More

Prema asked for more about my trip home. I'll try.

Our cousin Melvin drove up from Arkansas for the services on Saturday. Once he was a hellion with mischievous brown eyes and a shy grin that could charm a woman at 50 paces. Now he's a portly man with thinning, ginger colored hair and thick glasses between his eyes and the world. The grin still draws women like a sweater draws cat hair, though.

Melvin's from one of the more well-to-do branches of our family tree, but you'd never know it. He wears dark denim, boot cut jeans and a plaid shirt. The embroidered design on the back of his dark blue wool jacket declares him to be the National Chuckwagon Racing Champion, Big Mule Division.

Melvin's wife, Barbara, talks about what a wonderful stepfather he's been to her children, what a grace he's been to her life. Love shines from her eyes. She pats his thigh and he turns from another conversation to see whether she needs anything. Satisfied that she's fine, he puts his hand on her arm and returns to his conversation. They remain linked through these casual touches until we move from the tables in the basement to the pews in the chapel.

Afterward, Melvin and Barbara invite me to come see Melvin race. He doesn't compete a lot anymore. He pretty much retired after winning the championship for the 7th time. Seemed like he should let someone else have a chance, you know. But he is going to race a couple of times this summer.

Back home, I google chuckwagon racing. Turns out it's a big deal. Upper Deck makes trading cards, just like for baseball players and such. Please God, please let cousin Melvin have a trading card. Please.

The pictures I found online make the races look like rowdy, dangerous fun. How? How do you make a mule race, I ask you? Come hell or high water, I'm going to Arkansas this summer to find out.