My nephew was born this week on a crisp Sunday afternoon in Ohio, (though otherwise in Tampa where his appearance was made).
Evan George arrived at 2:15 p.m. Seven pounds. Seven ounces and adorable, even his cry is melodic (for now).
My sister went into labor while we our newly-carved jack-o-lanterns were being admired from the street below their second story vantage. One grins lopsidedly, charmingly, art-decoly, knowingly and the other: a bit skewampus, half-pirate-eyed and crooked, indesive-nosed, beamed down on second avenue. (Guess which I did!) Of course.
Thirty hours later, while L-Bo and I dined at North*, a southern star came into its own.