Gracie amidst the candytuft in my backyard.
Sun warms sleeping earth.
Roots stir, saps run, plants wake up.
Green things spring to life.
Leaves bud from bare trees.
Buds explode to brilliant bloom.
Grass grows thick and lush.
What was dead now lives
God's Easter plan in action
Right before our eyes.
This year's Easter was anything but ordinary.
Covid-19 got us all in lock down, of course, and for better or worse, at my house, we are taking that stay-at-home order in its strictest sense.
I've noticed that plenty of friends and neighbors are relaxing the draconian standards just a bit, especially this weekend, allowing for visits back and forth with close family and friends.
Maybe it's because my husband works for a medical research institute that has taken a rapid and deep dive into studying Covid-19 that we take the warnings from not just government but also scientists to heart. An exponentially growing airborne contaminant is nothing we want to fool with. We're willing to just stay home.
But for Easter, that means that not only did my Ohio-living second-born cancel her plans to come home for the holiday, but my first-born, who lives just ten miles away, also decided to pass.
So my plans took a bit of a left turn.
Sigh.
My second-born's selection, to be delivered later this spring.
She's kind of obsessed with Easter candy.
First off, there's the candy issue. The Easter Bunny still makes the rounds around here, and coronavirus or not, my daughters are still gonna want their baskets filled. In a nod toward keeping traditions alive, I spent the better part of last weekend surveying my offspring to find out everyone's latest candy preferences, and piecing together a multiple-store pick-up plan to source my goods from Target. It was touch and go for awhile, but in the end, I tracked down all the different kinds of candy I was looking for, while sitting on my computer in the wee hours of the night.
So satisfying.
On the day before Easter, I delivered a small stash to the local daughter, as she stood by my car, petting Gracie through the open back window and keeping her distance from me.
But my Midwest daughter has been having a problem with reliable deliveries lately so - candy lover that she is - she asked me to hold on to her order until logistics are fine tuned with UPS.
A blue basket with a bunny for Daughter Number One, and a minty green version with a yellow chicky for Number Two.
When it comes to the actual Easter baskets, we are purists. When my eldest daughter approached her second Easter, with #2 due to make her appearance soon, I came across a specimen that spoke to me of everything an Easter basket should be. Happily, said basket was offered in four colors so, investing in my plan to grow my nest to include four babies, I bought them all We've used them every year since them, and added an Easter-appropriate tiny stuffed animal to watch over the jelly beans and pastel-wrapped Reese's.
And when one of the daughters is not home to put her basket to use, I've taken to sending her a photo of her treasure to document that it is still alive and well and partaking in the family ritual.
Several of our holiday dishes seemed to go a bit sideways. The deviled eggs and asparagus were spot on, but the salmon refused to brown and the scalloped potatoes were just weird. Sometimes strange things happen in the kitchen. I ate it all anyway.
And then there was dinner. When we set up our first FaceTime call, the Eastern Time Zone daughter was working on her meal prep, so we rescheduled for an hour later. That meant that our call extended through the cook times for both West Coast chefs, and on into our meal times. With my phone propped up against the platter of ham on the dining room table, both far-flung daughters saw our spread, asked questions about our recipes, and got multiple opportunities to observe Gracie lying obediently on the floor near my chair.
As dinner was wrapping up, we said goodbye. Sniffle.
The four of us hunkered down at home topped our meal with a fresh-baked Shaker Lemon Pie, and as I devoured my slice, along with a lovely scoop of vanilla ice cream, my mind drifted back through the strange ceremony of the day.
But wait, I reconsidered. So maybe some of our rituals were a bit off, and we settled for a distance celebration rather than the face-to-face reunion we were planning before Covid upended normal life.
Still, despite all the crazy obstacles stacked against us, we found ways to keep our traditions alive. Together, we shared in the hope of the resurrection story, which is what matters most. So maybe this year's Easter was delightfully ordinary after all.
