My parents still own the house I grew up in, and have it rented out. When my stuff made the move from Southern California (not to be confused with the stuff that hasn't moved from Waco, Texas) it ended up there instead of at their new house. So before I go back on tour I had a list of things to go find. Namely my "Mutual Funds for Dummies" book, and the suits I'm shipping to my sister for her round of job interviews. So I found myself parking in front of the house -- no one was home, walking around the side yard, and breaking into what used to be my Dad's drum studio with a butter knife. It's a trick I learned when I was, I don't know, 10. Maybe 12. And I'm not sure why I'd even want to break in there -- maybe I learned that when it was still his shop. And I'd break in to steal tools to build chairs with one leg too short for the tree house. Funny story about that chair, by the way. My sister was trying to reach something, and didn't notice that the short leg was off the edge of the deck. Of course the chair tilted, and she fell, hitting her head on the tree branch that our rope swing was tied to on the way down. Which was good, because she got knocked out and didn't feel it when she landed on a shovel.
So if tomorrow I'm blogging from jail, you'll know why. My boot prints through the snow should make it pretty darn clear that SOMEBODY was in their back yard. It wouldn't take Lord Peter to figure it out.
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