. . . and other phrases you never thought you'd hear yourself say. Okay. It's September 9, the eve of something stupendous, something earth-shattering. What, you say? Apples are getting ripe? It's time for apple crisp? Well, yes, there's that. There's the apple crisp and the ice cream and coffee and good company and a big sigh of relief that, well, sometimes things go better than you might have hoped. And I don't mean happy fingers or happy toes, but rather a ray of light that warms the skin as a skiff of cloud pulls the curtain on the sun, or the moon.
And, when it's apple-picking time, it's birthday time for the young son. This time a big one. The one that makes him, to some degree or another, his own man. One who can name for himself how much apple crisp he's going to have, or which candidate is his choice for the presidency. Happy birthday, Casey! (Wednesday, not Tuesday).
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