This is so awesome. Sooo very awesome. I have a new title. I am now, officially, as proclaimed by my son, The Crusher of Dreams.
I've earned the title over time, with many incidents proving my worthiness of it, because I am -- after all -- a parent. But my title was not until today bestowed upon me. And bestowed upon me with all of the melodrama such a title deserves.
What, you ask, has brought me this honor?
More accurately, parts of a piano. The disintegrating corpse of a piano currently basking in the twilight behind the middle school cafeteria on a large furniture dolly. Legless, lidless, and missing several keys, my son wants this piano for its nostalgic and historic value.
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Three weeks ago, my dad called me with questions. By his tone and the less-than-subtle hint of frustration in his voice, these were very pressing questions:
So when my dad called me on a Wednesday afternoon and asked for help, there was no question. I picked up @ from school and arranged to have TG take him to to school the next morning. My a-m-a-z-i-n-g neighbors agreed to pick him up in the afternoon. I threw some empty boxes in the truck and drove toward a forest fire.
Why do we have so many damn towels?
Where in the hell did all of these sheets come from?
What am I supposed to do with all these damn towels?
Who needs this many towels?
Then two weeks ago, on a Thursday morning, it was abundantly clear why we had
I come by my hesitance to ask for help honestly. It's inherited. Hobbled after a foot surgery, X gave me a bell so I could ring for help when I needed it. Me? Need? Help? True to form, I would wait until he was out of the house, then hop around to get what I needed.
|That's not fog in them thar hills, it's smoke. Lots of it.|
Started by an arsonist on a Saturday evening, the fire had covered more than 20,000 acres by the time I arrived at my dad's house late Wednesday night. By Thursday morning at 7a, the King Fire had made a massive 15-mile run north and expanded by 40,000 acres -- with zero containment. By 10a, I was running out of towels as I wrapped valuables.