Mike (HI, MIKE!) and Zack (HI, ZACK!) spent a few hours this afternoon pulling weeds for me. Not because I'm sick, just because they're good boys. Well, that and I may have threatened Michael's boy-bits. (What? It works.) I'm still not clear on why Zack was helping, but it makes me regret ever having suggested Mike read Mark Twain.
You can see Mike's excitement at manual labor written all over his face, can'tchya?
Zack made the best of his time by honing his pirate impression.
As Tom Sawyer and his buddy worked, I waited—camera in hand—for a fly-over from the Blue Angels, in town for the Fargo AirSho. (That's right, no "w". They don't need no stinkin' "w".)
As it turns out, I wasn't alone.
This telephoto lens business might be fun. I think I could get into stalking people through trees. Of course, I'd have to buy a really good lens. And the people I was stalking would have to be visible from my back porch. Oh, the logistics.
I'll work on that.
I got about eight shots of the Angels screaming overhead. None of them fantastic, but I would be remiss if I failed to post even one.
There we have it. One.
Disappointment over crappy photos was short lived. Never mind shooting those planes was the sole reason for hauling my snot-nose, achy head and mouth-breathing butt outside.
Once I saw this, I knew I got the shot I was meant to.
That, my friends, is how my husband looks at his son.