Monday, prescriptions in hand, we went to Wal-Mart for the much-anticipated glasses for Lydia and Caleb. Wal-Mart does not have the selection LensCrafters has, but we eventually chose some that were acceptable. Glasses are returning to the inimitable 1890s styles, have you noticed that? I wonder why the manufacturers of glasses frames think people look good in little bitty round frames planted immediately beside their noses? More, I wonder if they actually think people can see better with them?
No, I’ll bet those things are designed by humanity’s rejects: mean, desperate men who are determined to even the score for all the perceived slights they have incurred throughout their unpleasant lives.
Anyway, we picked the children’s frames, and we would have been able to get Lydia’s that very evening, but the lady forgot to measure the distance between her eyes. So we returned so she could complete Lydia’s measurements, and Caleb’s, too. Joseph came along and picked a pair of frames, too. Joseph and Caleb, who have thicker lenses, would have their glasses by the end of the week.
Lydia got hers the next day. She said it felt just as though the floor was coming up to meet her, with those glasses on, and going up the stairs was a new and different experience.
Late Tuesday afternoon, we were surprised when my Uncle Howard knocked on our door, asking about Mama. Uncle Howard and Aunt Evelyn were on their way back from North Dakota, where they had visited some relatives, including my mother’s two sisters, and they’d decided to stop one more time to see my mother, since they will probably not be back this way for some time.
They’d been driving since morning, and were glad to have a jolly good place to stay--my brother Loren’s house. Loren and Janice were not home; they were in the Sandhills with their motorhome--and their dog, Bullet--where Loren’s newest assignment with the NFIB (National Federation of Independent Business) had taken him. Janice had everything ready for them; they said it was better than staying at the Ramada!
While Uncle Howard and Aunt Evelyn were at the hospital, I made a couple batches of muffins--one apple, the other blueberry--and then, after scarfing down the blueberry muffins like hungry wolves, we took the apple muffins to my aunt and uncle at Loren and Janice’s house. We had a pleasant visit...but we didn’t stay long, for we could see they were tired.
One day as we were driving along, Victoria suddenly informed me, “That black thing with the gold top is what I was talking about.”
“Huh?” I said, wondering what I’d missed. “When?”
I had a vague (very vague) recollection of the child asking something about a black and gold ‘thing’, possibly a week earlier, but the details had totally escaped me.
She looked at me momentarily, as if I were not quite bright. “When I was talking about it,” she told me airily.
I am now in the process of cleaning Hester and Lydia’s room, going through their clothes piece by piece, taking the too-small things to Victoria’s room, mending all the things that need to be mended (and there are a grand plenty, believe me), and washing everything that was stored in the bottom drawers of bureaus and dressers and wardrobes, because they smelt of mildew on account of the numerous floods that have occurred in that room. The drawers under the bed were particularly bad, and I had a difficult time getting them out of their frames, because the wood was swollen. But with a bit of brute force and awkwardness, I got it accomplished, I did I did.
After thoroughly cleaning them, they were still malodorous and rank, so I trotted off to Wal-Mart to see what could be done about it.
I found just the thing: a spray with something that soaks into the wood, stains it, and seals it, all at once. I bought it and dashed home to try it out.
So that night, there I was on the back driveway by the dark of the moon (well, I did turn on the back floodlight), spraying two large drawers. Fifteen minutes later, I hauled them back down to the basement where I could see what I had accomplished.
Voilá! It voiked. The drawers were a nice oak color, inside and out, and they even smelt good, into the bargain.
Having been successful with that venture, I tried another: I had just finished washing a large stuffed dog that had napped altogetherly too, too long in a damp corner with a couple of rusty hangers. Of course, the hangers had not touched the various parts of the dog that were brown or black; they had only come in contact with the white fur, right smack-dab on the front of the dog.
Once again, I went to Wal-Mart, this time for some rust-colored spray paint.
The only thing I could find in that exact color was primer.
