Things I Won't Tell You

One of the things folks miss about the late Katherine D. Lewis, MBA, is her way with words. She spoke enthusiastically, faster than safety requires, and would twist the language into phrases which meant one thing to her and something else to the listener. Most of these made her blush when they were pointed out. There was her remark after the Groundhog’s Day blizzard…no, can’t tell that one in a family blog. Well, after the crash of 2008, when the price for housing her dog while she went to England…no, not that one, either. I can’t even tell you what she said about the manager of what must have been the cheapest hotel in all of England. The first time she told it, it was a great suspense story, but the second time, she switched just two little words and it…I’ll tell you when you’re older.

The point is that she came out with these nuggets of confusion so often that some people accused her of rehearsing at home and then pretending to blurt them out, just for the attention. I understand how you marvel at someone who is so consistently noteworthy, but this theory assumes her to have been one of the great comedy writers as well as one of the world’s greatest comic actors. And it spoils the story. If she said these things on purpose, the joke dies. It’s like people who make amazing donations. Sometimes I’m afraid they have done these weird, wonderful things just to get into this blog, which ruins the fun. It’s like learning someone lowered the basket when Michael Jordan came up to it, or Gerald Ford fell down because he knew it made him loveable.

So I have decided not to tell you about the person who donated some fairly literary and artistic but still rather naughty books last week. I am sure that he thought he’d be mentioned for including the big paperback with the picture cut off the cover, leaving about an inch of cover at the top and an inch at the bottom. He was trying too hard, so I refuse to mention him OR his book.

And I will not mention the family with its apple box of books. Oh, I know, I’ve mentioned people who brought books in lettuce boxes and orange boxes and, of course, banana boxes. People have brought me books in apple boxes before. Apple boxes are, in fact, a little less unsuitable than banana boxes for the purpose, so I might not have mentioned this donation in any case.

The reason I am not going to mention them in this space is that theirs smelled so strongly of apples. It smelled like apples because one apple had gotten caught among the cardboard padding. You are NOT going to tell me that this apple, which from its condition had been waiting around since October, could have been missed accidentally. Books are flat, apples are round. (This one had gotten a bit flattened.) So it HAS to have been left just so somebody would get mentioned in Uncle Blogsy’s column of soul. Well, forget it: I’m not going to write anything about you or your little apple: so there!

As for that tattered bag of books which came in with the label stapled to the side; you know better. There was no reason for reusing this bag to bring books to the library: the handles were tearing off, the bottom was falling out, and it had seen more than its share of use over the years. So I’m not going to mention it at all.

I might warn Sally that after I threw the bag into the recycling bin, somebody saw it. When next I went out to throw away torn bags, I found that some miscreant had taken the label for future reference. Somewhere, somebody has your five by seven card reading “SALLY’S BRAS—TOO SMALL.”

But it serves you right for working so hard to get into the blog.

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