"The Plan"

Marci handed me these the other morning.  "Blog Fodder" was all she said, the twinkle of a wink in her eye.  Once you've been encouraged to look for it, the easier it is to find.

 Once you've been encouraged to look for it, the easier it is to find.

I think I was talking about grist for this blogmill, but, that's a pretty deep thought.  Look for kindness and you'll see it everywhere; look for love and you'll notice it abounds.  Have twins and see them everywhere.  Let's take it further - the more you look for truths the more there seem to be, the more you search for answers, the questions make more sense.  What about the opposite?  Yeah, look for hate, hate.  Look for hurt, well, there it is...

Already I am off track, and, I am trying hard to remain on track.  You see, lately I've been questioning the...

Dammit!  I am not sticking to the plan... wait, of course, that's the intro I needed to get me to "the plan" thing I had lined up.  I am that good.

Nick and Zack made these the other night, changed them a little in the morning, but, well, here ya go:

 Zack's is on the left there, his number four is "cior," a playful spelling, Olde French I think, of choir.  "Big Ball/Qqest" is interesting there as number five, the rest is self-explanatory.

In Nick's " Plan for the day," number eight there is slipped up between three and four and, if 'quiet' is spelled thusly, then 'Choir' is "quier."  As perfect a misspelling as I have ever seen.  Nick's plan also involves "Big Ball/quest" not a "Qqest," more a straightforward quest.

What, I know you are dying to ask, is "Big Ball?"

Well, in the interest of your greater understanding of the growth and depth of the marvelous upbringing our boys enjoy - and, to use as explanation in the ER, as in: "they were rolling around in this giant ball thingee, together, uh, well, pretty fast, I'd say... what's that?... oh yes, both of them, together, at the same time, wait, I can show you" - I took some photographic evidence pictures:

Well I feel that the inherent danger and fun is pretty clear here.  I was thinking about something the other day as I watched the boys play so casually on the roof of the shed.  I should've, probably, said something like, I dunno, "be careful up there" or "don't fall off."  But then I got to thinking about my childhood.

We wandered pretty far off out in the country where I grew up.  We played in mucky ponds and gravel pits and abandoned barns.  We climbed insanely high in giant trees and up and down working - not running - stone crushing machinery, and gravel sifters.  We pretended on farm equipment, like harrowers and combines and the like.

In fact, one summer, my older brother stripped the engine and push-bar off a derelict push lawn mower, so it was just the deck and wheels, and rode it down a hill, like a wheeled sled in summer.  And, the race was on.  We all found old mowers, abundant in rural areas, stripped 'em down and we were all riding like idiot gladiators down the hills of humid Ohio like a miniature cavalry. It was insane, fraught with danger - so many sharp, rusted edges I cringe at the thought - and, beyond exhilarating.

What I thought of, as I was about to say be careful was, well, it wasn't necessary.  Boys have to be crazy, insane and dangerous.  In our minds, we were being careful, I mean it was just a short hill, or we didn't climb to the top of the tree.  We knew the limbs got too weak for us, we knew we could only go so fast, we knew the pond had mud a foot thick that trapped your feet when you jumped in it, a foot of water over your head.  We knew and understood our limits, our parameters, and we knew we had to stretch them.

Will my kids get hurt in the Big Ball?  Maybe.

Did I get stuck in the mud?  Yes, but I wiggled out.

Did the tree branch break on me?  Yeah, the ground knocked the breath right out of me, but I learned how big a branch would support me.

Did I run into a disc in a barn and slice my shin?  Sure, it healed, with a few stitches.

Did I fall of that stupid lawnmower at about twenty miles an hour and twist my arm back funny as I rolled about twelve times head-over-heels down the hill?  Yep, it was epic.

You know what?  No one was watching us.  I do not, I repeat, do not, mean to imply that someone should have been, that's not the point.  We had to find our limits, stretch ourselves, be crazy, on our own.

Marci was watching the boys and said, "Do you think they'll get hurt?"

"Yep," I said.  "Just don't watch."

She went inside...


Of course there is a little more to the story.  First, and I relate this with great trepidation, after dinner he boys went out for some more big ball and, just as they were almost out of sight, N said to Z, "Wanna play Mommy again."

"What the heck is Mommy?" I innocently asked.

"It where we both get inside the ball and wait to be borned."

Awkward...

And, as you might have noticed. they deviated from "the plan" because "pirate101" was supposed to be after dinner.  Later Nick pointed this out to Zack and Zack replied:

"Well, you don't always have to stick with the plan."

