My dad called me 15 years ago on the 2nd of March. He was upset. My sister was on a helicopter to Reno. It came on suddenly: she didn’t feel very good one day. the next day, she called Dad because she hurt all over and she was frightened. She was married, but she called my dad. 40 years of a love-hate relationship and the first person she turned to was her father.

And he felt helpless. He didn’t know what was wrong with her. This wasn’t her usual hypochondria. This was worse than her bout with Hepatitis C. She’d gone to the hospital in the afternoon one day, and the next day she was in a coma, on the way to Reno’s best hospital.

Six of one/half a dozen of another: when people are flown out of Ely, Nevada, on LifeFlight, they head to Reno or Salt Lake City. Funny that after all these years, I don’t know of anyone who has been flown to Las Vegas. It’s all the same distance: Reno/Salt Lake/Vegas.

I called my prayer chain. I emailed my homeschool support group. I prayed.

March 3, 2000. My sister, my little sister, my baby sister who made my life both frustrating and richer – the sibling I shared a bedroom with for the first 13 years of her life, was gone.

I had not been able to attend her wedding the previous October. She was so excited to finally be getting married to the man she was living with. He was her second husband, but what number he was in the long line of boyfriends was beyond me. For the first time since her divorce from her first husband, her last name was changing legally.

Sometimes, I stretch to remember her. Her laugh. Her black eyes. Her short brow. Her quick smile.

She was slow on the uptake in a family that thrived on one-upping each other. We took turns being the butt of family jokes. She was an extrovert. She walked in her sleep, stole blankets, and bit me. I dropped a glass light fixture on her. She broke my porcelain cat. She had boy friends and I thought all boys had cooties.

I don’t think you ever get over the loss of a sibling.

Somehow, her death always hurts more than the death of our parents. I don’t know if it is because I was close to our parents and my sister was something of an enigma to me, or if it is because my sister and I shared secrets that noone else could share, simply by virtue of being sisters.

She gave up a child for adoption in 1977, the year she graduated from high school. Somewhere, buried in a box, are the letters we exchanged during that painful period of her life. She wanted to keep the baby. The baby’s father wanted her to wait for him to graduate from college, and then they could get married and have a real family (but she would have to be a single mother until then). Our parents wanted her to give the baby up for adoption.

Did I mention she wanted to keep the baby? She was barely 18. No job skills. Dependent on our parents and the boyfriend who wanted her to wait (but he would send support money).

Don’t disparage the boyfriend: my father told me that that boyfriend called once after my sister died. He was hoping to find her, to talk about the past. I think he truly cared, but he was bound by his family’s dreams for him, too, and those dreams did not include the crazy girl who got pregnant.

He was born in October of 1977 at William B. Ririe hospital. My sister mourned him every October, and after my mother passed, so did my father.

I pass these anniversaries. Some hit me harder than others. Today, I was at work, feeling suddenly depressed. What is wrong? I thought.

Oh. March 3. Fifteen years.


This was posted on my youngest niece’s wall on Facebook tonight. It could be my sister. It isn’t; it is her youngest daughter.

She left behind a legacy of broken family and children struggling for identity. Strong children with her bullish will for survival. Children who hardly remember her. Children who will never know her in her bra-less bandana mini-top over wide bell-bottoms or jeans tucked into hip-high boots. Children who will never remember her with her teeth in. Or out. Children who will never remember her as the beauty she was at the age of 17.

I regret every temper tantrum I threw in my high school years because she: dressed like me, messed up our shared bedroom, wanted to talk all night, tried to draw like me, and – GOD FORBID – wore the same clothes on the same day that I did! I regret every time I teased her.

I treasure every gift she gave me, especially the living ones like Buddy the cat, and my nieces and nephews.

I forgive her for breaking my ceramic cat.

I hope her son who was born in 1977 knows he was loved by both of his parents.

Mary Denise Wilcox – SAM!!! – I miss you. I feel you watching me. I miss you so very much. Oh, hey – guess what!? Jessi wants me to paint a picture of her!!

I’ll do my best, Sam. I promise.

*unedited. I can’t reread this. 15 years is hitting me hard.

Gung Hay Fat Choy

We had a little black board next to the door to the “shop” that was built on to the house I grew up in. The black board was the source of our daily instructions and a medium for amusement.

