Seeing Sony

When I was a little girl I was secretly enthralled with Sony.  Every time she came around my curious little eyes followed her every move.  She was cool.  

Sony and I are first cousins, and even though she's the same age as my mother, I relished the idea that we were of such close relation, that I fit in her crowd, that she was my family.  She seemed mysterious.

I loved and looked up to most everything about my Sony, but I tried not to let on.  I loved the way she could take a pencil and a piece of paper and make art in minutes.  I loved the way she wasn't ever totally satisfied with her creations.

I loved the way she looked deep into my eyes when she talked to me and the almost raspy quality of her voice.  I found it lovely the way she poised herself as she lifted her cigarette in her hand, inhaled, and kept on talking.

Most of all I think I loved the way that she was always there; even when I grew up her cards or well-wishes via Daddy or gifts were always reminders that she had remembered me.

My Sony and Me: Easter 2012

I remember the first time Sony wore a cane to Christmas.  I think it was pink with flowers because of course she wouldn't have some plain old cane, but it still nearly broke my confused little heart.  I knew she had MS, but I wasn't ready for it to be taking over.

Not too long ago we almost lost Sony.  She had a heart attack--massive.  We were here in the states, her family--absent, and she was there in Montreal--dying.  Every one of my moments was consumed with thoughts and prayers and bargains for her life to keep on going until we could see her one last time.  Because I didn't know if Daddy could make it, and I didn't know if her husband, Fern, could make it, and I didn't know if I could make it.

None of us had to make it, though, because she made it for us.  She carried through, and even though her quality of life is diminished and there probably are more not-so-great moments than fabulous ones, she soldiers on, and that is why I still love my Sony.

Mama, Sony, and Daddy: Easter 2012

Seeing her was hard.  Harder than hard.  Sadder than sad.  Seeing her was heart wrenching because I remember my Sony who was never without a cigarette or a laugh, my Sony who talked with her hands and her head and her eyes; her essence was in her movement, and now she's stuck.  Stuck in the bed, and she isn't getting out.  It broke my confused little heart all over again but with all different reasons. 

Our coming was a secret.  Fern left the apartment to go get some people downstairs he told her.  She didn't know the people downstairs were her family all the way from Arkansas: her uncle who's only a little older than she is and her aunt who's her same age and her cousin who's young than her child and her cousin's husband whom she hasn't seen in years.

As we were walking in I think I was holding my breath out of anticipation for what would happen next.  Fern entered first, then Daddy, then me, then Mama, then Hub. 


Single file line.  


We all walked in and surrounded her bed with hi theres and how are yous and anxious little giggles, and after a minute, after we had time to be really afraid that she didn't know us or what was happening, she said

I'm so happy.

And her eyes lit up like they used to, and she smiled a big Sony smile that overtook her whole being. And those three words with those lit up eyes and that gigantic smile made the anxiety and the anticipation and the grief and the tears and worry all worth it because there, in that hospital bed, was my Sony, and I was getting to see her again.






P.S.  This is day six of my twenty-one day blogging adventure.  So far, so good.  Then again, it is only day six. . . .

Another Year's Gone By...

Now it's been four years since we lost Donnie to himself.  I spent the day with tenth graders visiting a Jewish synagogue and a Muslim mosque.  All day my thoughts floated back to my dear friend who would have been so, so good at teaching these kids about God's truth and the love Jesus has for them.  My heart is too full to write a new post about my precious friend, so I'm reposting what I had to say last year on this day.  The truth is, my thoughts and feelings are the same.  This year the process of grieving Donnie's death hasn't moved much.  Sometimes grief goes quickly and then slows down and then picks up its pace again.  Right now I'm moving slowly, but at least I'm moving.


