Oh, dear bottle of buttermilk, why are you so big? And why are your contents always needed in such small amounts? These are questions I’ve been asking myself for years now, especially after I read a recipe for muffins, say, and discover I need a quarter cup of the stuff to make them extra moist.

I traipse to the grocery story, scan the dairy fridges and compare three brands: Kroger, Southern Belle and Prairie Farms. I don’t actually care which brand is best, all I’m interested in is the best-before date, since I know I’m going to need the longest amount of time possible to use up this half gallon.

And let’s just think about that for a moment. Because, yes, I said, “half gallon.” If you can’t picture how big that is in buttermilk terms, let me just tell you there are 32 quarter cups in a half gallon. That, dear readers, is a lot of muffins.

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I’ve just returned from the carwash, where I’ve sat nearly every second day for the past month. I’ve become intimately acquainted with the wash and rinse cycles and even more familiar with how much it hurts when I have to hand over $7 to get grey-looking water sprayed over my hood.

But the expense has been necessary ever since a certain bluebird made a home in one of our birch trees.

It all started four weeks ago when my stepdaughter Gabrielle and I were getting in the car to drive to school. As Gabrielle went to sit down, she couldn’t help but notice a shocking pile of white and brown stains running from the lip of the windowsill down the length of the door.

“That’s one sick bird,” she said, giggling.

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This column, which ran in The Sentinel-Echo, was written in the aftermath of a tornado that hit East Bernstadt, Ky., on March 2, 2012. It claimed six lives.

When I met Eric Allen for the first time, truth be told, he looked slightly nervous. We were in the foyer by the North Laurel High auditorium, and I was there to interview him about his experiences in the marching band. Tucked up beside him was his mom Debbie, who, at first, answered most of the questions I lobbed Eric’s way.

I’d looked forward to the interview ever since Mr. McFadden — one of the best teachers in Laurel County, as far as I’m concerned — called me to let me know about Eric.

“Wait until you see this kid,” he said. “He’s an inspiration.”

Indeed, as soon as I met him, I knew it was true. Eric had a strength about him that was beyond his 17 years. He was quiet but kind. Seemed content. Poised.

When I asked him what it was like being in the marching band, despite the hardship of having spina bifida — a garish question that, unfortunately, needed to be asked — he didn’t flinch.

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When my friend asked me a few months ago if I’d like to jump in a lake in the middle of February in support of Special Olympics, I immediately felt the only answer a Canadian could reasonably offer was, “Absolutely.”

So last Saturday, I stood on a dock along with a few girlfriends and my stepdaughter Gabrielle in advance of the Polar Bear Plunge, an annual event on Lake Cumberland that attracts dozens of divers and raises lots of money. Though it was a sunny day, it was a chilly 43 degrees, with the wind off the water neatly scooping up strands of my hair and depositing them in my mouth whenever I happened to open it.

“I, umm, don’t want to do this,” Gabrielle announced as she watched two jumpers emerge from a houseboat wearing ballerina outfits. “This was a terrible idea. I don’t … I just don’t know what I was thinking.”

Her lack of thought made me somewhat thoughtful, and as we watched the ladies plug their noses, jump in and emerge with shocked looks on their faces, I was brought back, way back to my childhood, when going for a swim was a lesson in hypothermia management.

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