The First Annual Trent Family Camping Trip

I love living in a city. I love being able to ride my bike to work, or the store, or on a bike path that hugs the river bank. I love being able to talk to people simply by stepping out on my front porch. I really love having my house connected to electricity and the city's sewer and water systems.

But sometimes it is great to get away. In fact, my family is so confident that we will like getting away from the city at least once a year that we have decided to hold an annual Trent Family camping trip. We recently wrapped up year number one.

This first of many camping trips involved the following: myself, Nancy, Oliver, Dan, Cortney, Nolan, Margo (or perhaps Margot, either way she's Dan & Cortney's dog), Kaytlin (Cortney's sister), Adam, and Kira. Nancy, Oliver and I had scouted out a campground a few weeks before and deemed it fit to hold such a group of wingnuts and entertain us at the same time. The campground is called Rujada, is about 45 minutes from Eugene, and it is the poop (I wanted to use a different word here, but I promised a long time ago to keep it clean).

I learned two very important lessons.

1. I love camping.
2. If Dan is responsible for bringing something to the campground, make sure he actually brings it. See exhibit #1 below. It is me using the "coffee grinder." Yes, Dan was responsible for coffee.


He was also responsible for wood, didn't bring any, but more than made up for it. You see, Dan has a problem. He desperately needs to burn things, and he will stop at nothing to do so. No firewood would normally be a problem when meals for two days are planned with fire in mind. However, the Lord of Camping provided Dan with a thing called the woods. These woods were teeming with things like fallen trees, loose sticks, and moss (all of which ran the entire wet/dry spectrum). And Dan's "problem" passed quickly to Adam. The two of them spent virtually the entire time either (a) procuring burnable matter or (b) burning what they had just collected. Basically they were either in front of the fire or in the woods. Seriously, at one point Dan had a fire going at his camp even though the food was being prepared at ours. When I asked him why this was, he said, "Why not?" Why not indeed.

I must interject a small aside here. The funniest part of the entire trip was when I was standing around minding my own business, and suddenly Dan and Adam appeared from out of nowhere carrying a freaking tree. Actually, a tree is not an accurate description of what they were carrying, just what it looked like. What they actually had was an ecosystem. Adam tried to burn a part of it for hours, and even though the fire was nuclear around it, this log was more water than wood and caused a dead spot in the kiln. When I decided to investigate the rest of the tree, it fell apart in my hands and crawly things I've never seen before emerged from every crevice. But they grabbed it because, "you could just push it over." Good enough.

Anyway, back to Dan. Keep in mind he did all of his work with a small hatchet and a pruning saw. But Dan is a tireless worker, especially when there's an addiction to feed. So he'd have his gigantic piles of wood - the tiny sticks, the larger sticks, and the logs - all sorted out and ready to go at all times. The strange thing about Dan though is that if the flames drop below 10 feet high, he'll start adding wood. Or poking, but this tends to diminish the fire because Dan isn't actually good at working with a fire, he simply excels due to the sheer amount that he burns. But when he adds wood, he adds the sticks. In order to avoid a brain aneurysm, I usually busy myself elsewhere at this point. Besides, would you want to mess with this guy?


Back to lesson #1. I love camping. The woods are a peaceful and wonderful place to recharge the batteries and remind me that there's a lot of distracting noise in my life. Getting away from that noise has a remarkable centering effect. Plus, our campground has a creek that's perfect for swimming in or skipping rocks (which pleases Oliver as much as it does me), a 1.9 mile trail that is beautiful, and a bathroom with flushable toilets. And oh yeah, I sprayed myself with bug spray zero times, once for every mosquito bite I got. Eat your hearts out, non-Oregonians.

