popsicle sticks

i was probably eight 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 age three).
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.
because i had a plan.
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 my 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.
furthermore, 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.
finally, when they'd sing happy birthday to her in funny ancestor accents, well then, i'd be her favorite for years on end, making the recent "break and entry" mishap at the vacationing popoff’s house a distant memory.
well, that was the plan anyway.

sadly, i don’t dream up wild schemes for a brook, or a cloud, or a tree or a breeze as i did at age eight.
don't really know when this all came unglued either, but lately i've been itching to rediscover wonder again.

it’s self serving really.
much like the popoff affair, i've had a few manstakes that need to become distant memories licketty split in the delusional hope that i might restore my good standing with keaton.

so i took the first step.

i bought a box of popsicles.