We are in the car on Monday morning driving to preschool, and Isabelle, gazing out the window at the sun rising over the frozen expanse of Lake Michigan informs me that the sun is shaped like a circle. When she asks why (a question that is raised .... oh, several thousand times a day), I reply with something along the lines of, "Well, that is the shape suns come in," all the while thinking my brother could probably give her the scientific reason as to why suns and planets and moons, for that matter, are all shaped like orbs.
I am still pondering this and half listening to the radio and juggling several other nonsensical thoughts in my head, while semi-listening to Isabelle in the back seat when she hits me with, "Can planes fly to heaven?"
"No, baby, heaven is way up in the sky and planes cannot fly that high." (Me thinking where is this coming from?)
"How about a spaceship?"
"Nope, not even a spaceship can reach heaven."
"But I miss Great Grandma, and I want to see her, and how do we visit her in heaven?"
Picture me in the driver's seat, giant lump having instantly formed in my throat, still trying to drive the car. Did she really just say that?! "I know, sweetie, I miss her too (my voice breaking as the tears come), but we cannot visit heaven until its our time and God invites us. She knows you love her and miss her and God is taking good care of her."
"Yeah, she got old."
"That's right."
"But I miss her."
"I know. I do too."
"But Great Grandma is with God, and Joseph and Mary and Baby Jesus and she is taking care of them."
"Well, Isabelle, I like to think everyone in heaven takes care of each other, so, yeah."
"Momma, the spaceship car will be landing at preschool shortly, okay?"
"Okay, Isabelle." I wipe the tears off my cheeks with a shaky hand and am shocked to discover I am still driving and more then halfway to my destination. Kids never cease to amaze me with what their minds process and what they say. She, of course, had no idea the power or the effect her little inquiry had over me, but I like to think that if my Grandmother was listening in from up in heaven she had to have been smiling. And I could not help but smile too as I watched Isabelle run into her classroom minutes later, clutching (you guessed it) her new toy airplane for show-and-tell, wondering whether or not she would inform her classmates that planes could not fly to heaven.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Isabelle's First Hunt
We gained a new addition to our household with the start of the New Year. No, I did not fail to mention the arrival of a pregnancy and baby (and do not hold your breath on that one people) .... I am talking Samson. Who is Samson? Well, he would be the latest in the fine dead animals I have gracing my walls. Yes, when you live in the Upper Peninsula and are married to a hunter you learn to accept a few things into your life. One: Rifles will be stockpiled in your house and you will come to view them as no more then exactly what they are, guns to shoot deer with. Two: Bullets and shot gun shells will end up in your washer because they were left in jean pockets, and Three: Dead animals or perhaps, more kindly, mounts will be hanging on the walls of your home. I admit, for a downstate girl this took a little adjustment, but I love Clay, and he loves hunting, and its a package deal.
And, in truth, it has been okay. The mounts are actually beautiful, and despite a few minor protests from Clay, they were given names. (I gotta have some fun, right?) It started with his bear mount, which is a three quarter mount (picture the bear coming out of the wall from about it's midsection, paws slightly raised, head-turned, mouth closed). Anything that huge in your house is quite the presence and sort of demands acknowledgment and a name, so he was dubbed Brutus. Then the first deer Clay had mounted was christened Bucky, obvious and cliche, but there ya have it. Now we have Samson, a very impressive 10 pointer my husband took with his bow this fall. Like his name implies he resonates strength with his well-muscled neck and a few battle scars. The really good part of the story though is from the night Clay shot this particular buck that now resides on my living room wall.
You see, Clay wasn't hunting alone. He was hunting with Isabelle, who let me remind you is three. It was nearing the end of the hunt, so her portable DVD player had used up the last of its batteries and she had finished off the last of her snacks and drink, and the light was starting to fade along with the last of her attention span. Clay informs me that she will sit on the floor of his blind with her head phones on and quietly watch her videos, periodically looking at the does in his bait pile, and for the most part just do her thing, but at that moment in the hunt he had taken her onto his lap and they were watching one or two deer munch in the bait pile when Samson came strolling in from behind his blind. Now I cannot begin to imagine the adrenaline rush Clay must have had or the thoughts coursing through his head during the next several moments, but he told me that he set Isabelle on the floor on her butt, whispered to her to not make a sound (remember she is three!) and got his bow and prepared to aim while this buck came into view. I asked Clay how long he figured it took him to shoot from the time he set Isabelle down, and he estimates less than a minute. I do not doubt he was trying to hurry in order not to risk Isabelle giving them away! I have to believe God was actually watching over Isabelle because if she would have made a sound there is no telling what her Daddy would have done to her!
