Just a little update on the freshman and FO (Freshman Orientation): She is now at East Noble High School. She said she didn’t understand why everyone wanted to grow up and said she wished she could be five forever. I opted for three – I figured that was a cozy, secure time and I don’t remember the angst of being three – if there was any. I think I remember Pokagan Soda Pop and finally getting people to realize I liked the red kind, rather than the orange.

I remember not really wanting to go to kindergarten. See, that was a five memory; I don’t really think I’d go for five. Six was big, fat pencils and seven was the dreaded school music teacher. Don’t even want to think about eight – that might have been when I discovered I had the hang of the school thing and didn’t think it necessitated me sitting all day in a little chair/desk thing.  Free reading time was cool, though. Getting called on early was crucial because they you could zone out. ‘Course, there were some kids who’d complain, “They want to go first so they don’t have to pay attention anymore.” They were right

Ninth grade was Mrs. Wheat’s algebra class. I think she was the age I am now. Her late husband’s name was Phineas and he had been the band director who wrote the school song. She was nerve-wracking. Then I had her for geometry in tenth grade. Oh, yeah, the days at the board with a proof. I remember one time she looked at my work from her chair in front ans remarked, “That looks a little funny, AmeliaJake.” And I asked, “Mrs. Wheat, do you mean funny as in strange or funny as in ha-ha?” I was serious . . . she scared me that much. I think the class got a laugh out of it; I don’t remember what Mrs. Wheat said. Probably, just as well.

I think it is preposterous – this starting school so early business. No one asked me about it, but that hasn’t stopped me from giving my opinion over the years.

In the near past, I have just focused on the early date of freshman orientation, but this year, due to the presence of a certain female freshman in our house, I am more fully experiencing the big FO.  I don’t know if the stress level will climb or not for the next hour plus. I was irritated about having to take myself over to the dentist’s for a cleaning, but now I sort of welcome the time in the chair with my cell phone off. Someone else will get the call about a certain freshman who duct taped herself into her locker and won’t come out.

I got up innocently this morning, after having being mugged by an horrible nightmare, and looked at my email. There, listed as coming in about The Leaning Cow, was one from LZP. Of course, you could read it below, but I think we all need to wander around trying to get this one out of our minds. No, we don’t ALL have to; I just don’t want to  be alone.

Here is it . . . coming at ya:

SPAMORES….  take two individual slices of spam and put peeps on the middle… don’t do this while camping  in the great Northwest or you will end up as Grizzly bear droppings.

See, my dream about driving a tiny white sports car and driving through a gas station, hooking onto a hose and ripping it off the pump, pales against the image of Spam patties with peeps between them.

Boy, cast aspersions on Spam and people will speak up. And go to the trouble of sending pictures. This came this afternoon from Der Bingle.

Der Bingle stood in a grocery and took pictures of his Spam. It is a simple sentence, one that I am compelled to repeat over and over again – kind of like in wondrous awe.

Very rarely does the man use his phone for pictures . . . but, of course, this is SPAM. I wonder if he had them triple bag it? Will the Ohio Redoubt become The Spam Cafe & Roadhouse?

Word by word from LZP:

Enclosed in the package is a case of spam.  Not really it is a sparra paddle (sparrow) that was used by Dr Bill to whomp sparras. The Rack from which these paddles hung with the names of the hunters is ready for restoration and display. In the dead of winter after dark all the of age men-folk would go out to the darkened barn and with sparra paddles in hand they would start hooting and hollering to scare the sparras into flying around and then they would get whomped. It was important to keep the sparras out of the barn because they would poop all over and spread disease…. the dreaded sparra poop disease. At least once usually twice during an epic sparra battle one or two of the hunters would get whomped in the back of the head by another less than bright hunter, or they would fall out of the hayloft. After these hunts the men-folk would gather round the supper table and feast on Spamwiches, as it would take 10 – 15 sparras to make a sandwich. I have also packed in some peeps to be used as practice sparras.

(I will be taking a better picture of each item, but I wanted to show the whole effect right off the paddle.)

We got a box at our house today – with a lot of tape on it. So I told Summer if she would bring me a can of soda, she could open the mystery box. There was a lot of tape on it; it looked exciting, but there was a lot of tape, a lot. When she had it partly open, she pulled out peeps and more peeps and more peeps and then she pulled out an old board and an old paddle-looking thing.

It is something from Der Bingle and LZP’s homestead. I have to seek a clear definition.

Stayed tuned.

I have heard from people about my Spam post – people who like Spam and have rushed to its defense. Just last night I got a call from Der Bingle who relayed to me a message from LZP how when he was 13, his brother’s new wife introduced him to Girl Scout Sandwiches – bologna, a slice of cheese and a ring of pineapple between to slices of bread and then grilled. The gist of the reminder, of course, was that bologna is akin to Spam. Obviously, the Spam put-down caused some stewing that resulted in a reach back about four decades to an “Oh, yeah, what about bologna?” response.

You know, maybe if I went out and spread Spam on the grass next spring, the dandelions would finally succumb.

LZP – as I type this, I am bracing for your response. But I suppose the app on WordPress will put it in the trash after putting it through the spam filter. Oh, gosh, forget bracing . . . I need to start digging a bomb shelter.

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.