We were somewhere around Coolidge on the top shelf of some high desert oven rack when my wife Robyn said that the hotel we’re going to serves complimentary cocktails from 5 to 6:30.
Back in the old days (I’m talking about fifth grade) on April Fools, my prank was “The Prank” of all pranksters. During break, I would steal my friends’ brown sack lunches from their colorful cubbies.
About this time last year, I was grumbling over the mass e-mails from the School of Humanities about graduation. “I’m not ready to think about gowns and caps and announcements!” I said and skimmed – then deleted – all of those e-mails. “I’ll read them next year,” I told myself.
For every grandparent with an iPhone, there are countless others who only know of Apple as a type of pie filling. My maternal grandparents have little in common, aside from a European ancestry and their current status as members of the octogenarian club. My grandmother is a hairdresser, a wonderful baker and a devout Lutheran, while my grandfather is a retired engineer who keeps to himself, speaks a handful of languages and stays up-to-date with Rush Limbaugh.
