Caleb, along with several of his nearest siblings, is playing with his cars and trucks. Here he comes now, with a pickup and horse trailer.
"I've got to get new tires for this vehicle!" he exclaimed. "These are about to un-air!"
This week I cut out a shirt for Bobby, made of the leftover blue check from Hannah's dress, with yokes of dark blue. Also I cut out skirts and blouses for Hester and Lydia especially to go with the cadet blue and dark mauve collars Dorcas crocheted for them for Christmas.
Dorcas is now crocheting an afghan for our friend Linda's birthday, which is the Fourth of July, the same as Dorcas'. It is light blue, made with fine yarn, and Dorcas is working it with two strands of yarn, white and sky blue, at the same time. Hannah is making an afghan for her hope chest, crocheting it from soft off-white yarn my mother gave her for her birthday.
One night I transcribed from cassette a sermon of my father's. I wish we had all his sermons recorded; in comparison to all those he preached, we have a scant few. I like to hear him sing, too; his voice carried clearly out over the congregation, and he sang with such feeling that it made all the rest of us sing with whole heart, too.
Monday Hannah made a rhubarb custard pie with rhubarb Dorcas and Hester picked from my mother's little garden. It was a new recipe, and was it ever good.
While visiting Lawrence and Norma Thursday evening, they gave us some of the rhubarb-peach pie Norma had made. I guess I like just about anything made with rhubarb. Mmmmmmmmmmmmm.
Little Melody Joy, the baby born three months prematurely, is nearing her first birthday, June 28. And guess what! She's been crawling like everything for a good while, and now she's pulling herself to her feet. She says quite a few words, and she's just the happiest little thing. Isn't that wonderful?
Friday night we went for a ride around Lakes North and Babcock. On our way back, as we were going down Howard Boulevard a block from our house, from the alley behind our house came two boys. As the pickup lights fell on them, Larry spotted two small shiny chrome wheels and balloon tires on an object in one boy's hands.
He put on the brake. "Joseph!" he said, "Where's your jeep?!" (He was asking about the remote-controlled jeep we'd given the boys for Christmas a couple of years ago.)
Joseph's eyes grew large. "In the front yard next to the peony bushes," he answered.
"Not any more, it's not!" said Larry, and he proceeded to turn that big pickup around on dime, roaring quickly back to the grassy area near a bowling alley where the boys had gone after crossing the Boulevard.
One boy was driving the little jeep around, and there was no doubt: it was ours. Larry thundered around the corner and screeched to a halt at the side of the road. The doors flew open, and Larry, Teddy, and Joseph leaped out and took off on a dead run. And then that boy, startled out of his wits, hastily leaned down, deposited the control unit on the ground beside the jeep, and ran like a scared deer, with Teddy hot on his heels.
Larry stopped to gather up the jeep and the control, yelled after the fleeing form, "Leave other people's property alone, you thief!", then called Teddy to come back, since the property had been recovered. No sooner had Teddy turned back than the kid disappeared, presumably into the bowling alley. He had on a black and red T-shirt with "Michael Jordan" and "23" printed on it in big letters, and was about Teddy's size. The other boy stood still, idly kicking at a can, pretending he'd had absolutely nothing to do with anything.
As we returned home, lo and behold, there was that kid again, crossing the boulevard--incognito, or so he thought: he'd changed into a navy shirt. He strode confidently along, quite sure we'd never guess who he was. . . . .until Larry spun around the corner, went zooming through a small car wash, Cummins turbo winding up and echoing on the metal walls. We caught a glimpse of white socks picking up and taking flight, and then vanishing entirely. Personally, I think they went straight up a tree without bothering to actually climb it.
In any case, he was never seen again. Perhaps he's still perched precariously in a tree, heart pounding, scanning the streets anxiously for a hot-rod six-door pickup filled with fleet-footed males. Anyway, he now knows that a mere changing of shirts does him no good, huh-uh. He must alter his entire head, he must.
One day last week, we had fish for dinner, after which we lit several candles, placing them in strategic locations about the kitchen, the better to take away the fish aroma, and replace it with Gentle Sea Breezes, or Essence of Jasmine (which, incidentally, in case you ever need to know, smells remarkably like Off! bug spray), or Country Fleurs.
And Lydia got her hair in one.
She turned around, frowning a bit, wondering what that sizzling noise was, and Hannah cried in alarm, "Lydia's hair's on fire!!!"
By the time I looked, it was a flame the size of my hand. I took a leap, knocking several small children a-flying, and swiped my hand rapidly right down her hair, twice, good and hard. And the fire was out.
Then we all stood staring at a small, dear, white face, whose gray-green eyes were as big as saucers, imagining awful thoughts about what could've happened, and ever so thankful it hadn't.
The first person to speak was Lydia. "It's okay, I didn't feel a thing," she assured us, "not even Mama pounding me on the head!"
Hannah blew the candle out. (Somebody had inadvertently scooted it too close to the edge of the counter when they were wiping it off.) "I think I don't mind that fish smell after all," she said shakily, and several heads nodded, just as shakily, in agreement.
I took the child off to brush her hair, which had that unmistakable burnt-hair odor. I found only a very small melted spot that had to be cut off, so Lydia's long silky tresses are still intact. The precious child was much concerned about my red hand, and inquired into its welfare numerous times throughout the day.
Mercy! We needed a large economy-sized bottle of nitroglycerin, after that, we sure did.
One night, traveling down Shady Lake Road, we saw what we thought was a tabby cat beside the road. But its tail was too long, its face wasn't right, and it moved strangely...so we stopped, shined our brights on the animal, and took a good look. It was a baby red fox! I've never seen such a small one before. It soon turned and, with several long, bounding leaps, went into a nearby field of corn.
Last night we attended the wedding of Samuel Koch and Nancy Anderson. Hannah and Dorcas served tables at the reception, and Nancy gave them each a beautiful twisted taper in a crystal candle holder, with silk flowers and netting decoration. She gave me a tiny porcelain jewelry box in the shape of a flower basket, with tiny flowers on the lid, filled with tiny mints, as a thank-you for singing "The Old-Fashioned Home".
Sam's and Nancy's families have lived a block apart ever since the parents were married. On the guest-book table stood the usual portrait of Nancy in her wedding gown, which was most lovely, and another frame with two small pictures in it: each picture was of Sam and Nancy together at about age two, holding hands and smiling first at each other, then into the camera, altogether cute. Now, how many couples have something like that?
And now, this final item:
If you've ever wanted to live in a castle, this is your chance. The state of Saxony in eastern Germany has a dozen castles for sale, each priced at one German mark, which is just over half a U.S. dollar.
There is a catch, however: the historic structures are in advanced stages of disrepair, and buyers must restore each property consistent with its historical architecture. Estimates for restoration run from $7 million to $60 million per castle.
A real fixer-upper, huh?
Or a fixer-upper's nightmare.
I think I'll just wait for my heavenly mansion, myself, thank you.
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