The first “for instance” I can think of is Chinese New Year’s. We’d wake up and stumble into the kitchen for breakfast, and scrawled on the blackboard in our father’s clumsy left-handed print were the words:


Personally, I thought he made that phrase up. He insisted it meant “Happy New Year” in Chinese, but it was too funny to be real… wasn’t it? Turns out, he was as close as he could be. You can write it several ways, but it means (roughly): “Best wishes and Congratulations. Have a prosperous and good year.”

My best friend used out chalk board to post messages of anarchism. She signed her notes: KRAZY KAT

My dad often left notes to KRAZY KAT.

My best friend obviously had no natural fear of my dad, because she replied, often with the most outrageous answers. He couldn’t ground her for weeks on end. (Not that he would have – he loved his give-and-take with Matilda.)

I was thinking about that New Year’s Greeting earlier tonight as we are on the eve of The Year of the Wood Goat/Sheep/Ram (they can’t seem to make up their mind on the ovine nature of the eighth sign of the Chinese Zodiac: is it a goat? or a sheep? It can be a ram either way.)

My father was born in the Year of the Dragon. How cool is that? to be a Dragon? Besides the horse, the Dragon has to be the coolest Chinese Zodiac signs, ever. Dragons are lucky. (Segue to The Neverending Story and the Luck Dragon, possibly the dorkiest animation ever – but I still cry every time Atreyu dies…)

My brother was a Water Snake. I’m not sure what that means, except I remember summers of catching water snakes. “They have tremendous sympathy for others and would like to take actions to help ther <sic> fellow human beings. They are determined to accomplished their goals hate to fail.” Travel China Guide

Possibly why he does Search and Rescue.

My little sister (and my friend, Matilda) was born in the Year of the Pig. “People born in the Year of the Pig are honest and frank, chivalrous and gallant. They have a calm appearance and strong heart. They do whatever they want with their strength. They are tolerant and optimistic, but not until they become your friends can their virtue, advantages and fidelity to friendship be appreciated.” – This would be Mat, to a “T”.

They are quick tempered, but hate arguments and quarreling. They are kind to their loved ones. They treat friend <sic> sincerely and they do not tell lies unless they have to.” Uh – my sister was a pathological liar. But that is another story. And, boy, howdy, was she quick-tempered.

My husband was born in the Year of the Rooster. “The rooster is almost the epitome of fidelity and punctuality. For ancestors who had no alarm clocks, the rooster’s crowing was significant, as it could awaken people to get up and start to work. They are deep thinkers considered to be honest, bright, communicative, ambitious, capable and warm-hearted. Strong self-respect and seldom relying on others are their basic characteristics.”

Um – yea. That’s my husband.

My oldest was born in The Year of the Rat: “People under this sign are usually smart and wealthy and will work for success. They are sanguine and very adaptable, being popular with others. They are also by nature thoughtful, sensible, judiciously and curious.”

Pretty much.

My son was born in the Year of the Tiger. “Tolerance, loyalty, valor, being respected are their nice characteristics. They like challenges and speed and they are active and good at expressing themselves. In their middle age, their fate may be uneven, but afterwards will enjoy a bright prospect. Tigers usually tend to show off before others. They are given to deep thinking and capable of great sympathy, however, they can be short-tempered without interest with long-term endeavor. Sometimes, they come into conflict easily with the seniors and people in authority.”

Our youngest was born in the Year of the Sheep/Goat/Ram (I love how the Chinese can’t decide if it is a sheep or a goat, but they are certain it is a ram). “People born in the Year of Sheep are tender, polite, filial, clever, and kind-hearted. They have special sensitivity to art and beauty and a special fondness for quiet living. They are wise, gentle and compassionate and can cope with business cautiously and circumspectly.” This is also the only page on the web page I have been browsing that turns “cutesy” with a little anime-style goat on it. That is so appropriate for Chrystal.

Our grandchildren are all: Rat (2008), Ox, Tiger, Dragon, Snake, and Horse.

You may have noticed that I skipped myself. And my mother. This is because our Zodiac falls on the sign of the ONE animal in the Animal Kingdom that I truly, wholly, and utterly despise. I can handles snakes, spiders, scorpions, and a whole mess of other creatures, but this one animal is one I consider to be truly evil. I despise it.

My mother and I share the ignominy of being associated with monkeys. I refuse to discuss it any further. Monkeys are vicious, cannibalistic, and just.plain.evil.

