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I try not to collect books, but they seem to follow me around. You look up one day and they are stacked on top of shelves and on the floor; they make your home look like you're one of those reclusive nutjobs who never throws anything out. And if you're a bibliophile, just try to part with a book. I put one in the trash the other day -- it was just too old and worn out to salvage -- and I felt as if I was burying my beloved dog.

So when one of my co-workers said she had just discovered John Irving and had not yet read "The World According to Garp," I eagerly loaned her my 30-year-old copy of the hardback. But not before I bored her with my glowing review of it. I'm not even sure what I was doing with a hardback 30 years ago. The price for this one was $10.95; expensive on a beginning reporter's salary. It would certainly bring $27.95 if published today. Unfortunately, it's not a 1st edition. I haven't cracked it once since I read it, so why have I kept it? Because someday when I have more time, I'm going to reread it. Really, I am.

I tried rereading "On the Road" and "Lord of the Rings" recently, both of which I loved when I read them at 20. I couldn't get through either. Both were written in the 50's, as was I. Means that one of us is getting old. Don't tell me which. I tried rereading "Lonesome Dove," but the TV mini-series, which I loved, ruined the imaginative power of McMurtry's written word.

The grocery bags, one brown and one white, remained stubbornly snagged high up in the tree in Cascade Park since Halloween. I know this because they are my bags -- at least until a lusty wind from Mother Nature confiscated them.

Through rain, sleet, snow, and wind they clung to the same branch, shreds of their former selves, faded in color but hanging tight.

I passed them every day on the way to work and I wondered: What will happen when the tree begins to bloom? Will the budding leaves push the bags on their way? Who will win, man or nature?

And then this morning they were gone.

Now I wonder: Can spring be far behind?

I spent January in Chicago (not something I recommend, weather-wise), nestled happily in Hyde Park where my seminary is, and I heard more emergency sirens than I have in my previous two January stays. It seemed like every day I strained to hear my classmates over the roar of an ambulance or firetruck.

I got home a week ago, and it took me a few days to realize it, but I didn't hear a siren until about two days ago. I love Mebane; I love the Triad, where the screech of emergency vehicles isn't a constant.

You just don't realize what you have until it's gone, I guess. And in this case, I'm glad of it!

Over the past weekend, we've been taking care of my mother-in-law's dog Laika, a big ball of white fur that normally wouldn't hurt a flea. But my wife saw another side of her.

Last night, Debbie awoke after hearing Laika crying. She was acting as if she needed to go outside and do her business. It was late and we usually don't hear a peep out of them until the next morning, so that seemd a little odd.

Debbie let Laika and our dog Anna out in the backyard and they bolted after a possum. They cornered it and began fighting and growling in a game of tug-of-war over who gets to keep the possum trophy.

Laika (left), who normally wouldn't hurt a flea and takes orders from a cat, and Anna.

We could easily see Anna act that way - she loves chasing small creatures and usually the outcome isn't pleasant. But Laika? Laika takes orders from a cat. She'll back away from her own food bowl if the cat decides it wants some dog chow, as in right this second.

But Debbie saw another side of Laika last night. It's a reminder that even most domesticated and seemingly passive pets still have an inner beast inside, waiting to pounce on a moment's notice.

Amid all the commotion, the possum was doing what it does best: playing possum.

Debbie yelled and waved her arms and was finally able to get the dogs away from the possum, which then made its great escape and disappeared into the woods beyond the fence.

So the next time we hear Laika crying in the middle of the night, begging to go outside, we'll consider ourselves warned: it may not be to purge the bladder but to purge the inner beast.

Do you have fond memories of grade school cafeteria food?

Yeah, I don't either. More than a decade removed from middle school, I can still do without the monotony of pepperoni pizza rectangles every Monday; hot dogs, fixings and crinkle fries on Wednesdays and vegetable soup with grilled cheese sandwiches most Fridays.

But sometimes the lunch ladies would make a glorious dish, the memory of which stays with you long after you've forgotten those algebra equations. For students in Los Angeles, it was the school district's Old Fashioned Coffee Cake.

