Taking a peek from the kitchen window, an eager three-year old girl watches her Dad and older brother working in the backyard. With the final, late autumn rush of fallen leaves completed, they are raking up the annual harvest.
Bursting with excitement, Lydia enjoys the pile of colorful leaves growing wider and deeper. She asks her Mom, “May I go out in the backyard to play?”
In the meantime, Dad and brother have moved to the front yard to clean up the few remaining leaves hiding under some bushes. The enormous leaf pile is waiting for a little princess to share her imagination.
With permission granted, Mom makes sure her precious daughter is wearing a jacket. There is a subtle crispness to the autumn afternoon’s air. The jacket’s collage of color will make a pretty complement to the orange, red, yellow, and rust colors of the leaves.
Dashing out the back door, Lydia sprints as fast as her three-year old legs will allow. Upon reaching the mountain of leaves, she dives right into the middle. Quickly, she begins swimming, and her helicopter arms swish the leaves away.
Sitting in her newly formed crater, she feels like a captain of a ship. Surrounded by a protective ring of color, she looks to be quite in charge.
Suddenly, she is joined by her older sister. Now Lydia can enjoy her autumn paradise even more. The two girls, several years apart in age, create their own universe in the backyard.
Swimming and thrashing about, the leaves begin to scatter. What could make this even more fun?
Mom arrives with her answer, as she jumps right into the middle of the playful scene. Now the trio of ladies has fully taken over the once mountainous pile of leaves. With each animated action, the depth of the pile shrinks as it scatters wider and wider.
Eventually the laughter and fun invite Dad and brother. As they approach the backyard to see what’s up, they stop and smile. True, their hard work has been strewn about, but family fun like this only comes along once a year.
They both join in with the others. Leaves are being thrown in the air, and bits and pieces cling to hair and clothes. In the middle of it all, smiles an innocent-looking three-year old. Her precious expression says it all, “Can we do this tomorrow?”
Hello Big Sky Buckeye readers! I am a housewife who has a story to share with you. My dear husband is a great guy and a loving spouse, but I do have issues with his home maintenance skills.
I guess it is okay to tell you more here. Just don’t tell my husband . . . okay?
My hubby’s toolbox is home for his most precious tools. Fortunately, one particular tool is no longer found in his toolbox. Please allow me to tell you why.
Every home has a bathroom commode (or as we Americans say, a toilet). I think commode sounds much more elegant, and my home is definitely a beautiful place.
The commode “always” needs to be in perfect working order, and routine maintenance is sometimes required. This aging commode needs a facelift as its seat is cracked. Hubby says he can buy a new one and install it in a flash. I remember him telling me, “No problem.”
Wives, have you ever heard your husband say the same thing? Sometimes a “simple” job turns into a nightmare.
The rest of what I tell you comes directly from my dear hubby’s mouth (after he confessed to me all of the dreary facts).
A commode seat is attached to the porcelain bowl with a pair of bolts and nuts. Seeing that this commode is an older model, the metal bolts and nuts have rusted together because of the passage of time and bathroom moisture.
My poor hubby strains and works to free up the nut on each bolt, but he is experiencing extra frustration. He tries a couple of different wrenches, but the bolt and nut remain sealed for eternity (or so it seems to him).
But ah! My hubby’s toolbox contains other usual devices. He comes back to the bathroom with a hammer and a chisel. (I kid you not!) He plans to be careful, and a gentle nudge from the chisel will break off the rusted nut from each bolt. I can just hear him saying, “This chisel will do the trick.”
Lying back under the commode to insure he has a proper angle, hubby positions the chisel carefully against the nut. With a graceful swing of the hammer, everything will be okay.
Right?
Oh, so wrong!
The chisel slips off the nut, and the hammer busts out a small hole in the porcelain bowl. Now, you know what husbands do when disaster hits. They run out to the garage for a “deep thinking” session.
You know ladies; it is good to give your husband some space when he is working on a home maintenance project. However, I become curious and wander into the bathroom to check on hubby’s progress.
Thinking he is finished, I decide to help him clean up. (He has thoughtfully taken the hammer and chisel with him.) There are some shavings of some kind in the bowl so I decide to flush them down and away.
Oh my! I flush the commode, and the mother of all floods rushes onto my pristine bathroom floor. With water everywhere, I sprint to the garage to locate my “deep thinking” hubby, who is in deep water now.
