The last thing she said was “I never liked beards.”

The last thing she (the other she) said was “when are you going to shave?”

The last thing he said was, “daddy, you’re prickly.”

One person asked me why and I said the first thing that popped in my head (I really should know better by now). “You know how they say you should dress for your next job? Well I thought I’d be an old-school hobo, and try my hand at riding the rails.”

Ok, that really wasn’t funny, but it got quite a reaction.

It’s the time of year when the weather begs you to come outside. After the kids have gone to bed and Cheryl’s pain meds have kicked in for the night, this is where I hide for a few hours. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I just browse through the news. Sometimes I just stop and listen for a while. You can’t escape the sound of cars here, and they’re always there – the whoosh of passing, the sound of rubber rolling on asphalt at speed. But it’s the white noise of suburbia. I hardly notice unless I’m listening for it. Then there’s the crickets and other critters, and the gentle winter winds playing with our old oaks. My PowerBook casts a gentle glow across my lap, not to be out done by the streetlights on the corner, or the baseball fields down the street.

It’s all noise, of one kind or another, but it’s not noisy. For a kid who grew up here, it’s downright peaceful.

If you’re driving by you might see me out there sometime. What you’ll see is bliss.