Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
-- Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5
tis the season
Sunday, June 10, 2012
HORSE AUCTION IN OUR FUTURE
Does Hope or the saddle weigh more?
This week our granddaughter Hope attended Horse Camp. She learned to groom and care for the horses and to ride. By the end of the week she was able to ride alone. Of all the pictures I stole from her mother, this was my favorite because it shows her fancy pink books. Grandpa hasn't seen all the pictures yet, but I fear when he does, we might be heading for a horse auction.