Transitions

Are grandmas supposed to be soft?

With the countdown to a high school reunion now in weeks- two themes dominate the range of thoughts and emotions that surface:

1. There is absolutely no way FOUR DECADES have passed since this way cool bunch of kids grabbed diplomas and scattered.

2. I have waited too late to hit the gym.

Of course one must walk into a group that disintegrated forty years ago appearing unchanged (or at least recognizable), right? I see many old high school friends regularly and keep up with many more on Facebook, so extra pounds, sparkly hair, and a few “laugh lines” shouldn’t shock anybody. But it would be nice to hear “You haven’t changed a bit!” and believe the speaker isn’t lying through his/her teeth while thinking, “Bless her heart, I’m glad she wore her name tag.”

The fact is, the soul doesn’t age at the same rate as the body, and while we may still feel like that seventeen-year-old with weird hair, polyester bell-bottoms, and platform shoes- many of us from the class of ’76 have transitioned into grandparenthood.

Transitions are hard.

Remember going from junior high to high school- and then high school to college? Over the summer, we plummet from the top of the heap to the bottom, facing embarrassing initiation rituals (when those were still allowed), wondering if we are in the right building, and hoping we have the same lunch as our friends. We stand in the basement of the dorm with a dryer full of pink clothes thinking, “So that’s why Mom said not to put everything in the washer together.”

Transitioning from college life to the real world is a shocker. One day, I’m surrounded by hundreds of smart, friendly kids who are a lot like me- having fun, playing intramural sports, sitting on the floor singing to a guitar, sipping a beverage (mine was Dr. Pepper- it kept me awake), engaging in meaningful philosophical conversations, going to parties and football games, (and class), playing pranks, my biggest worry is getting that paper typed up by nine o’clock class…then I wake up one morning with a JOB.

Single to married…a couple to a threesome- those are big transitions! Life takes on new meaning. Suddenly me becomes us. Neither spouse is as charming all the time as the other thought, and adjustments are in order. Then someone hands over a bundle and tells us to leave the hospital- and a jolting realization hits: the most beautiful child ever born into the world is relying on us– for everything. We can’t say “Dad will pay for it,” or “Mom will clean it up.” That’s us now.

The young parent days of diapers and play dates transition to speeding from lesson to scouts to game in the minivan, and the children’s school days whiz by in a blur. Along with laughter, and victories, and celebrations- there are moves, losses, crises, and disappointments- more transitions. Suddenly we find ourselves joining a line of sweaty, middle-aged basket-cases lugging heavy boxes up four flights of stairs. We are abandoning the last child at college. The house is strangely clean and quiet, the elderly family dog (with many tears) has gone to the vet for the last time, and once again we find ourselves searching for footing in a new reality- only this time it doesn’t seem as exciting as before.

But as always, as soon as we acclimate to new surroundings and are starting to enjoy ourselves, it’s time for another transition. There is a tired-looking, dumpy older person who won’t get out of the way when we try to look in the mirror. Adults in their thirties are calling us ma’am. Ridiculous (obviously legally blind) cashiers ask if we want the senior discount, and friends are talking about retirement and colonoscopies.

In the midst of these alarming, unwelcome developments, the most wonderful event occurs. A daughter or son hands us (what they consider to be) the most beautiful child ever born into the world. We are grandparents. As we cuddle this tiny miracle, we think of our grandmothers- how warm and soft their hugs were- and how loved we felt in their arms. This little one will go through a lot of transitions, and for a while, God gives them Grandma’s lap as the softest of places to land when life seems hard.

In a few weeks many of the DHS class of ’76 will gather once more. We are the same eighteen-year-olds we were forty years ago, and we are not the same. Yet as happens with old friends, even if we first have to check the name tag, after a few minutes, changes of time don’t matter at all- and we only see who’s inside. Chicago is on the radio, Gerald Ford is in the White House, the Viet Nam War is over, and we just beat Rossville. We started in the same small town; we traveled together, then apart; and it’s good to come together again- to catch up- and to remember.