‘Ah, well,’ I thought, ‘Stuffed dogs don’t know the difference between primer and real paint,’ and I bought it.
We now have a large stuffed black, brown, white, and rust-colored dog, and the rust color quite jumps out at you. Strange dog, that. But I couldn’t throw it out, because Hester only just bought it not long ago, and she is quite fond of it, partly because it is stuffed with something that makes an odd crackling noise when it is squeezed.
On with the cleaning.
I pulled up carpet, I filled the bookcase with books, and I kept the washer and dryer going.
On one of my many jaunts out to the garbage cans near the back alley, I suddenly came to a stop and stood and looked at a bright yellow and black American goldfinch perched atop one of my sister’s purple coneflowers. On another flower a mere six inches away, a monarch alit and sat drinking of the nectar, wings undulating gently.
My camera! I want my camera! Oh, where, oh, where has my camera gone? Oh, where, oh, where can it be? With its back broken, and its heart so sad; oh, where, oh, where can it be?!
Nope, I haven’t gotten my camera back yet. It is probably somewhere in the Middle East by now, being transported across the Rub Al Khali Desert on the back of a camel (UPS has its limits, in that part of the world), a violent windstorm blowing sand into its every portal (speaking of the camera, not the camel), as the repairman escorts it (the camera, not the camel) (well, the camel will doubtless go along, too, just to get a drink, you know) to a small camera shop in Ras Mirbat, Oman, wherein is the only replacement camera-back for the Minolta XPsi Maxxum to be found in the Northern Hemisphere and perhaps in the entire populated earth. If things continue swimmingly in the Gulf of Oman, the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea, the Gulf of Aden, and the Arabian Sea, with nobody getting too big for his britches and acting nasty with his neighboring country, I stand a good chance of getting my camera back in time for Christmas pictures--2050 A.D.
Thursday afternoon Joseph and Caleb’s glasses were done. We went off to get Caleb’s; Joseph was at work and didn’t get his until Friday. Caleb, whose prescription was much stronger than Lydia’s, seemed to adapt to his glasses immediately.
“Now, when I take them off, everything looks blurry!” he marveled.
The poor child must have been needing glasses for some time. I thought so, but the last doctor who gave him an eye exam said his eyesight was fine! I think possibly the doctor needed his eyesight checked. Actually, I think he simply was not thorough, and did not want to go to the trouble of dilating Caleb’s eyes so he would know for sure.
The next day, Dorcas got new glasses, too. Last week as she was getting out of her car, the edge of her door caught her glasses, pulled them right off her head, and flung them on the ground. One must be cautious of rogue doors like that; why, if you don’t watch out, they will grab you and fling you right atop a telephone pole! You cannot say you have not been warned.
Did I tell you that the Medicaid we applied for in order to help pay Teddy’s enormous bill for his cut finger is paying for the children’s glasses? The children under the age of 19, that is.
Just last Monday I informed Dorcas, “If you are going to get hurt or break your glasses, you’d better hurry up and do it tomorrow; because after that, you will have to pay for it yourself.”
She laughed and assured me that she had no plans for either. But I neglected to caution her about those wicked car doors!
She likes her new contacts, and so does Joseph. They both got the disposable type. Dorcas has already torn at least two; I think Joseph tore one. Such troubles!
Friday Larry had his second checkup with Dr. Luckey. The four younger children came with us. We took along the paper on which I’d listed his blood pressure at various times during the month. Larry must still take his medicine for high blood pressure. It has now been determined what was causing the pain and burning in his chest: it was a bleeding ulcer. So he is taking medicine for that, and we are thankful it was not a heart attack.
On our way home, as we came over the last hill on the bluffs, we saw a tall plume of smoke off across the valley, somewhere near Schuyler. Amateur sleuths that we are, we promptly headed in that direction to find out what was the source of the smoke, and exactly what we ought to do about it, i.e. take pictures, or yell ‘FIRE’, or break out the wieners and marshmallows.
