Yesterday, my wife and I were walking out of our house. As we made our way across the front porch and towards our car in the driveway, our new neighbor, Fan, bounded up on the sidewalk. Fan is a friendly, rambunctious little kid about five years old. Since he and his family moved into the twin house connected to ours, he is never seen without a fully stocked tool belt or some sort of oversized implement of construction in his small hand.
"Hi, there, Fan," I said, in a rare moment of neighborliness.
Without wasting time with a return greeting, Fan burst out with, "We're having a garage sale tomorrow!"
"Wow," I replied, "I've been looking to buy a garage."
Sort of getting my lame joke, Fan smiled the half-hearted, "I-sort-of-get-it" smile of a six-year old with a developing sense of huimor. "No," he continued, unfettered, "we're selling stuff! We have... um... tennis racquets, two tennis racquets. And we have some electronics, a lot of electronics. And we're having lemonade. And I'm gonna be the boss of the lemonade."
When I was six, I wish I had such lofty career aspirations.