Spring!

It's about a month early but Spring has come to Kentucky. The temperatures are hitting the 80 degree mark and the weeds are growing before your eyes. It's way too early for this to be happening and the extreme temperatures have also spawned some extreme storms. The tornadoes that ripped through this area spared us but destroyed so much in other places. So far our only major damage has been a tree just behind the house that was struck by lightning. The venerable old maple now sports a black stripe down its massive trunk and dirt clumps thrown up around it where the lightning ran down the roots and literally blew the sod up. Time will tell whether it is strong enough to survive.

Everywhere you look things are blooming. The first were the daffodils that sprinkle the front field. It wasn't long until the pear trees down the drive were in glowing white. Today I discovered that I even have an early tulip. Along with the warm temperatures and unsettled weather has come lots of rain. March is typically a wet month and this is certainly no exception. The yard is squishy with standing water in the low spots. Where we have weaned calves and kept them in a smaller lot to teach them to eat feed, they have churned the ground to a bottomless goo. Likewise where the cattle have come to the waterers in the fields it is now the consistency of quicksand. Once when someone asked how many acres we had and I had responded with the number, hubby looked at me hard and pointed out that I had cut out two acres. "Not so", I replied, " I figure I have mopped at least two acres of mud out of my utility room!"

I was in the kitchen last night when another rite of spring appeared. The door burst open and a tearful five year old came in with a downcast wail. "My daddy is going to be so mad. Justin made me do it and now daddy is going to be so mad." (Justin being the 14 yr. old brother). I turned from the sink and had to laugh. Standing in the doorway was a small boy that appeared to be carved out of mud. He had mud in his hair, on his face, down the front and caked to his back. "Did you fall down? No? Then how did you get so muddy?" "Playing basketball", he replied.

Between chuckles over his predicament, reassurances that he wasn't in trouble, and scraping the mud off him I kept quizzing him on how he became a human mud ball. It seems that he and the older brother were playing basketball in front of the barn. Every time the ball left the blacktop it landed in mud. Passes that weren't caught left a basketball shaped muddy spot on where they hit. Hence the large muddy spot on his shoulder and face. Then, since the field slopes steeply just off the drive, missed shots tended to roll down the slope and under the fence. Big brother was sending the little one to retrieve the balls and since he was too little to open the gate he was scooting under the plank fence. Also, since the cattle had walked the fence repeatedly to get to the waterer, that area was close to being a mud wrestling arena.

After getting him cleaned up and settled on the porch with a snack (no way was he sitting down in my house) I turned to take this up with the older brother. However, it seems he had decided that helping his dad and grandfather clean out the barn might be better than sticking around and facing a discussion about responsible kid-watching.

Yep. It is definitely Spring in Kentucky.

The Finish

With a time of 9 days 4 hours 29 minutes 26 seconds the Iditarod is over for the winner Dallas Seavey, the youngest winner ever. (He actually turned 25 on the trail.) The second place winner was Aliy Zirkle following exactly one hour behind him. Third place went to Ramey Smith, about 35 minutes behind her. The rest of the racers are strung out over the Alaska wilderness and will arrive over the next few days.

The dash down the snow covered main street with crowds of well-wishers shouting out greetings was picture perfect. (The crews spent most of yesterday afternoon hauling in snow from outside of town and grading it down to a perfect smoothness.) After a quick hug to his wife and baby, Dallas, ever polite, turned to the waiting microphones and excused himself. "I need to say hello to these guys first." He then took a minute to give a quick rub and hug to each dog.

When asked about his strategy for the race. He told them that he had planned every step of the race to utilize the strong points of his dogs and to optimize every advantage he could to shave minutes on his time. Observers had noticed that his check point routine and feeding schedule was a dance with no wasted movements or lost time. He said that he had trained running against his dad and his better team. He had learned that by shaving minutes off of the feeding routine, dog care (hustling not sacrificing care) and check point stops he was able to make up enough time to catch up with his dad. With this in mind he planned every step of the way to make up time. He also meticulously planned his take over of the lead about 2/3 of the way through the race. In his words, "I'm not sure the front-runners knew who they were racing against." , referring to his feeling of being in control of his race. Although, Aliy led most of the race, once he made his move there was no catching him.

