‘THE AMERICANS ARE COMIN’!! THE AMERICANS ARE COMIN’!! REALLY???’

             There’s been a whole lot of hullabaloo in the news and on the Internet, here lately, about Jade Helm 15, this summer’s planned military exercise out in some of the southwestern states. And, even though the U.S. Army Special Operations Command has put out a ton of information concernin’ Jade Helm 15, it’s still become a fascination of conspiracy theorists like you wouldn’t believe.

As a matter of fact, that’s how I first heard tell about it, from a buddy of mine what happens to be of the ever-growing ‘suspicious-of-our-government’ crowd. You know the kind I’m talkin’ ‘bout. The ones that stockpile MRE’s (Meal Ready to Eat) and ammo, and all the while goin’ on about government conspiracies and black helicopters! LOL

Now, even though we’re at least three states away from the closest one involved in the Jade Helm exercise, ‘John’ as we’ll call him, was already talkin’ about what ‘we’ needed to do to help the concerned citizens out there “fight ‘em off”. ‘They’… bein’ the government… weren’t getting’ HIS guns! He was all set for the Second American Revolution, I tell you.

Lawd! I couldn’t get outta there fast enough. I left, shakin’ my head. At this point in time, fightin’ AGAINST my flag is just a li’l much for this ol’ man. But.... my interest was piqued on the subject, so I began diggin’ into it a bit more, and here’s what all I come up with.

Jade Helm 15 is an eight-week-long Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape (SERE) exercise, set to begin in July of this year. Durin’ the exercise, members of the Green Berets, Navy SEALS, and other special operations forces will be tryin’ to go undetected as they move about the countryside.

The briefing document, put out by the Special Operations Command, states that the exercise objective is:

“To hone advanced skills, the military and Interagency require large areas of undeveloped land with low population densities with access to towns. The proposed areas offer the conditions conducive to quality training because of real obstacles to challenge personnel during planning and execution of their tasks. These challenges include: – Operating outside the normal support mechanisms – Adapting to unfamiliar terrain, social and economic conditions – Operating in and around communities where anything out of the ordinary will be spotted and reported (Locals are the first to notice something out of place) – The opportunity to work with civilians to gain their trust and an understanding of the issues”

             Now, all of this is scheduled to take place on both private and public lands throughout Texas, Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, and Colorado. And, accordin’ to the Special Operations Command, about the only way the exercise will effect most local communities is an increase in vehicle and military air traffic, along with the noise that goes along with it.

I myself don’t see nuthin’ wrong with any of that. Sounds pretty cool, actually. If’n it gives our guys a ‘leg-up’ on how best to operate clandestinely in the mountains of Afghanistan, the small villages of Iraq, or any other place they get sent to defend our freedoms, then I’m all about it.

But now, there’s folks out there that do have a problem with it. They suspect the U.S. government is up to no good. By all accounts, most of that stems from details of the exercise scenario, in which Texas, Utah, and a small portion of southern California are highlighted in red on a map and labeled as ‘hostile’ areas.

Well, that set the conspiracy kooks to howlin’! That bunch has since come up with a whole slew of harebrained, cockamamie theories, includin’ (but not limited to) secret statewide tunnel systems, reported sightings of United Nations vehicles in Colorado, impending gun confiscations by the military, and… oh, yeah, my favorite… unexplained Wal-Mart closings.

I’m tellin’ ya right here’n now.... that there’s the ‘straw what broke the camel’s back’. You just don’t mess with folks’ Wal-Mart! LOL

Seriously, though, there’s people out there that really and truly believes this stuff. To most of them folks, though, the general suspicion is that Jade Helm is the prelude to a government attempt to create martial law in the United States.

The Special Operations Command was taken aback by the clamor, reiterating that the ‘hostile’ labels aren’t to be taken seriously, that they’re simply part of a ‘fictional’ scenario for the exercise. Did them folks listen? Why, heck, no.

As a matter of fact, folks in Texas made such a big deal of it that, in response to the growing public concern, Texas Governor Greg Abbott felt compelled to issue a directive to the Texas State Guard to monitor the training exercise, so that Texans would know that their “safety, constitutional rights, private property rights, and civil liberties will not be infringed.” Even though, he had earlier admitted that he has seen nothing to cause him worry about what’s going on, in regards to the exercise.

