In the fall of 2001, we ended up with three teenage refugee boys from Burundi and my brother living in our family room. It just sort of happened, as these things are wont to do, after Michael brought home a note about “The Guys” needing stuff to outfit an apartment in suburban Raleigh, and so they ended up living in our basement. (And if you’re going to argue with me that these things don’t “just happen,” I’m going to send you off to read the Gospels, and then we can have a chat).
Farmergirl was in kindergarden that year, which was amusing as she was suddenly the youngest of four instead of an only, and because she ended up explaining so many cultural American things to these three gentle giants.
My point here wasn’t to get into a long, involved discussion about The Guys, but to explain that we didn’t get very much sleep that year, we were such weirdos, we were so busy, and that every so often one of us would look at the other and say, “We’re fucking nuts!” and the other would answer, “No. We’re Team Quirky.”
It was a little like when you have an infant who is just unconsolable, and one deliriously sleep deprived parent says, “Let’s just throw the baby out the window” and the other says, “No, dear, I’ll walk the poor thing, go to sleep.”
Thus was born Team Quirky. We haven’t been Team Quirky for while, but this week Michael brought it back up . . . so Team Quirky went to the service at St. Luke’s.