No, no you don't, boys.  Be as safe as you can, make a plan, and do some serious dumbf***ery.  I got your back...

Juxtapostponed

I was going to do a really slick piece today.  Tense truths and tender lies, about dreams, my own, and how you come to peace with broken ones.

I was going to write about being a stay-at-home-dad, something I rarely do, and should more often.

I had a super clever device that was going to interweave and skillfully juxtapose the two themes, seamlessly.  Something about not being able to dream the dreams we should because we didn't know to dream them.

I was going to quote myself as saying "I'm the stay-at-home-dad I never dreamed of being" and bask again in my smug cleverness.

There was something one of the boys did that I was going to use to help illustrate my clever metaphor but I couldn't find whatever it was.

And then... Bunny T hops showed up:

And his whole freakin' family, his son Willam S. hops, toddler little hops and his wife, titty t. hops (she was in the entertainment industry once from what I gather):

His wild brother Sam S. Hops, who drives a crazy french-horn tuba-charged (it's just funnier) sports-car, showed up:

And a second cousin, Jake J., which is a really cool name, or whatever, who cooks for the whole crew, some vegan crap, I don't know, I didn't really get why he was here:

So, as you can well imagine, I haven't been able to take anything seriously since they arrived.

So I guess I'll get back to that cleverer piece some other time.  I'll juxtapose after The Hops are gone, they really are a lot of fun.

There is just no getting out of the way of silly.


From Marci's "... things you don't expect from the backseat ..."

"Yay, gravity actually helped me."


Savor the moment, Nick, savor the moment ...

"... what I was trying to say ..."

"Uhgggghhh!  I can't remember what I was trying to say..."  Nick said this during a conversation at dinner the other night and, I have heard Z say it as well.  And... I find it comforting to know that the fresh, new brains the boys are using brainfart just like mine does.  I very often loose track of the conversation or forget what I was just watching on cable.

Also, there is destinesia.  You know, when you reach your destination and have no reason why you are there.  I like to think I coined this word about twenty-five years ago, but, I have no proof.   It helps knowing that the boys do it to.  I found Nick in the guest room sort of slowly spinning in a circle, with a perplexed look on his face.  I asked him what he was doing and he answered, slowly: "I.  Don't.  Know."  (I employ the same slow spin and confused look technique when I have no idea why I am in the room as well, I can only assume it's genetic.)

As a quick aside, when I worked in kitchens, it seemed daily I would find someone standing in a dry-storage room or a walk-in refrigerator, with that look on their face, the I-can't-remember-what-I'm-looking-for stare.  I learned that you were always very close to what you'd forgotten so I always told people it was probably right in front of them, like literally.  It worked an awful lot.

Anyhoo, Zack sort of takes things to higher level by embracing what the medical community calls Nutty Professor Syndrome.  When you find a child trying to put on a second pair of underwear, wearing jeans for bed, standing in a hallway with two pair of shoes and no pairs socks when he should have had one of each, or any such misguided silliness, he might have NPS.  It's painfully cute.

Here's the thing, the other day, when N said he couldn't remember what he was trying to say, I heard the word trying.

"That's not what I am trying to say."

"What I am trying to say is..."

We have all said these, I do all the time.

It seems we spend a lifetime trying to say it right and forgetting what we are trying to say.

Like here on ihopeiwinatoaster, I could easily be accused of forgetting what I was trying to say.  I let me get in the way too often.  I have reconciled that to my conscience by pretending that someday the boys will enjoy knowing a little bit more about me because of some revealing words here on the web.  Yeah...

But honestly, I am trying to find the right words.  Words are wily and difficult to control.  They walk, in my mind, hand-in-hand with emotion and imagination and ego and dreams and hopes.  I try to get them to tell you things, but, I fail sometimes, succeed others, but, I am better for the trying.


I can only guess that the reason I like the images I put up here is because it is easier to show a little picture and note it's silliness, sweetness and worth than it is to describe with failing, fettering words the impact it may have had upon me.  I could write a thousand words about every image I put up here, and I have, but, those words can't make the visceral, instant impact that is visual.

For instance I went to dump the recycling bin into the big bin in the garage and just before I dumped I saw these:

My tortis (tortoise) is looking for food.  He loves grass.

My turtle is funny

I chuckled out loud when I saw them atop the unrinsed cans and milk jugs.  Simple, arbitrary and, for me, essential.  I can't really tell you why, but I'm trying.

