#5, RIP Sweet Abby

A few weeks ago Abby acted really weird for about 36 hours.  We were worried at first, but she perked up and we thought she must have gotten into something bad for her tummy and was fine.  Last weekend, she started acting funny again and she didn't recuperate like before.

We have, at times, been annoyed with Abby because of her extreme loyalty, myself especially.  The common dog phrase, "Faithful Companion," best describes Abby.  She was at my side if I was outside, always.

Every single time I headed out on a big walk, she was jumping at my feet ready to go, and then would proceed to literally walk on my feet, at times even causing me to trip or stumble. Quite frankly, with my clumsiness and her attached-to-my-ankle notion, I am surprised I have never fallen and hurt myself.

Just this past year or so, Jay noticed something kind of neat about #5.  Abby would stay between me and whatever might try to come near me on a walk.  If another dog would start to come my way, she would move in.  If Jay and I tried to switch places to trick her, she would move too.  She was my fearless protector...annoying as it would sometimes be.

This past year, she got to where she would not get up as quickly as she used to, she had sort of a glaze to her eyes and we wondered if she could even see or hear.  I got to calling her granny because she hobbled around like an old lady, somewhat deaf and blind.  She has been good for Hank the Tank II though because she stopped running around and kind of keeps Hank home, for the most part.  (Hank isn't too brave on his own.)

We have no idea what her ailment is, but as a family, we all agreed there was no reason to prolong her suffering.  I am thankful that she didn't wander off and die as some dogs like to do...although that might have been easier on Jay, who had the daunting task of taking her to the vet this morning.

Farewell, my faithful companion - the longest living dog we have ever had - you certainly won't be alone in Wilhoit dog heaven.

Wish I had known that guy...

Last week my dad's first cousin's husband had a massive stroke and died.  His name was Gary and he was a character.  I attended his funeral on Sunday and the whole time I sat there thinking, gosh, I missed out, I wish I had know that guy.

I knew Gary, as much as I could know someone I see once or twice a year.  Most of my memories of him are from long ago.  But every single memory I have of him is a good one.

Here is what I did know about Gary.  He was super funny, he was successful, he was family and he was a die-hard Illini fan.  Any time I was ever around Gary, he was laughing and carrying on and you could not help but get sucked in.  Gary was a successful insurance agent and owned his own agency. Gary was family...albeit a little distant to me, he always knew who I was and took the time to speak to me and act interested in me and my life.  You could not know Gary and not know that he was a completely obsessed and very dedicated Illini fan.  I remember their old van...because it was painted in Illini colors and something you just didn't forget.

When we were kids, he let us fair rats (cousins) run a lemonade stand outside the secretary's office. Looking back, it was probably to keep us out of the secretary office, but it was so much fun...and it did keep us occupied for a while.

So what do I mean when I say I wish I known him?  When I heard he had died, I immediately thought of his daughter, LeeAnn, who had passed away in a car accident in 2004 and I hoped they were having the biggest reunion ever at the gates of Heaven.  And then I wondered, was Gary a Christian? I had no idea.  It bothered me, until I read his obituary and learned he was a very active member in his local church.  Praise the Lord.

I then read some tributes and newspaper articles that had been written about his passing and the life he had led, and boy, did he do life BIG.  He was very, very active in not only his church but his community, his county, his country and his family.  He served in Vietnam, was on the county board of his large county and active in various community committees and clubs.  He was a super FUN guy who didn't know a stranger.  His daughter, Amy, talked a lot about him being the high school Sunday School teacher at their church and how important that was to him.  She also said that no matter how late Saturday night's tailgate at the Illini game went, they were at church on Sunday morning.

I was so enamored by all these wonderful things that I never knew about this guy that I really liked but didn't really know.

Just a few weeks ago I saw him at a cousin's wedding.  I was getting ready to leave and he called me over to his table...with that great big grin that he always wore.  We exchanged the usual pleasantries and then he told everyone at the table with him about what I had written and read at my grandma's funeral, how much he loved it, etc.  A few weeks after my grandma's funeral, he either Facebooked or emailed me and wanted to know if I had a copy of what I had read at the funeral.  I had recorded it ahead of time, but could not figure out how to send the recording so I emailed him the written version of it.  I'm not sure why, but he really got a kick out of that reading.  He told me the day of her funeral and again two years later.  He remembered that little thing about me.

I am sad for Gary's wife, daughter, and grandsons because I know they will miss him dearly.  From the way it sounds, his death is truly everyone's loss.  I missed out myself.

I sure wish I had known that guy better...

I change my mind...a lot

I'm not going to sugarcoat this - I do not care for tattoos.  Period.  I do not like them, Sam I am.  Plain and simple.  I'm not mad at people for getting them, but honestly, I always cringe when I see a young person who has just taken the plunge and gotten one.  And here is why...