Transitions- all those uncomfortable moves to new territory- can make us hard, or they can make us soft- kinder, humbler, gentler, more understanding and gracious. I’m looking forward to seeing the kids I grew up with- hearing their stories- and looking at pictures of their grandchildren (or children, or fur-babies, or travels). I’m also accepting that transitions are life, they move us where we need to go, and grandmas are supposed to be soft.

It’s good I put off those trips to the gym- they most likely would have transitioned me right into the chiropractor’s office.

Senior ’76! Go Big Red! See you at the party.

My Two Cents- On Parenting

Child-rearing, throughout the ages, has been hard work and risky business. There are no perfect parents, no perfect children, and no perfect formula for turning that tiny red-faced someone screaming for his way into a fine, responsible, kindhearted, upstanding adult. I remember sheer panic when Ray and I brought our firstborn home. My mother had the audacity to attend a family gathering that afternoon, leaving two clueless, terrified people alone for several hours with their newborn infant. We brought our baby into the house and looked at each other. “Can we keep her alive until Mother gets back from the lake?” There was no guarantee.

Starting that day, I worked over three decades full-time in the parenting business (and earned a promotion to grand-parent). I took the responsibility seriously, knowing that I wouldn’t do everything right- but I wanted to be able to look back and say, “I did my best.” I’ve thought, studied, and heard a lot about parenting during those years on the job; I’ve noted a lot of good and bad examples (and provided both to others). Although I had theories and opinions, I dared not comment before by God’s grace I released three fine, responsible, kindhearted, upstanding adults into the wild. With the disclaimer that I definitely fall into the “not perfect” category, (and so do my children)- please allow me to throw in my two cents- on parenting.

One of the best things a parent can do for a child is show that child that he/she is a beloved individual with tremendous potential, but the universe does not revolve around him/her. How do we do it?

Let them work. By age twelve, both my grandfathers had finished formal schooling and were doing man’s work on the farm. That’s extreme by today’s standards (not to mention illegal) but both became smart, honorable, successful men who could rise to a challenge and persevere. I myself, as a youngster, raked shag carpet, scrubbed white-walled tires, and sometimes push-mowed two acres of deep grass (along with many other chores less difficult than plowing a thirty-acre field behind a mule). As children mature, enough jobs can and should be handed off, so that when all of them have gone to college, parents are left to wonder, “What happened to the staff?” I have encountered twelve-year-old children who can’t make a sandwich- and twenty-year old-children who are too inept (or lazy) to wash a dish. These are pitiful specimens whose parents have done them no favors. Dad is not a servant. Mom is not a slave. Sweat isn’t toxic. When somebody whines, “I’m bored…” I say hand them a mop and a toilet brush or a lawnmower and a rake, and fix the problem. Chores + Reasonable (high-end) Expectations ? Responsible Adults who can handle themselves in the wild.

Let them play. (And I don’t mean merely video games and organized sports). Play unpolluted by adult interference is surprisingly healthy for a child’s body and mind. Freeze tag, whiffle ball, hopscotch, four square, dodge ball, kickball, around-the-world, cops ‘n’ robbers, capture the flag, kick the can, and a hundred other all-but-forgotten games of the “Y’all go out and play- but come in by dark” era require little equipment or coaching- but magically build strength, endurance, coordination, flexibility, and balance- plus the ability to get along with others and resolve disputes. Timeless toys as simple as a pile of dirt and a couple of trucks… or a doll and a tea set…open worlds of imagination. I’m not sure when parents decided their job descriptions required them to entertain children…maybe about the time everybody started feeling stressed out and entertainment became a multi-billion dollar industry? Why not hand the kids a length of rope from the hardware store and see what they can do? “Bubblegum, bubblegum in a dish; How many pieces do you wish?” Freedom (with common sense parameters, of course) + Play ? Active, Imaginative, Problem Solving Adults.