Well, let’s wrap up this story before I become aggravated again, and you all enjoy more laughs at my poor hubby’s expense. We now have a three-color commode with slightly differing shades of color for the seat, the bowl, and the original tank.
Yes, my husband manages to replace the seat, but he needs to return to Home Depot to purchase a new porcelain bowl. We won’t even go into the rest of the mess he makes in replacing the bowl . . . oh my goodness!
Hubby’s chisel now hangs in the garage since it has been banished from sitting in his toolbox ever again. Next to the chisel, rests a note (from yours truly). The note states, “Remember to Always Think.”
Wives (and husbands), can I let you in on a quick tip? Always call a professional!
Living in a small mountain village, Earl remained a mystery to most of the local folks. The crotchety and ill-tempered man stayed away from all but a couple of acquaintances.
Earl’s rundown shack sat at the very edge of town. Seeing that others viewed him as an outsider, the home’s remote location suited him just fine.
Earl’s mean streak blazed away every night. On his front porch, the self-proclaimed hermit played a never-ending recording of a haunting sound. A wolf’s howling kept others away . . . critters, trespassers, and just about anything else.
Staying up well past midnight, Earl enjoyed his isolation. No one dared to drop in because of the eerie, crying sound.
At bedtime, Earl turned off the repetitive recording. After all, he looked forward to his own peaceful night of sleep.
On this cold and snowy winter night, nature would even up the score at the expense of this mean-spirited man.
In the middle of a full-moon nightscape at exactly three o’clock, a cagey wolf slipped into the quiet town. His hunger brought him right up to Earl’s front porch. Perhaps he smelled a remnant of supper’s beef stew.
With the moon glowing overhead, surrounded by the blackened sky, the forlorn wolf let out a riveting, howling cry.
Earl stirred awake upon hearing the piercing, deafening sound from right below his upstairs bedroom window. Realizing the sound was from a hungry wolf, sent shudders throughout Earl’s now-frozen body.
His teeth would have chattered, except his false teeth were sitting by the bathroom sink. Unable to scream, Earl buried himself under the bed’s heavy blankets. Even then, his body was shivering from the coldness of the wolf’s constant howling.
Awake for a few more hours, Earl never could return to sleep. Shaking with fear, the old fella had finally met his match. Just before sunrise, the wolf scampered away, unseen by anyone.
Wide awake, exhausted, and overcome with terror, Earl wondered what the next night could bring.
Few people have heard of the famous naturalist and wildlife photographer William Xavier Knox. His life has been one amazing adventure of finding the unexplored, the unexplained, and the unusual. Billy’s dreams have become quite legendary.
A few winters ago, Billy survived a scrap with a polar snake up in the Great White North. He had been hoping to finally capture a picture of the elusive Arctic snake crossing the frozen tundra. Instead, he nearly fell to his death in a large crevice in the ice. Fortunately for Billy, his pick axe held firmly while he pulled himself up to safety.
Emulating some of his shutterbug heroes, Billy harbors hopes of becoming a revered wildlife photographer. With his treasured camera, he is still waiting to capture that “once in a lifetime” shot.
None of Billy’s photography has been published yet. He relies on “word of mouth” to carry the message of his work. After all, he figures this is the best approach because he doesn’t want people stampeding into nature’s quiet landscapes.
Unfortunately, few people have met up with Billy. Even fewer people have ever heard of this almost forgotten wildlife photographer. Nonetheless, he has huge plans for the future of his work.
A determined Billy is currently traveling across the eastern third of the “Cowboy State” of Wyoming. The upper plateau and plains are home to many exotic animals.
A freak of nature, this fearsome critter has never been captured on film. A cross between a jack rabbit and an antelope has produced a mysterious creature called a Jackalope. Unfortunately for Billy, someone else has successfully photographed this Jackalope a few days ago. All Billy can say is, “Geez, another one got away!”
Billy’s next appointment takes him to the Pacific Northwest. He plans to search the thick rainforests of the mountains for the elusive Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus.
Left: Wyoming’s Jackalope. Right: Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus. (Courtesy of Pinterest)
As Billy arrives in the area, he is informed that a website already features his prized target. When interviewed, Billy disappointedly explains, “Why am I always coming in second when trying to capture these prizes of nature?”
Winking at him and smiling, she smartly asks Billy, “Do you really believe in these odd species of nature?”
Billy pauses and thinks for a second or two before smiling back, “Well, if I didn’t, there goes my photography career. Right down into my musty basement, filled with old photographs.”
