drawing a line down the center
Orion made a small hopscotch and was showing the boys how to use it
...Maddox, did you stick the chalk up your nose? "yeah" yeah..you surely did.
Aww nerdies.
Orion's finally picking up his motorcycle today. Well, okay..this is how it goes..Orion bought a motorcycle from a guy on Craigslist. He paid for it..got the papers..whatever, it's his. He doesn't, however, have his license for it yet (they don't take walk-ins anymore, he had to schedule an appointment)..so a friend of his from work who lives down the street from us (Johns) has his license so he's going with O after work to pick it up and Johns will ride it here for him. Just so it's here and not over by Schofield Barracks anymore and ya know..here. I haven't even seen it in person yet..so I'm sure a post with pictures will be up tomorrow or something. Good times.
3 comments:
I like your nerd look!
And sidewalk chalk is so much fun. What a steal you got!
Oh, and love the new wallpaper!
Cute!
And wow, that camera is really amazing, isn't it?
When I was a younger man, I was nearly arrested and hauled off to the hoosegow for chalking flowers in the street, and now I see that we have progressed to a more modern vioew and this lawlessness is actually encouraged and specialty chalks are now sold in our high end stores to promote this once-illegal practice. It all reminds me of my grandpop's numbers racket, which is now legitimized in state lotteries. The times are changing for sure. Here is the poem I wrote about my brushup with the law in those lawless days of yore:
ASPHALT ASSAULT
Three flowers petaled yellow
With leaves of limish green,
The bloom of summer mellow
Where the meadow once had been.
The brightly painted garnish,
Our boulevard bouquet,
Was never meant to tarnish
That mat of charcoal gray.
The blacktop sorely needed
A colored floral frill,
So we with cheer proceeded
To blossom forth until,
In darksome hardtop prowling,
With threats of flashing red,
A paunchy cop came scowling
To that scene of crime outspread.
A lawman harsh with holster,
All brassy to the eyes,
A township tar-patroller,
Who caught us by surprise.
His pants were decorated
With centerlines on seams,
Like highways simulated,
A style the force esteems.
He came to curb our painting
With rasping don’ts and noes,
To keep us all from tainting
That table for the crows.
We heard the rasp condemn our
Plain avenue display
And damn that simple memoir
To beauty stripped away.
With knees of trembling jello,
We fearfully complied;
Three fellows rattled yellow
Put asphalt art aside.
But in the years ensuing
I’ve wandered near and far
And seen the roadmen strewing
Their smears of acrid mar.
They ravage nature’s grandscape
And damage with a scar,
Then crust the dusty landscrape
With graveled gobs of tar.
They level off the living
With blades that chase and kill,
And pave without misgiving
to leave their blackish nil.
And sometimes now in musing,
My mind is all a quiz;
I wonder who’s confusing
What the truly harmful is.
As for the motorcycle, I think you ought to restrict the Hero to riding it only in the stationary mode. This is experience speaking. Now listen to your father, for once. I love you
Dad
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