In this instance, words do not suffice. And yes, I used a tired phrase.

Said title of this blog was uttered by Youngest SON of Thunder the other night. He, his siblings and yours truly were watching a YouTube video. Quite instructional some of those videos are by the way.

Anyway. We were learning … wait for it … wait … how a milk snake eats. Snake, not shake.

And why pray tell would we care? Somehow, Eldest SON of Thunder convinced yours truly and the Little Black Dress that he really, really, wanted a milk snake for his birthday. Said birthday is today.

An aside – happy birthday Eldest. You are awesome. And The Dress and I are very proud of you and are simply grateful you are in our lives.

We’re back. So here’s how it happens. The nice commentator on the video drops a very cute little white mouse into the glass terrarium. Said terrarium also includes a milk snake. Said snakes are about a finger or two wide and grow to about 36 inches or so. Just so you know we’re not talking rattlers or pythons or such.

And the little precious mouse scurries about and the snake just looks at it. And then out of the blue, in that whole Santa twinkling of an eye speed, the snake strikes, wrapping itself completely around the aforementioned precious little mouse.

And the snake starts to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze. And the nice commentator lets us know the snake is basically suffocating the precious mouse to death.

After about a minute the snake decides the mouse is dead enough. And it’s time to eat. Now we all know snakes don’t have arms (you know that right?). So I figured the snake would just sort of gnaw on the mouse. I say this because the mouse – at least in width – is way bigger than the snake.

That would be a “no.” Because the snake basically opens its mouth to some absurd stretch and begins to swallow the now dead, former precious mouse.

And it was about that time Youngest SON let out the “AG@!#!! … Not the circle of life!!!. Complete with all the exclamation points.

In the background, The Dress is muttering. Something along the lines of “What was I thinking,” “This was the dumbest idea of all time,”  ”What was I thinking,” “If that snake ever gets out …,” “What was I thinking.” And so forth.

A few days ago, Eldest Son and I were on the Internet searching for the perfect milk snake. Eldest wanted a Nelson milk snake. We found one an ordered. They are shipped overnight delivery. Eldest was completely calm and rationale and didn’t check his e-mail every five minutes to see if it had shipped and exactly when it would arrive. No, not at all.

We finally got an e-mail. They were out of Nelsons. They suggested an Apricot milk snake. Eldest did not want an Apricot. He wanted a Nelson. Another aside – basically the various names refer, I’m guessing here, to the color patterns of said snakes. I say that because they also have Albino milk snakes, which, yes, have a lot of white. For some reason, The Dress was adamant there would be no Albino milk snake in the house.

So Eldest and I search some more and find a Mexican milk snake. And we order it. It’s due today. And Eldest calls The Dress to inform her. Bad mistake son.

Because within nanoseconds of that call The Dress has speed-dialed me and just lays into me.

“I thought we were getting a Nelson snake. What is this Mexican snake. We agreed on a Nelson snake. That’s what the science teacher said to get” and so on and so forth.

And then she let out, “what if its personality is different.”

And I pause. And in my sweetest voice say, “honey, it’s a friggin snake.”

And then spent quite a bit of time explaining that said snake was indeed a milk snake and the only difference was the name, which simply referred to its color pattern. And she may have bought that line, but we’ll see. And that will all depend on said snake’s personality.

Anyway. The Dress and Eldest head off to the Big Box Pet Store to get a terrarium. And silly me thinks they will be bringing back a big glass case.

That would be a “no.”

We have special wood chips – Aspen no less – because cedar apparently kills them. And the terrarium isn’t just a big case. No. It includes a 5.5 inch “Premium Reflector Dome Fixture” that “provides warmth and light with a ceramic socket to withstand constant heat.”

And we have a “Day Blue Light Bulb” that “emits full-spectrum light and UVA rays needed for a healthy reptile environment.” And we have a “Heat Mat Terrarium Heater” that “helps reptiles thermo-regulate for daily activity, appetite and metabolism.”

Think I’m done don’t you?

That would be a “no.” Because we also have a “Terrarium Liner” described as needed because “reptiles thrive on the absorbent, non-abrasive material. Treated with a biodegradable enzme that reduces reptile odors.”

And I admit, I had no idea snakes stunk.

And finally, we have the “Fresh Air Screen Cover 20 x 10 inch” that “provides solid security and air flow to promote a healthy exchange of air needed to help keep pets active and healthy.” Yeah, it also means it better keep the snake because if it escapes and finds the LBD …

I did not make any of that up. It’s all on the box. You have to love marketing.

We also learned milk snakes eat Pinkie Mice. Said mice are available at the Big Box Pet Store. Said mice are frozen.

That last sentence is key. Because the mice have to be warmed up first before the snake will eat them. That means you have to heat up some water and basically thaw the mouse.