For me, its the Apple Brown Betty the cafeteria ladies at the former Lincoln Middle School in Ruffin used to make. The dessert had warm apple slices spiced with cinnamon and sugar and topped with an oats and brown sugar crumb mixture that was to die for. On days when the treat was on the menu, I carefully examined the rows and rows of desserts, looking for one that had more of the Brown Betty and less of the apple.

The Lincoln Middle I went to is gone, replaced years ago with a gleaming new elementary school that shares the Lincoln name. But the memory of the Apple Brown Betty, that'll stay with me for a lifetime.

I am a 26-year-old woman, trying to stay fit and healthy in preparation for a summer wedding.

She is the seasoned receptionist in the office, a woman wise from living life.

I am moving gingerly around a maze of desks, using muscles still screaming from two trips to the gym earlier this week.

She looks at me struggle and gives some advice: "Take it easy. Exercising will kill you."

Like virtually everyone else in the free world, I was disabled this week by what I considered an uncommonly powerful strain of the common cold, but is better described by its street name, "the Crud."

Upon feeling the oncoming symptons, I did what I was supposed to. I denied them. Then I began taking over-the-counter zinc. Didn't stop the tide. The next day, I was down for the count.

As a result, I began pawing through all of the cold medicines we had accumulated over the years. Tylenol this, Advil that, Cepacol here, generic there. I took some pain reliever and tried unsuccessfully to remember what I had read about the over-the-counter medicines and whether or not they actually helped. Oh well, let's try some of everything.

When you feel this bad, it's hard to tell whether any of them actually worked. It's sort of "imagine how you would have felt had you not taken it." But I do know one thing that worked.

I found some children's cough medicine that had expired two years ago. The intended recipient is now in college. I debated briefly whether it could actually hurt me or whether the expiration date was simply the drug maker's way of scaring us into buying more product. I drank the directed two teaspoons for a 6-12 year-old and resisted the temptation to double the dosage.

Stopped coughing almost immediately. And I'm still alive.

I am home today with Riley, my 6-year-old son. He has a fever of 103. Like most 6-year-olds, he's less than enthusiastic about taking medicine so I sat on the edge of his bed and gently explained his choices:

"Do you want a suppository or grape-flavored tablets?" I asked.

"What flavor is the suppository?" he replied.

Day in and day out, emergency personnel tend to Guilford County's most urgent needs, rushing from here to there, speaking a language that's foreign to most.

Their constant communication cackles across the newsroom scanner.

"10-50 PI!"

"Discharged firearm in the area of..."

But when the day is done, they too clock out and enjoy the slower pace of Southern living.

Just after lunchtime Friday, a voice came across the scanner:

"Y'all have a good weekend. We'll do it again on Monday."

"10-4," a different voice responded. "You have a good weekend too."

When she is nervous or scared, my four-year-old daughter Kate often turns to her six-year-old brother for reassurance. More times than not Riley is kind and patient in dispensing his brand of comfort. Other times ... well, take today's trip to the Greensboro Coliseum for the circus.

Kate: Riley, what if the Tigers try to eat us?
Riley: Don't be silly, Kate! These tigers are professionals!

We were in the cathedral that is Cameron Indoor Stadium. Duke vs. Boston College. An announcement comes over the PA: Please do not take flash photographs inside the stadium.

The last time I heard a similar announcement was in the Sistine Chapel. Signs at the entrance requested -- stated clearly, actually -- that flash cameras were not allowed. The hall was jammed with people, so many that it was hard to move. Guards routinely and forcefully announced that people not use their camera's flash. People routinely and blatantly ignored them. Guards responded by shining the rays of laser pointers into the lens of the poised cameras. People turned away, not sheepish or even furtive, and framed another photo.

I don't know if it occurred to the amateur photographers that they could get better photos of the same masterpieces at the gift shop.

In the Sistine Chapel, I figured the scofflaws would get their reward in heaven. At Cameron, I guess the violators just got tossed.