That turtle is funny, now that I have been told.


What I am trying to say is, well, I am trying here.  Trying to show them them; you me; you them; them me.  See what I mean - words are hard to wrastle.


From Marci's "... things you don't expect to hear from the backseat ..."

"Dad, when will we have bacon again?"

*a life or death question in our house*


There's always more to a story; isn't there?  Zack asked me that from the living room as I was in the kitchen, as he said it I was staring at three tomatoes in a bowl.  I knew I had frozen bacon in the freezer.  I micro-thawed it, fried it up and twenty minutes later we were eating BLTs with a nice fruit salad and some chips.  Later, I was trying to decide whether to have stuffing or mashed potatoes with the roast turkey breast, I asked the boys.  They agreed on mashers and then Nick said:  "Oooohh, with bacon."  Yes baked potato mashed with bacon and sour cream and cheese and white pepper and Kosher salt.

I love bacon day ...

Directions

Nick didn't have the best game in soccer the other day.  He didn't seem very aggressive (the good kind) and he seemed a bit, well, bewildered.  I asked him about it a couple of days later.  He said it was hard to explain.  I asked him to try and he sort of whispered:  "I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to be doing."

Yeah, me neither.

Here is all you need to know, buddy:

I sort of go through life unsure of what I am supposed to be doing.  It bothered me when I was little, but, as I got older, I began to understand that a lot of people don't.  Some just fake it better than others.

And, some people just don't mind being found out.  Like me.  When I started staying home with the boys I was LOST and it was obvious, I faked it for a long time and now, I offer advice to others sometimes.


(I found that piece of paper on the floor in the basement.  I have no idea what it is about, but, I love that three of the four plays have "me" in them.  I think Zack made it, but, clearly, anyone could run these plays.)


From Marci's  "... things you don't expect to hear from the backseat ..."
 
"I am from Saturn. I dance on the rings."


Absolute poetry, I should write so purtily...

And Yet, I Opened Facebook

I rarely enter into writing here without the intent of, ultimately, hitting the publish button and letting it go.  I understand that if I write it here, and publish it out there - the screen you are looking at now - I understand, that it is a permanent thing.  Hell, I count on it.  I want this to be accessible, I want my friends and like-minded souls to find this, and, I want it here when the time comes for the boys to find it as well.

Consequently, I rarely get too revelatory, I may let something slip or infer something between the lines, cleverly, intentionally (you know, like people used to do before the advent of emoticons - insert winky-dude here).  I did once, and I regret it a bit, publish a post I maybe shouldn't of, this one, but, as I said before, everything is strangely, ironically permanent, here in cyber-world.  It is hard to escape what you've said.  There are no 'takebacks' on the world wide web.

That being said, I did like to tell you something very personal, something that I am ashamed of and deeply saddened by.

Nope, it's none of those things, although whatever you thought would probably be very interesting.

I often wonder if the words and terminology we use in our writing today, especially in social media and e-mail and the like, might seem ridiculously anachronistic in a few decades.  Like a bad seventies movie dripping with bell-bottoms and disco and psychedelic swirls, this Age may seem so empty of depth and personal contact, so rich in consumerism and imagined pathos, that it, too, becomes unwatchable, unsavory, laughable.

Wait, I was trying to spew my pain and shame, that's what the internet's for, right?

Here goes - When I approach my computer, I automatically open my browser and, I immediately, mindlessly, habitually... open Facebook.

So?

Well, I'll tell you a story or more.

When I was in college I was into music.  I can't say I was into a particular band, or genre.  I was more about absorbing the sound, listening to lyrics, thinking about what the person, the artist, was trying to do for me, give me.  I am a product of the seventies, I was trying to dig the vibe, man.  Back in those days, whenever I went to a party or dorm room or apartment or field the second thing I always did was check out the music situation.  Not what was being played, I didn't care much, I just wanted to be sure there were going to be tunes and that we could crank them up if needed.  (Sadly, the first thing I always did was check out the girls.)

I could have sat down at my computer and started the music playing, I could have pointed my browser to Pandora (what's that, Dad?), which always gives me something new or forgotten to listen to, and yet...

... I opened Facebook.

