Ives is not an adventurous soul, especially after the death of his son. He travels to Europe early in his life with his wife and kids, but, in his middle age and suffering from profound grief, Ives can only manage short trips that only deepen his sadness.
I'm coming to you tonight from Howell, Michigan. It is my yearly pilgrimage to this city for my daughter's dance competition. I have been up since 4 a.m. We drove all day. When we got to the hotel, I took my son to the pool for an hour or so. Then dinner and off to Howell High School for the first night of competition.
My daughter performed her tap solo this evening. She received an Outstanding Medal. She's happy and relieved that it's over. She has group dances tomorrow and Sunday. However, we will be able to do a little shopping tomorrow, since her performances aren't until later in the afternoon. I will be spending a good portion of this weekend grading papers and poetry portfolios. In fact, once I get the two posts done this evening, I have a pile of poem explications to mark up.
It's nice to get away, even if I had to bring work with me. I love these dance weekends. A time to leave my everyday worries at home for a few days, relax, and enjoy the company of my wife, daughter, and son. I know I spend a good amount of time complaining about my shitty job and shitty bank account in my posts. Little vacations like this one remind me that I have a lot for which to be thankful.
Once upon a time, a chicken farmer named Ken Tuckey decided to go on a vacation. Ken rarely got away from his farm. All day, every day, from dawn to dusk, he fed chickens, collected eggs, shoveled chicken crap, repaired coops, and chased hungry foxes out of his yard.
Ken packed up his wife and kids in a wagon, hitched up his mule, and headed off to Lake Enchantment for a few days.
While Ken and his family swam, picnicked, and roasted sausages over campfires, Ken's farm burned to the ground, and all his chickens died in the fire.
When he returned from his vacation and discovered what had happened, he decided to open a restaurant.
Moral of the story: Ken Tuckey Fried Chicken is finger lickin' good.
And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.
|You know what I'm talking about|