After Clay shot, it is not clear what the next several minutes were like other than a lot of maneuvering, in order to get both of them out of the blind and onto the ground. Clay said he brought Isabelle down the stairs of his blind first and left her tottering around its base with a flashlight while he went back up to retrieve his bow and some equipment. Afterwards they found the arrow he had shot the deer with and that is when Clay got really excited, for it was well-covered with blood, which while sounding gruesome for you squeamish types is a good thing as it means a good shot and a clean kill. Deciding he did not wish to track the deer through the darkening woods with a three year old, Clay planned to tromp back through the field and call me on his cell phone to come and get Isabelle.
Now picture my dear husband, if you will, who has just shot the largest buck of his hunting career, so needless to say he is a wee bit pumped up. He has his bow and a back-pack and is jabbering away on his cell phone to me, striding down one rut of the two-track road that leads from his blind, barely even conscious of his daughter, who when he does look, is happy as can be, two hands grasped around his large hunting flashlight, hat crammed down over her head and trucking for all she is worth in the other two track trying to keep up with Daddy, but not a whine or complaint coming from her mouth. After Clay got off the phone with me, they reached the Jeep and just had to wait for me to drive out. That is when Isabelle informed Clay that she had to go potty.
Oh, boy. The only problem, of course, was that her little potty was in his deer blind..... way too far away. And now they were in the middle of a hayfield. So, Clay did the only thing he could do. He had her drop her drawers and forming a little "seat" with his arms held her up while she did her stuff. Isabelle handled it all like a great adventure, and Clay thinking that wasn't so bad asked her if she was done to which she replied, "Yes, but now, I have to go poop." Of course. Later, when Clay told me of their "bathroom break" in the field all I could think to say was, "Aren't ya glad I packed wipes in your bag of goodies for her?" Ah, life with a child is never dull, is it? But, then again if she is going to be a hunter and live in the U.P. she needs to now how to pee in the woods, right?
So, that is the tale of the very first time Isabelle went hunting with Clay. He now believes she is sort of a good luck charm and one can kind of understand why. She refers to Sampson as both her and Daddy's buck and did go back out in the blind with Clay several more times during the course of both bow and rifle season. Although it did take us a while to make her understand that you do not shoot a big buck EVERY time you go hunting!
And, in truth, it has been okay. The mounts are actually beautiful, and despite a few minor protests from Clay, they were given names. (I gotta have some fun, right?) It started with his bear mount, which is a three quarter mount (picture the bear coming out of the wall from about it's midsection, paws slightly raised, head-turned, mouth closed). Anything that huge in your house is quite the presence and sort of demands acknowledgment and a name, so he was dubbed Brutus. Then the first deer Clay had mounted was christened Bucky, obvious and cliche, but there ya have it. Now we have Samson, a very impressive 10 pointer my husband took with his bow this fall. Like his name implies he resonates strength with his well-muscled neck and a few battle scars. The really good part of the story though is from the night Clay shot this particular buck that now resides on my living room wall.
You see, Clay wasn't hunting alone. He was hunting with Isabelle, who let me remind you is three. It was nearing the end of the hunt, so her portable DVD player had used up the last of its batteries and she had finished off the last of her snacks and drink, and the light was starting to fade along with the last of her attention span. Clay informs me that she will sit on the floor of his blind with her head phones on and quietly watch her videos, periodically looking at the does in his bait pile, and for the most part just do her thing, but at that moment in the hunt he had taken her onto his lap and they were watching one or two deer munch in the bait pile when Samson came strolling in from behind his blind. Now I cannot begin to imagine the adrenaline rush Clay must have had or the thoughts coursing through his head during the next several moments, but he told me that he set Isabelle on the floor on her butt, whispered to her to not make a sound (remember she is three!) and got his bow and prepared to aim while this buck came into view. I asked Clay how long he figured it took him to shoot from the time he set Isabelle down, and he estimates less than a minute. I do not doubt he was trying to hurry in order not to risk Isabelle giving them away! I have to believe God was actually watching over Isabelle because if she would have made a sound there is no telling what her Daddy would have done to her!