All I’ve got to say is REALLY, People??? It’s a friggin’ scenario.... a fictional story that sets the tone for the training exercise. Call it ‘make-believe’ if you want.... same dang thing. I’m shakin’ my head for sure, now.

             The United States military is made up of American citizens, men and women who serve to defend and protect this great nation of ours. They are dedicated to protect this... ours and theirs... country from ALL enemies, both foreign AND DOMESTIC. They are ‘citizen soldiers’. They are our friends, our family, and our neighbors. Do you seriously think that they could be made to turn against their own?? For goodness sake.... give our guys better credit than that!

As for, ‘ooooh, military exercises amongst the American public’.... get with the program, Folks. This ain’t even remotely close to the first time such exercises have been conducted in amongst the civilian population by our military. For more’n 30-years, this is how our Navy SEALS have been trained to survive behind enemy lines. We could even trace these exercises back decade by decade, but to save time, let’s just go all the way back to the beginning.... World War II, when the U.S. Army held numerous large-scale exercises in civilian areas (called maneuvers or war games back then), in order to train America’s fightin’ men to go overseas during World War II.

Army manuevers in Tennessee during WWII

The only thing new about all of this, folks.... is how ridiculous it is that  ‘good and dedicated Americans’ have allowed themselves to be misled by unfounded, nonsensical misinformation, wild speculation, and crackpot-conspiracy theories, instead of using the good sense the Good Lord gave ‘em.

Judge P.T. 'Pat' Calhoun; Goliad, TX

 Back down in Texas, down Goliad County way, Judge Pat Calhoun has been reassuring jittery residents there, impressin’ upon ‘em that there’s nothin’ to fear about Jade Helm 15. Having taken part in similar operations, he knows the drill – quite literally.

“Do you really think we're going to let something happen to our hometown?" he asks, and with just a second of pause, he replies adamantly “No, of course not!”

“I'm a retired Marine.” Calhoun reminds his neighbors. “And, we don’t have anything to be afraid of in our military.”

I agree wholeheartedly. Have faith in the men and women of our armed forces. Have faith in America. I do.

GOD BLESS AMERICA!!!

‘CALLIN’ BOB WHITE!’

Ol' Bob, himself

          Like I’ve said before, my family’s big on back porch sittin’. Just as soon as the weather warms up enough, you’ll usually find us out back, sittin’ in the rockers and the swing. We talk and laugh and catch up with one another. We watch the calves and new colt playin’ chase down in the pasture, or the nieces, nephews, and grand-kids monkeyin’ around on the swing set out in the yard. Sometimes, we simply sit and admire the flowers and trees and the birds and such.

          But the first time one of us hears a Bob White Quail sound off down across one of the pastures, mine and my Daddy’s fun starts. Now, many of you probably know the distinctive whistle of ol’ Mister Bob White Quail. Yet, I’d be willin’ to bet that very few of you know that of his Missus. My Daddy does, though. And, just as he learned it from his Daddy, I learned it from mine.

          Back in the mid to late 1960’s, Papaw Jennings would come in from the woods where he’d been cuttin’ pulpwood all day, sit out on the back porch of an evenin’, and whistle in a couple or three Bob Whites.

Call ‘em right up to the edge of the porch he would; then POW! He’d shoot ‘em with a .22 rifle. A couple of birds were all it’d take, and in just a li’l while, Mamaw would have a mess of quail and dumplin’s fixed up for them and my great-grandfather, for supper.

'Missus' Bob White Quail

Daddy and I, though, call ‘em in, nowadays, just for the fun of it. And I DO mean fun! In a clear, strong whistle, Daddy’ll let loose with “Pherrrrrr, phee-phee! Pherrrrrr, phee-phee! Pherrrrrr, phee-phee! Pherrrrrr, phee-phee!” In just a bit, ol’ Bob will answer back. A minute’s worth of pause, then Daddy’ll call out again, and Bob’ll again answer.

Now, it don’t take a whole lot to get ol’ Bob White to come in from as far as a hundred to two hundred yards away. That’s one hot-blooded li’l rascal, so’s when he hears that there ‘girl-bird’ a-callin’, he ain’t got nothin’ on his mind but findin’ and meetin’ that ‘new’ gal.

