Where the Indian shot me.

When I was little, my Pa (G Daddy's father) called me Possum, and taught me a song (which I sang regularly, and still to this day don't know what it's called) that went a little something like this:

"Eighteen men on a dead man's chest, yo ho ho and and a bottle of rum." I just want you to have background info into what hanging out with Pa was like before I get to how this all applies to Avery and this photo:

Pa swore up and down that the "hole" in his belly (and mine) was where "the Indian" shot us. The Indian never had a name, I don't know if he was from India, Indiana, or the Poarch Creek Reservation, but I do know that he had a death wish for Pa and little Possum. (I think I should also point out here (for dramatic effect) that with every new grandchild, the nickname possum was passed down like a backwoods Olympic torch ceremony.) Long story short, I thought for quite a while that I was a victim of inter-racial violence and decided it would be a wonderful way to continue Pa's tradition to the future generation. And yes, she is wearing a headband of mine, and yes, she put it on herself.

In other news, we went up to the lake a few weekends ago, and of course, Avery woke up at dawn. So I took her out on the porch for breakfast. Isn't she a treasure?

I love that kid! Even at 6am!