We were planning on going to the beach this morning but our plans got derailed when Serena stomped on Elsy's face and we had to wait for the bleeding to stop. It took so long that there was a chance we needed to go to the hospital. In the end, we thought it too risky to leave the house this morning lest the gusher started again, and so we set up the water table at home instead.
So it seems as if the link I had to the Polynesian Cultural Centre was flagged as a bad site. I double checked the link and, yup, I got a warning when I tried to visit it. I double checked if the link was changed and no, the search and Wikipedia still point to the same page so.. I just removed the link. We will see how the repost goes.
So I am used to the soft chimes that you hear in the neighborhood when the ice cream truck comes by. This year we already had three visits, mostly on cold or rainy moments of the day. This was in contrast to the infrequent visits to our old neighborhood when I was a child. In addition, we were too poor to really enjoy a cone of soft ice cream when it did show up so I never built up that sense of tradition that others would share with their children. As suck, when the truck does drive by, I don't rush out to grab a cone for my kids. Also, the pandemic does not help either. Still, maybe one day this summer we will indulge our kids. Maybe. Oh, but that was beside the point. Today I heard the ringing of a bell. This was not the sound I'm used to for an ice cream truck so I decided to investigate with Serena. As the truck drive by, I wondered to myself how such a small truck could be used to sell ice cream much less any kind of food. But then it dawned on me: this was not a food tru...
Comments
Post a Comment