After Clay shot, it is not clear what the next several minutes were like other than a lot of maneuvering, in order to get both of them out of the blind and onto the ground. Clay said he brought Isabelle down the stairs of his blind first and left her tottering around its base with a flashlight while he went back up to retrieve his bow and some equipment. Afterwards they found the arrow he had shot the deer with and that is when Clay got really excited, for it was well-covered with blood, which while sounding gruesome for you squeamish types is a good thing as it means a good shot and a clean kill. Deciding he did not wish to track the deer through the darkening woods with a three year old, Clay planned to tromp back through the field and call me on his cell phone to come and get Isabelle.
Now picture my dear husband, if you will, who has just shot the largest buck of his hunting career, so needless to say he is a wee bit pumped up. He has his bow and a back-pack and is jabbering away on his cell phone to me, striding down one rut of the two-track road that leads from his blind, barely even conscious of his daughter, who when he does look, is happy as can be, two hands grasped around his large hunting flashlight, hat crammed down over her head and trucking for all she is worth in the other two track trying to keep up with Daddy, but not a whine or complaint coming from her mouth. After Clay got off the phone with me, they reached the Jeep and just had to wait for me to drive out. That is when Isabelle informed Clay that she had to go potty.
Oh, boy. The only problem, of course, was that her little potty was in his deer blind..... way too far away. And now they were in the middle of a hayfield. So, Clay did the only thing he could do. He had her drop her drawers and forming a little "seat" with his arms held her up while she did her stuff. Isabelle handled it all like a great adventure, and Clay thinking that wasn't so bad asked her if she was done to which she replied, "Yes, but now, I have to go poop." Of course. Later, when Clay told me of their "bathroom break" in the field all I could think to say was, "Aren't ya glad I packed wipes in your bag of goodies for her?" Ah, life with a child is never dull, is it? But, then again if she is going to be a hunter and live in the U.P. she needs to now how to pee in the woods, right?
So, that is the tale of the very first time Isabelle went hunting with Clay. He now believes she is sort of a good luck charm and one can kind of understand why. She refers to Sampson as both her and Daddy's buck and did go back out in the blind with Clay several more times during the course of both bow and rifle season. Although it did take us a while to make her understand that you do not shoot a big buck EVERY time you go hunting!
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Gotta Love those Red Wings
I know I promised another entry on past events from the fall and that will be forthcoming, but today I must talk all things Red Wings, as in case y'all have not noticed they are kicking some butt! How anyone could not adore this sport is beyond me, but apparently many of you do not actually follow the world of ice and sticks and so may have missed last nights game in which the fabulous ones went and beat one of the best goalies in the league right now. Despite being 6'4" and something like 212lbs, Steve Mason could not keep his hefty frame in front of Pavel Datsuk's puck or Marion Hossa's. Of course, no one seems capable of stopping Datsuk (anyone catch the outdoor game at Wrigley field or Datsuk's overtime goal in the shoot out the other night? Stuff of highlight reels, really.)
And now Ty Conklin is coming into his own and starting to find that goalie radar the good ones all seem to get ..... the capability to throw some type of body part or piece of equipment out there and get it on the puck even when there seems to be no human way possible that he even saw the puck coming in that split millisecond. It isn't always pretty but it gets the job done, and I am liking the fact that I am increasingly comfortable with him or Osgood in the net.
So, it is all the more disgusting that none of the Red Wings were chosen for the NHL All Star game, but of course, it is selected based on fan votes a truly bias way to go, in which you have some cities essentially "stuffing the ballot box" to get particular players selected. All too often it can turn into a popularity contest. There are other arguments of course. Some say the Wings are just too good with too many good players and thus, no true standouts to garner votes. Or there is the argument that as a city the Detroit fan base is sadly lacking in enthusiasm (at least until the playoffs, perhaps once more because the Red Wings are consistently so good).
There is also a certain group of Red Wing, shall we say "Haters" out there. Rumor even has it that on the Pittsburgh Penguins website there was a link to the Hawks website with the express purpose to help vote for some of their players to put them in the All Star game and shut-out Red Wing players. Still harboring a little bitterness over last season Pittsburgh? Or are ya just ticked that Hossa decided he liked the look of our team more than yours? (For those of you uneducated hockey people Hossa was a member of the Penguin team last year and made a decision to come play for us and leave Pittsburgh because he wants to win a Stanley cup and he seems to think he has the best chance of doing that with us.) I guess ya can understand why they might be bitter. Today I hear that Lidstrom and Datsuk have been chosen as alternates or reserves for the All Star game, but they are chosen by the general managers and operations department of the NHL, not the fans.
