My Son Cooks

My boy Will, 11 now, soon to be 12, is taking Home Ec in the 6th grade. He loves it, and almost every week he comes home and cooks for us exactly what they cooked in class: so far we've enjoyed cinnamon twists (biscuit dough from a tube, dipped in melted margarine, rolled in cinnamon sugar, and elongated and twisted) and birds-in-the-nest (a slice of bread with a cutout in the middle, dropped into a frying pan and fried with an egg in the cutout).

Not only does Will cook everything, he takes great pride in cleaning up the same way they do in class: washing and drying all pots, pans, and utensils, and wiping down all work surfaces. We stand back in amazement. And the food is good--even Will's 8-year-old little brother, Dominic, eats it all up.

Thanks again, Mr. Lombardi

The summer before my freshman year at the University of Maine, I mowed lawns in Sandy Point to earn a few dollars. One of my customers was Dennis J. Lombardi, who had a small camp on the shore down over the bank near the Hersey Retreat; I think he got my phone number from Jane Stewart, Jeff and John Stewart's mom. Mr. Lombardi drove a dark-blue Cadillac with a custom plate that said "DJL."

The last time I mowed Mr. Lombardi's lawn near the end of August, he asked me, "Judy Smith is your mother, right?" And I said yes, that's right. "And Dod and Reat Smith were her parents?" And I said yes. "Your grandfather, Dod Smith, dug the basement for this house." I thought that was really something. And when he paid me that day, Mr. Lombardi gave me an extra $20. "Something to take up to Maine with you," he said.