It will never happen. But just imagining the Little Black Dress wearing a surgical mask and rubber gloves and holding a frozen mouse by the tail with tongs while dipping it in hot water to warm it up …

I’d probably bust several blood vessels from laughing so hard.

It is time to go. The doorbell has rung.

Felipe is here.

By Augustus I do not mean Gaius Julius Caeser Augustus, also known as Octavian, the first Roman emperor, great-nephew of Julius Caeser and principal of the Pax Romana.

Not that the middle SON of Thunder shouldn’t set his sights on being the greatest and most successful emperor of the Roman Empire. But that just wasn’t the play this time.

No, I mean Augustus Gloop. A rotund German boy who won a golden ticket.

Although spelled the same, there is a slight difference in pronunciation.

Mr. Gloop is more of a AA-GOO-STUS; while the emperor is more like UH-GUS-TUS

Middle SON’s elementary school was putting on a play. And it was “Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.” The one starring Gene Wilder, not to be confused with the slightly more bizarre “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” starring Johnnie Depp.

As the day of tryouts came, we offered the normal parental advice of “doing your best,” “if it was meant to be it will happen,” “no matter what, you are a winner,” and so on and so forth.

Middle SON did not get the role of Augustus – the German kid, not the emperor.

He was to be an Oompa Loompa.

Considering the change in roles, Middle SON took it fairly well. He told me about the teacher’s obvious miscue decision when I got home from work. I asked if he was okay about it and he said he was, but let’s just all agree it wasn’t said in the most emphatic way.

And we talked a bit. And I said something along the lines that people look at your title, your position in life so to speak, but God looks at you. What is truly important is not the title someone gives you, but what you do with what you have.

And I pointed out that without the Oompa Loompas, whom most people would consider mere drones, and funny looking ones at that, there would be no Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

No Oompas, no chocolate.

And I pointed out that even Willie Wonka acknowledged that without the Oompas, his dreams would never happen. A great leader realizes who got him where he is and gives credit where it is do.

And I thought of that verse in 1 Corinthians - “But our bodies have many parts, and God has put each part just where he wants it. How strange a body would be if it had only one part!  Yes, there are many parts, but only one body.  The eye can never say to the hand, “I don’t need you.” The head can’t say to the feet, “I don’t need you.” In fact, some parts of the body that seem weakest and least important are actually the most necessary.”

Every now and then I actually get it right.

And Middle SON nodded, smiled and went off to listen to the movie soundtrack.

He worked hard. Had his lines down and a couple of cool Oompa moves. He’d listen to the soundtrack at night while going to bed. He was determined to be the best Oompa that ever did the loompa.

And a week before the big day, he got sick.

Now Middle SON is one who saves up his “sickies.” By that I mean he doesn’t get sick often, but when he does, ugh. The last time happened about two years ago, and he spent 10 days in the hospital. For a while there, well, you can read about it here.

We did what we could, but this virus was going to run its course. Middle SON barely got off the bed, and only to move to the couch.

The big day arrived and the play went on – minus one Oompa Loompa.

Middle SON was not happy. He worked and practiced and it simply was not to be.

I tried to explain to him that life – and school plays – go on. There will be disappointments in life, missed opportunities. But the key is to learn from that, to move forward, to get back on track.

Life is not a straight road. There are a lot of curves. It’s what you do when those curves come that make you who you are, and will be.

“Thanks dad,” he said. “Can I go play with my iPod now?”

Yes, enough of the lesson.

He may never get the chance to play Augustus Gloop again – but there’s always that Roman emperor.

In honor of this infamous week, known simply as CRCT Hell, here’s a repost of the blog I wrote about this time last year:

There is a well over-used cliché about the tension being so thick you can cut it with a knife. That’s unfortunate, I mean that the cliché has become, well, a cliché, because it’s a pretty good phrase.

But this week, across the state, you can pretty well cut the tension with a knife. Everyone is all smiles. But the smiles are tight. The kind you get when you’re about to go through a procedure that includes the words “root” and “canal.” And you hear something in the background along the lines of “what do you mean we’re out of anesthesia?”

Routines are no longer that. There are lots of discussions among the Sons of Thunder about the exact rules. Said discussions turn into debates, with deft phrases punctuating the air – words like “uh huh” and “uh uh” – in ever-increasing volume. More on that later.

Welcome to the Criterion-Referenced Competency Tests, affectionately known as the CRCTs. Also referred to as, borrowing yet another cliché, Hell Week.

There is a quite informative website run by the state to help parents understand why their kids are freaking out and teachers are screaming in the halls. Said site is, quoting verbatim, “producing well-designed assessments aligned to the state curriculum with timely dissemination of results.” In English, this means “we’re testing to see if your kid has learned anything and we’ll let you know as soon as we can.”