Let them get dirty. Teach kids how things work- let them build a doghouse, a dollhouse, a tree house, an engine, an obstacle course, or dams in a creek. Teach them how to use tools, how to change a tire, how to cook, how to sew. Give them hammers and nails, paints, plaster, clay, and salt dough, soil and seeds. Delegate to them the job of caring for, training, and cleaning up after pets. Camp in the woods, bring the bikes…and share the work! Team and individual sports develop discipline, character, and fitness. Let them play- and make sure they win or lose like a good sport. (Both can be difficult). Real skills + Practice ? Confident, Creative, Inventive Adults who can actually do things besides watch TV and snap selfies.

Let them read. Academic success and scholarships to college are lovely by-products of developing a child who devours books (and not the churned-out- junk-food-for-the-brain-type). I remember the first book I checked out on the momentous day I got a library card: To Think That I Saw it on Mulberry Street. After that, I spent many hours immersed in worlds different my own- I read up in trees (to escape my brother), at night after my parents went to bed (that’s why I was usually late for school), in class (I became adept at the stealthy book-in-the-lap maneuver). Kids who love books can be robust adventurers, motivated by heroes they meet between the pages. Biographies were big in the fourth grade. Francis Marion, The Swamp Fox, inspired many hours of playing “Revolutionary War Spies” with my brother and neighbor. We stepped on a barbed wire fence to climb on top of the pony’s shed to our hideout, and jumped off the front to escape into the forest when the British came for us. The shed might double as a pirate ship another day. I shared my love of literature with my own robust adventurers, starting when they were babies. Good books + a Desire to Read Them ? Curious, Thoughtful, Intelligent, Articulate Adults.

Let them give. The soul is the only part of us that lasts forever. Parents have the privilege and responsibility to introduce children to God- who is real, eternal, great, good, and who is in charge. How do we show our children that we gain real life when we give ours away in service to Him? How do we teach them to truly love others? Like so many principles of the kingdom, this one is hard, because we are all broken, fault-filled people. Seeing others through Jesus’ eyes, with love and grace, battles against our selfish nature. By both intentional and spontaneous acts of sacrificial kindness, as a family, feed the poor, visit the elderly, stand up for the bullied, comfort the hurting. Do it in authentic love, without that obnoxious, self-righteous pride so familiar to us all (you know, the way that other guy acts). Cultivate friendships with people who are different. Model that being loving is more important than being cool. Pray. Study and apply the Book. Go to church, understanding it’s more than a spectator sport. Love + Sacrificial Service? Compassionate, Humble, Generous Adults.

Let them take risks, let them fail, but don’t let them quit. Conquering challenges builds confidence. Tackling difficult tasks builds toughness. Sticking with a job (or a sport, or a skill) builds perseverance. Picking up the pieces without whining or excuses- and starting over- builds resilience.

One day, we have to release them into the wild. That’s the job description of a parent. It is a worthwhile goal to guide a child to be prepared for that day- confident, respectful, kind, and strong in body, mind, and spirit- but it doesn’t just happen. Every moment, they are learning something, becoming who they will be.

Once I gathered my thoughts, I realized I had about a hundred dollars worth of things to say, but had pledged only two cents. There is a lot more to parenting than I can distill into 1000, or even 1300 words- but I gave it a shot. I also noticed that if children are busy working, playing, getting dirty, reading, giving, and rising to challenges, there is little time left over for shallow, worthless pursuits (you know which ones)- and that time can be spent practicing an instrument. Other parents have taken different routes to release fine, responsible, kindhearted, upstanding adults into the wild- and that’s okay. Some mothers and fathers have parented well, but had a child who went awry. God bless them, there is no guarantee. All we can do is our best. This is my two cents.

aargh! — Another day in the parenting business…

Mary and the Foolish Rooster- A Sad but True Tale

Pride is a terrible thing.

