Some time ago I came to the conclusion that life was merely a series of adventures, some grand, tremendously exciting; others mundane and rather irksome; with most falling somewhere inbetween. Growing up in the sparsely populated Missouri Ozarks and being an only child, all of the outdoors were my playmates. And I would find things, things which were, at least to me, awesome. I was always eager to share my finds, finds that were met with varying degrees of enthusiasm from my parents. When I would come in with a new found treasure, they would both sit up a little bit straighter, become very alert and attentive. My mother, if seated would be so interested, she would stand up so she could have a better view of what I had. It was fun to share the rocks, odd looking beetle, frogs and such. It wasn’t until I brought in a pair of ring-neck snakes that it began to occur to me that perhaps, just perhaps, she had other motives for standing so alertly. So the rule was born, no live snakes in the house. Okay, outside. Not inside. That was okay, there was the stable. Horses won’t mind. Plus there was always school. Show and Tell was a big deal. So it was not uncommon in the spring for a Ball pint jar with a few sprigs of grass and a snake, to make it to school.
Problem is, I’m still finding things. Still asking “What is that?” Still wondering, “How did it do that?” And then, “Why did it do that?” Sometimes I can answer the questions, sometimes not. And I like the hunt for the answers. Most of all, I enjoy sharing those wonderous things.