In Advanced Composition, we play a version of Pictionary to help us master our course vocabulary.
As soon as the student who drew this turned around, her group yelled: Fallacies! That was the correct response. The rest of the class and I fell silent, stunned.
(The fish represents the Red Herring fallacy, but the three no symbols were emblematic of my reminders to avoid fallacious reasoning.)
Once again the sun is caught in a lie.
This time, though, the trees are still blossomless across the nation, and I have proof of his perjury and collusion with late spring.
On the shoreline, people have been tricked into wearing shorts, misled into the Gulf, hoodwinked into pulling in nets that seem to glisten with iridescent fish.
When they might build snowmen, children have been duped into erecting sandcastles, filling moats while their parents dream of one more week of deception and an icy cocktail named: Blue Macaw, Bahama Mama, or Change of Latitude.
and a bumper sticker for nearly everything.
At the dinner table the other night, I could feel the wake rocking the boat, rocking me. Even though I did not swim in the Gulf and allow the waves to jostle me, I spent some of the afternoon napping in the cradle of the gently swaying boat; this motion reverberated in me on land into darkness.
I snoozed until the sky grew dark and the clouds delivered the 20% of rain the forecast had promised, allocating it all at once and all of the way back to the dock where we needed to return our rented boat.
Dry people in a waterfront restaurant rose from their meals to snap photos (or video!) of us in winter jackets and flooded towels, frantically unloading and seeking refuge from the downpour. (We are probably on Youtube.)
Tonight, thirty minutes out of Phoenix, the airplane’s turbulence stirs this memory in me.
Walking the snowy white seashore, I came across a family of five: a mom, a dad, and three girls under seven. As I approached, I delighted in this scene. The older four had worked together to prepare a shallow hole and were busily burying the baby. Of course, I have seen people buried in sand before, even children. But a baby!
I politely requested a photo, and they graciously obliged, posing her, and thoughtfully considering light, shadow, composition.
One of the little sisters finally offered: “She has one tooth.” It was as if this sister could tell I am a consumer of such information and needed a tidbit before I could continue my walk up the strand.