Once there was a girl named Mary who grew up in rural Georgia in the early 1900’s. Mary’s parents were farmers. They had horses, a mule, cows, pigs, and chickens. They grew vegetables and fruit for the table, and cotton for cash. Although there was never much money in the bank, if any, Mary’s family had enough to eat, a plain but comfortable farmhouse, and clean, well-made clothes that her mother sewed. They were hard-working, neighborly people, well-respected in the community.

Even as a young girl, Mary was not satisfied with farm life. She was petite and pretty and she didn’t want to get dirty. Animals- from the heavy, patient workhorse to the kitten playing on the porch- terrified her. This was unfortunate, since it’s hard to live on a farm without soil, sweat, and livestock.

Mary didn’t mind hard work- as long as it was inside the house, and not out in the cotton or cornfields. She cleaned, cooked, and churned; she ironed cotton shirts and shirtwaists with the heavy sad iron. Mary sewed skillfully, but preferred fancy embroidery or crochet work to patching overalls or hemming calico skirts.

While Mary’s mother had a keen eye for creating her own patterns and making pretty dresses almost like the ones the town girls wore, Mary yearned for those frilly, store-bought dresses. She wanted to live in a big, white, two-story house. She liked school, and books, and she dreamed of going to college. Mary loved fine, beautiful things and she wanted them around her.

But Mary’s daddy loved farming. He would say, “The hotter the sun shines, the better I feel.” He thrived on the smell of the earth and making things grow. Her mother, too, was most content outside- whether in the kitchen garden, in the fields, or among her many flowers. For a time, the family had tried living in town, but it was on the farm where Mary’s parents were happiest- even if Mary’s daddy had to get extra jobs at the sawmill to make ends meet.

So- by sunrise every morning, Mary’s family was busy plowing and planting, laying by and harvesting, feeding and milking, canning and drying. One year the cotton crop was especially good and Mary’s parents were able to buy a used surrey with fringe on top. Mary felt pleased that that she wouldn’t have to ride in the wagon to church or to town any more. After all, she was sixteen, and studying to be a teacher.

Mary’s mother heard that women in the county were making extra cash by tufting bedspreads at home, and she jumped at the opportunity. Although the pay wasn’t much, it was something- and Mary’s family eagerly turned out and sold hand-tufted spreads. With her father’s extra jobs, they were able to save enough money to buy a brand new 1924 Model T Ford.

Her daddy pulled the shiny black beauty into the yard one Saturday afternoon, and Mary, her brother, and sister came running. Aunts, uncles, and cousins gathered around the new automobile. As the men examined the engine, the women exclaimed over the sleek interior, barely daring to touch the leather seats, and little boys made faces at themselves in the mirror-shiny sides. Mary imagined the sensation at Mount Zion Methodist Church the next day, when they wheeled in. She would be the envy of all the girls, and how the boys would flock around! This was as fine a car as the people in town had! At last, Mary felt she was on her way up.

After the last admirer had gone home, Mary’s father buffed away fingerprints and carefully parked the automobile under a shed he had built on the side of the barn. The family who had worked so hard to realize a dream went to bed happy and satisfied. But no one was more pleased and proud than Mary.

If the story ended here, it would be a story with a happy ending- but this is where the foolish rooster comes in.

A big red rooster ruled the chicken yard. He was arrogant and bad-tempered, and because he was king of the chicken yard, he felt he was king of the world. Take a cupful of pride and a cupful of meanness. Alternately stir in vanity and the desire to pick a fight. Add a heaping tablespoon of ignorance and a dash of meddling, and you have a recipe for great foolishness. Give it spurs and you have a recipe for disaster.

The old rooster woke up early and left the chicken yard where he belonged, ready to meddle in whatever business was afoot. He strutted around, fluffing his feathers, showing off. Everybody, even the hound dog, knew not to mess with him. As he turned the corner and swaggered into the shed, he stopped cold. There was another big red rooster!