--------

I was in high school before Donnie and I became friends. First, he visited my church and then my home. My parents reached out to him, and he reached out to us.  It wasn't too long before Donnie spent Saturdays with us.  Then, he found his way into suppertime and sleeping on our couch.  He came to our family birthdays and Christmases.  Santa even dropped some gifts off at our house for him.  He quickly became an important part of my life.  More like a brother than a friend, really.  


I've never had a brother, so I could be mistaken, but I've heard that they show up at inconvenient times and irritate you and tell stupid jokes and make you laugh and make you want to hit them in the face and they're sometimes quite messy, but more than anything you love them so deeply that the thought of losing them takes your breath away.  Isn't that what it's like to have a brother?  I imagine it is; at least, that's what it was like having a Donnie.  Donnie was all of those things to me, and even more.  We would sit and talk for hours.  We would solve the world's problems and talk about our families and our friends and our God and our weekends and our schoolwork.  He is the only person who ever made sure to ask in nearly every conversation if Hub was treating me right.  We dreamed big dreams together, had a lot of fun, laughed a lot of laughs, and cried a lot of tears.

I was in college when Donnie died.  It was Saturday, and he shot himself between the eyes.  

It was the first time I'd experienced such loss, hurt, confusion, and anger all at one time.  In one breath I could bid him good riddance for his selfishness, and in the next,  I'd beg him to come back for a do-over.
Never will I understand why he decided to end a life so full of promise.  If he was at the end of his rope, I would have given him mine.  So many people would have.  He was, he is, so deeply loved and so deeply cherished.


Sometimes I dream that the buzz at the door is him, and I'll answer, and he'll come inside.  He'll sit on the couch, and I'll offer him something to drink. We'll spend the afternoon talking and laughing, and Hub will come home, and I'll fix dinner, and Donnie will eat three plates, help me clean up the kitchen, and be on his merry way again.  But that never really happens.


Sometimes I wish that when I picked up the ringing phone, it would be him on the other line calling to see how life is in Kentucky.  But that never happens, either.


Sometimes I imagine that I'll get a letter in the mail apologizing for missing my college graduation and my engagement and my wedding and a promise to come and see me soon.  But that never happens.


They won't ever happen, these things I dream of and imagine and pray for in the still of the night.  These things won't ever happen, and it's his own fault.  It is a dark and unsettling place when the person you have lost, the person you so desperately want one more conversation with, is the same person who caused all of this pain in the first place.


Sometimes I look up to heaven and I think, "Donnie Ferguson, if you can see me right now you'd better be sorry, buddy. I hope you see all of us down here and you feel bad for what you've done and all of this pain you've caused.  Because you should.  You should feel terrible."


And then other times I look up to heaven and thing, "How is it that a person so loved by so many could feel so desperate, so alone."  And I feel guilty for his death, like it was my fault somehow because I wasn't right there the moment he needed me.


Most of the time, though, I just hope and pray that he is happy.


Before I ever had to think about it, I knew that losing him would take my breath away.  That it would rip me open and scrape me out and shake me up.  I was right.  I carry on, though.  I carry on knowing that if he could go back and change the circumstances of his death, he would.  I carry on knowing that if he could see the pain and the torture he had caused the ones who loved him, he would put the gun down and back away.  That's what I tell myself, anyway.  And maybe I am wrong, but I know who Donnie was and how much he cared, so I believe that if he really understood the consequences of shooting himself in the head, he wouldn't have.  He would have stayed alive and protected the people he loved, the people who loved him.


When I tell my children about my precious friend, I will make sure that they know his death was not the definition of his life.  That although he had many struggles; he had many more victories.  I will make sure they know that even though he had a temporary, life-altering, and terrible lapse in judgement that he was a brilliant and loving human being who changed my life, and many others, for better.  More than anything, I will make sure that they know they are loved and cherished, no matter what, and if the desperation ever comes, that suicide isn't the way.  

Because suicide never heals.  It only creates more anguish.

If you or someone you know is struggling, please call 

1-800-SUICIDE 

or visit 

www.hopeline.com 

because there is always a way out, even if you can't see it just yet.

