Finally, every box is unpacked, smashed, recycled, and out of my life. All the goods are put up. Somewhere. What's not put up is put down in the basement. I wasted no time hanging my favorite wall saying over the stove where I'm learning to cook. I could choose to order take-out, but we're back on the Dave Ramsey wagon heading toward Financial Peace, so cook I must.

On that note, oh how that Pioneer Woman is my hero. I have taken to hanging out with her recipes and writing up menu plans and making my grocery list. Never in my days have I made grocery lists. I even organize them by departments - produce, dairy, meat, other. I'm sure there are names for the "other" items, but I just can't be bothered to come up with them because I'm so busy learning how to turn on my ding dang stove. That thing has five burners! And it gets so hot that I've set off my smoke detector at least once a day since my mission to learn how to cook decent healthy meals full of butter for my loving family. (Did you know that if you burn toast you can just scrape off the black part and it's good as new?)

Get this - I made my debut with Thanksgiving. OK, white lie. I actually cooked crispy yogurt chicken on Thanksgiving Eve. It was delicious and crispy and tasted nothing like yogurt. But for daggone real, I cooked the entire Thanksgiving meal all by my little self and even cleaned up to boot. I'm a bit particular about clean in my kitchen.

Oh, proud as a peacock, I was. Not to brag or anything. But this is big stuff. BIG. Seriously B.I.G. I once cooked a broiler chicken and couldn't even stand even touching it. Raw. Cooked. Either way, it was altogether gross and dumb. But now, well, I picked up a 15-pound turkey, dunked it overnight in an apply brine solution, stuffed fresh herbs under the skin then crammed the whole thing in a baking bag, and baked that poultry. Imagine my surprise when it was tender and juicy and edible.

I owe it all to Pioneer Woman.

I also made homemade stuffing, but I didn't stuff it in the turkey. You would have to put it in the turkey cavity, which is a fancy cook way of saying its butt. That's gross and dumb, just like that chicken I mentioned. So I made it in the oven all by its lonesome and it was bacteria free and yummy, just like Pioneer Woman promised.

Also on the menu -

homemade cranberry sauce.

See below? Proof. I really did this.

Oven roasted asparagus

whiskey glazed carrots
man, oh man, these were good. And I'm not a whiskey woman.
But, oh wow.
These were the yummiest carrots on the planet Thursday.

fresh baked white bread

a whole entire box of butter

real butter

sweet potato pie

and pumpkin pie

OK, so I cheated a little bit. I accidentally bought the sweet potato pie thinking it was a pumpkin pie. Then I realized at home that all things orange are not pumpkin. So I plopped some marshmallows on it, baked it, and then cooked a Sara Lee frozen pumpkin pie. It's the only thing left over from Thanksgiving dinner.

And honest to goodness, we humans did eat the meal. Really. Emma the Dog got a special plate for herself after we dined in the dining room. Yes, we have and use a dining room now. She also washed dishes for me. I'm particular about clean like that.

So, now that all the boxes on the first and second floors are unpacked, their contents painstakingly unwrapped from 14 rainforests worth of paper and displayed here and about, boredom is knocking at my door. Oh, how I dreamed for days of lazy mornings, drowsy afternoons, and nap-worthy evenings. And now I just find myself thinking about things I could buy, if, oh, I had money.

Well, turns out, our fabulous realtor (or is it Realtor???) hooked me up with her genius hair guy, William. He works at Hairdresser on Fire, and let me tell you, baby, he was On Fire for me! He's my new beaux. OK, so he already has a beaux, but he's mine once a month, and that's all that matters about that.

Let me fill you in on my morning with William on Fire for My Hair.

First and foremost, he did not say one unkind thing about my kitchen color that went south back in Pa. You know, when I tried to highlight my head from a box of stuff that said it would work? I bought it at WalMart. That should have been my first clue.