I lived in NYC in the late eighties and was trying to write poetry, dipping my toes in prose as well.  I had a job for a few months at a publishing company as a personal assistant.  I had access to an electric, very modern typewriter, and, a photocopier machine.  This combination afforded me the opportunity to attempt to polish the stuff I was working on at the time.  Sadly, it wasn't very good in the firsts place but it sure gave me a sense of what was possible.  A decade later I was using a word processor program on a primitive Apple computer and wrote a very forgettable novel.

I could have, in three seconds, launched a word program and begun another novel, started a new post, or composed a thoughtful letter to a friend who could use some kind words right now, but...

...I opened Facebook.

I did a couple of years thinking I might have the ability to produce visual art, mostly vivid acrylics in a post-modern style.  I know, just stop laughing.  However, I really had a lot of fun doing it.  It was a very hands-on sort of thing at a time when my mind needed distraction.  I enjoyed feeling the canvases, the palette knife, the oozing paint from tubes.  Mostly though, I enjoyed arranging the shapes and colors and thinking about abstraction and distillation of image and balance and the like.

I could've sat down here and opened a drawing program called TuxPaint, which the boys use, which I think would have blown my mind in nineties, and had a very enjoyable and creative time.  Today, I could download or buy incredible software programs designed for artists and spend hours making the prints and images I could only imagine back then, but, shamefully...

...I opened Facebook.

I could have found the software and camera I used on the old computer, added it to this one, and opened it up, hit record, and spent a few hours working on one of the many of songs I am trying to write, but...

...I opened Facebook.

I could have googled any of a number of things I want to learn about but always forget - soccer positions, recipes for chicken breasts, semi-colons, fructose, baseball scorecards, consubstantiation - but, yep...

...I opened Facebook

You might remember that I write a blog about the silly, wonderful stuff my twins make and do.  I like to feature their beautiful drawings and take home stuff, their conversations and sports exploits, dreams and hopes.

I could have opened my scanner and scanned one of the ten things within arms reach of me right now; I could have opened the camera and put the memory card in the computer and in seconds begun adding photos to the folder I use to hold the future stuff for my blog.  Instead, mindlessly, embarrassingly...

...I opened Facebook.


So there it is, I told you.  My point isn't that there is something wrong with Facebook or even the internet.  My problem is me.  I am simply not using this tool, my computer, to the full potential it offers.  Imagine what the artists, writers, musicians, thinker, poets, dreamers of even a mere century ago could have done with this remarkable, ingenious, miraculous even, tool.

And, sadly, I opened Facebook.


As a peace offering, in atonement for my sins, and, because I like to always have an image or two three lots, I give you this:

Nick's Spi Journal.

It's got a pen and a pencil, a decoder there on the left, it's WiFi capable and, get this, it has a paper grappling hook, attached to a string.  It's pretty nice although I am not sure I would have gone with the pink.


From Marci's  "... things you don't expect to hear from the backseat..."

(on the way to First Communion)

"Let's do this."

And, they nailed it... 

Thanks for stopping by.  Now, I'll hit publish and go post the link over there on Facebook.  Yeah, that is pretty ridiculous isn't it?

Books From The Backseat or Mysteries Begun

We have always tried to have something for the boys to do in the back seat of my truck, something that's always there.  At first it was MagnaDoodles, I think they are called, and since those I have tried a variety of things.  White boards and dry-erase markers - the boards get stained and the sun and cold dry out the markers; grease pencils - melt; crayons - don't do it, what a mess in the heat.  Finally, I got them colored pencils and a couple of of those four-color-switchy-pens (that's what they're called).  Here's a glimpse into the backseat:

Why, yes, yes those are bi-colored pencils, artist quality, why?  Because my boys deserve the best, oh, and, good colored pencils don't very often break and last much longer than cheopo Crayola ones -  Crayola = Crayon, 'nuff said.  Anyway, I don't often look into them except when I clean out the toxic waste that accumulates back there.  (I did mention them once before in this post.)

Now Zack likes to draw cars and trucks and the like.  I like this one although, for obvious reasons I'll not be writing out the name of this one, suffice to say 'triple letter Destroir.'

And then there is this jewel, the truck car vehicle is hard to make out but the name is decidedly unforgettable:

Yep, "Optomisom."  I can't imagine a better misspelling.

Zack sometimes works on elaborate, inexplicable instructions, you know, those no language ones like LEGO does:












Nick, on the other side of the backseat, tends toward more character-oriented drawings, like these two happy dudes (drawn on pages that have fallen out of the book):

I like this blockhead guy, it's fun to see the progression from sketch to finished dude:

I love that acorn top hat, with a swirl.  I also think he was a rifle there in his wing.  Odd...