He was a nasty-looking, stuck-up old bird, and he was ready for a fight- but the rooster from the chicken yard thought he could take him. That other rooster didn’t look like he had much except a bad attitude. The red rooster stared menacingly at his enemy. The other rooster stared back. He flew up and squawked a challenge. The other rooster did the same. He jumped at the other rooster with his spurs. The other rooster jumped at him. It was war. He attacked in full fury. He leaped to the left. He slashed to the right. Everywhere the other rooster showed his ugly face, he fought and ripped and squawked.

Mary’s daddy, who was in the barn milking, ran to see what the commotion was about- but by the time he got there, the whole side of the shiny new Model T Ford was gashed beyond repair. The family sadly gathered around the defaced and mutilated automobile. Later they silently rode to church. Mary wasn’t so proud anymore. They say such experiences are useful for building character, but that’s little consolation at the time.

The only bright spot of the day was the family did have a satisfying dinner.

Consider what you will concerning pride and foolishness- and speaking of dinner, check out today’s companion post: “Mary’s Fried Chicken.” It’s my grandmother’s recipe, a Southern favorite, and it’s sure to leave you feeling satisfied, too.

In a day when farm-children seldom finished high school, Mary graduated from Powder Springs A & M and McKenzie Business School- but she was never able to go to college. She worked as a book-keeper, then married a handsome widower with three young children. She later had a daughter, and made a lovely home for all of them. She always worked hard, loved beautiful things, and believed that everyone should be the best they could be. Although she lived a long, honorable life, she never quite forgave the old red rooster.

Mary’s Fried Chicken

Combine in a paper bag: 1 cup plain flour, 2 teaspoons garlic salt, 1 teaspoon black pepper, 1 teaspoon paprika, 1/4 teaspoon poultry seasoning.

Mix in a shallow dish: 1/2 cup milk, 1 egg, lightly beaten.

Shake cut-up chicken pieces in the flour mixture. Then dip the chicken in the milk mixture, and shake in the flour again.

Pour oil 1/2 inch deep in a skillet, heat to 365°.

Add chicken and brown on all sides. Reduce heat and continue cooking 30 to 40 minutes, turning occasionally, until done.

Drain on paper towels.

Do not cover!

(Nuggets take only about 15 minutes to cook).

Most recent review: Jack M., age 4: “I could eat this chicken all day.”

Because I Said So

We, the kids of my generation, heard it a lot- the conversation-ending, final and authoritative, entirely unsatisfactory answer- “Because I said so.”

“Why can’t I paint my room orange?”

“Because I said so.”

“Why can’t Fido sleep in my bed?”

“Because I said so.”

“Why can’t I ride my bike to Jan and Terry’s house?”

Jan and Terry were (and still are) my cousins. It was fun to go to their house. They had horses, a creek, and a Boston Terrier named Mitzi who could do tricks. Not only that, Terry had a motorbike and a need for speed. Riding on the back of his Honda 50 was several thrilling notches up from my safe usual existence. They lived less than a mile up the road. Why couldn’t I hop on my banana seat bike and pedal there?

My mother had her reasons, and she had explained them before, the first dozen times I asked. For one, our country road was narrow, hilly, and curvy, and most drivers “flew low,” except for Jennie Jo Ezzard, who wore glasses three inches thick and never went faster than twelve miles an hour- but she lived north of us and never ventured down our way. (She did pull out in front of us fairly often, when we were “flying low,” topping Cavender Hill, late for school. Daddy would slam on the brakes and throw out his arm to keep my brother and me from flying around the cab of the truck. Then he let everybody know what he thought about Jennie Jo’s driving and whoever issued her a license. Come to think of it, she was probably saying the same things about him, if she even saw the blur as he passed her). Somebody was always running off in the ditch and many were the possums and other unfortunate critters who met sudden, messy ends on Dug Gap Road. My mother did not want me to end up like one of them, I guess.

