“here,” i said to jaycie. “you can use my phone for a light.”

she, along with Jack, 8; Ryan, 6; Max, 6; Bryce, 6; Bailey, 3; Hayden, 3; and Wade, 32; were combing the grass around our little fireworks viewing area looking for Ryan’s pocket knife. it was 10 o’clock so the odds of finding by the light of a dozen cell phones were slim to none. but they searched valiantly, along with a few other adults in our party. finally Ryan’s aunt Shari found it not far from the blanket. the knife had fallen out of his pocket while he was wrestling.

“but dad,” Ryan said, as he shoved the knife back into his pocket. “what about the quarters?”
“we don’t care about the quarters,” Wade said.
“why do you only care about the knife?” i asked.
“because it was a gift from the Labor Day Squirrel,” Wade said.
“the what?”
“the Labor Day Squirrel,” he said. “He comes and leaves presents in the workboots of good little republicans everywhere.”
“shut up!”
“you’re just jealous because you democrats don’t have anything like it.”
“i totally am, labor day squirrel.”
“jealous.
“whatever.”

and thus jodi hanson’s husband has officially been dubbed Labor Day Squirrel.