Here we are at the Natural Gardener again. If you recall I did part one and then took a Fourth of July parade break. There are a lot of photos but few words. (Thank you, John) I hope you enjoy the stroll.
As a reminder, here is a map of the place – huge.
Natural rainwater station.
Tropical plant hut.
Tropical plant eater.
Herb garden
Babbling brook. (man made)
One kind of reptile habitat.
And a reptile more worrisome than snakes.
Plants to buy.
Lady bug hut.
Goat pen.
Chicken house.
Bird watering hole.
Yard sculpture.
Yellow submarine
Receiving department.
Guitar garden.
Handmade Gazebo.
Rock labyrinth
Interesting words about the labyrinth.
Budda.
Shed with a theme. (employees only)
I hope you enjoyed the walk around. A lot to see and sorry for so many photos.
Welcome to Stream of Consciousness Saturday. This weeks prompt is a little different. Here are Linda’s word describing the assignment “Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “instructions.” Write instructions for anything you know how to do. As detailed or as rambling as you’d like. Enjoy!”
There you have it. If you would like to have fun with words, go to Linda’s blog and read how. It is real easy. Hee is the link:
“Okay, now I got it. This wrench is a little difficult to work.”
“They all are. Just keep going.”
“There, finished. What’s next?”
“Repeat with part B and bolt B1.”
“Now I’m getting the hang of it. part C bolt C1.”
“Excellent. You’re on a roll.”
“Then you take part D and attach with bolt D1. First, you put your two knees close up tight you swing ’em to the left, and you swing ’em to the right. Step around the floor kinda nice and light. Twist around, twist around with all your might.”
“Okay, what’s that?”
“Instructions on Ballen’ the Jack. Spread your lovin’ arms way out in space. Do the eagle rock with a style and grace. Put your left foot out and bring it back. That’s what I call Ballin’ the Jack.”
“You finished with the chest?”
“Yup. Let’s stand ‘er up.”
“Goodness.”
“Hmmm. Looks like it is upside down.”
“You put the legs on wrong.”
“I don’t know, I think I like it this way.”
“Only you would.”
“I don’t think I can go through the process again.”
“How you going to fill the drawers?”
“Good point.”
“Tomorrow is another day. Can you help me with my IKEA bed?”
“Lucy. No sunbath. It’s Friday. Time for a ruckus.” “You start and I’ll join you later.”
Ah, delicious Friday. Eight more hours till Saturday eve. I hope your week was a good one.
If you looked in on yesterday’s post, you know we are getting some action on our yard. The way it goes is one day of furious activity and then one day of nothing. I’m sure you all have had the experience of doing business with busy contractors. They have several balls in the air, and so one has to go with the flow. We are supposed to get grass today, but I seriously doubt it since the concrete needs to be poured before the sod. Yeah, yesterday was supposed to be concrete. We shall see.
On my WIP I managed another 1000 per day week. So, now I’m over the 21,000-word mark. The characters are starting their “Let us take the wheel,” program which they always do at this time. The male protagonist wants to go to Wimbleton and find himself on the court facing Roger Federer. I’m not sure that’s going to happen, but it is a fun thought.
Today’s JohnKu talks about letting the characters run with the story. I hope you have a great weekend.
As a member of Rave Reviews Book Club, I am proud to showcase several exceptional writers. All are members of the literary section of the club titled Rave Writers – International Society of Authors. RWISA.
Today I want to welcome Beem Weeks with his story. Dying for a Kiss.
Beem Weeks
Dying for a Kiss
It’s like one of those stories you’d read about in Ripley’s Believe It or Not. I mean, who ever heard of anybody dying from a kiss?Seriously! But that’s what happened to me—well, except for the dying part. Two weeks in the hospital—that’s the souvenir I brought back from my spring break.
Okay, let me back up to the beginning.
My parents’ hushed words pierce the wall that separates their bedroom from mine. This particular conversation doesn’t warrant status as an argument, though. And believe me, I know what their arguments sound like—lots of yelling, and maybe an ashtray or a bowling trophy gets thrown by Mom. I guess I’d classify this one as just another log of disappointment tossed on the bonfire that engulfs our family—our collective lives.
