a groaner...

 Here's the bad dad joke of the day, thanks to my west coast brother: What did the cranberry say to the turkey?  Nothing, cranberries can't talk.  

This wasn't quite as educational as yesterday's riddle from the same source:  How do you make pumpkin pie?  Take the circumference of the pumpkin divided by its diameter.  

Actually, I think the question should have been how do you make pumpkin pi? But that would have made the answer obvious.  Thinking about mathematical formulas reminds me of my high school math teacher, Mrs. Davis.  She was a very good teacher and taught me enough to get through several math classes in college.  But the things that stand out in my memories of Mrs. Davis don't have much to do with math.  I remember that when she wrote things on the black board (yes it was still black back then) I would get distracted by the loose skin on the underside of her arms wobbling as she wrote.  That's when I vowed to myself that when I was a teacher I would never wear short sleeve blouses.  When she drove another student and me to a math competition at IU one year she insisted on making a side trip to visit the home of James Whitcomb Riley, her favorite poet.  She also, I noticed, drove with one foot on the gas and one foot on the brakes all the time.  I was just a beginning driver, but that didn't seem right to me.  She lived on Euclid Avenue, which always seemed very appropriate.  In my senior year my other brother started his freshman year.  While I had always been a quiet, studious, serious student, (in other words too shy to make trouble) he was not.  He pretty much saw school as a place to socialize.  When I walked into my calculus class on the afternoon of that first day of my senior year, she looked at me sadly and said "That Cohrs boy who is a freshman, he's not related to you, is he?"  When I admitted that he was my brother, she just shook her head.