But Will, that Fabulouslo Man, totally fixed all that. A few minutes in his chair and I was highlighted and lowlighted and coiffed happily ever after.

But, listen, people. That's not all. Because and plus also, Will, the Man On Fire for My Hair, said that since I was living in Connecticut and all, I could get my brows waxed. Cause people in Greensburg totally just don't do that. So, swipe, rub, RIP, and swipe, rub, RIP, and swipe, rub, RIP! I was WAXED! And it hardly hurt at all. Nothing like 40-Year Old Virgin.

Check me O.U.T.!



Oh, it's better than Botox, this waxtox is. I have brow bones! Who knew?!

It was totally by chance that we met up with Santa today.

Really.

We'd be the last people to go searching out Santa Claus before Thanksgiving. We still cannot believe that there are Christmas decorations in the stores and have been since back-to-school sales ended.

ETA - I know I have to get to Dollar Tree to get some Christmas ball ornaments to make that way cool wreath. Gotta get there before everybody else does!

But still, we found him. Today. Alive and well. At Yankee Candle Village in Mass. We're that daggone close to MA, I tell you! Don't tell anybody, but I think this may very well have been the REAL Santa.

So, we were strolling through Yankee Candle Village, home to all smells candle-able. And lo-and-behold, there is Santa's Workshop before our eyes. And a giant sign that counts down the days till Christmas - 40 days, 13 hours, 13 minutes, and 9 seconds. Reminded me of the giant clock in Roanoke, Viriginia, that counted up the national debt. Turned out this was a bit of bad news on Roanokers' rush-hour commutes, so the clock died. Not unlike budget control. Not that this blog would ever get political.



And so, Camden and Benjy, not even realizing how real this Santa was, stood in line to wait to see The Man. I'm telling you, they didn't even care. They were just happy to look around at all the toys and sights and that doggone clock telling me I needed to buy some serious presents for all my loved ones near and far.


When it was our turn, let me be the first to tell you, Santa talked, really talked to the boys. He told them about how he isn't at the North Pole that often, how Mrs. Claus won't count squash pie as a vegetable, and how the reindeer only recently returned from the tundra. Seriously, I haven't used "tundra" in a sentence in quite some time now. Santa also listened carefully as Camden explained his idea for an invention that would create Star Wars guys and their vehicles. He showed Santa a diagram, told him how to turn it on, and then Santa said, "how do you turn it off?" And Camden, not to be beat, told him it turned off automatically. That's my boy.


This Santa has to be my favorite of all the Santas I've met. And I've met a few in my day.


Benjy, in his Benjaminess, told Santa he'd be happy with "whatever you bring me. I'll be fankful for it." Ahhhhhhh.

And now, because you need to be grossed out at least once a week, and who am I to stand in the way of your therapy.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

There.

Coming soon,


a


home!!!

Currently, it's just a house, but on Monday we close on our brand new used home here in Windsor, Ct.


Are you seeing that front porch? It's a real front porch, I tell ya! I'm probably just gonna sit there on that beauty for a few days before I unpack. Just cause. I haven't had a porch in quite some time, you see. Front porches are da bomb, I'm told.




The back yard here is huge and fenced. Emma the Dog has big ideas for that yard: poop, pee, sleep, run, poop, pee. So does Camden. He has drawn up extensive plans for a tree house that would probably require various permits and a mortgage of its own. See that nice wall there in the middle of the yard? That's not just any ordinary bit of architectural detailing. That used to be the rear end of the inground pool. See the inground pool in front of it? Me neither. The owner filled it in sometime between now and when the google map satellite snapped this picture.



That pool sure would have been a nice addition to our backyard. Cheaper than Camden's tree house. But it's definitely not there anymore. Perhaps Emma can dig it up for us.

The movers won't arrive till Tuesday, so we'll continue to reside at the Residence Inn nearby. Get it? Reside? Residence? Yeah, I thought so.



