Grandmas Goulash

“I’ve had lots of experience with cars.” Please let me get this job, so I can stop using my car as my homestead.  “It’s a beauty.” I’ll stare for a few more seconds, then kick the tires. Hopefully my kid won’t realize how clueless I am about cars.   “Awesome” I’d hate to hurt Dad’s his feelings, but if we don’t leave soon, I’m going to miss my theatre audition.   “Time to leave, guys.” I’ve got far less mileage. Why doesn’t anyone look at me like that?   This week’s word was  homestead . Just for smiles, an old cartoon about a car that grows old.

Men! Frosty really should have asked for directions.   They remembered gaining speed as they flew down the icy slope. How they got here was nebulous, but their fate was crystal clear.  Frosty had always been a bit of a risk taker, but he’d never done anything this flaky. 

  He’d failed math and couldn’t parse a sentence, but even James Bond couldn’t compete with Agent Racoon’s stealthy ways.  

  Light shot into the sky and leaves performed a glorious dance. She’d never guessed a single crank of her hand could produce such magic.

Mama couldn’t make an autonomous decision, so the family stoically endured another shopping trip.

The trees could see what had happened to their leaves.  His rider, however, had simply evaporatd.