Far be it from anyone at our house to throw cold water on a weatherperson. Though it has been over 10 years since we put a crop in the ground, the farmer still places the local weatherman up on a pedestal. Ditto for the weatherwoman.

When it comes to weather broadcasting, gender is a non-issue for the farmer. His motto is: "It's the weather, Kathryn, not the person talking it up."

A word of warning: When the weather is on at our house, I have learned to put the dog out, lest he bark, and stifle myself. The quickest way to anger the farmer is to speak during the weather.

I don't presume to speak for your husband, of course. But for mine, the weather channel is his favorite channel; the weather is the most relevant slot on the evening news; and the weather is his preferred topic of conversation.

The farmer doesn't just consult the media, however, for data. He also observes the moon; he reads the Farmer's Almanac; and he consults the benchwarmers at the BP station up at the stoplight. He stops short, however, of surfing the Internet. He suspects that Internet Weather is another gimmick to put money in Bill Gates' war chest.

In summary, the farmer uses consensus building to determine each day's weather. It's a big job. And unending.

Personally speaking, it is great to be married to a man who can tell you what your day will bring. And I always take his advice on what to wear. Not the style - but the fabric.

As serious as the farmer is about weather information, you would think that he would freak out when his sources blow it. Like this past week, when the weatherperson said it was NOT a question of whether we would have snow but rather a question of how much. When I heard this pronouncement, I asked the farmer if there was any truth to the forecast.

Of course the farmer had an answer. "Yes, Kathryn, this time they are probably right. Didn't you notice how the clouds broke up a little during the day? That's always a sign. Plus, Channel 3 has been doing the weather since 1952. And the men upstreet say the odds for snow are 7 to 1."

I was tempted to mention that the farmer had left the groundhog out, but thought better of it. Besides, I knew he was dead serious: he had gone to the grocery store, on his own initiative, to buy the ingredients for both Oyster Stew and Snow Cream.

Thus, on the eve of the guaranteed blizzard, I stayed up late, debating how to spend the snow day. It was a tossup between doing our income taxes or working my newest jigsaw puzzle, drinking hot chocolate, and watching old TV movies. Turning in that night, I was as excited about the upcoming snow day as a junior high school science teacher.

You know the rest of the story. Mother Nature refused to turn loose of the snow, despite the pleas of the weatherpeople and the prayers of the working people.

The farmer says all he can reckon is that Mother Nature forgot to watch Channel 3.

Mathematically speaking, just 2 decades separate my mother and me. Over the years, I have been catching up with her in age. Yet we still have not crossed that great divide known as the "Generation Gap."

You would think that because Mama and I share the same gender and are family, our words would fly back and forth on any topic. At this stage of life, no subject should be off limits. Certainly, on many exciting subjects, such as religion and geography, Mama and I do feel free to say whatever comes to our minds.

Sadly, politics used to be included in that up-for-discussion category. Until President Clinton. Family talking heads have lamented that the "The Clinton Matter" has made it difficult for parents and children to discuss current events. Clearly, these experts are right. When Mama and I get together, we can barely discuss the news, much less "The Clinton Matter."

There have been TV programs devoted to helping parents learn helpful approaches to talking with their children about this matter. I don't think Mama tuned in to a single instructive program for parents. For the last time I visited her, Mama took a stab at Washington politics. She began, "Well, Kathryn Mae, what do you think of the," ah, hmm, "situations," ah, hmm, "that Clinton and that" ah, hmm, "you know, the activities that" ..… Finally, she said, "Kathryn Mae, Could we talk about Carolina basketball instead?"

Personally speaking, I am glad the worst of the Clinton matter may be behind us. During our visits, I thought Mama and I would once more be able to watch TV together without cringing. Or blushing.

But, just when you thought it was safe to go back into the den, the media is beaming more purported demons our way. This week, Mama and I made an overnight trip together. I turned on the motel's television without a care in this world.