The Puppy Children

Hub and I have two puppy children, and that's all we'll have.  I have a rule about not having more animals than humans in a house. 


I call them our puppy children because that's how we treat them.  We get excited to bring home a new toy.  We love watching them run around the apartment.  You know, as if they were real humans.


At first I felt strangely about this, but then I decided that most people regard their pets as integral family members even if they refuse to admit.  So, there ya go.  I'm admitting it--we treat our dogs kind of like they're people, kind of like they're our children, and I'm okay with that.  In fact, I like it.


You met Miss Maisie back in July just after she came to live with us. 

That's when she looked like this.

Now she looks more like this.  She's a whopping 6.5 lbs.  What a big girl.


In December we got Mr. Melvin.  Isn't he a cutie? 

Here he is riding around in my mom's apron pocket over Christmas.

Maisie and Melvin became the best of pals within minutes.  They play all the time, and when one wanders off, the other searches until the missing friend is found.

If you look closely at Melvin's eye, you can see that his is half-blue, too, just like Maisie's.
Presh.

Happy Saturday, 

My Favorite Puppy Girls

When Hub and I went home over the 4th of July, I took the opportunity (about 10 minutes before we left) to take some pictures of and with my favorite puppy girls, Dixie and Maisie.  

Aren't they the sweetest?

I've Got the Fever (If you make it through this post you deserve an award)

Yesterday, which will be the day-before-yesterday by the time you read this, I felt bad, horrible, no-good.  Secretly, I've been waiting for this sickness because it's been taunting me.  A sore throat this day, stuffy ears the next. If you don't know what I mean when I say 'stuffy ears,' count your blessings.  Seriously.  Do it. 


After a few days of feeling like Mediocre Mable, I decided it was probably just my allergies.  If you don't have to regularly think about your 'allergies,' count your blessings.  Seriously. Do it. 


So, I carried on with life as usual until yesterday, remember: day-before-yesterday to you.  My ears hurt; my head hurt; my throat hurt.  Bad news all around. 


Today, which will be yesterday by the time you read this, everything got worse.  I even had a fever.  Or, "got the fever," as I like to say. Don't you think that sounds more serious?  I do.  I mean, "I've got the fever" is a lot better than "I think I'm running a low-grade temperature."  Having "the" fever is a more adequate expression of how I'm feeling.  Besides, where I come from people arbitrarily add "the" the lots of things, so it comes naturally.  


I think I should take a moment here to explain that although I appreciate a spontaneously thrown in "the," I do NOT, under any circumstance, add an "s" to the end of something that is not supposed to end in "s."  For example, the store is named Walmart not Walmarts.  That's tacky.  Here's another: it's Kroger not Krogers.  Again with the tacky.  Am I being harsh?  Probably.  Blame the fever.  I now realize how irrelevant this paragraph is.  Blame the fever again.


Back to the sickness.  I haven't decided if it's doctor-visit-worthy yet.  I feel like it might should be because of the fever. I rarely get the fever, but I'm holding out for a couple of days to see.  In the meantime, I've been "resting" and trying to decide what "resting" really means and rediscovering that I'm no good at the "resting" because I feel restless.  Sometimes, okay all the time, when I'm sick I spend the beginning of the illness trying to prove to myself that I'm fine.  It's a really ignorant thing to do, but, nonetheless, I try it every time.  


I'll do chores and lift things and get myself all out of breath and feeling like I might die before I decide to sit down.  Then, once I can breathe again, I repeat the process.  Yes, I know it's bad for my health.  No, I cannot stop.  It's just a thing with me.


I think it's because I really hate being sick; I'm no good at it.  No matter how badly I'm feeling, I always feel like someone will think I'm faking it.  How ridiculous is that?  Beyond ridiculous, I know.  I guess that's why I always have to prove to myself that I really am sick.  