Dad is a dreamer. The problem is, dreamers make promises they’ll eventually have to break. He’s also the sort of man who’ll spend his last five dollars on scratch-off lottery tickets instead of household necessities, like food, or gas—or our long-planned excursion to Disney World during spring break.
Dad’s the one who sets it in stone over breakfast in our kitchen—Dad, because Mom refuses to play the bad parent anymore.
“Sorry, kids,” he tells me and my sister, Amanda. “We just can’t afford Disney at this time.”
Amanda, being nearly two years older than me, carries a heavier burden of disappointment than I do. She’s had more time to gather her own collection of tales regarding broken promises, cancelled plans, and the jettisoned idea of ever being a normal, well-adjusted family.
“I figured as much,” Amanda mumbles, dismissing herself from the table.
Dad tries to be sincere in his attempt to save spring break. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t go somewhere that’s almost as fun and exciting.”
When Dad speaks of somewhere, it’s usually a state-park campground in some far-flung forest up north.
Amanda hollers from the living room, “Just so you know, Daddy, I hate camping.”
I don’t hate camping—though it doesn’t exactly make my top-ten list of fun things to do.
* * *
A little backstory.
My parents met at a Beatles concert back in 1964. Mom claims love at first sight.
Dad, well, he’s been known to dispute her recollections on the subject. He’s fond of saying, “She had the hots for John Lennon, is all. I’m just the booby prize.”
Hippies, they were—and still are, even though it’s 1979 now. They only just recently (as in one year ago) got married—despite the fact that Amanda is almost fourteen and I’m already twelve. And though they’d both been college students when they met, neither has ever collected the degree they once intended to earn.
Mom works at the IGA as a cashier—minimum wage, with practically zero opportunity to advance into a higher tax bracket.
Dad? He’s dabbled in various occupations—sales, electronic repairs (TV’s mostly, maybe a few stereos), welding, landscaping, auto repair. Nothing ever really sticks for him, though. My grandfather (Mom’s dad) refers to my father as professionally unemployable. Granddad still blames him for making a mess of Mom’s life. They don’t speak, Dad and Grandpa.
Dad’s a good guy, though. He means well. He’s just not one for responsibilities.
So, anyway, the folded map of Michigan comes out, spread across the kitchen table. Mom eyes the places circled in red—those previous vacation spots. We’ve been all over the state: Silver Lake Sand Dunes, Traverse City during the cherry festival, Holland for Tulip Time. We even spent a few days on Mackinac Island three summers ago—though we didn’t stay at the Grand Hotel.
“It’s Andrew’s turn to choose,” Mom says, dropping the big decision in my hands.
Hiawatha National Forest had been my first choice the last time my turn came up. But Dad broke his foot, which cancelled our vacation that spring.
“The Upper Peninsula, it is,” Dad says.
Amanda despises me in this moment. “I told you I hate camping.”
* * *
Radio songs fill the van once we hit US 27 going north. The Bee Gees squawk about a tragedy twice before we’re even on the road for forty minutes.
“I hate that song,” Amanda complains.
Dad says, “Well, I like it.”
Mom tries to lighten the mood. “I spy with my little eye—”
“Please don’t!” Amanda begs. Without warning, she socks my shoulder, yells, “Slug bug red!”
“Ouch!” And just like that, it’s on. We’ll both of us be battered and bruised by the time we spy the top of the Mackinac Bridge.
“Slug bug green!” Thwack!
“Slug bug blue!” Thwack!
“Slug bug—oh, never mind. That’s not a VW.” Thwack!
“Hey! No fair!”
Blondie sings about her heart of glass and Amanda momentarily abandons our game—just long enough to sing the few lines she actually knows.
Many hours later, I’m the one who spots the top of the Mighty Mack! “I see the bridge,” I say, hoping it’ll irritate Amanda.