Then all of a sudden, the cutest little colorful roly-polies began prancing and bouncing through fields of flowers and across our screen. Mama chuckled, remarked what cute characters they were, and asked, "Who are they?"

I wanted to go throw up. Then I said, "Mama, these are the Teletubbies. You know, the Teletubbies that a certain preacher says are up to no good."

Mama's face turned white, but for just a minute. Then she watched their antics, shook her head, and I could tell, she began thinking for herself.

Finally, she began, "Which one of them is, well,'' ah, hmm, "Which one is trying to corrupt us with"… ah, hmmm. "Kathryn Mae, Don't flip the channel again. This may be the safest program for us to watch together." And she grinned, then she laughed.

When your mama laughs is when you know everything is going to be all right. And you know where she stands. And you don't need words. The next time we get together, however, I'm going to rent a passel of National Geographic videos. On safe geography …. on Antarctica.

As luck would have it, Valentines Day falls on Sunday this year. I don't know about your church, but ours has a special service planned around this theme. Don't panic: I'm a Baptist, so you know we're not going too far out in left field.

Basically, during the evening service, the preacher is going to give a different sort of altar call. Married couples who wish to repeat their wedding vows will be invited to walk the aisle. You could call it a case of marriages getting saved. Or resurrected.

As of this writing, I have not yet proposed this matter to the farmer. We walked the aisles and said our vows 28 years ago. Thus far my husband hasn't felt the need to go back and plow that ground again. After all these years, I can predict the farmer's reaction. "What do you mean we have to get married Sunday night? You just didn't read the bulletin right. You'd better get your glasses changed."

The farmer's motto is very simple: "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." (In fact, sometimes his motto borders on "Even if it's broke, don't fix it." In honor of my Valentine, I'll not elaborate.)

I reckon the farmer and I are fortunate in that though our marriage started out as a "fixer-upper," we seem to have it patched together pretty well. But personally speaking, I'm in a Valentines Day quandary-wanting to support my church but not wanting to upset the apple cart at home.

Besides, the farmer and I don't do weddings well. Just when I'm fixing to burst into tears in the middle of a wedding, the farmer will punch me in the sides and ask, "Have you been timing this thing? How much longer do you think it'll last? By the time the reception is over, I'll be late feeding the cows/pigs/horses/whatever."

What the farmer enjoys about weddings, his own and other people's, is the chance it gives him to swap a few more tall tales with old friends. He enjoys whatever camaraderie you can have with people who are squeezed into tuxedoes or their Sunday best.

He flat out does not notice the least detail about the $10,000+ that has been spent on dresses, flowers, and cake towers. Nor is he moved to tears by the beauty of the words in the traditional vows, or the strains of "Here Comes the Bride" or, uptown, "Canon in D."

Preachers and other pundits say that marriages draw strength from the fact that men and women are wired differently. Never is this more obvious than on Valentines Day. The farmer has been hinting that his idea of a great Valentines Day will be for me to bake us a pizza from scratch, and for him to rent "Enemies of the State" for us to watch together. "You'll love it…It's your kind of movie," he announces.

Oh?

Twenty-eight years ago, we made lots of promises to one another, and by the grace of God, have kept most of them most of the time. Would I marry him again, even Sunday night? Absolutely -- if I'm not baking a pepperoni pizza instead.

The family news that the farmer and I are grandparents-to-be is awesome, welcome news. We had contemplated becoming grandparents, but knew we had about as much control over the timing of grandchildren as we did over the timing of the arrival of our children. It's good a grandbaby takes up to 9 months to be born, because it takes middle-agers that long to prepare.

Personally speaking, it will take the full 9 months for me to pick out a name - that is, the name I wish the baby to call me. None of my friends go by "grandma and granddaddy." But as far as I know there is not a book out with prospective names for grandparents.

The farmer, however, claims that a rose is a rose by any other name, and that he's ready to be "Grandpa."

"I can't wait till 'he' will be big enough to go to the barn with me and learn how to drive the tractor," the farmer said. "And I just hope I will be around when he learns to handle a shotgun."

