Uncle
Allen, my mother, Uncle Charlie, Doris. Uncle Hal and Aunt Pat served spaghetti for supper. Spaghetti was
still a little known foreign dish in those days. Neither Doris
nor I had ever eaten spaghetti, and none of the adults had
enough experience to be good at it. All the good humor of
Uncle Allen's house reawoke in my mind as I recalled the
laughing arguments we had that night about the socially re
spectable method for moving Spaghetti from plate to mouth
Suddenly I wanted to write about that, about the warmth
and good feeling of it, but I wanted to put it down simply for
my own joy, not for Mr Fleagle. It was a moment I wanted
to recapture and hold for myself. I wanted to relive the plea-
sure of that evening. To write it as I wanted, however, would
violate all the rules of formal composition I'd learned in
school, and Mr. Fleagle would surely give it a failing grade
Never mind. I would write something else for Mr. Fleagle
after I had written this thing for myse
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