So long, farewell BHP

Get the scoop on what I'll be up to for the next few months!

This will be my last column for Brentwood Home Page, if the next few months go the way I’ve envisioned them.

I’m not counting on that happening, of course, because the past month has not gone the way I’ve envisioned it.

Everything about this Christmas was unusual. Not tragic, fortunately, just different.

None of my kids had a Big Item they were dying to get for Christmas this year. Therefore, they did not view their Christmas lists with the same urgency that their father and I did. More importantly, they did not understand why their grandparents needed the lists so badly.

As a result, I gave all our good gift ideas to desperate grandparents and wound up still shopping for my own kids on Christmas Eve. Sometimes I felt like I was just shopping so there’d be something under the tree. That is very unusual for me.

All of the Christmas events we enjoy, such as our church youth choir concert, seemed to sneak up on me. They didn’t really take place that much earlier than usual, but my brain wasn’t officially in Christmas gear yet. I was late getting in the game.

I tried to find joy in the preparations this year, but I just felt like I was falling behind. In the midst of all the holiday goings-on, everyday life persisted.

Everything about my routine took longer than usual. I live about a mile from Cool Springs, and more traffic on the roads and longer lines made even a regular trip to fill up the gas tank or the dentist take twice as long.

Why did I schedule a dental checkup during the holidays anyway?

My own closet became Santa’s workshop, so even getting dressed took longer than usual. I’m lucky I pulled out matching shoes from underneath the Amazon boxes and Target bags stuffed in there. Shopping without a list or a plan meant that the UPS man rang my doorbell many more times than is usual. My dog paced and barked so much more than usual that I thought her hair would fall out.

Eventually, thankfully, I started noticing the good stuff. My mailbox was fuller than usual, nearly overflowing with beautiful photo cards of friends and family. Neighbors dropped in more often than usual, sometimes bringing trays of homemade goodies and a few minutes of visiting.

On our way to church on Christmas Eve, I noticed in how many houses along the way the front rooms were lit up. Normally dark living rooms were bright and welcoming, ready to host relatives who don’t usually come by.

My family and I sang more than usual and ate more than usual. I gave out way more hugs than usual, and I didn’t regret one of them.

Everything about this season should be unusual, though. Nothing should be routine. To celebrate such a special event, I had to snap out of my habits and think intentionally about what I was doing. My heart wouldn’t be in it otherwise.

My heart is turning in a new direction that may seem unusual for me. I won’t be writing this column for BHP anymore because I’ve decided to run for a seat on the Brentwood City Commission.

I’ve gotten positive feedback from those I’ve told, and I’m excited about the challenge.

I’ve loved being associated with Brentwood Home Page because it’s been an unusual venture, but one that is long overdue. Brentwood has a lot going on, and it deserves dedicated news coverage.

With Susan and Kelly in charge, I’m sure it won’t be business as usual.

Christmas makes classical music OK

From this week's Brentwood Home Page column:


“Burl Ives is beast,” I heard one of my 14-year-olds say the other day.

For those who aren’t living the good life with 14-year-old boys in your house, if someone is “beast,” they are so good at something that they have exceeded human capabilities.

As you can imagine, I was surprised to hear one of my sons put Burl Ives and “beast” in the same sentence. I guess I should thank Music Choice.

Lately I’ve been playing a lot of Music Choice channel 433 on my TV because it is the Sounds of the Season channel. It plays classic Christmas music nonstop, with no commercials and lots of Christmas trivia.

It’s a nice change from the zombie zone the kids usually enter when they watch TV. Plus we get to hear a variety of music that we don’t usually hear. In fact, I realized this week that Christmas carols are the only time my kids hear orchestral music of any kind. They’re the only songs they hear where the fiddle is not a fiddle but a violin.

As a creative person, music means a lot to me. I try to expand my children’s listening library whenever possible.

Of course, it’s about as easy as driving down Mallory Lane on the Saturday before Christmas.

If I ever stray from their preapproved radio stations in the car, they squawk. I persist, though, because a woman can only listen to so much Eminem.

If I just try to listen to a little of MTSU’s jazz station, they talk over every song and spout off about how “weird” it sounds.

If I catch a moment of WPLN when it’s actually playing classical music, my kids whine that the “lullabies” are “putting them to sleep.”

Christmas music is the only exception. If we’re listening to Music Choice, they can hear Johnny Mathis, Doris Day, Andy Williams and Perry Como for hours and never complain.

They get a little Beegie Adair in when they’re not even thinking about it. I try to explain that Bing Crosby was more than just the guy who sang, “White Christmas.”

In fact, some artists may even reach the “beast” category, as in the case of Burl Ives. I’m pretty sure it was “Holly Jolly Christmas” that catapulted him to “beast” status. That and the fact that ol’ Burl sang it as the Snowman in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

Everybody knows Rudolph is beast.

Hipsters have ruined Christmas fashion too

From this week's Brentwood Home Page column:

I’ve been trying to figure out how it all went wrong for Christmas sweaters.

You know they’re a big joke now, don’t you?

Starting last Christmas, the themed sweaters with tons of sequins, appliquéd snowmen, ribbon trim and glitter officially reached that point where they’re so out, they’re in.

After about a decade of being out of style, Christmas sweaters have become in demand at vintage clothing stores and Goodwill outlets.

Folks are pulling the bejeweled garments from the back of the closet and listing them on eBay. In fact, entire websites are devoted to selling “ugly” Christmas sweaters. I was feeling pretty good about myself until I saw a sweater like one I used to wear on sale for $15 on one of those sites.

Do you hear what I hear? It’s the sound of me getting old.

Why the resurgence in scornful popularity? Because hipsters decided it would be hilarious to wear old, grandma-style Christmas sweaters to their holiday parties.

Get it? They’re being ironic. It’s like saying, “Normally I’m very cool. But the fact that I’m wearing this hideously overdone sweater is funny because it’s so not me!”

They gleefully post photos of themselves online, hugging, laughing and showing off their garland-trimmed Santas or reindeer flying over one shoulder and down the back.

I think the irony is lost on the older generation, who probably see nothing humorous about wearing a perfectly good Christmas sweater to a Christmas party. When else would you wear it?

The part I think is funny is that most people viewing the photos wouldn’t get the joke, thinking those in the picture just had bad taste in sweaters.

“Why is this funny? It’s a bunch of people at a Christmas party. Ooh, those snowmen on her sweater are trimmed in rabbit fur! I wonder where you get one of those?”

