here are a few stories about my brother, andrew james latchford.
b. june 3rd, 1985
buffalo, ny

when andrew was 5, he went hunting turkey with my dad. i have no idea why my father would even consider letting a 5 year old out into the woods with guns around. ???!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!? my mother had the excuse of being clincally insane. she was probably busy talking to herself while hiding all of my favorite pairs of pants. but dad? what the fuck?
anyway. andrew went along because he wanted to sit in the tree stand. tree stands are fun, by the way. i made my dad put one up in our neighborhood tree and it was THE BEST.
so my father's friend needed some help with something, and my dad wanted to help him. absentmindedly, he handed the shotgun to my 5 year old brother. BLAP! andrew pulled the trigger and flew to the ground (blap? i dont know.) now, i dont know exactly what my dad was thinking, but i was told that he instantly threw up, turned and ran to my brothers limp body, and frantically tore my brothers clothes off in search of a bullethole and blood. GUESS WHAT! andrew didnt get shot. he actually laughed really hard when he finally came to.
(dont judge my dad based on his bad judgement. i love him.)

we used to go to this cottage in long beach, canada. family friends owned it and every summer of our life was spent there. every summer we listened to the beatles, pretended we were mermaids while "scuba diving" (masks and snorkles and water 5 feet deep,) played hide and go seek in the pitch black backyard, and walked to the big rocks. the beach was rocky, and in the very center of the bay was a half a mile stretch of boulders separating the rocky beach from the sandy beach. we called them the Big Rocks (obvs) and made it a point to climb them, make forts in them, and in my brothers case, casually stray away from the group and poop in them. the end.