The friendly web site even lets us know what the CRCT is, as only a state can do: “The CRCT is designed to measure how well students acquire the skills and knowledge described in the Georgia Performance Standards (GPS). The assessments yield information on academic achievement at the student, class, school, system and state levels. This information is used to diagnose individual strengths and weaknesses as related to the instruction of the GPS, and to gauge the quality of education throughout Georgia.”

Again, in English this means “determining whether your kid is smart or dumb, and whether you’d kill to get into this school district or give it up, your school sucks.”

Apparently, we can blame all of this on some kid named Johnny. Who, again, apparently, got through school without knowing how to read. The nice people up in Washington were shocked, shocked I tell you. They immediately stopped sharpening their No. 2 pencils and decided everyone should take a test.

This has resulted in what down here is referred to as “teaching to the test.” And it’s also a time of knowing looks among parents, double-checking of ammo clips, hiding of silver and references to something about “The War of Northern Aggression” and “Damn Yankees.”

Our home is not immune.

The Little Black Dress lets it be known, more than once I might add, that she “suffered through test anxiety” when she was in school. And so she feels the Sons’ pain. For the record, I never said she freaked out and threw up every time the word “test” was mentioned.

To help the Sons get over any “test anxiety,” The Dress made sure they were prepared. This preparation involved the necessity of buying the Sons new sneakers. No, I do not understand the correlation.

Said preparation also involved buying pencils. This I understood. However, instead of getting a box of pencils, available just about anywhere, the LBD goes to the Big Bulk Store. Meaning she returns with not 10, but rather 1,000 No. 2 pencils. When she returned, I was about to ask what I thought was a rather obvious question; namely, do we need this many pencils?

Before I was able to utter anything, I got The Look. And she made the comment that the Sons would take extra pencils in case someone forgot to bring his/hers. So the entire school is now well-stocked. And the Sons’ backpacks look like some cactus plant.

So anyway. Last night I’m asking the Sons about the tests and before I get two words out …

“YOU CAN’T PEE!!!!”

“YOU CAN’T POOP!!!!”

“YOU CAN’T THROW UP!!!”

Wait, what was that last one?

“YOU CAN’T THROW UP … YOU HAVE TO HOLD IT!!!!”

There are other rules as well, which apparently vary depending on whether one is in elementary or middle school. Or, the rumors on said rules have taken a life of their own.

For the elementary school, one must sit quietly after finishing. No reading of library books allowed. However, one may play thumb wars – by oneself.  And now we know where the phrase “twiddling your thumbs” came about.

For the middle school, you apparently are required to read after finishing. Quoting the eldest Son, “they want to make sure our brains keep thinking.”"

The biggest debate is reserved for whether one may lay one’s head down on the desk. This will result in immediate removal and a meeting with The Man From The State, or is allowed provided you don’t fall asleep.

This Man From The State has taken on a life of its own. Either it’s a total fabrication or involves walking down a long dark hallway into a room with a single light bulb and coming face to face with a leather trench coat and monocle.

We’ll be able to lay this one to rest when the Sons come home this afternoon.

Or rather, if.

I’ve never really wrapped my head around Easter.

It’s like some weird catch-all day. Women don beautiful dresses and incredible hats; some bunny lays (allegedly) chocolate eggs all over the yard and your new carpet; and it’s the most important day – spiritually – for Christians.

Is it really a holiday?

It’s not Christmas, which is slowly losing the “Christ” part. But Christmas is definitely the longest holiday, starting Aug. 19 this year, according to the Farmer’s Almanac and the Big Box Stores. And we give gifts and gifts we can’t afford because a bunch of wise men did two centuries ago. Or  advertisers tell us we must and we must obey. Take your pick.

It’s not Thanksgiving, where people stuff themselves silly , get into family arguments over something that happened 14 years ago, and then fall asleep on the couch. It’s not Halloween when little kids – accompanied by parental patrol units these days – knock on your door and give you the “are you serious” look and you then thrown in more candy … and more candy. And it’s not the Fourth, where we see who can blow up their fingers while we celebrate our nation’s founding with, well, explosives.

For Christians, I understand Easter. Or at least the significance. For us, it’s really Resurrection Sunday – the day Christ rose from the dead. It is what Christianity hinges on. Everyone who lives must  first be born. Everyone who is born dies. There is, for Christians, one exception to that last sentence.

I just don’t get the “Easter” part. If you do a quick Internet search, you realize it has its beginnings in pagan fertility rituals, hence the egg thing. The whole bunny concept was brought over here by the Germans in the 1700s. Kind of complicated to explain it all here.

Easter is never mentioned in the Bible. Neither, for that matter, is Christmas. But the events are – the birth of Christ, the resurrection of Christ.

