Who are you if you’re not the one who wrote this?

And I repeat, “Four little words just to get me along. . . .”
That’s the first line of a song called “That’s Not My Name” sung by British craze duo “The Ting Tings.”
“That’s Not My Name” is a fun, upbeat tune that drives me to grab my pseudo-microphone hairbrush and karaoke my way back and forth across my kitchen floor, pretending to be a pop star.
“They call me Stacey, Mary, Jo, Lisa. They call me Her, they call me Jane, always the same.
“That’s not my name. That’s not my name. That’s not my name,” I croon.
This time, though, it should be “That’s not my column. That’s not my column. That’s not my column.”
Hence, I again feel compelled to poke some fun at myself and the misfire of editing after another contributing writer’s column appeared under my byline in last week’s newspaper.
“Moo.”
In a small town like this, it’s how rumours get started. In a moment of panic, I thought I might have to vanish into obscurity as the next volunteer to protect the island on the TV series “Lost.”
First off, I didn’t submit a column for last week’s newspaper, which made for the bewildered tilt of my head when a regular reader stopped me in the local grocery store on Thursday afternoon and queried, “I thought you were married.”
And while I have been known on occasion to “have a cow” when my temper gets the best of me, I do not own cows.
And while I do own a barn, my barnyard is not a mess unless you count the small patch of dog poop I forgot to clean up.
And while I often have thought of Daughter #3 as my summer student, she still hasn’t been able to see much of what I do around here because I have all cleaning and bagging done before she gets up at noon.
However, I do have something in common with the Rainy River District Environmental Stewardship Committee. I bought 80 tree seedlings from the group this year.
And last summer, I purchased and planted 200 seedlings here in my neck of the woods.
I may be cash poor, but I am land rich and in my book there are few earth-friendly accomplishments more satisfying than planting trees.
Last but not least, I do not have a Maddie or a Marlee in my brood, although I do enjoy reading about their little lives when they visit Auntie Kimmie.
But I do change poopie diapers and wipe runny noses, and occasionally rescue pussy willows buds from a two-year-old’s nostrils.
Most importantly, the news from my herd is that I have a brand new grandson named Charlie, born 15 days ago.
The first tree seedling I planted in my yard was for you, my newest sprout.

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