My dad taught me how to spit and it's something I'm actually quite proud of; I see it as a talent if you will. I don't know if you'll think it's as cool as I do, but growing up an athlete, I did my fair share of spitting. Frustrated spits, over-salivated spits, nervous spits. Because-I-can spits. Watch-me-spits. One of my most memorable pictures of me during HS softball is of me in the outfield mid-spit. I love it. Completely cracks me up. We were playing at a Southern, and I meant business. That was an I-mean-business/don't-mess-with-me spit.
Long walks in the woods as a child, long walks down the dirt road I grew up on. Two miles long and we lived near dead center... either direction prime real estate for Spitfests. Walking the dogs (and sometimes the Yak), making stories up about Dive Rock, Robin's Egg Corner, and Bear Mountain. I could take you on a tour of my childhood woods... my backyard, which just so happened to back up to a gorgeous state park. We'd walk the deer trails and make them our own. We'd spit the entire way. Not that we made a big deal out of it, it was unspoken... but as a girl, a spitting girl... I made sure to get my fair share of spits out with my dad. It was our quality time. He'd spit, all of a sudden I'd realize all that excess saliva sitting swamped in my mouth. My turn. Pride. The relief of a good spit.
Bonus points for distance. This is what Dad's are for, isn't it?