One of my childhood chores was to clean the bathrooms, a tedious task that required an attention to detail that was difficult for this grade schooler to perform. Or perhaps more to the point, it was a chore that took me away from my beloved Saturday morning cartoons and I was trying to do a rush job.

The chore was dreaded -- until the day I saw a commercial for a product that would help me reconcile the two tensions. A Holy Grail that would give my mom the sparkling bathrooms she required and me the cartoons I desired: Scrubbing Bubbles.

I watched the TV ad for the cleaner with amazement. With just a spray, an army of hard-working bubbles would attack toothpaste-stained sinks and grubby counter tops, whisking away the dirt so I didn't have to.

I had to have some. I begged. I pleaded. I annoyed. "Mom," I said, "this will make your job so much easier too."

"Nothing works better than good old elbow grease," she replied. Party pooper.

But eventually she gave in and I found a new aerosol can of Scrubbing Bubbles at home waiting to whisk away the dirt.

I ran to the bathroom with the can, eagerly coating the sink with a thick, white foam. I waited to see the bubbles go to work, magically moving across the ceramic basin, leaving a trail of clean behind.

I waited. And waited. No army of bubbles. No magic. Same old toothpaste stains.

My mom walked by the bathroom door and laughed. "Nothing works without elbow grease," she said.

Over time, I've learned that she was right. And this weekend, after seeing another ad for Scrubbing Bubbles, my mom started to laugh all over again.

I was merging onto Bryan Boulevard heading toward downtown Greensboro this morning when I noticed something odd: All traffic was in my rear-view mirror, as if some invisible barrier was keeping cars from speeding. Then I realized why. It was still dark outside, but I saw a glimmer of a police car's roof-mounted lights leading the pack.

It reminded me of being at Martinsville in October, watching the pace car lead impatient NASCAR hotshots around the track after a caution flag. You could see them chomping at the bit, eager to get the race on. This morning, that police car was acting like some sort of pace car, holding impatient motorists at bay.

A pace car leads an impatient pack at October's Martinsville race.

So that continued for a few miles until the police car exited onto Holden Road. Then bam, off to the races. Next thing you know this SUV flies by me in the left lane, swerves into the right lane (no turn signal), as he continues picking up speed. Then a few minutes later a car runs a red light as it exits onto Bryan Boulevard.

Everything is back to normal, I thought.

Against my better judgment, I adopted a cat last weekend. We had gone a year and a half with no pets, and I must admit, it had been nice not to have to change cat litter and vacuum up fur and pay vet bills for awhile. But I had promised my daughters we would eventually get a cat, and after locating just the right one on petfinder.com, I had to make good.

We brought Lisa, a large tabby with a persistent meow, home from the shelter on Sunday. (Of course, this was after dropping a hundred bucks at Petsmart.) She meticulously explored the house, looking in every closet and in every drawer to make sure there was no danger, then made herself comfortable. She lazed on the rug while we ate dinner, followed us up to the playroom to do homework, and then climbed on my youngest daughter's bed while I was tucking her in and snuggled up. "This is what I've been dreaming of ever since we've been in this house," my nine-year-old said. "Thank you, Mom."

It doesn't get any better than that.

When my older son was in pre-school, he went through a bad patch. Miserable, not quite sure why. I was getting called away from work daily to comfort him. On one such day, he and I were leaving the school. I was holding his hand, feeling guilty and pretty miserable myself, when he looked up at me and said: "Mom, you're always there for me."

Yes, I thought, and I always will be. I felt it in my soul -- a promise to him and to his little brother.

Flash forward a couple of decades, and I'm talking to this same son. He's just started a graduate program in education, and he's telling me about the children he's working with, about the importance of nurturing their creativity and viewing them as individuals. My first thought is that a world of frustration awaits him -- bureaucracy, conformity, negativity. I want to warn him. I really do. But you know, he just might become a really great teacher, the kind who shapes lives. What could be better than that?

I smile and nod -- there for him, certainly. But this time, maybe it's best to stand back and watch. And be proud.

