Southwood High School in Shrieveport, Louisiana is on to something.
The high school was plagued with violence.
In three days, twenty-three students were arrested for fighting.
However, a new crisis intervention team stepped in and the violence has stopped.

The members of the team do not have degrees in criminal justice.
They are not on any police force.
They are not professional counselors.
They are dads.

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I remember when my husband was interviewing for jobs.
It was during our senior year of college.
We got engaged at Christmas that year.
Our wedding was to be in October.

He traveled all over the country for those job interviews.
He went to Georgia Tech, which meant we were apart for most of our four years of college.
He came home or I would go down to Georgia to see him for homecoming and formals.
We were high school sweethearts, so we had a foundation before he ever left for school.

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We have a little corner in our kitchen.
It is really a place where two sides of the countertop meet.
I am grateful to have a large kitchen to accommodate our family.
This little corner is indeed little.

I have a large island, which is for sitting, and eating, and lingering in conversation.
I have countertops that hold my Kitchen Aid mixer, that I cannot do without.
Countertops on which I place my husband’s coffee maker.
I say my husband’s coffee maker, since I have never even tasted coffee.

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Do you ever watch a child walk with their mom or dad?
Even though they have their own gait, there is still similarity in the way they walk.
You can almost tell which parent belongs to which child by watching the way they walk.
It always makes me smile.

They say husbands and wives look alike after a while.
They say that people begin to look like their pets or pets look like their people.
I know that even my own husband would confuse me and my daughters on the phone.
When he would call on the landline, he was not always sure which one of us answered.

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Life during the pandemic was taking its toll.
Quarantine was necessary, but getting old.
Little did we know how much we would need the vacation.
The entire family would be together for the whole week.

Working remotely helped, in case something needed to be done.
However, everyone was able to take the entire week off.
My son, who is a lawyer, had one brief to finish.
After that bit of morning work, he was officially on vacation as well.

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Many years ago, a Little House On The Prairie episode touched my heart.
I remember it well.
Perhaps it was because it had to do with Pa’s woodworking.
Perhaps it was because it reminded me of my husband.

The episode began with a modern day couple stopping at an antique auction.
The wife sees a table she particularly loves.
She notices the markings etched into the wood.
She wonders about the man who made the table.

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We have a lovely crib for our grandchildren in a room upstairs.
My husband is consistently changing the front of the crib.
Safety standards have changed so much since I had my children.
It has been twenty-four years since my youngest daughter was born.

Crib rails used to raise and lower.
That is deemed unsafe now.
Cribs used to have bumper pads around the sides.
They are now considered a hazard, since a baby’s head could get stuck underneath.

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There is a little thing that thrills me.
I have no idea why.
It happened the other morning.
I actually smiled from ear to ear at the sheer joy of it all.

I opened a new jar of peanut butter.
There it was.
No knife had disturbed the peanut-ty goodness.
No one had taken any peanut butter before me.

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We lived across the street from each other.
Our children grew up together.
In those years, the neighborhood consisted mostly of boys.
There were five sets of brothers ready to play football, basketball, or ride bikes together.

You always knew where everybody was because you saw their bikes on the driveway.
It seemed like the boys were either at our house or the house across the street.
Football was better on their front lawn because there was no large evergreen trees to contend with.
Board games were better at our house because we had a shady side porch with a table.

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I saw the letter on my desk in the kitchen.
I knew the handwriting.
I opened it.
What I read, warmed my heart.

The letter was from my daughter.
Or so I thought.
It was really from my 15 month old granddaughter.
It was from my granddaughter, though it was sent with a little help.

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