A mere 10 years ago I could wear a Christmas sweater occasionally and not feel weird about it. I still own two: a vest and a cardigan. I happen to think they’re really cute or else I wouldn’t have bought them from the Chadwick’s catalog in about 1997.

In fact, the vest is awesome because it has these felt stockings on it that are adorned with real live 3-D jingle bells.

Of course, I haven’t worn them out in public in a while because they’re about as fashionable as denim jumpers.

I don’t own one of those. Anymore.

The truth is that I only wear my Christmas sweaters around the house. You know why? Because they make my 7-year-old little boy happy.

So take that, all you hipster wannabes. My kid thinks my tacky sweater is cool.

I’m even going to save it for the day he wants to wear it … to some party where he can win the ugliest Christmas sweater contest.

Sometimes presents should just be fun

From this week's Brentwood Home Page:

My 7-year-old son Owen got hold of the Toys For Us catalog, as his brothers called it when they were 3, and circled everything he wished he could have for Christmas.

Most of his choices didn’t surprise me, since he always wants Legos, building sets, spy stuff, board games and video games. Bur one selection made me question my parenting style.

He had circled this kid-sized, battery-operated police car, a Dodge Charger “Hemi” with lights, a siren and a working megaphone.

It was WAY cool.

The problem is that my husband and I have always had a policy against those vehicles. We never bought his older brothers the Power Wheels Jeep, even though they would have loved one, of course.

No, we were those parents who thought our kids’ toys should have standards. We wanted all our recreational purchases to improve our kids in some way. Why spend $300 on some toy that just carries them around the yard? Let’s get them a Kett car, which is pedal-powered, so they can use their leg muscles. You know, get some exercise while they’re having fun?

That’s what happens when you apply adult thinking to your kids’ gift requests. Presents aren’t always supposed to teach a lesson. Sometimes they’re just supposed to be fun.

We were pretty uppity about TV and video games too. I was so proud that my older boys never saw an episode of Spongebob Squarepants until they were 7 or 8. We’d managed to keep them safely ensconced in the world of PBS Kids for all that time.

Of course, what works in your family doesn’t work in other families. I witnessed one son’s first brush with peer pressure at a birthday party for a fellow preschooler who was a big fan of Pokemon and Power Rangers. When he opened the gift from my son, a copy of one of our favorite Little Bear videos, he looked at his mom like, “What am I supposed to do with this baby video?”

That right there is painful. I don’t care how old you are.

We’d also heard all the doomsday reports about the effects of the Xbox on kids, so we staunchly avoided any video games. We were so smug about our approach. Then we found out that our kids turned into drooling zombies who played video games the entire night when they’d go to sleepovers at the homes of their lucky friends whose parents did buy an Xbox.

So we caved and have since owned a Game Cube, a Wii and an Xbox.

Now that my oldest boys will (hopefully) head to college in four short years, I’m rethinking my toy policies.

Last summer we finally bought the Deadliest Toy on Earth, a trampoline. It was officially the best thing ever for about a week. Now, just like every other trampoline in the neighborhood, it sits in our yard, “safety net” drooping, waiting for a day when the boys have friends over so they will play on it.

Still, I’m glad we got it. Life is short, right?

I’m pretty sure Owen knows he won’t get a police car he can drive this Christmas. I mean, he’s over the age limit and I know he’s over the height limit. But I admire his optimism.

I like the fact that he quietly went over my head and circled the car anyway, hoping Santa at least might bring it down the chimney.

If he does, I know two 14-year-olds who would drive that thing all around the yard whether they fit in it or not.

But I’m still not getting them TVs for their rooms.

Best dressed in show

I always turn on the AKC dog shows when I see them on my DVR menu, hoping they'll be showing mastiffs. Unfortunately there are way more yappy terrier breeds than mastiffs, so I'm usually disappointed.
I did notice, however, the vast untapped opportunity for someone to market attractive fashion for female dog handlers.
The dogs are so impeccably groomed to the most minute detail, but sometimes the ugly clothes their handlers wear is distracting.
The blocky suits! The manmade fibers! The saggy stockings! The flat, nun-inspired shoes! It's all too ugly next to those beautiful breeds.
A lot of dog handlers, of course, are more used to getting down and dirty with the dogs and aren't too worried about looking chic.
It turns out, too, that the conditions of a dog handler's job make it difficult to dress pretty.
Why don't the ladies just don a simple black pant suit? I thought. That's a classic look that's usually flattering to anyone whose curves are tested during a jog across the show floor.
There's one thing black doesn't go with: dog hair.
Handlers also need pockets for carrying treats. Skirts can't be so full that they would block or tangle with the dog they're leading.
And it's harder to run alongside an award-winning Basenji in Laboutin heels.
Dog show venues are probably either really hot or really cold, so comfort is key. Those are a lot of demands to place on an outfit.
I think the "problem" could be solved if the show's organizers stopped making it a black-tie event. Then the handlers wouldn't struggle to fit into something so out of character with their regular lifestyle.
Of course, you see a lot of khaki down there, and merlot always looks good with gray.
A dog handler's day is not that different from a farmer's. Why not come up with a uniform for handlers that is more like something they would wear on a daily basis?
Since the handlers work so hard, why not put them in work clothes? Come up with pants they can bend, squat and run in. Make men's and women's sport shirts that are neat but not formal part of the dress code.
I'm not saying they should dress like cocktail waitresses on an oil rig.
But it would be fun if the handlers could compete for best in breed too.

No talking, for real

From this week's Brentwood Home Page:

