Giddyup, Tucker

Dear Laney,

On Monday night, we went over to Clay and Connie Mercer's house for dinner. Well, that's not true. We went over there so you could ride his horse Tucker, and the dinner was just a bonus.

When we got on the plane in Denver last weekend for our final flight into Atlanta, a man sitting in the front of the plane asked you as we passed his row, "Where are you going, little girl?" and - not being familiar with rhetorical questions - you replied, "I'm going to Philip's house and then I'm going to ride a horse and then see Granny Jack and then to Peg Peg." It seemed the horse thing was burned in your little brain before we even landed, so we had to do it.

And it was 100%, abso-positively worth it.

I have seen children wait at the bottom of a chimney for Santa Claus with more patience than you had waiting for Tucker to finish eating so you could ride.

Like a responsible adult, Clay led you slowly around the paddock, and like a responsible horse, Tucker ignored you every time you yelled, "GIDDYUP, TUCKER!"

Clay quickly figured out that you and Tucker are both three years old, and declared you his two favorite three year-olds. "But he's so much bigger than me," you said. Tucker's going to grow another 6 inches and another 500 pounds, in fact. Helluva preschooler.

After your first few circles around, you looked at Clay's hat and mumbled, "I wish I had a cowboy hat," and the next thing you know:

All grandfather are suckers, it turns out. Even the ones not related to you.

As always, we had a wonderful time at the Mercer place...

It's the Disneyland of Dooly County.

Love,

Mom