Carnival

The words “church picnic” or “school carnival” mean completely different things to M and I.  To M, those words mean, “Hey!  I get to strap myself into old, decrepit pieces of steel with flashing lights that are powered by old lawn mower motors and run by people with IQs of about 5!  Sounds fantastic!”  To me, those words mean, “Photo opp!”  I learned long ago to be wary of the rides at a carnival, and have nurtured an irrational fear of Ferris Wheels since my aunt terrorized me and my cousin on one when we were in grade school.

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Welcome Home

Zozo and I made this sign last night.  We had fun, and her Daddy loved it when he got home tonight.  She drew our family up there, over the “com” in “Welcome.”  I’m on the upper left.  Hootie is below me, and for reasons unknown, is the only one of us to have fingers.  His left – our right – wing (?) is really long and cuts across another figure’s legs (Zoe, actually) and then those vertical stripes are, I’m told, fingers.  He has a lot of them.  I didn’t ask.  Anyway, as I said, Zoe is next with curly hair, and then there’s Daddy.  She did his hair pretty good, but I’m not sure about the Leno-inspired chin.  She also drew a myriad of balloons and smiley faces.  And one smiley-face balloon.

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Feet dry

My boy comes home today, and I just checked his route on Flytecomm.com.  He’s gone feet dry, meaning: he’s over land, way up north.  Back over North America.

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