Thursday, July 14, 2011

11 JUL 10

Another quiet Sunday.
Nothing much to write about...
Finally potted my annuals yesterday.
Been lazy about doing that this year... it's been too darned hot.
Now, if the squirrels will leave the flower boxes alone,
all will be fine.

One daughter and her family are on vacation.
We're minding her two dogs.
It's no problem... just takes getting used to having
four-legged alarms that tend to go off unexpectedly,
day or night.

Cheers!

-Fini


ADDENDUM :
I suppose it happens to everyone of a certain age...
memories, which have been collected and stored in the
haphazard way used by the brain, are involuntarily recalled via
random, serendipitous events.
So it is with this:
One of my daughter's dogs requires daily dosing with
rather large pills. The animal refuses to swallow them.
The method used to fool the dog is to wrap the pills
in a piece of bologna and administer same.
It works very well. The dog gulps them down, happily.
The memory string being plucked here is "bologna."
I don't normally have it in the house.
I don't like it much at all.
BUT... bologna does takes me way back to my time at
Sacred Heart Elementary School in Camden, NJ.
On days when I didn't bring my own lunch with me,
I was forced to eat the school-provided lunch served
in the church basement. This lunch was normally
bologna sandwiches and chicken-noodle soup and milk.
I had no problem with the soup and milk part...
but the bologna sandwiches...
the bologna was sliced, with a knife, into 1/4 inch thick slabs,
slathered in yellow mustard, then slapped between two
pieces of Wonder Bread.
(All this for a dime too.)

Other than these "lunchtime memories," I recall, fondly,
my time at Sacred Heart. I credit the Dominican nuns who
taught there with teaching me all I ever needed to know
to get on in life. When asked about my level of education,
I often reply with, "Eighth grade."


Sacred Heart Church, Camden, NJ

 Again... Fini

Another thought:
It was here, at the annual talent show, that I first became interested in drums.
A student in my class, Walter Church, played the field snare.
He'd learned by playing with a local drum and bugle corps.
What he was able to do with the sticks fascinated me.

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