We live in the woods--well, practically. The mighty stick brigade patrols here. They are a force to be reckoned with. Some come with red hair and freckles, some have smooth hair and blue eyes, some are tall, some are smaller, some are grinning, some come with a faint whine--but come they do; to carry, throw, peel bark from and march with --sticks.
Yes, we do have toys here. Trucks, cars, dolls, soccer balls, basketballs, you name it, we have it on hand--but nothing compares to the joy each Jones child gets from carrying a stick--the bigger the better. And if they can garner a tick somewhere on their person while finding just the right stick to accidentally hit someone with--that just makes their day. "Mama, I have a tick!" "Get the alcohol and the tweezers!" "Don't touch it!" "I have to pull it out..." "No, don't touch it!" I'll leave you to imagine who says what to whom--you'd be surprised.
The joy of a stick to play with we thought would pall with age--not so. They just find bigger, more lethal sticks as they get older--it's a curiosity to see what they can do with 'em! So far they still have all their eyes and teeth. I'll keep you posted---
After the goodbyes were said and the soldiers left for the day there was peace. Next morning as I walked the dogs while the ground fog still covered the fields I saw a carefully constructed arrangement of new sticks waiting for the brigade to strike again another day.
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