Summer says she was bored a lot of the time – the biology teacher had a monotone. I wonder if she will be bored once that monotone starts saying, “My job in this class is to challenge you who have been coasting.” I can anticipate a period of tension and complaining – two words: science project.

Cameron has the same Mrs. Handley (name changed for obvious reasons)  for English that Quentin had. She and I were opposites in many ways and ever since one parent-teacher conference, Quentin measures  things that don’t help him out in terms of the Handley-O-Meter.

And I went to the gas station and got a gallon of gas in a can for the lawnmower . . . and I mowed the yard. Yes, I really should have a yardmower because the green stuff out there is mostly chopped down weeds, despite the amount of grass seed I have deployed. I sweat a lot and it felt good,  a watery sweat that cleansed me more than it made me sticky. It seemed to cleanse my spirits as well. I was so upbeat I got out the cord to use the hedge trimmer. When it was ready, I looked in my trunk and found out I had left the trimmer at Mother’s.  Bummer.

So I decided to start a small barbecue for hot dogs and right now Cameron is cooking Spam on it. Auuuuggggghhhhhhh. His Great Uncle Lon makes Spam Kabobs with his son Sam and I imagine one day Cameron, his grandpa, his great uncle and cousins will gather for some sort of a fest involving Spam and, gee, maybe bonfires. This reminds me that I forgot to publish a picture of the Spam cookbook LZP sent me. Odd how the word bonfire made me think of that book.

Would you believe me if I reported that Cameron is chanting a song about Spam and is feeding it to Sydney and Shane? The Spam not the chant. Now he is talking about “Spam-bites” as a breakfast cereal . . .

Well, there is one thing that soothes me tonight – School tomorrow.

The first day of school. I took Alison to work and came home to see Cameron in the driveway with all his stuff and the scooter pointed outward, away from the garage. (We have this agreement that he can ride it when the weather is okay.) I mean, he was ready.  Inside Summer was not showing her nervousness, other than to tell me not to interrupt her pacing.

After asking me the time repeatedly, finally I could reply, “7:17. Do you want to go?” She told me my question was wrong because she didn’t want to go, but she had to go. So, on the drive there, we discussed my countering point that it was a given that she was going and we were speaking of time of day, so my question carried the implied adverb “now”. I really did have her, but she placed her case on the fact that I had not enunciated “now”.

I believe she was somewhat anxious because when I turned east on Richmond, she excitedly asked why I was going “this way.” I reminder her that I always go that way to the high school and she kept quiet; I guess she remembered the many times I had explained it too easy to get caught up in Middle School traffic on what would seem to be the shorter way.

Then, of course, I was able to avoid those I call “freshman mothers” by coming in the back way to the parking lot. She didn’t indicate she appreciated it. She got out and I assume she went in because I quickly turned and got out of there to escape circling and crying freshman mothers. There are tricks to the high school parking lot . . . and I face another trial at three when the kids who can drive (sort of)  and the freshman mothers clash while the former high tail it out of there and the latter poke around looking for their kid in a place that is not your average shopping center parking lot*. You have to ignore the four letter words, the extreme fashions, the orange and green hair and watch out for kids heading to their cars as if they were broken field running for the winning touchdown.

Then I came home and started to do stuff and looked at the sofa and lay down and cuddled up for a quiet snooze.

*Although, I once witnessed a woman and a man with a baby in his car duke it out over a parking place at Woodfield Mall in Chicago. The parking security came and everything. But then in vulturing, there are no rules written in stone ; they should have know that. I think it was a hot day.