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Happy Father's Day

Happy Father's Day, my (construction language). Father's Day officially starts with the change of the date on the calendar, doesn't it? Well, the first hour of Father's Day went pretty well. It went downhill from there.

At 1:00 AM, in the wee hours of Father's Day morning, I heard Lizzie scratching on the door. For those of you who don't follow Monner's Mumblings, Lizzie is our thirteen-year-old Great Pyrenees dog. Thirteen human years times seven dog years equals ninety-one years old. Large dogs don't live this long, I can't explain why she is still here.

BTW, what is a wee hour, and why don't the other hours have stupid names? Wee hours, who come up with this stuff? I'm in a good mood this morning.

I've been a father to two (count them) batches of kids, and not one kid lives here to let the dog out at 1:00 AM. It was just me and Elaine; with Elaine lying there sleeping, or at least making a good show of it. It was only me. On Father's Day at 1:00 am, I am going to let Lizzie out.

From the top of the stairs, I could see Lizzie at the front door looking back up the stairs as if to say, "Hey I want to go outside." I started down the stairs. Something didn't seem right. There was a strange aroma in the air. Maybe not an aroma, more like an odor. I opened the door, and Lizzie walked outside, just like she had a million times before. It became apparent where the odor was coming from. I determine Lizzie was passing gas. I was sure it wasn't me.

I couldn't have been more wrong, it wasn't gas. It was dog (construction language). I know this because I am standing in it. 1:00 AM, Father's Day, Elaine sleeping, not one kid from two batches at home, and I am standing in dog (construction language).

Happy Father's Day my (construction language).

All that aside, I need to wish all the grandfathers, fathers, foster fathers, and step-fathers a day better than mine. Remember, turn the light on.

My kids (both batches) are planning on taking me out for dinner at a restaurant I like in Red Feather, Colorado. Historically, when they take me (or Elaine) to dinner, I bring my wallet. I'm not sure that that's not the way it's done. I don't remember many times, my own didn't pay if and when we went to dinner.

My dad and I didn't always see eye to eye, but as time went on we started to enjoy each other's company. Elaine taught me years ago my dad didn't have much of an education in the father department. His father, my grandfather died when my dad was a teenager. While still a teenager my dad watched his step-father murder his mother, before turning the gun towards my dad. (He missed) Dad lived a pretty rough life. He had a little trouble taking (construction language) from a smart-(construction language) long-haired teenager. We both got over it and as time went on, we reconciled and appreciated each other.

Orphaned as a teenager and then sent to fight a war, I think Pops did a good job raising my brothers and me. Today's Mumbling is dedicated to my dad, except the dog (construction language) part. That was all Lizzie.

Buy yarn, maybe not today. I don't feel like shipping anything. Lizzie is on the couch looking at me like nothing happened.

Love ya! God Bless.

Our crazy lives!



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