The best part of camping is not having to do ANYTHING! Everything is based around meals. Prep breakfast, cook it, clean up. Make a butt-load of coffee, consume, repeat. That's it! The next thing on the to-do list is lunch. That is a huge chunk of time to be filled with nothing, and I love it. Don't get me wrong, I love having a clean house and clean clothes and clean dishes and watered plants and cats that are fed and chickens that are fed and watered and grass that's less than two feet high and laundry that's put somewhere other than on my floor, but sometimes it's great to NOT DO THOSE THINGS for two days in a row. Whew.

At one point, I put Oliver down for a nap. I read him some stories, and snuggled him because he's cute and I love him very much (and he's soft and smells good), and I got a little tired. This feeling happens at home sometimes, and I'm usually roused by the need to go help Nancy do something. However, when camping this happens:


The best part? I will never know how long I was in there. It could've been 5 minutes or an hour, but it didn't matter.

Section 5 - Part I

Yeah, I know, two posts in one day. But I've decided to split Section 5 into two parts due to its length and subject matter. It's almost frightening how fast the story is starting to move, and my main fear is that the momentum will be difficult to maintain. But oh well, that's a problem I'm ready to tackle. How about you other authors? Are YOU getting ready, because this puppy is moving fast! (I won't hyperlink this whole thing for fun, just the word McBubbins).

Happy Reading!

Section 4

For those of you who aren't on Facebook, I temporarily forgot about you. Sorry about that. Section 4 of the story is up, and you can get to it by clicking anywhere in the body of this post (besides, I wanted to make the world's longest hyperlink). This section's author is Kira, and she is a very creative storyline developer. And prepare to meet Penelope, who is a GREAT character. The tunnels really start to open up, and the story is about to really start moving forward. Enjoy.

I Love to Write!

This blog has started something amazing, at least for me. I've discovered that I really, really like writing. A lot. I've had a lot of "hobbies" throughout my life, and I currently love music (see previous post), play both softball and basketball in leagues, watch movies and TV series on Netflix, and I even started playing Fantasy Baseball this year. But I have not felt so passionate about something as I have with writing since my attachments and desires were much less mature.

When I think about writing, the technical aspects that is, I am afraid. I am NOT a writer in any traditional sense. I took two writing classes in college, and a news-writing class (which is where most of what I know about proper sentence and paragraph structure comes from). That's it. Sure, I learned about business and memo writing at the U of O, but certainly nothing that would lead me to believe that I would be passionate about this endeavor. When I went back to school, I was going to be a math teacher, after all! And in the end I was a finance major. Something is not adding up.

I can spell pretty well, but I get confused as to when to use a colon or semicolon. I know that the comma or period goes before the closing of a quote, even though it looks wrong. But I don't think about adverbs and pronouns, or even adjectives. I just don't care about them. I use commas, but only to express how I want that sentence to sound, like the pauses in my head.

When I took a basic level writing class at community college, the teacher told me that maybe I should try a creative writing class because that would help me find my voice. Before her, I never heard one positive thing about my writing from any teacher I'd ever had. And even though she was telling me I was creative, all I heard was that I sounded generic. I never took a creative writing class, and I thought I'd be a journal writer at best for the rest of my life.

And then the blog idea came along. Mostly because I wasn't journaling, I had a new laptop, and I thought some of you may like knowing what Oliver was up to from time to time. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought it would turn into this. And by "this" I mean the level at which I would love it. Don't get me wrong, nothing else of great consequence has happened. I have a few confused "friends" on Facebook who think I actually won a Pulitzer, but alas I have not (yet!).

It is funny to contrast this post with an earlier one I wrote about fulfillment. At that point I thought that it was perhaps a career that I needed and I was wrong. It was simply something I love to do that I needed, and I have found it. The story that I'm writing with others may turn out to be slow, boring, sophmoric, juvenile, poorly done or all of the above, but I don't care at all! It is a thrilling ride for me to be on, and when it's done I will keep going. Because I have found my voice, and I don't plan on stifling it ever again. I can finally express myself without tripping over my words, or worrying what the other person is thinking.