But in truth, she doesn’t mind losing this game. It’s not a thing to her anymore. She’ll leave us the day she turns eighteen—or even sooner, if she has her way. Grandpa promised to pay for her college, knowing my parents will never be able to afford it.
Evening spikes the sky with an orange-pink sunset by the time we find a campground inside Hiawatha. Dozens of tents and RV’s occupy the prime camping spots.
“Andrew and I will set up the tent,” Dad says, parking our van on the last vacant lot within sight. “You girls can get dinner ready.”
Kids—loud and rowdy, as Grandpa would say—run from lot to lot, chasing after somebody’s collie, darting across the road without so much as a glance in either direction.
“Too stupid to last long in this world,” Amanda says.
Mom gives her the eye. “They’re just kids, for crying out loud, Mandy.”
* * *
“Andy and Mandy,” the girl teases, laughing at our introductions. “That’s cute. Are you two twins or something?”
“Or something,” Amanda says.
Her name is Nora, this girl with short brown hair. Already fourteen—unlike Amanda, who still has another month. The tents across the street are her family’s—it’s their collie running wild.
“Five kids,” Nora says, answering my mother. “I’m the oldest. Three younger brothers and a baby sister.”
“Sounds kind of crowded, that many people in just two small tents,” I observe.
She looks right at me when I speak—like I’m really truly here, standing in front of her.
“You don’t know the half of it,” says Nora. “I asked if I could just stay home, sit out this vacation. That’s not happening anytime soon.”
* * *
Blue jean shorts and a red bikini top—that’s what Nora wears the following morning. And a pocket full of salt water taffy—which she gladly shares.
Mom’s not impressed. “Leaves little to the imagination,” she says, regarding Nora’s top.
“But you and Daddy used to skinny dip,” Amanda reminds her. “So how is that better?”
Mom’s hard gaze issues silent threats. Her words aren’t quite as harsh. “Aren’t you kids going boating?”
It’s not really a boat, this thing we rent; it’s more like a canoe—but only plastic. I sit in the rear, my paddle steering us toward the middle of the lake. Amanda has the other paddle, though she’s not really doing anything with it.
Nora sits in the middle—facing me!
I think Amanda is intimidated, not being the oldest for a change.
Nora talks—a lot. But I don’t mind. She tells us all about life back home in Detroit—well, the suburbs, really, a place called Royal Oak. She used to have a boyfriend, but he cheated on her. Her parents separated last year, intending to divorce, but her mom ended up pregnant.
“Amazing how an unborn baby can save a marriage,” Amanda says.
It’s after we bring the canoe in that Nora says, “Wanna go for a walk?”
Only, she’s not talking to Amanda. Amanda is already halfway back to our tent.
We end up in a picnic area near the lake, just me and Nora. She tells me more about herself, her family, what she intends for her future.
“You’re cute,” she says, sitting right beside me on a park bench.
My cheeks get hot, probably bright pink.
And she’s two years older than me, I think, as her lips press against mine.
My first kiss—well, first real kiss.
On her tongue I taste salt water taffy and excitement and all things possible.
What I don’t taste is the meningitis in her saliva.
Amanda intrudes, tells me lunch is being served at our tent.
* * *
It strikes without warning, leaving me confused, nauseated. Words tumble from my mouth, though I have no idea what I’m saying.
Mom’s hand finds my forehead. “He’s burning up,” she says. “We need to get this boy to a hospital.”
Only, I don’t hear it that way. What I hear is, “We need to get this boy a pretzel.”
“But I don’t like pretzels,” I mumble.
* * *
Two weeks later, I’m back home. It’s a blur, but my parents say I nearly died.
From a kiss!
Is that a Ripley’s story or what?
And what a kiss—totally worth dying for!
Well,almost dying.
∼∼∼
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
“Nope. I thought I heard Friday, but it’s only Wednesday.”