Our son Miles is even more specific and already dishing out brotherly advice: "Well, what you and Mama had better do is start saving your money. You need to buy him the best baby gift you can: a lifetime hunting/fishing license. You'll save a lot of money by getting his license when he is born, rather than waiting."

The farmer said, "Miles, how do we know he's going to be a quail hunter or a bass fisherman? Have you thought that he might be a tennis player or weight lifter instead?"

Finally, I blew a gasket. I'm not sure what a grandmotherly voice sounds like, but I interrupted them to put in my two cents: "Well, I hope that in addition to fishing, SHE will enjoy talking to her grandmother and reading Nancy Drew mysteries. And I can't wait until she is old enough to learn to quilt."

What goes around comes around. You could see their wheels slowly turning. "What if it's a girl?" they asked in unison.

Well, as I told them, if it's a girl, there will be some long overdue adjustments at the Hamrick household. Especially in the den, which is now the dropping off place for whatever the men have been hauling around in their pickups. This includes, but is not limited to, buckets of fertilizer, life-size deer decoys, and saddles. The den has also been home to granite slabs, ping pong tables, and shotgun shells.

The only thing that hasn't been permanently relocated to the den is their rebuilt electric motors.

After a lifetime of being outnumbered, I make no bones about it: I deserve a granddaughter. Please understand that I absolutely adore the 5 men in my life, but I've paid my dues and given at the office. Nor does that mean I can't shift gears in an instant and hyperventilate over a grandson.

For what a grandbaby means is that there will be a new little one to love and therefore to enrich our lives. Gender is a non-issue.

Almost.

When the midlife crisis hit Ponce de Leon, he left for Florida, looking for the Fountain of Youth. The Fountain of Youth may be a myth: however, if the Fountain does exist, you are more likely to find it in Florida than in Illinois -- or New Jersey.

Evidently the farmer agrees, for when I mentioned an upcoming business trip to Florida, he decided to go with me. The sun and warmth would do more for his aches and pains than ibuprofen, he said. The plan was for him to sit by the pool while I attended business meetings. The CEOs, COOs, and other topcats were coming down from Up North. From the looks of the agenda, they were fixing to educate us.

Then a gift from heaven, better even than manna. Snow and ice poured down Up North, freezing the topcats in their tracks. We were in Florida, but our agenda was stranded in New York. The meeting planners apologized profusely for having to turn us loose - in Orlando.

Orlando was not a brave new world for the farmer. Twelve years ago, after selling the milk cows, we had taken the children to Magic Kingdom. But tourist traps have exploded in Orlando since 1987: Epcot, MGM Studio, Universal Studio, Animal Kingdom, etc.

The farmer and I couldn't agree where to go, so we asked the lady in the hotel's Disney store to mediate. She looked us over, then observed, "Well, Magic Kingdom is really for young people." She recommended MGM, where we could learn about the backside of Hollywood as well as its current stars.

Whereupon the farmer sent me a message via ESP: "Humph, the backside of Hollywood is what's wrong with the United States of America. Besides, whoever heard of a Leonardo diCaprio??"

The farmer purchased our Magic Kingdom tickets and off we went - to reclaim our youth. "I hope you like kiddy rides," the Disney store lady said as we left.

Well, the highlight of our day was indeed the train ride through Thunder Mountain. On a scale of 1 to 10, it was a 5. Just perfect.

The day itself was magical: no cares, no cold air, no lines. In the middle of January, there were just enough people at Magic Kingdom not to get lonesome. Unfortunately, none of them spoke English. The closest we came to meeting a Southerner was the lady we met from Guadalajara, Mexico.

Parents from around the world were there with their children, their cameras, and Mickey Mouse ears. We were a curiosity, and the only fiftysomethings all by ourselves. The other fiftysomethings were pushing grandbabies in strollers. The farmer said he reckoned this would be our last visit to Magic Kingdom. "Until we bring the grandchildren," I murmured.

