Sunday, October 10, 1999 - Enter 'Kitty', and the Jr. Fire Patrol Parade

Did I ever tell about the little black cat Larry has at his shop? It’s a friendly, nice little kitty that must’ve been dumped somewhere nearby. When it first came around, it was terribly skinny; but Larry and the boys have fed it well, and it’s getting plumper and healthier all the time. What makes us feel bad is that we knew it had kittens somewhere…who knows where. We wonder, what happened to the kittens? She caught a bird Saturday, and proceeded to eat it--all but a few feathers--right in front of the boys, who watched the spectacle despite their revulsion. She is named ‘Kitty’, in honor of the cat we had before Caleb was born.

Kitty likes to jump up on Larry’s desk when he is in his office writing out estimates or bills for his customers, and she goes purring around rubbing on anything and everything, including the customer. One day Larry was leaning back against a vehicle, legs crossed out in front of him, talking on the phone. Kitty reached a dainty paw up and patted on him. “Meow!” she said.

He went on talking. Kitty stretched up higher and put both paws on his legs. “Meow!” she said persistently.

Larry went on talking. So, Kitty took matters into her own paws. She climbed him. Right up his legs she went, until she was nearly to his waist, and he picked her up and cuddled her. Kitty purred noisily.

Unfortunately, we can’t bring Kitty home, because Aleutia would eat her for dinner; but when it’s cold or rainy out, Larry leaves the cat in his office, where she has plenty of food and water, and a litter box. Teddy, who has always had a soft heart for animals, bought her a soft little bed to sleep in. Whether indoors or out, Kitty greets Larry with glad meows and purrs when he arrives at the shop in the morning. Today when we went for our Sunday afternoon drive, we stopped by the shop to make sure Kitty was okay. She was delighted to see us, and went rubbing from one to the other, purring like an outboard motor. Since it was so nice outside, we left her out. I sure wish we could bring her home!

Monday evening, Hannah took Hester to Helen Tucker’s house (Helen is Hester’s teacher) again to work on the float for the Jr. Fire Patrol Parade. Larry and Lydia later joined them. By the time everyone left, the little wooden house was complete. Flames had been painted on the roof and above the windows, Hester’s big stuffed dog was sticking his head out one window, and Joanna Tucker’s dog out the other. On another side, a Cabbage Patch doll climbed down a rope ladder Jeremy Tucker had made. Some of the children made large round ‘smoke detectors’ of white cardboard, which they planned to wear, one in front, and one in back, by means of string holding the two pieces together and lopped over their shoulders. Larry wired an outlet inside the little house for his twelve-volt distress light, which flashes red and yellow, so that it would look all the more as if the structure was on fire.

As the weather begins to cool, the rodent masses begin to hunt for more suitable winter living quarters. This year, it seems, the entire mouse population of Columbus, Nebraska, has decided that the proper place to be is in my house. Aarrgghh. Furthermore, these mice seem to be a more intelligent breed than last year’s; I’ve actually seen them carefully skirt around a set mouse trap, sniff cautiously at the food placed temptingly in just the right spot--and then go skidding off lickety-split, ears peeled back, tail spiraling madly, doubtless to tell all their friends and relatives to steer clear of that particular corner.

Teddy managed to catch one in his bare hand. He brought it to show Victoria.

Held in his hand like that, she could only see its head and tail. She thought it was quite cute, but it had a “really long, HUGE! tail!”

Victoria’s gesture for something large is to put her hands together, right fingertips and thumbs to left fingertips and thumbs, making a rather pear-shaped circle. “It was this tall,” she tells us, showing us the lopsided shape.

Conversely, when she is describing something small, she makes the very same gesture, fingertips and thumbs together: “It was this teeny,” she says, tipping her head and looking at the form she’s made.

Monday, in a kitchen filled with the scrumptious odor of the baked apples I’d put into the oven, I cut out a dress for a friend’s new baby. My nephew’s little boy, Jason, Caleb’s best friend, who lives just a block west of us, upon hearing that the new baby’s name was 'Alicia', said to his mother, “Mama! That’s a doggie’s name!” (He was thinking of our dog ‘Aleutia’, of course.)

Hannah has been crocheting a burgundy chenille vest. It’s absolutely beautiful; I think I might buy it from her and use it for Hester’s Christmas dress, along with a satin or velvet or chiffon skirt, and a white silk blouse…we’ll see. Each skein of yarn costs Hannah four dollars, as opposed to under a dollar for most skeins. And she crochets tightly, so it’s using up quite a bit of yarn.

