A night on the tracks.

OK, so it’s taken me a little longer than I thought it would to get my feet firmly planted on the ground after joining the workforce again. And yes, I’m aware raising kids is a full time job with no pay. I’ve been doing it since 2009 so all offended personnel can downshift and relax.

My hope is to get on a once a week schedule here. So check back next Saturday, I’ll do my best to meet you here. New job not withstanding.

Tons of stories emanating from my new place of business too. The irony, I can’t write those stories for several reasons. At some point I may be able to figure a generic, nonspecific to work function, way of telling them. But for now no dice. What I can write about are the events leading up to getting the job and what home life looks like now that I’m only in my home from 5pm to 4:45 am the next morning.

This is one of those. Enjoy.

A Night on the Tracks.

As a stay at home it turns out the work always comes to you, always. In the shower, a face appears pressed against the shower door. In the bathroom, a tiny hand appears under the door trying to pry it open. In bed at oh I don’t know, 5:30 in the am, a set of eyes stare at you out of the darkness like Children of the Corn. Work as a stay at home is always conveniently within arms reach.

We had a good run fellas.

We had a good run fellas.

Not so when someone hires you for a job. They expect you to come to them. Never occurred to me. I needed a new sled. The Starship Frankerprise would be staying with the kids. I would be leaving. That separation difficulty, mine not theirs, is another story all together. Never the less a new ride was in order.

So me and the Mrs hit the happy hour at Chuy’s and then went car shopping. Cause you know, drinking, nacho’s and driving new cars is a natural combination. Sort of like open flames and gasoline.

So off we went. Below is the recounting of that night.

“Oh I think we have a gallon or two, that should be plenty.”

That should have been my clue to park the car and exit immediately. But I’m an ass sometime so instead of being the smarter person I started calculating how far we may get from the dealership when the tank dries up and where might that be. Lots of roads, businesses, parking lots, etc… to choose from. Dead center of a railroad crossing never entered my mind.

I’m not very smart.

So as we crest a small hill and coast down to a RR Crossing and then a T intersection, the car gets amazingly quiet. Since I’m driving I know what just happened. We’re out of gas. Now my calculations spin from where we’ll stop to, Oh crap are we going to make it over this set of train tracks. The sales guy, ever the optimist says no problems, we’re fine. My response, Really bro cause unless this thing just switched into stealth mode, we’re out of gas.  Took him a few more ticks than I would have thought to catch on to the implications.

Tracy was in the back seat and either oblivious to what was going on up front or she was in the Who cares I just had the 2 for 1 margarita special at Chuy’s mode. I think I was more amused at the sales guy. He just wasn’t cluing in to or not accepting the fact that indeed we were out of gas and had breached the track crossing and needed a good tail wind to get all the way across.

Thankful we had the law of inertia working for us and we slowly moved across the tracks. But of course now the steering wheel is like a block of cement and we are at the T. Sales guy says ok get us on the shoulder by the tracks. Now all of a sudden he’s aware of the danger but still strangely unaware of what happens to a car when it runs out of gas. He’s getting hyper because I’m not executing a barrel roll to get us to the side of the road. I’m not busting him in his cake-hole because I need both hands to move the wheel a 1/4 inch so we can slowly roll to the gravel shoulder by the tracks. Cause you know, WE ARE OUT OF GAS SALES GUY!

We finally come to rest on the gravel about 5 feet from the tracks. For all my northern brethren, this is the south. Train tracks are not guarded by fencing or any other barricade. You can cross a street and walk right on to an active rail if you want. So that 5 feet will come to mean something. Generally what it meant was sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel is in fact a train.

I see it first in the rear view mirror. I sarcastically say Oh look a train, just what we need, maybe they have gas. Sales guy stops his banter long enough to look in several mirrors to confirm it is a train. Good thing he was there. By the way, it’s the south. This is not a commuter train. It’s a 2 mile long chemical rail car train. How we were not flipped over or buffeted to pieces is beyond me. But the train did pass and we were able to put the windows down again.

That was a mistake.

Apparently a skunk, somewhere up the train line, had decided he was done with this cold cruel world and went towards the light. His odor followed the train about a minute after it passed us. The pungent was strong with this one. And just like that the skunk’s despair became ours.

