This should be a Wordless Wednesday, because that's how we like to do it, but Mom and Dad have been "too busy" to upload the pictures from the camera. And I know there are bound to be some good pictures. So since I don't have any recent pictures, and since I just had a sad post, I thought I would tell a nice story. The story begins many years ago, back when Dad was a young boy ...
Dad lived in North Carolina for a few years when he was little. From three to six, they lived in Cary, which used to be a small town, but now is a large suburb of Raleigh. Their neighbor had a dog named Thurber. Now Thurber was a bit of a Heinz 57, and a wild dog that would roam the ditches and anything else that made dogs like Thurber happy. Thurber was a lot of fun. He once jumped through the open window of Dad's Mom's moving car because he wanted to tag along with them and go for a ride.
Well, after a while Thurber wasn't around any more. Dad's Dad explained that Thurber had been taken to the neighbor's brother's farm where he had more room to roar and play and get into stuff. This satisfied Dad, until one day many years later, when Dad was older and more savvy, and it occurred to him that Thurber didn't go to a farm, but Thurber "when to a farm." This made Dad a little sad, but realizing that it had been decades since Dad had thought of this, he was OK.
So at a recent family gathering, Dad was relaying how he was mistaken about the "farm" when Dad's Dad corrected him, and explained that Thurber actually did go to a farm to go run, and be wild, and get dirty -- and all other dog things. And that made Dad feel a lot better.
I guess sometimes a farm really is a farm, and not a "farm."