2008 Woodie Awards
Back at school: But at least I'm not at the Spam Museum
Kristina Reardon '08
Issue date: 9/21/06 Section: Portfolio
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Somewhere between my home in Massachusetts, and our vacation destination in South Dakota, things got. . . well, I'm not really sure there's a word to describe it. And it wasn't just because I had been sentenced to 16 hours in the middle seat of a small vehicle, housing five people plus nine overflowing suitcases-it was because when we passed the 999th sprawling field of corn, I realized there wouldn't be another rest stop in sight until we reached Rapid City, and I actually started to like this vacation. (No, that wasn't a misprint. I really meant that).
My father thought I must be ill, that he was living in a universe where all things began to go right for him at some point-but he reveled in his parochial daughter. I was gloriously delusional, basking in the small fields of sunlight floating in through the Plexiglass windows of the rental car, napping, thinking that this would finally be a relaxing vacation. It would be the type of vacation that would not require you to take a vacation from your vacation just to recover. Just our overstuffed car, some cows, a few buffalo, and the open prairie-all was at peace in the world.
That was, until we reached the Spam Museum. I'm serious. There is a such place called the Spam Museum. It is a place where you learn about the history of canned shoulder of hog. You can view films about Spam, read about Spam, and even don Spam gear to race other Spam-a-zoids to see who can package a can of Spam first. (In case you're wondering, I did not participate, but my 17-year-old sister triumphed over my father and 11-year-old brother, canning six Spams a full 19 seconds before either of them.)
I regret that I am able to pass this information on to you. I regret that I am the beholder of this great font of knowledge regarding salted pork. I regret that we stopped at such a place as the Spam Museum. Even the people who created the darn place regret it. A sign on the highway, advertising this great center of meat production, read: "The Spam Museum-even we don't know why!"
My father thought I must be ill, that he was living in a universe where all things began to go right for him at some point-but he reveled in his parochial daughter. I was gloriously delusional, basking in the small fields of sunlight floating in through the Plexiglass windows of the rental car, napping, thinking that this would finally be a relaxing vacation. It would be the type of vacation that would not require you to take a vacation from your vacation just to recover. Just our overstuffed car, some cows, a few buffalo, and the open prairie-all was at peace in the world.
That was, until we reached the Spam Museum. I'm serious. There is a such place called the Spam Museum. It is a place where you learn about the history of canned shoulder of hog. You can view films about Spam, read about Spam, and even don Spam gear to race other Spam-a-zoids to see who can package a can of Spam first. (In case you're wondering, I did not participate, but my 17-year-old sister triumphed over my father and 11-year-old brother, canning six Spams a full 19 seconds before either of them.)
I regret that I am able to pass this information on to you. I regret that I am the beholder of this great font of knowledge regarding salted pork. I regret that we stopped at such a place as the Spam Museum. Even the people who created the darn place regret it. A sign on the highway, advertising this great center of meat production, read: "The Spam Museum-even we don't know why!"