May 25, 2009

The Prom

My son is in Grade 11.. but a girl that he knows, in grade 12, invited him to take her to her prom. And he said yes. I WISH I'd brought the pictures to the office with me... but I forgot. How did I do that? Busy morning. My son was on air at the local radio station, promoting their end of the year High School Musical to be held at the downtown theatre complex, (he is one of the hosts)... and my husband has a big golf tournament I needed to get him to... I needed to get to the store... I needed to get to the pet food store... and then I had to get Beauregard, the Problematic Puggle of Perpetual Need, and I... to the office. All that before 9am.. of course. I remembered to bring my book around my neck (on a usb key)... and forgot to update it from my laptop... so it's useless. I remembered to bring a layout. Yay me. I forgot my food... breakfast AND lunch... and I'm frazzled. I'm confused at why we do this... Can I buy a vowel?

Anyway... here is a b/w picture of my son, Dana... 16... before leaving our house to meet the girl, and the limo... at her home. Tomorrow, I'll post pictures... and maybe another layout... and this time... COLOUR pics. You should know that her dress was purple... so he bought himself a purple striped tie... and a shiny purple shirt... that would have put my dance partners clothes to shame during the disco contests I was in, in the 80's. lol

HEY!!!

Happy Memorial Day to my American Friends!!!!! Remember well. In memory of those who have served, and lost there life.. from all our countries... Here is the poem by John McCrea (who is from here in Guelph.

In Flanders FieldsJohn McCrae, 1915.
In Flanders fields

the poppies blow

Between the crosses,

row on row

That mark our place;

and in the sky

The larks,

still bravely singing,

fly

Scarce heard amid

the guns below.

We are the Dead.

Short days ago

We lived,

felt dawn,

saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved,

and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel

with the foe:

To you

from failing hands

we throw

The torch;

be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith

with us who die

We shall not sleep,

though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.