Interestingly, while he has his own kennel, his dogs are still too young to race. So his team was collected from the "second" string from other kennels. Most of his team for this race were rejects of his father. He noted that his team was not the most athletic, fastest, or strongest of the teams so he had to make sure they had the best plan. What he didn't say was that part of the plan was the extreme athleticism and drive of their musher. Dallas ran most of the race in a windbreaker suit jogging alongside the dogs to keep warm in the brutal temperatures. Removing his weight from the sled gave his dogs a little extra power. This running cost him with a severely blistered toe that one of the vet's lanced and bandaged for him toward the last of the race.

All of the racers have endured extreme physical punishment as they forge across the Alaska topography. The have walked, climbed and pushed through terrain from river valleys, to mountains to wind swept coasts, crossing rivers and on a couple of occasions frozen portions of the Bering Sea. They have done this in blizzards, drifts of new snow, brutal wind, and temperatures as low as -30 degrees. They have endured exhaustion, sleep deprivation, injuries, and hunger (Mushers are careful to feed the dogs on the trail but don't prepare food for themselves. They eat at check-points.) All of this is done with fierce determination but cheerful cooperation and friendship at the check-points and layovers. There you will see mushers sharing stories, offering advice, laughing and enjoying the moment.

With the front-runners home it is to be noted that the middle pack of racers have been sitting the last day or so in Shaktoolik waiting out a ground blizzard with winds of 35 mph , visibility of about 50 feet, and wind chills of -30. I can only imagine the conditions that would cause these hardened mushers to just wait it out. Consider that they are accustomed to spending days and nights on a trail in a climate that would cause our state to close down and demand a national emergency response! I salute these men, women, and dogs that thrive in an area that demands that they be strong and resilient.

Iditarod: Alaska's Ky. Derby

Although I have followed the Iditarod race for several years, it wasn't until our trip to Alaska last summer that I realized just how important this race was to the state. It's a lot like having the Kentucky Derby here in our state. It means money, national recognition, and a lot of state pride.

The race generates intense state pride. Everywhere we went there were signs, souvenirs, pictures, and talk of the Iditarod. Nearly every young person we talked to wanted to become a musher. Our bus driver, the waitress, the girl at the visitor's center all told us that their dream was to become a musher and race in the Iditarod. They take all kinds of jobs to finance their dream. They work for dog kennels for the experience and train all winter. It's an intense sport requiring dedication, great physical fitness, and lots of money. (dogs and equipment aren't cheap.)

However, the rewards are tremendous. Iditarod racers are the spotlighted athletes in the state. The few who are winners or finish in the top ten are as well known and popular as rock stars. They can be seen on billboards, television, cruise ships, books and endorsing all kinds of things. Most use their fame to create improvements in their villages or locales through programs, youth support, or corporate involvement. Everywhere they go they are greeted with autograph seekers and cameras. Children everywhere know the names of the winners and top finishers, like we know basketball players.

The race itself isn't the product of a grand business scheme but rather the result of literately hundreds of volunteers who work around the year to see that this race is accomplished. 1500 volunteers from 21 states and 4 countries will put in over 35,000 hours of time for this year's race. They will be doing everything from manning the COMM center (collecting data from the check points and posting in on the Internet) to working at the checkpoints to assist the mushers in finding places to bed their teams. Teams of veterinarians will be on hand to check each dog at every check point. Workers will monitor the times, speeds, conditions, weather, and mushers to report back to race headquarters. Volunteers will see that food is cooked, sleeping areas are clean, straw is available for the dogs, hot water ready to fix dog rations, supplies are ready for the next leg of the trip and to keep everything running smoothly.

For weeks volunteers have been collecting supplies and seeing that they are packaged and delivered to the check-point sites. Many of the communities are small, many under 200 people, so the strain of feeding the 67 mushers and numerous visitors, news people and support people is massive. Supplies are gathered and flown in to these villages to provide for the rush of people. The locals, however, are proud to be able to provide many of the dishes that will feed the racers. Each stop is a veritable feast for the humans. The dogs dine on food that has been supplied by each musher for his own animals. However, rather than attempt to haul that much food with them, it has been delivered to the check points by a virtual air force of small planes that have ferried in food and supplies.

All in all, it is a massive effort by the people of Alaska to see that the Iditarod race proceeds without a hitch. They can be proud of their race and the tremendous organization that goes into it.