The first birthday card I gave my husband while we were dating was of the humorous variety. It said something like, “With you in my life I know there will always be joy in my heart,” then something else nice, followed by the inside punch line, “… and sports on my TV.”
I knew early on that Tim was crazy about sports, both watching and playing. The first time I ever saw him at UT Knoxville, he was heading into the Presidential cafeteria on his way back from an intramural softball game.
For some of our early dates, we’d watch the Vols basketball team, coached by Don Devoe, play in the new Thompson Boling Arena when so few fans attended that entire sections of seats were blocked off with a huge black curtain.
After Tim and I married, I often fell asleep to the voices of Dan Patrick and Keith Olbermann anchoring SportsCenter. Some of our most fun times involved his work softball teams and church basketball, and to this day weekend chores are planned around the Vols’ and Titans’ game times.
I know Tim has always dreamed of sharing those sports experiences with our boys, and to be honest I always looked forward to that day as well. I mean, how many games can one halfway-interested woman be expected to watch?
As often happens with dreams, though, reality doesn’t match the expectations.
Tim is picky about where and with whom he watches the Vols or Titans on TV, for example. He gets a little too intense to high-five a bunch of friends at a sports bar. We also don’t invite a lot of friends over for game-watching parties, either, because his laser focus is not conducive to friendship-building conversation.
I mean, such a serious fan can’t trust just anybody to enter the sacred zone of spectatorship. What if they talk about something besides what’s happening in the game at that moment?
Unfortunately, he can’t be so selective when it’s our own kids who’ve somehow gotten past the velvet rope.
The twins caught on to football at a young age, but they weren’t too distracting since their interest usually would fade after the first quarter and they’d go play elsewhere in the house.
They’re older now, though, so they stick around for the whole game. They also like to spout off their semi-informed 14-year-old observations about the plays and personnel like grumpy old men, much to the annoyance of their well-read father:
“That quarterback’s the worst! They need to get rid of him!” one of them will yell.
Of course, Tim can’t let it go.
“Why would you say that? His numbers are actually better than they’ve been all season!”
Tim attempts to educate them for a few plays before pulling rank: “You can think that if you want to, but I need silence now.” Then, 45 seconds later, he breaks his own rule when he says, “OK, this down is HUGE. We need this!” opening the floor for discussion once again.
Since 7-year-old Owen has played football, both the real and Madden-on-Xbox versions, he actually understands the game pretty well.
He also doesn’t leave the room. And he talks. A lot.
“Wow, there’s a lot of red in that stadium. I thought they were playing Alabama in Knoxville! 34-10. Oh no. We’re losing.”
This kind of exchange doesn’t lead to the father-son bonding experience where they all cheer the touchdowns and encourage each others’ predictions for the next play. It often ends with a series of comments like this:
“Owen, sit down.”
“Owen, please don’t walk in front of the TV.”
“Leave the dog alone, Owen.”
“Owen, sit down!”
“Owen, there are only 3 minutes and 18 seconds left in this game, and I want to watch them in peace!”
That’s when I attempt to distract them all by loudly unloading the dishwasher and carelessly tossing the silverware into the drawer.
On the field or off, nothing bonds a team like fighting a common enemy.

The good news: Fewer trees have to die

Man, the news industry has changed.
I think the state of my profession has changed more than almost any other in the past 30 years.
I am not THAT old, but when I was in college studying journalism, the Internet didn't exist. No one had a cell phone. All newspapers were printed on paper. At The Daily Helmsman at Memphis State, we literally cut out the printed articles and glued them on a board to deliver to the printer, where they "made the newspaper" overnight.
I still remember the smell of that hot glue machine. I remember occasionally using an X-acto knife to "edit" stories that already were glued to the board.
I remember the very first time I saw a Macintosh computer and Windows menus dropping down on the tiny black-and-white screen.
But I still had to spend hours in my design class learning about rotogravure printing and ink types and when you would use which method.
I'm too young to have prehistoric memories of my career.
Going back even farther, I remember an elementary school field trip to The Commercial Appeal offices in Memphis. The vast, open newsroom with ringing telephones intimidated me.
But the press room was the coolest, because I'd never seen rolls of paper so big they could only be moved by forklift. I'd never seen a machine that was three stories high. As my class listened to the tour guide explaining press runs, I remember him having to shout over the machinery.
I finally understood the phrase "stop the presses."
I didn't fully appreciate how much my industry has changed until a friend asked me to help her get a news office tour for her son's Cub Scout requirements. Our one major local newspaper, The Tennessean, wouldn't even do it because they fired the people who used to give tours. They're owned by Gannett and they're streamlining, you know.
She e-mailed me the requirement from the Scout manual:

"Visit a newspaper or magazine office. Ask for a tour of the various divisions, (editorial, business, and printing). During your tour, talk to an executive from the business side about management’s relations with reporters, editors, and photographers and what makes a “good” newspaper or magazine."

At first, she thought I could give him a "tour" of Brentwood Home Page, the online newspaper I write for. I tried to explain that it's only online, that there is no press, and it's literally a "home office." It would be like sitting in someone's den and talking to two women with a desktop computer.
They could offer him excellent advice on the news industry, but it wouldn't quite be the memorable Citizen Kane experience.
I contacted other smaller papers that still print on paper, but they declined, saying there "wasn't much to see" and they send out their stuff to be printed anyway.
Can't anybody show a Cub Scout what a newspaper looks like anymore?
Modern news is either corporate, mass-produced aggregates of wire news or localized, personalized news that, frankly, isn't very exciting to watch being made.
There are no "divisions" of a newspaper. Even established "papers" feel like start ups because in an attempt to save money, they have to function with as few people as possible doing everything.
Someone needs to let the BSA know what's been happening to local newspapers so they can update their manual.

This week's Brentwood Home Page column

Top-notch stuff in this week's Brentwood Home Page column:

Yeah, I know Halloween's over, but I gotta say this

I know one thing my older boys did not do this Halloween: roll anyone’s yard.
Come to find out that there’s been a whole lotta nighttime pranking in my neighborhood lately. Most of it has NOT been as good-natured as the two times my own kids rolled someone, which I wrote about a couple of weeks ago.
Ever since I joked about our buying TP for my kids and a couple of their friends so they could roll another kid’s yard during a recent sleepover, I’ve gotten e-mails and Facebook messages detailing all manner of midnight vandalism.
Of course, everyone now assumes my kids did it all.
So I’ll just set their records straight. They rolled two friends. The friends know who they are. They did not touch anyone’s house or doorbell. They did not spread anything on the windows of anyone’s house. They did not touch anyone’s vehicle or patio furniture.
The only product my kids threw on anyone else’s property was toilet tissue, Publix brand two-ply. No eggs, no paint, no pickle relish. (I know, sick, right?)
They didn’t even fork anybody.
Needless to say, our family won’t be chuckling about our faux delinquents around the dinner table anymore, since my flip remarks probably made most of the people who live in my neighborhood assume my kids are straight outta juvie.
And why wouldn't they? After all, some idiot wrote about it in the (online) newspaper!
Many parents, however, have whispered to me tales of their own kids' failed attempts at neighborhood naughtiness and lessons learned the hard way.
For example, nothing ruins a fun night of TP-ing faster than dropping your cell phone in the bushes.
I also learned (second-hand) that if you plan a night of juvenile jocularity, your getaway vehicle should not have a loud, distinctive muffler that your neighbors hear regularly as you drive out of the subdivision on school mornings.
In fact, the closest thing my older kids came to committing a crime on Halloween is the fact that they are six feet tall and they still went trick-or-treating. Some towns have age limits on that.
They did make an attempt to go out in “costume,” but at age 14 Halloween’s not about dressing up anymore. It’s about getting candy. A LOT of candy.
I think next year we’ll encourage them to hang around here, maybe pull the old “live scarecrow on the porch” trick and leave the midnight TP runs to some other unsuspecting parents.
It just goes to show that one kid’s hilarious joke is another mom’s home maintenance nightmare.

