Still here, with a hill behind the house that will give you things like this if you'll only climb it.
A story from the town at the bottom of the hill: So it's 7:00 Sunday morning, and 10 (yes, 10), who is dressing for the first hockey practice of the season, reaches into the huge bag at his feet and pulls out a glove at least one size too small, with a hole in the palm and marked with someone else's name. Thankfully, it's the third glove in the bag, and most likely landed in there during last week's tryouts. Glove's owner is not on 10's team. What next?
Check the rosters, find owner's team, realize have that team's coach's cell phone number is on my speed dial because his daughter is one of 12's best friends. Call. Leave message. Get email. Glove's owner lives an hour away on top of a mountain. Right.
Monday afternoon, see friend's mother parked at school pick up directly across the road. She steps out of her van, I step out of mine, and meeting most of the way across, I toss, and she catches, the wayward glove, now one step closer to the boy it belongs to.
Life is good.
