Assortment

High Kick

Several years ago, when we were young and newly married, we found ourselves soaking up the long sunshine of a summer's day as we walked along a graveled beach in Alaska.  Bald eagles, nearly as thick as seagulls are on most beaches, were perched and patiently awaiting a salmon's fateful hour.  Here and there, other people were strolling along, much like we were just then. 

A carefree band of teenagers caught our attention as they passed by.  After watching them for a while, it was obvious that one guy, in particular, was twitterpated over a girl in the group, and clearly, he wanted her to get that message. 

It was the way he went about showing her, that we've never forgotten.  He started high-kicking her.  Not really kicking her, of course, but kicking at her from a safe distance, just to show her that he could. 

Bam!  Ka-Pow!  Spin!  Bam!  Spin-Ka-Pow!

We watched the high-kick show all the way down the beach, and decided that the higher you high-kick a girl, the more you like her.  It was like a human version of an animal's strange mating dance.  This love-sick boy was giving it his best shot, and was desperately hoping that the girl would be impressed. 

We never knew what resulted from his high-kick dance, but for the sake of his little twitterpated heart, we hoped that she was impressed, too.

The high-kick.  The two of us have never forgotten it.  He hasn't.  I haven't.   

Every so often, as our years have run along, my guy will lean over to me and say, "I'm high-kickin' ya."

And I know. 

So, just the other day, when my phone rang with instructions to drive out to an open space between two fields, I did.

 

An easy bank left, and he came back again, from the other direction: 

  

And this, without my zoom lens, mind you.

He was high-kickin' me.

Patch

After twisting and turning down some country roads, our big yellow bus finally stopped.

An old red Hollis Allis-Chalmers was waiting to load us up into its wagon full of straw, and take us down a two-track road in a growly, puttery sort of way.  The blue sky let the sun shine its brightest as our ride wound between some low hills, and out toward a freshly plowed field.

Somebody started singing Old McDonald. 

When Hollis Allis-Chalmers growled to a stop, there before us was what we'd come for - PUMPKINS!

 

Acres of pumpkins to search and find!

I'm sorry, I can't help but say, "You can't do this in Florida!"

My sincere apologies to all Floridians.  I'm so thankful that there are trucks that haul loads of pumpkins down to you, so that you can have a pumpkin patch experience, too. 

A sort of pumpkin patch experience.

My advice to you?  Drink deeply of every photo here.  Lick up every drop.  This is the real deal.  (We're not going to even mention, here, that you have an ocean, and we don't.)

  

 

 

Those smiles there?  They lasted all the way home on the big yellow bus.

Quite a Ride

Hello, hello!

So good to be back here with you all!  Thanks for the little time away for rest.  I needed that, though by the end of the week, I was painting walls, sewing, straightening closets, trimming bushes, and washing windows - all in my head of course, but it was a clear sign that I needed to be well!  (Notice that laundry was not part of that list.  I don't do laundry in my head.)

I was able to muster my strength one day, at the tail end of the week, and go with the boys on a fun adventure, because I just couldn't miss this face:

You know how you have to experience them experiencing that?

 

Exactly.

 

 

Um, if I'm not mistaken, this boy's very first ride on a school bus is topping his charts!

 

 

Where were we going?  Ah, I'll show all tomorrow.  I just don't want to rush off to that part of the adventure, and miss this part.  Just look for a moment, at these bus riders.  Grandmas with grandkids, daddys with daughters, mamas with sons, buddies with buddies. 

 

I love the multi-generationalism(?) of it.  Love the anticipation you feel when you see the inside of this big yellow bus.  It's a story, right before your eyes.  If I'm not mistaken, it's a classic Norman Rockwell scene. 

Norman?  Norman!  Where are you?

Can you come back and paint this scene for me?

Or, Norman, how about this one?

Norman?

 

 

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P.S.  For those of you who came here looking for Funnies on Sunday! yesterday, hold onto your hats!  Beginning next week, a new, fresh, and funny strip called, The Wild Hairs, will be hitting these pages!  You just never know what a ten-year-old boy might come up with.  Keep your eyes peeled!