I can wrap my head around Christmas. God gave us the gift of his Son. We in turn have expanded that to give gifts to each other as we celebrate Christ’s birth. And we never let commercialism get in the way.

I can’t wrap my head around Easter. Christ rises from the dead. We in turn eat chocolate eggs delivered by a bunny. And sometimes we eat the bunny too, chocolate version that is.

Maybe that’s why Easter is a little different around our house. The Dress dons a beautiful dress and a smashing hat those old English queens and princesses would die for. So far, normal.

And the SONS actually dress up somewhat. I mean at least they tuck in their shirt and tie their shoes. We tried the old cute white Peter Pan outfit on Eldest SON one year at church. Why yes, I blogged about it here. Again, so far, normal.

We no longer do the egg hunt; but there’s still chocolate to be found in various Easter baskets hidden in the exact same place every year. And again, normal so far.

But somehow we started giving weapons on Easter. I have no idea. Maybe we hit our limit at Christmas and instead of waiting an entire year, we do a mini Christmas at Easter. I guess our Bunny understands our situation. By that, I mean he helps us out.

One year it was BB guns. Again, I have no idea. But as I recall the SONS really wanted BB guns for some reason and it was Easter and birthdays and Christmas were far off in the future and it was time to celebrate the ending of winter and …

Everyone was happy. Thank you Easter Bunny.

Another year it was Airsoft guns. And I don’t mean those little pistols, but full powered auto versions and sniper rifles. There was probably a Gatling gun in there somewhere. The bunny is aweseom

This year it was machetes. 18-inch blades with a saw blade on the top. Yeah, longer than the SONS’ arms. And for the record, I helped the Bunny with the BB guns. The Dress helped the Bunny with the machetes. Somehow, the Bunny knows.

And as I write the SONS are off in the woods behind our house cutting up and down, building lean-tos and probably a deadman’s trap or two.

When the LBD was helping the bunny with the machetes, she ran into some friends standing in line. She explained what she was doing and the dad asked if we were planning on killing the bunnies. Crazy idea as the Bunny was the one behind all this. And the son said he thought he got gipped on Easter as he never got anything cool like that.

On Easter Sunday, The Dress donned her finest, the SONS combed their hair and we went off to church. Machetes were left in the car.

And afterward, friends came over and we had a big feast. And all the kids went outside promising not to cut each other’s arms off.

Celebrating Easter. Celebrating the resurrection of Christ with friends, chocolate bunnies and machetes.

On This Thankful Thursday I am reminded of the week ahead.  It will be Spring Break in Newnan and the Sons of Thunder will be thundering through the house, yard, neighborhood and everywhere else in between.

Mothers all over Coweta County are gearing up for a busy week. But I point my heart and mind to the good blessing we have. I am so grateful the Sons can run! I am grateful I have ears to hear their loud yells and tender words like “I love you” and I am grateful I have eye sight to see all their beautiful faces and the list goes on and on. I know you have your list too.

Winters and I always tend to try to look to the good and yes we are grateful most of that God hold’s us in the palm of His hands.

But I am also reminded that we will soon be approaching Palm Sunday, Good Friday and then Resurrection Sunday!  How humbled and honored we are to be loved by a God who would do so much for us.  I so grateful for a Savior who loved me enough to die on a cross for me and you!

This simple song puts it so beautifully so I thought I would share the lyrics with you.   I am sure you have sung it a million times but I pray it especially blesses you today!

GIVE THANKS
WITH A GRATEFUL HEART
GIVE THANKS
TO THE HOLY ONE
GIVE THANKS
FOR HE’S GIVEN
JESUS CHRIST, HIS SON

AND NOW LET THE WEAK SAY
I AM STRONG
LET THE POOR SAY
I AM RICH
BECAUSE OF WHAT
THE LORD HAS DONE
FOR US

GIVE THANKS…

So my dear friends if you feel weak or poor, weary and down trodden remember on this Thankful Thursday that you rich, you are strong and you are loved more than you could ever possibly know!  You are love and accepted by the Savior, Jesus Christ.   He counts you worthy! 

Be blessed and encouraged on this thankful Thursday as we give thanks with a grateful heart!

Some will call it soothing or cheery. Those types like magazines with the words “decor,” “ambiance” and “chakra” in the headlines.

Others see it as cowardly. Yosemite Sam calling out some “yellow-belly” dang dern chicken. And it’s a  sign of damn the torpedos;  Americans see yellow, punch the accelerator.

It’s also used as a caution, or, in simpler terms, a “no-no,” in sports. In the rest of the world, the No. 1 sport is soccer, or as they call it, football. Why they call it football when all it involves is feet and a ball is beyond me. It’s confusing to Americans, who know that real football has very little to do with feet other than running.

