Driving Home: A Point
Tonight, up our winding dirt road crossed by fog curtains, my oldest son practiced driving. Essentially skilled, he began tremulously and finished like a Nascar racer. Thus, with Apologies to Alfred Lord Tennyson and one of my favorite poems “The Eagle:”
Is This Legal?
He grasps the wheel with crooked hands,
Close to his mom in lonely lands,
Ignoring all her careful plans.
The wrinkled road before him calls;
He grabs the clutch… and stalls.
Then, like a thunderbolt, he hauls………….!
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I’m sure that’s not quite the way that poem went when Clay recited it at the ripe old age of …. was it 3?
I’m sure that’s not quite the way that poem went when Clay recited it at the ripe old age of …. was it 3?
I’ll never forget the sight of him jumping out of your armchair crowing, “And like a Funderboldt, he falls!”
I’ll never forget the sight of him jumping out of your armchair crowing, “And like a Funderboldt, he falls!”
Are you okay? Do you need candy? Or hair dye?
Are you okay? Do you need candy? Or hair dye?
Chocolate….Lots of chocolate!
Chocolate….Lots of chocolate!