Iditarod Musings

It's a beautiful spring day in Kentucky. The daffodils are blooming in the yard and in delightful clumps in the front field. I just watched the University of Kentucky lose the SEC tournament championship but maintain their number one seed in the NCAA tournament. Yep. It's spring in Kentucky. Daffodils and basketball.

With that break over I returned to studying the Iditarod Trail and the extreme weather conditions the mushers and dogs are experiencing. The race started with temperatures reaching to a balmy 25 degrees F. in the afternoons and dipping down to -5 to -10 below at night. (Remember, they don't have much daylight this time of year). Now the lead teams have reached the Bering Coast with temperatures hovering around -30 degrees. The cold is beginning to take it's toll on both people and dogs. The mushers are beginning to find that keeping awake is harder as exhaustion and cold settle in.

This year the weather has been a challenge, even for Alaska. The old-timers are saying that this is the most snow they have ever seen. The trail in spots has been covered with an additional two feet of snow during the race. This creates some interesting challenges and some real strategies. The race committee marks the trail and breaks a path for the race. However, they only break trail for the first sled, trusting to the following sleds to pack it down and clear it for everyone else. However, if a musher decides to get an early start the trail breakers rush out to open the trail for them. Then if the others don't follow right away, the snow has a chance to fill the path up before they get underway. Then they are on their own to break their own trail. This is much harder on the dogs and slows them down. This is why rest breaks, while necessary, become a part of the strategy.

In addition to the hazards of running over rough trails at night in extreme cold, the mushers have to be alert to dangers of the four legged kind. Most mushers will carry a gun with them to protect themselves and their dogs. The biggest danger (literally) is a moose. The moose like to use the trails for the same reason the racers do. It's easier than fighting the deep snow. Consequently, it's not unheard of to run into a moose strolling down the trail. These guys are big, really big, and irritable, really irritable. Sometimes they will abandon the trail and let the dogs pass, but sometimes they will defend their right to the trail and just wade into the dogs. This is an extreme danger for the dogs and the musher. Sometimes the only defense is to just shoot the moose.

The problem then gets even bigger. It seems that in Alaska moose tend to use all types of trails, including highways. So killing a moose isn't all that uncommon, whether it is intentional or accidental. To deal with this and eliminate the waste, Alaska has a law that if you kill a moose on public land you can't just walk off and leave it as "roadkill". You have to field dress the animal and notify someone to come and get it so it can be used. This can slow you down considerably in a race, so every effort is used to come to a peaceful solution.

The lead is still held by Aliy Zirkle but she is being chased by a determined group of men. Aliy runs a team of small dogs and there has been a lot of speculation as to whether her little dogs can maintain the pace over the distance. Her dogs average 40-45 lbs. while most of the bigger teams will weigh 60-70 pounds. This could be a big advantage when strength and endurance are needed toward the end of the race. So far the 41 year old woman is making the 25 year old man in second place eat her dust....um....snow.

You go girl!!

The Iditarod

It's March in Kentucky and every television is tuned to a basketball game 24/7. There are high school championships, several divisions of college championships (both boys and girls) and then, of course, the big party...the NCAA championships. And then there is me. Now, don't get me wrong, I will certainly be watching a lot of round ball, but my real interest this month will involve snow and a lot of barking.

Several years ago, I had a March with time on my hands. This led to some wandering on the Internet. We had just returned from a trip to Alaska the fall before and I stumbled upon the site for the Iditarod Race. In a short time I became a devoted follower of this famous dog race that covers 1100 miles from Anchorage to Nome. Now starting the first of March I am glued to the Internet following the racers (mushers) as they brave the elements and follow the trail across Alaska.

The Iditarod Race was started in 1974 to commemorate a time when dog sleds provided transportation for food, medicine, mail and goods across a state that had few roads and these were mostly buried in snow from October until May. With the advent of the airplane in the late 1920's dog sleds were used less and less for the long haul deliveries. While they were still used for personal transportation and deliveries to isolated cabins, the airplane became the primary mode of transportation to the remote stretches of Alaska. However, on one historic run when weather conditions had made air delivery impossible, dog sleds made the 1100 mile trip from Anchorage to Nome to rush a supply of vaccine. The Iditarod celebrates this historic run and the intrepid mushers who routinely braved the wilderness to deliver goods.