I have found an outlet, and people are actually plugging in to it. Thank you to everyone who has encouraged me to write and don't care if I'm not "trained" to do it. Thank you for showing me that I don't need to be paid by something in order to love it fully. Thanks for taking a couple minutes, or many minutes, out of your day to care about what I've written. It is very flattering. Thank you.

Pearl Jam

I know that there are at least a couple of you out there who like to read what I write. And it is to you that I apologize that the Oliver McBubbins story has consumed me lately. However, it is a very exciting project that also involves writing, and there's only so much time for that with a family that I love so dearly.

But I'm back. And if you're anything like me, you like to know some things about the author. When I like a book, I'll read the "about the author" many times as I wrap my reading up for the night. I'm not really sure why, but it makes me feel closer to them. Just know that once the story that is being written is done, you'll know plenty about (at least) one author.

As an aside, one of the reasons I love the story so much is that it is letting me express what I believe to be universal truths in a way that is enjoyable to read. I am determined not to beat people over the head with what I believe, but I feel a strong need to express in words what I think everyone feels deep down inside yet cannot explain.

Which leads me to the point of this "story." I am made up of many things; my mother, father, environment growing up, influence of friends, experiences, interests, aptitudes...the list can go on for a long time. But a certain band has recently announced a new tour and is releasing an album soon, and it has reminded me that I most certainly would not be Who I Am without their influence. I would like to share with you the importance that music can have on a person.

Of course, I am talking about Pearl Jam.

It may be interesting to think that a band best remembered for flannel shirts and grunge music can be so important. Many people don't know that they're still around. I for one sometimes wonder if I'm becoming that old person watching their favorite band at the county fair - that the times have completely passed me by.

I don't think that's possible, in this instance. I'll explain why that is.

Pearl Jam has always paralleled my life. At first, they were raw emotion and I was 17. Enough said. But they were right on the heels of a generation of meaningless lyrics, and Eddie Vedder was introspective. It was like a light bulb went on for me. I thought they were speaking for me, and amazingly they were popular. Which meant a lot of people felt like me.

But that emotion quickly turned to anger. The band was angry about their loss of privacy, while I was simply rebelling against my mother. This lasted from 1994-1995, at which time my mother and I (coincidentally?) had our biggest fights. It's when she had the grace to kick me out of the house. I had somewhere to go though - Vitalogy. Nice and angry at the "establishment" while being musically excellent. It was like a mirror for me.

But then I moved to Seattle, started reading about a variety of beliefs, and looked inside of myself for a source of strength. I started taking things slowly, controlling my emotional state. I meditated. I wrote. I listened to the Grateful Dead and I explored some things that I probably shouldn't write about here (but you may be able to guess). I actually started growing up. And that concerned me with regards to Pearl Jam.

They had an album, No Code, coming out in 1996. I hoped against hope that it would not be angry, because I didn't have that much anger left inside of me anymore. I was in Seattle at the time, and that's (fittingly) where I bought the album. I took it to the hotel I was staying at, apprehensively put it in my discman, and pressed play. The first thing I heard was this.

I was completely blown away. For the first three albums I was the student. This time, it felt like the band had caught up to ME! Ironically, this was the first album they put out that didn't sell a bazillion copies, but I didn't care at all. We could still be friends.

The journey of self-discovery wove its way through the next two albums, Yield and Binaural. This was the era when I saw them the most, traveling as far as the UK to do so. (Brad and I also drove across the country and did a mini-tour as soon as I settled my priest/molestation trial. This saved my sanity). The thing about Pearl Jam is the live experience. First off, they're really freaking good. Second, Eddie is obviously connected to the fans. And each show gives another glimpse into what he stands for and what they are all about as a band. By now I have put together a pretty nice quilt made up of patches of belief and connection gathered at each show.

