The Pepina Chicks are en route to warmth. They’ve taken the last airplane out of chilly Cuke County for sunny Florida, winter home of Bompa and Grandma Sauve. Pepinita is so thrilled, she isn’t concerned about rain in the tropics. There’s always the Shell Factory, she claims.
I picked her up early from school. She stuffed a note in my pocket. I read it after she left. It reads:
I reaeaeaeally [sic] miss you. I wish I could sqert [sic] yuo with a bumper bowet [sic] sqert [sic] gun in a bumper bowt [sic, again]! I hop [sic, last but not least] you have a good time without me.
P.S. Please write back!xoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo(the “xo” pattern continues throughtout an entire page 2)
As I write these words, the Chicks Pepino fly over miles of U.S.A on their way to Papa/Mama Suave’s sprawling winter play land complex, replete with horseshoes, shuffles and accompanying boards, pools, miles of paved golf cart highways, and weather to write home about.
Something of note: Their arrival will immediately lower the average age of Florida folks from 78 years, 5 months, to 78 years, 4 months, and two weeks. Pass that on. No charge. Keep your wallet in your pocket.
What does a humble Pickle do while the lasses are gone? Well, I just finished watching 45 minutes of Stevie Ray Vaughn clips on YouTube, after scrapping ice off the drive, eating a salad while reading the Pepino Press, and am now planning on watching the Comedy Channel until I get the urge to stare at my eyelids. Maybe I’ll do a weekend log on the blog. A log of the single pickle. Pepino Solo.