A short 45 minutes later two people from the dealership show up. We were 3 miles from said dealership. Sales guy called the second the car came to a stop. Not entirely sure what was going on that required all that time to travel all that 3 miles. But they came with gas so at this point who cares. Sales guy says Oh it’s the general manager. I guess I was supposed to be impressed by that. Let me say if I have not already, I’m an ass. Three people would impress me if I met them: Chuck Yeager, Jesus, and Tiger Woods. And I’m not entirely sure of the order. The GM from a car dealership doesn’t even make the third cut of that list. But like I said he brought a guy who brought gas so who cares. Just filler up bub.

Upon seeing the gas can it occurred to me what took so long. They time traveled back to 1960 Mayberry so they could hit Wally’s Filling Station and borrow it from Goober. Didn’t even have a spout. They brought a funnel. It was a good looking funnel. Apparently it was not a functioning funnel. I say that because half way through the filling process the GM reached over his other sales guy and inexplicably grabbed the can. It, of course, disengaged the funnel and covered the GM and his nice suit in gas.

Well how could it not? At least the gas smell covered over the stink of despair from our dear departed skunk. So it should no be a surprise at this point to know they put the gas covered gas can in the trunk of the car we may buy. I guess that was better than one of those old pine tree air fresheners. We did make it back to the dealer without incident. Or should I say without further incident.

Old and new, side by side. No skunks.

Old and new, side by side. No skunks.

I will say while we did not buy that car, it sold the next day skunk despair/gas fumes and all, we did go back and buy a similar car. The dealer is Auto Nation Honda in Knoxville and aside from this little tale they are great. We bought the Frankerprise from them and the service department is really the bees knees. Hard to beat waiting for your car to get an oil change while you eat from a complimentary dessert buffet and get a massage. Really, they have masseuses and fudge stripe cookies free for people waiting for their cars ! Fudge Stripes and a free rub down? How can you beat that?

So a little night on the tracks wasn’t going to deter us from getting my new ride. If you’re in Knoxville and looking for a car, do yourself a favor and go see them.

Bring your own gas can.

Stay at Home No More

I did not, however, win the lottery with those numbers.

I did not, however, win the lottery with those numbers.

One thing I have learned since retiring from the Air Force to raise my two kids is change is not only inevitable, it’s fast moving, never ending, and it can sometimes be an angry little bastard. The kids change at dizzying pace. What they like to eat, what they will eat (these are not always the same), what they like to wear, and play, and do. Hell I’ve changed, and I didn’t think that was possible.

Situations change too. And those changes force other change. And that’s where we find ourselves at the very moment; a big change at Frank’s Place.

I’ve received an offer I cannot refuse. An organization has made me a substantial offer (read money, greenbacks, doubloons. You get the idea) to do some teaching, mostly in the leadership area but some other areas as well. It’s a full time gig so I will begin the inevitable; removing the title “Stay at Home Dad” from all obelisks and pylons, or ya know, Facebook and Twitter and blog profiles.

Now I know what some of you are thinking. But not to worry. It’s a 4 day, 10 hour schedule with every Friday off so my golf is not in jeopardy. I know y’all are as relieved as I am. There is one person in Knoxville that has been wearing sack cloth and ashes for the past few months in faith I would get this job so our Friday morning round will go on uninterrupted. Praying and fasting people, it’s not just to ward of the seven plagues of Egypt anymore.

Will there be changes here at Frank’s Place? Probably. I have no idea what they might be. I can guess my posts will actually become more regular. I can foresee a steady Saturday morning deal whilst watching The Premier League. I really can’t envision anything too drastic. We’ll see.

Two funnies I can relay without delving into specifics of where I’ll be working. The HR department called to say the offer was official and to give whatever notice to my other employer as was necessary. It’s a big place and my resume doesn’t say I’m a stay at home, so no big deal. But I did give notice to the kids, in verbal and written form. They had mixed feelings but understood the need for me to develop more and wished me the best in my new endeavor. Ha not really.

We had a good run guys...

We had a good run guys…

Frank was happy mommy would be home during the day cause daddy complains too much. Meaning I make him clean his room, pick up his toys in the living room, clear his place at the table, do his school work…. He’s not sure about getting to the bus stop or school on time now. All I’ll say on that subject is his concerns are not without merit. 6:30 comes pretty early in the morning.

The midget, well she loves her daddy and she’ll miss me as much as I’ll miss her. But she’s going to love being home with mommy.

