Someone recently asked how I keep up with putting all my pictures in albums. I’ll tell you my secret: the minute I get new pictures--be they my own, or the pictures friends give me for Christmas and such--I stop everything I’m doing, whether it’s washing clothes or dishes, baking pies or sewing, and put pictures into albums. And the reason I do that has nothing to do with energy levels: it is merely because I like doing that better than I like doing those other things!
One of the fundamental differences between Hester and Lydia can be seen in the way they play the car race computer game: Lydia goes along at a good clip; then when cars pull out in front of her and try to cut her off, she slows down and attempts to go around them, being very careful not to hit any of them, or run into the walls.
Hester, watching, exclaimed, “Just ram them! That’s what I do, and it gets them out of the road lots better--I don’t slow down at all; I just ram right into them.”
Tuesday, Joseph got his paycheck--and finished paying for his new bike. It’s a Schwinn, model Mesa, quite a bike!
Teddy came rushing into the house after work that day to tell me there was a powerchute in the sky, so I ran out and took pictures. That’s the kind of a ‘plane’ my Uncle Howard flies. Reckon that was him? Reckon he has a bright purple chute? Reckon he flew it all the way from Arkansas??
The Mexican children who’d been playing with the littles raced west on their bikes when the powerchute began descending, and they saw him land in the baseball field. They rushed back to tell us all about it, excitedly jabbering away in Spanish. Finally one of them took pity on us and explained himself in English, while the others looked on, grinning.
That evening Larry settled on using the Menards gift card he’d gotten as a Father’s Day present from Bobby, Hannah, Aaron, and Teddy on a drill. We decided to ride our bikes. There was no time to spare; Menards is about half a mile away, and they were closing in fifteen minutes. We jumped on our bikes and went racing off pell-mell, leaving the children playing outside. (That’s what’s nice about having several almost-all-growed up kids: there is nearly always a capable babysitter on hand.) We got there in exactly two-and-a-half minutes, so we must’ve averaged a speed of twelve miles an hour. Hmmm…guess we’re not quite ready for Race France yet. I thought we were going fast!!!
That night Larry was looking in his blood-pressure medicine bottle, thinking, “These pills are not going to last a month like they are supposed to,” when he got a vague feeling about something the doctor had said to him. He pulled out the instructions, and realized he was supposed to be breaking the pills in half, and only taking half a pill a day! Good grief.
Hannah--with dear little baby Aaron, of course--came visiting Wednesday afternoon. Caleb was standing beside the rocking chair where she was sitting, and she noticed that he was wheezing a bit.
“I think Caleb needs to use his inhaler,” she told me.
Caleb looked surprised. “I thought I was fine!” he said.
But just fifteen minutes after I gave him a couple of puffs, he told me he could breathe better. Children don’t notice when they are having troubles sometimes; they seem to think--if they ever stop to think--that it is normal to have to breathe so hard. Toward evening he got worse, so Larry stayed home from church with him.
Hannah curled her hair at our house while Aaron slept in his infant seat. His seat hooks into the car seat holder, and also fastens into the stroller. She sometimes can hardly get her hair curled on a Wednesday afternoon, because every time she tries, the baby wakes up. So she decided to do it here, where there are plenty of people to talk to him and keep him entertained, and where someone can pick him up and feed him if they need to.
Guess what: he didn't wake up at all, the entire time she curled her hair.
Babies are like that.
I am nearly done washing all the stored clothes in our basement. But what a pile of mending has accumulated! I had it all finished Wednesday night, but by Saturday afternoon my sewing machine was completely buried in clothes that needed one mending job or another.
Caleb was recently playing a racing game on the other computer. After three successful races in a row, he had won three million dollars. He turned his chair around and jubilantly announced his good fortune to the room at large.
Victoria looked at him, and then at the computer.
“How are you going to get it out of there?” she asked.
Somebody forgot to shut the kitchen window during church, and Socks went out hunting. He soon returned triumphant--with a baby robin in his mouth. Larry rescued the bird and put it outside in a bush. Do those birds ever live, I wonder, after a stupid cat has gotten a hold of them?
How about a smart cat?
One afternoon Walgreens called and informed me that my pictures were done; in fact, they’d been done for a couple of months now. Pictures? What pictures? We went off to get them.
They were Caleb’s! And we’d forgotten all about them. Caleb was tickled pink. He immediately got out his album and started putting pictures into it.