Freedom!

My dad once tried to convince me that I should try the one-touch system of handling paper that comes into the house or office.
I had just started my first REAL job as an associate editor at Memphis magazine, and I had accumulated one of those Bermuda Triangle in-boxes where I deposited stuff that wasn't due immediately but that I wanted to peruse "later."
Of course, "later" never arrived.
"The one-touch system. You should try it," my dad advised. "When you get some mail or a memo, you pick it up and decide right then and there whether you're going to act on it, file it or throw it away."
Sounds simple enough, of course, but I am a hoarder at heart.
My in-box never was empty until I left the job and moved to Nashville.
In my 19 years of being a married person and/or mom, I have never been able to adopt the one-touch system. I have what the Fly Lady calls "hot spots" all around my house. You know what a hot spot is: Those not-so-out-of-the-way places on desks or counters where you stash mail that you can't deal with right then but plan to get to "later."
There's that word again.
Recently, I started collecting a small pile of catalogs that I thought I'd want to look through LATER for Christmas gift ideas. I have pretty good luck finding stuff that way for my hard-to-buy-for loved ones.
The pile next to my chair became unwieldy, so I started another "to read" pile on the kitchen counter next to the coffee pot.
Pretty soon I kept having to move the kitchen pile when I would cook or bring in a load of groceries.
Yesterday I finally got tired of moving the pile, so I did something outrageous.
I threw the whole pile away.
Yep, I just tossed an entire stack of unread catalogs in the trash!
I haven't felt that free in years.

Thank God that's over

My house looks like a Halloween hurricane blew through it.
I found out around 11 this morning that about 10 eighth-grade boys would be meeting at our house to begin the candy quest.
Then the twins ransacked nearly every drawer and closet in their attempts to put together a "costume," which to them means "hat."
Over the years we've collected two giant Rubbermaid bins full of costume parts, many of which were part of my work wardrobe in the '80s.
After trying on and rejecting most everything they'd pulled out, Henry wore a $10 vampire cape over basketball clothes and Mason wore an old lampshade from the attic on his head. He was a lamp. See what he did there?
Owen, on the other hand, had pointed out which costume he wanted when the Costume Express catalog arrived two months ago: the SWAT officer.
The costume sat waiting for him in the dining room for three weeks.
I had a really weird moment later after I drove Owen to my parents' neighborhood for a visit. My dad walked around their subdivision with us, and for a minute I felt like an 8-year-old with him walking next to me.
As I watched Owen walk up to ring a doorbell and heard my dad saying, "Be careful on the steps," I literally felt like it was 1977 and I was the one carrying the candy bag.
Instead of heading home to dump out all the candy I'd collected in my pillow case, I had to drive my baby home and then drive around our darkened streets picking up all those eighth-graders who had walked too far to make it back on their own.
They only had a couple of minutes to admire their candy before bed. It is a school night after all.
Yep, Halloween sure looks different from a 42-year-old perspective.
When the kids get on the school bus, I'll be able to clean a little in the calm after the storm.

Incriminating receipt tracks hubby's whereabouts

I found something shocking in my husband’s pants pocket last week as I sorted our various whites, darks and in-betweens.

I have to check pants pockets when I do laundry because Tim is famous for scribbling “important” phone numbers on Post-It notes and filing them in his pockets. Most of the time, I find only work-related gibberish like the number 42, the word “rivet” and an arrow for emphasis.

This most recent search, however, yielded something different: an incriminating receipt.

From the time stamp, I could see that my husband had made a late-night trip to Publix. The itemized list made me pause: He’d bought a pack of gum, a 20-oz. Diet Coke and three 24-packs of toilet paper.

This, combined with our 14-year-olds’ recent string of sleepovers here, only pointed to one conclusion. My husband was helping turn our sons into suburban outlaws.

Yep, he’d actually driven them and three friends to our neighborhood Publix to buy toilet paper so they could meet some other neighborhood friends and roll the yard of the unfortunate friend who couldn’t come that night.

I’m sure they didn’t look suspicious at all; a bunch of giggling 14-year-old boys elbowing each other as my husband tried to decide if want wants his TP haul bagged in paper or plastic.

Apparently getting your yard rolled, or “TP’d,” as some may call it, is like a tip of the hat. It’s a sign of affection, if you will, not an insulting act of vandalism the way I thought of it growing up.

The first time my boys rolled someone’s yard, they were invited to go by a friend of theirs who had another friend sleeping over. No kid comes up with this idea alone, apparently. If yours does, you may want to make sure he isn’t turning into some modern-day Boo Radley.

Still, my neighbors and I all consider ourselves to be conscientious parents. Not wanting them to walk the streets in the middle of the night, her parents drove them to the intended victim’s house. Then her dad had to remind them to at least try to be discreet about sneaking up to roll someone’s yard. Not exactly hardcore rebels, they were sashaying up the front walk like they were calling on Sunday.

This particular house only had one new sapling and a huge euonymus bush in the front yard, so they wrapped about a dozen rolls around those two plants and then scampered back into the truck to try another house.

I don’t mind their rolling their friends’ yards because they usually go by the next day to help clean up. They never use anything permanently damaging, like eggs, or anything super messy like the melted Pudding Pops someone left in my mailbox once in seventh grade.

I suspect it’s much more of a social activity for them, since most of the TP is only half-heartedly tossed about eight feet in the air.

Back in my day, I knew a few boys who could throw so high they’d make you regret for three weeks that our society doesn’t still use a Sears catalog in the bathroom.

I guess I should be glad they’re participating in a physical activity outside rather than playing Xbox all night, right?

Maybe not, but there are worse things they could be doing. And worse things I could find in my husband’s pocket.