* * * * *
Read more stories about my life with Covid-19 here in suburban Seattle:
Sitting Pretty
Scenes Of An Ordinary Easter
Our First Church
Silver Linings
Hopes And Dreams In The Silverware Drawer
Life Of A (Socially Distant) Math Teacher: Midterms
Keep Life Simple
What I'm Doing Lately
Do Dinner
Covid Cleaning
Gracie's And My Daily (Socially Distant) Walks
Life Of A (Socially Distant) Math Teacher
Miracle Of Light
Social Distancing In My Dining Room
Social Distancing In My Kitchen
We're On The Road To Shambala
Sunshine And Disco Balls
Feel Better
Covid-19 Is For Real
A COVID-19 Update
Checking In From Coronavirus Central
Every day for the past ten years plus, I've walked past this scene. There's something about the (almost) symmetrical placement of the bushes and trees against the strict geometry of the building, the tension of feather fir trees against the rigid steel siding, the pop of yellow in the springtime blossoms and the patch of sky reflected in the square window that always, always captures my attention and brings me back to myself. With each season, small details change but this moment in my walk delights my heart, mind and soul.
* * * * *
The Art of Flaneuring by Erika Owen
Flaneuring, it turns out, is a fancy name for strolling around a city. Though our author extends the term to include hiking, picnicking, and a pedestrian commute, the purist defines flaneuring as the art of aimless wandering. When done with mindfulness and intention, flaneuring can help us cultivate a more mindful and fulfilling everyday life.
Peace Is Every Step by Thich Nhat Hanh
Written by a world-renowned Zen master and spiritual leader, the premise of this book is profoundly simple and simply profound. The only moment of life that matters is now. All of the distractions and aggravations of daily life can be used to pull us back into the now, to act as reminders to breath deeply, to restore our mindfulness in the moment.
I've always been interested in walking. As a little girl, my family rarely had money for outings to zoos or amusement parks; instead, my mom treated us to walks. We might head back on the dirt roads of some nearby state land to hike Poplar Pond; other days we left the car in the garage and walked partway around our lake, crossing through yards when one set of neighborhood gravel roads dead ended to reach the new unpaved network beyond - to a little playground hidden among the homes. As teenagers, my friends and I walked endlessly, jumping off sandy bluffs that we found along the way, wandering through the woods, or leaving the neighborhood behind to explore life on the asphalt roads beyond.
In my grown-up suburban life, my dog (and the dogs before her) have always given me good reason to get out of the house most every day. The chatter of little companions and the constant cautionary eye of motherhood kept me from truly relaxing into my walks during the intense years of growing up but since then, without even knowing it, I've settled into the rhythm of walking with mindfulness or, if you will, proper flaneuring.
Often when I'm starting out on my walk, I can be peevish and annoyed. This walk eats up a solid 45 minutes of my time every day, and some days I just don't feel like I have that time to spare. But I've learned to catch myself at that point, and say, "Stop." With a simple reminder to chill and enjoy the journey, my mindset shifts to one of curiosity and openness. Some days, my inner landscape takes center stage, and I think about whatever is on my mind. Not to worry or stress, but to simply let my mind wander. I wonder about whatever interests me and let my imagination run wild. I get some of my best ideas this way.
Other days, my mind quiets and my eyes take over. Cars, bikes, and other walkers provide a fairly unending parade of stimuli but more often I'm drawn to nature and specifically, the passing of the seasons. I take note of the order in which the local shrubs bloom, I watch for the daisies that pop up in the fields twice a year. I can recall the exact scent of the leaves that begin to dry out and drop by mid-August, and I know the places where the snow lingers longest, in the shady patches along the edge of the forest.
These walking moments bring me back to myself, make me whole again, settle my soul and bring me peace. Though I'm neither a Zen master nor a Millennial with a flair for words, I know what's good for me. And that's why I love to take walks.
* * * * *
Read more about what I've been reading:
Reading Afternoons
Reading Mornings
Reading Children's Books
Reading Memories
Reading Recommendations
Reading Inspiration
Reading Insights
Reading At The Pool
Reading About The Desert
Reading On Repeat
Reading Natalie Babbit
Reading The Truth
Reading Books That Are Blue
Reading Mysteries
Reading About Walking
For the past couple evenings - well, what I consider the evening is more like the middle of the night for most people - I've been rummaging around in the depths of my kitchen cabinets, trying to track down a certain pair of plates and matching mugs.
A picnic set.
These tried and true 80s gems came to me as wedding gifts, and my husband and I put them to immediate use on our cross-country honeymoon to California.
We lived in Chicago at the time - Evanston, Illinois, to be exact - so we really did cross a goodly portion of the USA.
And in the fashion to which we later became very accustomed, we practiced the fine art of rest stop picnicking along the way. Though breakfast and dinner were eaten in proper sit-down restaurants, lunch was always a picnic table in the sunshine, with our new red dishes front and center.
