Baba-Yaga ain't got nothin' on me.

My Freshman Seminar class never fails to fascinate me.

The theme is Appalachian Folklore, and we're delving pretty deep into the culture of the South and how it shaped the country as a whole. Blah. Blah. Blah. But really, it's interesting...and made me want to buy a banjo.

That's not the point.

On Monday we found ourselves talking about Jack Tales. You know, Jack and the Beanstalk (sidenote: there's a coffee shop called the BeansTalk on King Street and tiny women with short haircuts and baggy plaid shirts are always coming and going...), Jack and the Dentist's Daughter, Jack and the Handmaid, and so on and so forth. The basis of these stories is that a dimwit usually stumbles upon fortune in groups of three and is rewarded with a hot wife or a magical flute. So predictable.

Somehow, though, we wound up on the subject of Hansel and Gretel. I think it's because we were talking about archetypal characters and someone mentioned a witch. And that, obviously, leads to Hansel and Gretel. It's all so clear.

That's not the point.

Well, kind of.

But our teacher mentioned that some scholars ("scholars" being those well-versed in telling tall-tales) think that Hansel and Gretel was told to young children to help them be weaned off breast-feeding. I hate that word. Breast. It just looks gross.

Sorry.

Weaning. We all looked at each other and rolled our eyes. It just didn't seem like a logical explanation. I mean, everyone knows that Hansel and Gretel is about not accepting candy from strangers. If you do, you'll be stuck in a bird cage while the oven's firing up in the back room. It's the blatant moral of the story. Breast-feeding? Give me a break.

The kid next to me, however, couldn't let it go. Logan. Poor, pasty, dark-haired Logan. I don't give him enough credit. He's a nice guy, just a bit on the strange side. He's also incredibly intelligent and well-read. But that doesn't mean he isn't socially unaware. Or awkward. But look who's talking.

We had already moved to the next topic of discussion when he raised his hand.

"Yes, Logan?"

"I have a question."

"..."

"I would just like to know where this Freudian idea fits in with our discussion."

"Freudian idea?"

"Yeah, you know. With children always longing for their mother's breasts..."

And I swear he leaned a little closer to me while a thin, grotesque smile spread across his lips.

"Or as I like to call them, 'sources of plenty'."

I have a number in my head, though I don't know why it's there

I was in my Intro to Mass Comm class the other day listening to the professor speak about the relationship between the population and the number of daily newspapers. I couldn't quite focus, though, because he was wearing a tight, striped button-up shirt. The first four buttons were left open leaving a pouf of white chest hair bursting out from underneath. He was also sporting a thick gold chain around his neck. Like a modern-day, souped up version of Gaston. Boots and all.

That's not the point.

Back to the relationship between the population and the number of daily newspapers.

He drew a chart on the board and labeled the columns "Population," "Year," and "Newspapers." He filled out the last two columns with numbers from the book while we dutifully wrote in our notebooks.

"Can anyone tell me the population of the United States during 1988" he asked.

A hand flew up in the air.

Flew.

I mean, the girl was practically falling out of her chair with excitement because she ACTUALLY KNEW the population of the ENTIRE United States during 1988. She even made those whimpering noises. And really, I'm not making this up for the sake of trying to write a funny story...she squealed. This girl was hell-bent on sharing with the class that she knew the exact answer to this exact question. Almost as if her entire life had been one giant lead-up to this moment.

"Yes? You in the back? Do you know the answer?"

"I do." A supernatural glow was eminating from her general direction. I imagine her cheeks must have hurt from smiling so widely.

"Two million."

So come over, just be patient, and don't worry.

Several things have been on my mind as of late, but it seems like nothing is of great importance. There are stories of intense mediation club sessions that have the intent of crushing everything fun in the world. There are stories of clingy kids who invited themselves to dinner with us, only to talk about bananas and asking if we would ever consider going to a bubble bath party. There are stories of sure footing and changing leaves. There are stories of cleaning up the New River and the redeeming rain that poured from the black afternoon sky. There are stories of Snake Mountain and Doc Watson, banjos and tall tales. There are stories of heartbreaks and hopelessness, adventure and apathy. The south is starting to change me, for the better, I believe. Change is a good thing, right?

There's a snake in my boots!

My Noir-th Care-o-line-uh has become a No-ath Care-line-ah.
My "Hey, guys!" has become a "Huh-low ya'll!"
However, I still refuse to eat grits. No amount of sprinkle cheese or sugar will change my mind.