My mother also feared danger from “roughnecks,” an unreasonable phobia I dismissed, despite a hair-raising tale from my dad’s youth about some drunk roughnecks he and his cousin encountered when they were walking home from town one night. The story involved a lot of running and hiding in the bushes (by my dad and his cousin), and a lot of shooting, hollering, and cussing (by the roughnecks), and some bird-calls, and a miraculous escape, but that is a tale for another time.

My Aunt Joanne worked most days, and if Jan and Terry were home, they didn’t need me- they could get in enough trouble on their own. If I went, my brother would beg to go, and Fido would follow and fight every dog he met along the way, and none of us had been invited, a fact which was extremely important to my mother.

So I always asked to go, and Mother always said, “No,” and I always demanded to know why not, and one day my mother said, “Because I said so.” In those days, with these words, the judge’s gavel banged. The argument was over, the verdict rendered, and the only recourse was to answer, “Yes, Ma’am,” and slink away. There was no hope for an appeal. When Daddy came home from work, he would merely ask, “What did your mother say?”

My mother had superior knowledge and wisdom, along with authority to make the rules. She also was a good and kind parent who loved me beyond my ability to imagine, and was fully committed to my health and prosperity. For a time, it was hard for me to see any attribute other than her authority to make the rules.

I complained to Fido about her oppressive dictatorship, and explained how happy I would be if I could do whatever I wanted. Fido understood, first because he made it his mission in life to agree with me and offer support; and second, because he lived under oppressive rule, too. He was not allowed to drag garbage all over the yard or bark all night or eat any of our cats, things he thought were fun, worthwhile, and important.

Thankfully, I was never courageous or impulsive or rebellious enough to scorn the judge, hop on my bike, and pedal to Jan and Terry’s anyway. As soon as I left the driveway and entered the road (on the other side of a blind hill), I would exit the pleasant realm under my parents’ protection and care- a world, I might add, with a trampoline and swings, woods to explore and apple trees to climb, books and toys, and every good thing a kid could wish for- even a pony, (but she was mean). When I passed the mailbox I would enter the perilous world of defiance and consequences. I might end up like the squashed possum- or I might suffer nothing more than the exchange of my mother’s trust for her displeasure. I might play all afternoon (or at least until I was apprehended) and have tremendous fun- but afterwards would follow an inevitable Day of Reckoning. The reward wasn’t worth the repercussions.

In time I came to understand that I was not allowed to ride my bike to Jan and Terry’s because my mother’s character and motives were trustworthy and she knew much more than I did. I finally figured out that she loved me too much to let me pedal off into a situation I did not understand and was not equipped to handle. By parenting with love and backbone, she taught me a simple but profound truth: “Because I said so” is a perfectly satisfactory answer for Someone who is entirely trustworthy, Someone who has perfect knowledge, perfect wisdom, perfect love, perfect goodness, and authority to make the rules.

The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom, And the knowledge of the Holy One is understanding. Proverbs 9:10

Blessed is everyone who fears the LORD, who walks in all His ways. Psalm 128:1

Though we grew older and wiser, Fido never understood why rolling in cow manure was considered objectionable. “Because I said so” never cut it for him.

Blue Lights

No one likes to see them in the rear view mirror, but when we call for somebody to stand between us and the bad guys, we’re glad to see blue lights racing toward us. An officer I know tells great stories, his humor masking the danger these courageous men and women face- all in a day’s (or night’s) work. Enjoy a few of his stories- and then do something nice for a police officer. They’ve got your back.

“Midnight- we were dispatched to an elementary school parking lot on the east side of town- rival Mexican gangs were fighting. Gang members heard our sirens, and as we pulled in, they were running for their cars. Some were already escaping, but some got left behind. I drove down the street, where I spotted one who had missed his ride. He saw me and took off. I pursued on foot.

He cut into the dark between two houses, and we ran through back yards until we came to a fence. He jumped over. I jumped the fence after him. About the time I hit the ground, I noticed a large Doberman coming from the house to find out what was going on. The Doberman took off after the runner, and I had no choice but to continue the pursuit, although now there was a big dog between us.