See? Here's proof.
As the years and then decades flew by and our family grew from two to six, the red picnic dishes began to drift toward the back of the kitchen cupboards. I realized lately that I hadn't seen them in a while.
I also realized that they are old enough now to be considered vintage. The Heller brand has enjoyed a bit of resurgence in the new millennium, and I've seen these very same pieces on Etsy and Ebay for a price well in excess of the originals.
Night before last, I finally turned up some good news. I found the plates! Just as I'd suspected, they were buried underneath a stash of plastic Mariners soda cups but none the worse for wear.
I was, in a word, overjoyed.
But my quest was not yet ended because the matching mugs were not in the same location, as I had crossed my fingers and hoped that they would be.
Last night, as I triple-checked the weird cupboard over the fridge that houses orphans, and took a quick tour through my overflow dish storage in the garage, I remembered with a sinking feeling a prior cleaning binge from several years back.
Some part of my brain recalled that I'd been considered getting rid of my red plastic picnic gear - I mean, we now have a full set of camp dishes for a family of six, so why did I need these old codgers too? And while I obviously hadn't parted with the plates, I seemed to recall making a weird deal with myself that if I let go of the mugs, it would be okay to keep the plates.
Ugh. I'd given away my 1984 red Heller mugs and I was consumed with regret.
So I did what any red-blooded declutterer does when she realizes she has gone too far.
I jumped online and scoured up some replacements.
Now these replacement mugs looked exactly like the ones I'd had before. But they were not cheap.
I thought about what else that money could buy.
I remembered my shopping ban.
I reasoned that I had made the decision to let the originals go.
I reminded myself that don't need two thirty-year-old chunks of plastic to feel good about myself.
These thoughts didn't even slow me down.
I plowed through to my shopping cart and began ticking through the screens as I placed my order.
And just as I was about to enter my CVC number - which means I pushed back my chair to go get my wallet because I can memorize the 16 digits of my debit card number but I never remember that three-digit code - I suddenly had a vision.
The red plastic mugs were in the picnic basket.
Yes, we also received a cute little Yogi Bear-style pic-a-nic type basket with our red dishes and that, I knew for sure, was safe and sound out in the garage. My mind suddenly seemed to recall putting the mugs in the empty basket as a clever way to store them, I couldn't be 100% sure but I could definitely:
sprint through the house,
haul the basket off its high shelf,
flip open the lid,
and look inside.
Which is exactly what I did.
And this is what I found.
Hallelujah!
My heart surged with happiness as I re-introduced plates to mugs and happily admired their timeless beauty.
I promptly cancelled out of my pending order, and wished the replacement dishes well. I hope they go to someone who really did get rid of their 1980s wedding gift and regretted it as much as I temporarily did.
This morning, my friends and I held a quick photo shoot to celebrate their reunion.
I even invited the napkins that came along with the picnic dishes to join in. After all these years and countless al fresco meals, they are still in mint condition. Sadly, the coordinating tablecloth has long since bit the dust. We loved it well.
And then, to round out the reunion, I added my picnic basket to the scene. Now the whole picnic gang is reunited and I could not be happier.
P.S. In case I ever forget, please remind me that the plates, mugs and napkins are now all being stored inside the picnic basket. I won't get fooled again.
P.P.S. Bonus footage of me on my honeymoon amidst the blooming flowers of Napa Valley.
P.P.S. Bonus footage of me on my honeymoon amidst the blooming flowers of Napa Valley.
I've had one for many years.
I call it my stash. It's a collection of odds and ends of childhood life, too precious to be thrown away but defying categorization with any other storage solution under my roof:
Oddball photographs,
treasured drawings,
significant certificates
meaningful ticket stubs,
precious cards,
and other precious historical documents from family life that need, nay - deserve! - a proper home.
Now to be sure, these are not the top tier artifacts from my children's childhoods. Of course I have albums and journals and storage boxes devoted to a carefully curated collection of the best of the best.
The items in my stash missed that first cut; at some later date, I probably came across these gems hiding under someone's bed, two layers deep on the side of the fridge, or languishing at the back of a desk drawer. Too late - and out of chronology! - to join their betters, I set them aside to "do something with them later."
Mhmmm. You can guess how that's ended up.
After years - okay, decades! - of stuffing it into gallon size Ziploc bags, hiding it in the back of the bookcases, or shoving it into a banker's box destined for the garage, I finally gave these souvenirs of days gone by a permanent place to live.