The other funny? Well it might not be funny to you all but it’s downright hilarious to me. There is quite an extensive physical involved with this job. They drew my blood at 6:05 am. I note the time only because it’s a little ironic that both my kids sleep well past that point. Anyway by 2 in the pm as I was finishing that last of the physical stations I received my blood-work results.

Now keep in mind I’ve been at home since September of 2009 eating what ever the kids left on the plate. I know I know, but it’s a reflex action. In 2010 at my first ever civilian physical the young good looking lady doctor told me I was a fat man heading for sure death. To avoid that I should fire my lawn guy and do it my self, which I did, and to play golf at least once a week as long as I walk and not use golf cart. I never take a cart unless the course won’t let us walk so I was good to go there.

I say all that to say this. Aside from those two things, the golf and doing my own mowing, not much has changed since 2009. Back then my cholesterol was high. Last week it was 15 points lower and in the green. I’m also about 20ish pounds lighter from 2012 when the midget was born. No meds, no routines, no low carb diets, just good old American yard work and golf. Again you might not think so but that’s pretty damn hilarious.

So with that bit of healthy news and my notice given to the kids, back to the work force I go. I’ve worked two places in my life: the stockroom/sales floor at Sears and the United States Air Force. Sears & Roebuck paid very little in 1985, and expected even less. The US Military pays even less but demands the maximum effort from its members at all times. I’m proud and privileged to have served and for the most part given my best effort for 22 years.

But this new joint? This is a whole new level. It’s been six years since I answered to the man, put in an honest days work, or even wore pants that would remotely be considered “nice”. I’m about to stretch some muscles I’ve not used in a long time. Figuring out the plots lines of Jake and the Neverland Pirates or Doc McStuffins (how does she work without a license or medical degree) are a thing of the past. Gonna have to know stuff again.

God help us all.


Hey Pele, this ain’t the World Cup.

Editor’s note: the following is a very non-meaningful, nonsensical, get it off my chest, rant. AYSO is a fine organization as I’m sure are the people who run it. Never the less, proceed at your own risk.

<begin rant>

Look man, I’m all for team sports. Although not nearly as fun, educational, and downright awesome as golf, team sports teach a lot of life lessons for our kids. Futbol, or soccer, is one of my favorites. An addict of the Premier League and fervent fan of the Arsenal Football Club, I think it’s a great sport, especially for my kids. So just remember this little intro as you read what’s coming.

Youth Soccer ain’t that important. It just isn’t. And I type that as I watch Crystal Palace v West Bromwich Albion.

As hurricane Joaquin was bearing down on the US, the south started getting the rain. It’s been raining in Knoxville since Thursday. The storm has since moved on but not before causing the cancellation of several Major League Baseball games and causing the NCAA to put plans in place for the altering of their Saturday college football schedule.

You get that? College football was planning to alter their schedule because of the storm. The irony of all that? I was planning on some serious football (both types) watching on this rainy, no wait, rained out Saturday. So imagine my surprise when my phone lights up at 7:45 in the AM with a text message from the good people at AYSO. That’s American Youth Soccer Organization for the uninitiated. The text, in short, read:

“U5 U6 and U8 games are on. All other games are off.”

End transmission.

U5 denotes age group. So U5 means all kids under the age of five. U8 is kids under the age of 8 but older than 6. You get the idea. I’m sure by now you also get the idea that my son Frank falls into one of those Game On category’s. U8 to be exact. Game time 8:30 in the AM on a field that floods from a heavy dew. It’s been raining for two days and it has just stopped raining. Here’s a peep at the weather in our part of the world this morning at game time.

No thanks.

No thanks.

That ain't England. It's a storm.

That ain’t England. It’s a storm.

So cloudy and 55. As I said the rain had just stopped. But take a peek and the bottom left of the first picture. The little radar map. I blew it up for you.

We are the middle red dot. See all that yellow and green on the right and the little green and blue to the left, that’s the storm window AYSO was trying to squeeze the littlest kid’s games into. Mind you that weather is moving east to west because of the hurricane. So yeah, the big stuff was yet to come.

And yeah I get it. Kids are soft, American is weak, the next generation is nothing like those that came befzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Yo man, he has school on Monday. You can stuff all that soft nonsense. Rain and cold on Saturday equals sick and absent on Monday.

