|Gee, I hope I haven't blogged upon this already . . .
||[Sep. 16th, 2016|10:55 am]
Phrembah (a potato-like mystery)
I had a drop-dead-gorgeous English teacher in high school who would, at the final bell, run down the steps of the main entrance to the curb, throw her leather bag of books and paperwork into the back seat and leap into the front seat of her boyfriend’s red Mustang convertible without opening the door. The boyfriend would then “lay rubber,” as we used to say, squealing the tires out of the parking lane into the street. What our teacher and her boyfriend did when they got to wherever they went was the subject of endless, painful speculation on our part.