You know you’re a Texan when . . .

. . . you can casually tap a spider with your Birkenstock-clad foot–a black spider that’s dashing across the hardwood floor toward the dark recesses under your bed (the bed you crawl into barefoot every night)–and you can lean over and clearly see the red hourglass on its belly, and you can grab a tissue and throw it away, all without interrupting your telephone conversation or even bothering to tell the person on the other end what you just did.

Of course, you never actually reach the point where you like poisonous critters, but you get used to them. And, yes, it was a Birkenstock-clad foot. No cowboy boots. (Sorry to burst anyone’s stereotypical bubble.)

Four and Twenty Blackbirds . . .

Last night at dinner, I turned to George and said, “I don’t guess I told you I’m singing a song in the service this Sunday with Lorie, Carla, and Pam.”

“What song?”

“Some song they liked from a CD by . . . what’s the name of that group? Counting Crows? No, Counting Crowns?”

“Casting Crowns?”

Laughter. “Yeah, that’s it. Oh, man. ‘Counting Crows.’ I’m losing it.”

And Speaking of Counting Clothes . . .

I love the way small children develop language. When Jacob was two, we lived in a house out in the country, and–even though we owned a dryer–I often hung my clothes on a line outside to dry.

One afternoon I went out to gather them, but one pair of heavy denim jeans was still damp. I left it and carried the rest inside. A little while later, Jacob stood beside the sliding glass door, gazing into the backyard. I was occupied folding clothes, or snapping peas, or churning butter (okay, I made that up, but I was occupied) when I heard him say, “There’s a cloh.”

“A what?”

He turned to look at me. “A cloh.”

I joined him at the door so he could show me what he’d seen. He pointed at the jeans hanging on the line. “You left one cloh.”

“Cloh.” The singular form of “clothes.” Logical, no? A lot more logical than Counting Crows as the name of a Christian band, that’s for sure.

And (Finally) Speaking of Clothes or the Lack Thereof . . .

When Luke was four, I entered the living room one day to find him sitting in the rocking chair, staring at something in National Geographic with an expression of intense concentration on his face. I glanced over his shoulder as I passed. He’d opened to an article about an African Pygmy tribe. Several accompanying photographs depicted tribespeople–including women–wearing nothing but skimpy loin coverings.

I hesitated, wondering what was going through his head and contemplating an explanation. But before I said anything, he looked up. “They don’t dress very warmly, do they?”

I smiled. “No, they don’t.”

And let’s hope they don’t have to step on blackwidow spiders either. Have a great Memorial Day weekend, y’all.