Billy’s mind is beginning to stir to semi-consciousness. A gloomy vision clouds his mind, and he begins to wrestle with it.
He is busy photographing school children across the country for those dreaded school portraits. Someone adds, “You’ll know when he has reached your school. Just look for his personalized license plate: CRZYPCS.”
Waking up from his long, overnight nap, a sleepy-eyed Billy wanders out into the kitchen of his family’s Wyoming ranch house. His grandfather is browsing a book, and he welcomes Billy to their usual morning time together.
Grandfather asks, “How did you sleep young man?”
“Just terrible!” replies Billy as he rubs his ten-year old eyes. “I had a horrible dream about being a school photographer. You know . . . the one who takes those awful photos for school yearbooks and student portrait packets to send home.”
His grandfather pauses and places the book on the table, “You don’t say!”
Billy glances at the book, and he smiles up at the author of the book, William Xavier Knox. His grandfather is a world-renowned wildlife photographer.
A bewildered and frustrated Sgt. Joe Friday has been working on a cold case for several weeks.
Despite his best efforts, the renowned detective can’t pin the rap on Willy Martin, a notorious bank robber. A cool $100,000 has been snatched away from the First National Bank, all in large bills (aka “Benjamin Franklin’s $100).
Sitting at his desk and checking his notes, Friday’s thoughts keep coming back to the same pattern of thinking. Since the money remains hot, it is very doubtful that Willy Martin has put any of the money back into circulation. He’s been under surveillance for weeks, but he hasn’t made any suspicious moves.
Every Saturday morning, Friday meets up with his retired partner, Bill Gannon. They hang out at their favorite coffee shop and trade war stories from their past cases.
Bill is telling a story about a funny situation which recently took place in Ohio. He recalls the situation, “A grandmother’s $25,000 went missing from her home. It was her life savings.”
Friday continues listening, but he is just about filled up with coffee and conversation. His mind keeps working overtime on the cold case.
Bill’s version of the story begins to become more interesting to his former partner, “No one knew where the money went. Her grandchildren helped clean her house one day. They were very thorough, even emptying out the old, spoiled food from her refrigerator and freezer.”
Friday eagerly waits for the story’s finale, as Bill wraps it up, “Her money was stored in the freezer in an envelope, and it was accidentally thrown away. Fortunately, the trash truck operator found the cold cash before it ended up at the landfill.”
“Bingo! Cold cash!” Friday jumps up and thanks Bill for the hot tip. As his good friend hustles out the door, Bill wonders what is really up.
On Monday, he heads across town to ask a judge for another search warrant. The warrant is for Willy Martin’s grandma’s house, more specifically her freezer. There is a large chest freezer submerged in the depths of her basement.
When Friday shows up at grandma’s door, she seems a bit shocked to see him again. After all, he searched the entire house several days ago, and nothing was found. Except, this time the determined Sgt. Friday remembers the freezer in the basement.
With the efficiency of a well-seasoned detective, Friday quickly removes the contents from the overflowing freezer. Hiding at the bottom of the freezer is a false floor. He tears open the heavy cardboard to find several envelopes hiding out down below.
As he checks the contents of several sealed envelopes, he discovers the missing loot. All $100,000 of it! Even Benjamin Franklin is winking back at the detective, “Honesty is the best policy.”
The detective reads grandma her rights. Then she suddenly begins singing like a parakeet, “I never knew what Willy put in my freezer. Honest Sgt. Friday. He promised me everything was okay while he stayed hidden from the heat, who was checking on his every move.”
Sgt. Friday replies back, “Well, crime doesn’t pay when you are asked to take the heat for hiding someone else’s cold cash.”
While the storied detective calls to make arrangements for officers to pick up Willy Martin, he finally begins to relax. This challenging cold case has been solved.
From 1968, this little league team would be searching its field of dreams.
Little League baseball fills many youngsters’ late spring and early summer with dreams. For their love of the game comes to life with another season.
America’s pastime sparkles in the Magic City each summer. One of their own, Dave McNally, pitches for the Baltimore Orioles in the big leagues, and he has earned a World Series ring.
Boys throughout the city dream of filling those shoes of their local baseball hero. Alas, one team seems left outside the baselines, experiencing very little success.
They are called “Baseball’s Misfits” in the Central Heights League. Sponsored by the local Masonic Lodge, their nickname is the Masons. Over the past few seasons, many have labeled the team with stinging epitaphs. Other boys can sometimes be so cruel.