It is Wednesday Story Day, and last week we were witness to an accommodating Head of the South Tahoe police department. He gave Larry and Andrew some assurance that he would be willing to help. He also gave an opinion that the ADA might be under some pressure by the same people who tried to eliminate Larry and Andrew to bring a case against the two. I see Larry and Andrew have left the Captain, and it looks like they are going to Heavenly Ski Resort. I think we better go with them to see what they are doing.
“I guess ‘lay low’ is not on the agenda, huh, Larry?”
“No. I want to talk to the folks who picked Rafferty off the slope.”
“You think they will be here in the summer?”
“If not, at least we can get their report. Surely the head of security has it.”
“Wow, this place is big.”
“Yes, it is. Park over there by the California Bar, and we can walk from here. I see a building that looks like it might be the office.”
“Humm. Looks like parking is one hour only.”
“No sweat. We shouldn’t be more than twenty-five minutes. Come on.”
“Hold on. I have to feed the meter. Do you have any quarters?”
“Yeah, here’s a couple. I wonder what the payout percentage on a meter is in this town.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Stupid joke.”
“Oh, with all the slot machines around. I get it.”
“Not in time. Here we are. After you, my good man.”
“Look, Larry. You hit the nail on the head. The security office is to the left.”
“Again, After you.”
“What happened to ‘My good man?’”
“Double pronouns. Here’s the door. Follow me.”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. How can I help you.”
“Good afternoon. My name is Larry Dunfee. That’s detective Dunfee of the Boston police department. This is my associate Andrew Cummings.”
“What can I do for you two.”
“We would like to see the report from the ski patrol the night Rafferty was killed.”
“Rafferty? I’m not familiar with that name. Was he a member of the ski patrol?”
“Do you have a boss?”
“Yes. I have a manager.”
“Could you get the manager?”
“One minute. I’ll be right back.”
“I would sweeten up, Larry. You can bogart people back in Boston but here is different.”
“Thanks, Andrew. I’ll work on it.”
“Yes, gentlemen. Lance tells me you have a question.”
“Yes, sir, we do. There was a fatality on the slopes last season, and we would like to look at the ski patrol write up.”
“Do you know the ski patrol member’s name?”
“No, but the victim was a guy named Alexis Rafferty.”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t file reports by victim’s names. Just by ski patrol member.”
“Do you remember the name?”
“Cant’s say that I do.”
“Can’t or won’t.”
“Excuse me…Sir. There is no reason to get on a high horse. If I remembered the name, I would have told you. Now, as far as I know, Boston is a long way from here. I would suggest that if you want information from our system, you march to the courthouse and get a warrant. Our conversation is over.”
“Hey, don’t walk away from me.”
“Too late Larry. You pissed him off, and he’s gone.”
“Why are people so thin-skinned anyway?”
“So thin that they can’t ward off a broadside blast from you? I’m sure I don’t know.”
As a member of Rave Reviews Book Club, I am proud to showcase several exceptional writers. All are members of the literary section of the club titled Rave Writers – International Society of Authors. RWISA.
Today I want to welcome Mary Adler with her poem Black Notes Beat.
BLACK NOTES BEAT
I have studied and observed crows for years, and the more I’ve learned about them, the more I admire their complex family and flock relationships. They are intelligent, create and use tools, and they teach their skills to other crows. As Rev. Henry Ward Beecher said, “If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever enough to be crows.”
Over the years, I have told my family and friends more than they ever wanted to know about crows. One person said, after hearing the stories I told about them, that she stopped trying to run crows down with her car. (There is so much wrong with that statement, that I don’t know where to begin.)
During the non-nesting period of the year, crows gather at night to roost together, sometimes in flocks of thousands. They are stealthy and take a roundabout way to the roosting place. They have good reason to be wary. For decades, humans have killed them, even dynamiting their roosting places at night.
Like many natural creatures, they are good and bad, depending on your viewpoint, and not everyone appreciates their beauty. But I love to watch them streaming across the sky–one small group after another–as they return from foraging to join the flock. When they are together, those who have found a safe source of food will tell the others where it is. They share, but only within their own flock.
One evening, after watching them move across the sky, I wrote this:
Black Notes Beat
Black notes beat
Unfurling dusk
Across the bruising sky.
