I’ve asked a few of my blogging friend (strange or otherwise) about writing guest posts on the CD.
Graciously, they’ve accepted. If I could catch up on email, maybe we could iron out the details. I will, someday soon. Until then … here’s a random sampling, once again, of the photos I manage to shoot from my $20 Android (on sale from $30).*
*-before my children can say, “dad, your phone sucks. I’ll take the picture and send it to you.” (Now, if I could get them to do that, but to wash my car instead.)
Enjoy the shots, and if you’re the prayin’ type, toss one in for ol’ Gabi. My faithful Grand-Am will be called upon today to make the first of many climbs up the mountains to get to Warren Wilson – this time to leave my biggest baby for the time being.
Exhibit A of how my kids are right – my phone takes lousy photos. I probably had cheese remnants on the lens as I snapped this rainbow shot (squint and you can see it!) after getting my girls off to training somewhere.
Each time I fly, I wish Grace could be there. Here’s my approach to Boston on a work trip. What a trip. I missed my flight because the airline wanted $180 more. I got it sorted, and missed all but the end of the meeting I went for.
More Boston, and apologies for the fuzziness. This old building sat opposite my hotel. I imagined a kid opening a window on a hot summer evening, maybe even sneaking out to the landing to sit and watch the city below. I would have.
Here’s the girl we’re moving into her new campus digs, maybe as you’re reading this. She’s reading her acceptance letter. Warren Wilson’s a perfect home for her. Her admissions advisor could be my favorite American this side of Hope Solo.
I find some cool stuff on the disc golf course. The Joker lurked in a wooded area where I’d flung many a disc. He’s a squirt toy, which ranks as awesome. Maybe an awesome squirt toy in his prime. I just tried to fill him up, and he leaked all over my backpack.
We tend not to waste much in my family. This egg met an untimely immovable force, and suffered fatal damage to the non-frontal lobe during Easter-egg painting. No matter. Marie slapped on the appropriate face and we appreciated him.
Graduation Day became noteworthy for many things, not the least of which the convergence of my three daughters, wearing dresses. Here are two. The other, probably, has found a tree to climb.
I picked up my third ace on a chilly morning months ago. It came on a symbolic hole. It’s straightaway, not long, and I’ve come close before. It came as an important closure milestone for me. I stopped and shed a few before playing on.
This sweet kid. Every year, I chaperone a trip uptown for a theater workshop. I get to see Grace perform, and have lunch with her and her friends in Romare Bearden Park. I took her picture here a year ago. We’ll find this tree again next spring.
I bought a single ticket to Fenway to watch the Sox and Indians. A gaggle of millennials sat behind me. I kept my eyes fixed on home plate. When you’re a 40-something dude at a baseball game on a Friday night by yourself, it’s best that way.
They carried on with millennial talk and drinks spilled and vague interest in the game. One lamented a birth control pill lost in her boyfriend’s gear stick (not a metaphor.) One tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “you think she’ll be okay without it?”
I gave an answer that made them laugh that only they and I will know, and suddenly, had fast friends at Fenway. Here’s the gang. I don’t know any of their names.