This year sixty-seven racers will face the rigors of an Alaskan winter across rivers, plains, mountains, tundra, forests, and coastline for a grueling 1100 miles in 11-12 days. They will do this alternately running behind or riding on the runners of a sled loaded with supplies and pulled by a team of 16 or less dogs. (Dogs that become injured or tired may be left at check-points for delivery home, so the number of dogs is flexible; although no dogs may be added after the start of the race.) This is a true test of the physical fitness of both musher and dogs.

The racers are both male and female, although more men run it than women. However, both men and women have won it. The ages ranges from 19 to ?. The oldest I have seen in this race is a 72 year old musher named Dan Seavey who also ran in the first Iditarod 40 years ago. He is running to commemorate the opening of the Iditarod Trail 100 years ago, as a delivery route and the 40th running of the Iditarod Race. He will deliver pamphlets and material along the way. While he is not a contender he is committed to finishing the race. Interestingly, his son and grandson are in the top four at this time.

As I am in my "golden years" it is interesting to me that this is not a race dominated by youth. The main contenders and top mushers tend to be from 40-55 years old. This is a race that is won not just by speed, but endurance and strategy. Traits that experience and age enhance. The front runner for most of the race and the definite pace setter is a 41 year old woman who has finished the race 10 times. With all that being said it has to be noted that the third place musher at this time is Dallas Seavey who is 25. The race is about half over so things have lots of time to change.

Since I am spending every spare minute checking race standings and weather conditions (it has snowed over two feet on some of the course in the past week) I will write more about some of the adventures of the Iditarod later. If you are interested in following it yourself, check out www.iditarod.com.

The Beauty Shop

Years ago when we started the discussion of my quitting work full time to come home and be a full time mother and housewife, I declared that the one thing I would not give up was my hair appointment. I would willingly give up new clothes (except now I would need to buy a new wardrobe of jeans), expensive vacations, frequent dinners out, curtail my spending, limit my antique auctions, but I would not give up my trips to my beautician. After all there are some things that are too important to mess with.

Now don't get me wrong. I am not a slave to beauty and self indulgence. This isn't about glamor but sanity!! Small town beauty shops are the equivalent of Floyd's Barber Shop in Mayberry. It's the place where women gather to "let down their hair", relax, share, gain insight and often strength. It's a place to laugh, cry, brag, extol, regale, and release. It's a place where women put aside all the pretense and window dressing of their lives and come together in common. In these small shops plans are made, lives are changed, decisions reached and worlds shaken. Getting your hair done is incidental.

When my cancer treatments made the excursion to the beauty shop unnecessary, it didn't stop me. My first visit was to get the expert opinion of the beautician (and various women getting clipped, shampooed, and colored) on the best wig to buy. Who knows the color of my hair better than my beautician, after all she's the one who makes it that color. The next visit was to get the new wig shaped to my face. Then I had to return to report how many people commented on how nice my "hair" looked. With each visit I left feeling a little more upbeat, a little better about myself. The sympathy, compassion, support and comic relief of the women went way beyond belief.

Maybe it's because you can't take the world too seriously when your hair is standing on end covered in aluminum foil or little pink permanent rods. It could be that when you are "stripped down to basics" the true you shines through with no pretenses. Whatever it is...thank you ladies for the good times.

Company Coming

Occasionally I get called upon by Hubby to do a little business entertaining. Since our business is located in a small town most of the entertaining I do is with the families and friends we have known for years. I love having people in our home and love cooking so it has never been a problem. However, in recent years Hubby has become recognized for the success of his insurance business not only in the state but within the insurance industry itself. This means we are becoming acquainted with some of the leaders in the industry as well as the executives in the companies he represents. Again, since they are usually really nice people that we enjoy, it's not a problem.

However, when Hubby decided that he wanted to entertain a group of executives that would be in Kentucky, I started to get a little nervous. After all, I'm not used to fancy cooking or entertaining. So out came the cookbooks and I started trying to plan the menu. The trick, I have discovered over the years, is to do as much ahead of time as possible. I've really never figured out how to be cook, maid, and hostess all at once without very careful planning. Especially, since my kitchen is in the center of my entertainment area.

Since the executives come from upstate New York I wanted to give them a traditional Southern dinner in a Southern manner. This meant using the good dishes and silver with the buffet set up in the dining room. There is nothing like the gleam of polished silver and soft candlelight to set the mood. Then I decided on serving country ham. Now that's a risk, since the dry, salt cured ham, a delicacy in the South, is virtually unknown in the rest of the world. If you are going to have ham, then you just have to have corn pudding (a custardy dish made with eggs, cream, sugar and corn) and green beans. Dessert just fell into place with pecan pie tarts. This certainly wouldn't be a upscale New York or California style meal, but maybe it would give them a flavor of the South.