When he was done, he picked up one of my albums and looked through it. Finishing, he closed it, then read the label on the front of the album: Photo Album. Magnetic.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Isn’t that neat, these albums stick to the refrigerator.”
Hester and Lydia’s floor got soaked again--and so did a bunch of clothes that were lying on the floor. Again. Aaarrrggghhh!!! I just washed them!!!
I washed them again.
But this time, I hung them in the shelf room. And that’s what I will continue to do with their clothes, I think, until Somebody finds out where in the world that leak is coming from. And fixes it. This is not good for us!!
Thursday evening I took Victoria for a late bike ride--at 10:00 p.m. It was still a little bit light outside, and the temperature was just right. The neighborhood bats thought so, too, for they were out enjoying the balmy evening. Furthermore, they kept diving down to get a closer look at us, perhaps to ascertain how many wedges of tasty mosquitoes were winging along behind me, themselves looking for a tasty meal.
Supposedly knowledgeable people tell us that the squeaks and high-pitched noises bats make are their ‘sonar’, or ‘echolocation’, telling them how close they are to objects, how big the object is, and whether it is something for them to eat, or whether it will eat them.
Ha! A fat lot they know. Those bats are having conversations with each other. They are concocting pernicious plots and proposals. And they are laughing.
They are saying, “Look at that earthbound bike rider down there pointing up at us, and telling that little kid all about us. She thinks she’s so indomitable! Let’s show her a thing or two. Hahaha!”
With that, they begin dive-bombing with a vengeance, getting closer and closer to my unprotected pate with each circuit.
Now, I wish to make it quite clear that I am not a nervous person, and neither do I cringe from mice or meadow voles. Loud, startling noises rarely make me jump, and I’ll look a Doberman Pinscher straight in the eye and threaten with a snarl to bite off his nose, if he gets too close. I nearly did it once, too. Remember that. (Although it was a German Shepherd, rather than a Doberman.)
Without prior notice, a fresh bat joined the ranks. He squeaked shrilly, swooped down from a tree directly in front of me, and aimed right at my face.
I ducked.
His toenails raked my hair.
“Wheeeeeeheeeeheeeeeheheeeeheeheheeeheheheee!!!” tittered the bats, cartwheeling exultantly through the sky.
Now, before you join the bats in their malicious glee, let me tell you that I was not imagining things, nor am I exaggerating--and I have Victoria as my witness:
“Oooo, Mama!” said she, “That bat almost got his feet in your hair!”
Mind you, I was not frightened; but I’m glad I ducked, and I plan to do it with more fervor next time. I do not care to have my toupee detangled by a bat, no matter whether it is the Kitti’s hog-nosed bat (also called the bumblebee bat) that is only one inch long, or the Malayan flying fox, which is sixteen inches long and has a wingspan of over five and a half feet. [1]
Other than ducking, my other option is to only go riding at high noon. At least then, I have to contend with no more than the Phacochoerus aethiopicus.
(That’s a warthog; didn’t you know?)
Their normal diet includes grass, berries, bark, roots, and carrion.[2]
They have been known to gallop wildly beside fast-pedaling bicycles, removing first the shoelaces, then the shoes, of the rider-thereon, in order to get at his/her digits, which become quite tasty (to warthogs) at high noon on the hot Nebraska prairies, particularly when enclosed in sneakers and plastic lime-green socks, regardless of whether or not they sport orange triangles.
That’s right; they absolutely adore toejam, for this treat delightfully combines two of their favorite dishes: carrion and berries.
Moral of the story: If you should go riding at high noon on the hot Nebraska prairies where the warthogs roam and the deer and the antelope play, do remember to wear tall buckle boots. Warthogs have an utterly dreadful time with buckles.
Friday and Saturday, Keith and Esther had a garage sale. Larry and Teddy helped Keith haul his old refrigerator out of his basement and the couch out of the living room. They told us to bring anything we wanted to sell; but I had neither the want-to nor the time to mark things for a garage sale--and besides, I don’t prefer that people I know see what ratty old things I have for sale, with my initials sported on the tag. There are many bags of clothes and things up in the attic, but nobody got them down for me. And I can’t get them, myself. I hate to admit it, but being only five-foot-two does give a person certain limitations.
