That's a buckeye?

when i moved to columbus, ohio, for the summer to live in the haunted james thurber house, doug sent me a goodbye card. it showed a black-and-white photo of an old man and an old woman (who he labeled "toby" and "laurie") sitting in a roller coaster with looks of sheer terror on their faces.

inside, doug wrote, 'That's a buckeye??" because, you know, we were headed into the unknown--the buckeye state.

now that we're living in st. paul, i have found that our park is full of buckeye trees. yesterday, as i took riley on his afternoon stroll to California, i passed a small boy who was picking buckeyes off the low-hanging branches. he tossed them in the air, one at a time, and clobbered them with a baseball bat.

man, those things can fly.

this morning on the walk, riley twisted in the leash and tried to go after a squirrel that was bounding over the grass, a large green buckeye in its mouth.

the leash smashed the tips of my fingers, which i had smashed earlier in the morning opening a window. (i am not very graceful at 6 a.m.) (or any time.) the squirrel lost his buckeye, riley lost his bid for murder, i cursed my swollen fingers, and then we all walked on.