Living with my sister over the last month has been eye opening. It made me realize that despite what we think we know about each other, there are tons of things we don't know. One thing I have found out is that my sister's sons don't always know the family history that I take for granted. Like the fact that their great grandfather was murdered on the street in front of my grandparent's house, or the one about their other great grandfather cutting his toes off while mowing the lawn. And then there are the stories of my youth. Like my year on a hippie commune and the time I and some buddies found a field of marijuana in Indiana. I thought I was going to get high for free all that summer and make a killing in the pot market to boot. Unfortunately, we harvested a field of useless hemp that had been planted twenty five years earlier during World War II. It seems they used it for rope. It definately smoked like rope and got us just as high as if we had smoked a rope. I have a lot more stories I can tell them and look forward to impressing them with just what a goof Uncle Alan was fifty years ago.