I change my mind...a lot.

Thinking back to my teen years, I was obsessed with a couple different things.  First and foremost, the Beatles. I loved the Fab Four dearly.  My room reflected it.  I had Beatles memorabilia all over my bedroom.  To this day, I still have my Beatles Beach towel. (I have finally let it be used for its intended purpose, [gulp] and it now has a hole in it.)  I had an alarm clock, pictures, books, etc.  I loved the Beatles and I loved the Peace sign.

Before the Beatles craze hit me, I loved the comic strip The Far Side.  Loved it.  I had one of those daily calendars and every single day, I would rip off a new comic and tape it to my wall.  One year = 365 comics.  (Man, my parents must have loved me.)  I also had all kinds of Gary Larson books.

And somewhere in the middle of the Beatles and the Far Side infatuation, I fell in love with Trolls.  You know what I'm talking about?  The little plastic naked men with bright neon hair that stuck out every which way. They came in all different sizes and outfits.  I had gobs of them.  Trolls were everywhere.

Stretching even farther back before the Beatles, the Far Side and the Trolls obsessions, I loved teddy bears.  There were 101 teddy bears stenciled all over my walls, in country blue...with rose curtains.  I had a couple shelves full of my collection of teddy bears.  I treasured my bears.

So when I was at my prime tattoo age, I can imagine that if I had decided to get a tattoo, I might have gotten a peace sign and/or some sort of reference to the Beatles.  "All you need is love" or "Let it be" come to mind.  I can't imagine that I would've gotten Ringo Star's face tattooed onto my arm, but you never know.  I really loved the Fab Four.

I still like Beatles music.  If I came across the Far Side comic strip, I am positive, I would crack up laughing and immediately recall why I loved them so much.  Trolls make me laugh...just because I was so obsessed with them and they're so freaky.  (I'm thanking the Lord right now I do not have a troll tattooed on my body.)  Teddy Bears...are cute and cuddly and it's not that I don't like them anymore, but I'm not sure I would feel too mature with a giant teddy bear on the calf of my leg.

A Christian comedian I went to see made this comment about tattoos.  His analogy cracked me up (in my words)...That bass (fish) you had tattooed on your belly will someday transform into a great white whale.

Seriously, yes.  Our bodies change.

Our likes and interests change.

The most poignant factor in my decision never to get a tattoo was Jay's Grandpa Truman...he begged both of us to never get a tattoo and showed us why.  It wasn't quite the bass-to-whale transformation but it left an impression, let me tell you.

And to be frank, I'm not a fan of pain or needles.

I know there are all sorts of Christians that have crosses and scripture and other signs of their faith tattooed all over their bodies.  I'm not sure if that is used as justification or what.  To me, it doesn't matter.  I may offend people for this, but there are lots of people who wear crosses in some or fashion and do not believe in Jesus Christ.  You having a cross or fish tattoo doesn't necessarily convince me you're a believer.  Just like wearing a Christian t-shirt doesn't necessarily confirm my Christianity.

My dislike of tattoos doesn't have anything to do with whether you're a good person or a crazed lunatic.  I'm not mad at you if you have a tattoo or twenty.  I'm just curious about what young people will think in 10 or 15 years about their choice of body art.

My point is this:  I would be mortified - and probably spending lots of money right now to remove it - if I had a tattoo of Ringo Star on my arm.

Before getting that tat, go back ten, fifteen or twenty years and think about something you just loved and now don't really give much thought. (It might even be a person!)  Now imagine a picture of that 'thing' permanently on your body...

Right

I'm assistant coach for my son's summer league baseball team.  I have enjoyed it thoroughly.  We have a great group of boys and we've had a good season.  My task is to keep the boys in the dugout in line and the book.  I really like keeping the book and it gives me some purpose.  It also helps me focus and not yell so much :)

The other night we played a team we had not played before.  They were good competition.  We were having to dig deep within, which is good.  There wasn't another dad to help out so I also stood at first base giving my two cents to the boys when we were up...and kept the book.  (I probably need a little more practice at doing those two things at once!)

Anyway, in the second inning I noticed the score board had the other team up one run.  Young kids run the board and I'm glad they do, I figured I would correct them but let it go too long.  Middle of the third inning, when it was our turn to bat (and we would be batting last), the coaches realized our scores were off.  Our head coach asked me to go over and compare our books with theirs to get the correct score.  (It was important at this point, we were down three or four runs and this was the last bat.)

I headed over with the book, feeling confident about my work, but with an open mind (of course).  I could easily have made a mistake, especially when I was coaching at first base.

