Three stories

Story Number One
A couple days ago our dead Christmas tree showed up on our back yard. We had properly disposed of the tree by tossing it on the burn pile, but we had neglected to properly dispose of the burn pile. Meaning, we haven’t burned it.

So anyway, the other day I looked out my window and there was a very dead Christmas tree in the yard, a chain around its trunk and my daughter astride the tree, horseback-riding fashion. The other end of the chain was attached to the back of the mower. My son was siting on the mower.

Are you getting the picture? Here, let me help.

Now do you get the picture?

This was serious business, this tree-riding exercise. They fashioned a seat (saddle?) out of an old pillow and gave the younger sibs riding lessons.

Correct turnage was of utmost importance.

(Note my baby’s shoes. He’s wearing my only decent pair of flip-flops.)

I am not a fan of joy riding. Senseless fuel-burning and jetting all over God’s creation is not my idea of a good kind of fun. But I forestalled putting the brakes on such a creative venture, remembering all too well my own pre-teen craving for motorized fun (some of my most vivid fantasies had me in the driver’s seat of go-carts, bumper cars, and mowers).

Then my husband came home, watched for a minute, witnessed a near accident and put a stop to the fun.

The end.

Story Number Two
My oldest son thought he wanted to grow out his hair. I wasn’t too fond of assuming the role of Mother of Hairy Mammoth, but I kept my mouth shut.

Except for enforcing daily hair washes.

And then on Sunday morning, after watching his papa cut his hair, the Hairy Mammoth decided it might be fun to follow suit.

So he did.

Aside from carving a couple race tracks in the back of his head, he did a pretty fair job.

The end.

Story Number Three

I have no words.

The end.

This same time, years previous: oven fries


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