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.

Summer and I kited yesterday, finding enough wind on the ENE side to get our kites in the air over the cornfield. The dogs walked over our strings a couple of time and we did have some nosedives, but finally, they were up. It was a marginal day and once my unicorn kites zoomed for the corn only to pull up at the last minute.

THEN, Summer’s kite string crossed mine and her kite started to come down, and eventually it did. My kite was left flying from the spot on the grass where its string had come down. I should have run up and grabbed the string where it came out from under Summer’s string, but I thought I could wind my way to it quickly. Wrong. Almost there and the kite started down and I couldn’t jerk the string to send it back up. One of the reasons I didn’t drop the spool and run to the crossed point is because I saw a dog staring at me, thinking. “She’ll drop that spool and I will run and get all tangled in it.”

So we hauled it in through a sea of corn tassels and went in and watched a couple of VHS movies. Then we picked up and came home.

Today is overcast and dark and still. Perhaps the atmosphere is influenced by the kids’ knowledge that tomorrow is the first day of school.

And I must get all spiffed up – well, a minor spiffing. Oh, and I need to measure my neck circumference because I could not resist coughing up 36 dollars for this necklace.

Yes, we got a kite up at Mother’s; actually, I got another one up several times, but it was inherently unstable and kept nose diving. We put two rolls of string on the kite Summer had up there in the sky and then the string got tangled in a tree.

Then Summer got seriously tangled in the kite string that came down. Oh, that was fun. She’s out there with kite string and she gets tangled up. She’s 14, you know. FOURTEEN.

Oh, Summer, you know that thing about not running with scissors, well don’t run with dangling kite string, either.

I need to go whang my head on the wall.

I plugged in the camera wire to download a picture of  the LPSH cowbell from the Catholic Rummage Sale and found about 70 pictures of Shane in a Wubba exercise.  So, I guess this is pretty much the Shane post. However, Secret Agent Woo wants to send this message: Lunch A and Lunch B are okay because the food is hot.

I have no idea what the letters stand for, other than the H & S, of course.

Now, himself:

Looking at you.

Got the Wubba.

Ready to go.

Not this yard – Mother’s – and a marathon mowing session that stretched from about 1pm to 8pm. I had a couple of breaks, as did the mower, but I was pushing it and started thinking – I actually thought this – a machine doesn’t have a heart; a machine gets to a point and stops. I thought, “You should stop and check the oil because it is so hot out, but I didn’t.  So, at the very last, at the far north end, it chugged and stopped and the oil light came on.

Boy, that oil was hot. Machines are smart enough to know when they have to stop. I’m glad for that – especially when they are expensive machines. Maybe, though, some machines have hearts – like the planes in WWII that brought brought crews home on a wing and a prayer. But in an Indiana field there was no need for such heroics. I sat there, made a phone call, sat some more and then got it started and we went directly to its shed.

I was filthy with the sweat of the day and the thrown back grass clippings, but I pulled my Dorfman hat on

and looking like a character from The Grapes of Wrath, went into Taco Bell and ordered Deal #3 and a 99¢ 5 layer beefy burrito. ( FYI: Deal #4 is that same 99¢ burrito as its main item, while Deal #3 has a gordita supreme which goes for $1.89)

Oh, they just called to say the Catholic Rummage Sale is going on . . . .

I’m back. I took Cameron and he got a couple of VHS tapes and I got retro tableclothes for $1 and a vintage bell to ring a football games from a defunct high school (50¢º. The lady watched my choices go into the bag and said, “You have a good eye.” I told Cameron that was a great compliment. I also got a monk for a dollar, but it’s for secret use in a Christmas present.

Okay, now the FO girl. I got a call on the way up to Mother’s from Summer. Sounded like sobs mangling the words It was horrible. I knew better – she admitted it wasn’t bad at all and friends were glad to see her and she has Lunch A which is so much better than Lunch C.

Well, I am trying to convince her that we need to vacuum Shane with the wet/dry power sucker. He is shedding – big time. It’s as if baby bunnies are lying around on the floor . . . and our clothes.

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.