We got sidetracked, however, when we spotted one of those alluring Minimum Maintenance roads winding its way up the bluffs, tall trees flanking it, birds flitting from branch to branch, and wildflowers marching with splendid gaiety up the embankments on either side. A small pond glittered in a nearby valley, and an upside-down rowboat shone brightly in the sunlight.
We turned off the highway and headed up the hill.
Just over the third hill and in a small hollow surrounded by woodland, we found a field chockfull of flowers, mostly lavender, with clusters of black-eyed Susans thrown in for good measure. The little glen would have been impressive as it was; but it was even more so, because hundreds of butterflies--viceroys, orange sulphurs, checkered whites, and tiger swallowtails--winged graceful paths from flower to flower as they sipped nectar from the delicate blossoms. I longed for my camera. Lacking that, I instead used the camcorder. I did get some pretty pictures; but, in my estimation, it is much more enjoyable to look through a photo album of beautiful butterfly and flower pictures than to watch them on a video, even if they are in motion.
By the time we returned home, we were half starved half to death, and the stove had not cooked us any supper while we were gone, and I wanted to see Mama before she went to sleep; so, after visiting with her for a little while, we bought Arby’s roast beef sandwiches, devoured them long before we ever got home, and wished for more.
Saturday, Joseph was supposed to go to Grand Island to see the eye doctor at Lens-Crafters for a checkup. But Larry and Joseph were late getting home from work, and slow getting ready to go, and by the time we got there, we were almost half an hour late. As we arrived at the front entrance of the mall, Joseph hopped out of the Suburban and rushed for the door, while we proceeded on to the parking lot. At the first corner, whom should we meet, but--the eye doctor.
We were too late. We will have to go back next week.
But our trip was not entirely in vain, for the Sportswear Center in the mall was having a big sale, and Joseph found himself a very nice pair of sneakers.
And we did have an extra-scrumptious piece of pizza from one of the fast-food joints along the strip.
And we did discover, via Sears Roebuck & Co., that we cannot afford a new state-of-the-art washing machine and dryer. Not this week, anyway.
With a sigh, we headed for home. That is not the first time that has happened. So long as we remember to blame the receptionist for giving us too early of an appointment, we never get into too nasty of brawls and donnybrooks over it.
At Central City, we stopped at the Dairy Queen and treated ourselves to a Snickers Blizzard (that was for Larry) and Hot Fudge Brownie Earthquakes (for the children). I didn’t order anything. Larry soon had his Blizzard, and while we waited for the Earthquakes, he gave me a few bites of his Blizzard.
When the Earthquakes were given to us, I discovered why he was being so generous: the girl had misunderstood his order for three, and when she repeated the order back to him, she’d said ‘four’. He let it stand, since he’d suddenly acquired a yen to know what a DQ ‘Earthquake’ was. And he was planning to share that with me, too.
The Earthquakes were altogetherly too sweet to suit me; but while Larry ate the rest of it, I fished as many large Snickers chunks as I could find out of his Blizzard, so that by the time I gave it back to him, I was full.
Just past the town, there is a sign that says, ‘Popcorn Plant’, and points down a country road. I have been curious about that Popcorn Plant ever since I can remember, and we finally decided to drive down that road and see it while we ate our dessert.
We went past a corrugated metal building with a sign that said ‘Farm Corp.’ There were several garages behind the small building, doors all open, and inside we could see an old pickup, a small tractor, and various rusty farm implements. Did they make popcorn there?
We continued on.
We passed a farmplace with a picturesque pond in the back, surrounded by Canada geese and mallards. There were a couple of barns, a silo, and a chicken coop, complete with chickens of all colors of the rainbow. Was that where they made popcorn?
We continued on.
We came to a large farm where were a cluster of shiny new grain bins, augurs rising high above each bin.
An odor not at all like popcorn rudely assailed our senses. Driving on by, we found the source of the stench, just the other side of a beautiful new house: it was a feedlot, and there must have been over a thousand head of cattle in the lots. Was this the popcorn plant?
We continued on.