My standard of toughness has changed. The nurse who ran the first baby class we went to as we waited for Frank to appear gave us all a good rule of thumb for baby comfort and safety. If the temp in the house is too cold for you, it’s too cold for them. If the bath water is too hot for you, it’s too hot for them, etc… Man that is quality advice.

I now adapt that to events like AYSO soccer. If it’s not weather I would golf in, it’s not weather for my 6 year old to be playing soccer in. Trust me, I’ve golfed in some serious weather. Ask anyone I’ve teed it up with. But if you have already made a conscious choice to cancel all the other games because of the impending weather why are you trying to jam the smallest kids in your program on the field?

These games have no playoff implications. There are no World Cup standings being affected. These games are not important enough for 6 year olds to play if you already know the weather will be too bad for the 12 year olds to play.

Of course I have no doubt the issue is money. We pay for the kids to play so missed games have to be made up. Parents no doubt want their money’s worth. Cancelling games altogether is problematic I would imagine. So the fewer games you have to make up the better. I get it.

But dammit man! It’s 55 and cloudy and the field is a muddy mess and Bournmouth v Watford starts at 10:00am on NBC SN and more weather is coming. Sitting in my barcolounger watching adults play futbol/soccer from the climate controlled comfort of my living room sounds so much nicer.

So, I made the decision. He stayed home.

And it was glorious.

<end rant>




One Actionable Thing

Back to Maui, our honeymoon spot, for anny #3

And she can write too.

Editors note: Well buckle up my friends. Frank’s Place has it’s first guest author. We don’t just dip our toe in. We got a heavy hitter who is weighing in on a heavy subject. Mrs Frank’s Place is letting it all flow out on the latest mass shooting in America.

I don’t generally write on intense topics because I don’t have the voice for it. I feel wholly and uniquely unqualified. Maybe that’s just an excuse. But it’s one I’ve come to accept.

My wife, as those that know her will attest, has the voice for it. I can tell you she is way out of her comfort zone going public with her thoughts. It’s a tough thing to lay your thoughts out in the public sphere. But she stepped out there and I’m honored she did it here. So I offer you her voice without reservation or disclaimer.


Here now Mrs Frank’s Place on the latest mass shooting in America.

My husband and I belong to an unofficial group of people that no one ever wants to join. It is informal yet exclusive. Circumstances vary vastly on how we became part yet our empathy and compassion run deep for each other. Although we don't truly understand each other completely we can identify with the pain, agony, despair, darkness and unimaginable places that we know each other has been and may continue to live part or all of each day. We can tell you that you do not want to be part of this group and you do not want your family or friends to be part of it either.

My husband and I are parents that have lost a child.

I write this today after yesterday. And after all the yesterdays I have seen since we lost our Linda Claire. I think that often I can't do something because it is little or I don't have time or I don't have the energy or what will people say or I don't want to go deep in a public space or mostly because I don't want to expose my own pain or any other excuse I could come up with . . . . However, today I decided to let all my excuses go and make my request.

Please do whatever it is that you feel you should actively do to stop our children from being gunned down. I don't know what that is for you. I do know that it doesn't seem to be stopping & it doesn't seem that anyone is immune. So I ask - please do one thing to help your community and our nation so that another parent does not have to experience the loss of a child.

One actionable thing.


Mrs Frank’s Place

The Breakfast Inequality

I grew up in a family that could cook. My mom, my dad, they could both throw down in the kitchen. All of my other 7 brothers and sisters can as well. Sundays were usually my dad making us pancakes and bacon, waffles, eggs you name it. He’d have the griddle going, dish towel draped over his shoulder, singing the same two lines to the same Italian song, and giving my sister Mary Grace the same joke when she appeared in the kitchen; “Mary Grace Mary Grace, all the chickens are having a race.”

I can still hear my dad giving me the business because I always asked for fried eggs when he was making scrambled, then I would cut the fried eggs up to minuscule bits. He would go nuts. “There is no difference between that and a scrambled egg!” Yes dad yes there is. The yoke is different when it’s fried compared to it being scrambled. It does make the egg taste different. It does, I’m tellin ya!

That was breakfast at our house way back when. Much more way back, much more when.

Adam & Eve on a raft! Wreck em!

Adam & Eve on a raft! Wreck em!