That's okay. My boys can stay home and get the rest... they would probably prefer it anyways. Meanwhile, they will just keep doing what they do. Winning games and plugging away, biding their time until the playoffs roll around. I will keep watching and screaming and "woo-hoo-ing" (I mean Datsuk "soccer-kicked" the puck to Zetterburg last night when he lost his stick... CRAZY move!) Ya gotta love hockey.
And now Ty Conklin is coming into his own and starting to find that goalie radar the good ones all seem to get ..... the capability to throw some type of body part or piece of equipment out there and get it on the puck even when there seems to be no human way possible that he even saw the puck coming in that split millisecond. It isn't always pretty but it gets the job done, and I am liking the fact that I am increasingly comfortable with him or Osgood in the net.
So, it is all the more disgusting that none of the Red Wings were chosen for the NHL All Star game, but of course, it is selected based on fan votes a truly bias way to go, in which you have some cities essentially "stuffing the ballot box" to get particular players selected. All too often it can turn into a popularity contest. There are other arguments of course. Some say the Wings are just too good with too many good players and thus, no true standouts to garner votes. Or there is the argument that as a city the Detroit fan base is sadly lacking in enthusiasm (at least until the playoffs, perhaps once more because the Red Wings are consistently so good).
There is also a certain group of Red Wing, shall we say "Haters" out there. Rumor even has it that on the Pittsburgh Penguins website there was a link to the Hawks website with the express purpose to help vote for some of their players to put them in the All Star game and shut-out Red Wing players. Still harboring a little bitterness over last season Pittsburgh? Or are ya just ticked that Hossa decided he liked the look of our team more than yours? (For those of you uneducated hockey people Hossa was a member of the Penguin team last year and made a decision to come play for us and leave Pittsburgh because he wants to win a Stanley cup and he seems to think he has the best chance of doing that with us.) I guess ya can understand why they might be bitter. Today I hear that Lidstrom and Datsuk have been chosen as alternates or reserves for the All Star game, but they are chosen by the general managers and operations department of the NHL, not the fans.
That's okay. My boys can stay home and get the rest... they would probably prefer it anyways. Meanwhile, they will just keep doing what they do. Winning games and plugging away, biding their time until the playoffs roll around. I will keep watching and screaming and "woo-hoo-ing" (I mean Datsuk "soccer-kicked" the puck to Zetterburg last night when he lost his stick... CRAZY move!) Ya gotta love hockey.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Some of the Old Before we Ring in the New
After the insanity of the Christmas season has finally passed us by, and I have a moment to pause for breath and realize the New Year is upon us, it has dawned on me that I have neglected to share a few of my favorite stories from the fall/winter season thus far on my blog. So I might perhaps go backwards for a few entries before I go forwards in 2009 and take care of some housekeeping as I would be remiss in not sharing a few good laughs.
First of all I will inform one and all that yes, indeed the tree did remain standing all season without a single tip over, which is a Peterson first (at least since Isabelle has been with us). I did take the darn thing down before New Years, however, since we got it fairly early this year and it was one crispy tree by the end and was shedding its needles, like a dog sheds its winter coat in the spring.
But for those of you who miss the "anger management" moments my husband, shall we say, finds himself in, I will relate the tale of getting our Jeep Commander stuck. Shortly after the conclusion of hunting season, Clay needed to return to his deer blind to pick up a few items like his trail camera, corn feeder, propane tank (yes, his blind is heated). He also does a few routine things to "lock it down" for the winter and puts out a salt block for the deer. Now here in the U.P. we had already gotten a fair amount of snow very early, and so while this was only the first weekend after the conclusion of rifle season, we had some question as to whether or not we would be able to drive back to his blind which involves driving across a portion of a forty acre field.
Now before we go any further you might ask why I was along for the ride in the first place, as normally I would have avoided this little activity. Simply put we were on our way to pick up Isabelle at my in-laws, who had babysat for her the previous night at their house and Clay's blind happens to be on the way there. Ya know, the whole "kill two birds with one stone idea," which sounds good in theory but not so much in practice.
