Holy inappropriateness

McMumsy called me Tuesday night with sad news: a close family friend had been killed that afternoon in a car accident. Mr. T was a member of the small group of people my parents have been meeting with one Saturday night a month for prayer, followed by snacks and dirty jokes, for thirty years. They call it "grouping."  The farther I've gotten out in the world, the more I've realized what a unique and incredible bond they have.

And now, in honor of Mr. T, a fond memory: When I was a kid I had an awesome yellow Schwinn. It had a banana seat covered in pink flowers. I don't remember exactly the reason why, but it was probably after a slumber party, I was at the T household with my Schwinn but couldn't ride it home. So Mr. T did. With Mrs. T driving next to him in the Volvo with the fold-down seats in the wayback. Mr. T kept trying to convince her to let him grab onto the passenger side door so he didn't have to keep pedaling.

Everyone got home safe.