Even when Nick tries to draw a thing, you know, an object or a vehicle, they tend to look more like cartoon characters with real personalities.  Case in point:

I am uncertain what that top thing is, but, it talks.  And, there at the bottom... "bus       man."  The seventies called, they want their bus back.

So, that's what I found out there, in the little books, in the backseat.


I'm stalling...


I'm stalling because, for one thing, as usual, I don't have a very good segue from the above to what I want to talk about now.  I am also stalling because I don't want to put anyone off my blog here.  But, as you may know, I can't always make this good for everyone so, I am going to forge ahead.

The boys have First Communion this Sunday, they are excited about it, honestly, so am I.  I am the first to admit that I don't fully understand the Catholic sacrament of Holy Communion, I do not participate because I was raised a Presbyterian, which is fine with me, and I have a difficult time coming to terms with "real body and blood."  It is important to note that this is hardly the fault of religious teachings on either side, but, it is a failure of my own intellect in fostering the deep relationship with Jesus I admire in so many.

What I do know is that this is an important moment for them, not as Catholic boys, not as Christian boys, not as God-fearing boys, but, as human boys.  Moral Law and Divine Law will always be debated, however, the power and essence of morality and divinity are undeniable.  I need, and I feel, we need, to present our children with the moral foundations that the teachings of Christ imbue.  Love thy neighbor, sacrifice, charity, acceptance, all are essential to our coexistence with those around us.  I think it is simple, others don't think so.

I also think there is a primal impulse in all humans to search for God.  Of course this is not news to social anthropologists and historians and, well, everyone, but, it is of deep significance.  I have known that draw all of my life; I hear it in the questions my boys ask; I see it in the look in their eyes as they witness beauty and ugliness; I sense it in their hearts as they reach out in understanding to those in need; I understand that it is written on the template of their souls - insert God here.

On Friday mornings, at 6:03, you can find me with a group of about three dozen or so dads, at the church.  We discuss kids and our relationship with our families.  It's called Father's Team and, although it is never perfect, it has been a positive experience for all of us, I'd think, considering it has being going strong now for a couple of years.

I wish I'd have had a camera this morning.  I wish I could draw a picture or recreate it in Photoshop, but, alas, all I have are mere words to describe what I saw.

My memory is always present tense.

The meeting comes to an end and the thirty or so guys shuffle forward, left hands extended, right hand reaching for the shoulder of the man to their right.  The hands in the center do not all pile on to one another like a cheer before a game, there are too many of them so, palms downward, they form a tight circle hovering above a chair, an empty chair, draped with a simple purple cloth, representing Christ among us.

Some of the hands are well-manicured, smooth, with cuff-linked wrists and suit jacketed sleeves.  Some of the hands are rough and grease-stained, a sweatshirt instead covers the wrists.  Wedding rings, gold and silver, spark in the light.  They form a powerful image; a sacred, timeless image of unity and purpose.

The opposite hands rest warm and easy on the shoulders of their fellows.  A gentle pressure, a knowing, a feeling of strength on your own shoulder, a sense of place in this circle of men; the simple, elegant power of the scene is moving.

If you could but fly above this circle, and look down through the ring of hands, onto the chair, you'd see two simple hand-knotted rosaries, both blue, one lighter than the other, draped over the purple robe of the ever-present Christ.  The early morning light is diffused, the hands lay quiet shadows over the simple corded necklaces and yet, they radiate.

Add now the sound of voices, men's voices, some deep, confident; others quiet, hopeful.  Listen now, you know the words," Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name."  A chant, an incantation, a prayer, a hope, a miracle.  Brotherhood.  Humanity.  Mankind.  Masculinity.  Sacred, essential goodness.  The words, lost perhaps in their hopelessness to describe the indescribable, echo in the high ceiling, and come back to the men reassuring, comforting, eternal.

"And the Fathers said to the Fathers, Amen."  The group says finally.

 A blessing, said over a chair, over these two simple knotted strings, will remain with me until the moment I can no longer love, forever, in other words.  Thank you, gentle men, gentle souls, gentle sons of gentle fathers.  Thank you.

Marci made these, or rather, facilitated the making of these.  Each knot was tied by her or me or by family members, teachers, priests, friends and loved ones.  Each knot a prayer of hope, a gift of grace, a promise of peace and love everlasting.  We will give them these before their Mass on Sunday accompanied by a note explaining them and a list of those who participated in their making lovingly crafted by Marci.  I hope they have them forever, I know I will.