Victoria has learned to play (with one finger) most of Mary Had a Little Lamb on the piano. She’s so silly…the first time she tried it, and it came out just exactly right, she turned around and looked at me, waggled her eyebrows up and down, drew her mouth down all funny, and said, “What on erff did I do?!”

Tuesday evening, Dorcas and Joseph went with Hester to the Sr. High auditorium for the first Jr. Fire Patrol Meeting. Marty Weber, one of the fire chiefs, set a teddy bear on fire, and then flew it along in a panicked rush, as a person might do--which made it burn worse, of course. Then he rolled it around on a table, and the fire went out. This is the first thing they do--they teach the children to ‘stop, drop, and roll’. At one point, he sprayed a big extinguisher full of water out over the audience, just for the fun of it. Our children, knowing they do this, always make sure to sit far enough back in the auditorium that the water can’t reach them. The fire marshal also made a fire in a pan, and showed the children how easily it could be smothered by either putting the lid back on, or pouring baking soda on it.

My brother and sister-in-law, Loren and Janice, were in Loveland, Colorado, last week. While there, they took my poems to a couple of publishers whose names I had found on the Internet. One was headquartered in a tall, multimillion-dollar building with spacious, immaculate grounds all around. After an interview with an editor, they learned just exactly how that publisher manages to meet the expense of such an elaborate edifice: they filch the money from their paying authors’ hides.

To publish a hardback, illustrated book of twenty pages, as I desired, at a run of one thousand books, would cost $13,000. That means, in order to break even, I would have to charge the distributor thirteen dollars a book. The distributor, in turn, would probably double the price when selling it to the bookstores, and the bookstore would reach for their fair share of the profits; and, in the end, a book that should have cost the consumer under ten dollars would wind up at approximately thirty dollars. That won’t fly, nosiree, huh-uh.

Good grief; I guess the only thing left to do is to ship the manuscripts all off to Singapore, and hope for the best.

Tuesday afternoon, the phone rang.  Thinking it was a good friend of mine who lives a long ways away, I snatched it up quickly and gladly caroled into the receiver, “~Hello!~”--but it was only a telemarketer.

They always start out the same: “Is your mommy home?”

I usually say, “Yes, she lives just across the street,” just to hear the silence with which I am saluted. 

But this time, feeling entirely impatient with such things, and knowing that my friend had only a small frame of time in which she could call me, when the lady asked, “Well, uh, then, er, may I speak to Larry or Sarah Jackson, please?” I responded, “I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number.”

She paused, clearly unconvinced. “Isn’t there anyone by the name of ‘Jackson’ to whom I may speak?”

And I answered, “No, I’m sorry,” because there wasn’t; I wasn’t going to talk to her. So she hung up.

Hearing this story, my friend told me about a time when her ill-tempered, eccentric husband, in trying to call his parents, mistakenly dialed his own home. His wife answered.

He was momentarily nonplused. “What are you doing?!” he demanded.

She told him what she’d been doing; which was not what he had wanted to know. “I mean,” he snarled, “Why did you answer the phone?”

She mentally scratched her head. She gave him a logical answer. “Because it rang,” she said.

“But what are you doing at my parents’ home?” he screamed, and she finally understood what the trouble was.

“Oh,” she attempted to explain calmly, “You must’ve dialed our number by accident; I’m at home.”

It did no good. He angrily insisted that he’d called the right number, and she had no business answering. He wound up by telling her, “All right then; YOU call them.” And with that, he hung up.

This person, allows members of his household to watch any sort of religious video on one condition: that they work out on the treadmill and use headphones while they are at it. So, according to my friend, “We are in better and better shape all the time.”
One day, Victoria was getting a drink--and then she choked. She got another drink, and choked even worse. Through all that spluttering and coughing, she managed to say in a growly voice, “Troubles!” Silly little thing.

Wednesday arrived, and there I was, then: 39 years old. How can that be? Why, I was 18, just a couple of years ago. A friend sent over a humungous chocolate chip cookie--the size of a pizza--covered with chocolate, and with sliced snickers bars on top. The birthday card she gave me was in the shape of a chocolate chip cookie, too--a real picture. Inside the card it said, “Okay, today you don’t have to share.”

She handed it to Joseph, who happened to be outside. He waggled his eyebrows. “Mmm!” said he, “I don’t know if this will make it into the house, or not!”