Quarter notes, half notes
Rise and fall.
Whole notes
Rest on treetops.
An arpeggio of eighth notes
Silently swirls,
Scribing a nocturne
in the fading light.
Softly they spill
to the nighttime roost:
Rustling,
murmuring,
settling,
hushed.
Now the still moment,
the last note fading,
No bows, no curtsies,
No fear of reviews.
They need no applause to perform their works.
Mary Adler
∼∼∼
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
As a member of Rave Reviews Book Club, I am proud to showcase several exceptional writers. All are members of the literary section of the club titled Rave Writers – International Society of Authors. RWISA.
Today I want to welcome Wendy Scott with an excerpt from her first fantasy novel titled Prophecy and Pirates.
Wendy Scott
The Awakening by Wendy Scott
(An excerpt from ‘Prophecy and Pirates’ my unpublished first fantasy novel).
Evarna gazed at the tinker’s sleeping form and resisted the urge to trail her fingertips through Rick’s locks. For both their sakes she had to leave now before he awoke. They lived in contrasting worlds; he roamed the forest with a free spirit, but as an aristocrat’s bastard, she battled the protocols and restrictions of the Baron’s Court. As satisfying as this romantic interlude had been, she must be on her way.
The chill of the morning air vanquished the warmth she’d experienced in his arms as she eased out of the feather quilt. She untangled her discarded clothes from his and slipped into them. Last night they’d been shed as the lovers had fumbled toward the bed in a lip-locked embrace.
The wagon’s interior was a treasure trove, and she wished she had more time to explore. The shelves jammed with instruments, jostled scrolls, and jars filled with curious items drew her gaze. On the window ledge two doll-sized chairs nestled a miniature table. Evarna’shand hovered close to a silver harp, itching to touch the strings, but she lowered her hand before her fingers betrayed her. What nonsense. A tone-deaf goose possessed more musical ability than she did. Rick wouldn’t appreciate being woken by the sound of mutilated chords.
His abode hinted at depths of character she wanted to delve deeper into. For a moment she lingered at the door and glanced back at his tousled hair. The urge to dive back under the covers and cuddle up against his muscular length was almost more than she could control. Instead, she averted her gaze and whispered, “Farewell, Tinkerman.”
Sighing, she stepped outside. Tail thumping erupted from between the wheels, pinpointing where Stitch had spent the night. Usually, her dog made a fuss about always bedding down next to her. She felt a blush bloom on her cheeks. Last evening she hadn’t given her furry friend a moment’s thought after the tinker’s first kiss.
A moist tongue licked her hand, and the dog leaned against her legs as she stroked his fur. She kept her voice low. “Hey, boy. Time to go home.”
Stitch stalked over to the fire pit and stared into the suspended pot. Evarna chuckled and fed him the remains of yesterday’s stew.
“Not feeding you. Now, that’s something you would not easily forgive.”
***
The sound of horse hooves drifted off into the distance. Rick’s eyelids snapped upwards, and he bounded out of bed. He hummed as he gathered up his clothing and tossed them on the mussed up bed, ignoring the tapping sounds emanating from the small window above the door.
Naked, he jerked the door open, streaked across the camp, and plunged into the lake. The surface churned into a maelstrom of white water as he re-emerged onto the shore. Huffing, he sprinted back into the wagon, his breaths trailing him like mist.
Two small, winged creatures swooped and followed him through the ajar door. Their tiny wings shimmered like rainbows as they swirled around his head before landing on his pillow. Twin pixie expression peered up at him, their violet eyes gleaming with mischief. Golden hair framed identical faces and the easiest way to tell them apart was by the colour of their gowns. Yasmin favoured pastel pink, while her sister, Jasmin, wore lavender to compliment her eyes.
“Hrumph! You shut us out.” Yasmin pinched her nose. “We had to snuggle up to a smelly dog to keep warm. Now you’ve got yourself a lady friend, you think you can ignore us as if we’re not good enough company anymore.”
