Digging for the Pony

Taking a positive perspective on things has never been a problem for me. I have been a glass-half-fuller my whole life. 

When we were kids my dad used to tell a story about two sisters. One was an eternal optimist, the other a pessimist. These sisters were supposed to be me and my younger sis.

One day the dad puts the two girls in separate rooms. The pessimist, we’ll call her Kristen, in a room full of toys and the optimist, we’ll call her Kasie, in a room full of manure.

It’s important to note here that my sister and I are not really the caricatures the story makes us out to be. We are both governed by a tremendous logic that tries to honestly weigh the odds and make calculated decisions.

That said I am more likely to think things will turn out okay and Kristen more likely to expect imminent disaster.

Anyway, after an hour the father returns

I will never regret this

As Brando raced down I-20 toward Florence I thought, “I will never regret this.”

Brando is our blue CRV. HB rode in Brando’s back seat. Five-point-harnessed, the wild curls of a doll’s red hair tangled around her fingers, an abandoned half-empty bag of fruit loops wedged between her leg and the seat, she whined, “I don’t want to go to Nana’s.”

“Someday,” I said, “when your Mama is old, you will pack up your own little girl and carry her to visit Mama. And your daughter will wail, ‘I don’t wanna go,’ and you’ll say this: It’s important.”

“I don’t wanna go,” she said again.

“It’s important,” I said.

It isn’t often that while I’m doing something I acknowledge, “I will never regret this.” On the contrary, I have frequently acknowledged the opposite while continuing ahead on an ill-fated path.


I regret exiting the dirt track at Lowe’s Motor Speedway by climbing the 20-ft fence. I regret letting a good friendship sour in one reckless, thoughtless weekend. Ancient and unaffiliated events; both fueled by too much alcohol.