Well, I thought I should let you all know that I am alive and well. Dee's Heath Bar cake is cooling on the counter (the delicious scent wafts up to the nook where I sit trying to type). Meaghan is viewing a show on Olympic gymnasts, Nick is at the Waffle House with his best friends girl friend (what's up with that?) Shawn is wandering around talking on the telephone to the girl running the store tonight, and Maridawn is lying in
bed, exhausted from a full day of scrapping.
So "what can be the genesis of Indian Summer?" she ponders out loud to her audience, one of whom is the king of hijinks. Well it seems that the origin of this term was one season in a particular year, long, long ago in a small colonial village on the Atlantic shore. The first frost had killed all of the insects and all of the leaves had dropped from the trees to the
ground. The grasses were yet green, but no longer growing, and the air was full of excited, migrating birds headed to Katy, Texas. Their minds full of memories of the scrumpteous grains lying fallow in the fields, there, and their toungues fairly flapping in anticipation. Mary Rose Smith, a pleasant
pilgrim woman with few brains, rough hands and weary eyes, had put all of the light weight summer clothes in heavy trunks, which in turn had been raised up into the loft by block and tackle. The rough, heavy winter clothes had been taken out and were airing in the closets.
Mud Flappy Dappy and his squaw-wife Soft Grass is Best had experienced many such seasons in this land, and knew the best was yet to come. They were still parading around in their skimpy loin cloths knitted from the silk produced by caterpillers now extinct which were then quite prevalent in the area.
Jim Bob Smith was in the fields trying to unstuck a five bottem plough his oxen had set in the hard pack when Soft Grass is Best jogged by with her silken frock floating behind her in the breeze. Standing in the hot October sun, with sweat penetrating his woolen clothing and top hat, Jim Bob thought of chunky Mary Rose in her stinky woolen dress, threw down the harness and
strode off to the north towards New Foundland. In desparation, Mary Rose Smith moved in with Mud Flappy Dappy, later giving birth to Brigham Young and another son named Adam who later became a famous economist.
In later years, both Jim Bob and Mary Rose would look back fondly at their "Indian Summer".
Note to reader: Some steamier portions of this historical
documentation were edited in consideration of the audience.
Now a Heath Bar cake awaits. Love ya' Frank
