In 1997, Bruce Hall celebrated its 50th anniversary and a week-long celebration was held to commemorate the event. One of the festivities was the creation and dedication of a time capsule large enough that every resident could enshrine one item each. It measured one foot wide and six feet long, and there was much ado the day it was to be buried — dozens of university officials were in attendance to witness its dedication and the placement of an elaborate marble marker. Various reporters and photographers from the city and campus newspapers chronicled the spectacle.
One by one, a line of residents strode forth to the open capsule and each laid a single personal item within its gaping opening. I was a part of this procession, and it soon became my turn to contribute something special. I added my hermetically-sealed tin o’ Spam.
The campus newspaper, either being the rare wit or too bored to print much else of interest, picked up on my actions and in the next day’s edition referred to me as “the Spamboy.” Everyone, including my best friends and fellow staff members, started calling me by this instead of my real name. And like my namesake sitting out overnight on a porcelain dish, it stuck.
The time capsule is due to be cracked open April 9th, 2022, twenty-five years after it was buried. So, if on April 10th you hear something about an unexplained plague of super-roto-avian-bird-flesh-eating-SARS ravaging the greater North Texas area, you don’t know me.
It would make for easier reading if you could also have the next page link at the bottom of the story.
@Don Ask, and you shall receive.