Which brings me closer to the present. I need to say that I don't like war. At all. This isn't a very strong statement viewed in a vacuum, and I understand that the world does not operate in one. That being said, there were plenty of people who thought that war was a good idea because it was packaged in a box of fear and sold by some pretty convincing cowboys. Since I am not a moron and I remembered how not-in-any-way-threatening Iraq was in the early nineties, I felt like perhaps a coalition to remove Saddam Hussein from power would be better than "shock and awe" wrapped in an American flag.

So I was pissed.

By now you may have guessed that Pearl Jam was too. Check out Riot Act if you don't believe me. Green Day and Radiohead got more publicity for their anti-Bush efforts, and that's because they were more direct. What I love (and sometimes am frustrated with) about Pearl Jam is that they barely ever go after people. They simply state their truths, and you can take it or leave it. There is some anger, and there is always hope. Perhaps it's ignorance, or maturity, but at least it's hope.

And in the midst of all the crap, Pearl Jam quietly gave us this. I know Eddie can be difficult to understand, so here are the lyrics if you need them. (And for those of you who email me and wonder what it means, lbc stands for Love Boat Captain).

The next album, which was self-titled, further questioned our go-it-alone strategy and offered a voice of support to the average working person. This is one reason I love them so much - in spite of all the success they are still grounded. They still relate.

And now that I am searching so desperately for what to do next, I wonder what gift I will receive on September 20th. I wonder if they will reverse what happened with No Code and somehow, some way, show me what to do next. I know it seems implausible and immature to rely on a band for direction and I'm really not. But would you blame me if I did?

Section 3

So here we are. And not without some difficulty. First, Derrik is currently busy, so Kira and I decided to tackle this section as a team. Second, this blog is terrible for formatting. Therefore, to see the story please click on the title of this post or here. Feel free to come back here to comment, or do so at the other site, or on Facebook, or nowhere (although feedback is preferred).

There are a million things I want to tell you before you read it, but I'll keep it short. First, copy and paste it to Word if you want. Maybe print it. It is LONG and this may make it easier to read. Also, it is the beginning of a story. We desperately want you to like it, but it's tough to make the beginning of a book overwhelmingly amazing. So we settled for pretty solid. Hope you agree.

This is NOT the final edit, but we just want to get moving so here it is. Choppiness and mistakes are sure to be found. There are multiple chapters here, plus a variety of stopping points that aren't labeled. And italics are dreams or thoughts, you decide which is which.

Think of this as a book please. I (we) understand that the computer is not the normal place to sit and read anything longer than two sentences. If you want to check this out, please treat it like a book and set aside some time for it. Otherwise you'll skim and stop reading after 5 minutes.

I'll hold the rest of my thoughts. If you like it, Kira's up next with Section 4, and I'll be right behind her with Section 5. They are already progressing nicely.

We hope you enjoy it!

Thank You

My mother hates me. I'm sure of it.

You see, my father-in-law was in town to celebrate a birthday, and I honored him only a few days later. Now, the woman who was divorced when I was five was just very happily married, and here it is over two weeks later. And I'm just now writing about it. So she probably hates me.

Sorry Mom! (And it is possible that getting married two weeks before my brother Pete may have delayed this too, but I'm taking full responsibility here).

Mom married Bob Pawloski on May 9, in a zoo. Kind of fitting on so many levels, but especially because my mom spent many years raising wild animals of her own. I am very proud to be a part of Bob's family. He is excellent, and his family is great too. Knowing he's there makes living so far away much easier. Here is a picture of the loving couple on their wedding day:


I would like you to know that I haven't talked about my mother until now. I was waiting for this moment to honor her. At a time when she is truly happy. So I guess this better be good.

This is a difficult task, where even the beginning is a tough place to find. I'm not so good chronologically. I'm going to opt for random, which means I will inevitably forget something really important. But mostly this is my arena, and I'm curious to see what will pop up.