Remember what you're racing for

I love that our town hosts the Nashville-area Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure 5K.
The survivors and supporters who show up to walk, run and raise money for cancer research are truly uplifting.
I do not love the way segments of the breast cancer campaign have turned the focus from the person to the body part.
Nowadays bumper stickers and T-shirts urge us to “Save the Ta-tas.” Well-intentioned supporters hold up signs or wear rubber bracelets that say, “I heart boobs.” Even though the Komen website does not sell such items, across the U.S. Komen 5K races are full of race teams with sassy names like The Tough Titties and Save 2nd Base.
But I think “the movement” has reached a sophomoric point where it’s achieving awareness while losing the meaning in the message.
Take the T-shirt that urges women to “Feel Your Boobies.” With a wink, it promotes early detection of tumors through self-exams.
And we all know that “Feel Your Boobies” gets attention through titillation. After all, boobies are way more fun to think about than self-exams.
See, it’s co-opting a word that once was naughty. Tee-hee!! Boobies! That’s right, I said, “boobies!”
Focusing on the body part rather than the disease trivializes the woman attached to it. If women spent the last half of the last century convincing men to look in our eyes when they talk to us, why step backwards into meaningless stunts like posting our bra colors on Facebook?
I always wonder how the survivors who’ve had mastectomies feel about the focus on ta-tas. For those who had preventive mastectomies, the choice between “saving their titties” and saving their lives was not really a choice at all.
What about the nearly 400 men who will die from breast cancer this year? They probably appreciate “racing for the cure” more than “jogging for jugs.”
Sure, there are only so many ways fundraisers can use a pink ribbon. Still, the “Save the Ta-tas” group is not a charity but a business that has raised a little more than $500,000 for research since 2004.
I understand that this kind of campaign also brings a little humor to a very serious situation. Some people think any attention, even attention brought on by controversy, is welcome if it brings donations.
This method hasn’t caught on with the other cancer support groups, though. Nobody “hearts” ovaries, the cervix or colons because, well, they aren’t as provocative as breasts.
I can’t imagine the day when guys will run through Maryland Farms wearing scrotum-shaped hats. Perhaps the testicular cancer organizations might get more money for research if they print T-shirts that say “I Heart Balls.”
The Komen foundation does raise millions of dollars for cancer research; it’s also very good at marketing. From grocery products in pink packaging to football players donning the most feminine of colors during October, there’s no doubt that we are aware of breast cancer. And awareness is one of the movement’s most prevalent catchphrases.
But its real goal is to save lives, not boobs.
I’m afraid that goal is in danger of getting run over by the boobie bandwagon.

All that for one casserole

This is why I don't make chicken spaghetti very often.

Only the best for me and mine

I found that I always choose the red "bacon"-flavored treats first from the Milk Bone Flavor Snacks I give Lucy, much in the same way I always go first for the "Special Dark" candy bars in the Hershey's Fun Size mix.
I happen to prefer dark chocolate, but I'll bet all colors of Milk Bones probably taste the same.
Poor dogs don't know any better. Or maybe they're just lucky they don't have too many choices.

I base most of my fashion sense on what doesn't itch. ~Gilda Radner

I waited until almost the very last minute to see the Golden Age of Couture exhibit at the Frist Center, which is Nashville's art museum.
It was on loan from the Victoria and Albert Museum in London.
The first thing I thought of as I began to tour the exhibit (besides "Why is it so damn dark in here?!") was my Aunt Suzanne and her original Barbie dolls.
When I was little and we visited my granddaddy in Coldwater, Mississippi, I always ended up in Suzanne's room at the back of the house because that's where she kept her old Barbies. She didn't get them all out every time we came, but when she did, I was so happy.
Her Barbie dolls were much better dressed than mine. Even though I loved all 17 of mine, they came with these garish disco clothes.
Suzanne's Barbies had much classier wardrobes of silky evening gowns with demure rosebuds at the hip and stoles made of "real" fur.
Some had interchangeable wigs that came off like hats. Even Midge came with elbow-length gloves and perfect little molded evening shoes.
So as I moved through the Frist exhibit and began to take in the craftsmanship of the clothing, I suddenly felt like Cinderella after the clock struck 12.
I had gone to a bit of effort before leaving the house, dressing in a "housewife goes to town" outfit of nicer Capri pants, sandals and "cute" top.
I learned a lot at the show, such as how Dior's "New Look" designs, shaped to emphasize a woman's shoulders and hips, were considered scandalous in Britain because the clothing required so much fabric. Given that the country had endured nearly a decade of rationing during World War II, the British critics didn't immediately fall for the French designs.
As I pored over the Balenciaga suits and Dior dresses, I began to feel every loose thread on my Target pants and scuff on my discount shoes.
I stood a little straighter as I moved through the gallery, but still felt frumpy. At one time I had cared about fashion. Over time, though, with a family to care for, I placed less emphasis on the art of my clothes. My priorities were comfort, affordability, and appropriateness.
Even so, I came to the red Jean Desses gown and found myself standing before it like it was a painting, examining the gathers and draping.
Then a funny thing happened.
The gowns were all showcased on life-size, headless mannequins inside glass cases. The lighting in the gallery was such that, if I stood just right, I could see myself reflected in the glass, and it looked like I was wearing the gown.
I was "wearing" a couture gown! I walked from case to case "trying on" all my favorite dresses. I felt like a life-size Barbie.
Then I had to get back in the box.
But it was fun to play for a while.