She informed him, “Well, the card says she doesn’t have to share it.”

He raised his eyebrows higher. “Well, we’ll see about that!” And he rushed off, leaving her laughing.

Now, see if you don’t think this is a good laugh: she also gave me, along with the ‘cookie’, a size 3 dress. Yes, a 3. No, doesn’t fit. I don’t think I’ve worn that size since I was in the third grade!  Ah, well; just another pretty dress to remake for Hester, who needs new clothes anyway.

Hannah, on the other hand, gave me a 10. But at least it’s wearable. It’s a bright red dress with navy and white trim. I wore it to church Wednesday night, after hurriedly putting several extra eyelets into the belt.

Keith and Esther, and Lawrence and Norma came over afterwards. Lawrence and Norma gave me some money, and brought a big pumpkin chiffon pie. Keith and Esther gave me a wreath that Esther and her mother had decorated with flowers and ribbon; and also a little resin teddy bear. Hester and Lydia made me cute cards--booklets, really--of Winnie the Pooh; and Lydia made a little paper ‘burrow’ for Peter Rabbit, complete with a good supply of carrots. Hester made me a very pretty burgundy bead bracelet, with little gold filigree beads after every third burgundy bead. It really did look store-bought; I thought it was. My mother gave me some money and a flowered afghan an aunt of mine made many years ago. She also gave me a lovely sun-catcher with a painting of a lighthouse by Thomas Kinkade. Larry gave me a beautiful card to go with this new computer he already gave me. I have saved most all of the cards he’s given me, since we were fourteen years old…but this one was the prettiest ever, I think. Or else I’m getting more sentimental; one way or another.

My sewing machine is finally back in use after its summer hiatus. When I finished sewing the little dress for my friend’s new baby, I made a pajama set for one of the children for Christmas. I put Joseph’s new tape player beside my sewing desk and duplicated some tapes of our special music as I sewed. It always seems like a great waste of time to be doing only one thing at a time; better to be doing two, at the very least. Of course, that does increase the likelihood of all manner of snags and hitches; but there is also the possibility of getting twice as much done!

I was afraid that, having not sewn for so long, I would have all manner of quandaries and dilemmas; but, so far, pieces and parts have gone politely into the positions they are supposed to. One time, after I’d not sewn for quite some time, I, with great care, was inserting the second sleeve into a dress I was making. I got all the little gathers and pleats situated just right, pinned it on with precision, and then sewed it. There. A sleeve done to perfection. I held it up to admire it.

But something was not quite right… I had sewn the sleeve into the neck opening, rather than the sleeve opening. One would need to put herself into quite a contortion, to wear that dress. Sigh… I commenced to frog stitching. (Rip it, rip it, rip it.)  “Whatsoever ye shall sew, that shall ye rip.”

One afternoon was taken up with the patching of about a gazillion jeans, which entails the breaking of about two gazillion needles. But at least Larry is back in unholy jeans.

Thursday, we got two humungous boxes via UPS -- Christmas gifts.

Victoria, watching as her siblings unpacked the boxes with as much excitement as if everything was for them, exclaimed, “OH! This is a really nice box, and I can RIDE in it!!”
Then the Schwan man came, and Caleb immediately headed out to help him--but first, he donned his new bike helmet. The Schwan man laughed. “That’s a good idea, in case some corn falls out and hits you on the head.”

The Jr. Fire Patrol Parade was held Thursday evening. At these parades, all of the old fire trucks are brought out and pressed into action: There is ‘Old Smoke’, which is about 50 years old; there is an old pumper on wooden wagon wheels that used to be pulled behind horses--now incongruously pulled behind a new Chevy pickup; and there is a beautiful truck from the early 1960’s. The newest trucks and several police cars, lights and sirens on, join the lineup, too. One year, the parade suddenly grew shorter when some of the fire trucks had to go roaring off to a real, honest-to-goodness house fire.

I had planned to position myself somewhere along the route with camera and tripod, the better to take pictures of the entire parade; but the day turned out chilly and rainy, so I contented myself with taking a couple rolls of pictures before the parade began, and then riding in the pickup with Larry, Caleb, and Victoria. Behind us we pulled the float with the little ‘on-fire’ wooden house, with all of Hester’s class sitting on it except Charlie Jackson and Andrew Anderson, who were marching in front of the pickup, carrying the banner that read 'Bible Baptist Christian School'. There are bright red clipper ships on either side of the name.

