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Sunday, December 21, 1997

Sunday, December 21, 1997...Christmas Time's A-Comin'

Well, in between coping with the December flu and cold bugs, we’ve managed to finish the necessary Christmas sewing, shopping, and wrapping. The house cleaning is progressing somewhat slowly, since several audacious members of this household have the offensive habit of cluttering those areas which have been recently tidied. Also, they refuse to run around in their skin until Christmas, so as to cut down on the laundry. (Well, I thought it sounded like a good idea.)

Furthermore, they expect the same amount of food--if not more--as usual, regardless of whether or not I think I have time to cook it. Why can’t everybody put all their necessities on hold until I get done with all my necessities?!

Oh, I don’t really feel that way. I still like all these people in this house pretty well, even if they do eat bushels of food every day. Even if they do wear heaps of clothes every day. Even if they do need help with their homework every day.

That’s another thing: it seems to me that accumulations in the children’s homework have a direct correlation to increases in my homework--so I wind up helping them, rather than the other way around.

First, Hannah, having missed several days of school, needed help with a composition to be comprised of their recent vocabulary words. The teacher told them they could put it in poetry form if they liked. As they say in Ireland, that’s right up my street; so I stopped with the dusting and got on with the rhyming.

The following day, Keith, having seen Hannah’s poem, pulled out his list of vocabulary words, which was even more difficult than Hannah’s, held it in front of my nose, and made a sad Cocker Spaniel face.

“Oh, all right,” I said, and snatched it out of his hand.

After all, he is rather swamped with his last few Accounting workbooks, which must be done by January 7, when he graduates.

Anyway, I done ’em. And I’m so proud of myself, I’ll print them here for you. Here is Hannah’s:

Marching to School
Marching to school in vivacious manner,
Holding aloft the didactic banner,
I find myself preoccupied
With a dilemma that has me horrified.

Of paramount concern, you see,
Is my impending jeopardy
In the inherently cruel and hard
Exam on Sir Girard.

Though diligently the facts I glean,
Deploring his doleful mien,
I know my teacher accentuates
The details my brain eradicates.

For with an adeptness quite expected
My teacher, so respected,
Appraises my head’s grayish fluff
To be sure the test is hard enough.

With inveterate courage I pick up my pen,
To write about places and races and men;
The exercise I can’t disparage;
It gives me a great advantage!

The implicit function of all this testing,
Although infringing upon my resting,
Is that I might more magnanimous be,
Noble in mind and conscience-free!


Here is Keith’s:

A Collection of Wits
Collecting my wits, I tackle with gravity
A task I must not approach with levity;
For my inestimable teacher did this week assign
A truculent toil (of which I won’t whine).

Although sorely subjugated by this chore,
I refuse to be annihilated in the war;
So, pitching a bivouac and digging in tight,
I attempt to alleviate my bogged-down plight.

With sharpened acumen, and pencil tip, too,
I aggravate friends and make enemies anew;
My neighbors who sit in nearest proximity
Feel the effects of impending antiquity.

My loquacious manner, which vexes my pals,
Makes taciturn mollusks amend their locales;
Fearing reprisal, should my good grades languish,
I assuage the inevitable, which lessens my anguish.

With diurnal diligence and industry unflagging,
I work till my eyelids with fatigue are a-sagging;
The literary atrocities I often make
Will not with impunity produce a mistake.

Becoming nocturnal before this job’s done,
Nevertheless, it’s been lots of fun;
But if this assignment should come through again,
Think it not strange if my brain’s in a spin!


Tuesday evening we were driving along, looking at Christmas decorations. I made a derogatory remark about Santa Claus; Larry then made a disparaging remark about Rudolph. Caleb peered gravely out the window.

“We need to field dress him,” he said seriously.

One of my nephews once informed a kindergarten classmate that Santa Claus was not real--whereupon she promptly slapped him good and proper.

One day I sent Dorcas into my closet for two of Caleb’s toys which needed to be wrapped. She came back out--with two white boxes which contained her own two presents--a porcelain boy and girl in Americana attire, the boy with a baseball cap, leather mitt and ball--which I’d gotten last spring and had long forgotten. Luckily, she didn’t look.

Lawrence and Norma have already given us our Christmas present--and guess what it is? A stove! With a wonderful convection oven in which one can bake six trays of cookies at once! A fan circulates the air to ensure even baking. We baked two giant trays of apple flautas Wednesday, and every last flauta baked golden brown and perfect--an impossible feat in my old oven. Thursday we baked a large frozen ham--a Christmas gift from one of our customers--using the oven’s probe. On the liquid crystal display panel, the meat’s interior temperature is displayed. When it arrives at the desired temperature, which you preset, it beeps and turns off. The range top is flat glass. The large burner can be switched to ‘small’, and between the two burners on the left is a ‘bridge’ burner, which makes our griddle cook perfectly even. When the burner on the right is left on the ‘large’ setting, and the back burner turned on, our other griddle heats evenly, too.

Quite a wonderful Christmas present, don’t you think?

Victoria is crawling more and more. She likes to turn off lights.

We howl, “Hey! Don’t turn off those lights!”

She squeals--and turns them off again.

We cry, “Hey! Did you turn off those lights?!”

We tire of the game long before she does.

One day she flipped the switch down again, looked around smiling--but we were all busy doing something else.

So she yelled, “Hey! Doo toon off ’ights?!”

Friday afternoon I took pictures of some friends' well-loved dog. They didn’t turn out too badly, although the dog was quite timid about having his picture taken. Dogs can tell when a person likes them, however; and that helps immensely. The lady wanted to give her husband an 8x10 portrait of the dog for Christmas.

That night after Christmas practice, and after everybody else went to bed, Hannah and I went shopping at Wal-Mart for the rest of our presents. I got Larry a gold Elgin watch and a chrome Cross pen to replace one he once received from my sister and her husband which got accidentally flushed down the loo, a decidedly disheartening development. I also got him a Parker, teal and silver. He likes nice pens.

You know what? It takes a long time to wrap lots of presents!

I got Joseph an autograph album with a picture of Golden Retriever puppies on the front. Still in good rhyming form, I wrote the following into the album:

Life’s Long Journey

Throughout life’s long journey,
And wherever you go,
May you hold fast to Jesus,
Who loves you so.

May you know you’ve a mother
Who oft breathes a prayer
That you might be kept
In the Lord’s tender care.

Let this mind be in you,
To be loving and kind;
Always caring for others,
That their needs you might find.

May you rejoice in the Lord;
May you shine as a light;
Counting all things but loss
For the excellency of right.

Whatever is pure,
And honest and true,
Think on these things;
And those things, do.

For then you’ll be happy,
And the Lord will be near;
He’ll supply all your need,
And your prayer He will hear!


Last night Larry cut the boys’ hair. Clip clip, buzz buzz ---

“Ooops!” said Larry to Teddy, having cut around his ear, ”I just gave you a ’97 Dodge wheel well!” to which Teddy replied with a resigned shrug, “As long as it’s not an Edsel,” and Caleb asked, “Who’s him?”

“He,” I amended.

Caleb raised his eyebrows. “Teddy’s not a he?”

Confusinger and confusinger.

Later, I took a good look at a small mole under Joseph’s ear.

Joseph asked, “Are all moles bad?”

All eyes rolled expectantly my direction.

So as not to disappoint them, I answered, “It all depends on how much of your lawn they tear up.”

I had some pictures of Victoria printed. When she saw one with her tongue out, she laughed and squealed--and stuck her tongue out.

I hope you have an enjoyable Christmas!

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