I walk into the family room after monitoring tonight, and see my brother Zaven sitting in an armchair with a bucket, a stick, and sandpaper. He is sanding the stick.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
I look at my father, who just shrugs. "What happened to the triangle on top?" he asks.
"I sawed them off."
"But that made the stick!"
Let me just take the time to point out that my father sees nothing strange about this. I walked away, because I could think of nothing else to do in response. As I'm leaving, I hear Zaven say, "Peace pipe, Dad. Peace pipe."