Hester and Lydia helped Esther Friday, and Dorcas went to help Saturday. Keith and Esther sold all their old furniture and big appliances they were trying to get rid of, but practically none of the clothing. Hearing that, I was glad I hadn’t gone to trouble of labeling the clothes I’d taken to the Goodwill and the Salvation Army, or the clothes in the attic. I suspect it would have been a whole lot of work for nothing.
Caleb and Victoria were playing with Fisher Price things in the basement. They set up the barn, the village, and the playground, and got out cars, tractors, and the motorcycle, along with the carriage and wagon. Caleb had a little Fisher Price man in one hand on his left side, working on his farm; another Fisher Price man was in his right hand, working in a store in the village.
“I have to go to town to buy hay for these cows!” said the farmer, and took off bouncety-hop around Caleb.
“Well, I have to go buy some cows!” said the other, and off he went lickety-split in the opposite direction.
Directly in front of Caleb, they collided and fell flat.
“Oof!” said Caleb.
He shook his head regretfully, and Victoria, who’d been watching the goings-on with a merry smile on her face, went into gales of laughter. The FP men got up and looked at each other.
“Hi, Bert!” said one, bowing slightly.
“Hi, Dert!” said the other, bobbing forward in response.
Victoria laughed till she cried. Caleb grinned.
A bit later, they were playing with the Fisher Price girls. Caleb put them into the village store while Victoria was stirring up their ‘breakfast’.
Victoria looked back and said, “Where’s our little girls?”
“They live in London now,” Caleb informed her.
Victoria raised her eyebrows. “Where’s London?” she queried.
“Where they live,” replied Caleb, without intending to be a smart alec in the slightest. He glanced at Victoria. “Oh, um--” he continued, realizing he hadn’t been quite descriptive enough, “--it’s on the other side of the world.”
“Oh,” responded his sister. She gave it a bit of serious thought. Then, “Do you have to turn the globe clear around backwards to get there?” she questioned.
A little later, Victoria and Caleb were coming down the stairs, and Victoria fell. I was at the washing machine, almost directly underneath the steps, and it sounded like quite a tumble. I went rushing to see if the child had broken her neck, and how many arms and legs had been shattered beyond repair.
Caleb came around the corner first, pale and wide-eyed, to tell me all about it, from the stumble to the ensuing tumble. “--and she was laughing!” he finished in an amazed tone.
Victoria, behind him by now and only slightly disheveled, grinned, and then giggled. “Well, my head was bouncing down the steps ahead of me; that’s what was so funny,” she explained.
A while later, as they sat playing and singing away, as they so often do, Caleb attempted to sing the song, “I’m In Right, Out Right, Up Right, Down Right, Happy All the Time!”
He didn’t get the words quite right. He sang: “I’m In Right, Out Right, Inside Out, Right Happy Every Day!”
Friday afternoon I discovered I can tow the carriage behind my bike with both Caleb and Victoria in it, although I did have to use lower gears than when only Victoria is riding. They didn’t see much of the scenery, I don’t imagine, because they were so busy conversing and chatting. Victoria, being the Erudite and Experienced Young Lady, thoroughly explained the fundamentals of Bike Carriage Riding and Fastening Your Seatbelts and Not Wiggling When Your Mother Climbs Off Her Bike And Puts The Kickstand Down And What Might Happen If You Do; while Caleb listened politely, with occasional giggles.
Late that night after the children were all in bed, Larry and I were having a late-night snack of chocolate fudge brownie frozen yogurt when I heard a distant “Mrroow!”
“Here comes Socks,” I said.
Larry, who hadn’t heard a thing, looked at me. He glanced around the room, and then gazed up toward the ceiling. I poked him.
“Just watch,” I whispered.
It was a good minute later--long enough that I had begun to doubt that I had ever heard anything after all--that the blind at the kitchen window wiggled, and then a large squarish yellow SomethingOrOther started coming in.
Larry did just what I’d told him to do--he watched. In fact, he did more than that: he stared.
Behind the square yellow widget came Socks. He glanced at us, gave a loud purring noise of greeting, and leaped to the floor. He dropped the yellow thingama-gidget onto the floor, gave it a ferocious swat that sent it sailing across the room, then gathered himself together, took a mighty leap, landed on it, and fell over and beat it to death with his back feet.
Once the adversary was safely annihilated, he stood up and came purring to rub on our ankles and inquire into what was in our bowls, and could he lick them out, please.
