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There is something strangely comforting about waking up in your parents house and hearing your Dad working in the backyard. Listening to his grunting when he moves something heavy, or hearing the small comments under his breath. Then this rushing sound, and you know he's watering the planters or hosing off the patio. He'll stop and give the dog some loving good-girl's, and you can picture this big yellow lab sniffing and surveying the area Dad's working in. Most likely, Dad is wearing that sad straw hat and the jeans we wish he'd never wear. He'll come in through the sliding glass door, sweaty, and say something witty like: Oh, Mary. You'll just die when you see my new paving stones! I can hardly stand it!

Oops. Just now, Dad let out a low, warning "Minnnie?!...." Sounds like the dog is standing on dangerous, freshly-landscaped ground.

Just last night, Dad and I were brainstorming on vocal warm-ups for twangy country singers. The falsetto-break exercise. The scooping exercise. The over-emphasized "r" sound exercise. Yes, we thought we were very funny.