Anyways, after stopping at hunting camp and pulling in and out of there with no problem whatsoever we drive around on the road and pull up to the gate of the field where Clay's blind is. Before us is a monstrous snow drift, and I am already thinking we should not drive through this, but Clay unlocks the gate in record time and is back in the Commander and gunning us through it before I can blink. The Commander cuts through the drift like butter, and I have to admit I am impressed. Wow, what power! The four wheel drive is humming along. Okay, maybe we are fine. After all, we did get in and out of camp, and that drift was huge and that was caused by the road plow so nothing that big will be in the field, and we just flew through that like nothing, right? Right? And so it seemed as we drove right by the old trailer, the white snow around us like a huge white sea ..... and then we stopped moving. Right smack dab in the middle of the field we bogged down and came to a halt. Clay tried the old rock back and forth bit to no avail, and as I tried to sink myself into the leather bucket seat and disappear I felt the tension rise inside the car. I watched him open his door and stifled the gasp in my throat when the snow was level to the door. Oh, boy. Then, of course, when he called his parents, his mother informed him that his father was not home, having run out to the store or neighbors. (Keep in mind where they live isn't exactly super close so it would have been a decent wait even if he had been right there). I decide to get out of the car and truly see how stuck is stuck.
I sink in snow up to mid-thigh, and silently curse my husband as I push through to the front of the Commander, where the snow has mounded up like a wave in front of the hood. I cannot even see the wheel wells let alone the front tires. Ugh. Standing in the snow I become well aware of the fact that I am not dressed for long term exposure clad in my slip-on Merrells (which are shoes, not boots) jeans, my Columbia jacket, thankfully, and only a pair of fleece gloves. I dug for a few minutes half-heartily, exposing the front passenger tire and watching it spin uselessly when Clay applied the gas then climbed back inside the car after seriously weighing the pros and cons of freezing to death or having to sit next to Clay while he fumed about being stuck. My lack of circulation won.
Back in the car I was informed that he had finally contacted a neighbor nearby who had a tractor (thank God for the local farmers) who would be coming to our rescue in approximately twenty minutes. What passed next was the longest twenty minutes of my life. We tried listening to the Packer game.... no good as the team was losing. (as you all know, not their best season, sigh.) I tried humor "Well, Clay you always make it interesting!" (met with icy stare and stone cold silence). And then as always it disintegrated into Clay bemoaning how things always worked against him and how was he ever going to get to his blind now? All I kept thinking was, Really? We are stuck in snow up to our asses, I am sitting here in soaking wet socks and jeans and still cannot feel my fingers and you are still thinking about getting out to the damn blind?! So, I suggested maybe on a return trip a sled and some snow shoes, but that, after all, it wasn't the end of the world. It wasn't like we were going out there to rescue a person. We were retrieving some belongings and "winterizing" the blind. A little perspective, please. I longed for my book, a person with a sense of humor, some dry clothes, a shot of tequila.
In what I am sure was a short amount of time (although it seemed forever) Greg showed up with the tractor and Clay hopped out to help him hook up to the Commander. I took a moment to call my mother-in-law on my cell and tell her that we would hopefully be on our way shortly. Helen's response to me was priceless. "Renee, I am so SORRY. Are you okay?" Can you tell the woman knows her son? I laughed and teased her about how I could feel her sympathy oozing through the phone from the first time he called her.
Of course, as is so often the case in Clay's world things worked out just perfectly. The tractor popped us out with hardly a tug, and then Greg drove around us and proceeded to plow right out to Clay's blind and back. That's right. In the end, Clay got to drive out to his blind and do everything he wanted to do, picked up all of his paraphernalia left behind from a successful hunting season (more on that in another entry) and we were on our way to my in-laws, albeit two-three hours later then I had anticipated. All is well that ends well, right? In the future though I am going to stock the car. Isn't the Boyscouts' motto, "Be prepared?"
First of all I will inform one and all that yes, indeed the tree did remain standing all season without a single tip over, which is a Peterson first (at least since Isabelle has been with us). I did take the darn thing down before New Years, however, since we got it fairly early this year and it was one crispy tree by the end and was shedding its needles, like a dog sheds its winter coat in the spring.
But for those of you who miss the "anger management" moments my husband, shall we say, finds himself in, I will relate the tale of getting our Jeep Commander stuck. Shortly after the conclusion of hunting season, Clay needed to return to his deer blind to pick up a few items like his trail camera, corn feeder, propane tank (yes, his blind is heated). He also does a few routine things to "lock it down" for the winter and puts out a salt block for the deer. Now here in the U.P. we had already gotten a fair amount of snow very early, and so while this was only the first weekend after the conclusion of rifle season, we had some question as to whether or not we would be able to drive back to his blind which involves driving across a portion of a forty acre field.
