O, to be in Arkansas, now that Spring is here.

Granted, people do not make my bed and change my towels for me here. When I speak with the mortgage company, they do not smile and say, I see your charges have been taken care of, Madam. When I stand up and clear my throat to speak, my children do not tilt their heads in rapt attention, or even offer to buy me a drink afterwards. Unbelievably, I have to drive my own car and tote my own bags in and out of it. Whenever I have had to wipe someone's bum since coming home from Ireland, I can't help but think, "don't you know who I am??"

But there are worse places to live, worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon than a backyard crawdad boil with my bestest friends, a few beers and a trampoline filled with our several hundred children, a riot of angels springing up to heaven.

Even if they don't care who I am.