An infraction in soccer by a player will result in them getting a yellow card from the referee. This in turn, depending upon where one lives, leads to other actions. In France, they will cry; in England, they will drink more and stampede; in the Middle East, it’s a beheading; and in South America, it’s a car bomb. But let’s stay away from stereotypes.

Here in our hometown, we are not immune to the yellow card. It comes in the mail.

It is quite flimsy – a small 4×6 postcard.

It is one of the most powerful pieces of paper I know of.

It has the power to stop the SONS of Thunder dead in their tracks. And that, well, says a lot  if you know the SONS.

The scene goes like this: I walk in the door with the mail. On top, there is a yellow card. And three pairs of eyes light up, stare at the card and then stare at me. And I call out a name.

And there is a big war whoop from the SON whose name is called. And there’s a drop of the head from the others. The recipient of said card will gloat for hours. Those rejected will mope.

The card is from Championship Martial Arts, the karate school the SONS attend. And no, I don’t mind giving a plug. And that’s because the postcard is from an instructor who has taken the time to handwrite a sentence or two. In a nutshell, it’s an “atta-boy;” a “way to go.” And it’s not generic, but specifically addresses something – improvement on a kick; learning a new block, something.

The SONS keep every one of those cards. They are pinned on a corkboard in their rooms. I’m proud to say we have a lot of cards.

It is one of the most powerful pieces of paper I know of.

A simple postcard, handwritten. Mentally, it is as powerful as learning to break a cinder block. From a customer service standpoint, it is pure brilliance.

A few simple words. An acknowledgement, by, let’s face it, a business, of a job well done to a customer.

It cost pennies. It cost a little time. It took a little thought. But it means the world to the SONS. And it impresses the heck out of yours truly footing the bill.

The irony, (although if it is ironic you should be able to write it in such a way that you don’t have to point out the irony, which in itself is ironic) is that the postcard comes from a karate school.

The power is in words – not round kicks or blows or breaking pieces of wood. Just words.

The power of the yellow card.

Take time, take some thought. Go write someone a note.

(Chinese proverb)

So Eldest Son of Thunder decided to go hunting.

He had it in his head that he needed an animal skin for something, what that something is, or was, I’m still not sure. I was invited to join this little safari, but declined.

And yes I realize I missed one of those “bonding moments.” And yes I know the “they grow up so fast” and “you have so little time with them” and “opportunities like this come so rare” and fill in the mantra.

This was not an Alaska bear hunt; not even a deer hunt. Rather, Eldest was off to get a rat squirrel. My extreme and total loathing (The Dress does not allow the words “hate” or “hatred” in the house) of squirrels is well documented within this blog and in my latest book, The Little Black Dress and the SONS of Thunder – Recipes On Life and Food.

I digress. I’ve shot my share of deer; love a dove or quail hunt; and put me in a salmon river where I can wave a stick (or fly fish) and Nirvana beckons. I’ve gutted deer, plucked dove and filleted more salmon than I can remember. I love being outdoors, and am happy to just tag along on a hunt. I’m just at that point in life I’d rather shoot with a camera than a gun. And that’s probably because I’ve never really gotten into the taste of wild animals. Dove and salmon, however, is another matter.

I am more than happy to plug away at rats and squirrels all day. But I’m also at a point where I think you should eat anything you kill from God’s bounty. And the refrigerator was pretty well stocked as it was and this was not Dual Survivor and we were not out in the wilderness starving to death. So I just told Eldest to go ahead without me. And the fact The Dress was pretty adamant we were not having squirrel stew for dinner sealed the deal, at least on my end.

An aside. Thank you in advance for sending in your great-grandmother’s squirrel stew recipe. No, we will not be trying it, no offense.

Anyway, Eldest being Eldest is successful and sure enough comes back with a rat squirrel. There is something incredibly satisfying about a dead squirrel. And I gave him the big high-five from dad and all the other congratulatory necessities and life was good and I was proud of him and …

“Will you help me skin him?”

Well crap. (The Dress isn’t too crazy about that word either).

To be honest, I am simply not in the mood to skin a friggin rat. Yes, and go back to all those “bonding moments” comments. But he’s pretty pumped and this is my chance for one of those “bonding moments” and sometimes you do things you don’t want to for the greater good and it’s a teaching moment and I need to man up and …

“You can do it.”

And he looks at me with a confident nod and disappears upstairs.

A few minutes later I go out to at least check on his progress. He’s got a big old Ka-Bar knife out and has just successfully separated said squirrels’ head from the rest of his body.

And then I notice the laptop.

Eldest, being Eldest, simply went online and found various YouTube videos on the proper way to skin/gut a squirrel. And he enlisted Youngest Thunder Son to hit the pause button as needed.

And before you know it, we’ve got a squirrel skin hanging from a tree.  And Eldest did it all by himself, or, at least figured out how to do it all by himself.