-- Submitted by Teresa Prout

A friend and I were in Starbucks on Battleground this afternoon, and while we waited for his drink I was eyeing the New York Times. The design of it is not particularly pretty, so my eye went from the gray mass that is the front page to the Arts section that was sticking out above it. There was, quite clearly, the bald top of a man's head under the section header.

Holding out the paper, I walk over to my friend and say, "Quick, place your bets as to whose bald head this is." I'm thinking, the ubiquitous (to my chagrin) Triad native Chris Daughtry? Daddy Warbucks, maybe?

A voice beside me pipes up: "Be careful; that's a sensitive subject!"

I look over to find a Guilford County sheriff's deputy with a rather shiny pate of his own grinning at me. I quickly try to backpedal. Pointing to the photo, I say, "I assure you, sir, I was talking about this bald head!" He razzed me back -- I was too busy trying to squirm my way out of it to remember what he said -- and I said something about trying never to insult a man who probably has a weapon.

He said, "Yeah, I have several," and laughed as he moved toward the counter for, I think, some cinnamon for his coffee.

How endearing is it that:
a) he would randomly joke with a stranger about his own lack of a full head of hair, and
b) he would talk about his multiple weapons while getting foofy condiments for his coffee?!?

I didn't see the name on his uniform, but thanks, Anonymous Officer, for making my day -- and that of my friend, who got to laugh at my faux pas! I have to admit, when he followed us out of the coffeeshop, I was pretty convinced I was going to get the cuffs thrown on me, but he kindly did not arrest me. Instead, he got in his unmarked car and went on his way, and I got a good lesson in checking the perimeter before I open my big mouth!

While risking life and limb, I attempted to stop on the shoulder of Business I-40 to make sure my eyes were not deceiving me. As trucks, cars, and trailers whizzed past me, lo and behold, LASIK did not fail me. A tree was indeed decorated off Business I-40 in ye olde Christmas fashion. I don't know how long the decorations have been up, but the tree looks pretty weather-worn.

This took time and dedication

I wonder if someone is going to come out and re-decorate it with pastel colored baubles for Easter.

I was getting ready to take the pooch for a jog in the neighborhood today during my lunch break when I noticed a car I had never seen before parked in front an elderly couple's house next door.

Two people were inside. Maybe they're lost, I thought. Then another, more paranoid voice pondered: "maybe they're checking out a place to burglarize." That voice has grown louder ever since someone kicked down the door of our apartment in Greensboro a few years ago and stole a bunch of our valuables, in broad daylight no less and with our dog inside. I've always wondered if our neighbors saw anything but simply shrugged it off.

Not this time. I made sure to make a mental note of the car (older-model Honda with a bike rack) and resumed my jog.

About 10 minutes later, I'm heading toward the bottom of a hill where there's a T-intersection. Lo and behold, this very same car is sitting at the bottom of the hill. I jog right by them.

The driver screeched the tires and peeled off.

That inner, paranoid voice kicked into overdrive. I head back to the house, grab my keys and my camera and see if I can find them.

Yesterday I drove to and from Cary, NC to attend a seminar for work. The last session let out a bit before 5 p.m. and all I could think about were horror stories of Triangle traffic and how it would take me 3 hours to get home. I put on a brave face, but I was secretly crying on the inside. It only took me an hour and a half to get to Greensboro, but I saw some of the most horrific driving of my life yesterday.

I lived in South Florida for a time, and Maseratis, Aston Martins and Porsches passed me on I-75 daily. Even though I'd be going the maximum speed limit of 70 MPH, they'd pass me by as if I weren't moving. That was nothing compared to yesterday's commute.

I saw a man driving with a cell phone to his ear, take his eyes off the road to look down into his floorboard. Not only did this man take his eyes off the road, he physically hunched down in his seat to apparently reach for something on the floorboard and switched lanes without signaling or looking up from his search in the floorboard. All while matching my speed. He didn't bat an eye.

I am still wondering whether I should be amazed or appalled.