Why, he’ll come in on the run, small wings a-thunderin’ and tiny li’l legs just a gettin’ it. The first time you hear him call out, he may be waaayyy out yonder in the pasture or woods. The next, he can almost be right on top of you. Ol’ Bob gets so excited with ‘passion’ that he throws caution to the wind and barrels right out into the open yard, lookin’ for that girl-bird.

They’ll sometimes run around the house a couple of times, tryin’ to pinpoint where the call is comin’ from. They’ll fly up onto a tree limb, tryin’ to get a better look-see in an effort to find that there girl-bird.

          It’s hilarious to see how excited they get. My Daddy can get ‘em so tore up that they’ll even fly up and land on the rain gutter at the edge of the porch, then fly back down in the yard and pace back and forth at the edge of the screened-in porch. Why, I’ve even seen ‘em climb up the porch steps to peer in through the door.

The funniest thing I ever saw, though, was the time my Daddy had two Bob Whites so wound up that they were runnin’ around the yard, soundin’ off loud as could be and lookin’ for that girl-bird, while all the time dodgin’ the cat what was tryin’ her darnedest to catch the both of ‘em! Now, THAT was funny!

The next time you hear you an ol’ Bob White sound off, give it a try and see if you can’t call one in for your own self. ‘Callin’ Bob White!’ is definitely entertainin’!

'BACK PORCH SITTIN'

          For a lot of us what live out in the country, one of life’s simple pleasures is sittin’ out on a porch in either a swing or a rockin’ chair and enjoyin’ life at a bit slower pace. Whether it’s visitin’ with family or friends or simply just sittin’ in the shade and enjoyin’ a good book, you’d be hard-pressed to find a more relaxin’ place to while away an afternoon.

On the Jennings Farm, Momma and Daddy’s back porch is the place to hang out. Twelve foot by twenty foot, screened-in; a picnic table at one end, porch swing on the other, and wooden rockin’ chairs in between. It’s where we catch up with one another; tell what’s happenin’ in our lives and what’s goin’ on with the kids, and pass along the latest gossip from down at the post office or farm supply.

The swing… my brother built. It was a gift many, many Christmases ago. A couple of old throw pillows at one end, it’s where my Daddy takes his afternoon naps. Many’s the time I’ve seen him sit there and whistle a call to draw in Bobwhite Quail, just as his Daddy used to. How funny to watch two, and sometimes three, quail scurryin’ around the backyard, dodgin’ the cat and tryin’ their darnedest to find that girl quail that keeps a callin’ to ‘em.

The picnic table is another past Christmas gift. It’s where simple meals of fried squash, peas, sliced t’maters, green onions, and cornbread are eaten on pleasant summer evenings, and where the little kids, my nieces and nephews, spend hours playin’ dominoes with their Nana.

From the porch, we can see the cows out in the pasture, their calves stretched out in the grass, soakin’ up the warm sunshine; laugh at poor Gypsy as she tries to keep up with that new colt of hers as it races down to the pond and back, then up to the road, then back down to the barn; and then, just before dark, you can watch the chickens, one at a time, fly up into the old cedar tree to roost.

          It’s on the back porch that we sit and snap and string the green beans and shell the purple hull peas that are brought in from the garden; all the while marvelin’ at the aerobatics of brilliantly hued hummin’birds, as they zip around the feeder hangin’ from the eave.

          We sip sweet tea, solve the world’s problems, and generally just enjoy spendin’ time with one another. We laugh and talk; Daddy catches me up on what’s goin’ on with this uncle or that aunt. We talk about Brother Charlie’s sermon from last Sunday, how much calves are bringin’ at the sale barn, this week, and I fill Momma in on my datin’ life. LOL

          It’s the perfect place for a quick afternoon nap; it’s where the whole family congregates after Sunday dinner; and it’s a great place to sit late of an evenin’ and watch the kids runnin’ around, catchin’ lightnin’ bugs out in the yard.

Yep… I do believe a person’d be hard-pressed to find a more relaxin’ way to while away an afternoon than back porch sittin’.

'GO MAKE SOME MEMORIES WITH A KID'

          A sunny summer day; a good-looking All-American boy, his light-colored hair a comfortable mess; wearing only a pair of board shorts and a big smile; he sits on the end of a well-used kayak, with a bag of FUNYUNS in his hands and a bottle of Orange GATORADE on the ground between his bare feet; a fishing rod lies in the boat behind him.

          I love this pic, partly 'cause it’s of my 11-year-old grandson and partly because it speaks to me of summers past, spent as a young boy, shirtless and barefoot, tanned brown as a li'l Indian; a hand-me-down ZEBCO fishin' rod, grasshoppers and earthworms, and them ol’ red and white plastic bobbers; fishin' the nearby creeks and local farm ponds with my friends. I also recall that we, too, enjoyed the same snacks; although for my generation, the GATORADE was the original Lemon-Lime flavor instead of Orange.

          The day I snapped this pic, we were floatin' a 3 1/2-mile stretch of the Conasauga River, up in Polk County, Tennessee. It was his first time on a 'yak by himself. In no time, he's sayin' "Hey, Paw", and I turn to find him standin' up on it, paddlin' along with nary a care in the world. That day, he learned to fish a new lure... a swirly-tailed jig, while I got to hear all about his recent trip aboard a cruise ship to St. Thomas, San Juan, and the Bahamas. Smart beyond belief, he can comprehend an amazin' amount of things on an adult's level and is constantly learnin'; yet, he's still an 11-year-old boy, and keeps me in stitches with some of the things he can come up with. And best of all is how I feel after spendin' the day with him. Normally, I'm exhausted when I get off the river, havin' paddled all day in the hot sun.... but not when I'm with this young'un. Yeah, the tired muscles are still there, but time shared with him actually recharges my spirit.

          My daughter says that he "has the best time with me", and that he's "blessed to have a Paw like me". Well.... I don't know about all that.... but I can tell you that that boy means the world to me. He is, without a doubt, my 'best-est bud'. Heck, at times, I think I learn as much from him as he does from me. If nothin' else, though, he helps keep me young.... or at least, rememberin' when I was. LOL

          Just a bit of friendly advice, people.... take a kid fishin', play dress-up or Barbies, or just go skip rocks across a creek or pond; it makes no matter. Just go make some memories with a kid, spend time listenin' to 'em as much as, if not more than, you do talkin' to 'em. I guarantee you'll not regret it, and they.... will never forget it.

'GOOD BYE, MY FRIEND'

          Growin’ up, there were three of us… Marty, Tony, and myself. If you saw one, chances were you’d see the other two, as well. To say that we were good friends is an understatement; we were closer than brothers even.

Marty Harrod
1969 - 2014

          Once grown, life took each of us in different directions, and as oftentimes happens; we got busy with our own families and adult lives. No longer did we spend spring afternoons together at Mason’s Lake reelin’ in hand-sized Bluegills or the first Saturday in September huntin’ doves together on opening-day. Yet, still… the bond between us was still there, the memories we shared from our teenage years were still strong. When we did get to see each other, it was obvious by the big bear hugs and ear-to-ear grins that the ties between us were still strong, and for the next half hour or more, time would stand still as we caught up on what was going on in each other’s lives. And over the past quarter of a century, during the toughest times of our lives, we’ve always been there for one another.

1969 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme convertible

          I have never, in my entire life, been so stunned as I was, on Saturday, when I got the call from my youngest daughter, telling me that Marty had died that morning. He’d had a heart attack, she said. My own heart instantly broke. I had to get off of the phone. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t think. I told her that I had to go, and she understood.

          A hundred things flooded my mind all at once… immediate concern for his family… his wife of 20+-years, their daughter, who is just a year or two behind my own… oh, and, Lord… how that li’l boy of his absolutely worships the ground his Daddy walked on. How will he take it? How will any of them? My heart literally ached for them.

Marty dancing with Ms. Cleveland (1987)

          And then came the memories… how we’d first met, at church it was, back in the 8^th grade; about the time we rolled the school guidance counselor’s yard at the behest of our drafting teacher; and how Marty had actually slow-danced with the principal at our Senior Prom. I thought of our gettin’ to hunt doves over at the Ridleys’ that one year; it turned out to be THE BEST dove hunt any of us ever had. And I remembered the night of our high school graduation, when afterwards we celebrated together at the Hungry House and stuck Mr. Presley, our drafting teacher, with the bill. Marty’s ’69 Cutlass convertible with its white interior and white soft top; it’s still one of my favorite cars of all time. That beautiful old Fox double-barreled 12-gauge that was handed down to him; he could make some of the darnedest shots you ever did see with that ol’ scatter gun. And how could I ever forget how, on my 19^th birthday, that big lug snuck up on me from behind, bear-hugged me, told me ‘Happy Birthday’, and gave me a peck on the cheek, then ran like the dickens to get away. The only time I’ve ever been kissed by a feller. LOL  Yes, I remembered. I remembered so many things from ‘back-in-the-day’, and even through the tears and hurt, my heart grew warm and I had to smile. They were good memories.