Here's a picture of the boys residing at the Residence Inn before I took them to school where they reside from 8-3. It was Veteran's Day Wednesday, so they were gussied up for the Veteran's Day program. We are so blessed that the boys love their new school.

Taekwondo testing tonight for Camden and Eaglescout. Both had mid-terms, and both passed. It was amazing. It pretty much comes down to the board breaks. If you don't break your boards, you don't pass. I'm so proud of my guys.

Here's Camden doing a left elbow strike (which you can't see because somebody steps in the way) and a running sidekick. It's so amazing! I can't even run and jump, much less run and jump and KICK.



Here's Eaglescout's break. Camden himself filmed this. :)




I'm so very darn proud of my guys. :)

I'm a glutton for punishment. We spent the day at the point again - from 11 this morning till 4:30 this afternoon. The only real damage we did was a light burn to Eaglescout's back. I'm nursing it, though. No worries. But I have to tell ya, the sand on my skin all the live-long day was more than annoying. Turns out, I am really and truly OCD. I kept trying to wipe sand off of my hands, my face, my legs I had to cover up with a towel just to read my book. That's just sad, I tell you. I came back to the cottage ready to soak in rubbing alcohol just to feel clean again. Cleanliness is next to godliness, they say. So I showered, washed my sandy bleached hair, clothed myself in my favorite St. Jude's tee shirt and star-dotted pj bottoms, and hit the bed. From 5:30 till 7:11 I slept. I was O.U.T. OUT. The sun and surf and waves and shells and what-not will do that to a girl. I woke up, was served fresh steamed shrimp by my favorite Eaglescout, and then suffered from gas for an hour. Life is good, they say.

Going out to the point takes a significant amount of planning on the part of OCD people like me. I have to know when I'll return, so I can plan to be clean again. I have to know if there are enough Diet Cokes in the cooler. It's necessary to know that I'll find conch shells. On this occasion, I was in search of the queen mother of all conch shells. The one Sponge Bob himself would have celebrated. We were not disappointed. The boys and I walked out to tip of the point early to find several. Camden swam the entire way. Benjy loved every single broken shell he found. My bucket was overflowing with imperfect, broken shells. But, hey, I'm an imperfect, broken shell, and God still loves me, so who was I to object?

So I lugged my bucket of imperfect broken shells from Timbuctoo to our very own ocean-front property for the day. It was heavy, but, hey, I'm a mom. I could handle it. By the time I waded back to my beach chair, my lower back was aching. My sea legs needed to rest on solid ground. That building-a-house-on-the-sand is for real, I tell you. Don't do it. But I was happy. My boys were happy. Eaglescout was happy, especially when he rigged up his circus tent and hoisted the pirate flag. We were a sight. You could see us from the top of the Hatteras lighthouse. We lit up the point, people. We were the beautiful people today. And the tired ones. And now the clean ones.

There's something to be said for a one stoplight town like Hatteras Village. It's down at the tip of Hatteras Island on the Outer Banks. It's the end of the road, so to speak. The only way to get to Ocracoke Island farther down south is by ferry boat (which is free and leaves every 30 minutes in the summer). It feels like the end of the earth here, and that's just the way we like it.


We love Hatteras for its simple, unhurried ways. It lacks the congestion of the main drag of the OBX. There's not a McDonald's or K-Mart or Food Lion in sight. To us, it's a local's paradise. And now we're ready to be local.

Slap.

Ok, but we're not. But, hey, we're on vacation. So we're local for a week.




We've discovered this fantastic spot for fresh seafood. Vickie takes care of us, and has taught Eaglescout how to steam shrimp. Yum. Who needs to go out to a restaurant when Eaglescout is in the kitchen tossing shrimps around as he juggles fresh corn and slices (yes, he's slicing again) tomatoes that were not grown in China? And he's already done tuna and crab cakes. Yeah, we're eating gooooooooood.

