In which I don’t discuss the size of anyone’s pecker

Saturday afternoon after spending hours outside plucking the dandelions out of the yard and flower bed Leta and I rested on the concrete porch sipping soda and shooting the shit. The last part of that sentence was written because I am an alliteration whore.

After finishing the soda which was packaged in a lovely glass bottle I tried to entertain Leta by humming into the top of the bottle to make a low, whistling noise. Alas, just because you’re talented in the blowing of other certain things does not necessarily make you a good blower of a soda bottle. I couldn’t produce a single note, just a dull, hollow warble.

“Giver it here,” Jon commanded. He was standing nearby assembling a fertilizer spreader, a rather sexy endeavor to behold I must say. And with one curling of his lips he blew a whistle into the bottle and it hummed like the belly of a volcano.

“Goddamn you! I knew you’d know how to do it.” His talents are maddening. “Did they teach you that on the bookmobile?”

“Don’t dis the bookmobile, Heather.”

The following morning I got an email (hi, d!) saying that I was “the Peckinpah of the print world.” Being the learned English major that I am I had no idea what that meant. Was this person comparing me to a pecker? Did I peck? Did I pah?

So, of course, I asked Jon if he had any idea what Peckinpah was. Was it a disease? A cuisine? A topical ointment? “Sam Peckinpah was a director and he made these really bloody, almost profane films,” he answered as if he were totally expecting that exact question.

Oh. Yeah. I forgot. BOOK FUCKING MOBILE.