Thanks for stopping by and, throw some good vibes our way this weekend, if you feel so inclined...

The Dandelion Web

Why do people hate them so?  They are beautiful and harmless and, well, let's find out some more...

(Well, that disproves the whole rant I was going to go on about the internet.)  I learned some interesting stuff in just a couple of minutes.  The word "dandelion" comes from the Old French dent-de-lion, or tooth of the lion because they are so long rooted, or toothy, in gardenspeak.  Cool.  However, in modern french the are called pissenlit (or vernacular pisse au lit).  Literally, piss in the bed.

Why is that and why did it sound so perverse?  Well, the plant, when ingested, is a strong diuretic and is known to aid liver and kidney function, effects that have been known to man since prehistory.  That's cool, too.  Every culture where the plant is indigenous has adopted it into their diet, as well.

When I was a boy, sometime in the Spring, Mrs. B - the Mom next door where I grew up - would send us out with old pillowcases and we'd stuff them full of dandelion blooms and stems.  She had a lot of children of her own and she also elicited the help of all the other kids on our rural road in the farmlands of Ohio.  All I actually remember of the process was the smell, earthy and sharp, on our hands and noses, and the look of piles and piles of that yellow blanketing her garage as she crushed them, by foot, into galvanized tubs.  That last thing I remember is that she put water over them all and they sat for a while.  She was making "Dandelion Wine."  I remember tasting it once and it wasn't very good.  It occurs to me now that she was probably making it for more medicinal reasons that for a pleasure drink.  I did not know that.

I have had them a lot in salads, often with a vinegary hot bacon dressing.  It's actually a classic of French Cuisine, frisee au lardon.

So why do people hate them so in their yards?  I don't get that.  They are the same color as daffodils and everyone loves daffodils.  Also, what if we'd have genetically modified dandelions like we have tulips and tomatoes.  I bet by now we would have something really cool, like broad-leaf dandelions, or bush dandelions, or multi headed ones.  We might have manipulated the colors and now we'd have pink and red and white and even variegated tiger-striped ones as big as a fist.

Where did it all go wrong for the dandelion?  They seem to have a respected history, and a modern importance and yet... people poison them and rip them out of the ground violently and leave them to wither and lose their essence wilting in the summer sun.

I don't get it.

You might remember (although I sort of wish you didn't) that I mentioned how I was going to go on about the internet.  How, you might ask, was I planning to segue from dandelions to the world wide web?  Well, I figured when I went to Google the subject that I would get a lot of misinformation and advertisements and false pages and popups and the like.  However, with "safe-search" on in just a few keystrokes there I was, learning about these friendly weeds.  Cool.

Perhaps the internet is like a dandelion, so misunderstood and not used to it's full potential 

I refuse to bore you with that pedestrian, pedantic and, actually, inane analogy.  I'll  wait on the big internet scoop I've got in my head, it's a secret that I know and you should, too.

Oh all right, I'll tell you:  The internet is one big advertisement.

You know what's wrong with dandelions?  You know what their problem is.  You can't see them, understand them, admire them, because they are lost in that stupid sea of green unending lawn.  Maybe that's how these two seemingly unrelated things are connected.  It is very difficult to see the decency in the web because of this sea of tripe that surrounds it...

Note to self: dandelions and the internet are not analogous.

Without dandelions I wouldn't have the sweet story of Nick calling them "puffballs" because you blow on them and they float away.  Without dandelions I wouldn't have the memory of their delighted faces as they watched those seeds drift of in the wind, happy and free, both seed and boy.  Without dandelions there were be fewer yellow hands and noses and not so many wildflower bouquets for Mom:

Without them I wouldn't have this memory:

Or known this joy:

Or had tears in my eyes as I witnessed this sweet coronation:

And, if it weren't for the internet, I wouldn't have a place to share this with you.

Wait!  I did it, I at least reconciled the dandelion and the internet, got them to work together, there at the end where...

Oh nevermind, thanks for stopping by


Here is something Marci might have posted in her '... things you don't expect to hear from the backseat...' thingy if it had indeed happened in the backseat and she'd have noticed it and, uh, other explanatory dribble and stuff.


Nick (screaming):  "Epic fail!"

Zack (likewise screaming):  "Banana Town!"

Repeat ad naseum.  Always screaming.


It was super annoying but it had this Waiting for Godot vibe to it, it's weird here...