Unfortunately, Camden's face was bitten by the Hatteras sun yesterday, so we spent Tuesday off the beach. We decided to drive an hour and a half up to Kitty Hawk and visit the Wright Brothers' Memorial. This is on the main drag of OBX, highly developed with all the perks of highly developed land: traffic, people, chain restaurants, K-Mart, Food Lion.


This is the view from where Orville strapped himself into the 1903 Flyer and flew off a giant sand dune to a space 120 feet below. By the fourth flight, the brothers had flown a whopping 8 hundred and something feet from this view. As interesting as all this historical stuff is, I have to tell you that we were far from impressed. Eaglescout and I were starting to feel like we were not on vacation at all. The traffic lights made us tense. The large quantity of humanity made us weary. The mix of carbon with carbon dioxide and generous doses of diesel and 4-lane highway, made us downright jumpy. By the time we left, we felt like we were driving home from a day of work. It wasn't till we crossed over the bridge to Hatteras Island that we breathed a slight sigh of relief. The relief settled in when the boys went to sleep, snoring lightly in their happy little room at the back of our beach house.


So, I've digressed.
Let me just say that lightly developed trumps fancy bells and whistles any day in my book.


In spite of how we grown-ups felt on the main drag, the boys were troopers. They walked every inch of the National Park that is the Wright Brothers' Memorial. Camden ate it up and wanted to come back the next day. Ummmm, no. Benjy took it in, not really caring about the historical significance, but just happy to be a part of all this humanity. We sacrificed our day for our boys. Martyrs are we.


Then we came home. Home to Cape Hatteras and our Ocean Cottage. For one week, this is home.

We four-wheeled it today, heading up to the Point, parking along the beach, and setting up our own little mini-camp. Unfortunately, Camden wound up with the coloring of a lobster. :( So we won't be sunning ourselves tomorrow. On the upside: I did find a couple of small conch shells. I'm happy we have the rest of the week to find the queen momma of conches, though.


Obligatory picture of my feet.



I was under the impression that Benjy was water-bending, like on the cartoon, Avatar. But when I asked him, he said he was talking to God. And I believe him. :)



This whirly-gig marked our spot in the sand. It's our beach flag. Now we want a pirate flag to go with it.



Camden body surfing



Camden looking like a golden boy of summer.


Camden on the boogie board


The boys of summer


Benjy is no longer afraid of the water!


Our beach house is called Ocean Cottage. Here's a cool coat rack hanging right near the front door with all our hats hanging up and ready to grab tomorrow.

We have arrived. Yeah, arrived. Arriiiiiiived. We spent the morning on the beach, the early afternoon napping and playing, and the late afternoon back on the beach. The sun is blazing hot here, but the shade under the umbrella is just right with the breeze off the Atlantic.


This is the summer of Benjy, it seems. The child has become almost as fearless as his brother.


Here are the Boys Wonder when they were too worn out to run and play any longer. They simply sat down in the surf and, well, sat.


This was the as still as they've been on the beach. We all had a moment of silence about this time.


And now, a word from our sponsors,

back-to-school goodie

If one of my firsties drew this picture at school, I'd wonder a bit about what was going on at home..............





Word has it that the teacher contacted the mom about this. Am I so happy this wasn't my responsibility! Here's what she said:

Dear Mrs. Jones,

I wish to clarify that I am not now, nor have I ever been, an exotic dancer. I work at Home Depot and I told my daughter how hectic it was last week before the blizzard hit. I told her we sold out every single shovel we had, and then I found one more in the back room, and that several people were fighting over who would get it.

Her picture doesn’t show me dancing around a pole. It’s supposed to depict me selling the last snow shovel we had at Home Depot.

From now on I will remember to check her homework more thoroughly before she turns it in.

Sincerely,
Mrs. Smith

Is that not the darn funniest homework paper you've ever seen? You can bet I'll be triple checking Camden and Benjy's homework papers this year. (Not that I don't already do that. Because I'm the perfect mom, after all, sitting side-by-side as they labor over their homework pages, prompting at just the right times, helping at the hard parts, dancing around a pole when needed.)

