Dearest Father,

Oh, my wonderful father...it is a great joy to have you in my life.

But your phone is broken.
I think you know this.

You also may notice your cell phone (which gets better reception at your house than at mine, so no excuses from you) has a little message on the screen. Something about a number of missed calls, maybe?

A sort of outrageous number of missed calls, isn't it?
Those were me.


You know the drill, bub: telephone me ASAP or I'm calling the cops.
And, knowing your deferential way with authority figures, they'll mace ya soon as look at ya.

-Your loving daughter

20 years

How many years I've wanted an accordion.
Next month? KlezCanada.

Toad in the hole

As usual for this time of year, the basement window wells are full of toads. Those plastic covers don't help - the toads wriggle their warty bodies exultantly under the edging and then land - plop! - in a dry, inhospitable environment.



Every other day I make the rounds to each of the five wells and attempt to discern the nubbly brown grumpers from their nubbly brown surroundings.

It is not easy.

Especially since, given a few days, they dig themselves little toad holes, from which they are inextractable.
I tried a shovel, but got scared (that I might hurt a toad leg).
I tried grabbing little toad heads, but they have NO NECKS. It was like gently grabbing the tip of a sodden, upside-down ice cream cone. If one had occasion to do that.
The solution (not respectful, I know), is to pour water into the hole until they are forced to come to the top. Like an angry marshmallow bobbing in a cup of dirt cocoa...oh, the baleful stares I get.



Then they can be scooped up in a convenient container and carried to more hoppitable climes.


Gaze deep into yon golden eye!