I went to investigate into the composition of the well-subdued yellow thing.
It was a piece of foam.
Larry allowed as how that was better than some things the cat brought in.
The next night he (speaking of Socks, not Larry) brought in a yellow plastic scrubber, the type used on dishes in the sink. It was our own scrubber; he must’ve first taken it out the window. From now on, before I accuse any of the children of going off with something and losing it, I’d better consider whether or not Socks could have made off with it. Anyway, at least he brings things back. That is, at least he brought one thing back.
Larry, Lydia, Caleb, Victoria, and I went to Menards in Norfolk Saturday afternoon, because Larry needed to get some plywood to make a floor on a trailer he has. We no longer have a trailer with which to haul our things--bikes, tent, etc.--should we ever decide to go for bike rides out of town, or go camping or something; we sold them all when we sold our business.
After leaving Menards, we stopped at Wal-Mart and got four more bins for sweaters and suchlike. We came back out to the Suburban, and while Larry put things into the back, the children and I climbed in.
In our Suburban, there is an overhead middle console on which are the switches for the rear air conditioner, several different reading lights, a pull-down compartment for a radar detector, and a couple of cubbyholes for sunglasses. Larry had earlier asked me if I’d ever found my favorite sunglasses. I hadn’t.
Without a word, he pulled down the holder for the radar detector, and there they were, in their case.
I made a face. “Well, if you knew where they were, why didn’t you just say so?”
Now, as I got into the Suburban, I saw that the compartment was still open, and my sunglasses were on the dash. I closed the radar detector compartment, opened the sunglasses cubbyhole, put my case into it, and tried to shut it.
It wouldn’t stay shut; the case was almost too large for the cubbyhole.
I turned the case this way and that, trying to make it fit…but it kept popping back open again. I gave up and decided to put them back into the radar detector compartment.
I pulled it down--and the entire front part of the console came down with a creak and a jolt, with only the electrical wiring and one solitary screw at the back keeping it from falling.
Larry finally came around from the back and opened his door. He started to get in. He stopped, and looked at me.
“Hi,” I said, in a friendly sort of way.
“You were doing chin-ups on the console?” he inquired.
He looked around for the wayward screw, but it was nowhere to be found. “Well, I can’t drive all the way home holding that up,” he said, “I’ll have to find another screw.”
So there I was, trying to hold up that heavy oak console while Larry hunted through the Suburban for the screws. My arms got tired, so I scooted to the middle and let it rest on my head. (The console, that is; not the Suburban.) For the record, oak is a harder wood than you’d think. It was not long before the top of my head was getting flat, rather like the Salish Native American tribe, who compressed the heads of their babies by means of a wicker headpiece.[3] (Microsoft® Encarta® Encyclopedia 2049 is mistaken. It was made of oak.)
Larry, evidently not wanting me to look more like an Indian than I already do, helpfully handed me the dogbone pillow (Caleb calls it the ‘bonedog’ pillow), which I tucked between my head and the sagging console, and there I sat, while Larry hunted for a dispensable screw elsewhere in the Suburban.
He found one. How dispensable it really is, I do not know. When one of the oak cupboards in the high-top suddenly comes crashing down on somebody’s head, then I will know.
Home again, I found Dorcas had finished the spaghetti, and everyone was drooling for the meatballs to go in it…so I hurriedly mixed the ingredients with the hamburger, made meatballs, and baked them on the broiler. Two broilers, to be exact…it takes more than one broiler-full to feed this family. That’s five pounds of hamburger, in case you were wondering. Cooking the meat that way drains the grease from it as it bakes. I poured the spaghetti sauce --Del Monte, chunky, with herbs and onions--into the spaghetti, put in the meatballs, and stirred. I tasted… stirred… tasted… Mmmm. Just right.
Or maybe I was extra hungry, which makes one’s tastebuds less finicky.
Bobby and Hannah stayed for supper. Baby Aaron is smiling at everyone now--but it makes him terribly hungry, all that smiling, and you can bet he will immediately want his bottle. He is thinking very seriously about reaching for the toys Hannah dangles in front of him. I told you, he’ll be doing calculus before you know it!
Victoria carried a big doll to church Sunday morning. Guess what happens after church is over? Yep. I wind up carrying it home for her. I told her not to take that doll again, and don’t bring another that size, either.