Some dark glasses, por favor

On Sunday, my family of five did what we usually do on Sundays after church: We went out to lunch at Mazatlan Mexican restaurant.
It’s fast, it’s inexpensive, the food is pretty good and we feel like regulars there. It’s usually the only meal we all eat out together, and we rarely stray from the plan.
Once in a blue moon we might get chicken from Church’s, but Mazatlan is our go-to place on Sundays.
Except for last Sunday.
On last Sunday, I decided we should try a new place, the Cinco de Mayo place in Merchant’s Walk, located in what once housed Pargo’s restaurant, for you long-timers.
As usual, it took some convincing.
“But we like Mazatlan,” my 6-year-old protested.
Then the twin eighth-graders joined the protests.
“Yeah, we like it. We know the place. They know us. We even know what number to order without looking at the menu,” they added.
Then I found myself having one of those conversations in which I’m saying the most ridiculous things just to get my kids to see how narrow-minded they’re being.
“But what if we go to Cinco de Mayo and it’s the best Mexican food you’ve ever had?” I asked.
Of course, one twin is an expert in logic.
“What if we go and it’s the worst Mexican food we ever had?” he asked.
“But what if it’s not?” I retorted, like the mature person that I am. “You won’t know unless you try it. And if it is, we won’t ever go back.”
So we went. As we compared and contrasted the salsa and the atmosphere, Henry said, “I feel like we’re cheating on Mazatlan.” I rushed to our defense.
“We’re allowed to try new places,” I said. “It’s the American way.”
“Yeah, freedom of choice,” Owen said.
The result was a split decision: One son and I liked the new place a lot, especially the gravy they serve on their enchiladas instead of rojo sauce. My husband, of course, liked both. The other two sons still liked Mazatlan.
The truth is that Mazatlan had become “our place.”
So this past week, we headed back there for our Sunday meal. But we all slinked in.
When the host seated us in one of the round corner booths, we all looked at each other and giggled.
“Why do I feel guilty?” my husband asked. “It’s like they know we cheated and went somewhere else last week.”
“I know,” I said, diving into the chips and salsa. “Just act normal.”
So the waiter came out, we ordered a No. 2, a No. 12, beef fajitas, a tostaguac and a kids’ beef burrito with queso, as usual.
The guy we call Cowboy, who always wears a flat-top haircut and plaid shirt, brought out four platters on one arm, as usual.
We ate and talked and laughed and looked each other in the face, catching up on each others’ lives, as usual.
Then we piled back into the truck to head for home. The boys, who were on a post-lunch high, bickered until I had to yell at them to calm down, as usual.
It’s not brunch at Tavern on the Green, but straying helped my family realize that we kind of prefer “the usual.”

Shake and bake

I just got home from a trip to what surely must be the capital of American manliness - the night race at Bristol Motor Speedway.
That’s right, I went to Bristol, baby! And I was INTO it!
My husband and I are not diehard NASCAR fans, but we both wanted to go to Bristol once just to experience it.
The bad news for him is that I may want to go back.
I’ll admit it, y’all …I had fun from beginning until … well, until Kyle Busch won and we had to walk back to our truck in the dark with 150,000 drunk people.
Other than that, what’s not to love?
We parked about two miles from the track and rode a shuttle while admiring the view of the beautiful hillsides of Sullivan County and the acres of race-fan RVs populating the nearby campgrounds.
The shuttle dropped us off next to the fan midway in the rear parking lot, where we were free to peruse booths and trailers offering the manliest swag I’ve ever seen.
It was like a testosterone convention. The Jack Daniel’s tent had barrel tables and a live band. Toyota displayed every version of its Tundra pickup imaginable. Ford showed off an F-350 pickup specially painted with Navy SEALS landing on a beach and Desert Storm soldiers in full battle gear.
On one side of the midway, the Coors Light girls looked like they had entered an unofficial tank top battle with the ladies representing Red Bull.
The U.S. Marines booth had an actual pull-up contest. For those less physically inclined, Aaron’s Furniture offered a tent full of recliners.
About the only manly pursuit not represented was some kind of creative facial hair contest.
And the giveaways! We loaded my see-through backpack (bought specially to avoid a longer security line) with free Goody’s powders, Tums and even free full-size bottles of Sweet Baby Ray’s barbecue sauce.
That right there is a good day. I don’t care who you are.
In fact, later when we shared a picnic table outside the fried Oreo booth with race fans from Pennsylvania, one lady told us she was going back to the Sweet Baby Ray’s tent because she’s gotten three bottles the night before and hoped to get at least two more.
Inside the track, the pre-race show was both manly and patriotic, with the drivers’ kids singing the national anthem and the winner of the Irwin Tools Ultimate Tradesman Challenge saying, “Drivers, start your engines.”
Guys flew parachutes into the stadium to the strains of Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA” (goose bumps!), and a military jet flew over twice.
Why? Because it’s always awesome. And because they can.
I’d always heard about how loud the cars are at Bristol, and several folks warned us to rent headsets beforehand so we could protect our ears and talk to each other.
Still, I had no clue that it would be louder than any concert I’d ever seen. The roar and rattle from the cars below us was seriously louder than the time I sat in the seventh row at Aerosmith.
Unlike most Titans games, I watched every second of the action on the track in front of me. Bad blood from a race the night before set up a classic villain in the #18 driver, Kyle Bush, and when #12 Brad Keselowski called him out during the intros, I, along with the entire crowd whooped and hooted in a kind of redneck, “Oh no he di’int.”
Luckily my husband sprang for the good seats, since it was an anniversary gift (Oh yes he did!). We sat among some serious race fans instead of the drunk, cussin’ deadbeats who rode the shuttle bus with us.
Another lucky thing for me: I wasn’t trying to be anybody’s mom. I was thankful we didn’t bring the kids because we did pass quite a few shirtless guys whose eyeballs were practically swimming in beer and because the hill we had to climb on our way out through the All-American Campground nearly killed me.
As they say, it ain’t for everybody. But this first time, Bristol was for me.

What, you thought I'd start with something important?

I was sitting there listening to the blues, to Pinetop Perkins specifically, when I wondered what my blues name would be.
Henry and I were talking on Monday about some of the rappers who have cool, organic nicknames that really fit, like Eminem for Marshall Mathers or Ludacris for Chris Bridges. I thought it was hilarious how Chad Ochocinco calls his football friend Bernard Berrian "B-Twice."
Then I thought it would be cool if there was a blues name generator so I Googled it and, of course, there is.
The site I tried had a formula where you name a physical infirmity, a fruit and the last name of a former president to get your blues name. The first name it supplied me randomly after I clicked the button (which probably bought me some spy ware) was Lame Melon Fillmore.
I don't think so.
Click again.
Sleepy Raisin Cleveland. Really? Really?!
Try again.
Crazy Raisin Johnson.

!!!!!! WTF????!!!!!

I don't even like raisins! Seriously, this is starting to not be fun. The next one is it.
CLICK

Cryin' Tater Lincoln.

I'm keeping it, even though a tater isn't a fruit.

A hiatus

I'll be taking a break from this blog for a bit.

If you just can't get enough of our shenanigans, check here every Monday.

I'll be back in a little while.

To serve and protect

Tonight I finally had my ride-along with a Brentwood Police officer. It's late now, so I'll just say that these two photos perfectly illustrate the range of stuff I saw during an 8-hour shift this evening.

The one in which Mom lets go a little bit

Just made the last school lunch of the year.

That's my favorite benchmark because I feel like I get in such a rut with brown-bagging.

Next year the twins will make their own; they just don't know it yet.

So as I face another summer as cruise director for three boys, I have to look back at how much they've grown.

It is weird to compare your parenting style to your own parenting style, but it's easy when your kids are seven years apart.