          Soon after, Marty’s sister-in-law called me and asked if I would let our friends know. I told her, of course, I would. It was late that afternoon when I finally reached Tony by phone. My voice broke as I informed him of our friend’s passing. He took the news much as I did; he was stunned, shocked into silence. On my end of the conversation, the tears flowed steadily as we eventually began reminiscing about old times and the three of us.

          A part of me is at peace, because I KNOW without a doubt where Marty is, now. He’s in Heaven. And, I’m sure his Daddy and his Granddaddy Dennis were waitin’ at them pearly gates to greet him with big ol’ back-slappin’ hugs. And, Lawd… just think of how Marty’s face must’ve lit up when he saw Grandmother Harrod, again.

          Yep… I miss my friend already. Regardless of where we were or what was goin’ on or who was around, it never would do him to simply shake my hand, he insisted always on bear huggin’ me, instead. I’m gonna miss that… that, and that big ol’ infectious grin of his! My friend Marty was the kind of person that could brighten up any room by simply walking into it. He never met a stranger, and to the best of my knowledge, he was a friend to all. He genuinely cared about folks and was always tryin’ to show it. I wish I was half the man Martin Ruffin Harrod was.

          This evenin’, I go to say ‘goodbye’ to an old friend; one that, although we didn’t get to see one another as often as we might’ve liked, is still very dear to my heart. It will not be an easy task. The loss of a friend never is. But two things do bring me comfort this day… the first, that the Good Lord has promised that I WILL see my friend again one day; the second, that I have enough heart-warming memories of those three boys to last me ‘til we’re all back together, again, smilin' and laughin'.

'TYBEE'

One of Tybee Island's most familiar landmarks

             It’s the middle of January, and the temp outside is a balmy 30-somethin’. So, here I sit in front of my warm heater, thinkin’ ‘bout what else?? Summertime and the beach, of course! But, not just any beach, have you. Having grown up with our family vacationin’ down along the Gulf coast, primarily at Gulf Shores or Panama City Beach, I have, in the past decade, become quite partial to Tybee Island, the northernmost of Georgia’s famed Golden Isles. No, the beaches on Tybee don’t offer sugar-white sands (although they are still so very beautiful), nor do the waters of the Atlantic come close to comparin’ to the blue of those of the Gulf of Mexico, but the historical romance and natural beauty of the Georgia coast more than make up for all of that.

            Close enough to Savannah for one to enjoy that beautiful old city, yet far enough away that there’s actually a small-town atmosphere about the island. Tybee is one of those rare places that makes one daydream about someday movin’ there and livin’ happily ever after. There’s no place else like it that I’ve yet to find.

Little Tybee's pristine beaches stretch for miles

            From the salt marshes that extend as far as the eye can see, at times seemingly barren, laced with empty, muddy creek beds devoid of any visible life, at other times absolutely beautiful with twisting, turning waterways rippling under the bright sunshine and teeming with fish and birds of every kind; to the island nature preserve of Little Tybee, an area that can only be accessed by boat, offerin’ empty expanses of pristine beach that stretch unbroken into the distance.

One of the boardwalks along the North Beach

            Boardwalks bleached gray from the weather; sea oats swayin’ in the breeze; the taste of salt on the wind as the surf rolls up onto the beach, leavin’  bits and pieces of seashells of every shape and size upon the sand as it goes back out again; dolphins breaking the surface in lazy arcs as they frolic just off shore; pelicans flyin’ in formation, then droppin’ out of the sky like Navy dive-bombers, plungin’ headfirst into schools of fish; and the hundreds of gulls and terns, ever-present with their incessant chatter.

            Historical landmarks, such as an old military installation, Fort Screven, in use through the Second World War; the oldest and the tallest lighthouse in Georgia, distinctly marked with none other like it in the U.S.; and a giant anchor, salvaged from a sunken wreck of an old wooden sailing ship discovered off of the island’s north shore.

