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.

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.

This morning I took Alison to the dentist and on my way out of the driveway and on my way back in, I found myself exclaiming to myself: Good grief, that grass needs mowing. And so, since it was early and in the shade I mowed it. The humidity was quite high and the mower sounded as if it were function on half a cylinder, but we both did all right – until the mower ran out of grass with just a tiny bit to do out back.

Of course, I dripped sweat but I put more water in and to sound New Age, which is now Middle Age, in my Oldish Age . . . I feel (brace for it) cleansed. Sort of Swedish sauna cleansed, not the Steve Martin high colonic cleansed. And, by the way, the yard looks better. I wore Mother’s “Don’t Worry – Be Crabby” hat. Two hair-coiffed, latter middle-aged, well-dressed in tennis clothes ladies passed me on their morning walk with water bottles – Didn’t even give me a nod. Rose was in the window – she and I grinned back and forth at each other once the ladies were a bit down the sidewalk.

Then Rose had to give me a stern look because she knew in her heart of hearts that I was doing a reverse look down my nose at the walkers.  Rose particularly hates it when I do that because not only is it demeaning for me, it reminds her that her nose is flat and she can’t really do it. Oh, I’m sorry Rose; it was just a little AmeliaJake jokie. Rose? Oh, I’ve gone and done it now. Good thing the mower is out of gas or she might mow my feet or something else . . . like my hair . . .  or MY nose?

Did I just hear the weedeater start up?

I am off-track this week, not that I have lost the track – I am looking right at it – but my wheels are bumping along beside it. See, I went to Fairborn on Friday, which felt like Friday; I went to the wedding on Saturday – Barbara Egan Kren, whom I have known since she was seven was beautiful – and that felt like Saturday. Then I decided not to return on Sunday, but come back Monday morning.

So as Sunday progressed and I didn’t leave, it felt like Saturday night; and when I spent the morning in the car on Monday, it seemed like a Sunday travel day. But now it’s Tuesday? Yes, I guess so unless scientists discovered a new day between Monday and Tuesday. I have not checked the news yet so I guess that is possible. Or maybe they did tests and found out Tuesday and Thursday had actually been switched at creation and today is actually Thursday. Well, at least tomorrow will still be Wednesday . . . unless the first scenario of a newly-discovered day is true.

Believe it or not, this is how I keep myself from wandering too far into the insane, out or touch with reality, region. Or at least it aids me in maintaining the charade that I am reasonably sane. Now that I am thinking about it, I believe you can be sane and crazy at the same time. I don’t think crazy is necessarily bad, although non-crazy probably keeps the world functioning. That is why I only have minor “lost” car trips and pretend “lost” trips with the kids. And it is why if I every did head out on an unmapped trip into the great lost it would be in an SUV with water, food and blankets . . . and a cell phone – maybe even a satellite phone. Oh, and of course, a cooler of ice.

Looks like rain today. I am toying with the idea of starting a campaign: All things we don’t need into the garage where they can be prioritized for trunk trips to Mother’s burn pile of put in line 2 for trips to recycling. My walls at the floor level are lined with stuff. Alison freely admits that she had a childhood that was very hard and she is now a collector of food and clothing. She is the “stock up” queen. Now that it is time to get ready for school, we are into the school supply phase. I fantasize about a giant vacuum that would suck rooms empty except for furniture.

I have been avoiding writing about Sydney. He spent the weekend at the vet’s for rest and evaluation. His liver enzyme is still up and we are discontinuing the bit of pain medicine he gets in the morning because it puts pressure on the liver functions. His eyesight has failed considerably and he is getting really deaf. School will be starting soon and I suppose he and I will spend time quietly in the same room. I think if he knows I am very near he doesn’t get up and down all the time. And when I have to work in the yard at Mother’s I believe I will park the car in the shade and put a blanket and water beside it and put a long leash hooked to the bumper or something. If he knows the car is there, I think he will relax and sleep. Maybe I could let Rose sit with him. He has lost some more weight but the vet thinks it is old age and not cancer.

I am living the ending of Marley and Me. Course no one knows, I could go first. Fate is fate. Bury his ashes above me. I’m not trying to be maudlin – just sensibly informative. This is what facing reality can do to you, which is why I like the trips into the crazy.

I told them in Indiana I would be leaving early, around the time Der Bingle got up and left for work. Well, he’s been gone for about an hour now and I am still in my sleeping attire. I would say “Running late” is the wrong description – is there such a thing as slugging late?

Okay, I can do this. Get dressed, load up the car and take off. Typing it was step one of what could possibly be a 12 Step Plan. I think taking my feet off the coffee table could be sort of a revving up. It’s questionable.