These scars that mark the countryside and mar the pretty view
Remind us of a harder time when all that man could do
Was fight to keep his homeland free, and save the joys he knew

The crumbled trenches and white crosses that mark where soldiers lie
Painfully remind us of the days when our boys died
In honor of their sacred land and sunlit native skies

The echo of the cannon boom still rings in many ears
And remembered is the painful wait for the news that we all feared
To hear of death of those we loved and those that we held dear

I have a long history with stinging insects. There was the time when I was only three or four and I threw a rock at a wasp nest. My brother, whose idea it was, was safely hidden before I threw, of course. Then there was the time I intercepted a bee with a swing in mid-flight. And there was also the time I ran into a nest while skirting a creek and ended up with three stings and my hat floating downstream. But nothing compares to the shining moment of my “career.”

Today, I took a rather difficult step in my life. I removed the Grand Champions from my closet, and listed them on eBay.