Stories…

Last evening, Ingrid and I discussed our travel plans for the rest of the year. While reviewing the bucket list, we flipped through the scrapbook Ingrid recently completed on our six-week adventure. What an amazing album! It brought back memories of some of the fantastic folks we met along the way and the unique locations we visited.

: The Art Institute of Chicago

There’s nothing like sitting around a campfire sharing stories, especially when you click with these folks. I’m the kind of guy comfortable roughing it out in the woods or dressed up going to the theater in a city. One memorable evening was spent discussing the museums in Chicago. My favorite is the Field Museum while Ingrid’s is the Art Institute. As the discussion continued, I added this…..

Years ago, Ingrid and I attended a Poet Society competition. These were talented poets from across the country. Each poet was held back stage in a sound proof booth. The first poet entered the stage…..

He was a distinguished chap dressed in a suit and bow tie. The host/announcer gave the poet the perameters….within sixty seconds he was to come up with a poem in iambic pentameter ending in the word Timbuktu.

The gentleman cleared his throat and in a proper British accent…..

Hot across the burning sands,
We drove our desert caravans.
Men and camel, two by two.
Our destination, Timbuktu

The crowd stood and applauded. Oh, what talent. He would be hard to beat. Next poet up…Oh, my. The guy comes on stage totally disheveled. It looks like he hasn’t bathed in days. His clothes are dirty and torn. He has a scruffy beard and matted hair. Once again the announcer gives the perameters……within sixty seconds please create a poem in iambic pentameter ending in the word Timbuktu.

The dirty street poet steps up to the microphone and proceeds to belch….Uh, dah