The evening arrived and the guests seemed to enjoy the opportunity to have a good time and fellowship away from a motel room. They all ate the country ham and wanted to know how they could get some to take home, so I guess it was a success. The best compliment I received was when one of the men, who worked away from home a lot, commented that he was so glad to have a home cooked meal after eating in restaurants so much.

I guess the point of this story is that no matter what their background, people enjoy a relaxed, warm home and a good meal. It doesn't have to be exotic, high style, or complicated. Your home doesn't have to be huge, ornate or expensive. The key is to enjoy your guests and make them welcome.

You can stop in anytime.

Tractor Trauma

It's a beautiful day outside and for some strange reason that makes me think back to the time when we were first married. I was a "townie" having been raised in town. However I was raised by a father that always loved farming, even though circumstances prevented him from being a farmer. That meant I had a rosy glow about life on the farm, even before I had experience to back it up.

The first farm we lived on was a pretty little farm we rented in Breckinridge Co. Hubby and I both worked, he in a lending agency for farmers and me as a home economics teacher at the local high school. After work we would rush home and happily do chores and odd jobs about the farm. During those first years of marriage a girl will throw herself into anything to please her hubby and I was no exception. I didn't know a lot about farming but I was willing to try anything.

The problem was hubby knew about farming but he didn't know much about girls (2 brothers, no sisters) . He also lacked a little in management styles and communication skills. It seems that growing up most of their training in farm management and communication came from their father. Now, don't get me wrong, he was a wonderful man and I came to love him dearly. However, he was of the opinion that orders were his to give and others to follow. He also thought that volume had a lot to do with prompt accomplishment. It other words he was a loud dictator when it came to farming. Hubby tended to follow his style. This didn't work too well on a girl, who was willing enough but not too inclined to subservience.

Things kind of came to a head one evening when we were a little late getting the barn chores done. Hubby wanted to feed the cattle in the back field some hay bales and recruited me to drive the tractor. All was pleasant as we drove to the back with our wagon of hay bales. When we got to the spot, he left me to drive slowly along while he broke open the hay bales and scattered it out for the cows. I hadn't gone 10 feet when I heard a shout from the back, "Speed up!!" I eased the tractor up a little, then heard another shout, "Slow DOWN...you're going too FAST!". I slowed as I heard another shout, "Watch out for the dip ahead!" I did my best to ease past the dip but heard another bellow from the back "I SAID WATCH IT....YOU ABOUT THREW ME OFF!!!" These orders were followed by "Go more to the right!" "Go faster", "Go more to the left" . Finally in frustration he yelled "Can't you HEAR ME!?"

That did it. I slammed on the brake, turned off the tractor and got down. "What are you doing?" he demanded. I just looked at him and started walking. "I'm going to the house. I obviously am too dumb to drive a tractor and am just creating more trouble than it's worth. So I'm going to the house and do something I know how to do, like cook!" With that I flounced across the field.

I never did figure out how he fed the rest of the cattle from the back of the wagon and drove at the same time. However, in time he did learn that asking works better than yelling!

Milking Time

When you raise cattle you have to be ready to deal with the occasional emergency. During calving season, which for us in early spring, you tend to spend a lot of time in the barn supervising deliveries. If you are lucky, then the reward is seeing a wobbly calf take it's first steps and nudge mom's udder for his first meal. Then you can take a step back, congratulate the proud mama and return to bed. However, occasionally things don't work out like you expect.

For some strange reason, you will sometimes get a cow that just isn't too thrilled with the idea of being a mother. Usually, these are first time heifers, or cows that haven't had a calf before. Now if they had already done this a time or two, I might be able to sympathise with the problem. After all there have been a few times in my life when I've questioned the decision to be a mother myself. However, there is that rare time, when instead of murmuring coos of encouragement to the little, unsteady creature trying to get to the milk wagon, the new mom will take one look at her offspring and decide to take a different career path. She usually signals this by side-stepping away from the calf or even going so far as to kick it away from her. It is truly a pitiful sight to see the little fellow trying to totter after mama as she sidles away.