I did it yesterday as I sat at Crockett Park watching Owen take part in the last day of Brentwood Blaze football camp.

He loved it, and I've never seen one of my kids so suited for a sport.

When Mason left the Blaze after one year, I couldn't wait to say goodbye to that part of our life.

I remember thinking it was too much: practice four days a week plus a game, traveling to far-flung areas of the Nashville Metropolitan area to play other teams. In third grade!

But we got a lot out of it. To this day the whole family can look at each other and say, "Remember those Hendersonville boys? Man, they were HUGE!" And we all feel grateful to have survived that trip to Drakes Creek Park.

I remember thinking I didn't want Mason to get burnt out on football before he played in middle school. Now I think he should have stayed in it because boys learn a lot in that level of football.

The thing about football coaches is that they are tough, in a good way, though.

This three-day camp had more than 100 boys participating, from kindergarten through about sixth grade.

The organizers did a great job running boys of all ages through the same drills. The expectation was that the kids could do it, and even the "pee-wees," as mine was called, felt they could do it.

T-ball and baseball are different, somehow.

The coaches are still dads, but there's just more babying going on. At football camp, the atmosphere is all hustle, all the time. If you don't hustle, you're gonna get attention you don't want.

So they hustled. Nobody threw a fit, like you see in the baseball dugout sometime. Nobody checked out mentally and started playing in the dirt. On the football field, there's not a lot of down time for anyone. They're always either running, throwing, pushing or pulling someone, so you don't hear anyone getting a hoarse reminder to pay attention.

Sometimes when they're waiting in line to do a drill, they'll turn around and mess with each other, but that's part of it. Once the coach calls you sharply by the last name, you won't get caught doing that again.

The other funny thing was watching Mason micromanage Owen during camp. Mason paced the sidelines on the first day and followed Owen from drill station to drill station, occasionally yelling at him to turn around or get his fingers out of his mouth.

By the second day Mason had calmed down and just offered encouragement or constructive feedback.

I remember when my older boys were that little, my most feared enemy was older boys. Because older boys knew things and said things I didn't want my boys to know or say yet.

I should have trusted my boys more, though. Watching Owen turn around to listen to some evil second-graders fiercely yelling at each other to shut up and talking trash that verged on potty mouth, I could tell in his face that even he didn't like how they were talking to each other, and he didn't join in.

Crisis averted!

For now.

This week's Brentwood Home Page column

Had a fun new job last week that, thankfully, was temporary.

Skip this if you don't want to read about dog barf

Allow me to write about my dog for a moment.

We have a 3-year-old Mastiff named Lucy who really is the best dog in the world.

She has no annoying habits that I can think of. She only barks when strangers cross our property line. She does exactly what we say exactly when we say it.

She stands quietly in front of the back door when she wants to go out. When she's done chasing squirrels, she comes to the back door and barks once. Every time. In the car, she sits quietly in the seat.

She doesn't beg for food. Even if we leave food out or have a trash bag momentarily unsupervised in the kitchen, she ignores it.

The worst thing she does is pester the heck out of people who visit by nudging them relentlessly if they are not constantly petting her.

Oh, and she takes up most of our bed, when we let her up there and I put out a fleece blanket.

But she does this one thing that I find so weird.

She is a stealth barfer.

Most dogs make a huge ordeal out of upchucking. There's usually a random awakening from a nap followed by dramatic heaving with that weird repetitive urp noise that makes the entire household run around screaming.

I mean, who hasn't tried to grab a wretching dog around the ribs in an attempt to drag it outside while someone else in the house flings open the nearest door? It's one time when all family members unite for a common cause: clean carpet.

The thing about Lucy is that we never get our chance to experience all that drama because she gives no pre-vomit warning. I'll just be walking through the house, heading to one of the bedrooms with a load of folded laundry, and on the floor in a corner of the room I'll spy a pile of what looks like dog food.

I'll spare you the details, but it does look like someone just poured a little pile of Beneful in the corner between the wall and that ottoman.

Thankfully I've found these gifts soon after they're left. At least I think I have.

Better go take a stroll around the house.

How the water made such a mess

This link shows security camera footage of the flood last week as four feet of water came into a Pep Boys store.

This week's Brentwood Home Page column

Some days I really feel old around all the young mommies at our elementary school.

500 Year Storm in Nashville

The top photo is our local YMCA, which is not quite a mile from my house. The water reaches the steps that lead into the building. The bottom photo shows an intersection on a state highway that is the main drag through my part of town. This is Concord Road looking west toward Lipscomb Elementary and the YMCA. The Little Harpeth River is flowing across the street.

Click on the photos to get a better look.

Start building the ark

Our house is OK, but just two doors down from us is another story.

I took the photo at left of a front yard two doors down from us. The top photo shows the creeks that converge at the back of our lot. Based on what I've seen in the neighborhood, a creek at the back of your property is better than a creek at the side of your property.

I don't have anything clever to say about it. My mind is waterlogged.

Just file it in the back of your mind for future reference.

Nashville Monsoon of 2010

Today our area had the worst flooding in more than 30 years.

We were celebrating Tim's birthday at Mexicali Grill, and we knew it was raining, but we didn't know how bad it really was until we drove past the tornado siren right when it went off.

When we got home, the three creeks that converge at the southeast corner of our backyard had already spread across our neighbor's yard and touched the front door two doors down.

Of course, the aforementioned whirlybirds had all settled in our gutters.
"Mom, look outside Henry's window! It's a waterfall!"

Woo hoo! Happy Birthday, honey!

Whirlybirds of doom

This is a photo of the seedpods that are about to rain down on our yard and our neighbors' yard the coming week.

I cannot overstate the number of these things that fall from our massive maple tree and cover our grass, the sandbox, the trampoline, the gutters and the car grill.

Then the little seedlings pop up.

All I can do is send a preemptive apology to the Cothrans for our tree trash.

Keeping up with the Joneses on Facebook

The boys and I looked forward to their spring break for weeks, if for no other reason than they wouldn't have to catch the bus at 6:43 every morning.

You can suck the fun right out of a relaxing spring break at home, however, just by checking your Facebook account. See, it's pretty cool to hang out at the park or go to the zoo … until you come home to read all your friends' Facebook updates about their cruises and beach trips.

After this week I'm pretty sure my three boys think that when my husband and I recited our marriage vows, we were actually promising to provide them with the most boring childhood possible. At least that's what it seems like when they compare what we do during school breaks to what a lot of their friends do.

