I like to call him Seany.
He loves that.
This is a story about Sean.
We ate fast food occasionally when I was a kid. Go on, click on the link, you know you want to. It was way exciting. However this one time will live on in infamy, because if it's one thing my family does not do, it's forget. Unless it's something you'd want them to remember. In fact the recollective powers of my relatives (and, I must admit, me as well) are directly connected to the depth of embarrassment the subject feels upon the memory of said event being resurrected. The more you want it forgotten, the longer we will continue to
torment you with it fondly reminisce. In other words, Sean loves it when we tell this story. Not. But I'm sure none of his friends read this blog, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't either, so he probably won't mind. Right?... Sean?...
So this one Sunday we were going through the drive-thru an BK on the way home from church. Sean, three or four at this time, was an adorable little freckled redhead, although something of a rapscallion. The woman at the drive through ask Dad if we needed, "salt, pepper, or ketchup." Sean must have heard, "Sean, pepper, or ketchup." because a huge smile spread across his face and he declared in a tone of wonderment, "She knows my name!" For this he earned the nickname Seany Pepper.
Years of torment ensued. The only upside was that sometimes we were too busy calling him Seany Pepper to tease him about Mom & Dad finding him in the carrot patch when he was a baby (a reference to his hair color that never failed to infuriate him).
I love you, Seany P.