The first thing is baseball. I'm a year-and-a-half older than Pete, and Adam and Dan are nearly five years younger than me. The leagues in Oswego were 8-12, 13-15, and 16-18. So there were times when Pete and I were on the same team, and Adam and Dan almost always were. But at one point I was 16, Pete was 15, and Adam and Dan were 11. Yes, three different teams. And Oswego had this thing for playing all leagues on the same day. So if you're thinking that we'd have three different games on one day, you are correct!

And how many of these games do you think my mother would attend. Three. Not once, or even every once in a while, but almost always. The only thing that could limit her to two was when my team would play an hour away. Unless she decided to come with me, which meant she was traveling an hour each way instead of watching two games. These were the choices.

Plus, she was always so supportive. I think everyone knows "Little League Parents." She was never one of those. She was so proud of us, but I never heard a negative word. Just the typical, extremely embarrassing, "That's my son! And did you know he's Italian?!" (Maybe not the last bit, but she was thinking it at least).

Which reminds me, she was a single mom the whole time. She had four boys five years apart. Boys. Four. Four boys. 1 Boy x 4 = 4 Boys. No matter how you put it together, not good. I have one boy. That's quite enough, thank you. But she had four, and raised us working mostly odd jobs. Plus she was too stubborn to take welfare (although not suicidal enough to deny food stamps - have I mentioned four boys?). We had a place to live thanks in small part to HUD, and in large, large part due to Mom's singular drive. She was determined to do a good job.

She made $8,000 one year. Cleaning houses. I never remember being hungry at all. I never remember needing clothes. I don't remember feeling poor. My Mom would always say, "we may not have a lot, but we are rich with love." That always made me feel good.

Surely she sacrificed her own happiness in order to make this happen. No new clothes, no impulse purchases, crappy old cars. And not many dates. Let's be honest: how many men want to date a woman who has children, much less four? If one in a thousand gets through that filter, how many people want to babysit those four boys? Especially when the mom can't pay very well? Finally, how many men are going to be approved of by the children of a divorced mom? Especially protective children.

Dating was not easy. This point is very important here. It is one of the main reasons that her current marriage brings me such joy. Not only did she meet a WONDERFUL man, but she finally got a chance to be free. I never realized it at the time, but my mother is a human too. She was always Mom to me, but what person among us does not crave companionship? And I know my mom loves me too much to ever call me a hindrance to her personal happiness, but the fact of the matter is that in at least a couple ways my brothers and I were. Mom, I know that I brought you a lot of happiness throughout your life, but what I'm talking about is different. And I appreciate that you put your life on hold for ours, but you can understand that I am happy (and relieved) to see you living for yourself. You deserve it more than anyone else I know.

Gladly, somehow my mother found time to be a great cook. Especially if the food being prepared had a tomato sauce somewhere in the recipe. (Yes, Bob, that very same red sauce that now splatters all over your kitchen). We had stuffed shells, meatballs, chicken parmigiana, lasagna, ziti, gnocchi, spaghetti, linguine, drills (whatever they're really called I have no idea), and back to the beginning again. She must have eaten copiously while she prepared these meals, because she never did start eating until after we were all done. She'd just run around the table spooning more onto our plates and worrying herself sick that we were all too skinny and about to die of starvation. So if she didn't eat in the kitchen, there must have been nights where she didn't eat at all. We were bottomless. Dan still is.

(I am now hungry, and it's past 11 at night. This is a quandry.).

I know it would be a huge omission to not talk about our lawsuit, but I don't want the subject here to change from my mom to something which is very attention grabbing and needs a lot of space to be told. So I'll just say that while we were suing, Mom probably drove 100,000 miles. Probably more.

One night we came home late from cerfew. OK, probably a lot more than one night, but I'm talking about one in particular here. I thought quickly (and drunkenly), and said, "the clock at the pizzeria is slow." I was feeling pretty good about myself. Until Mom called the pizzeria. My mom was not stupid. Upon discovering that the clock there was in fact synchronized with ours, we were in big trouble. Mom took away the Sega for the whole next day. Which started a huge fight. Man I was a jerk. I was drunk and late, video games got taken away for one day, and I still fought. Sorry Mom. I didn't know how good I had it.

