Twelve of our three dozen padded folding chairs reside in a neighbor’s closet to facilitate church choir practice at their house.  “There are 12,” Kevin pronounced, all labeled Baker, as we loaded them into the back of Dad’s faithful Suburban.  We needed all our chairs for the Friday mission reunion, and indeed used them all.  After the reunion, I stacked the 12 choir chairs against the wall, leaving out a 13^th for me to use with the TV tray during dinner.  On Sunday I carried the 12 chairs four at a time to the car, leaving the 13^th behind.  “But there are 13,” she said anxiously.  No, there are 12.  “No! There are 13!” she wailed in near panic.  I reassured her I had brought 12 chairs from the neighbor’s house—“Trust me”—and that 13^th was to stay behind for me to use.  The same evening, I piled the bulk pickup refuse at the curb where I usually place the garbage and recycling cans, moving them instead to the mailbox side of the house, but a good distance from the mailbox so the mailman could easily pull up his truck.  Mom instructed me to make sure I didn’t put the cans in front of the mailbox, “because the mailman won’t come.”  She seemed really worried.  “Mom, trust me,” I insisted, “I know how to do this right.”  I promised to leave plenty of room for the mail truck.  She remained dubious on both accounts.

(Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay.)