All dogs go to heaven

Our friend Mary Parker is disturbed -- and rightfully so -- because some religious authority told her there will be no dogs in paradise. She is reconsidering her plan to go there when she dies.

In all seriousness, sweet M.P., for a animal-lovers like me and you, that is a hard thing to hear. Surely "you can't take it with you" does not apply to our beloved Toby, Hershey, Eli and Sadie. The satanic, psycho-cat? Well, he made his own choice.

If good works got you into heaven, then Toby would be first and the psycho cat would be last.

Toby, a cream-colored labradoodle who dog-smiles while doing tricks for treats, visited at the hospital in Hattiesburg yesterday. And in so doing, went pro with his hobby of standing beside the road and being a friend to man.

It was a glorious day as Toby, red bandana flying, visited first floor, rehab, the oncology wing and pediatrics. Between elevator rides, he made friends and influenced people.

A precious 12-year-old surgery patient smiled through her pain as she gave Toby a treat. A one-year-old stared in awe as he watched Toby's majestic lumbering. An elderly man called Toby over to his wheelchair: "This is my dog," he said. "I raised him from a pup." Who were we to argue? All we could say was: "You did a great job!"

The nurses welcomed Toby and the patients begged him to come back soon. One doctor inquired about Toby while boarding the elevator. "He is here to meet patients and let them pet him," Toby's people explained.

Sounds like a great line of work for a dog.

Toby can't deny that. Though he knows works don't get you into heaven, he puts his hope in a higher power.

And with the love of God in his heart, he keeps on workin' for the kingdom.

Put on your red dress mama

Win or lose, there was some pretty fun game-playing on Saturday. Most of it not on the football field.

Way up north at THE University of Mississippi there was a party going on in the Grove. And, thanks to fashion directives from Coach Houston Nutt, we were seeing red.

Typically, Ole Miss is a place where we don't really dress in team colors... nothing obnoxious like those purple and gold scrubs I've seen my neighbor wearing in support of the LSU Tigers. But Coach Nutt asked the fans to wear red, so lots of fans rallied.

The Grove is a place to see and be seen, to perspire moderately and fan heartily. It is the place where we dig our manicured nails into tradition and stubbornly cling to Col. Reb, even if he's NOT an officially sanctioned school mascot. (Come on! Who wants their picture made with "muppet-like" characters Hotty and Toddy? Puh-leeze!)

At Ole Miss, we wear our dresses and high heels on game day and wonder why the rest of the country marvels -- and hates us for it. It's all part of the game: brownies and chicken strips, tabletop televisions, overworked lawn chairs, over-told tall tales and, occasionally, a fabulous little red dress.

You better shop around

Guys are always talking about learning life lessons on the football field. Pshaw, I say. The place you REALLY learn is at the outlet mall or the boutique or the fabric store ... at Dirt Cheap or T.J. Maxx.

Know what I'm talkin' about?

These are the shopping skills to live by:

examine the advertisements,

know what's real quality,

seek out a bargain,

get what you really need,

count the cost.

And here's where the shopping advice gets its best use ... shopping for a mate.

Coach Barlow was telling me the other night that, during the 70s, most every student came from two-parent homes. I lived the 70s. I had not one friend whose parents were divorced. It was another time and another place.

Today, in this place, my favorite people in the world are divorced. I could name them and put them in the top ten. I love them and the pain that has made them who they are.

I've been through hell with them and, like Winston Churchill said, "when you're going through hell, you just have to keep going."

If you want to see that hell live and in color watch "Sixteen and Pregnant." The tears and the trauma are gut-wrenching. There are joys, of course, along with the terribly difficult stuff.

But for the grace of God, I'd have been there...or my daughters.

So I ask my precious 16-year-old friends.

Will you look for flaws and cracks that weren't repaired? (Everybody has some, but some are deal-breakers.) Will you exhaust every shopping place until you are struck by the beauty of the perfect thing? Will you get the most for your money, or will you settle?

Most important, will you only buy the thing you cannot live without?

Because, in shopping for a boyfriend or girlfriend -- a husband or a wife, you need to follow the advice of that renowned philosopher, Smokey Robinson:

Gotta get yourself a bargain
Don't you be sold on the very first one
good-lookin' guys (or pretty girls) come a dime a dozen
try to find one who's gonna give ya true lovin'

True Lovin' ... now that's a priceless thing. Take your time shopping for it.

I don't want to be a raisin

My good friend Jon is "Alice in Wonderland."

She can't help it. She's beautiful and always feminine and amazed and excited. "Alice" fits perfectly on her name tag.

But when the name was bestowed, it didn't sound so adorable to her.

"Alice in Wonderland" labeled her as lost and unaware and living in a fairytale. The name hurt in the way words can always hurt you ... even if they never break your bones.

Several of my friends told of other sticky names that were clinging -- unwelcome -- to their hearts: Fatty, Jerk, Stuck-up, Liar, Irresponsible.

Just to name a few.

"Julius, the Baby of the World," could be my all-time favorite kid book. In the book, Julius's parents goo and coo over him, but his feisty sister, Lily, calls him "a raisin" and says "a raisin tastes like dirt."

We, like baby Julius, don't want to be a raisin OR taste like dirt.

If you listen to the names other people give you, you will be crippled and handicapped. Take those to heart? You'll never feel good about yourself. You will always be insecure. You will hear voices -- those seventh-grade girls whispering: "high waters" or "greasy head" or "loser with a big L."

My friends had to get some new names.

A little bit of looking revealed some welcome name tags written by the God of the Universe.

Some of our favorites:

Friend of God

Better than an Angel

Expensive

Brand New

Powerful in God

Wise Person

Extra-terrestrial

And here's one for Jon:

"Straight-up Royalty."

But please, your highness, just every now and then, can we call you "Alice"?

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.