Since I want people to actually read all of this, I should probably stop soon. Clearly this doesn't do 33+ years of top-notch mothering justice, clearly a zillion stories are left untold, and clearly I could NEVER, no matter how great of a writer I became, accurately portray how much I love Mom and how much she has meant to me becoming the man I am. Thank you Mom. I love you.

But I can't end without the most important part. When I was 19, Mom kicked me out of the house. I was a loser, and I deserved it. But now that I am a father, I cannot imagine how difficult that must have actually been. My eyes get misty just thinking about it. But it needed to be done, and my mother was wise enough to know it. And courageous enough to do it. Nothing changed overnight, but soon enough it snapped me out of my comfortable existence and I began to mature into the man that I am today. I am not the best person ever made, but I'm far from the worst. I am a loving and dedicated husband, a loving and caring father, and a true friend to many people. I like to make people smile. I actually care if someone else is doing well or not. I open the door for strangers. I say "please" and "thank you." I try to be aware of what is going on in my world. I donate money to charity. I work hard whether someone is watching or not. I have integrity.

All thanks to mother's wisdom and courage, I have these things. And so much more.


Thank you.

New and Improved Outline

Here's the new outline, with more specifics. If it seems too limiting to any of you - but you're otherwise interested in the subject - let me know. I'm totally open. Basically I'm just trying to steer the story in a certain direction without giving away the point. I want to see if we can get there together.

Anyhow, browse through the sections. Then go to the bottom of this post and sign up for a section. I will sign up for some myself, and I have one other volunteer already. You can look at the comments I will post for an example of what to do in order to sign up yourself.

So here it is. And each number does not necessarily need to be only one chapter, and similarly if it makes sense two numbers can be one chapter. Here you go...

Posts that are no longer available appear in italics.

1 & 2 - See Below.

3 – The camp itself. The only thing important here is Oliver is introduced to stillness, not that he cares to follow the practice.

4 – The school year starts. Oliver's patience is tested by a series of events. He almost tries to be calm for once, but he gives in to the path he's used to. Mayhem. This section goes to the end of the school year.

5 – Little League. Struggles strangely turn into unintentional “letting go” which leads to success. Is there only one moment that exists?

6 – Summer ends with vacation in Ireland. This one is open-ended. Many coincidences occur that are unexplainable. Senses are heightened.

7 – A wandering storyteller comes to Oliver and family. This section could largely be of the story he tells. Important to blend in talk of an ancient race of humans who have strange powers (such as hyper-awareness, ability to control things normally uncontrollable, unnatural compassion, etc.). This clan's demise could also be discussed, although the door should at least be cracked for their resurfacing.

8 – Oliver has a “chance” encounter with a strange family. Brief but intense. He starts to put some things together, like perhaps he has abilities too.

9 – Back home, and to school. Oliver tries some of the things he thinks he's learned, but like most novices doesn't see the big picture. So he tries to manipulate people instead of use his powers for good. Gladly, he's not too skilled.

10 – A good section for someone with dark tastes. Oliver is in a bad place. He knows too much to be ignorant, but not enough to be useful. Mopey for most of the summer (including baseball season), but the chapter doesn't make it to the end of summer. His parents are growing concerned.

11 – So the parents send Oliver to Ireland again, because he loved it so much the first time. This time he finds the strange people from before. They take him in, and teach him many important lessons.

12 – Now Oliver is ready to embrace his life, which begins with Middle School, the worst time in most people's lives. He is relatively well versed in his new abilities, and things go smoothly for a while. Except one jerk of a teacher. Pure evil.

