Monday, September 17, 2001 - Do Ironing Boards Come If You Whistle? Are Pygmy Hippos the Same Size as Daddys?

           For supper last Sunday evening, I fixed Bluegill Gumbo, using the fish we’d caught at Stanton, a can of Cream of Asparagus soup, and Fire-Roasted Blend vegetables from Schwan’s.  It would have been scrumptious (well, it was, for me), but I got carried away with the hot spices.  I finally figured out which spice it is that I’ve been using too much of, in practically everything I cook lately:  crushed red pepper.  I didn’t know it was so hot until I stuck a piece in my mouth and crunched it, all by itself.
 

Wooowooowooo!  I was soon loping through the kitchen at breakneck speed, searching for milk, bread, banana, light bulb, anything to get the flames out of my mouth.

The kids get three bites, drink a glass of water.  Three more bites, another glass of water.  And on and on.

“No wonder they call it ‘Fire-Roasted’!” remarked Caleb,  blinking hard.

haha  But it’s not the fault of the poor vegetables.

One day this week, I got out all my Christmas cards and started writing them out.  Victoria sat beside me on the couch and helped, handing me card, envelope, card, envelope.  Then I hunted up my picture duplicates and inserted pictures into cards, mostly pictures of my friends’ children.  Some are so cute, I can hardly wait for the parents to see them.

Monday I started cleaning Dorcas’ room.  That evening, I thought I would revamp the previous day’s hot, hot leftover soup.  Sooo...I added two cartons of sour cream, two cans of spinach, mashed potatoes, and a bit of dill weed.  It tasted a little bit like our old favorite potato/spinach casserole, but there was altogetherly too much spinach.  It was too bitter to suit me.  Larry liked it, and so did Victoria.  But Joseph and Teddy-- aaaauuuugggghhhh.

I also baked the frozen fish--several largemouth bass--Keith had given us.  The boy only cleaned them, cut off head and tail--and that’s all!  He didn’t even scale the critters!  So, after they were done baking, I removed scales and skin.  They were delicious--if you like fish, that is.  If you don’t mind peeling them as you go, that is.  If you don’t mind picking out the many minute bones, that is.

Bobby and Hannah came, bringing a video they’d gotten in a package of diapers.  The actors are Fisher Price people, and one little story is entitled, ‘Sarah Lynn Gets A Lift’, which was the sole reason they came to show it to us.  (She held too many helium balloons at one time, and floated away.)

Tuesday morning, Hannah called to tell me terrorists had flown planes into the World Trade Center towers and the Pentagon.  Isn’t that just awful?  The worst act of terrorism on U.S. soil ever.

After church Wednesday night, Bobby, Hannah, and Aaron came, and Hannah proceeded to play the piano with hammer and tongs, while Dorcas cranked up the volume on the Roland and went to town.  Nice music, but OOOooooo, my aching head.

There is a new cat around the neighborhood, a tan fluffy cat who is quite friendly and nice.  Trouble is, he and Socks don’t see eye to eye on a variety of subjects.  I know this, because I heard them discussing it.  To make matters worse, the cat has taken a shine to the Jacksons of 42^nd Avenue, and comes in the window we leave open for Socks to make his customary entrances and exits.  Thursday morning I was abruptly--and rudely, I might add--awoken by the dreadful noise of Socks growling and snarling and howling, and he has quite a howl, let me tell you.  I rushed into the kitchen to find Socks on the counter near the coffee maker, while the tan cat stood in woebegone bewilderment in the middle of the sink.

“Shoo!” I cried, and the cat headed quickly out the window.

I swatted at its tail end, just to hurry it along a bit, and to tell it that it would be much better if it would stay out.  It’s a nice cat, and I like it...but!!!  I don’t care for cat fights in my house, thank you very much.

Hannah and Bobby decided to go for a jaunt somewhere after Hannah started some frozen bread dough rising, so she brought the bread to us.  Yummy.  We polished it off in no time.  (After I baked it, that is.)  And finally, finally, the house no longer smelt of fish.  (Is that why the tan cat likes us so?)

Friday morning the tan cat, having recovered from the swat on the rear, came visiting--at 4:35 a.m.  Once again, I was awoken by Socks’ outraged yeowling.  Larry sleeps blissfully through it all.  I jumped out of bed and dashed down the hall to find the cats in the living room.

“Get out!” I cried at the tan cat, and he scampered into the kitchen, leaped onto the counter, and scooted out the window.

I flung a glassful of water after him, but I don’t suppose it made much of an impression, since it was already raining.  I closed the window behind him, and then Socks proceeded to bother me the rest of the morning, because he couldn’t come and go as he pleased.  AAAuuuggghhh!!!  Who in the world ever thought it was the thing to have animals live in a structure meant for humans???!!

Friday it rained all day.  I spent the day working on Dorcas’ room, which was much more of a mess than was Teddy’s.  Yes, yes; I know the girl is old enough to clean her own room.  But I also know that if I don’t do it, it won’t get done--and I want this house in order, from top to bottom.

         Just before sunset, the sun shone brightly through the clouds and the rain, creating a brilliant rainbow in the east.  I rushed out with the camcorder, enlisting Hester to hold an umbrella over my head.  We went across the street to the roofed church porch, and Lydia came too, bringing her own colorful umbrella, which gave me something else to video.
 

That evening, Dorcas bought ice cream, frozen yogurt, honey-roasted peanuts, and toppings.  We were all enjoying the treat, when suddenly, just outside the front door, a couple of ear-splitting ka-BOOOMs cracked through the night sky.