Bobby, Hannah, Aaron, and Amy came for dinner. We had beef/potato stew with all sorts of crackers (the littles consider crackers the most important part of the menu), lettuce salad, fruit with sour cream and cream cheese (I could eat the sour cream and cream cheese {with powdered sugar} all by itself, and the more the better), and the ice cream sandwiches Lydia ordered from the Schwan man for her birthday. She brought the box of ice cream sandwiches upstairs, made a surprised face, and said, “Look! Nobody ate all these yet!”
It was surprising.
Victoria wore her white three-tiered dress to church Sunday night, along with white tights, white t-strap shoes, and the beautiful white hat Hannah decorated for her. As we were getting ready to walk out the door to church, I handed her one of her big white stuffed bunnies to carry.
She looked pretty as a picture; I should have gotten out my camera, but we were out of time.
After church, she said to me, “Is this bunny too heavy for you?”
“Yes!” I responded, thinking that then she would carry it. It really isn’t heavy at all.
She smiled sweetly at me. “Okay,” she said, “I’ll ask Daddy to carry it.”
So she did. And he did.
Keith and Esther came visiting after church, so we warmed up the leftover soup and gave them some ice cream sandwiches.
Larry’s chest and right arm hurt all day Sunday. Oh dear, what’s the matter with him? At 10:00 p.m. tonight (Tuesday), his blood pressure was 167 over 98, and his pulse was 37. Good grief! That’s not a bit good. We took it again at five-minute intervals, and it gradually improved; but his chest was burning, and his left arm was hurting.
Mama is not doing well at all. In the last month, she has lost five pounds; she weighs only 75 pounds. She has no appetite, and will hardly eat. I think Saturday she was afraid she wouldn’t be around for Lydia’s birthday today, or for Dorcas’ birthday on the fourth, so she called both girls over to give them their presents.
She is very frail, and for the last few days she has had a good deal of trouble remembering things. She realizes she is asking the same questions all over again, and it bothers her.
“I just can’t remember what people say,” she told me.
She had blood tests done Saturday; some were good, some were not…but nothing was conclusive. One woman doctor (better a veterinarian) wants to do 101 more tests, and I don’t doubt that all those tests would be the death of her. Besides, what would we do about it, if the tests showed some sort of disease? Most of the cures would kill her, too. So there is no sense in having her undergoing a slew of tests that would do more harm than good.
Last Friday, I went downstairs and pulled my Chromaharp, which I had been planning to give to Lydia for her birthday, from its shelf. I used to play it every Sunday when I had the Sunday School class of four- through six-year-olds, and we’d sing along with it. I knew the Chromaharp was still in mint condition--at least, I thought it was… But what I didn’t know was that our corn-fed mice, in addition to playing the customary cornamute or cornemuse, also enjoy playing the Autoharp, of which family the Chromaharp is a part.
Now, corn-fed mice are a robust lot; but they are not yet tough enough to open metal suitcase latches, possibly on account of being deprived of Li’l Sizzlers with their corn fritters.
Sooo…they simply gnawed a hole in the bottom of the Chromaharp’s case, large enough for their U-Hauls and moving vans, and marched grandly in.
Once inside, they built themselves a stage on which to conduct Chromaharp concerts, and then they constructed bleachers and food courts for the audiences.
Well, I thoroughly cleaned the case, put No Trespassing signs at the mouse holes, and then Dorcas took it to the Village Cobbler to see what he could do about it.
Nothing. His daughter from Timbuktu was visiting, and he was already behind in his work. Maybe next week… In the meanwhile, he recommended we repair the case with black tape.
Black tape. Ha. We will patiently (or otherwise) wait till next week, thank you.
Anyway, the Chromaharp itself is still in fine shape; all I had to do is tune it.
Lydia is ten today! She spent part of the afternoon at her friend Amber’s house. This evening we went to Wal-Mart and let her pick out some of her own presents, just for the fun of it. She chose sandals, a watch, a ring, a bracelet, pillowcases to embroider, floss for the cases, and a water bottle for her bike.
Hester wound up with a watch, too, because we asked the clerk at the jewelry counter to open a sealed watch to see if it fit Lydia--and it didn’t, and there was no way to make it smaller, and I hardly thought it was the thing to say we didn’t want it after opening it. So we bought it and gave it to Hester, whose wrist is a little larger than Lydia’s.