13 – This one can be tricky. What I really envision is Oliver winning a battle with the teacher, something along the lines of Ghandi. He uses complete nonresistance and it works in the end. The teacher is not fired, but completely humiliated. Oliver wins some serious points with his peers.

14 – Ah, but Oliver gets too comfortable. His satisfaction leads to laziness, which leads to a bad situation for Oliver.

15 – The only way out of his situation is to not only let go, but to literally give that which he wants to receive. This could mean a lot of things, so have fun with it (for example, the desire for peace would mean bringing peace to those around you).

16 – Girls. Summer. Oliver is starting to slow down enough to notice they exist. Multiply this by the fact that he's pretty good at staying in the moment and noticing the truth, and a recipe for plenty of success with the ladies has been drawn up. But what to do? Is there one girl he can't have...? Does he waste his time being a ladies' man?

17 – There's a lot that cannot be seen. In fact, what we can see is still mostly space, and the mysteries of the universe are starting to unfold. There seems to be an underlying truth that holds everything in place, and sadly most of the world has forgotten it while turning instead to fear and anger. Oliver's girl frustrations lead him inward, to a place of intense self-discovery. He also re-discovers the paradox of letting go.

18 – Love. What it really is, and how it can save the day. Everything seems to line up once Oliver asks himself “what would love do?”

19 – There's a reason for the powers in Oliver. He's a McBubbins, and so is his mother. And so were those strange people in Ireland. Those hideous ears are a blessing, like a satellite dish picking up on the energies at work in the universe.

20 – Something to leave the situation open. Who knows, maybe we'll want to do this again!

I've Been Too Vague. Sorry.

Another apology. My instructions so far have been too open-ended. So consider this a do-over.

I have edited the original instructions, so please refer to them if you're wondering why this is happening. As for the technicalities, I hope to address them here.

I am going to create a new outline, one that is much more specific. When that happens, the "chapters" will be numbered. To sign up for a chapter, please leave a comment at the end of the outline by clicking on the underlined "comments" hyperlink leaving your name and desired number. If this isn't working, email me at lbc1305@gmail.com and tell me what number you want. I'll post it for you.

Feel free to email me at any time. If you think you may be interested but aren't sure, email me. Either way, once you have signed up I will send you an email explaining in more detail the direction I'd like the story to take. The story will largely be shaped by you, but early results have shown that people want a basic direction, which I'm more than happy to provide.

Obviously, you can't really work on your part until the one before is finished. That's OK. Don't lose steam, this thing may take a bit. And also, I'm more than happy to write the rest of it, so whatever isn't taken I'll take care of.

As each section is finished, I'll edit only for spelling, punctuation and so on. The content is yours. Then I'll post it. At that time, the next number in line is up, and I'll (gently) remind you.

If you just want to read, that's cool too. Let me know if you want to receive notification of each installment, and I'll be sure to email you as I post. I have to say, I put this here for the heck of it, but I'm really starting to get excited to see what sort of story a collective with a general direction can come up with. This may be special.

See you soon.

It's Story Time

OK everybody, for some reason the time feels right. So here it is, a story I've been working on. Shortly after Oliver was born, I fantasized about someday reading to him. This quickly turned into excitement over the thought of telling him some made-up stories too. Then my need for efficiency led me to this thought: "What if I tell him a story that will both entertain and make him proud of his ears?" Realizing that I had some time until these stories mattered to him, I decided I could sit down and write.

Now I'm thinking maybe WE can.

So below is the story for you to read and consider. I haven't run out of gas, but I haven't not either. I simply thought it would be interesting to see what happened if a bunch of people got in on this thing. Plus, someday Oliver really will hear this story, and it would be cool if he knew how many people helped.

One technical thing. There are sections of this story that are highlighted. That means a picture (drawn by Nancy) will appear here in the final version. If you want a picture somewhere, please do the same. Just think Roald Dahl on this one.

This could be fun. So without further ado, here goes nothing...