Spent Saturday in the nascent sun drinking Warsteiners with my brother and helping him put together the parts of a rather elaborate swing-set set. Then we had an aperitif and cursed Montaigne, blaming the world's skeptism on him. We sat trading witicisms just as our ancestors did in County Sligo, engulfed in the smoke of a turf fire equivalent (a couple fine hand-rolleds).
But I shamelessly embellish. Actually we talked about our jobs and watched in disbelief as our little four year old nephew began dismantling the neighbor's stone fence. We sat dumb - "is he really doing what I think he's doing" - before calling down from the high deck upon which we were seated and telling him to stop, like voices from heaven correcting a miscreant. And he stopped.