I’m pretty sure we’d be doing what we want anyway but the Grandpa title just feels like a special license to live as we wish!

Join us! It’s a rally focused on lots of riding during the day and good fireside chats at night! I believe this is the 5th year!

Not sure I like how it groups and displays the first and last two posts in a thread? Seems the story could be ruined before a reader chooses to view the whole thing? Are the last two always displayed? Maybe I should try another.

Suppose it’s time to press this little “post all” button and see how this multi post thing works. I like the @bsky.app character limit. It makes me think about word choice and I ramble. A lot. I know. See, I’m doing it now. Peace.

Come to think of it, adolescent me would never believe adult me would willingly go to a gym to work out 5 days a week. I also have no problem showering naked in a room full of men. Wild how times change. I don’t even care who watches.

Turns out typing class, clickety clacking away on a primitive machine, was pretty important. I’m a damn good typist today even though most words are delivered using only thumbs on this tiny pocket telephone. Wild. 1988 me wouldn’t believe it.

You know what you cannot do well with a broken arm? Type. I may have passed gym class but scored a single B in typing class. It was the only B in four years and it messed up my chance at valedictorian.

You might think he failed me and ruined the chance to be valedictorian. He didn’t. It WAS broken. I didn’t have to do another physical activity for the rest of that semester. I also didn’t have to shower. The pain of a broken arm delivered incredible stress relief & I passed the class.

Here’s the thing…the year before, doing actual man things at home on the farm, I broke my left arm. I had direct and recent memory of what a broken arm felt like and I was certain my right arm was toast. I defied him and left the tennis courts.

I was told I could absolutely not go to the office to call my Mom and if I didn’t just man up and play some more I would definitively fail that semester of physical fitness. Coach surely didn’t use big a word like definitively but you get the picture.

Coach called me names. Back in the 80s, big strong farm boys like me, who didn’t drive trucks, hunt, play football, or do boy things were called girl things because girls were weak. I was called all the girl things that day. By a teacher. In front of my peers.

On a bright morning, with the sun rising from the East, I was also facing a powerful serve from the East. It came fast and hard and through the glare of the sun, I missed. I leapt with such force and intent but tripped & fell on my right arm. I immediately knew it was broken.

There was a gym requirement & we got to learn tennis. This was one sport I actually wanted to learn because it seemed fancy to a simple dairy farm kid & we didn’t have to shower. Showering in groups with Coach watching can be absolutely terrifying to a teenage boy. Particularly a boy like me.

I never thought we’d type so much as adults and need to use so many characters. I also slept on my right arm and started this thread with only my left hand. Hard. I digress. My right hand comes into play here & was the catalyst for this story.

Hello!