I  knew it wasn't going to go well when the lady keeping their book all but threw her book in my face and said, "Here, check it."  I was thinking we would check it together...She didn't keep her book like mine and I had a hard time making heads or tails of her markings.  I counted twice and came up with fewer runs than what she said.  When the fella came over to look, I realized (DUH!) that I was looking at our teams page and not their team.  There went my credibility.  Goodness.

But even when looking at the correct page in my book and comparing to hers, it did not match. Suddenly, the discrepancy caught my eye.  Their third out was the runner on third getting thrown out at home.  She had the two runners AFTER that runner scoring.  There is no way that could've happened...

As I was getting ready to explain this, there was a 'bad' call on the field in our favor and they went wild.  I didn't see what happened, but there had been a couple close calls earlier (again, in our favor) and these folks were HOT.   Part of me wanted to stay right in there and argue with these coaches about the last out and how their runners could not have possibly scored.  I assume my book was correct.  We were the home team.  

And frankly, I love to win.

And then I decided I didn't want to get punched, so I walked away and headed back to our team without really coming to a conclusion on the correct score.

Our fans asked me on the way back what the score was and I told them we disagreed by one run on their score.  As we went through that final bat, I was asked a couple times what the score was.  Again, I reiterated the score I thought was correct, according to my score keeping.

But as I thought about this later on, it occurred to me, I really need to be more concerned with doing right rather than being right.

These boys are watching me.  Parents are watching me.  Strangers are watching me.  God is watching me.

I don't want this team to get ticked at our summer league program and not come back.  It wasn't anything personal from my standpoint, as far as the score keeping, I was sincerely trying to figure out the discrepancy and see if I was wrong...and get it right.

Isn't that the way life is though...we get so wrapped up in being right that we forget to do what is right. I should...Do the right thing even though I may feel cheated.  Do the right thing even though it wasn't what I had in mind.  Do the right thing even if I may get in trouble. Do the right thing even if I might lose...

We ended up winning the game anyway - by one run according to them, two according to me (Ahh, can I really let it go?)

But I walked away with a new tidbit - I would rather do right than be right.

It kind of goes along with one of my favorite verses:  For it is better, if it is the will of God, to suffer for doing good than for doing evil.               1 Peter 3:17 (NKJV)

The transition

People have often said I say or do things just like my grandma did...but it's getting worse than that...much worse.  I'm afraid I'm starting to sound like the Quackdaddy.  Last night was another perfect example.

We went to Dairy Queen after Lane's ball game and were in the drive-up.  I was driving so I placed the order and all I wanted was a child-sized chocolate cone.  Very simple.  Nothing you have to mix or chop.  So easy...except they didn't have any chocolate ice cream.  I am not a fan of vanilla ice cream so when they are out of chocolate, I'm at a loss.  (Insert Jay laughing here because this happens all the time and he finds it funny.)

We pull around and she opens up the window.  I ask her why they do not have chocolate ice cream and tell her that the Marshall DQ has chocolate ice cream all the time and it's very good (as if that will change her mind about whether or not they have chocolate ice cream).  She looks at me like "what am I supposed to do?" and shuts the window...probably cussing me to her coworkers.  Apparently at this DQ, they clean the machine every Monday night.  I will have to remember that.

As soon as she shut the window, I looked at my family and said, "I sounded like the Quack just then, didn't I?" Uh-huh.

Because I could just hear him...The Quackdaddy has this thing about hot, fresh coffee.  If the waitress can't guarantee it's hot, fresh coffee, he doesn't want it.  He asks repeatedly if she knows whether it is hot and fresh. Everywhere he orders coffee, this is the spiel, and he keeps track of which places have hot, fresh coffee.

A month or so ago after we were at a softball game in a nearby town.  There was a very controversial call (in our favor) and the opposing coach was livid which earned him a seat in the dugout for the remainder of the game.  I couldn't for the life of me understand what had just happened and no one around us really seemed to know.

After the game we went to a cafe up the road for supper and that coach and his family and another family came in.  After we finished eating, I told my crew that I was going to go ask that coach what the deal was with that call.  They all but begged me not to and high-tailed it to the car when I headed over to his table.  I had a nice little chat with the coach and the rest of his table, got the low-down on the peculiar call and was sure to tell them that my family was hiding in the car embarrassed of me.

I can pretty much talk to a brick wall.  I don't see a problem in it as long as I'm not being rude or obnoxious (which almost never happens...I think).  I always feel the need to explain myself or offer more detail than necessary in certain situations, and I enjoy striking up conversations with complete strangers.

It's inevitable.  The transition is taking place.  I'm becoming the Quackdaddy...

Our bundles of joy

I mentioned that Boots, our sweet kitty, had five precious kittens on my birthday.  That was four weeks ago yesterday.  Those baby kittens are absolutely adorable and we are having so much fun playing with them.

