St. Funion

	Well hello there, my dear children, I'm St. Funion, the patron saint of this blog, here to bring sunshine and sweet odor to your day! I was born in a humble onion patch during a Midwestern famine, the only one of my kind to survive the cruel winds and scorching sun of the harsh Iowan summer. Some called it luck, others called it a miracle.
At a tender age - I was barely more than a shoot! - I was plucked from the withered vine that was my home to serve as a meager addition to the Kowalski family's stew.
When Sharon, the dowager Kowalski, sliced into me, she immediately noticed my strange likeness to Jack Skellington, king of Halloweentown, of "The Nightmare Before Christmas", which her grandchildren had made her watch only days before. She dropped her knife in astonishment and called young Maggie and Joel into the room to see the miraclous discovery she had made. The children immediately wrapped me in cellophane and tenderly placed me into their vintage 1973 Frigidaire to preserve me as long as they could.
From that moment on, I became something of a spectacle in that small metropolis. People came from as far away as Butte, Montana to see the wonder. I had never felt more alive, and in my joy, passed on my gift of lust for life to all who saw me. Those with laryngitis could speak above a whisper after seeing me, those with rosacea were notably less rosy.
Sharon soon became overcome with hubris, and boasted that her onion was the cure-all for what-ails-ye. She began touring the country, determined that her act get so big that she make it to Tallahassee, Florida. As a little girl, she had read a leaflet about the Sunshine State, and it had been her dream ever since to make it big there. Convinced my restorative powers could rival those of the Florida sun, she packed up the Ford Aerostar and off we went.
Unfortunately, in her hubris, she had forgotton to pack the spare tire that was crucial to her minivan's safety. Somewhere on the lonely road between Gary, Indiana and Memphis, Sharon ran over a bottle of Mr. Pibb. The tire immediately went flat, forcing Sharon to swerve wildly. In the hustle and bustle, I was cast out of the slightly-ajar passenger-side window and flew into the open sunroof of lengli's Passat as she escaped rural Greencastle society for a birthday weekend in downtown Chicago. Another miracle? You be the judge.
Since then, she and I have worked side by side, for the good of the human race. I am happy to present myself to you, the readers, for the first time, and look forward to much interaction in the future. Peace and sweet perfumes be with you, St. Funion