The other reason that I'm no good at being sick is that I feel guilty.  I spend lots of time apologizing.  How ridiculous is that?  Beyond ridiculous, I know, but I can't help it.  I've done it my whole life.


After wearing myself out a million times yesterday, I decided I really am sick.  My suspicions were of course confirmed by the presence of the fever.  I don't often get the fever, remember?


Since I am sick, I'm supposed to be "resting," which is another thing I'm no good at when it comes to being sick.  If I feel healthy, I have no problem in the "resting" area, but when I'm sick, no sort of "resting" works for me.  For me, sickness equals restlessness, even when I'm sleeping.


Here are some of my troubles with "resting:"  (Yes, I realize you don't care)


1.  Lots of people "rest" by lying on the couch or in the bed and watching t.v. all day.  I can't watch t.v. all day without feeling lousy about myself which adds to my ridiculous guilt about being sick.  Plus, the t.v. is sometimes too loud.


2.  I read a lot when I'm "resting," but when I get tired of doing that because my head might split open from aching, I'm at a loss. 


3.  "Resting" usually requires staying in the same spot for lengthy periods of time.  I'm no good at that when I'm sick because I am perpetually uncomfortable, and I feel guilty for not moving for hours on end.


4.  This list could go on, but I think it shouldn't.


I said all of this to say, well, nothing.   I hope by tomorrow, which will be today by the time you read this, I'll be feeling better, but I'm kind of doubtful.

I know this picture of my sweet Dixie has nothing to do with this post, but she is so cute, I just couldn't resist!

If you're wondering, yes, I do know how senseless this post is. Blame the fever. 

                    Have a healthy day, 

3 Years Later

I was in high school before Donnie and I became friends. First, he visited my church and then my home. My parents reached out to him, and he reached out to us.  It wasn't too long before Donnie spent Saturdays with us.  Then, he found his way into suppertime and sleeping on our couch.  He came to our family birthdays and Christmases.  Santa even dropped some gifts off at our house for him.  He quickly became an important part of my life.  More like a brother than a friend, really.  


I've never had a brother, so I could be mistaken, but I've heard that they show up at inconvenient times and irritate you and tell stupid jokes and make you laugh and make you want to hit them in the face and they're sometimes quite messy, but more than anything you love them so deeply that the thought of losing them takes your breath away.  Isn't that what it's like to have a brother?  I imagine it is; at least, that's what it was like having a Donnie.  Donnie was all of those things to me, and even more.  We would sit and talk for hours.  We would solve the world's problems and talk about our families and our friends and our God and our weekends and our schoolwork.  He is the only person who ever made sure to ask in nearly every conversation if Hub was treating me right.  We dreamed big dreams together, had a lot of fun, laughed a lot of laughs, and cried a lot of tears.

I was in college when Donnie died.  It was Saturday, and he shot himself between the eyes.  

It was the first time I'd experienced such loss, hurt, confusion, and anger all at one time.  In one breath I could bid him good riddance for his selfishness, and in the next,  I'd beg him to come back for a do-over.
Never will I understand why he decided to end a life so full of promise.  If he was at the end of his rope, I would have given him mine.  So many people would have.  He was, he is, so deeply loved and so deeply cherished.


Sometimes I dream that the buzz at the door is him, and I'll answer, and he'll come inside.  He'll sit on the couch, and I'll offer him something to drink. We'll spend the afternoon talking and laughing, and Hub will come home, and I'll fix dinner, and Donnie will eat three plates, help me clean up the kitchen, and be on his merry way again.  But that never really happens.


Sometimes I wish that when I picked up the ringing phone, it would be him on the other line calling to see how life is in Kentucky.  But that never happens, either.


Sometimes I imagine that I'll get a letter in the mail apologizing for missing my college graduation and my engagement and my wedding and a promise to come and see me soon.  But that never happens.


