Hi One or All (hope I have more than one Blogging Baby reading this :---),

Okay, so tonight I have more intricacies to reveal about five-year-old Laura and her Devil dig. She recalls,

I also envisioned the Devil to look exactly like Mr. Moose on Captain Kangaroo.

Can't you just so easily imagine Mr. Moose's head popping up during the alley excavation? I can see his somewhat bewildered friendly face looking around, all interested in the new locale, his eyes squinting in the bright Florida sunlight, gray moss hanging from his antlers, a big toothy grin. Then he would spot my sister, spit out a ping pong ball or two and squeak very kindly, in his thin, light, airy voice, Hello little girl, what is your name? To me, Mr. Moose was a most happy, affable soul. Wonder why she associated the wretched Devil with the lovely Mr. Moose, of all people. I'll have to ask.

Then Laura goes on to confess her true purpose for all her hard labor,

Oh, and I was digging for the Devil because I had very vivid pictures in my mind that when he popped his head out of the hole that I was digging, I would hit him on the head with the shovel (poor, dear Mr. Moose, KEM says sorrowfully). I would be on the front page of the St. Pete Times and basically the HERO of the world. That was my motivation.

WELL! Can anyone argue with that?? Probably the neighbor man could. I wonder if she had her shovel in hand when she posed the question of his life, Are you the Devil?, ready to bop him over the head and rid the world of all evil should he answer in the affirmative. I think what he did was turn stone-faced and keel over. And I can't fathom why my sister singled out this particular man. Perhaps his wide perpetual smile was a dead ringer for Mr. Moose's? Maybe his hearty laugh was just a mite boisterous? Was it his tallness or his jet black hair? I don't know. I'll have to ask.

Laura was all frustrated today because when she tried to post a comment on the blog, it didn't do right, it didn't post (well, that figures, computer literacy runs ragged in our family, except not with DTD and her cousins, let's get real). She's blaming it on Cream of Wheat. She thinks she will start blaming C of W for everything from now on. Ha, serves Nabisco right, she snorts. That is quite the original alibi, eh? But wait a minute (did you eat Original or Minute C of W?), Cream of Wheat seems such an innocent, wholesome product of the field, but don't be deceived. It is addictive at the very least (read what CDW has to say below), and brain mushifying (original word) at the very most, and most likely all kinds of things in the middle. When one carefully considers the texture of C of W, one can certainly make some sort of reasonable connection that if you consume enough of it, which we have established my sister most certainly did, in excessive amounts, it will likely result in brain damage. Your brain will gradually morph into a ball of congealed C of W. My brother probably did call her C of W Brain, too. (This is all in jest, lest anyone be troubled.

So, CDW pipes up with the following: KEM Dearest, I grew up on Cream of Wheat, too . . . and my Grandpa A. ate it forever when he found out he had an ulcer. In fact, that's all he ate until he remarried right before I was born. My Grandma A. died in the 50's, and he married my step-grandma, Isalone, (how does that name grab you?) . . . anyway, she was responsible for weaning him off the good ol' Cream of Wheat and feeding him good food . . . vegetables included. :)

I'll tell you how that grabs me, I'm happy that Isalone wasn't alone anymore. And also, more telling, especially since I don't want Nabisco to sue me or anything, I'm thoroughly elated we can now deduce that C of W is the proud possessor of at least one virtue, Ulcer Calmer. Of course, Isalone brought down C of W sales by depriving in TOE-TAL her poor new husband his three-meals-a-day-and-snacks-in-between of C of W, so I'm in deep water any which way you slice your congealed C of W. But I report truth (exaggerated), and truth (varnished) alone, so Nabisco will just have to live with it. Wonder if Isalone (just had to get this interesting name on paper one more time, never heard of it, have you?) ever allowed Grandpa A. another tiny taste of C of W his whole live-life long? Wonder if Grandpa ever had to sneak some . . . maybe in the garage? It occurs to me that my sister and CDW'S Grandpa are surely related somehow. That would be spectacular because then CDW and I would be related, and I could come and visit her like all her other relatives are allowed to do, and we could lounge around watching old movies and eating multiple bowls of piping hot C of W drowning in half-n-half and brown sugar.

Do you want to know something? Since I've started blogging, I've entirely lost track of lesser things . . . things like how many nights in a row I've worn my pajamas, or if I ever even go to bed or how many times we've used our bath towels. Or how many times I've eaten today, or showered (that would go along with towel usage) . . . whatever.

STRONGLY disliking giving the Devil so much publicity,

KEM