Fifth-grade classes from every school in the city were in the parade; we will find out soon who won prizes for their floats.

Lydia was totally delighted because we allowed her to ride on the float, too.

Victoria sat up high on the little seat between the two front seats in the pickup, wearing a fireman’s hat one of the firemen gave to her, and happily waving at all the people lining the streets--especially those whom she knew--all along the route.

One of the most important things about the Parade, according to the littles, is that the children throw candy to bystanders. Caleb, in anticipation of this, had brought a large Wal-Mart bag with him “…because, last year, my pockets got clear full, and I had to give some to Daddy, and I think he ate a few pieces!” he explained, carefully folding his bag and tucking it into the pocket of his jacket.

But now here was Caleb, riding in the pickup, unable to catch any candy at all, not being on the receiving end of the candy-throwers. But… that’s what friends are for: Chuck Brinkman, father of one of Hester’s classmates, suddenly realized Caleb’s bleak state of affairs, and promptly went off and gathered up some candy for the child. Caleb was pleased as punch. “I didn’t bring this bag for nothing, after all!” he said happily.

That night, discovering that the peaches we’d bought--a large box full--were ripe and getting riper every minute, Dorcas and I peeled, sliced, and froze seven quarts of peaches. Friday, Hannah peeled, cored, and sliced about fifteen apples, and I made three deep-dish apple crumb pies. Yummy. And just to make it even better, Dorcas went to the store for Country Vanilla ice cream.

In the midst of all this slicing and baking and eating, I was also transposing the song Great God of Wonders, using my new Mozart32 program on my computer (another of those Two-Things-Or-More-At-Once Enterprises).

One time we were buying Keith a new bike, and the strangely nervous little bike salesman asked if we wanted a helmet with that... sort of like, ‘Fries with your burger, ma'am?’

"Well, yes, I suppose," I answered.

So he brought out one---and it was $45. (!!!) So, having just spent nearly all my shekels on that bike, and knowing that helmets were only $20 at Wal-Mart, I said, "Never mind. We'll just let him bump his head."

hahahahaha You should've seen his face. hahahahaha

***
Dessert is now over…. and Larry told me, "Go get your new walking shoes on, so --" and I thought he was going to say, "--so we can go for a walk, after all that fattening pie and ice cream," but instead, he said, "--so you can pull me in the little red wagon. I'm too full to walk."

There is a mother cat with several kittens that lives across the street from Bobby and Hannah’s house. Sometimes when they go to work on their house, all the little creatures decide to cross the busy street and come visiting. Hannah, concerned for their welfare, tried to escort them back home again, but the mother suddenly took a notion to climb a tree, and the kittens scattered to the four winds. The littles are all hoping they won’t someday see the dire consequences of Kittens in the Streets.

After transposing Great God of Wonders on my Mozart32 program, I changed the key of the whole song with a couple clicks of the mouse, and printed it in another key. Now that’s nifty. So easy, not to have to write it all by hand, which is what I always had to do, on account of the fact that instruments such as saxophones and trumpets play in different keys than the piano plays in. This order of things was no doubt dreamed up by someone who had a bad attitude toward musicians in general and transposers in particular. However!--with computers, we’ve now got ’im licked! So ha, so there.

One trouble with this program is that it automatically puts two treble clef staves on the page when a new document is opened. I always forget this and go merrily along putting notes into what I think is the bass clef--only to discover upon pressing the ‘Play’ button that sumpthung just don’t sound right, huh-uh, nosiree. And this last song was no exception: I did it again. Bother. Then I couldn’t figure out how to get the clef changed, and I wound up deleting the whole works. So I had to start all over again. Botheration.

After completing the song in the key of F, I added text; then forgot to save it before changing the key to C, so the copy in C has no text. Bother some more. Nevertheless, it is entirely nifty. Or it will be, if ever I figure it out.

The weather has been so beautiful, the kids have played outside almost every day. Caleb is getting quite skilled at riding his bike, although, watching him, one realizes one should absolutely be thankful for bike helmets. One afternoon Joseph, who was heading for Larry’s shop, told me he was going to go riding on the new (that is, new to us) four-wheeler, which was acquired through a few lucrative trades. “Don’t worry,” he assured me, “I’ll just ride like a maniac.”

The trouble is, he probably does. Not intentionally, of course; he just does.