Soon the road narrowed, and on both sides of us stretched unending rows of corn, tall enough that we could not see beyond them. And then we figured it out: Popcorn plant. They’ve planted popcorn, and when the temperature rises enough, the corn will pop, and the general public can come help themselves! That’s got to be it, don’t you think?
Since we were only a couple of miles distant, we decided to take a look at Bader Memorial Park, another place we had long been curious about.
We pulled into the drive of an old, rather unkempt campground. Near the entrance was the park ranger’s house, and his yard was as messy as the rest of the campground. What little grass we could see was dying a slow, torturous death. A large, overflowing Dumpster sat beside the road. There was a small lake with a sandy beach where some people were swimming, and a rutted lane led farther into the trees.
But what especially caught our attention were the lists of rules to be seen, no matter which direction one looked. Some were of a normal variety: ‘No unregistered guests.’ ‘No open campfires.’ ‘No camping in tree branches.’ ‘No dumping of unwanted children or pets; we don’t want them either.’
But this one in particular met with a good deal of exclamation: ‘No Frisbees or balls.’
Really! That one, I am not making up. Indeed, as we were leaving, we saw the park ranger himself ride his four-wheeler down to the water’s edge and hold out his hand—and a child came and meekly handed over her purple Frisbee.
The ‘park’ has the wrong name. It should be called ‘The Ebenezer Scrooge Disorganization.’ We will not camp there, thank you very kindly.
When we walked in our door at home, the yummy aroma of brownies met us. Dorcas had made a large pan full for our anniversary, which was today, the 15th. We’ve been married 22 years.
“Mmmm, yum!” I exclaimed. “But I’m already full,” I lamented. “Hand me a fork,” I requested. “Woowoowoo, it’s hot!” I cried. “How many pieces can we have?” I asked. “I’m still full,” I informed everyone, swallowing the last bite of my brownie.
Dorcas laughed, pleased that I liked it. I am not a big cake fan (what’s a cake fan?), but hot, gooey brownies are pretty good. Although I did need a brownie fan.
Tonight after church Bobby, Hannah, and Aaron came visiting. Baby Aaron was all full of smiles and coos--until he used up too many calories with all that work, and had to have some sustenance, quick. We gave Bobby his birthday present: two grocery sacks full of all sorts of things for his lunch--mozzarella cheese, yogurt, doritoes, sliced chicken and turkey, canned peaches, pears, apricots, and mixed fruit, pink lemonade, and wheat bread. Bobby, generous as always, asked for a pitcher and mixed up a whole gallon of lemonade for us all.
And then, while everyone drank pink lemonade, Bobby played the Roland while Hannah accompanied him on the grand piano (or perhaps it was the other way around) and Larry showed Aaron himself in the big bathroom mirror, which made the baby’s eyebrows fly right up to the top of his head, silly little dear.
On Sunday afternoons, Victoria likes me to read her Sunday School paper to her. On the back, there is usually an activity of one sort or another for the children to do. (Remember the Bible verse they were to color and hang on their wall?--and that evening I found it glued firmly to the bathroom wall?) Today the activity explained how to fold a paper over a comb and hum through it.
Caleb and Victoria have been humming through combs ever since. And, as you may know if you have ever played that inestimable instrument, one must hum loudly in order to properly set up the vibrations unique to the utensil.
I am planning to record Caleb and Victoria’s on-going concert. I will then take a small auto-reverse player to the home of the author of the Sunday School article on comb humming, squirrel it into the wall directly beside his bed, and turn the volume up as high as it will go. Bôn lïstènmént!
“Hmmmmmmmmmm...” “Hmmmmmm...” “Bedtime!” (that was me) “Hmmmmmmm...” “Hmmmm...”
P.S.: No, the comb humming is not bothering me. Not in the slightest. Sounds quite cute, to tell the truth. Especially when they are both humming the same song together.
That’s why I think the author of the article should be permitted to enjoy the same pleasures he has imposed on me.
I’m a generous person; I’m willing to share life’s little delights!
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