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To The Grass Mowers And World Changers
From time to time I tip toe around those closest to me through my writings, often to best explain my circumstance, lovingly joke at family attributes or define my oddities through the eyes of those that know best. Filtered and with hesitant hands I type words that fail to paint the portrait clearly seen by my admiring eyes. My preference sits comfortably under the umbrella of humor sheltered by satire and protected from the serious. Like most southern women, it is not what I say that matters most, it is what I leave out that speaks loudest.
Noting only his careless hair, his immeasurable patience and his affection for a sport I will never understand, I’ve brought my husband into my musings cautiously. Analyzing his inability to pick up his socks, admiring an infallible skill for managing an unmanageable wife and applauding his mastery of the ultimate pot of black coffee is the extent of my description. Growing up in backwoods Mississippi, being a blonde headed tomboy wasn’t all that rare. It was common place for my days to begin and end in the shadow of my father. Living so far from any sign of civilization, what was and what wasn’t was aptly ... more
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