“Stand here. Watch this,” said Drake to hen. “I’ll quack (taking the initiative), and she will toss us some mixed grains.”
“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.
My mom and I were playing catch in Otis’s back yard. My mom’s a terrible tosser.
“The picture you see here from Santa Fe is me, laying in a bed of clover,”
“Still, it was pretty funny,” said Scooter. “Until I hear you say that bad word.”
Have you ever smelled California’s Central Valley? Oh my! It is glorious.
I very nearly started to tell you about the massive jet tub that occupies a third of the suite’s space.