We will bring beers and something to barbecue to the top of the mountain and grunt at our good fortune.
I have always relied on Rachel to buy kid's presents. She is very good at it. I just spent an hour on Amazon.com to finally just give up and order Jenga and Connect Four, only to find out this is 2015, and kids have moved on.
So, I cancelled those and now I am tasked with shopping for a birthday present for a seven year old, maybe eight years old. Probably seven.
I should know how old my nephew is, though I'm not sure what I would do with the information. I suppose I could remind him how old he is, that might be novel. Though I assume a crazy uncle knowing how old you are also ceased impressing kids at some point in the mid 19th century.
I could show him my bunions. Kids just love that sort of thing.
Right now, I am struggling to keep up with a three year old. He is partially pictured above, bunkered at the beach, happy as a clam. I was playing with a lens that I rarely use. It's an outside lens, almost exclusively for me, anyway. Others might not feel the same, I'm sure.
I can feel the Super Bowl approaching. That's mainly because I am in a house that is preparing for it. Two large tvs arranged in expectation of game day, talk of roasted lamb and spare ribs, the variety and number of beers needed.
All of it.
I like sports, but a part of me just wishes to lie motionless on a couch, listening to Vivaldi, white curtains wafting in the winds, expectedly waiting for Spring to appear.