My solution is shockingly simple. I took a blank scrapbook - mine measures 8.5 x 11 inches and I made it on the nifty little binding machine we kept in constant use during our homeschooling days - and a glue stick, and had at it. Though I used a bit of paper engineering to cope with some odd shapes and sizes, this was not a technologically sophisticated project.
And while I'm sharing these photos now, I'll freely divulge that this project is not quite done. In the next few days, I'll add some labels and explanatory notes, and zhuzh up the design a bit.
But after all these years of waiting, I'm beyond excited to have made even this much progress, and can't wait to share a sampling of my now-organized stash.
On the left - a sunny handmade birthday card for my first-born's fifth birthday from her one-year-older cousin. Certainly, this was a gem from the first moment it landed in our mailbox, but as this cousin passed away when he was twenty years old, our sentiment for the card had deepened. We will cherish it forever.
On the right - In 2002, on a family vacation, we stopped by one of my childhood friend's home in southern California. Little did we know that my kids and her kids would hit it off like wildfire, and we soon made a second trip to visit them on the following spring break. After returning home, we sent our friends this photo collage representing all the fun times we had together.
^ Sometime in the early 2000s, my kids' art teacher challenged them to create an illustration using colored pencil, and then write an accompanying story. We Streichers took that one step further by setting the parents to the same task, then publishing spiral-bound books of our illustrated stories and giving them out as Christmas gifts. The original artworks, two of which are shown here, have been living in my stash ever since.
^ And here's more of that artwork - a piece done by my youngest on the left, as well as a second drawing she did in a similar style, on the right. The photo above captures her around the same age with a friend whose mom snapped the photo during a play date and sent me a copy. Oh, the simple days before we posted and tagged.
^ At the top, here's me, my four daughters, and a few friends who wandered into the frame of a photo commemorating our first snowboarding trip to Stevens Pass, circa 2002. I spent the morning falling down and switched out to skis after lunch.
Below, two photos - snowy tree tops and a mini snowman - on repeat in a tiled image. Super artsy.
^ On the left: during my daughters' earliest years, I kept a set of four frames devoted to their artwork on the wall near my kitchen. I mounted whichever recent masterpieces tickled my fancy onto colored paper cut to fit the frames, and after displaying them for a while, saved every single one. Except this piece, done by my youngest at the ripe old age of two, somehow missed that boat. So now it lives here instead.
On the right: my years as a Girl Scout leader gave birth to a steady stream of projects and props, most of which no longer exist. But this set of paper dolls I made to feature the uniforms worn by Girl Scouts at different levels struck me as too cute to pitch. So now these girls and their GSUSA togs live in a snazzy white paper pocket.
^ Once upon a time at our school for homeschoolers, there was a magical place called the IPC Lab. I can't recall exactly what those letters stood for, but I am still imprinted with the fun that went down in those four walls. Robotic building sets, bins of journaling supplies, and computers for playing LEGO Island 2 were all the rage, but my second-born absolutely lived for the newfangled digital cameras. Pretty sure she must have convinced one of the teachers to shoot this series of photos of her with my eldest; later, my youngest joined the party for some of the cutest darn photos ever.
^ In August of 2002, our family blasted off on a spontaneous cross-country road trip to fetch a new puppy who would become our beloved Ranger. What was meant to be a long weekend's journey ended up taking the better part of a month, and later I created an entire journal chronicling that trip. But there were a few photos that turned up after I completed that book, and I could never live with myself if I got rid of photos of this little red angel.
^Oh, the joys of the web cam. Here's a sweet tween photo of my second born, probably 2001, and below that, a nifty collage she made around the same time.
^ Gems, from left to right:
A photograph of sunset at Stevens Pass (top of Hogsback if I'm not mistaken) printed on particularly lovely photo paper.
A b/w photo of baby Ranger trucking around in the dirt and sunshine at his original home on the day we came to pick him up.
A small square torn from a 1970s Thomas Guide (a cleverly designed book of maps that helped us navigate the world before GPS was a thing) that shows my neighborhood before there were any streets built here.
Casey caught in the act at the kitchen counter.
^ Above: For many years, at the end of the school year, I'd make certificates for my math students. First, I'd pick a theme - Star Wars, Harry Potter, and Lord of the Rings were particular favorites - and then choose the character that best represented each student in the class. In an elaborate cermeony, I presented each student with a handmade collage explaining who they 'were' and why, and this particular year, I went so far as to make one for myself. Gandalf, naturally.