Cellar Dwellers!
Losers!
Last Place!
Their uniforms look like they are several seasons past their prime. The fading numbers and letters perfectly describe the team’s fortunes over the past couple of seasons . . . zero wins!
Could fortunes be changing for this band of misfits?
A new coach arrives on the scene, with a refreshing outlook for this team. Coach Pete, assisted by Zup, brings along his three sons, and they join a roster filled with a Laird, Zupan, Luetke, Olson, and a trio of Hjellum’s.
A sense of confidence begins to brew among the players. Could their field of dreams finally come true?
With coaches Pete and Zup guiding, the team learns more about the game. They teach and reteach, with patience and conviction, baseball’s fundamentals. More importantly, they build a positive spirit within the team.
The season rolls out, and the boys take the field with a new sense of believing in their field of dreams. However, other contending teams still look down at these former misfits. Watching the Masons, they see new coaches, a few added players, and the same old, fading uniforms. Sorry boys, not this season!
Playing through their schedule, the boys match wins with the other top team. People begin to take notice of this new team on the block. They look legitimate.
Entering the final game, the team needs one more win to capture the league championship. Fueled by past disappointments and demeaning ridicule, their destiny will now be fulfilled. League Champions!
Taking their championship dreams one step further, the team moves on to the city tournament. Here awaits a field of champions from the other neighborhood leagues in the city.
Losing in the semifinals dashes their ultimate dream. Despite the tears, the boys have experienced an amazing season, fulfilling their summer of dreams.
Special Note: While this account has been embellished a bit, the story is true. I had the pleasure to play on this team as a 12-year old. If you go back to the picture, you can find my Dad and two brothers (far left in the back, Coach Pete; front row far left, Doug; front row far right, Greg; and in the second row, second from the right is yours truly).
Today’s guest post is written by one of my grandsons, who enjoys playing club and high school soccer. He has allowed me to share his story with you. Enjoy a look at his personal journey.
The budding writer and determined middle fielder defending against an opponent in the spring of 2017. Note the stocking hat, it was a cold and damp day.
July, 2014
“Can I just keep playing football instead,” I asked as I started to feel adversity in my path to the NFL. My face was contorted with confusion and frustration, as no matter what I said, my parents came up with an answer to contradict my arguments. “There are small people who play football too!” My mom replied calmly, “I just don’t think it’s safe for you to be playing football, with all of the injuries that could happen, and especially because you’re smaller.” My dad then explained all about how I could be a great soccer player, with how fast and athletic I was. As the dreaded conversation lagged on, I felt my hopes and dreams draining out the window, the aspiration to go to the NFL fading, the whole world seeming to crush on top of my little 8 year old self. “Okay, I guess I’ll try it,” I said gloomily. Little did I know how much those few words could impact my whole future and how it would play out.
***
December 13, 2019 (10:30 AM)
The Super Y League Finals. In Florida. On the best complex I’ve ever played. This is the real deal. My inner thoughts poured inside my brain as I started to feel the magnitude of the situation. As I sat there in the car with my dad, my hands were fidgeting with nervousness and excitement, the anticipation getting to me. I started to lace up my black Adidas cleats, reminding myself that I have a job to do on the field, reminding myself to work as hard as I can, and reminding myself to tackle the task in front of me. “Hey bud,” my dad began. “Are you nervous?” “Yeah, quite a bit,” I replied. A short pause. “Hey, don’t worry about those small mistakes. If you make a bad pass, go back and get the ball back. If you get beat on defense, recover and work hard to get the ball back. All you can do is work as hard as you can and put in 110% in everything you do. And that’s not just on the soccer field. That’s also in school, in church, and how you act on a daily basis. You’ll face adversity in life, but sometimes you just have to take on that adversity head on.” Now a bit more motivated, my laces all tight and snug, I stepped out of the car. The Florida sun was already beaming onto me, opening up pores where sweat was impatiently waiting to be released. The bright green Bermuda grass was cut short, with mowing lines still imprinted on the pitch. Despite having about 45 minutes till kickoff, a couple of my teammates were already there, nervously chatting about what could be the biggest few games we’ve played as a team so far. “Let’s go,” I said to myself as I stepped onto the field, making my way towards my teammates. The pressure of the game has gotten to my head, adversity staring in front of me again, waiting to be fought.
