My parents and I took the girls on a mystery ride that found us at Mount Trashmore as our final destination.  We did a tour of the playground and picnicked under the lazy shade of some mature trees before venturing up, up, up to the top of Mount Trashmore.  60 feet up in the air, actually.  

My dad and the girls ran (well, he walked, and they ran) up to the top.  The girls twirled around and around, their arms outstretched wide ready to squeeze the cumulus cloud and wring the warmth out of the sun.  My dad got it in his head that it would be fun to roll the girls like a barrel down the hill.  A telling sign of how times have changed: the girls had no idea what he was talking about.  Unlike the house in which I grew up, our house now isn’t conducive to being stuffed into a trash bin and rolled furiously down the yard until you crash into something, anything, in order to stop. My dad decided to demo it for them a couple of times.  After his first few revolutions, they couldn’t wait. And they were all about tandem rolling.

I love how he tries to bring Morgan around for another roll — by the neck! As I helped the girls straighten up and pick the grass from their hair and backs of their legs, I noticed some gray-ish green smudges of dirt on the grass around us.  At least, I thought it was dirt.  There are a lot of geese around Mount Trashmore.  A lot. 

The girls had flew back up to the top with my dad ready for another roll but instead of continuing to roll in geese crap, they decided to race down the hill.  My dad took off down the hill honking, with the girls, like goslings, hot on heels.