After the passing of both Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett today, my friend Travis pointed out that momentous events are often said to occur in 3's. Travis was wondering what that third happening would be, and that is when I realized that it was here, in my own house: the amazing quesadillas I made tonight. They were so good.

It is a little strange to be connected to two such famous people in this way, I mean, why me, right? But really, we're all just tools of the cosmos and sometimes, to remind us of this connection, all it takes is a little of that not-all-that-old lime you have sitting under some bananas squeezed onto your quesadillas. What a day.

In other news, it breaks my heart, but I am considering having our dog Smokey put to sleep. It's one of the saddest decisions I can imagine making, but . . . she just won't stop panting in my face. It's driving me crazy, and the vet says there's nothing we can do. A shame, really, especially because she's in perfect health.

Photos for a mother who is on the road for a week with the Vera Bradly RAAM team.

We went for strawberries but here Michelle and J get caught up in a swath of early raspberries.

Mike taking a free sample. What are the rules on this, I wonder. I made up a rule that most of the strawberries I ate had to be somewhat blemished or touching the dirt, and that seemed to work okay. I swear, when you kneel on the straw between the rows and throw that first strawberry in your mouth, no other food seems relevant or necessary to life on earth.

And then the second one is good, but not as good, and you end up trying to recapture that first berry, which doesn't ever quite happen but this is not really that serious of a problem in the big picture.

Mr. Mike is patient. B's latest catch phrase is "better luck next time, old boy!" He looks like he could be saying that here, but I don't know.

Two nights of camping practice in a row now. Instead of ghost stories, I read "gnome legends" out of that old book about gnomes--the one with the gnome skeleton and pictures of actual naked gnomes. I'm pretty sure it's a kids' book, at least. The legends have a lot of dying in them, though.

Things that have been in the house recently:

A sandwich.

New glasses.

A baby.

You might think you're done with babies but then you spend time with one and you can't help but think "awww . . no, that's crazy." How do they do that? Even the cry makes me smile. I love it when this one cries, like the idea of an infant's problems are cute to me or something. I wonder how long that will last with my own kids; I already find myself worrying about how it will feel when I know that they are genuinely depressed or sad or anxious or down on themselves, and that's saying something, because I basically gave up worrying in the fall of 2001, which was kind of a strange time to do that with 9/11 and all, but that's how it happened.

But babies, dang. They are always trying so hard. Everything they do, pure concentration. How do you get that again? I have been trying to listen to less music, and that has helped, but we're not quite there yet.

The third-ever season of "Hamlet Tag" just concluded, and I finally got some photographs to document this growing sport that combines agility and inevitability into one of the few athletic challenges out there that really asks the big questions.

A short primer on the rules that I remember: In the middle of this image is "Hamlet," who is shown in the act of pursuing various other players like the "player-king" and the "gravedigger" because the "ghost" player is on the field, spurring him to his revenge.

When the ghost is on the field, then, players caught by Hamlet yelp "I am slain" and fall to the ground. When they get bored, they can get up and run around again.

Here we see Hamlet being chased because the ghost has left the field, making him lose his resolve. When I was a kid, we called this "smear the queer," but I don't think we were aware of the ugly connotation at the time.

When Mr. Hill is on the field, everyone has to stop and talk about "how postmodern this game is." Eventually, the poison flag is thrown, everyone dies, and the Fortinbras player steps onto the field, announcing "I win."

We had a couple of strong teams this year, and one was even allowed to play at full-speed, the first time that has happened since season one.

Such great classes. I'll miss them.