We were standing the barn in the wee hours of the morning facing just this problem. It had been a long delivery but mother and calf were both healthy and fine. Now we stood watching as the little black calf struggled to get his long legs organized and stand up. It is always amazing to me to see them figure it out. Soon he was on his feet and taking his first steps toward mama. Up to this time she had been watching him patiently, if a little apprehensively. He took a few steps and nuzzled up to her flank, trying to figure out where the faucets were. She turned her head and looked at him with a look that said, "You want to do what?" Right then we knew we had trouble.

For the next hour we encouraged, prodded, and cajoled the cow to let the calf nurse. She refused all attempts and finally decided she wasn't letting that little creature anywhere near her. Hubby pushed his hat back and said he had had enough of this. Being an old dairy farmer he knew there were ways of getting milk. In no time he had her in the chute and a bucket between his knees. One small problem, this wasn't an old dairy cow that had been milked before. This was an Angus cow that didn't have any milk cow genes or memories to call on. She took immediate objection to the whole process. Hubby was an old hand at fractious cows and he soon had her off balance enough she couldn't kick and milk streaming into the bucket. Soon we had a bottle fixed and the baby had enough milk to settle him down. We left them in the barn penning side by side to have a little time to become acquainted. Usually, this will solve the problem and by the next morning she has had a change of heart.

The next morning Hubby goes off to work and the kids go the barn to feed. Our son put the cow and calf together to see what happened. She still wasn't having any of this foolishness. Not being long on patience (what teenager is?) he decided that if daddy could milk her for the baby so could he. So into the chute she goes. Son settles down with his bucket and pulls on her udder. She promptly kicks him in the leg. He decides he can stop that so he gets some baling twine and ties her foot to the fence by the chute. He grabs her again. She swipes her, none to clean, tail across his face. So he gets some more string and ties her tail to the rafter just behind her. Once more he tries. She attempts to get her head around to him, so he puts a halter on her and ties it to the front of the chute.

Some time later I arrive at the barn to find the cow, with every available appendage tied to something and son struggling for all he's worth to get a dribble of milk in the pail. After what seemed to be an eternity to all involved he finally had enough to give the calf a short bottle. In frustration he called his dad to bring him some calf supplement from the feed store and turned the cow and calf back into the stall.

Hubby arrived later with the supplies to find the mama cow peacefully nuzzling her baby as he finished nursing. She evidently decided that after the mornings entertainment nursing a calf looked pretty good to her.

"Little Joe"

My sister is five years older than I am. She was a difficult baby in a lot of ways. Mostly because she had a milk allergy in a time before wide-spread use of soy formulas. After numerous hospital visits with major allergic reactions she was raised on goat milk from an obliging neighbor's goat. The on going medical problems and her frailty caused my parents to create a world where she was pretty much the center. This may partially explain why it was so long before my parents got up enough nerve to try a second child. (If I had been first I'm reasonably sure I would have been an only child.)

My mother had a best friend that she shared everything with. The two women had been friends since childhood and remained boon companions until my mother's death. When they married, the friendship only expanded to include husbands and children. We grew up spending as much time in one house as the other. At the time my mother became pregnant with me, both of the women had one child. My mother had a girl and her friend a son a couple of years younger. My sister was always a motherly child and loved supervising and probably tormenting the little boy with her smothering.

My sister was delighted with the coming baby, but adamant that it would be a boy. Nothing that they could do would convince her that she might not get her wish. In her mind the new baby would be her little brother, period. Not only would it be a boy but he would be named after her small companion, Little Joe. Now the story gets a little confusing, since the little boy wasn't named Joe at all. He was named Vic. However, his father was named Joe and my sister in her pig-headed way refused to call the son anything but "Little Joe". As a testament to her diligence, everyone accepted that to her he was "Little Joe". The wonder is that he did grow up known by his real name.

As the time for my appearance drew near, Mama tried and tried to convince my sister that I might be a sister not a brother. Names were discussed but all were over-ridden by shouts of "No! Little Joe!" If you have ever tried to discuss anything rationally with a distraught five-year old, you can imagine their frustration. Soon everyone was praying for a little boy.

Naturally, when I arrived I was not a boy. My mother looked into the radiant face of her older daughter as she beamed at her "Little Joe" and named me Sallie Jo, in capitulation. To this day I am known in the family as Jo.

So, Vic, thanks for letting me have your name. (and you can thank me for getting you off the hook as her target for mothering and smothering.)