About 15 minutes later, we arrived a Texas Tech [I actually used the official symbol here] university at the Biology building where my dad, Daryl, works. We parked the car in our space and my mom, Carol, ran in the building while the rest of us waited in the car.
A minute later, my mom came out. She got in the car and we left. Kyrie and Leigh were fighting and screaming for a reason I did not know. After a little while, Carol, and Daryl I guess got pretty sick and tired of it and yelled at them. That settled it.
Later, we drove down into a canyon that I thought was the edge of the caprok. But I looked at my watch and only one hour had passed so I settled down in and relaxed and looked out the window.
A while later, mom threw on me some star Burst [I included the registered trademark symbol] and Leigh decited aloud in which order she was going to eat them.
Soon, we stoped, moved up a hill and read a hick starical marker [this may have been an intentional misspelling–a Moorheadism], then off we went. I decided I would go to sleep.
I dug out my old journal from basement purgatory. 23 years ago I wrote it, in an old spiral notebook. It has rudimentary algebra scribbled on the back, and the cover–a racoon in a hollowed log–has long since vanished. So as an ironic nod to this blog’s title, and in parody of a book my dad read to me long ago (A Sand County Almanac), I concluded that I would preserve the troubles of an adolescent by digitizing them.
True to this title, it chronicles approximately one year, from the fall of 1994 to 1995, with some sporadic entries thereafter. To preserve its meanings, whatever they might have been, I intend to not edit it for grammar, although I will add asides for context.
My daughter, like any reasonably well-balanced child, holds a general concern for other living creatures. She does not capture and flay squirrels a la Peter Wiggin, which is good, but she also takes issue with her dad threatening to shoot them. The same goes for bunnies.
The she started her own garden. After the bunnies worked their way through two of her plants, her sympathies quickly evaporated. Now, she’s actively asking me to shoot them to save her plants. Maybe I’ll get to teach her hunting after all.
Nah, not really. I don’t find the differing tastes of tomatoes to be all that unique. Some are sweeter, and some are more acidic. There’s a much greater variation in how they look.
But of course they’re all awesome. And in following a tradition, I always take a photo of the year’s first tomato.
Lemon Boy
Granted this was from one of my purchased plants, so it’s still kind of cheating, but the sweetness of the victory is compensated for by the sweetness of this variety.
I dug out my old journal from basement purgatory. 23 years ago I wrote it, in an old spiral notebook. It has rudimentary algebra scribbled on the back, and the cover–a racoon in a hollowed log–has long since vanished. So as an ironic nod to this blog’s title, and in parody of a book my dad read to me long ago (
