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Patsy Strand sat next to my mother in high school, which was not a feat as there were personalpublishing only three in the graduating class. My mother, as she frequently announced when either my brother or I brought home mediocre grades, was class valedictorian. Patsy, if I remember right, would personalpublishing have beaten out Boyd Frompke for salutatorian had personalpublishing she not gotten herself knocked-up junior year. Apparently old Patsy showed up at all the county dances with her kneecaps showing and wantonness flashing in her eyes. My mother desecrated the kitchen with her cooking. I grew up believing that spaghetti was pink and came, quite naturally, out of a can. In fact, until the age of 12, I mistook my mother's maiden name for Boy-ar-dee. Convenience foods lined our cabinet shelves: Mary Kitchen's corned-beef hash, Armour's chipped beef, and Campbell's Bean-with-Bacon soup. The freezer overflowed with Swanson's TV dinners, Weaver's frozen fried chicken, and lima beans, the only vegetable ever to find its way onto our table.
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