Salagadoola mechicka boola bibbidi-bobbidi-boo. It’ll do magic believe it or not. Bippidy-boppity-boo. These words may not magically turn your pumpkin into a Rolls-Royce or produce the charming prince who is the man of your dreams, but they are a catchy tune that you can sing while you’re cooking up something special – like The Great Pumpkin Meatloaf.
For many years, Nov. 11 was a holiday for me. It meant no reveille that morning. It meant a day without fighting my way through traffic formations. It meant no maneuvering to try to find a seat on the express train to town. It was a day to desist from the duties of the day’s regimented drills. Clearly, I wasn’t AWOL. I was just on a day’s leave, thanks to the veterans. I always appreciated that day.
Is that Aunt Margaret behind the potted plant blowing her nose again? Was Uncle George clutching a pile of crumpled tissues while blotting his sore, red nose? Could that sneeze from cute, little, baby Mathilda (while you were closely inspecting those adorable dimples) possibly be full of germs?