“I don’t understand what you see in her.” Jasmin crossed her arms and glared up at him. “She doesn’t even have wings!”
Elbowing her sibling out of the way, Yasmin flicked her hair so wildly it swept over and covered her face. From beneath the cloud of hair came a muffled voice, “I thought you’d prefer blondes.”
Rick grinned down at the pair of outraged pixies, drawn up to their full height of six inches. “And pray be, how was a poor fellow supposed to choose between two such lovely ladies as yourselves?”
The sisters clasped hands. “He’s got a point there; we could never let a mere gyp come between us.”
“The tinker is lucky that we give him the time of day. Fancy him thinking he’d be acceptable to either of us.”
Rick shook his head, showering the pixies with droplets of the water. They both squealed and scurried backward.
“Stop mucking around and put some clothes on for goddess-sake.” Jasmin wrung the water from her gown.
After a token pass with a towel Rick grabbed his pants and began dressing. “Evarna is the one I’ve been searching for. The prophecy foretold her arrival.”
“How can you be sure she’s the one?” Jasmin waggled her finger.
He placed a hand on his chest. “Her magic awakened my heart. So we must gather all the fairy folk we can and march for Carnavalla.”
Yasmin plucked a dog hair from her dress and brandished it like a sword. “And how do you expect we’ll find the lost city of the Gypnees? Legend says it disappeared hundreds of years ago.”
“Carnavalla was hidden from mortals on purpose, it’s only sleeping and I’ve several Gyp tricks I haven’t shared with you.”
Rick frowned. “Unfortunately, Evarna’s in for a few magical surprises. I’m going to have some explaining to do when we next meet. I hope my future wife is the forgiving type.”
Yasmin arched her brow. “But does she love you?”
“Of course she does, she just doesn’t know it yet.”
∼∼∼
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
As a member of Rave Reviews Book Club, I am proud to showcase several exceptional writers. All are members of the literary section of the club titled Rave Writers – International Society of Authors. RWISA.
Today I want to welcome Founder Nonnie Jules with her story Silent Tears.
SILENT TEARS
by Nonnie Jules
I cry these silent tears for her
For her loss, for her pain, for her heart
Breaking when she looks into their eyes
Her children –
she feels their loss, their pain, their hearts breaking.
The memories –
the hardest
Yet, there’s no getting away from the reminders of what used to be.
There once was a HE
HE sat, parented, loved, even laughed
Yes, towards all ends there is laughter some say
But his chair is empty now
Just as their hearts
Hollow as the tree he chose.
He left it all there
His back against a world filled with painful memories of a childhood unprotected.
His pain…
Bottled up in the bottles of poison he consumed
Reckless abandon he gave to it
But quit…
he could not
would not
was it his choice not?
In the end, the call of the poison was stronger
and he had to answer
he was forced to answer
given no choice but to answer…
was the way he felt.
His choice gave her no choice
Single parenting
A thing for some
but…
It wasn’t her thing
That is
until
he left her
no choice.
She’ll be fine
Kids are resilient
They’ll be fine
Time heals all wounds
All clichés but true.
Still…
I cry my silent tears for her
For the husband she once knew.
∼∼∼
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
Since this week was the Fourth. I thought you would enjoy some of the sights and sounds of the Lakeway Fourth of July parade. There were over 100 entries in the parade so I was forced to edit the numbers of photos. There are still way too many but sometimes it was hard to cut.
Mounted police to begin
The first responder honor guard
The grand marshall Astronaut Navy Captain (Ret) Kenneth Cockrell
Austin Mounted police
Utility float.
A representative of the business floats
The parade honors the 50th anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing.
A bloodmobile
Cub scouts.
Vintage cars.
Hot rods.
Lakeway precision beach chair drill team.
Golf carts with flags from all fifty states
Viet Nam veterans
In honor of the fallen warriors
The Chick-Fil-A cow was there
As was HEB (A Texas Food Store chain).
Band members riding not playing.
We love the bookmobile.
The final picture is a reminder of the Apollo 11 mission.