Basically by osmosis I learned to cook too. Not so much a wannabe chef as I am a short order cook in the style Vic Tayback from Mel’s diner. Turns out it was good training for having kids. The day both kids agree on what they want for breakfast is the day humanity achieves the singularity, and thus signals the end of humanity. Who knew pancakes vs waffles could be so pivotal.

Anyway, with school starting the tables have turned a bit. No surprise here, Anne Marie is the beneficiary of the breakfast inequality.

With Frank having to be at the bus stop by 7:00am coupled with his desire to sleep till 8:00 am, his breakfast options are limited. Many was the day that me and some of my familial tribe ran out the door as my brother screeched, “Bus is at the corner!” with nothing more than a pop-tart in our hands. By the way, the bus was NEVER at the corner.

I’m not too concerned that Frank is retracing the path of some of his tribe. He’s a cinnamon iced pop-tart man like we were. There are times he’ll  sleep-eat his way though a yogurt or cereal. It’s those moments that make me proud of my parental skills. Yogurt, hell that almost makes him a health food nut job.

Both eating cereal at the same time. Holy cow!

Both eating cereal at the same time. Holy cow!

The inequality comes in after Frank gets on the bus at 7:05. Anne Marie doesn’t have to be to school until 9:00. And she is much more demanding and short on humor at that hour.

“Daddy I’m hungry!”

Well miss hungry what do you want?

“I’m not miss hungry! I’m Anne Marie Linardo!”

Yes I’m aware. What would you like to eat Anne Maire Linardo?

“Can I have eggs and sauseeeeeege daddy?”

No sauseeeege today. Just bacon.


And so it goes. In minutes the bacon is sizzlin and the eggs are being cracked. Then the request. “Daddy can I have cinnamon toast while I wait for my pancakes?”

You asked for eggs Anne Marie.

“But I want pancakes!”

Sorry the cook does not recognize the phrase “I want.” And your tone will get you back in your room. Try again.

“Daddy can I please have pancakes?”

See I am the king of my domain. Sort of. OK I guess I’m eating eggs and she’s having pancakes I’m about to start making. Either way she’s eating much better than Frank. And when I say better I am in no way speaking of nutritional value. I never consider nutritional value. All I’m saying is a dry pop-tart can’t really compare to pancakes and Benton’s bacon with a side of eat while you wait cinnamon toast.

Sometimes I wonder what will happen if and when Frank stumbles across this blog in a few years. Don’t think for a second I’m not trying to figure a way to blame this all on her. I know she’ll do the same to me.

Order up!





September 11th 2015

“Everybody’s shot! … let’s go!”

The quote is from the movie Black Hawk Down. After receiving an order, a young private looks at his Colonel in disbelief and says, “But I’m shot.” The Colonel returns that now famous line.

I remember a writer, in the Philadelphia Inquirer I think, using that line as a metaphor for September 11th. I won’t be able to do it justice here. So I’ll just steal his idea and pile my own words around it.

We remember this day for a lot of reasons. Face Book lights up with various pictures. Several channels replay the events, some like MSNBC play it real time. President Bush’s then press secretary Ari Fleischer tweets the events in real time. He starts with the closing hours of his day on September 10th and then picks up when he woke up on September 11th 2001. It’s compelling. Find his twitter feed here: @AriFleischer

September 11th 2001 might be the singular most horrible day in the history of all of us who lived through it. So why do we relight the flame as it were? Why do we drudge up the memories of such a frightful event? Why are people, like me, hooked on watching all the news coverage over and over again on this day, now 14 years removed from the actual event?

Well, I’m not sure exactly but I think it’s because we all were shot on that day of days.

Me, I was hold up at the Noncomissioned Officers Academy in Knoxville Tennessee, as were a bunch of my friends, watching and not believing. Honestly we didn’t know it then, but we were not in harms way. Safely huddled around a TV, watching and not believing. We didn’t know it then, but we were all shot on that day. It’s important to accept that, to realize that. This wasn’t confined to New York, the Pentagon, or Shanksville. We were all shot on that day. So we remember.

The second part of the Colonel’s response is just as important. Let’s Go! I know you’re shot. I’m shot, she’s shot, everybody’s shot! Let’s go, keep going. Let’s get on with getting on.

And we have gotten on with it, on with recovery, on with life again. Obviously there are some amazing stories of triumph on and since that day. So, we remember. We remember as low as we sank, as high as we climbed, and that life did get on with it. And so did we.


