My son asked me if I'd like to read Good Omens out loud with him. Yes I do, in fact. And oh my goodness, this book is wickedly funny.  Its about Armageddon: “You don't have to test everything to destruction just to see if you made it right.”

Driving him to town the other day, a good thing happened. I saw the worried hen inside myself, pecking and flapping her wings over her chick. We drove in silence as we do. Because my son, like my husband, is the strong silent type. Always has been. Always, judging from his Grandfather, will be. The genetics in play have superceded the nature/nurture conundrum. These men are profoundly quiet people, doesn't matter who raises them. Though, I'll wager, this is the first time in history one of them has been raised up southern. It matters folks. It matters to me: driving through life in silence causes me to worry.

But the worry in a mother has never helped a child. And my son is deeply troubled if I ask him to expound on his silence, if I inquire what might be wrong. Who wouldn't be? Its as if I'm suggesting something is wrong when nothing is. And finally, FINALLY, I got it.

As we drove I asked him: Hey, what 'cha thinking about?" A far healthier choice than: What's wrong kiddo? What indeed. He began by referencing an article I'd sent him last year about the Fibonacci sequence, related that to the pattern of branch growth on pine trees, and tied that all into a dream he'd had...I think about geese.

Quiet doesn't mean sad. It means thoughtful. Glad we got that straight. It only took me 13 years to figure it out, or considering my marriage, perhaps 18. I'm slow, Honey, but I'll get there. I do try. And I love you mighty good.