***
September, 2014
The tires of the white Honda Pilot rumbled along the gravel road towards a small grass field surrounded by a dense forest. While making our way towards the field, my heart started beating a bit faster. This is going to be much different than football practice, I thought to myself. “You’ll be fine out there. You’re fast. You’re athletic. All of the players had to learn at one point,” my mom noted, almost reading my mind at that moment. I got out of the car with Jack, one of my closest friends, to try this whole soccer thing out with his team. My new bright yellow cleats, still clutched in my hand waiting to be put on, were reflecting off the bright sunshine as I walked nervously to greet what will be my new teammates and friends in the future. Going up to the coach, Jack talks first: “Hey coach Lazaro, this is Caden. He’s just here to practice and see how he feels about soccer.” “Nice to meet you Caden. Alright, let’s see if you can play.” I, being a shyer person, was quiet during the introduction, unsure what to think about the coach, and the situation as a whole. Now putting on those yellow Nike cleats, I felt a sliver of hope, feeling that this could be the sport I end up playing, the sport that develops me as a person, and the sport that grows me physically, mentally, and spiritually.
***
December 13, 2019 (11:30 AM)
Barcelona United was warming up on the side of the field, preparing for the first match of the infamous Super Y League Finals. Nervousness was visible in the teammates’ appearance, contrasting with the fire in each and every one of their eyes. In spite of the pressure of the game, I knew that I still had a job to do on the field and to overcome the challenge the game entails. With 5 minutes left until the game starts, Coach Ika (my 2nd coach I played for at Barcelona United) called us back over to the bench.
“Alright, this is it. This is what all of our blood, sweat, and tears all came together for. I’ve seen how good this team can play. In fact, I believe that we can be one of the best teams in the country, but that’s only if we work together as a team, and everyone plays their role to the fullest. Wingers, stay wide and make runs down the flank. Defenders, play it safe and contain. I don’t want us to be playing a long ball game as our strategy, but if it is needed in the back, clear the ball out. Midfielders, distribute the ball to our wingers and strikers, and play aggressively on 50/50 balls to win the ball back in the middle of the field. The other team has this tall and fast center mid who they like to distribute the ball through. Stay tight with him, and deny him the ball. I already told you guys the starting lineup, so let’s come out here and work. We didn’t fly all this way to get blown out every single game. Okay, let’s go, hands in.”
“Barça on 3, 1 2 3 Barça!,” we all shout as we head onto the field. I stand right in the center of our half of the field, positioning in the center mid spot. The cleats, inching into the short-cut grass, were ready for the task in hand, ready to tackle the opposition.
***
December 13, 2019 (11:45 AM)
As the referee blew the whistle, everything started to go in slow motion. I raced up to mark a man in the middle while the opposing team played the ball back to their defense. The right back played a long ball down the sideline to the winger, the ball traveling as close to the boundary as possible without going out. The winger took the ball down the sideline, beat our outside defender, crossed it in, and their striker immediately found the ball and placed it into the back of the net. Within 2 minutes of the start time, we were already down 1-0. This could be a long game, I dreadingly thought. The opposing team’s audience erupted, drowning out Coach Ika’s remarks to the defense. Adversity was now mocking us, questioning whether we should even belong in this tournament. 15 minutes has passed without a goal, with our team controlling most of the possession of the ball despite being down. Suddenly, a corner kick was given to us. Our captain leisurely went up to take the kick, and lofted a beautiful ball into the center of the box. The goalie punched it out, but right to one of our defenders sitting at the top of the box. He took a crack at the ball, and it deflected off one opposing player and went into the net. 1-1. The other team kicked off again, passing the ball back to their defender, when that defender fumbled the ball and our striker immediately took advantage of it, stealing the ball and taking it downfield to eventually score in the side netting of the goal. 2-1. Another 20 minutes later, we scored again, this time a shot outside of the box curling inside the far post. By now the pressure has gone out the window, our team gliding down the field, connecting one by one to each other, or like my coach liked to say, “good soccer.” The goals just kept piling onto one another, eventually racking up to 7-1 at the end of the game. Hope for the season to continue was now visible. Well, little did I know that I would end up playing fútbol instead of football.
As grandparents, my wife and I are equally proud of each of our 11 grandchildren in Ohio and Montana. It has been a blessing to watch this young man grow and mature in his faith, education, and favorite sport. Here are links to two previously published poems about his soccer adventures.
