Saturday, September 28, 2013
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Monday, September 23, 2013
Ooh! Belated happy autumn equinox! (I confess, I'm more of a spring equinox kind do guy — longering days and shortering nights — but in my book, any major solar calendar event is a cool thing.)
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Saturday, September 21, 2013
His name is DJ Tiny, a ridiculous name, one that Louise made up in a silly riff on what we would call him during his "temporary" stay, but it stuck; so "DJ Tiny" he is, "DJ" for short, (or "Tiny", and I sometimes like to call him "Biggie Smalls"). He's three months old and barely over three pounds./1 He is, as best as we can tell, Chihuahua plus somethin'-somethin'./2 He's absurd and cuddly and crushingly cute.
Welcome to the family, DJ.
1 Sarah went to the store to buy him a harness so we could walk him. The dog harnesses were all way too big. The cat harnesses were too big. The only thing that fits him is a kitten harness.
2 We're not "small dog people", but he's not the least bit yippy, doesn't have that uber-hyper demeanor some little dogs have. He's more like an incredibly goofy cat.
Friday, September 20, 2013
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Thursday, September 05, 2013
Wednesday, September 04, 2013
I'm allowed to occasionally brag about my kids, right? So there's this Louisiana Writes contest: school kids from all across the state submit writings in various categories, many hundreds of submissions. And my Lulu, my lil' miss poet, won third place in the poetry category. The poem:
The Weaver’s Tree had been around longer than anyone could remember.Not too shabby for a twelve-year-old. I'm a proud papa.
It’s glossy green leaves never darkened,
never fell to the ground in autumn.
The roots rambled over the ground.
They ran away from the trunk,
like people from a fire,
spreading in all directions.
In the spring, apples hung from the boughs of the tree
like a child clinging to the monkey bars.
They would drop, untouched,
to the soft grass of the meadow.
And the air would drip with the sickly sweet smell of rotten fruit
until the summer rain would wash it away