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Telling stories

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boys

At the Alamo, 1

I took this over the weekend at the Alamo. Something about this struck me because I have seen this kind of pair several times at places like county fairs, truck stops, and sporting goods stores. You have the rough male caring for a young boy, nurturing him and showing him all that he knows to be cool: motorcycles, good gravy, American history, and beef jerky are among some of the things this young boy will probably grow to appreciate because of this mentoring.

In this picture, you can see that the boy is holding a guided tour on a cell phone and listening to every word.

This isn’t the best photo in its quality: the whites are all blown out because I wasn’t prepared for the sun, but I was glad to catch this moment (as well as a few other good ones) in San Antonio last week.

The Alleyway Parable, Installment II

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The old man stopped walking, and held out his hand for the boy to take, and they shook hands.

“Weird. Isaac’s my name, too.”

“Small world. You know what that means?”

“What, Isaac?”

“Yes. Everyone has a name, and people used to be given names with meanings, sometimes as prognostications—you should learn that word, boy. It’s a good one—and sometimes, it was a reminder of their inheritance or beginning. Isaac just so happens to be—”

“I know. It means ‘laughter’. My mom got me this little plaque when I was a little kid and put it above the light switch in my room. She said it makes sense because I’ve always been a jokester.”

The man paused and pushed his long beard aside so he could rest his hands on his stomach.

“I see.” Continue reading “The Alleyway Parable, Installment II”

The Alleyway Parable, Installment I

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He would barrel down the side streets, racing home from Middleton Junior High School on his hand-me-down ten-speed, pumping his legs so hard, imagining he was being chased by his classmates. When he tired of imagining outsmarting bad guys and evading cops, he embraced an actual goal: He would race city school bus 9. He remembered its route from when his mother had forced him to ride it right when they moved into the district. That was before he had gotten his bike. Continue reading “The Alleyway Parable, Installment I”

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