A late autumn afternoon coaxes Fred and Milt, two of golfing’s diehards, to make one final trip to the golf course before storing their clubs for another season. The forecast looks a bit ominous, but the hardy duo figure they can handle anything Mother Nature throws at them.
By the time they reach the first tee, a miserable windy, rainy cold front is quickly approaching. Fred tells Milt, “Maybe the weather will clear.”
The twosome manages to finish the first hole with a pair of pars, and they both feel confident to play the second hole. Meanwhile, the cold, wind, and rain have arrived.
Moving along a bit more quickly, Fred and Milt finish the second hole with a pair of bogeys. Obviously, their thoughts are more concerned with the weather than their golf score.
Hesitating just a bit, Milt asks Fred, “Should we continue to the next hole?”
With the wind beginning to roar, Fred shouts back, “Sure, let’s go for it.”
Milt hits a near-perfect tee shot, but he can barely see the ball in the driving rain. Before Fred can tee up his ball, the rain is beginning to turn to snow.
Undeterred, Fred slams into his tee shot with a towering, magnificent drive. One problem!
Tiny snowflakes are growing exponentially bigger as Fred’s ball takes off. Quickly, the ball disappears into a cloud of white. Milt calls out, “Looks like we can finish this hole next spring. Let’s get out of here!”
Fred shoots back, “Sounds like a great plan. Let’s head to my place and see if Marge has any coffee and pie left.”
Reaching the warm and dry kitchen, the haggard golfers are greeted by the aroma of Marge’s fresh baked Dutch apple pie, topped with her mother’s secret recipe of streusel. As the golfing buddies sit down around the kitchen table with Marge and her sweet pie, Fred remarks, “We both took a ‘snowman’ on our third hole, but Margie’s pie wins out for sure!”
An early winter blizzard covers the immense ranching country. The harshness of the storm threatens everyone’s safety, both people and cattle.
Phone lines are disconnected, with most on the ground. Electricity is off except where well-prepared ranchers turn on generators to provide for their needs. All roads into each ranch are drifted shut with the heavy, dense snow.
One rancher is overly concerned for the welfare of his family and his cattle herd. The family is warm and safe inside their home, and they have enough groceries to last for several more days.
However, the cattle stand in harm’s way. Their water supply and feeding schedule have been disrupted, and the rancher worries about the length of the storm and the consequences for his 300 plus head of Black Angus cows.
At suppertime on the third night of the storm, the atmosphere is tense. The rancher’s son sees the worry painted on his father’s face. This faithful, little soul of a five-year old reminds his father with words filled with hope, “Jesus will be with us.”
Overnight the storm begins to abate and move on. In the morning, crews begin to slowly and carefully clear the roads. In a matter of hours, they will reach the isolated ranch.
Using his powerful four-wheel tractor with its giant dozer blade, the rancher clears a path to where his precious cattle are nestled against the wall of a massive shelter. While he makes sure the water is running, and the cattle receive their hay with a helping of rolled oats, he smiles and remembers the faithful words of his young son, “Jesus will be with us.”
Papa had always been sort of set in his ways. Some might even say he’d become much too old-fashioned, but he took pride in being thrifty with a dollar.
My brother, Nick, walked up to Papa one afternoon and explained his dilemma, “My old, worn-out phone needs to be replaced. All of the guys at school own a way better one than mine.”
Looking up from his magazine, Papa firmly replied, “Ain’t broke yet!”
A few days later, Mama called out to her husband in a voice filled with distress. Her washing machine was on the fritz . . . again. Papa made a couple of quick fixes, and then told Mama, “Ain’t broke yet!”
Mama always told me, “Papa has always been a penny pincher, just like his dear ol’ Papa.”
A couple of weeks later, the zipper on my outdated winter coat was stuck. Running to Papa, I tried to convince him to buy me a new coat, “Papa, this old coat is just worn out. Don’t you think it’s time to buy me a new one?”
Papa took my coat. After fiddling with the zipper for a couple of minutes, he brought it back to me with a proud smile on his face, “Ain’t broke yet!”
The next morning, Papa was sitting at the breakfast table, and he was looking over the advertisements in the newspaper. A dashing, new pick-up truck caught his eye, and he imagined himself driving it down the street for everyone to see. With his usual humble confidence, he announced to the rest of us, “I am thinking of trading in the ol’ truck for a brand new one. She has quite a few miles on her.”
Big Sky Buckeye 