to a mother who spends most of her waking moments with nine year old children is quite the trip.  She sees most of the world through the eyes of those children.  Every year, a new little patch of students falls head over heels in love with my mother, and I am again reminded that I'm her only child strictly as a matter of biology.  She is a mother of sorts to generations.
     But, enough of all that jazz meant for Hallmark cards and Lifetime movies.  I think it's time to share with you a few of my mom's hidden talents.  I'm writing this not only to send her into orbit but to also distract her until she finds out, officially, what is is that someone has decided she is the best at doing, being, playing, and/or teaching.  There are things about my momma you may not know, and I feel as though it is my personal responsibility to share with you the secrets of life with Bebe. 
     First of all, you must know if you go to her house on Halloween, before, or after, you will get a treat. No costume is ever required.  Just show up after a hard day at work, ring the doorbell, and she'll come running with a little snack, bottle of hand lotion, or a candle.   No one ever leaves without a gift of some sort.  She is quite fond of products that come in small containers.  She likes water in bottles that are pint size.  She swears all Coke products taste better in small cans.  She says that Hershey's traditional candy bars are just sweeter in the bite size form.  She thinks the little cups of Kraft macaroni and cheese are precious, and she loves tiny little packets of Kleenex.  Very few things in her arsenal of gifts are bigger than a bullfrog.  She lovingly gives out treats and follows with, "Isn't that cute?"
    Next, you should know that no ink pens in her house work.  None.  I can tell you there is some unknown evil force that lives within proximity to her kitchen food bar, and it dries up the ink in every pen that touches its surface. Cookies, cakes, and dumplins survive, but her ink pens have a shorter lifespan than peanut butter in my cabinet.  She will not throw away a dried up pen.  Would you like to know why?  They're all pretty.  They're not the 12 for a dollar Bic pens.  Oh, no.  All of her pens are flowery, decorative, girlie pens, and they're just too cute to throw away.  If you're going to go see her for an autograph, you better take your own pen. 
   Another interesting little Bebe fact is that she is, perhaps, the most aggressive college football fan I've ever seen in action in my life.  Ever.  I live in a town filled with devoted UT fans, and I'm telling you, I'm yet to see anyone respond to Neyland Stadium and its boys like my mother.  The transformation begins when the SEC media days transpire. She is that fan who will listen to WIVK commentary and turn down the volume on her television.  You are a small group, but you know who you are.   She allows herself to forget about football from February until August.  However, when she starts to clean up her classroom for her little students, something creeps into her blood and turns it orange.  She knows every single play.  She knows every single official.  She will argue about every single penalty.  She knows she has big orange issues, and she keeps her enthusiasm at home within the confines of her own little NCAA football kingdom.  ESPN only wishes it had game day like Bebe's house on Saturday mornings.  Makes me a nervous wreck.  I don't know what is more intimidating...the anticipation before the game or her reaction when it's over.  She covers up one eye and watches out of the other.  She screams.  She yells.  She would blow a whistle if she had one.  Please, don't enable her and make this condition any worse.  The reason why she doesn't sing in the church choir has nothing to do with her piano skills.  She's too hoarse from screaming at the television the day before to sing on Sunday.
    However, if there is one simple thing that makes her happy, it is giving anyone a piece of peppermint.  I bet you're smiling right now and agreeing with what I've written.  She is the sole reason that Brach candies hasn't gone out of business.  She will never give you butterscotch.  No, no, no.  She is the tri-state area's strongest proponent of the powers of peppermint candy.  She keeps it in her purse, in her car, by the piano, and at the entrance to her dining room.  She is never out of reach of a candy bowl, and she'll put one in your hand if given half a chance to do so.  The peppermint will never be gummy either.  You know how that piece of candy tastes after it has nested in the bottom of your grandmother's purse since Sue Ellen was sober on Dallas?  Mom's candy will never be out of date.  She wants it to be fresh and she wants to have a lot of it on hand to give to you.  She thinks she's just giving you a piece of candy, but you know there's a lot of love that comes along with every loud wrapper you twist open. 
    My favorite, favorite, favorite secret about my mom is her loyalty to local radio in Middlesboro.  If any current visual image of her now gives me insight to what she was like as a child, it is her love of all radios that are tiny and portable.  Her iPad rests precisely in the middle of her house, and it has technological capabilities to connect her with the entire world; however, right beside the iPad sits her little transistor radio.  It's just a simple, black radio that runs on double A batteries.  She packs it around with her like I keep a silk pillow with me.  That little radio travels back and forth from her bedroom to the kitchen to the den every single day of Mom's life.  On laundry days, it goes to the basement.  If it's pretty outside, it sets on the deck. She relies on it for news, weather, and especially school closings.  She has all the technology of the free world at her fingertips with regard to the Internet, but she loves that little radio more than she will ever love anything invented at Apple or Microsoft. 
    There are more secrets to come, but I will close this session of ...hellofuzzy... out for the time being.  I don't know what kind of "best," my mom is about to be named, but I can't wait to find out.   And on those days when you're trying to figure out the secret to staying healthy, happy, and spiritually connected to God, I highly suggest you drink a tiny can of Coke, eat a little bite size Hershey bar, try to write with a pretty pen that has no ink, passionately watch a college football game, and then perk up your ears and listen to a little local radio talk.  Seems to be the key to living a happy and fulfilled life.