And I was pretty proud of him and told him so.

No, I didn’t go step by step with him on the squirrel skinning. Oh, the flaming arrows of dad failure.

Life is a collection of lessons. Over the years I’ve taught him the proper way to use a knife, how to shoot, to think things through, and more importantly, to trust himself. To trust himself enough that when he sees a problem, he can find a solution. That, to put it simply, he can do it.

And he did.

Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and  you feed him for a lifetime.

And yes, I’ve taught him to fly fish.

The Little Black Dress was adamant she would be watching said show. The SONS of Thunder were pretty adamant they would not. The Dress pointed out if the SONS would like to earn some “points,” it might be wise for them to join her for a while. And let’s face it, the fact the SONS need lots of “points” right now was fairly well implied.

So with a few “ughs” and “do we have to” comments, the SONS settled down. As least settled down as much as the SONS can when they are forced to do something they really don’t want to – which basically means they didn’t.

Anyway … so the young ladies start parading and it is obvious a little competition is starting among the SONS. They are all pushing for their “birth” state. Youngest with Georgia, Middle has Nebraska and Eldest takes Alaska. The Dress is pushing Miss Oklahoma all the way.

The reason for that is she competed in Miss Oklahoma for several years. The only blemish to that incredibly fine organization is that The Dress never won the state title. Everyone makes mistakes.

The SONS are quite happy with Miss Oklahoma as well. They lived there for about two years, yours truly and The Dress grew up there, plenty of friends and family are still there. And, well, you know, mom was in that competition.

Well, Top 10 come out and all three of the SONS’ home states are out. Which means they are basically “out” as in continuing to watch.

Yeah, and then comes the bathing suit competition.

“Um, we can hang around for a little longer if you really, really want us to mom.”

“You all know she won that don’t you,” I point out to the SONS.

“Won, won what” they all ask.

“Um, the swimsuit competition.”

Total silence.

They look up at the television, look over at The Dress, look at the television … back and forth.

And I’m cracking up watching that interaction. Because you know at one level they are looking at these 18 to 20 year-olds and trying to equate that age with The Dress’s age, which we all know is 29. So it’s not a hard leap, but still …

And I also see a little bit of pride and a few winks and high-fives among the SONS.

So the swimsuit competition ends and then there’s the whole talent thing and the SONS are like, so gone after that. And The Dress gives her blessing so they are like, seriously and physically gone.

For some reason, I am a master at these competitions. I always get at least two out of the Top 5 and almost always pick the winner. I got three out of the Top 5 this year. But I admit, I did pick The Dress, or rather, she allowed me to pick her, so I do have some good practice.

Anyway, so with it down to the Top 5 The Dress and I are pulling all out for Miss Oklahoma. And The Dress is going crazy with all her “Go Betty,” “Go Betty”- like it’s some big football game or some huge national competition for young women with a title like Miss America or something on the line.

Miss Oklahoma misses by one – she’s runner-up. And yet The Dress is quite proud of Miss Betty Thompson.

The Dress will see Miss Betty soon.

The Miss Oklahoma pageant will be gearing up this summer. The Dress will be there, as will all the contestants. The young ladies are competing for the crown – the Miss Oklahoma title.

The Dress will be there, helping and showing them another Crown.

You see, The Dress was named this year as chaplain for the Miss Oklahoma pageant. Her role is to mentor and guide and also to help them “win” the true Crown. Only one wears the Miss Oklahoma crown; each of those young ladies can win the Crown – the Crown of Life.

I can’t think of a better title – and position – for the Little Black Dress. And while I know the LBD really wanted the state crown, I also know she’s really, really pumped about this title.

And honestly, I like the title better.

By that I mean if you’re going to fulfill that dream of sailing solo around the world, you might want to make sure you can get across a small lake in a Sunfish first. And that you are okay with the whole concept of having conversations with yourself, and by that I mean answering yourself, for weeks at a time.

Think about that.

Anyway, recently yours truly and two other dads decided to hike Pine Mountain in Georgia, along with an assortment of SONS. Those SONS including all three SONS of Thunder, one SON of Lightening and one SON of Scoutmaster. A 23-mile hike and we were going to spread it out over three days/two nights.

And yes, I know hikers on the Appalachian Trail can do a 23-miler in a day. Again, baby steps. We have the SONS to think about. And I’m getting old.

The plan was six miles the first day, 12 the second and wrap it up with the remaining six or so on the third day.

You know that expression about one’s eyes being bigger than their stomach? Keep that in mind.

So prior to this little jaunt we hit the Backpacking and Camping Store of Nirvana. Loaded up Middle SON with a new one-man tent for his birthday, got Youngest SON a new backpack and somehow Oldest SON, who has everything possible relating to backpacking, somehow found a few things he absolutely, positively, had to have.