It is at this point that if I am to believe in astrology at all, I revert to the “normal” Zodiac. Mom was Aries and I am Scorpio. If you believe that stuff. The mere fact that I am associated with a monkey is enough to discourage me from buying into it at all.

Isn’t enough to just say GUNG HAY FAT CHOY, eat Chinese food, and celebrate another culture for one day? Enough of all this trying to define a person based on the date of their birth. Chill out. Don’t take it seriously. Fate is certainly a lot more that the placement of the stars or the twelve animals of a Zodiac.

I miss the old blackboard in the kitchen. I miss my dad, the Dragon. (Fire-breathing, if you had asked me).


I have this fabulous friend, Dee. I mean, she is fabulous. She is the Recycle Queen (and she doesn’t live in Oregon – she lives in Oklahoma). She hosts a huge summer music gathering every year. She blogs. She sends out a newsletter (Okay, she’s been a little lax on that end). She loves New Orleans. She unschooled her two children. Dee promotes local music and she does pirate cosplay.

She has always been a role model of organization and housekeeping with a good sense of humor thrown in.

She adopted a dog about the same time that Harvey came into my life. Her dog had been shot and left to die in the wilds of Oklahoma, but he was rescued and healed and now has a Forever Home with Dee and her husband.

But Dee (bless her heart) has always driven me nuts. She sets the housekeeping bar pretty high. I could kill for her black-and-white 1950’s kitchen. It’s immaculate. It’s immaculate even after the weekend music party they host every year. (She’ll deny that and even will offer up stories about missing scissors, but I secretly know better.)

Sometimes I wish Dee lived in my own backyard to help us recycle, reuse, and reduce. She’s truly an awesome person.

But get this: she irons her sheets. Not any sheets (like me): she purchases the ones with the highest thread count. I didn’t even know sheets had a thread count until I met Dee. (She would be proud of the set I just purchased for our bed: I actually looked at the thread count and bought… well, cheap micro-fiber ones. But I *did* look at the thread count. That counts, right?)

She was also the first person to point out to me that there were certain “fashion” rules. Well, she wasn’t pointing it out to me, specifically, but she and someone else posted some diatribes about wearing white pants before Memorial Day or after Labor Day. By God, I didn’t even know there were freaking rules about when to wear white pants! What a thing! Who knew you weren’t supposed to wear white pants before or after a certain date?

Okay, Southern Ladies – cool down!! I grew up with a desire to be a horse. When I couldn’t be a horse, I decided I wanted to be a boy. Problem was, I am very heterosexually oriented and soon enough, I had to come to terms with the fact that I like being feminine sometimes. I even got my ears pierced when I was 23 because I like dangly earrings. I’m not a total flop at all this girly-girly stuff.

OK, yes, I am. When my daughter was a toddler, I tried to discourage her from buying anything pink or Mattel. I protested when bicycle manufacturers only produced pink bicycles the year my daughter wanted a bike (what? No green, red, or blue girl’s bikes??). I lost on every front: my daughter loved her dolls, loved her My Little Ponies™, and wanted to be a ballerina.

Tonight, I was browsing Facebook, and I saw this post (in part):

“Mondays are always my longest work day at home. I did three loads of laundry, including our sheets, ironed the pillowcases and remade the bed, ironed about a dozen cloth napkins and a clean bandana for Shiloh, cleaned out the refrigerator, made a batch of apple spice muffins, tidied the whole house, did the HMA events post and shared in several places, posted in most of the pages I manage, practiced piano, meditated, did yoga, walked for 30 minutes on the treadmill, wrote two blog posts, cooked dinner (General Tsos Chicken, Asian slaw, rice, steamed sugar snap peas, pineapple), cleaned the kitchen, got the aquarium ready for a new goldfish, looked up sales and made my shopping list”

Wait. Did I just read that right? She ironed a clean bandana for Shiloh, the dog?

Dee, I hate you. Now Harvey is going to expect the same treatment. My house is a wreck, I never dust, I can’t remember the last time I baked, and something is growing in the back of my refrigerator that is not my sourdough starter.

But, don’t feel alone. I hate Pioneer Woman, too. Over-achieving, homeschooling, tv cooking show host, book writing, super mom.

But I’m addicted to both of you. I wonder if there’s a 12-step program to help me?

