You can Ask Bob a question if you want!
I have a de-gree in S-C-I-E-N-C-E.
I didn’t plan on writing about my little vacation, but since Stephen let the cat out of the bag, I’ll go ahead and do a Stephen Johnson style roadtrip column.
If your not familiar, here are some of his road trip columns:
2007 – Day One Of T he Trip You Could Care Less About
2010 – The 2010 Road Trip Part 1
2008 – The 2008 Road Trip The Grand Finale
Part of what Stephen said is true, I did stay at a hillbilly cabin way up in the woods, but I don’t own it. However, it is part of the Senitram legacy which has a long history going back to my great-grandfather on my fathers side.
However, I’m not chocke full of hill-billy blood as Stephen claims. I’ll explain.
My family was on a vacation of thier own when mama heard the cry of a wee-baby in a trash can. Curious, they looked inside only to find the cutest little baby they had ever seen. So they took it to the police, told the story of how they found the baby and eventually were allowed to adopt the baby all legal like.
And that little baby was……….me!
This was the story told to me by my siblings. They said this explains why I look so different and have darker skin. I didn’t think much of it, as I thought they were just given me the business. But as I grew older, I noticed that I was quite different from my brothers. So finally, at the age of 10, I gathered up the courrage to ask my mom.
“Mom,” I says to her in a nice confident loud voice, “I need to know…was I found in a garbage can?”
“Oh, heavens no!” she calmly explained. “It was more of a dumpster. Me and your father told your brothers to tease you about it, so that way, when the time came to tell you, it wouldn’t be a shock that you were adopted. And it worked! Why look-eee here, you don’t looked surprised at all.”
“It’s just like when we told you right from the beginning that there ain’t no Santa Clause.”
“I thought you told us that so you didn’t have to buy presents.” I countered.
“Well, that’s part of it, but the other part is to spare you the shock that there really isn’t a Santa…its all for your own good.”
“Ok, then.” I said looking down.
“Now you pay that no-mind, your a Senitram thru and thru. Now trim your toe nails, you look like a tramp.”
That picked my spirits right up. I loved trimmin’ those toes.
Mom always knew just what to say.
Without hesitation I sat down criss-cross apple sauce, lifted my bare foot to my mouth and started gnawing at my pappa-toe-nail to trim it down…as that is the Senitram way.
So even though, the Senitrams come from a long line of un-so-fist-i-cated hill-billy type folk…sadly I am not genetically a Senitram. I’m a HINO (Hill-billy In Name Only).
And if that ain’t the god-forsaken truth, may he strike me down with a pack of poisoned Lucky Strikes.
And now you know…
Coming Next: About that cabin?