Baby Aaron had his first shots today--four of them. There was only one nurse at the doctor’s office by the time Hannah’s appointment came ’round; so, rather than two nurses giving him two shots at the same time, one in each leg, so that the baby would only think he got poked twice, poor little Aaron got jabbed four times, one after the other. Poor little sweetheart; don’t you hate that, when babies so little have to have their shots? They’ve never ever been hurt before, and all of a sudden along comes some mean ol’ ogre who stabs them, over and over again. Aauugghh. Why haven’t they figured out a better way by now??!!!
Socks is killing the cat food bag. It was sneaking up on him, and he barely noticed in time to save himself.
Oooo…now it’s the rug in the front hallway. Those things can be lethal, you know. It’s a good thing we have a fearless jungle beast on premises to protect us from such things. Why, I was once attacked by a small furry throw rug, and it threw me for a complete backflip before it relinquished its hold and reverted to its innocuous ruggish self.
This afternoon, I said, “Where’s my coffee mug?”
“Here it is,” replied Caleb, and solemnly handed me a jug of red paint.
Not to worry; it’s non-toxic.
P.S.: It is possible that I got the Warthog confused with the Yorkshire. Or even the Chester White. It’s all just bacon to me!
P.S.S.: On the following page is one of my favorite songs. It was a favorite of my father’s, too. James McGranahan, the man who wrote the tune to this song, was a talented young musician who was trying to decide between a gospel music or a secular music career. He happened to be staying in an inn at a town near a high railroad trestle one night, on his way to a concert. That very night, the trestle collapsed and sent the train tumbling into the river below, where it burst into flames. Some of the passengers drowned, some died in the fire, and some died of injuries incurred in the train wreck.
The townspeople, and James McGranahan too, worked heroically to save the survivors and take them to hospitals or places they could stay.
Philip P. Bliss, the famous gospel songwriter, and his wife lost their lives that night. Philip had managed to clamber from the burning train, but, realizing his wife had not followed him out, went back in to get her. He did not make it back out.
We cannot understand why these sorts of things happen; for Bliss was a wonderful, godly man whose sweet music and lyrics blessed millions of people around the world. He was only 38, had written thousands of hymns, and would doubtless have written thousands more, had his life not been taken from him so early. But we believe God has a plan; He knows the end from the beginning, and we trust Him explicitly.
Perhaps these tragic circumstances had something to do with the making of James McGranahan. As he hurried feverishly from car to car, doing his utmost to help anyone he could, he saw somebody he knew who was helping too. It was Ira Sankey, that world-renowned singer and writer who, along with Philip Bliss, worked with Dwight L. Moody, founder of Moody Bible Institute in Chicago (1889). When the work wound down, and all those surviving had been transported to safety, Sankey greeted him warmly, despite the terrible sadness of the great loss of life.
“James,” said Sankey, “We must have someone to take the place of Philip. I don’t know of anyone who could do it but you. Will you?”
McGranahan stared at his friend, amazed. He thought of the money he could make, writing and playing his secular music. Gospel music would not pay nearly so well.
“Yes,” said James McGranahan.
The men shook hands, and went their separate ways. James McGranahan gave his life fully to God that night, and he never regretted it. I have often wondered: Would he have done so, had not his friend Philip Bliss lost his life that night?
The most amazing thing was that the melodies and lyrics James McGranahan wrote turned out to be even sweeter and more skillfully composed than those written by Philip Bliss, uncommonly talented though he was.
God works in mysterious ways, and, as the verse says, ‘we see through a glass darkly’. But we know He does use events and circumstances to bring the lost to salvation, and His own more closely to Him.
Yes, ’tis true: Some time, some time we’ll understand.
[1]"Bat," Microsoft® Encarta® Encyclopedia 2049 (motto: Never Say ‘Blind As A Bat’). © 1993-2001 Microsoft Corporation. All Kitti’s hog-nosed bats preserved.
[2]"Warthog," Microsoft® Encarta® Encyclopedia 2049 (motto: Looking Into The Future). © 1993-2001 Microsoft Corporation. All warthogs preserved.
[3]"Flathead (people)," Microsoft® Encarta® Encyclopedia 2049 (motto: Don’t Be Such A Dunce). © 1993-2001 Microsoft Corporation. All Flatheads deserved it.
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