Indeed, a blessed event.

I'm collecting pine cones. Big ones. From the towering, bushy-topped pine trees that abound in Sardinia. The cones are maybe 10 times bigger than the cones that fall from the pine trees in my yard back in Minnesota. I have all sorts of potential plans for the cones. For Christmas decorations. But I also might sprinkle a few on the grave of my Italian true love's father. Of course, only with the permission of my true love. And she may balk. Because she's particular about his grave. She carefully manicures it. With fresh flowers virtually every Sunday. And she's got the grave topped by seashells and stones, mostly from the Mediterranean Sea. Her father died in 1977. At age 57. Far too young. The pine cones might be a gesture of appreciation for his role in bringing my true love into the world. Indeed, a blessed event. --Jim Broede