This weekend, in between the scatter of rain showers and listless beachside flings with a few friends over a feast of grilled salmon before Thanksgiving, we became a rotating hostel for boys. Where friends and neighbors came to crash, friends of friends, and basically just one sweaty head after another that came spilling though our doorway all hours of the day. For three days straight. Which gave way to loosely agreed upon sleep overs, towers of pancakes stacked in respectable fashion on the dining room table in the morning, bebe gun lectures in the afternoon, and non, stop, wrestling because boys aren't happy unless they're knocking each other around - rattling walls and slamming bodies into another with all the force typically wasted on their younger brothers. Because on this block, its all brothers. Girls are a rarity and if they have it their way it'll remain that way. Or at least until junior high rolls around.
All of these amped up dirty little souls piled into that beat up red Rover on a Sunday unleashed into the dusty mouths of that big dirt field to roll old tires down the hill, shoot arrows, and climb trees.
Perfect chaos in constant need of a clean up crew.
Wild and wickedly adventurous boy growing up too fast. Right before our eyes. Spouting in the quiet corners of this winter season. Eating too much, breaking everything in sight and laughing themselves into tears in the cold midnight crux of that sweetly glowing wooden playhouse outback that they're always too scared to ever really pull off overnight.
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