"It will come to pass...

that every braggart shall be found an ass." William Shakespeare.

After yesterday, these are the words I shall live by and of course, I'm going to tell you why.

Last week, my darling friend Alex came into the Shop with his Mom. I asked him what he got for Christmas and the last thing on his goody list was of all things, a Pogo Stick.

Well, I was off to the races.

"When I was your age, Alex, I had a pogo stick and I was the pogo stick master! I could stay on my pogo stick all day long. If I didn't have to eat or sleep or do homework, I could have stayed on my pogo stick forever."

I glanced over at Cory and Alex's mother and they both rolled their eyes at me as if to say, "This is a bright, inquisitive little boy, you're going to pay dearly for this kind of talk."

Undeterred, I rambled on,

"As a matter of fact, my pogo stick is still hanging in my parents' garage back in Massachusetts. It' s a little rusty as I haven't jumped for around 40 years, but it's still there! I was the envy of all my friends who constantly dared me. 'I bet you can't stay on for 10 minutes,' they'd say. Oh, I can stay on for an hour and I'd jump and jump and jump. 'You can't stay on for two hours!' Oh, yes I can! I can stay on for eight hours!"

Caught up in the starry-eyed wonder of my tiny audience, I went on and on and on and on. Alex's record at the time was 11 jumps so you can well imagine how impressed he was with me.

Was I the only one who didn't see it coming? Apparently so because to no one's surprise but my own, Alex and his Mom came into the Shop yesterday with none other than the Christmas Pogo Stick! And, much to my dismay, Alex brought a friend to witness the Pogo Stick Champion of the Free World do her thing!

I got on and started to jump.

"Geez," I thought, "I don't remember the footpegs being this narrow. The shaft is a lot shorter than mine; this must be a smaller model."

After three (probably 2 1/2) jumps, I fell off. I got on again. Three more jumps and I fell off into the glass cubbies of yarn. I knocked over a book on the top, but neither I nor the cubbies were seriously hurt.

Alex giggled and took the thing away from me and got on. Sure enough, he jumped 11 times.

Alex's friend said, "You only jumped 3 times and Alex jumped 11 times."

"Well," I said to Alex's mother with all of the sincerity I could muster, "this pogo stick is too small for me. Mine was bigger."

"Ah, of course it was," she said.

I told the Prince later, "I have to buy a Pogo Stick this weekend."

"I'm quite sure that's not a good idea," he said.

I explained the whole ugly story and said,

"Poor Alex has had one disillusionment after another recently. No Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny and now his favorite Yarn Shop Owner can't jump on a pogo stick. I've got to make it right. I found one at ToysRUs that advertises to be fun for all kids, ages 8 to 80."

"Well, you're not 80," he said as he adjusted my out of whack back. "By the way, is there anyone that can corroborate your pogo stick prowess? Can your sister validate this skill?"

What is it with men anyway; they always have to prove everything. Why can't they just believe!

Alex, if I can take the pogo stick for a test drive in ToysRUs this weekend to show that it was the stick and not my age that killed my ability, we'll have another demonstration next week.

And as for news back in my comfort zone where thankfully age has nothing to do with ability, here's the Dale Baby Sweater in progress for our class: