Well into the wee hours, I watched, captive to fire flying through the sky. Meteors. Perseid meteors.
Well into the wee hours, I watched, captive to fire flying through the sky. Meteors. Perseid meteors.
What my four-year-old uncle did is what young children do without hearing it—
Here's the reason I am writing about this trip. On Wednesday, July 17, 1957, I bought a Hawaiian Holoku dress.
“Stand here. Watch this,” said Drake to hen. “I’ll quack (taking the initiative), and she will toss us some mixed grains.”
“I’ve pretty much got it figured out now,” said Scooter. “I’m retriever.”
“Half, yes.”
There it was. What more did I need to believe those unrelated things were meant to lead me to an understanding of my friend Jeannie?
“I thought the Ciabatta was your favorite” I said.
“It was.”
“What happened?”
It’s all good here at the Pine house. Cookies are baked, Christmas tins are arranged by the door, most “must do” stuff is done, and Mannheim Steamroller holiday music accompanies my desk work. THEN . . .
If the above paragraph resonates with you, if you can hardly wait . . .
If what I read is right, this celebration seems not so suitable for children. Worse for sleep than the candies consumed by modern Trick-Or-Treaters. I mean, think about it.
Mostly, I sleep while they are driving, but today my parents seem unusually excited, so I’m paying attention.