Back when I was a young mountain girl with pigtails, not at all the enchanting lady I am today, I loved the ritual of back-to-school shopping with my sister and mom. We lived in a tiny town miles and miles away from the nearest shopping mall. There were no Wal-Marts. No Hill's discount stores. No big box office supply stores like Staples. What we had was the pharmacy in Big Stone Gap and the Ben Franklin and Woolworth in Norton. Plus also, the Piggly Wiggly sold a few school-related items in the Kleenex aisle.

Each August, we'd start in town at what my grandmother called the five and dimes. I'd rush to the shelves where the brand new Trapper Keepers and spiral bound notebooks and zippered pencil pouches rested. I'd pick out glossy pocket folders with cute kitties and pups on the covers, the tri-binder with the most features - including a clip, tabbed dividers, extra folders, a zippered pouch. I'd smell the plastic cover, practically inhale it, touch the smooth folders. This was a very sensual experience, as you can see. I'd pick out a few special pencils and erasers, a bottle of squeezy glue, the big pack of Crayolas with the sharpener in the back, beg Mom for a mini-stapler. Because I really truly neeeeeeeeeded it, of course. We never bought backpacks. They weren't the rage, and plus also we had arms, so we carried our books. I don't recall ever seeing a backpack in elementary school. As I said, though, this was a long time ago, back when Laura and Mary used to meet us on the walk to school where Nellie would show off her ringlets.

In those days, back-to-school shopping marked the beginning of the back-to-school season. Today, it heralds Halloween. So, when I finally wind my way past the new costumes and scary candy bowls, and find the aisle of primary colors and all things papery, I'm in a time warp of sorts. Some of my favorite little girl memories involve paper and pencils and Trapper Keepers. And so, I'm excited that Teaching Heart Mom is having a giveaway for a $25 Walmart card to get - guess it, people - school supplies!!!!!!!!!!

If I won this baby, I'd dance right over to Wally World and pick up some last-minute goodies for my first graders: several Crayola watercolor paint sets, a few dry erease markers for us kids to use during word study and math, some new headphones for the listen-to-reading station, and perhaps some happy stickers cause kids love stickers. That'd about blow the $25, so I'll save the bean bag chairs for another time. :)

What do YOU like to do at back-to-school time?

Benjy decided last week that he was ready to learn to ride on two wheels. So when Curt came home from work, Benjy asked him to take the training wheels off his bike. Then, he hopped on his tiny little bike, and took off. I'm not kidding here, he took off! Riding! On two wheels!



Well, he was so happy with himself. Tickled pink, I tell you. But he knew he could be happier. So Benjy dragged out Camden's old blue bike. It's bigger than the mini-thing he rode last week. He hopped on and took off. Again! Just took off!



Benjy has begged for me to watch him ride his bike in the road every single hour of every single day since he took off on his rite of passage into big-boyhood. We finally took him to an empty parking lot so he could ride like the wind, Bullseye. And here he demonstrated not only how to ride on two wheels, but also how to take down bad guys. You can really learn something from this boy, people.



All this happened, mind you, while Camden was away at Karate Camp. And let me tell you, we noticed his absence. :) It was eerily quiet here. We dropped Big Brother off on Wednesday, leaving him in the more-than-capable hands of Chief Master and Mr. Dreskler and the other staff at Karate for Kids summer camp. Believe me, it took more than 5 adults to handle this bunch. Meanwhile, Benjy couldn't wait to show Camden his new trick. He was so darn proud of himself.



So now Camden is home where he belongs. He is tired beyond imagination. But he's home. It's noisy again, but he's thankfully home. Thank you, God, for taking care of him. Benjy showed off his new skill. I got all my hugs taken care of. We fed Camden and loved him and did his laundry. And now we're getting back into our summer routine. Tomorrow, we start a new evening tradition: we go to the parking lot to ride our bikes.