“Joseph!” Larry and I both exclaimed, he slightly later than me, since he waited till he returned to earth to add to his original remark, which was something on the order of “AAAAAAA!”

Joseph walked back in the front door, grinning, eyebrows up in innocent inquiry.  “Yes?” he asked courteously.

Joseph may have convinced the tan cat he shouldn’t come in our house once and for all:  he tossed a couple of firecrackers out onto the driveway not too far from where the poor thing was sitting on our lawn.  I rather think that, before the firecracker’s paper shreds had drifted back to earth, that feline was at the top of the Douglas fir.  We instructed Joseph to put the fireworks away (they are illegal to shoot in town, this time of year), and returned to eating ice cream.

I read a story about owls to Caleb and Victoria.  One page had a picture of several different kinds of owls.  I named as many as I knew, including the pygmy owl.

“Yes,” said Caleb, sitting forward, “And there’s a pygmy hippo, too; we saw him at the zoo, remember?”  He frowned thoughtfully.  “I think they’re about the same size as Daddy,” he concluded.

Since Dorcas was staying overnight at Mama’s house, I worked most of the night on her room.  I turned her radio on and listened to a rerun of the memorial service in Washington, D.C., which former presidents and many other dignitaries attended.  Billy Graham preached with a surprisingly strong voice, although he had to be helped to the podium and back to his seat.  A black preacher preached a very good sermon, saying that we should stop to think what God is trying to tell us by the awful terrorist attacks, and our nation must repent and turn to God, so that He will put His protecting hand back over us.  “What this country needs,” he said, “is a revival.”  Isn’t that the truth!

President Bush spoke, too.  We have a good president; I really like him.

Saturday night Larry and I drove Dorcas’ car to the grocery store and the post office, because Larry wanted to see how her car was running.  As always, when he turned the key to start it, a tape of the Old Fashioned Revival Hour came on full blast.  I think, the only way Dorcas knows her car is running is that when she puts it in gear and steps on the accelerator, it goes, for she certainly can’t hear the engine.  Larry turned off the tape and listened to the motor.

Something was wrong.  The tappets--or something--were clattering like anything.

“Isn’t there any oil in this thing?!” I exclaimed.

Larry drove to Ampride so he could look at the engine under their canopy, since it was raining.  He was surprised to find that the oil was only a wee bit low.  He couldn’t tell exactly what the noise was.  Perhaps a loose belt, hitting something as it made its circuit?

We remembered that Dorcas had taken the car to a mechanic some time back because of a ‘funny noise’ it was making.

“He didn’t know what was causing the noise, and told her not to let it idle much,” I reminded Larry.

He looked at me like I was nuts.  He sped up the engine and listened.  It still made the clattering noise, only at a higher rate of speed; and with the engine louder, the rattle was less discernible.

“I think she should not let it run much, either,” said Larry.

With that, he got in, and we started off down the street.  As soon as he got to the posted speed limit, he put the car into neutral and turned the engine off.  He stuck his head out the window and listened.

“There!” he said triumphantly.  “Sure enough, that fixed it!  It’s not making that noise at all!”

He let the car coast till it nearly came to a standstill, then started it and sped up.  As soon as the speedometer registered 35 mph, he turned it off again.

“It’ll take a little longer to get places,” he conceded, “but--” and he shrugged resignedly.

We coasted.  Slower...slower...slower...

Larry poked his head out the window.  “Yup, yup, yup,” he said, nodding in satisfaction.  “Not making that noise at all, at all.”

I was laughing so hard I could hardly talk.  “Start the car!” I gasped, trying to get a breath, “Somebody’s going to think you’re drunk and call the police!”

Larry peered into the rear-view mirror.  “Nope, nope, nope;” he stated  calmly, “Nobody’s around.”  And he was right.

“I hope she has a good battery,” he said, starting the motor again and bringing us up to the speed limit.

The next day, we told Dorcas she really needs to have her car checked; but she doesn’t want to very badly, because of how much it cost to fix a small problem the last time something was the matter with it.  ‘A stitch in time saves nine,’ but what if you have no thread for that first stitch?

The whole family came for dinner Sunday.  We had chicken pot pie, blueberry biscuits, and fruit jello/graham cracker crumbs/sour cream/cream cheese.  Mmmmmm... that’s one of our favorite desserts.

Last night after church, Keith and Esther left for a vacation to the Black Hills.  Dorcas will take care of their cat while they are gone.

A little while ago, as we were walking down the hallway, I handed Caleb my coffee mug and asked him to refill it for me.  He took it--and accidentally grabbed the strings from the ironing board cover in his hand, too.  He whirled around to dash off.

“Wait, stop!” I cried, envisioning him dragging the entire ironing board down the hall behind him.  “You needn’t use the string;” I told him, “Ironing boards come if you whistle.”

And now, I shall return to cleaning Dorcas’ room.  I hope to be all done by tomorrow--and then the entire basement will be clean.  All clean.  When that is done, I will clean Victoria’s room, including closet and dressers, which are full of many clothes that are too small for her.

And then...I shall clean out the drawers and cupboards in the kitchen, which is full of jetsam and flotsam I never, ever use.  I think I could upend most of the drawers straight into the garbage, and nobody would ever notice a thing missing.  Of course I won’t do that; there are things of value in them there drawers, and I’m not that wasteful.  Now...time’s a-wastin’!