January Gardening

Subtitled: I think I tried to kill myself today. Ouch. I hurt. All Over. Definitely going to have to work up to gardening this year!

We are in the midst of a mild El Niño winter. Today was one of those days free of rain and relatively spring-like outside, and so we both decided we would work in the yard.


Don pulled out the blackberries that have taken over our vegetable garden site. We haven’t attempted gardening for the past two or three years, and between the grass and the blackberries… It’s a mess.


This is the project for this summer: the huge pile of blackberries, ivy, and trailing nightshade that has taken up residence between the veggie garden and the shed. I don’t even want to think about it, and after today, I’m pretty sure Don doesn’t want to think about it.

At least he got them out of the vegetable garden site.

Himalayan (or Armenian) Blackberries are the bane of the Pacific Northwest Gardener. These are an imported blackberry that is especially aggressive and noxious. Unfortunately, the berries are wonderfully delicious, and you will often see berry pickers along the sides of the roads, picking these when they are ripe. So a word to the wise: BUY your blackberries from a reputable grower. There’s a plethora of wonderful, non-invasive, tasty blackberries! My personal favorite is the Boysenberry, but the Marionberry is delicious, too.


Me? I attacked two flower beds. The old asters, peonies, and even some of the noxious grass got dealt with. This particular bed is green with purple hyacinths; they come up early in the autumn and stay green until after they bloom in early spring.


But look at this: one of my tree peonies is putting out leaves! Ack! It’s the last day of January, silly plant!

I kind of like this season: I get a sneak preview of what is coming up under the left-over, last-season debris.


I also dead-headed this flower bed: peonies, gladiolas, a lavender, and much more. The grape got hard-pruned earlier. The hardest part is picking up the oak leaves.


We don’t even have an oak tree in our yard. Or a fir tree. But winter and spring are a battlefield of wind-borne detritus from neighbors’ yards. I hate the oak leaves: they provide shelter to snails and slugs. Ugh.


I wanted to tackle the island, too, but I just wore out. So it remains a mess of evening primroses, overgrown oregano, peonies, irises, and Russian sage. We’re going into a week of rainy weather, so it won’t get done for awhile.

I just hurt too much to do any more, Don had already given up the battle (Don:1, Blackberries:0), and the yard debris container was full plus a spare container. It was just plain time to go in.


This is what Harvey did while we gardened. Isn’t that nice? It’s a hole to China. It can’t possibly be that he was hunting the elusive mole.

Have you ever tried to wash a 90-pound dog’s feet off while he’s pulling back from you? No way was I letting him track his fuzzy mud-filled bear paws into my house. I won.


I really don’t know what to say about this. The filbert has four-inch long catkins already.


Or this. Yes, that’s my Camellia. Blooming. In January.


Tomorrow’s job is to clean and refill all the hummingbird feeders. I can’t seem to stay ahead of these greedy little beasts. (I had the wrong lens on to take a photo of her and I think she knew it.)

Adjusting to a New Job

I have a theory on learning. The days that are easy are not the days when you are learning. The days when you make a lot of mistakes and you go home ready to cry – those are the days when the learning is taking place. I have learned to embrace the bad days and weeks because they are the times when whatever I needed to absorb was getting absorbed.

This is in no way a correlation to elementary school. I am an adult and my learning processes have slowed. When I was a kid, I learned quickly and painlessly (except for New Math). My next homeschooling/anti-common core article will deal with that debacle and the similarities of common core. I lived one. My grandchildren are living the other.

Back to the subject at hand: I have had a “bad” week at work. It has been one of the most challenging weeks and I felt like I was going the proverbial one step back after having taken two steps forward. I anticipated this would happen when I switched jobs. I didn’t think – not for a moment – that leaving the old job would entirely remove stress and difficulty out of my life. I was giving up one sort of stress for an unknown factor of stress in a new position.

I have been through multiple software changes in the past 18 months. I am 57 years old and all of these changes have been changes from software to some sort of internet-based programming designed to make life easier for someone, not me. Every single change has been challenging, frustrating (usually because of the lack of online and real-life support and the lack of a hard copy manual). I have had very little training on any of the systems changes and sometimes had to just go in and figure it out for myself.

My change in employment means one more series of changes, all in software or online programs. The laws and rules of Real Estate remain static and I have that down pretty well, but the actual day-to-day working of the particular programs a particular company chooses to employ as tools… Add to that the frustration of language!

