I've a friend whose last name is Koster, but whose first name is Josh, which is basically the John Smith of our generation. So we call him Koster.
We found a park named after him and hosted a birthday bash for him there. We arrived and I was hit with a wave of nostalgia. This was MY park. I used to visit it ALL the time as a youngster.
How did I recognise it? Was it the playground? No. (For all I know it's changed since I'd been there last.) Was it the smell of the grass? No. It was the tower. Don't chuckle. I call it a tower. Because when I was a kid, that's what it was. It was a mysterious tower whose door was always locked. We never knew what was inside it, but we let our memories run rampant.
Parents, here's a Mario tip: if your kids come up asking you what the tower is, for the love of Pete! indulge them. I've never been too fond of having your kid believe in a jolly, round man who invades homes through chimneys, but if you're going to make the effort for THAT charade, make the effort for something cooler.
Because that structure will remain, for the rest of my life, in the yonder of my memories, a mysterious tower. read more