Knowing that makes it safe to remember.



What do you remember most from that day of days?









Soccer, Piano, & Scouts: Oh My!

Tis the season. The season to overload the boy in any way imaginable. Let me be clear on this, and I mean actually clear, not presidential candidate clear. I’m all for extra curricular activities. I wish I had done more and been interested more as a kid. My laziness has been well documented here. My hope is against all odds the kids won’t be.

So I’m glad Frank is showing interest in things other than the iPad or his favorite show on TV. But we’ve gone from his father being a lazy, least resistance path taker to let’s join everything. I got tired just typing that sentence. It’s not just joining so many things at once, it’s what he’s joining.

I mean soccer I get. Me and the runt (my 3yr old daughter) have become hooked on Premier League Football. Go Arsenal! Sometimes Frank will watch with us for a bit and that may have encouraged he renewed interest in playing. I dig it.

Piano was not something I would have thought interested him. Grammy has a piano and he bangs on that once in a while. But that sounds more like a very cheap vase breaking as it bounces down the stairwell of a parking garage than anything resembling music. However, having said that, the kid has an aptitude with math. As it turns out kids good with one can be easily drawn to the other. Plus the piano teacher has a son a year or two older and Frank busted through the door after his first lesson yapping about making a new friend.

So victory on day one of piano. My back is already breaking when I think of the next logical step in the piano learning of my oldest spawn. Oh, if you’ve read this blog at all you know what’s coming. I imagine I won’t even be notified by management until the damn thing needs to be moved into the house. Frank’s next door buddy got drums for Christmas, so maybe there is a garage band in our hood’s future once the piano arrives.

Of course I’m not sure when he’ll have time to play since it appears we’ll be camping and helping old people and selling popcorn marked up at astoundingly high prices. That’s right the boy is in scouting. Cub Scouts to be exact, he’s a Tiger in Den 1.

I absolutely cannot believe I just typed that last sentence with a straight face, devoid of snark.

So yeah, scouting. Needless to say I was never a cub scout, weeblo, boy scout or what have you. To be honest I don’t know much other than their popcorn prices make the girl scout cookies seem like a fire sale. I have no issue with scouts in general. I’m just surprised how excited he was/is about it.

That's a good looking Scout right there.

That’s a good looking Scout right there.

Apparently the head shed of the Great Smokey Mountain Council went to Frank’s school and pitched to all the classes. Well this guy must be a great salesman cause Frank ran home from the bus waving his sign up form. Again he was yammering about bow & arrow, BB Guns, and camping. Only golf used to get him that excited.

My only issue at that moment was how much after school stuff he had going on, but no way I was going to throw a wet blanket on his excitement. Not overly thrilled about his excitement to shoot guns, BB or other wise. And yes I was in the military for 22 years and was trained and qualified to use a gun, the M-16 automatic rifle to be exact. I’m glad I never had to pull the trigger other than when I was required to qualify.

If he develops a love of guns through this I guess I’ll just appreciate all the safety they’ll teach him first. Ultimately that’s not even the big deal. The bigger deal is he’s only in 1st grade so that means I have to go with him to den and pack meetings and of course the big enchilada – camping trips.

Again let me remind you, I was in the Air Force. I went to Central America for the drug wars of the 1990’s. For the final two of those years I had my own room. I had a TV, a fridge, a phone. I had maid service and I ain’t ashamed of it. If it wasn’t for the blazing heat I probably would have gained weight.

All that to say this, dirt sleeping in the “wild” ain’t my idea of a trip. Hot dogs on a whittled stick over a fire ain’t my idea of dinner. The only fire I want to see is the one lightly licking my rib eye steak, bringing it to a medium rare perfection. Are cub scouts even allowed to eat steak?

Sharpie McSharpton

Sharpie McSharpton

Still I’ve never seen the kid so excited about anything. He was even stoked about the uniform. Anytime we get him some nice clothes he takes one look and gives us the stink eye, “I don’t want to wear that.” Not with his cub scout uniform. He couldn’t wait to try that on.

Of course that explains this little piece of art work to the left.

I wasn’t sure what he was thinking here. When I realized his age group is referred to as Tigers in the Scouts it all started to make sense. Sort of.

Gonna need a little work to earn the face painting badge I think.