Now before we go any further you might ask why I was along for the ride in the first place, as normally I would have avoided this little activity. Simply put we were on our way to pick up Isabelle at my in-laws, who had babysat for her the previous night at their house and Clay's blind happens to be on the way there. Ya know, the whole "kill two birds with one stone idea," which sounds good in theory but not so much in practice.
Anyways, after stopping at hunting camp and pulling in and out of there with no problem whatsoever we drive around on the road and pull up to the gate of the field where Clay's blind is. Before us is a monstrous snow drift, and I am already thinking we should not drive through this, but Clay unlocks the gate in record time and is back in the Commander and gunning us through it before I can blink. The Commander cuts through the drift like butter, and I have to admit I am impressed. Wow, what power! The four wheel drive is humming along. Okay, maybe we are fine. After all, we did get in and out of camp, and that drift was huge and that was caused by the road plow so nothing that big will be in the field, and we just flew through that like nothing, right? Right? And so it seemed as we drove right by the old trailer, the white snow around us like a huge white sea ..... and then we stopped moving. Right smack dab in the middle of the field we bogged down and came to a halt. Clay tried the old rock back and forth bit to no avail, and as I tried to sink myself into the leather bucket seat and disappear I felt the tension rise inside the car. I watched him open his door and stifled the gasp in my throat when the snow was level to the door. Oh, boy. Then, of course, when he called his parents, his mother informed him that his father was not home, having run out to the store or neighbors. (Keep in mind where they live isn't exactly super close so it would have been a decent wait even if he had been right there). I decide to get out of the car and truly see how stuck is stuck.
I sink in snow up to mid-thigh, and silently curse my husband as I push through to the front of the Commander, where the snow has mounded up like a wave in front of the hood. I cannot even see the wheel wells let alone the front tires. Ugh. Standing in the snow I become well aware of the fact that I am not dressed for long term exposure clad in my slip-on Merrells (which are shoes, not boots) jeans, my Columbia jacket, thankfully, and only a pair of fleece gloves. I dug for a few minutes half-heartily, exposing the front passenger tire and watching it spin uselessly when Clay applied the gas then climbed back inside the car after seriously weighing the pros and cons of freezing to death or having to sit next to Clay while he fumed about being stuck. My lack of circulation won.
Back in the car I was informed that he had finally contacted a neighbor nearby who had a tractor (thank God for the local farmers) who would be coming to our rescue in approximately twenty minutes. What passed next was the longest twenty minutes of my life. We tried listening to the Packer game.... no good as the team was losing. (as you all know, not their best season, sigh.) I tried humor "Well, Clay you always make it interesting!" (met with icy stare and stone cold silence). And then as always it disintegrated into Clay bemoaning how things always worked against him and how was he ever going to get to his blind now? All I kept thinking was, Really? We are stuck in snow up to our asses, I am sitting here in soaking wet socks and jeans and still cannot feel my fingers and you are still thinking about getting out to the damn blind?! So, I suggested maybe on a return trip a sled and some snow shoes, but that, after all, it wasn't the end of the world. It wasn't like we were going out there to rescue a person. We were retrieving some belongings and "winterizing" the blind. A little perspective, please. I longed for my book, a person with a sense of humor, some dry clothes, a shot of tequila.
In what I am sure was a short amount of time (although it seemed forever) Greg showed up with the tractor and Clay hopped out to help him hook up to the Commander. I took a moment to call my mother-in-law on my cell and tell her that we would hopefully be on our way shortly. Helen's response to me was priceless. "Renee, I am so SORRY. Are you okay?" Can you tell the woman knows her son? I laughed and teased her about how I could feel her sympathy oozing through the phone from the first time he called her.
Of course, as is so often the case in Clay's world things worked out just perfectly. The tractor popped us out with hardly a tug, and then Greg drove around us and proceeded to plow right out to Clay's blind and back. That's right. In the end, Clay got to drive out to his blind and do everything he wanted to do, picked up all of his paraphernalia left behind from a successful hunting season (more on that in another entry) and we were on our way to my in-laws, albeit two-three hours later then I had anticipated. All is well that ends well, right? In the future though I am going to stock the car. Isn't the Boyscouts' motto, "Be prepared?"
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