Would you just sit still?

Solitude: A good place to visit but a poor place to stay -- Josh Billings

My little brother made me a fan of peace and quiet. He's no longer little, but he's still loud.

After thirty years of living apart from him, I still love a little solitude.

A quiet hotel room. An early morning run in a place where nobody knows me. No television. Nobody to suggest we go somewhere. No housekeeping tasks waiting.

Luxury.

My friend John says that most people who love a dinner party or an action-packed girl trip or a roomful of noisy teen-agers are truly introverts. Introverts, by his definition, are those who refuel by being alone.

Okay. Then I am one of them there introverts.

Sudoku, books, prayer, silence, tea, coffee. What a great way to refuel.

Of course I wouldn't want to live in the house of solitude, hoarding papers and bits of broken machinery and antique memorabilia like Homer and Langley - as fascinating as they are. (Read the book, you'll see.) That's a different kind of solitude -- based on fear and anxiety and mental illness.

But life is often full of blaring music,

beeping oven timers,

frantic car rides,

misunderstood communication,

tearful phone calls,

tough choices,

midnight worries

and migraine headaches.

Know the feeling?

Pour yourself some solitude. Just like the slogan on the Holiday Inn Express key card, you'll find yourself saying ..... Ahhh.

Peace and quiet at the Gholson house? Not so much ... but that's a good thing!

Mi Casa es Su Casa

I love a party and the best way to make the party last is to have a house guest. A "house guest" is usually someone who sleeps in a perfectly made bed and drinks coffee from a silver urn.

Sadly, at our house, that's not how it works.

If you stay here -- and we want you to -- it's more of an extended sleep-over. You make your own coffee, scrounge around for an extra pillow, put up with the dog's bad breath. And, of course, you watch Jeopardy with us.

Our current house guest is adjusting to our merciless criticism of the awkward Jeopardy contestant geeks. She wisely ignores the bickering and pouting when the dad refuses to phrase his answer in the form of a question.

For a house guest, it's best to just sit silently and not take sides.

Tonight our current sleep-over girl, Lynn, got some Jeopardy answers in ahead of the more obnoxious contestants on the sofa. Rachel Beth and I kicked butt in the kiddy lit category. In the category of foreign country leaders? not so much.

Lynn has only been here a week, but before Lynn there was Aunt Rachel. I believe that sleep-over lasted about a year. Aunt Rachel became accustomed to -- even slightly dependent on -- her daily dose of Jeopardy.

Before Aunt Rachel, there was the delightful Richardson LaBruce, a law clerk who conversed eloquently under the back porch fans and occasionally watched Jeopardy.

The Perrys lived with us several months after Hurricane Katrina left an oak tree in the center of their kitchen. But, sadly, they were not Jeopardy fans. We even had trouble getting them to use our washing machine. Still, they stayed long enough to have the outside game room named in their honor. It will be forever known as The Perry Suite.

Anybody who drops over and spends the night makes our lives a little richer. So we leave the light on for them.

And they get to make their own coffee.

Kitty Perry has the game room named in her honor.

Richardson, and his lovely bride, Jean.

Aunt Rachel, our fashionista house guest!

Drilled in the art of play

If they're looking for a few good men, they got at least one. And crazy good.

The National Guard may not know it, but this kid they are sending to Afghanistan has incredible skills.

At the age of 16 or so, he jumped off my roof --repeatedly -- onto my trampoline.

A few weeks later he built a ramp for skates during the middle of a kid skating party and showed off his roller gymnastics.

And then there was the time he loaded himself into a grocery cart and went careening -- on purpose -- down the asphalt into a row of boxwoods.

Skim boarding? barefoot skiing? piece of cake.

Once, during a tennis match, I saw him run halfway up the chain link fence to return a tennis shot -- while wearing tennis shoes with the tops cut out.

And there was the time we were vacationing in Colorado and he showed up at the base of the mountain, "borrowed" my skis, boots and lift tickets, and hopped the lift. Five minutes downhill, he found the pro ski jump practice area and launched -- looking comfy in his too-small ski boots as he sailed through the mountain air.

I've seen him dance across a roof at World Changers and watched him, red soccer cleats spinning, dribble past opponents on the soccer field.

I love this guy, but he scares me to death!

This past Wednesday, this grown-up Lt. Satcher stood with his 184th transportation division at Temple Baptist Church in Hattiesburg for the official send-off. Today he goes to Ft. Hood for training, then on to scary Afghanistan.

He leaves behind his sweet wife, adorable baby and the rest of us who, jaws dropped, feared long ago he would kill himself on a scooter, a four-wheeler, a motorbike, a boat or just a pair of cut-out tennis shoes.

Godspeed Josh. Do not be afraid. Do not be discouraged. For the Lord your God will go with you wherever you go. And yes, He's been working overtime.

Baby Andi fell asleep during the send-off for her daddy.

I don't wanna be conformed!

I hate sameness -- buying the same, wearing the same, doing the same.

So, of course, I hate uniforms. Uniforms are a twisted form of control. They are like the window locks on cars that prevent passengers from getting fresh air without the permission of the driver.

For me, uniforms -- or even dress codes -- trigger an irrational frenzy in a heart that is usually peaceful.

When I was in the sixth grade, my grandma Tressie made me a maxi dress. It was yellow striped and oh-so-fundamentalist looking. But wearing it, I saw myself as a free spirit, running through fields of clover in slow motion while "Come Together" played. It was the furthest thing from sexy and it may have been "distracting" in its ugliness.

Still, I was incensed when my teacher sent me home to change clothes. My GRANDMOTHER had made this dress for me. I wasn't chewing gum or getting to school late or disobeying any of her impossibly rigid rules. I could have worn hot pants, which were also all the rage in the 70s. But no. I was sporting the pioneer wife look.

Nowadays, the uni is the upscale trend. When our town's public school switched seven years ago, my then-senior-high daughter did her dying roach routine: "I will NOT, I can NOT. It denies freedom of expression. It stifles my spirit. It's boring and ugly." I could only agree.

In contrast, or maybe resignation, my youngest daughter wears a uniform to school every day with barely a complaint.

Here's what educators say about uniforms:

They are the great levelizers -- stripping kids of status or wealth.

They promote a sense of belonging, taking the place of gang regalia.

They improve test scores.

To that I say: bull malarkey.

Here's what moms say about uniforms:

They make it easy to get dressed in the morning.

And who wants to trade that for a large dose of freedom of expression?

Freedom of expression circa 1973

Scary freedom of expression circa 2010: a case for uniforms!