Ryan Leech, Monopoly, and the cold snap

I went for an evening bike ride with my two older kids, Jaydi and Tristan yesterday. In a prairie town.
Ordinarily, riding here is similar to riding the car around the Monopoly board.  Except you can't afford to buy property.  My point is the flatness of it and the 90 degree squareness. 

The traditional coffee table contours of my hometown were blown to smithereens by two things:  warm spell and cold snap.  As soon as the thermometer stared to measure negatives again, and the fairweather types start to finger their command starters, the readside heaps of snow around town undergo a radical transformation.

The edge of every street is a quarter pipe.  Beside every driveway- a launch pad for two wheeled madness.  For a fading wanna-be dirt jumper, there is an instant two square miles of jumping, sliding crispy bliss - with no audience and no competition for space.  In fact, in one hour with two of my dear ones, we saw not one soul on our side of any pane of glass.  We all three worked the snow piles at a nearby school, tested ice patches, cut corners, flew, danced and flailed our way to wherever we felt like going.  I felt like Ryan Leech with two brave Leechlings.  Exhilarating!

   Jaydi and Tristan loved the freedom of the night, the hard snow, and the courage that comes in the dark after bedtime.  With Dad.  Well, for my part, I can't say enough about the joy of all this, under a full moon, and the unseen smile of the real Trailhero.

Thanks.

Something to aspire to

Two weeks ago my great aunt Helen died.  It was my privilege to join the family at the funeral home for a time of reflection, sharing, and thanksgiving for her life.  I didn't know her very well, but appreciated the glimpse into her life given by the others who talked so passionately about her character, love, and also her ability to make great buns. 
The thing I want to speak passionately about here is not that.  It's something my own grandfather showed me when we were leaving.  I had been sitting with my dad, my uncle, and Grandpa.  We all were about to leave at the same time, and stopped at the guest book.  Here's an approximate version of the dialogue:
Uncle Bruce: Should we sign?
Me: I guess so.
Bruce: [signs]
Grandpa:  [producing a pen from his pocket]  You can sign for me too.  I can't write anymore [laughs].
Me:  You can write.
Grandpa:  What I really want to do is return this pen.  I came to ________'s service here a few weeks ago, and when I got home, this pen was in my pocket!

  We all got a good laugh.  The pen was not even a monogrammed special pen.  It was labelled from some local business.  But Grandpa thought it was important enough to keep it in mind and ready to return.