A Tybee Island sunset

            Beach houses, vacation homes, and rental units of every size and style conceivable; there are huge, gnarled oaks, with gray beards of Spanish moss blowin’ in the gentle breeze, tall palmetto trees, prickly yucca plants, and azaleas galore. On Tybee, bicycles outnumber cars, electric golf carts and buggies are legal to drive on the city’s streets, and parking is at a premium.

            Postcards four for a dollar and sunglasses two for ten in the shops along Tybrisa Street, the heart of ‘downtown proper’, and across the street is DOCK’S BAR, where the locals hang out and the ‘weekenders’ are welcome; you can get fried conch with homemade remoulade sauce served dockside at AJ’S, where the sunsets are utterly breathtaking; a pound of fresh shrimp on the patio at STINGRAY’S, amid the thump-thump of a live band; or a huge platter of Low Country Boil under light-draped oaks out’n amongst the marshes, at THE CRAB SHACK.

Sunrise on Tybee

            A soft, linen shirt, with khaki shorts and barefoot; a frozen concoction of the sort that Jimmy Buffet sings about, in-hand; strollin’ along the beach late of an evenin’ with the tide washin’ the sand from around my feet as it rolls back out to sea washin’ my cares away.

                 A familiar island sayin’ warns visitors that once they get Tybee sand ‘tween their toes, they’ll forever have an urge to return. Well, it's the truth... for I'm ready to be there now, myself.

'CHURCH MICE'

          Now, back in the day, when we were growin’ up, me and my brother Terry weren’t allowed to take toys to church. Yeah, I know… nowadays, folks don’t think nothin’ about it, but back then, it just wasn’t allowed… especially for us, the children of the church’s Minister of Music and Youth. So, it ought to go without sayin’ that the Sunday mornin’ we did decide to break that rule stands out as a most memorable one, for sure.

          The day before, while over in nearby Meridian, Daddy had bought us a couple of realistic-lookin’ mice made out of rabbit fur. We loved ‘em. They were so life-like, right up a couple of 9 and 11-year-old boys’ alley, and the following mornin’, into our dress pants pockets them li’l mice went, church-bound.

          Now, at that time, in the Southern Baptist churches that we grew up in, the fifteen minutes between when Sunday school lets out and the church service starts, as the congregation filed in and made their way to their seats, folks would quietly visit with one another. Well, back over ‘bout midways back on the right side of the church is where our friend Beth Lindley and her folks sat, and me and Terry were in the pew behind her, showin’ off our furry li’l prizes. Now, Beth’s momma was busy visitin’ with the adults in the pew ahead, payin’ the three of us no mind. She should’ve known better. The three of us were always into somethin’. Yeah… you see where this is goin’, right? Like I said… Ms. Lindley was payin’ us no mind at all, even when Beth set one of them furry li’l mice on her dear momma’s shoulder.

Suddenly, the organ sounded, indicatin’ that church was about to start, and that was the Jennings boys’ cue that they’d better be sittin’ up on the front row when their Daddy and the preacher and the choir came out, or they’d be in big trouble. Our fear of not bein’ where we were supposed to be overrode any need whatsoever to have that mouse in-hand, so we left it with her, and made a dash for our seats.

Well, just about that time, Ms. Lindley shifted in her seat, causin’ that li’l ol’ mouse to fall off’n her shoulder and right smack-dab in the middle of her lap. Well, folks… lemme tell ya; she let out a holler that caused everybody in the sanctuary to twist ‘round in their seats

to see what all the commotion was.
            Now, Ms. Lindley, the very quiet and well-reserved lady that she is, quickly regained her composure and sat there all sheepish and red as a beet, embarrassed as all get out for havin’ drawn attention to herself. Yet, there were three in that big ol’ church sanctuary that were not about to turn and look thataway, sittin’ stock-still with eyes-front, visibly shaking with repressed laughter, though; which, was a dead give-away as to whom the three mischievous culprits were.

In walked the preacher and Daddy, followed by the choir, and luckily… Daddy and Momma were none the wiser, for Ms. Lindley was a good sport and after a good laugh, never said a word about it. Plus, thanks to Beth swiftly and deftly catchin’ it up when her momma had thrown it from her lap, we got our mouse back.

So, needless to say… that broke me and Terry from sneakin’ toys into church. That was our one and only time to do that. From then on, we sat our li’l hineys on that front church pew and were quiet as a couple of li’l church mice.

Okay… maybe not THAT quiet, but I think you get what I mean.  J