They won't ever happen, these things I dream of and imagine and pray for in the still of the night.  These things won't ever happen, and it's his own fault.  It is a dark and unsettling place when the person you have lost, the person you so desperately want one more conversation with is the same person who caused all of this pain in the first place.


Sometimes I look up to heaven and I think, "Donnie Ferguson, if you can see me right now you'd better be sorry, buddy. I hope you see all of us down here and you feel bad for what you've done and all of this pain you've caused.  Because you should.  You should feel terrible."


And then other times I look up to heaven and thing, "How is it that a person so loved by so many could feel so desperate, so alone."  And I feel guilty for his death, like it was my fault somehow because I wasn't right there the moment he needed me.


Most of the time, though, I just hope and pray that he is happy.


Before I ever had to think about it, I knew that losing him would take my breath away.  That it would rip me open and scrape me out and shake me up.  I was right.  I carry on, though.  I carry on knowing that if he could go back and change the circumstances of his death, he would.  I carry on knowing that if he could see the pain and the torture he had caused the ones who loved him, he would put the gun down and back away.  That's what I tell myself, anyway.  And maybe I am wrong, but I know who Donnie was and how much he cared, so I believe that if he really understood the consequences of shooting himself in the head, he wouldn't have.  He would have stayed alive and protected the people he loved, the people who loved him.


When I tell my children about my precious friend, I will make sure that they know his death was not the definition of his life.  That although he had many struggles; he had many more victories.  I will make sure they know that even though he had a temporary, life-altering, and terrible lapse in judgement that he was a brilliant and loving human being who changed my life, and many others, for better.  More than anything, I will make sure that they know they are loved and cherished, no matter what, and if the desperation ever comes, that suicide isn't the way.  

Because suicide never heals.  It only creates more anguish.

If you or someone you know is struggling, please call 

1-800-SUICIDE 

or visit 

www.hopeline.com 

because there is always a way out, even you can't see it just yet.  

Dear Whoever You Are,

In lieu of Sunday Snippets, I'd like to share a heart wrenching story with you.

Tesney and her husband Greg, along with their biological son, Clayton, have been on a long and exhausting journey to adopt a little boy named Kirill.  Kirill lives in Russia, and he has Down Syndrome. On March 17th, after several hours of testimony in court on behalf of this loving family, a judge rejected the adoption because she believed Kirill to be "socially unadaptable" due to his his disability.  The family is heartbroken and fearful, but in an effort to bring their son home, they are appealing the judge's decision.

Although the judge's ruling may evoke an emotional response in you filled with anger and confusion, as it did me, it is important that we remain optimistic and not slander the judge.  Hatefulness will not help Kirill be brought home; it will only hinder the process.  Therefore, Tesney has asked that people "PLEASE do not be mean or slander the judge.  We LOVE her and want to show her CHRIST in our response to her ruling.  It will HURT our appeal if negative things about the judge are associated with our case.  We can say that we disagree with her decision and that it is an injustice to deny a child a family because he is "socially unadaptable" (has special needs/DS0, but please don't be hateful."

I don't know this family personally, but their story has been tugging on my heartstrings. I am fervently praying that little Kirill be brought home in a timely manner so that he can learn what it feels like to have a family of his own.

I am asking you to do the same.  Whatever you do for people in need, do it for this family.  If you pray or send good thoughts or pass along positive energy or meditate or fast or run or sing, do it for Kirill.

If you have any social or political connections, help this baby out.

To hear this amazing story from Tesney's point of view, follow the link below to her blog, which is where I stole the sweet picture from.

http://oureyesopened.blogspot.com/2011/03/kirills-story.html

If you're on Facebook, follow this link to check out the group made in Kirill's honor:  http://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=group_160513784005050

How Much is TOO Much?

Having all online classes, using my cell phone regularly to call and text, relying on email for important communication, using Facebook and Twitter as social networking outlets, and reading the news on my phone has me feeling a little too plugged-in lately.

