Many years ago my brother Phil and I wrote stories together. It was a game. I’d write an introductory sentence, and he’d follow it with something. The art was to try to throw the other guy a curve while still maintaining a sense of direction in the “plot.” I found these two stories in my archives. My parts are in standard face, Phil’s are in italics. You should try this sometime.
Dedicated to the May family.
When I was eight years old, I suffered a short career in Cub Scouts, less than a year, weathering one bit of idiocy after another. The camping trip, washed out by a downpour, the picnic in the park spoiled by the nutcase who forgot to bring the drinks, the hike up the canyon ruined by falling on sharp rocks that cut my shins and made them bleed–everything conspired to destroy my faith in scouting.
The last straw, my final and most deflating experience with the organization, but also the most wondrous event in my life, was the field trip to the May Museum of Natural History. There, my patience stretched to—and beyond—the breaking point. Continue reading “Waking Up at the May Museum”