My previous coworker was from southern India. Her native language is Tamil. She speaks The Queen’s English (she loved it when I explained to her what that meant: not American English, like I speak, but British English, with its different pronunciations for common words). Her English, however British, is marred with a thick Tamil accent. She still thinks in Tamil.

My latest trainer was from Belgium. Her native language – the language in her head – is French. She thinks in French. Her English (which is considerably more Americanized than my Indian friend) is still punctuated with a heavy French accent.

So, in addition to learning new programs, I have had to be adept at understanding the accents and pronunciations of coworkers. It’s been interesting. (I happen to love languages. Can’t speak another language worth a darn, and I know just enough French, German, or Mexican to get into trouble. My Japanese really sucks: I can count to five.)

Today, I almost brought all my notes home so I could rewrite them on my own time and absorb them. Almost. I set them aside at five minutes to close and told myself: Don’t panic now. It’s only been six weeks. You are expecting too much of yourself. Allow the mistakes. Ask the questions. No one has screamed at you. Yet.

A couple people have strongly suggested I did something wrong, but they have been very patient with me. I apologize that I am stumbling through. I refuse to *not* ask questions, however. I will pester to death anyone willing to answer me (my Belgian trainer has been an Angel!). I am working on an office manual so the next person (a long time down the road because I am not leaving this job any time soon) will be able to step into my position and just open a book to follow the steps.

It’s not just real estate programs (who knew what a plethora of industry-specific programs were out there?!), but the supporting programs as well. The day-to-day processes of onboarding new agents. Understanding how the new company handles referrals. Remembering the steps to input new sales or listings. Emailing everyone about meetings and – gasp!! – picking up the phone to make calls to people.

One thing I love about this new job is that they subjected me to an EQ (Emotional Quotient) Test. They know – and understand – that I am an Introvert and that I operated best in a certain environment. That’s huge to me. My past employer never acknowledged that. They knew that (because I was rather outspoken on the subject – take that pun!), but they did not embrace that.

Tonight, I am tired and I wish the week was over. My brain is stretched. I’ve made a lot of mistakes. I feel like I am not learning or comprehending the job.

Thankfully, I have learned that it is OK to feel that way. This is the week it all gets absorbed into my brain and I am learning the job.

Unlike New Math. I never did get New Math.

My children attended public school during the early years, so most of our fun craft stuff was done on weekends or during summer vacations. In between those times, they had to get up in the mornings to catch the school bus. They liked school. They had great teachers and the school had a great support staff. Those were the years when (for us) public schooling was doing its job.

You need to be an advocate for your child if she is in public school and you are committed to having her there, but you needn’t make an enemy out of the teacher, either. The following vignettes are stories of me advocating for one or another child (or refusing to advocate, as it sometimes happened).

The first incident was when my oldest was in 3rd grade. She was advanced, and she got to spend part of her day in the 4-6 grade classroom. I’m fuzzy on the details, but something was done that caused the teacher in the advanced class to suspect the girls were cheating. Arwen was mortified and hurt. I listened to her side of the story and made a decision: she would ride this out on her own, write an apology to the teacher, and we’d see how things progressed from there. If a pattern of accusation developed, I’d get on my high horse, but for this one incident, I wanted my daughter to understand that adults view things differently and life is not always in our favor. We couldn’t prove she had not cheated (although I believed her and I let her know I believed her).

I don’t recall the consequences the teacher created for the crime, but they were not too excessive, and my daughter survived. There was no pattern of accusation and Arwen became something of a Teacher’s pet with that particular teacher, reinforcing my belief that she was fair. I believe, in the end, the teacher came to believe her accusations had been unfounded, at least in Arwen’s case. She saw a little girl with a conscience who was willing to try to win back the confidence of a favorite teacher.

Levi had a kindergarten teacher who started sending home homework. I understand that is the norm now, but not when I was a young mother. I returned to the school in person, homework in hand, and asked for a meeting. I explained to the teacher that the homework was redundant and I didn’t see any reason why my son should be doing workbooks in Kindergarten. She held a very different point of view. We kept it civil as she pointed out to me how many children come to school and the teacher becomes the focal point of their blossoming education.

