So I crocheted this hamburger.
Why did I do this? I don't know. My children asked me, repeatedly. I just don't know.
Don't ever say I didn't contribute anything to this world.
Children's voices in the orchard
Between the blossom- and the fruit-time:
Golden head, crimson head,
Between the green tip and the root.
Black wing, brown wing, hover over;
Twenty years and the spring is over;
To-day grieves, to-morrow grieves,
Cover me over, light-in-leaves;
Golden head, black wing,
Cling, swing,
Spring, sing,
Swing up into the apple-tree.
--T.S. Eliot
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That is the best thing ever. Maybe REALLY ever. How can we have so many similarities and then, just smack dab in the middle of the common ground, thus glaring DIFFERENCE: you can crochet a hamburger . . . and I (weep) cannot. (I really need to get someone to teach Daisy serious crocheting. She would eat this kind of thing up. . . . Not, as in eat the hamburger, but, well, you know . . .)
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