i was probably seven when i could finally print my own name and address (not like now when you're considered slow if you don’t know a foreign language by three).
and i wasted little time putting that skill to quick use by printing my name and address on a hundred or so popsicle sticks i had collected in the early summer.
armed and ready, i marched off to a brook that angled its way through a park no more than a half mile from my house, where i launched the calling cards one at a time.
the idea was sound enough.
if my calculations were correct, they would reach the shores of europe in a few short months, and soon after that, there would be the knocks of long lost ancestors from faraway places at the front door.
and if i timed it correctly, let's just say it would be about the best birthday present a boy could give his mom without spending a cent.
and when they'd sing happy birthday to her in funny ancestor accents, well then, i'd be her favorite for years on end, and the little garage fire mishap a distant memory.
sadly, i don’t dream up wild schemes for a brook, or a cloud, or a tree or a breeze like i did at age seven.
don't really know when this all came unglued either, but lately i've been itching to rediscover wonder again.
cause i have a few manstakes that need to become distant memories licketty split.
so i took the first step.
i bought a box of popsicles.