It makes me wonder what all of this technology does to our brains and what effect it has on our interactions. Mind you, I'm not bashing technology. I'm all for it. Lately, though, I just feel a little stuck to it.

I mean, we've got two computers, cell phones that are more like mini-computers, iPods, televisions, and other gadgets. Information is instantly accessible, at any time. And it leaves me wondering if this is always a good thing.

Does using all of this technology diminish the authenticity of my real-time, non-virtual interactions? I'm afraid it might, and that makes me wonder about what it's doing to everybody else. (because believe you me, I know plenty of people who are far more stuck to their technology than I am, and they don't feel stuck at all)

Even though I'm interested in what these all-access passes to any information and communication we want is doing to the world, I'm not really interested in giving too much of it up. Sure, I want to feel unstuck, but I don't want to give up time on Facebook that's used to talk to friends far away or phone time to talk to Mom and Dad or texting to chat with whoever or blogging to accomplish whatever that accomplishes. Ya know? I'm too invested to give it all up now, which is a pretty scary and thought provoking statement in and of itself.

P.S. Do you think it's ironic that I'm blogging about wanting to be unstuck from technology? (because I totally do)

Talkin' About My Generation

I didn't write this secret, but I liked it, so I thought I'd share it here.

My generation needs some hope, some people to believe in us. I think just a little bit of encouragement could go a long way.

(www.postsecret.com)

Then again, maybe we are doomed.

(I hope we aren't.)

Maybe You Should Give it a Try

As a youngster in school, coloring is a part of who we are and how we learn. Coloring to satisfy adults is a great accomplishment. Our ability to stay inside the lines may mean the difference between taking home a happy faced paper or a frowny faced paper. It's a big deal.

As we grow older, though, we abandon coloring as a learning technique, and many of us stop coloring altogether.

Personally, I think coloring is healthy and fun and therapeutic and soothing. It's a mindless task that I can seriously concentrate on. I can let everything else melt away and focus solely on my the picture I am bringing to life, or I can color absentmindedly, unconcerned about the final product.

Coloring is no longer about impressing my teachers and making presents for my parents, so there's no more pressure, and that's the beauty of it. You may call me crazy if you want to, but I have this theory that when we return to the things we loved in childhood, the world gets a little bit better and makes a little bit more sense. When we allow ourselves to be vulnerable and loving and faithful, like a child, we are free.

So, sometimes I color to relieve stress, to think through problems, to avoid thinking entirely, to simply have fun, to focus on prayer, to meditate, to do all sorts of things that need to be done. For me, coloring is something that takes me back to being a little girl, and, sometimes, things are much clearer from her point of view.

No Ordinary Pothole

A sinkhole created by tropical storm Agatha is seen in the Ciudad Nueva neighborhood in Guatemala City, Guatemala, on May 29. Agatha caused landslides and floods that left tens of thousands homeless in Central America.

Doesn't this photo absolutely blow your mind? It does mine.

How does the earth just swallow its surface into a giant hole? It seems impossible, doesn't it?

To me, the picture almost looks fabricated, like it's just some horrible joke the media is playing on the world. I'm afraid, however, that it isn't, and that is what is so scary.

Pictures like this one, pictures of things I can hardly wrap my mind around, remind me of how small I am. Sure, I can do great things in my life and be kind to people and try to make a difference, but I have no control. None of us do, not really.

Humbling, isn't it?

I stole this image from msnbc.com's Week in Pictures. If you don't know, this site posts pictures weekly of things that have happened around the world. The pictures are fantastic. You should check it out.

The Prints of my Fingers

On Tuesday, I had my fingerprints taken.

Relax, I didn't do anything illegal to warrant this action. In order to receive my initial teaching license upon graduation, my fingerprints need to be documented and run by the Arkansas State Police, FBI, and Child Protective Services to make sure I'm not a scary criminal.

