tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14474631.post1800661769511745942..comments2023-10-19T05:40:59.162-04:00Comments on Sippican Cottage: What It Was, (And Is) Was FootballSippicanCottagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14940797380578921776noreply@blogger.comBlogger6125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14474631.post-36536232196005888902007-11-28T18:39:00.000-05:002007-11-28T18:39:00.000-05:00Nothing better than a four-on-four recess game of ...Nothing better than a four-on-four recess game of tackle football! When I was in elementary school a new administrator decreed "touch" only, so in protest we played jacks with the girls for a couple of weeks. Eventually, the rule was sort of forgotten and we could go back to what we considered real football. Too many arguments in touch, where it was hard to dispute a successful tackle.mdmnmhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/00191436711956580423noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14474631.post-7646171024559748852007-11-17T01:03:00.000-05:002007-11-17T01:03:00.000-05:00Ruth Anne. It never occurred to me that could hap...Ruth Anne. It never occurred to me that could happen. Yes, it's on Facebook. They obviously don't want you hangin' with your homies.Janethttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04600030574995481267noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14474631.post-33953642857743452302007-11-16T15:47:00.000-05:002007-11-16T15:47:00.000-05:00Janet: I get the big red hand of death trying to ...Janet: I get the big red hand of death trying to view that new photo from work. It must go to a verboten site?<BR/><BR/>Sippican: Hi yourself!Ruth Anne Adamshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01936054116421006847noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14474631.post-6882284979703257602007-11-16T15:33:00.000-05:002007-11-16T15:33:00.000-05:00You can thank my daughter. We were playing around...You can thank my daughter. We were playing around with vintage sunglasses the other day and she achieved that great rarity - a decent picture of her mother. You should see the one of my father-in-law.Janethttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04600030574995481267noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14474631.post-66843687905711302622007-11-16T15:23:00.000-05:002007-11-16T15:23:00.000-05:00Posts like these leave me unsure if I should laugh...<I>Posts like these leave me unsure if I should laugh uproariously or get depressed.</I><BR/><BR/>Comments like these let me know I'm doing it right. <BR/><BR/>Great new picture, BTW.SippicanCottagehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14940797380578921776noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14474631.post-81937365143783341062007-11-16T14:25:00.000-05:002007-11-16T14:25:00.000-05:00Posts like these leave me unsure if I should laugh...Posts like these leave me unsure if I should laugh uproariously or get depressed.<BR/><BR/>I was one of those terrible mothers who let her children go to the playground alone or with an older sibling. I'm talking preschoolers. They all survived. A couple of scars resulted. They have never ever reproached me for those scars.<BR/><BR/>Neighbourhood kids would play in my yard because I allowed water fights, at least in warmer weather.<BR/><BR/>When I was a child, a neighbour with a double lot and five kids built a homemade playground. We practically lived there. Most of the time when we played there, no adults were outside with us. Nobody minded. Nowadays it would never get built, or he'd have to get all the neighbours to sign waivers.Janethttps://www.blogger.com/profile/04600030574995481267noreply@blogger.com