The first couple of weeks they are pretty boring.  They don't have their eyes open, they pretty much sleep and eat and that's about it.  Then their eyes opened and they wobbled around a bit.  Now they are learning to walk, run, play, climb, fight and explore.  And it's so fun!

Even though Jay had arranged a box with a towel in the back of our closet for Boots, she decided a much better birth place would be up inside the box springs of Lane's bed.  That black material that lines the underneath of the box springs had a couple tears in it...just big enough for Boots to crawl up in there and bed down.  Boots is so noisy though, Lane quickly discovered her hiding place.  It was so hard to see up in there and even harder to leave her alone until she was done.  For the longest time we thought there were only four kittens, but when we finally moved them, we found five.  We were so excited!

After a few attempts to relocate the babies, Boots finally adjusted to the closet and left the babies alone...until it was time to move again.  Someone suggested a small kiddie pool...hmm, great idea.  Only afterwards did I think about the play on words there...kitty pool...ha!  We lined the bottom of the pool with towels and put their box in it.  (Later, Lane cut 'doors' in the original box lid and flipped it upside down to make them a little house.)  The kittens didn't mind the big move, but Boots sure did. Again, she tried to relocate her babies a couple times, but eventually accepted the upgrade.

  Another week has passed and the little felines have figured out how to escape the pool walls...so they are sort of roaming free at this point.  They have their towel and box in the corner of the living room and they always return to it.  I'm figuring out Plan B as we speak.  As of now, they do not use the bathroom on their own and Boots is the cleanup lady, but soon they will be...and they are not going to be free to pee wherever they be.  (ha)

I think we have homes for all of the kittens.  I have a feeling it's going to be a struggle to actually let go of these cuties.  Everyone loves them...except Josie.  Aunt Jo is like that mean 'ole aunt who sits back and watches everything without saying anything - only giving the evil eye.  Every now and then she creeps up behind one of them and gives them a good sniff, but she is none to happy about their presence.

Last night one of them crawled over Hank the Tank II's foot and he hardly noticed.  He is un-phased by most things...a small creature seems to be one of them.  Abby, on the other hand, has to be watched.  She would eat one without a moment's hesitation.

This little guy is by far the favorite of the bunch.  We call him Stripes.  He is kind of a big bully, but we love his personality.  He is outgoing and on the move...and how can you resist those sweet baby blue eyes?

We have enjoyed many babies on our little farm over the past decade (goats, chickens, puppies, piglets) but these kittens have been, by far, the most fun.  I intend on having Boots fixed after these babies are weaned because it is the right thing to do, but goodness, the thought of never having kittens again is downright depressing.  They are so dang cute...right now.

Driving Miss Daisy

Yesterday was the second Thursday of the month...that may mean many things to you folks, but here at the courthouse that is Secretary of State day, from 10am-2pm.  I went downstairs to get postage on some mail and I saw the row of chairs full of senior citizens, patiently waiting for their turn to take their driving test.  I couldn't help but think of my grandma.

The last few years she held her driver's license I brought her for the test a couples times.  She always insisted she come here to take it, where she was comfortable.  I completely understood then and still do.  It's obviously a common theme because we have people lining up downstairs by 8:30 or 9:00 on the second Thursday of the month to get a jump on the crowd...and the majority of that crowd are 75+ years old, just guessing.

The secret is to hang out until about 1:00, then pop in.  No one is waiting.  I had to renew some stickers yesterday and walked right in at 1:25, paid and received the stickers in about two minutes.  It was great.  I even commented on the large crowd of seniors and talked about my grandma.  "She always drove a truck and she talked a lot."  You could see the look of recognition in their grin.  Yep, I think they remember her too...

The times I remember bringing her, it was much like her doctor appointments - lots of chatting and loud laughing.  I now wonder if that wasn't a clever distraction.  She was always so nervous about the test, maybe she was trying to butter up the folks administering it!  I must admit, I was also nervous about her passing the driving portion (I certainly didn't want to be the one driving her home upset) or hitting someone else in the process.

I think she did have trouble one year when she was unable to make it over here on the second Thursday and had to go elsewhere, but in the end she walked away with a driver's license.  I want to say she tested at least until she was 91 or maybe 92, but I could be wrong.

So Grandma was on my mind a lot yesterday.  As I drove home, one of her quirky sayings popped into my head.  It was one I had not thought of forever and I didn't include in my little tribute to her at her funeral.  It shocks me that I didn't remember it because as I repeat it over and over, I can hear her say it just like she was sitting beside me..."Well, I de - clare" (insert loud cackle here and/or maybe a knee slap).

You can hear it too, can't you?