May 2018 . . . .
Eleven years ago, I began scribbling in a blank book. Well, it actually just looks like scribbling because my handwriting, even when I slow down and use a fancy pen and really pay attention to the crafting of each letter, is only borderline-legible. This particular blank book contained the impromptu poetry inspired by sitting in a car (a beige Nissan van) waiting for children to finish. Finish class, karate, a birthday party, gymnastics, what have you. That, however, is not the punch-line of a Dad-joke. Actually, that little blank book was the beginning of a lesson.