That night, back in our hotel, the children called to check on us. "Oh," our oldest son Jason said, "do you reckon while you're down there, you could pick us up a Mickey Mouse baby stroller? We're going to be needing one soon!"

Receiving such wonderful news cast more magic on the day than all of Magic Kingdom. A first grandchild? ….. Maybe we are fixing to discover the Fountain of Youth after all.

With the advent of Christmas, there was so much to write about that I hardly mentioned The Computer. Family activities were sufficient to spill over into this space. With the holiday hustle and bustle, there weren't fewer hours to spend on the computer, just later hours. If there's one thing the computer has taught me it's that there is always enough time for what we really want to do.

I am neither a computer guru nor a computer geek; however, I might be a computer addict. Surely folks are already at work developing a 12-step recovery program for folks like me.

This love affair with the computer is not what I expected to happen when I turned 50. For goodness sakes, I can't operate the VCR with the remote control; sometimes I can't even turn the TV on with the remote. You could label me "technologically challenged."

But I can make the computer hum - also growl, groan, and croak. First I learned to word-process, then to balance the checkbook. When the company introduced me to the Internet, I learned to bounce around the world. I've listened to the radio station in St. Johns, Newfoundland; read today's El Tiempo newspaper from Bogota, Colombia; and watched bald eagles nesting in Massachusetts. And that's just to warm the computer up. If I can operate this piece of machinery, so can you.

Eventually, after so much time on the computer, you get overcome with delusions of grandeur; i. e., you get to thinking you could design your own website. Spencer, our college senior, has obviously never read the chapter on Self-Esteem for Parents. For he said, "You design a website? Mama, get real. You can't even open dog food with the electric can opener."

Well, I'm inviting you to visit us at our website. You'll find us at http://www.hamrickcarriage.com/

Be forewarned. This website is what you get when a middle-aged writer designs your site, not a senior at NC State or other teckie type.

What I have failed to do, however, is to interest the farmer in the computer. One night, as he headed for the den, I asked him if he didn't want to surf Paris instead. Once more, he tried to resist my computer pitch, so to really put the heat on him, I asked, "Cline, isn't there any subject in the world that you want to learn more about?"

Finally, he said he reckoned there was one subject he would be interested in researching. "You win," he said, dragging a chair up to the computer. "Just punch in 'leather harnesses.' With all the buggy rides we're giving, I've been studying about getting some fancier harnesses."

What popped up were some of the fanciest harnesses you have ever seen. No sooner did these X-rated contraptions start downloading than I clicked the "quit" button with the mouse and told the farmer we were getting out of Dodge.

If he wants to research horse harnesses, he can go to the tack sale over in the Trinity community. Every Friday night.

I don't know about you, but I am really floundering this year with my New Year's Resolutions. Maybe it's because 1999's resolutions are too hard. No, they're not about losing 25 pounds or writing the book on aerobics. Nor do the words "quit" or "chocolate" appear in my 1999 resolutions.

Frankly speaking, on December 31, our refrigerator was way too full of cheese, sausage, and fudge. So it would have been a grand hypocrisy to top this New Year's Resolutions list with "Quit eating fats in 1999."

Instead, as I sized up the lay of the land at our house, it seemed that the resolutions I should make were to take down the Christmas tree AND put the Christmas decorations up. When I ran this by the family, they indicated mild interest. Fortunately, although it was a resolution I thought I could live with, I had more horse sense than to give us a deadline.

But, it's two weeks after Christmas, and the only Christmas item that has been removed at our house are the dead leaves on the lone poinsettia, all 28 leaves.

At our house, it's still beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Santa Claus is keeping vigil on the kitchen counter. Christmas music fills the air when we turn on the tape player. And we still burn our favorite porch decoration, one of those locally produced, lighted globes made of clear plastic drinking cups. So far, none of the neighbors, or the fire department, has turned us in.

Every night, as I turn on the Christmas tree lights, I get sentimental, wondering if this will be the last night for the Tree of 1998.