Below: Another collage - this one having nothing to do with math - I made from tiny bits of colored scraps, torn from pages of old National Geographic magazines.
^ Three secara acak photos of my third-born, printed on paper but worth their weight in pure gold, and the crown she made for herself that settled her nickname for years: Princess Jane.
^ Teenagers like to keep their own journals and photo albums - at least mine did - so by the mid 2000s, my collections fell on lean times. But among the gems that I did find (from left to right) are a photo of my second-born at a scholarship presentation, a few small photos of another Calilfornia trip and some shots around Seattle, and my second-born with four friends, one of whom had just earned his Eagle Scout.
* * * * *
Want to see the other journals I've finished? Check them out here:
The Presidents' Pocket Biographies
My Princess Book
My Stash
Chicago
"My room for sitting and thinking about nothing in particular to see what would happen was at the end of a hall." - Carl Sandburg
?The truth knocks on the door and you say, 'Go away, I'm looking for the truth,' and so it goes away. Puzzling." -Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
* * * * *
After a busy day of recording math lessons for my socially distant students, I sat down to upload them to YouTube. Eight videos, some fairly long at 30 or 40 minutes, others as short as ten, would take about an hour of my attention to be properly uploaded where my students could get their hands on them. Rather than drift around the house doing this and that while trying to keep this task in the forefront of my mind and failing, if the past was any predictor of the future, I decided to stack the odds in my favor with one simple act.
I sat down.
"I will not budge from this place," I told myself once settled on the living room couch, "until my uploading task is done."
Click, click. Tap.
And so it began.
Within moments, Gracie woke from wherever she'd been sleeping and shuffled in to join me. I scooted back to the far corner of the couch and gave her plenty of room to stretch out. And also the pillow.
Once she got herself all comfy, I angled my legs up alongside her for my own maximum comfort, and breathed a sigh of contentment.
Gracie must have sensed my human legs nearby, and without so much as a twitch, shifted her furry back legs so they were resting up on top of mine in a most agreeable and cozy manner.
We both sighed.
I flipped open an e-book and found my place in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, which I'm learning is a fictional autobiography - ?! - with equal parts Upper Plains travelogue and metaphysical ponderings. It's a weird book but I'm enjoying it immensely.
I read for about a half an hour. Every now and then, I'd toggle back to YouTube to see how my upload of the moment was progressing. As soon as I'd discovered that one video was safely landed on my channel, I'd start the next.
Click, click. Tap.
Sunshine streamed through my living room window, warming the air in a deliciously relaxing way. From the next room, I heard my husband on a Zoom call for work. The other callers' voices were muted so I heard nothing from their end but every so often I caught an indistinct rumbling as he contributed to the conversation.
My daughters were up in their rooms, silent.
The cats, wherever they were, were apparently content to be there. Probably out sleeping under some fresh spring leaves in the garden.
Gracie snoozed on.
My eyes felt heavy. My head nodded once or twice.
I checked my phone - still uploading - then shifted, still under Gracie's furry feet, so that I could lean back against the arm of the sofa and close my eyes in comfort. The images of the motorcycle trip through the Montana landscape drifted through my mind as I let myself relax into the moment.
Should I sleep?
Well. My goal was to tend the uploads but on the other hand, I'd promised myself that I wouldn't get up till they were done. I never said how long that process should take.
Yes, I decided. A nap would be fine.
As it turned out, I wasn't ready to fall asleep after all. But I stayed there, perfectly happy on the couch in a quiet house with my faithful dog at my side, thinking about life and mindfulness and road trips and the beauty of every single moment, as my videos continued to upload.
And when they were done, I got up.
Today, with more new lessons in my camera roll, we did it all over again. But this time, Gracie chose to sleep on her own couch.
* * * * *
Read more stories about my life with Covid-19 here in suburban Seattle:
Sitting Pretty
Scenes Of An Ordinary Easter
Our First Church
Silver Linings
Hopes And Dreams In The Silverware Drawer
Life Of A (Socially Distant) Math Teacher: Midterms
Keep Life Simple
What I'm Doing Lately
Do Dinner
Covid Cleaning
Gracie's And My Daily (Socially Distant) Walks
Life Of A (Socially Distant) Math Teacher
Miracle Of Light
Social Distancing In My Dining Room
Social Distancing In My Kitchen
We're On The Road To Shambala
Sunshine And Disco Balls
Feel Better
Covid-19 Is For Real
A COVID-19 Update
Checking In From Coronavirus Central
I honestly can't remember a single thing about what's going on in this photo of Donica (left) and me, but in terms of background, I can provide an ocean.