I pointed out to her that we, as a family, were constantly reinforcing education by our lifestyle and the family games we played. I used the game “Slug Bug” as my example: you get one point for each VW Beetle, 2 points for a VW Van, 3 points for a VW van with camper pop-out, and 4 if you are lucky enough to spy a VW “truck”. The game is played on the road, the only rules being: it *must be a VW (call a Chevy Van and you lose a point), *no slugging, only calling, *first to call our gets the point(s), and *you have to keep track of your own points. Of course, I kept track of everyone’s points, too, so no cheating. If my son could manage the complicated math to play the game – and do it in his head – then why should he fill out a stupid 2+2=4 worksheet that belongs in the 1st Grade classroom?

I won. My son was set free from paperwork. He moved to the top of the class in no time.

Chrystal came to live with us when she was 10. Her new life coincided with me going back to work full time. The older kids were still home and homeschooling was an option, but I also knew Chrystal was deep in mourning for the loss of her mother and the knowledge of the loss of her father years before. We gave her the choice and she chose public school.

Enter Mrs. Tenure. She had a classroom of 30+ students (thank you, Goals2000 and the constant defunding of curriculum and classroom in favor of superintendents and outside managers for school districts). By the time the December parent-teacher meeting rolled around, Chrystal hated school. She wasn’t making friends (did you know that children pick on orphans? Yeah, sad state of commentary on peer pressure) and she was not blossoming. I sat down with Mrs. Tenure, my usual list of issues in my hand. Arwen’s Kindergarten teacher once told me that “You are the kind of parent a good teacher loves to see coming. A bad teacher doesn’t want to see you coming and will hate you.”

Mrs. Tenure was a Bad Teacher. Our session ended with her heavy sigh, in her heavily tenured manner, “Well, if you want better for her, you should just homeschool her.”

Chrystal did not return to public school after Christmas break.

There were the reading issues as well. I am a Christian, and while we did not go the homeschool route due to religion, it was an underlying foundation. Arwen was nearing the end of her 4th Grade Year when the beloved teacher actually asked the students what book they would like her to read aloud from to end the year out. The vote was overwhelming: something from R.L. Stine’s Goosbumps series. Arwen was certain she should not be listening to this and complained to me.

I went to see the teacher and she assured me the books were not demonic. She even offered to let me take one home to read & decide for myself, which I thought was a wonderful gesture. I accepted the challenge (and read the book overnight). I returned it and told the teacher that she was right – nothing demonic at all about the story line. However, I felt it was way underneath my daughter’s reading level and I thought Arwen’s biggest complaint was the writing style. I asked if Arwen could be given library time to read something more on her level (say, some Rudyard Kipling)? A compromise was met.

My style of advocating was to go in with an agenda, but never to confront the teacher as if she was doing something wrong. I had questions if they had time to address them. I was willing to listen and to research (read a book, for example). But I was never going to back down on what I deemed the quality of their education.

A lot can happen in the walls of a school building. Teasing, peer pressure, fights, suspensions, cheating, accusations of cheating. Most teachers are there for the right reasons. Most education laws are there for the wrong reasons. Teachers are trapped, too. Good ones will listen to you and acknowledge where their hands are tied. Bad ones will lean on their tenure and let out heavy sighs of, “You don’t know how difficult this class is. I have four Special Needs kids and yours is only one of them. I can’t do it all.”

I don’t hate public school or public school teachers. I hate the laws that tie our hands. I will fight to remove teachers who are resting on their laurels due to tenure (they were probably resting on their laurels as young teachers, too – just no one like me confronted them early on).

Good teachers loved me. Bad teachers lost me.

I am taking a little break from the homeschooling posts in order to bring you this.


It says: DEAR GrAnDma i LOVE YoU VOLTRON Love, Zephaniah

Voltron, in case you are unaware, is the Defender of the Universe. He’s a Transformer ™.

I also received this:


My daughter’s handwriting is scrawled across the bottom: Bad Voltron.

The other side reads (in my daughter’s hand):

Dear Grandma.

I hope you give me this present for my birthday. (Don’t worry, I’ve warned him it doesn’t exist) I love you.



My husband said, “Why can’t we give him that?

Me, “Because Voltron is a GOOD guy. There’s no ‘bad’ Voltron.”

But that’s not even the best part. The best part is the back of the envelope.


HAHAHA! He must have been pretty proud of that picture.

I love my grandsons. Even the ones who can’t bear to part with their artwork.



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