I remember thirteen.

At thirteen I started to ride the subway alone. Thirteen was when I put away my Matchbox cars and picked up Rolling Stone. It was after-school peanut butter cups and cream soda from the deli on Bond Street. At thirteen I got to try a little of dad's beer, and at thirteen I swore I'd never drink that godawful stuff. Thirteen was tremulous fear and quaking desire. Thirteen was when childhood faded into the mist, and the future beckoned slyly from the car.

I remember thirteen well, but now I see it for what it really is:



Thirteen is the time of angels.

Happy birthday, my mad, bad, sad, brilliant beautiful man.

We went to an open house at the Voyagers Homeschooling Co-op in Acton. One of the activities was an invention workshop, where they were building bridges out of spaghetti noodles.

Final tally for Morgan's bridge:

* 7.4 reams of paper
* 387 #2 pencils
* 36 colored pencils,
* 30 large Crayola markers
* 100 small Crayola markers
* five glue sticks
* and six quarts of milk.