Honey Bucket Wars

Our second son is tall.

Taller than average.

In his stocking feet, he stands six foot eight.

Put shoes on the lad and . . . well, you get the picture.

I have a close family friend.

I don't want to say that she is short, but . . . okay, she is short.

Her head reaches somewhere between our son's chest and his belt buckle.

But she makes up for lack of quantity with excess of quality.

Feisty.

Describes her perfectly.

Erik, said second son, used to tease her.

About her height.

Or lack thereof.

I should point out that this woman has six children of her own.

She could give it right back.

One day, he stood looking down at her.

And grinning.

“Oh!” she said.

Nearby was a bucket of honey.

Okay, yes. When one has six children, plus foster kids, one buys honey by the bucketful.

Moving on . . .

She pushed the bucket close and stood up on it.

I should point out that it only increased her height by about ten inches. Not nearly enough.

“Ha!” she said, looking up into his face. “What are you going to do about that?”

Erik merely stepped backwards.

“Oh!” She said. She jumped off her bucket and kicked it over beside him again.

Then she stepped up once more.

“Ha!” she said again.

He stepped back once more.

“Oh!” she said.

This went on for some time.

She pushed that honey bucket all over the kitchen.

Somehow, confrontation is a bit less . . . confrontational . . . when one partner has to keep moving their honey bucket to continue with the . . . confrontation.

Hmm.

Maybe an important point to consider . . .