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  • In fourth grade someone got the bright idea of cutting lunch to an outrageous 15 minutes (as if going to a year-round school without a cafeteria wasn't enough--we ate at our desks and were served by mobile carts in the hall). To get the slow eaters (me) up to speed, our teachers implemented a charming little policy called "Shovel Time."

    The first nine minutes would pass normally. Then as the tenth approached, Miss Stauffer (a feathered-haired gal who drove a Camaro and loved Little River Band) would yell, "Do you know what time it is?!" The class would manically shriek back, "SHOVEL TIME!!!" Talking was absolutely forbidden the final five minutes—it was a deathly silent scarf fest.

    I don't know if I've ever been the same since. But as a nod to this classy ritual, I've adopted the humble scooping implement as my rating system's icon. Shovel on!
    ----------------------------------
    1 Shovel=Passing Fancy
    2 Shovels=Puppy Love
    3 Shovels=Crippling Crush
    4 Shovels=Serious Stalking

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someone in st louis

Back when we were serving time in Maine in the Eighties, there was an old couple down Shadagee Road who made good money every spring hunting fiddleheads to sell to the cannery. Piles and piles of fiddleheads.

Typical Mainers. We saw them to nod at them maybe twice a year, but since we were from away they just looked past us and kind of grimaced acknowledgement not exactly unfriendly-like.

A relative of ours died and we had to take a couple of days off work and go to Missouri to bury him. Nobody in Franklin County knew why we were gone, except two or three people in the library.

When we got back, there was a note in our mailbox from the old couple down the road, expressing their condolences.

So, yeah. Fiddleheads are kind of spooky.

Krista

someone in st. louis: I thought you were going to say that a bouquet of fiddlehead ferns was waiting for you in your mailbox. Fiddleheads seem creepily primordial to me, just not something we should be eating in 2009...or ever.

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