I can't lie, I was pretty excited about this fingerprinting. So, if you're a wonderer like me and you've never been fingerprinted, I'll tell you what its like.

First of all, it's a little more complicated than it seems. In the event that you're finger printed, you'll be tempted to do it yourself; however, you must be patient and relaxed as the officer twists your fingers around so that they produce the perfect print.

The "stamp pad," if you will, of ink isn't like a stamp pad you and I are used to either. It feels like a cool, almost damp table top. It is red.

So, you let the officer roll your fingers on to the red stamp pad and then press them on to your very own fingerprint sheet. Then, the officer instructs you to wash your hands, and by the time you return, he has placed your fingerprint sheet into a magic drying box and when he retrieves it your fingerprints are no longer red; they've turned black.

It is so cool; I thought it was, anyway.

Well, folks, there you have it. That's how fingerprinting goes down.

This is a photo of a fingerprint sheet that I found on the internet. It looks a lot like mine, except these fingerprints happen to belong to Malcolm X. I wanted to take a picture of my sheet, but I sensed that might annoy the officer, so I refrained from asking.

You know how you don't want something until you can't have it? Well, here's the other thing about fingerprinting: NO LOTION. If you put lotion on your hands, the lotion fills in the lines, and your prints won't take properly. My teacher, Mr. W., had warned us extensively about this, so I was prepared live sans lotion on Tuesday.

But, oh golly goodness, how I longed to have lotion on my hands. Just to clarify, I'm not even a lotion fanatic. I love lotion, yes, but I don't have to use it every day. On Tuesday, though, I needed it. My hands felt dry and itchy and cracky and gross.

I cannot describe to you just how much knowing that I couldn't have lotion that morning made me want to use it, need to use it, even more. Once the fingerprinting was over, my hands felt totally fine and normal; the dryness, itchiness, and crackiness had all miraculously disappeared.

Isn't it weird how we sometimes want the one thing we can't have? I think it's a really funny part of our nature as humans (or at least my nature as a human).

For those of you wondering, I abstained from lotion use before my fingerprinting. =]

I hope you have a Happy Wednesday.

Driver Calls 911 to Report Herself as Drunk

I read this on MSN today:

Associated Press

updated 8:08 p.m. CT, Mon., Nov . 2, 2009

NEILSVILLE, Wis. - The call came into the 911 dispatcher: "I don't want to hurt anybody. I'm drunk." And with that, Mary Strey, 49, of Granton, reported herself as a drunken driver about three miles northeast of Neilsville in central Wisconsin.

Clark County Sheriff's Chief Deputy Jim Backus said Monday that Strey's call on Oct. 24 led deputies to cite her for misdemeanor drunken driving with a blood-alcohol level double the legal limit to drive. She makes her first court appearance Dec. 10.

Backus said drunken drivers reporting themselves is rare.

In the 911 call, Strey said she wanted to report a drunken driver and the dispatcher asked if she was behind the suspect vehicle. "I am them," Strey said. She then followed the dispatcher's advice to pull over and turn on her flashers, telling him she had been "drinking all night long."

"Backus said drunken drivers reporting themselves is rare." Really? Who would've guessed that? :)

At least this woman was honest enough to get herself off of the road before she hurt herself or someone else. I can't help but wonder, now that she is being charged, does she regret reporting herself? IF it were me, I'd probably be wishing right about now that I hadn't taken the high road and turned myself in, but I think I'll give her the benefit of the doubt, and say that she turned herself in knowingly, still remembers this action, and is willing to serve for her punishment in any way the courts deem necessary. A big part of me wonders if such will be the case.

Despite all my ponderings, I couldn't help but giggle a little at this story. We generally stop telling on ourselves at an early age, and I think it's humorous that this woman told on her self in such a way that she will face legal consequences. I also think this action is commendable and honorable. Perhaps life would be easier and the world a much better place if we were all willing and able to admit our faults and ask for help, if nothing more than for the sake of those around us.