See, my husband and I have this conservative philosophy about family traveling. We don’t leave town every time the kids have a few days off. In fact, we've always placed kids and trips on a graduating scale of grandiosity. We see the local sights first, early and often. Childhood should contain lots of camping and local road trips. As the kids' ages approach double digits, the family can drive farther and stay longer.

This philosophy also means we didn't take babies or toddlers on airplanes in non-emergency situations. It means no tropical islands for anyone under age 18, and no European vacations before junior or senior year in high school.

This unwritten rule is influenced by the fact that Tim and I never went to the Caribbean before our honeymoon, so why should our kids go there when they're 8 or 10? The older boys barely remember moving into this house when they were 8, and that was a pretty big deal. I'm not about to fork over ten grand for a Disney cruise that, five years later, I'll have to convince them they took because they only remember the round window in their cabin.

For my kids, staying in a motel is about the greatest thing ever. In fact, I could drive down to Highway 96, book a room in the Best Western, and my 6-year-old would literally be as excited as last year when I told him we were going to SeaWorld.

It’s not as if we don’t go anywhere. I’d say our kids have hit most of the major kid trip milestones, and we have many more on the to-visit list. It’s just that part of living in Brentwood is accepting that some folks’ to-visit lists get checked off before yours.

Internet access also puts you right there when your buddies update their lists online. Yep, I never knew how lame we really are until Facebook. At least when Tim and I were in school, we didn’t have to hear about anyone’s cross-country RV extravaganza until we got back to school and saw our friends’ “what I did during spring break” essays.

Nowadays, thanks to camera phones and Wi-Fi, my kids might get to see photos of their friends surfing or skiing while they’re, say, relaxing in the orthodontist’s waiting room.

Next year, I may proclaim our spring break Internet-free.

My kids will be so thrilled.

This week's Brentwood Home Page column

Why I spent a few hours at the county jail.

Great idea on paper

Just a heads up: These are the plastic eggs I bought last year for Owen to take to his preschool Easter egg hunt. They're camouflage because he LOVES military stuff. I saw them and thought, "What a cool thing! Owen will be so excited because they are just so HIM."

The thing about camouflage eggs is that when you hide them, they're CAMOUFLAGED, so it takes every bit of fun out of the hunt when your child can't find any of the eggs HE brought.

It also spices up the lawn mowing process later in the summer when you inevitably can't find all the camo eggs and your husband mows over them in the grass.

So, just so we're clear: The point of an Easter egg hunt is for the kids to FIND the eggs. Don't buy grass- and dirt-colored eggs.

A case of the Mondays

“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could.

Some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can.

Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit

to be encumbered with your old nonsense.”

– Ralph Waldo Emerson

Nashville home to BIG spenders

Woo-eee, do Nashvillians like to spend money!

According to Bundle.com, a site that lets you compare your own spending habits with those around the nation, Nashville ranks seventh on the list of the 25 top-spending cities. Austin, Texas, ranked No. 1. Nashville ranked higher than Miami, San Francisco or L.A.

The list ranks mostly discretionary spending and does not include mortgage, insurance or health insurance. What surprised me is that most of it is spent on eating out.

In Nashville, residents spend a little more than $500 per month dining out. But in my home county, Williamson, residents spend an unbelievable $700 per month eating out.

I can't even imagine. The things we could do with $700 a month...

This might be why Tennessee ranks second in the U.S. in personal bankruptcies.

All this just makes me want to hurry up and write my post, A Case For Cooking.

Small victories

The best way to bond with your 13-year-old son is when he's home for a sick day.

One of my twins called me to come get him in the middle of the day Tuesday. He came home and was VERY ill all afternoon. Then he slept without moving one bit for two solid hours.

It was like one of those red storm lines loving across the TV weather radar screen. A few hours of upheaval and disturbance and then ... peace.

He couldn't go to school Wednesday because he was so weak and needed rest. So I took full advantage of his weakened state and babied him like he's never been babied before. I tucked him in, brought him gallons of Gatorade upon request and made the best toast in the history of toast. And he let me.

When he left for school this morning, I went in to hug him, and he didn't recoil the way he usually does.

I call that a breakthrough.

This week's Brentwood Home Page column

The twins will be in eighth grade next year. They get to choose two of their classes. The choices aren't as clear as you might think.

Why hasn't this house sold?

At first glance, it's probably obvious why this house hasn't sold. It's located on a heavily traveled section of Moores Lane, which has become a shortcut from Nolensville and is a major connector road between East Brentwood and Cool Springs. Any time you'd want to get out of the driveway, you'd have to steel yourself.

Upon entering, you'd probably roll your eyes at the dated fixtures. The interior apparently has not been changed much since the original owners moved in in 1973.

EVEN SO, it is a perfect ranch on nearly two acres in Brentwood. It has four bedrooms and more than 3,000 square feet. The property is next door to a historic home, and it overlooks a golf course. At $389,983, it is priced for renovation (for Brentwood).

It's probably not cheap enough and the location's too difficult for a flip, but it'd be great for a family or empty-nesters.

So what's the deal?

Farewell, Fess Parker

It will be a tragic day in our house if Owen finds out that Fess Parker passed away.

Fess Parker is the actor who played Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone in those famous Disney series. We discovered Davy accidentally in the Brentwood Library one day, when Owen and I were perusing the free movies to check out. I noticed the silver spine of the special edition DVD of the Davy Crockett box set, which had six movies on it. It stood out from the primary colors of all the usual kids' shows, and I showed it to Owen.

I could tell that, 50 years later, Fess' pioneer gear, handsome gaze and confident gun pose on the cover were working their magic on my then-5-year-old. Of course, we brought it home.

I think we watched the entire thing straight through that day, and were still watching when my older boys came home from school that afternoon. They got caught up in the depiction of pioneer courage, the friendship between Davy and Georgie, portrayed by the always awesome Buddy Ebsen, and intense but not gory battles between Davy and The Bad Guys.

I eventually had to order our own copy of that DVD so as not to deprive the other Brentwood children from their own Davy experience.

Owen wanted go as Davy on Halloween that year, so I ordered him an amazing costume that he still tries to wear around the house. It kind of works, if you like your Davy Crockett to be clad in buckskin capri pants.

The hat, of course, would be the key to the costume, and the fake fur mess that came with the one I ordered looked like a bad toupee when Owen put it on. So I, of course, scoured the Internet for a better one.

Guess what I found? A website for Fess Parker's winery, which happened to sell authentic coonskin caps.

That hat is considered a true treasure in our house, and it will always be a part of Burgin family history.