When a book changes a life

A long time ago, far, far away in Hartford, Ark., there lived a 6-year-old who fell in love with window seats. Why did she fall in love with window seats, you rightfully ask? Because the book "Poinsettia and Her Family" spoke to her innocent heart.

Poinsettia was a tiny pig with big dreams: She wanted to merely read her favorite book, but she had many brothers and sisters who occupied her favorite reading spots! And, as you -- adept reader -- might have already surmised, one of her favorite spots was the "buttery leather" of the window seat.

The young girl, the one reading the story, realized that small things, like a window seat, can become something invaluably precious. She hurried to her room and tried to sit on her windowsill, but alas, it was no buttery-leather window seat. The sun did not spread through her window, warming her body and her heart, and the sill was hardly sit-on-able.

But the young girl, like her heroine Poinsettia, found big dreams as well: She knew that when she goes into debt and purchases a house of her own, that her home would have a library and a leathery window seat, her own niche of refuge, where the sun would spread onto her like butter.

Then the young girl, when her grandfather let her choose one of his baby bovine for her own so that when he sold it at the cow auction she could have the money for her savings, named her chosen calf Poinsettia. It was only fitting, for Poinsettia represented all her tender hopes and dreams, dreams that she would deposit into her memory bank in the same way in which her parents deposited the $700 from Poinsettia the Cow.

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To see how "Poinsettia and Her Family" has influenced other children, click here.

Vroom vroom

Here's for all my numero tuno fans. (Numero tuno is English-Spanish for "one and a half." It doesn't matter if you don't get it. I was cleaning the bathtub and amid the mildew I thought, "Here's for all my numero tuno fans," and I liked the sound of it.)

Today I met John Schneider. As in, duh, The Dukes of Hazzard. I think I heard him sing when I was 8 years old at the Arkansas-Oklahoma State Fair. He touched my hand, and if I were middle-aged at the time, I would have swooned. But I didn't, because I was 8. I just wanted to know where he got his flying orange car. Anyway. Now Mr. Schneider is Mr. Jonathan Kent on Smallville. Father of Clark Kent, Superman. He apparently traded in the flying car for a flying son.

I stood in line for 2 hours, waiting to meet Johnny. See, there was a car show in town, and several Dukes were there signing auto-graphs. I call them "auto"-graphs because of all the cars.

I held in my purse Smallville: Season Two. My brother loves Smallville, and I wanted to do this because I wanted to win the Best Sister in the World award. The "good deed" was fueled solely by selfishness, not gasoline.

Thirty minutes into the wait, I decided that all these Dukers and Dukettes were weird. I mean, the show was ages ago (1979-1985, in case you were wondering). Do you really think your toddlers are going to care about these old men signing the fake orange cars for them? (I know little Tommy is tired right now, but he'll be glad he did this one day.) They're not, Tommy's not, and your little children are just taking up MY precious time. I have some chicken that must go into the Crock-Pot.

Now, this particular day, I had made a vow to be nice to people. I have seen my friendliness and humaneness slide down a sarcastic, cynical slope. But I realized such an attitude is not conducive to "getting along" with others, nor is it proper human conduct. (Just ask the lady at Wal-Mart who wouldn't help me with the bridal registry.) So I decided today that I need to get the "cheery Amy" back. So here I go. I try to make conversation with Hazzardites, who are chatting in line ahead of me.

"I'm not even here for Dukes of Hazzard," I say perkily to the people in line in front of me. "I'm here for Smallville."

It's here that I realize that people are rude, and I remember why Cheery Amy has been a little stifled. Sure, I hadn't taken a shower in two days and my hair is a little too greasy, like the grease in an engine, or motor, or wherever grease is found in a car. Sure, I just exposed myself as an imposter. But do you REALLY have to flash me one of those squinty-eyed fake smiles, where you're trying to pretend like you're being friendly but you know good and well that even I know you're not trying too hard to be friendly because you know good and well that I am detecting your Scoff?

I mean, Hazzard People, we're all here because of Schneider, and if I'm here for Schneider, and YOU'RE here for Schneider, that should be good enough, right? It's like Michael Jackson sang: "We are the world. We are the children. We are the ones who make a brighter day."

So, numero tuno readers, let's vow to indeed make brighter days. Life shant be full of hazards.