I of course needed nothing.

I just shot coffee out my nose writing that.

Anyway, we get back and pack all necessary stuff in said backpacks. For the record, I am not one of those “ultra minimalist” backpackers. I don’t cut the corners off the maps and saw the toothbrush in half to save 0.34 ounces. On the other hand, I don’t pack the kitchen sink either. I use a lightweight backpacking stove

I’m more toward the “light” backpacker. But, there are some things I will not go without. Like a sleeping bag and pad, especially when it’s 30 degrees outside. I can pack pretty light and I actually understand the whole backpack weight to body weight ratio and all that.

Now Youngest SON is also the Smallest SON, and for some reason that whole formula is going out the window. Because there’s no way I can get his backpack weight down despite taking pretty much everything out of it. The thing still seems to weigh about what he does.

And it’s slightly unstable. I know this because every time he leans slightly one way, he just keeps tipping until he’s on the ground.

But we finally get everything figured out and the big day arrives. Off we go.

And to my amazement, we actually get more than a mile down the trail without a “are we there yet?” As is almost always the case, we started the day slightly behind schedule. And with it being winter and the whole loss of daylight hours, we kind of need to “hoof” it to get to our campsite before darkness descends.

And because we have to “hoof” it, the SONS start dragging. And the more we dads “encourage” said “hoofing,” the more the SONS “drag.”

You’d think we were on the Bataan Death March or something. I mean, the whole shuffling feet, head down, gasping for air,  ”I can’t go another step” blah, blah, routine.

Yet somehow we make it to camp and set up right as darkness falls.

And suddenly our little Death March survivors have turned into High-Fiving Chipmunks, cause they are up and down, climbing and jumping and just basically acting like, well, chipmunks in the woods. Where did all that energy come from?

As we finally get ready to bed down for the night, I start doing a few calculations. Going at a somewhat normal pace, we can do about two miles an hour. Tomorrow is a 12-mile hike, meaning about six hours of hiking.

But then we need to factor in the “rests.” Said “rests” will include several snack breaks, followed by even more water breaks and every “we’re at the bottom of the hill so we need to rest so we can make it up,” followed by “we made it to the top so now we need to rest to restore our energy,” to the proverbial “I can’t go another step” rest.

I’m beginning to think this whole trip is not going to turn out as planned.

So in the morning we have a quick dad conference and agree we’ll do the first six miles and just take it from there. One dad left his car at that six-mile point, so if needed, we can call it quits. So we explain our plan to all the SONS. If anyone wants to, they can go back home at that point, while whoever wants to can continue.

The reactions are interesting. Our plan totally ticks off Youngest Thunder SON, who is adamant we are going to do the whole 12-mile stretch, camp and spend the night and  then do the finally six miles the next day. And for the first mile all he does is sulk about not the possibility – possibility mind you – we aren’t going to do the whole thing.

Middle SON quite adamantly says he is absolutely, positively going to be stopping at that six-mile marker.  And that goal becomes his Holy Grail.

And Oldest SON, the hard-core backpacker, offers to go home with Middle SON. He says it might be nice for Youngest SON and I to just have some “guy-time” and continue on our own. Oldest SON is blowing smoke. Because if he’s ready to pull out, you know we’ve hit the “eyes bigger than your stomach.”

Factoring in all the “rests” and “breaks,” it pretty well takes us most of the day just to get to that six-mile point.

And all the dads come to the same conclusion. We’ve had fun, but if we push the SONS anymore, they will hate it and will never want to do it again.  Even the Youngest SON, who was adamant we push forward a few hours ago, has hit the “I can’t take another step” phase.

And so we call it quits. Not “quits” really, but rather “enough.”

Basically, we cut our plan in half. We spent one night instead of two, hiked half the distance of the trail rather than the entire thing. But all the SONS are willing to go out another time, and that’s the key.

Baby steps.

The intent was there – getting together with friends and their kids so said kids can have fun. To create, as the Little Black Dress would say, “memories.” Sometimes it’s best to not go there, create the memory I mean. Because once it’s there, you never forget. And it takes decades of time before you can maybe laugh about it.

But no. We are going to create memories by golly. And so the three SONS of Thunder, the two SONS of Lightening, the DAUGHTER AND SON of Fire, along with the appropriate parental units, hit a fall festival.

And we’re actually having a good time and bonding and creating those memories. Until someone comes up with the brilliant stupid idea of trying the Corn Maze. I don’t know who actually came up with the idea, but I can assure you it wasn’t me.

Because we get to the entrance of the corn maze and the first thing they hand you is a flag on a long stick. And then you read a bunch of rules:  rules like don’t cut through the corn maze, stay on the path; don’t start a fire (I will come back to that one); STAY WITH YOUR GROUP (why yes, we’ll be coming back to that one too); don’t freak out because you are totally lost in a field of corn and are going to die as the corn stalks slowly bend toward you, wrapping their sheaves of gold ever so tightly around your body and take one of their ears of bountiful corn and ram it into your eye.

