Mrs. Teabody Gives a Twenty-one Gun Salute (of sorts)

Did August take you by surprise, Gentle Reader, coming up as it did on its little cat feet  -- an abundance of breezes and civil temperatures, a sun at once bright but not scalding, lush greenery instead of wilted splendor? Mrs. Teabody has many, many acquaintances in her peer group and not a single one can recall such an enchanting summer. Perhaps you are one not in favor of non-blazing days, and to you Mrs. Teabody sends her regrets but little else. A placid time. Truly.

Many irons are in the fire at Mrs. Teabody's little enterprise, Tickle Your Fancy, and tomorrow marks the one hundred and fourteenth birthday of the lovely Albert Stoner Building shown above. Chez Teabody has seen a flurry of activity this afternoon with batters and beaters and sugars flying about and the resulting birthday cupcakes and fine iced tea will be not more than an arm's length away from all who come to hear Michael Henry talk about his latest novel, UNCLE TOMMY SQUATCH at noon tomorrow. Do drop by to talk with this delightful young writer.

Perhaps Mrs. Teabody arranged just such a busy day as it did not give her time to think about another event of great import to the little hamlet: the departure of Andrew Smith . Andrew leaves tomorrow for parts unknown--well, not entirely unknown. Mrs. Teabody has known of travelers who have gone to the far-flung state of Indiana and  who HAVE returned unscathed -- but  "parts unknown" as in the definition for entirely too far away. 

For the uninitiated Andrew Smith is a local fellow who has done well -- most would say exceptionally well -- during his brief nearly eighteen years on earth, most of those years spent here in this small rural county in more or less ordinary circumstances: lovely parents, supportive extended family, comfortable home, enough approval from his peers to be elected class president, enough approval from his teachers to be named valedictorian, enough approval, love, affection and respect from everyone around him to be referred to almost always by his first name only, Andrew. No one ever asks Andrew Who? Like Prince, Andrew is just Andrew, and that name means one unique human being.

Mrs. Teabody has thought of a hundred ways to give Andrew an appropriate send-off, one worthy of the sense of loss everyone will feel when the Smithmobile pulls out of town on the morrow. A twenty-one gun salute? Horrifying. Message and photograph on a billboard along Route 522 North? No way, Jose. A thousand plastic forks jabbed into the soil of his front lawn to represent the thousand ways he will be missed or the thousand things he did well or the thousand kindnesses he has extended to others? Hardly a decorous send off, and again lacking in originality.

At a loss for any final appropriate gesture to signal Mrs. Teabody's great sadness, her enormous sense of loss, and with a heart full of a million hopeful wishes for the longest, best, happiest, brightest of futures, Mrs. Teabody scratches out this little Farewell to one of the finest, pure and unadulterated human beings she has ever had the joy of knowing.

Andrew, Mrs. Teabody is (finally) at a loss for words. Just go be your extraordinary self. Farewell. The pleasure was all mine.
Ta for now!