Once upon a time, I was six years old.
I know. We're deep diving into the past but stick with me and I'll eventually bring us back to the modern era.
It was a morning in the early summer between first and second grade. I heard a knock at the door (no one had doorbells in that place and time) and my mom called to me.
There at my front door stood Donica.
Of course I knew her name. She lived in my neighborhood, though a bit beyond my usually traveled circles. All during the past school year, we had waited at the bus stop together with the neighborhood kids and rode on the same bus to West Elementary. But she was assigned to the other first grade teacher, so even though her classroom was just one door down the hall from mine, we might as well have been on different planets.
In many ways, we were different species, Donica and me. I'd mostly ever played with boys - my brothers and their rough and tumble friends - or my special forest friend, Marilyn. But I knew from afar that Donica lived in a different world. She had sisters, and even more so, Older Sisters and I was in proper awe.
Nonetheless, there she stood at my front door, bold as brass and ready to play. And so play we did.
I can't begin to recount all of our crazy adventures over the years.
There were endless hours of swimming, including underwater handstands, diving for clay scratched from the lake bed, and one highly impactful lesson on why one might feel free to go Number One in the lake, but never, ever Number Two. Winters were a blur of sledding, skating across the frozen lake, and nearly frostbitten fingers. One fall, when the men of the neighborhood lit a smoldering fire in the stump of an old willow, we'd spend the afternoons feeding and fanning the coals back up into a proper flame.
We alternatively made fun of the neighborhood boys and played with them, riding bikes, squirting hoses, sledding until our toes froze. We mastered their games of nighttime spear fishing, make-up-your-own-words Scrabble, and catching frogs and crayfish. There were countless games of spoons, a dare that involved sending a comrade to a neighbor's house to ask for white raisins, and then the infamous evening in which I spouted orange pop out my nose.
Donica's house was a source of fascination for me. There were three bedrooms for the four girls, and to my utter amazement, they often switched around who stayed where. We played endless Barbies, watched Bonanza on her family's new-fangled color TV, and listened to her sister's Beatle albums. Freshly released Beatles albums. Quite the gourmet in the kitchen, Donica taught me the magic of tomato sandwiches, and even more exotic, radish sandwiches.
At some point, Donica?S parents split up and got divorced, just like mine. This was the first time I?D had friend go through what I?D been through, and while I didn?T wish upon her the shame and stigma that came upon so-called broken families back in that time, I was so relieved to know that someone else understood
But there was one surprise left to come.
The summer of '79.
It was a morning in the early summer between my junior and senior years of college. I heard the phone ring (no one had cell phones in that place and time) and my mom called to me.
There on the phone was Donica.
She'd come home for the summer, she said, and wondered what I was up to. And thus began what could be considered, I suppose, the last summer of my childhood. Donica was with me every step of the way as we pursued more adventures, crazier than ever before. Somehow we both made to September in one piece (and with no arrests!) and with a fresh new crop of memories, we parted ways.
Since then, life has taken us in different directions, Donica and me. I settled first in Chicago and then up here in the Pacific Northwest as she has ping-ponged back and forth between coasts, ending up back in our home state of Michigan. It's fair to say, I suppose, that our lives have gone in different directions.
Yesterday brought us right back together again.
After a good dig through her vintage photo archives, a third member of our Ore Lake friendship club texted the above photo to me and apparently to Donica too. I really have no clue what's going on in this photo, and I'm not even sure when it took place, though based on my haircut, Idanquot;d lay my bets on that summer of '79.
But what's most important about this photo is that in a flash, it brought back a childhood crammed full of hilarious memories of time spent with a true friend, a friendship that's held us together for over a half-century. And I don't think that anything will ever pull us apart.
P.S. The day we tried to make blue pancakes at my house but they actually turned out green.
P.P.S. Try saying "comb" but do NOT laugh.
P.P.P.S. When we both said, "Eat it, Ronald, eat it," to the weirdo kid on the bus and the creepy bus driver told us we had to write that out 100 times and give it to him the next day. And after you wrote that all out, you cut every one of the hundred sentences up into a separate strip of paper and delivered them all to the bus driver in a handful of confetti.