No, on that last one, you are supposed to remain calm and wave the aforementioned flag and someone will come to get you. Even if it takes a day or two. And hopefully before the corn stalks have done a number on you.

I bring up that last point because one of the more inquisitive SONS asked what I thought was a pretty smart question; namely, how long does it take to get through this pit of hell corn maze.

And the nice woman says some people have actually made it in about 10 minutes. And then she says some people … and she looks off in the distance, like she’s remembering something. Like a relative who died a slow and painful death.

Remember those memories I was talking about? Yeah, here’s why sometimes memories should not be created in the first place. Because we walk into the corn maze and the first thing I think of is that D-Grade movie, “Children of the Corn.”

It was decades ago, and as near as I can remember, it involved some children and some corn fields and some psycho minister. Thus the title, naturally. And basically, if you didn’t do exactly what the psycho guy said, you got sent to the corn field to be shucked.  Or stabbed to death with a bunch of ears of bountiful corn. Or something.

All I remember is 1. you never wanted to go into said corn field and 2. if you did get sent there, you were going to die a horrible death.

So I’m thinking about that as we walk into the corn maze.

And it takes about, oh, six seconds or so before the SONS of Thunder and the SONS of Lightening and the SON of Fire have totally violated Rule No. 3 – the one I put in big capital letters – STAY WITH YOUR GROUP.

As an aside, the DAUGHTER of Fire and her father went for a pony ride. She was the only smart one in the group.

Back to the maze of death. Basically, it takes another seven or eight seconds before the various SONS are all screaming each other’s names. Because they are already lost and a couple of them are already freaking out because some SON did not STAY WITH THE GROUP. And I look back and realize I’m only about 10 yards from the entrance to this incredible memory I got suckered into and I start walking back and The Dress looks at me and says, “don’t even thing about it.”

Ugh.

So we round up the various SONS complete with the STAY WITH YOUR GROUP lecture, which, as all parents know, is a complete waste of time. But as parental units, we have to give said lecture to show that we are, you know, parental units.

And that lasted about a minute – I mean the STAY WITH YOUR GROUP impact.

And suddenly we come to the proverbial fork in the road. And there’s a sign with a question and three possible answers. Depending on your answer, you go straight, left or right.

It’s at this point I should mention this pit of hell corn maze has a “theme.” Why a theme? I have no friggin idea. But the theme is “space exploration.” How does a pit of hell corn maze and space exploration tie together? Again, I have no friggin idea.

So the questions relate to space exploration naturally. And I’m just standing there waiting on the various SONS to tell us the answer because they are the ones in school and getting the education and should know this off the top of their heads because The Dress and I just wasted about a month of our lives building a space ship out of flour and salt and duct tape for some science project and as soon as we got them to school with said project they opened the car door and the project fell out and broke into a million pieces and our precious SON failed said project and we ruined his life forever.

And I’m still waiting.

There are some technological advances that I truly am thankful for, especially at times like this.  Because another dad and I do what any sane person would do in a similar situation – we pull out our smartphones and just Google the answer.

And we end up doing that on more than one occasion.

And that’s pretty much how this memory went. Some SON would violate the STAY WITH YOUR GROUP rule, everyone would start yelling and freaking, we’d hit another multiple-choice crossroad, Google the answer and move on. And the whole time I’m singing “children of the corn, children of the corn, children of the corn …”

Until the mother of the SON of Fire hits me in the arm.

Ouch.

So by now I pretty much have this “memory” seared into my brain. Time to get out. But of course we’re in the deepest, darkest part of this pit of hell corn maze and the wind is blowing and the corn stalks keep bending toward me and the sheaves are starting to wrap around my legs and …

I’ve hit my wall.

And I realize I have about 538 different ways to start a fire in my backpack, being the father of Boy Scouts and being prepared and all that. And I think if  I start a fire right about here, the wind will blow it and we can just follow right behind the inferno blaze and walk right out. And then I realize knowing my luck the wind will shift and the headline will read “Idiotic Dad Freaks Out In Pit Of Hell Corn Maze, Burns To Crisp.”

Somehow, after lots of googling, tracking down lost SONS and doing the whole STAY WITH YOUR GROUP lecture way too many times, we find the exit.

And I kiss the ground.

And I think the only thing that would make this an even super-duper gee-whiz bang better memory was if we had done this in the summer, in 100-degree weather.

And I decided I’d rank this “memory” right up there with sleeping in a cave.

The kind of memory where you think back and go, “been there, done that … and never again.”

But all the SONS said they had a great time. So I guess we’ll let them keep the memory.