My sister is a good husband

Cabin fever is both good and bad. It's good for a couple of days when you're snowed in. You can get by with not showing up for any of your appointments, and in Tennessee no one will question you.

Such is not the case in Iowa. When I lived there, I quickly discovered they pay no attention to snow. It is no excuse for not showing up for work or any appointment. It matters not whether there are 8 inches of snow on the roads or 8 feet. If you miss an appointment and blame it on the snow, they will grin and whisper among themselves about you being from Tennessee.

The third day I was snowed in last week, I got a bad case of cabin fever. After two days of watching my birds and eating snow cream, I was sick and tired of being forced to remain inside. But the bad thing about having cabin fever in Tennessee -- if you have arthritic hips and no garage -- is getting all the snow off your car so you can get on the road. I have front-wheel drive on my Venture and can do just fine once I clear it of the snow and become mobile.

I woke up Wednesday morning knowing I either had to get the Venture on the road or put on some cleats, run down to King's Point Road and hitch a ride somewhere. Anywhere! Then I called my sister and started into my whine of the day: my bad case of cabin fever.

When it comes to me, she's the mother hen, and I'm the little biddy. When I was in politics, she almost whipped two guys in an elevator who criticized me. I should have known not to activate her, but I had already whined before I thought about what it would set into motion.

She spun around like a dervish, grabbed her grandson, Shane, and they started shoveling a path for her to get out of her driveway. In minutes she was at my back door. Before I could get the bayonet on my rifle and get outside to face my enemy (the snow), she and Shane had the snow removed and had the Venture warming up.

Daddy was a great handyman, and when he passed, June became the family handyman. I didn't have to ask her to help me with such chores; she springs into action at the slightest hint of a problem. When mother passed, she added all mother's maternal instincts to the pie and mixed it with an already healthy dose of sisterly affection.

Well, I am too embarrassed to say it, but it needs to be said in the interest of honesty. So here goes: She has become my husband.

You're thinking, "You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Letting your sister do all kinds of handyman work for you!"

You don't understand. To try to stop her would be like fighting a McCullough chainsaw. She'll slam you against the wall and say, "Get out of my way, boy!"

Grandpa Jones had a song back in the '50s titled "I'm My Own Grandpa." With my sister becoming my husband and possessing such a fusion of paternal and maternal qualities, I am well on my way to becoming my own grandpa.

E-mail Dalton Roberts at DownhomeP@aol.com.

Upcoming Events