The farmer is no help. "The tree isn't bothering me a lick," he says. "But, if it's getting next to you, why don't you take off all the decorations and pack them up? I'll be glad to pull the tree out the front door for you."

My problem is not that I am a Christmas freak. But I might be a procrastinator. When it comes to putting up Christmas decorations, I remind myself of Scarlet O'Hara. As I walk past Santa Claus, begging to return to the attic, I say out loud, "I'll think about this, tomorrow."

Perhaps this annual "January procrastination" explains a few recurring bad dreams throughout the year. Like most women, I count as one of my worst dreams the dream that company is coming but we are not ready. In my dreams, not only is company coming for a July cookout, but there is also a Christmas tree in the living room. What a relief to wake up in July, to run check the living room, and to discover we have already taken the Christmas tree down!

Most of you will not identify with this column, and that is good. But I ask the rest of you, is there a patch that we can wear to ease us into quitting Christmas, cold turkey?

As I look at the manger scene on the hearth, I know it, too, will have to go back to the attic. However, a stained glass manger scene hangs all year on the window over our kitchen sink. It hangs at eye level, a daily reminder that the world is best viewed through the Christmas perspective.

The good news is that it is impossible to put Christmas back into the box. Seasons come and go, tree lights go dim, and other cultural icons replace Santa Claus. But the Light of the World is with us always.

Christmas of 1998 will be remembered at our house as the Year of the Giant Pumpkin. It all started the Saturday night before Christmas while the farmer and Miles were tying my Christmas tree up in lights. Miles, a teenager who is really into ole-timey home cookin', got to speculating about what Mama might be planning to cook over the holidays.

When he had helped secure the Christmas tree, Miles came into the kitchen, ready to lay a "pumpkin pie" guilt trip on me. "Mama," he said, "did you know that pumpkin pie is my favorite dessert in the whole world, but you never fix it for me? I only get pumpkin pie once a year, when Aunt Samala fixes it…Mama, why don't you ever make us pumpkin pies?"

He broke a mother's heart, so I said, "Miles, you want a pumpkin pie? I'll make you one right now. Go to the store before it closes and get a can of pumpkin."

Miles had laid the trap well. "I have great news, Mom. You won't have to spend a dime, because I already have a pumpkin. It's a real big one, too. It's over at the barn - I'll go get it!" When I flinched, he played his ace: "Mama, you cooked pumpkins from scratch for all my brothers. But you haven't ever cooked a whole one for me."

How can the mother resist the baby of the family, especially when the father adds, "The boy has a point?" To his credit, Miles swore up and down that he would help. The farmer, as is his custom, vanished into thin air.

Thus, 'twas the Saturday night before Christmas, and Miles was in the kitchen, "gutting" and "skinning" his giant pumpkin. By 10 p.m., I was washing pumpkin, cutting it up and simmering.

A few of you pumpkin diehards know what came next. For almost 2 hours, we dumped several cups of the cooked pumpkin into a canning sieve, and squished it round and round with the big wooden pestle. Pumpkin juice "skeeted" everywhere. By midnight, everything in sight had turned into pumpkin. Then Miles set our dishpan full of pumpkin in the refrigerator and settled into bed with visions of pumpkin pie.

The next day, of course, was the Sunday before Christmas. If I were going to break the Sabbath, the last thing I needed to be working up was a trainload of pumpkin pies. But right after church, I sent the farmer to the grocery store with the debit card, the debit card directions, and instructions on the right kind of brown sugar and spices.

Some 9 hours after firing up the oven, I had used up all the spices, the sugar, and the pumpkin. Now I had a new problem: what to do with 22 pumpkin pies. The farmer loaded up his pickup, and with his elf helper, distributed most of them as Christmas gifts to the neighbors.

For supper, Miles ate 2 slices of pie and the farmer his usual thin slice. Then they announced it would probably be a long time before they would want another piece of pumpkin pie. Which is fortunate, because as I told them, the next time they bring a giant pumpkin into the house, it had better be ceramic.