Pickles

Our granddaughter, Melissa has just entered middle school. Everything is new, changing classes, having a locker, making new friends. She keeps telling us school is awesome, wonderful, terrific.

Today we spoke with Missy again.
"How was school today?" Poppy asked while I listened in on the other phone.
"O.K. Guess what?" she said.
"What?" we asked in unison, both surprised she hadn't used the word awesome.
"There's a teacher in this school. Her name is Mrs. McNichol."
"Oh, no," I immediately blurted out.
The rest of the world might say, "What wrong with a teacher named Mrs. McNichol?"

Richard has a very vivd memory as a child of a time when he went for a ride in the car with Uncle Johnny. Uncle Johnny taught him a few poems during their outing together. He made Richard repeat them over and over until the poems had been committed to his memory.

There they remained immortalized and ever since every Jaunich child has been taught the rhymes much to the dismay of their parents. Richard's legacy to the family so to speak. So here is why we know Mrs. McNichol.
"Missy, tell us the poem," Poppy said.

In her sweet eleven year old voice, Missy recited it for us.

"Mrs. McNichol went to pick pickles,
On a windy day.
Mrs. Martin came a fartin'
And blew them all away."

Poor unsuspecting Mrs. McNichol. Missy will never be able to look at her with a straight face.