I made this card box - the first of its kind that I have ever seen in this real life, for my friend Holly. It's for her wedding guests to stuff their well-wishes into at the reception. I have never been so happy to burn myself with hot glue; this was beyond fun to create. :)

Aside from that, not much has been happening here. A lot of summer just going to the dogs. Lazy days. Late mornings. Not much to exhaust your thoughts on.

Until....

My sister's best friend lost her baby boy. My heart just breaks for her and her family. I pray every single day, more than once, for her and her husband and daughter. I don't think I can get past this now. Doesn't God want us to embrace her now? To hold on to her as He would, show the mercy He would? Love her with the love only Christ can model? Yes, that's what has consumed me this week. I love this mother who has lost her son. I pray for her peace and comfort. I pray that she will survive the terrible guilt that consumes her thoughts and rise to embrace God's great mercy. Love to you, dear friend. Love to you.

I was putting off washing my hair this morning and succeeded by creating this little ditty from Jib Jab. Watch and learn, people. Watch and learn.

Try JibJab Sendables® eCards today!

It's been so long since I've posted that Blogger actually asked me to sign in. And had it not been for Firefox remembering my varied and whimsical and clever-beyond-belief passwords, I wouldn't be here now. Instead, I'd be digging Delallo's almond olives from the jar I bought on clearance at the Shop N Save.

I reconnected with some friends from my first school, Fallon Park Elementary, today. Hi Delores and Gerri and Bonnie and Wilma and Angel!!! This is the inner city school-home of the "I ain't doin' jack" second grader and the Bomb Threat Boy. I'll have to tell ya the bomb story another day. (Let us just be thankful for caller ID.) At any rate, it's good to find Virginia people on Facebook. Life in the northeast can be mighty unfriendly without some southern hospitality. :)

So, what've I been up to since summer vacation started? Well, Eaglescout and I have been on a mission to fix up the house. You know, basic cleaning of the tooth brush kind and dreams of granite and Molly Maids and such. I'm stuck at the tooth brush stage.

Seeing as how I'm the adult at home this summer sleeping till 9 a.m. every single day and not washing my hair till noon, I feel an obligation to mow the grass. If we had a postage stamp yard, this would be no big thing. But our quarter-acre feels more like ten when I am behind the mower. So, imagine how smart I feel knowing I've knocked out the grass today while retaining my confident charge of The Wild Things. And now here I sit with Eaglescout, comfortably sipping a glass of vino and watching DYI television actually TEACH a young couple how to mow grass. What's that about??? You start the mower. You push it. You follow your tracks. You cut the grass. Yeah, I'm feeling quite smart today. Could be the olives. I hear almonds are good for you. Actually, my daddy taught me how to mow the grass as soon as he knew I was capable of taking this dreaded job away from him!

So, that amazing shot of our back yard at the top of this post is the bulk of my mowing job. You can see just the hint of our redneck pool we have off to the side of our back porch. Our neighbors have a redneck pool, too. They're popular around these parts. The redneck pools.

Other than mowing my real yard, I've been spending some time farming my virtual fields on Farm Town. This is a fun application on Facebook that allows you to plant fields of crops, harvest them, sell, them, and make money. Virtual money is almost as fun as real money. Almost.


I've made a killing on planting pumpkins and harvesting pumpkins from friends and friend's moms. I made enough to buy an actual virtual farm house! Woot! Now I'm living. I don't know how I'll function when school starts and I can't farm till night time.

I leave you with these images of Father's Day. The Wild Things wanted to take Eaglescout to Statler's Fun Center, complete with go-karts, pizza, and putt putt. I was like Mrs. Tiger Woods, let me tell ya. But I was happier to be Mrs. Eaglescout.