The runner sprang over the fence without being caught by the Doberman, but when I reached the fence, the dog was blocking the way. The Doberman had been oblivious to the fact that I was in the yard, so he was naturally upset when I used him as a step to get over the fence. As I was clearing the fence, the dog leaped up and grabbed me by the seat of the pants. I escaped unscathed. My pants were not so lucky.

The chase continued to the next street, where the runner, looking back to see if I was still behind him, ran straight into a moving patrol car.

He got a ride, after all.

Then there was the time…

One o’clock a.m., a 10-17 call came through- armed robbery in progress at the Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant just off the interstate. It was a slow night- all units responded.

As two units with blue lights and sirens approached KFC from the west, and three more units arrived from the east, a pickup truck left the Travelodge parking lot directly behind the KFC. As the truck pulled out, a large, expensive portable generator fell out of the truck into the middle of the street. The driver continued on toward the interstate. Since there were five units on the scene and three more on the way, one of the officers decided to overtake the pickup and tell the driver that he had dropped his generator.

At KFC we discovered that a remodeling crew had accidentally tripped the alarm, so the armed robbery call was unfounded. Meanwhile, the officer on the interstate had stopped the truck and told the driver that he had dropped his generator. The guy responded, “What generator?”

The officer said, “Five officers saw a generator fall out of this truck. Are you telling me it isn’t yours?”

The man insisted he knew nothing about a generator. At this point the officer knew something was not right.

Some of the other officers and I checked vehicles at the motel. We came upon a large dually pickup with the tailgate down. It was full of tools and other items with a large empty space about the size of a generator. We located the owner of the dually, who described the generator perfectly, impressed by the efficiency of the local police department.

Needless to say, the man in the pickup was arrested. If he had said, ‘Yes, Officer, that is my generator,’ eight officers would have loaded it up for him and sent him on his way. As it turned out, he was a guy who was definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Sometimes it feels like a scene from “The Twilight Zone“…

About nine p.m. someone reported a disturbance at a neighbor’s house and I went to check it out. A large family cookout had been in progress all afternoon and had shifted into high gear. I had a friendly talk with the host- advised him it was getting late and they needed to keep the noise down- if we continued to receive complaints, they would have to end the party.

At eleven, neighbors were still calling in. As I came around the house for the second time, the host of the cookout was not happy to see me. He and a few of his brothers- by now pretty liquored up- stood and suggested that I leave the property, among other things. When I told him the party was over, he became irate and kicked his barbecue grill, causing it to fall and spill hot coals across the deck. Several of his brothers were behind him, egging him on, and he was getting more worked up and belligerent. I warned him if he refused to calm down and cooperate, he would go to jail. He refused to cooperate. A struggle began. Meanwhile, the deck caught on fire.

A woman walked over while I wrestled her brother on the burning deck. “I know you!” she said with a delighted smile, introducing herself as if we had just met up in the grocery store. “I went to school with your sister.”

“Yes,” I answered, rolling on top of her brother, “that’s right.” It had been a dry summer and fire was quickly spreading across the yard.

“She was a sweet girl,” the woman continued pleasantly. “How’s she doing?”

“Great- married, got three kids,” I replied, working to subdue the host of the party. His brothers were no longer interested in backing him up- they were running around with a couple dozen other relatives, stamping on flames in the grass, shouting for buckets of water, trying to find the water hose.

“Is her family living here in town?” she asked.

“No, they moved a couple of years ago,” I answered, as I managed to get a knee into her brother’s back and hold him down. About this time another officer arrived and I could hear fire truck sirens on the way.

When the fire was finally out, the house and neighbors’ houses safe, the crowd dispersed, and I had loaded the host into my patrol car, his sister spoke to me again, like we were parting ways in the cereal aisle. “It surely was good to see you! Tell your sister I said hello, alright?”

“Okay. Sure will.”

“Don’t forget!”

“Not likely.”