Alison wants me to post a picture; Cameron wants me to post a picture. I will probably have to do so with a blindfold on.

They want me to post a picture of one of Cameron’s Spam cans.

I do not like the look of Spam. No, Sam, I do not.

For some incredible reason, Cameron likes it. His mother bought him a can. I told him not to eat it, but he did. And he liked it. Or, maybe, just maybe, he likes the way I won’t be in the room when he is eating it or I run past the counter on which someone has put it. Sometimes he will be standing innocently beside me and he will suddenly thrust a can of Spam right up in my face. “Talk to the Spam,” he says.

He also asks, “Do I make fun of your tuna?” That, of course, is different.

I have become paranoid, thinking, “Am I eating off a plate on which has been Spam?”

Now, tomorrow, I must do this thing – this posting of Spam. Because they want me to. Because it will make them happy.

But I will not like it. Not the Spam. No Sam, I will not.

Once upon a time . . .

The above is a movie with SINGING . . . Being kind, we are just showing it as a picture.

Today is August 7 , so today is Summer’s birthday. She is 14. I type this with trepidation because this is the morning of Summer’s birthday. The whole day lies in front of us and many of the years something emotionally exciting has happened on her birthday. Or emotionally tense. Or whatever. Last year was fairly stable, if you don’t count my Diamondback experience and subsequent barfing on White Water Canyon.

One habit Sydney  has that has been of  little consequence over the years is picking up an item and running around with it when people come home – whether it be from a trip or the store. Last night he greeted Der Bingle with Summer’s harmonica in his mouth.  We forgot to tell Summer then, but this morning when he heard her playing, Der Bingle related the news.

Oh my God! I’ve got a dog harmonica in my mouth.

And so her birthday starts.