My friend Anne went to a wrestling match last night. This shocked me somewhat, as I didn't know she had a penchant for scantily clad men pretending to beat each other up. Heck, she should come watch our taekwondo testings and see Stephanie put Eaglescout on the floor if she wants excitement. 'Course, we are finely dressed at our testings. No nekkidness to titillate the senses.

So, I was reminded by Anne of a second grade boy I taught in the early years. This was in an inner-city school in Virginia. The school had nearly 600 youngins and most of them were living below the poverty level. This kid was bright. I mean smart as a tack. And he had a way with adults. He was funny, cute, conversational, and in the blink of an eye, mean as a striped snake. Oh, I don't think he wanted to be mean. He was groomed for it, I think. A nurture vs. nature thing.

I mean, this kid (I'll call him James, since I've never taught a James who didn't have this proclivity for stubbornness.) would be fine and dandy till you asked him to do something he wasn't in the mood to do.

"James, would you please put your writing folder away and come to the rug with us?"

"I AIN'T DOIN' JACK, MISS RICHERT!"

"James, writing workshop is over. We're having a meeting on the rug. Let's go."

GLARE GLARE GLARE

MEAN TEACHER LOOK
MEAN TEACHER LOOK
MEAN TEACHER LOOK

No use. James wasn't budging. He wasn't doin' jack.

Nevermind the implications there. Nevermind that I wasn't even a miss at the time.

And yet in all these years, James goes down as one of my favorites. In retrospect, I think that James was probably gifted. I mean that in the education sense of the word. He was bright, able to think about things in abstract ways. He could interact with his friends, teachers, and still keep his toes firmly entrenched in his hood. This was ultimately, I am afraid, his downfall.

You see, if you're gifted, and you don't use your "giftedness", you are in danger of losing it.
It's like practicing for anything. If I don't practice my taekwondo form, I forget how to do it. If Camden doesn't practice his soccer moves, he forgets them. If James didn't work out his thinking muscles, he'd forget how to use them. By the time James was in second grade, it just wasn't cool for him to get good grades. I was told that his uncles were all in jail and they had told him that he'd one day wind up there, too. Grades were a waste fo time. And so his grades dropped a bit every quarter. A self-fulfilling prophecy if I ever saw one.

Still, James taught me an important lesson in that year. He taught me that some subjects are OK to write about. I was a new teacher - I think this was my 2nd or 3rd year. I was really into writing workshop where kids write short picture books on subjects of their choosing. I tended to push kids to write about their own experiences because those were the ones they knew best. But James insisted on writing about his hero - Stone Cold Steve Austin.

Here is the hero cracking open a beer.

James was an avid wrastling fan. He knew all the big players. All their girlfriends. All the winning moves guaranteed to award WWF stardom (or WWE or WWWhatever). The only time his writing came alive with voice and excitement was when he wrote about his beloved wrastling hero. And so I gave in and let him at it.

Through the stories James wrote, I acquired a hefty knowledge of wrestling, albeit ONLY through his writings. I could talk trash with the best of them. I could tell you that Stone Cold and The Rock were rivals at least once. Stone Cold liked to finish off opponents with his signature Stone Cold Stunner. In fact, he once almost had the Undertaker under his Stunner control when suddenly the tables turned and Austin was nailed with a Piledrive of some sort. Of course, Austin did the piledrive, too, at times. This just wasn't his turn. Apparently, too, Stone Cold liked to say things like, "And that's the bottom line, cause Stone Cold said so!"

Well then.

I have to tell ya, I felt cool in those days when I could toss out terms like piledrive and stunner and Royal Rumble. Guys dig chicks who can talk wrastling.
Cause Stone Cold says so.

James transferred to another school after his second grade year; we never heard how he was doing. I think about him every year as I get to know a new class and then say goodbye to them in the spring. I wonder if I have any James in my charge. I wonder if I have any kids whose peeps think jail is more suitable than home. And I wonder if James is at home now. Wherever you are, James, thank you for keeping it real. For being true to yourself most of the time. I pray you are the James God meant for you to be.