Teddy found a baby garter snake in our yard, and proceeded to demolish one of his lidded bowls puncturing air holes in it so Lydia could carry it around with her. The next time I saw it, it had been given a place of prominence--right smack-dab in the middle of the kitchen table. Aarrgghh.

A friend asked me a few days ago if we ever go bowling. No, we don't go bowling, on account of the fact that our only two bowling alleys here in Columbus are bar rooms first, and bowling alleys second. Hearing me talking about it, the children then wanted to know about bowling, so I told them this story: I bowled in high school; they had portable alleys that were set up in the gym. When I first began, I had a habit of throwing that ball with all my might and main, and the ball several times went sailing clear over the top of the pins, hitting nary a one, and slamming with a crash into the wall behind them. (Yes, I’m quite sure the lanes were shorter than at a 'real' alley.) Anyway, when it was my turn, the girls in my gym class used to tease me by screaming and covering up their heads with both arms.

“Tell us another story,” begged the littles.

So…

Once upon a time, when I was very young, perhaps 10, I was with my father and mother traveling through the Sierra Nevada of California. We were just below tree level when Daddy stopped at a pretty little rest area so we could have a snack. Afterwards, he decided to brush his teeth.

Now, we had just gotten groceries, including a new tube of toothpaste, from a little family grocer down in the valley. And do you know what happens when you open something that was sealed in the valley, when you're on top of a mountain? Well, you have an artesian well, that's what you have. There stood Daddy, staring in astonishment, while toothpaste came spewing out of the tube and made whorls all over the sink. He didn't want to squoosh the lid back on and make a big mess; but Daddy, a true Scotchman, was not one to waste things. So he did the only thing he could think of: he yelled for help. And Daddy had a nice big preacher's voice, too: "HESTER!!!!!!!"

Mama came rushing to see whatever was the trouble. She snatched the tube from him and smooshed the lid back on in spite of all the toothpaste, and the inundation stopped. Then they both stood and looked silently at the sink. Suddenly I could bear it no longer, and I went off into peals of laughter. Daddy frowned and turned to look at me, which didn't hamper my hilarity in the slightest.

"What did you want Mama to do," I asked him, when I could get a word around all the laughing, "Squish all that toothpaste back in the tube?"

I laughed some more. Then, knowing that the waste of the toothpaste strewn all about the sink was doubtless of concern to him, I said, "And you don't need to worry about losing all that toothpaste, because, look!"  --I gestured at the very fat toothpaste tube Mama was still holding in her hand--  "it's still fuller than it was when you bought it!"

And then we were all laughing, and we laughed until the tears ran down our cheeks.

Friday evening right while I was ironing, the light bulb burned out. I told Larry, “I need a light bulb in the hallway.”

So guess what he did? He got a light bulb, carried it into the hallway, set it down on the hope chest, nodded once in satisfaction, and then walked off. That goofus.

Saturday night, I went off to the grocery store for some groceries. In the meanwhile, Larry went to his shop to clean out a paint gun. Shortly after I arrived home, I discovered I’d forgotten the dishwasher detergent, so I called to ask Larry if he could get it. He could. He was just pulling back into our driveway when I realized I didn’t have enough brown sugar. So we went off to the store again. I am sure glad there is more than one 24-hour grocery in this town, so we don’t have to embarrass ourselves with all these repeated trips to the store!

Finally home with all the needed ingredients, I made another deep-dish apple crumb pie, this time with raisins and almonds. I started baking it between Sunday School and church the next morning, so that when it was time to eat it after dinner, it was just right…piping hot, but exactly the right temperature to gobble down, especially with a couple of scoops of Country Vanilla ice cream. MMmmmmm…

As we were walking home from church, we heard one of our horrendous neighbor kids screaming bloody murder, as usual.

Victoria frowned and remarked, “Just listen to those batty kids.”

For dinner we had hamburger vegetable soup, with a tomato juice base and lots of spices, lettuce salad, and those scrumptious biscuits from the Schwan man. Afterwards, we went for ride out in the country north of town, taking pictures of autumn scenery. The trees are turning golden, and a few are even orange.

We came upon a pretty little white church along a country lane. Larry read the sign: “October 1874 to October 1999: 125 Years!” He turned to me, a bit surprised. “I didn’t know it was 125 years old!”

Caleb’s eyebrows flew right up to the top of his head. “The preacher is 125 years old??!!”

Back to the kitchen, where Larry is bawling, because he's eating supper all by his lonesome.