Last Monday, Lydia informed me that her toes were rubbing the ends of her shoes, so off we went to Wal-Mart to see if we could find any decent flippers among the objectionable clodhoppers that fill the racks nowadays.
I declare, those slipslops are even more odious and ugly than they were, back in the 1970s, when I was Hester and Lydia’s ages! They are cloppy and unbecoming, and their only practicable purpose, I think, would be to whisk one of them off one’s foot in the event of a robbery, and to clonk the villain over the head with it. One would not even be obliged to swing the gunboats with much exertion at all, for the weight of one of these voguish sledrunners would easily incapacitate a lout, even if it merely fell on him.
But we managed to find one pair--and only one pair--that we liked, and lo and behold, it was identical to Hester’s, right down to the same size. Now, how will we tell them apart? They were leftovers from last season, so we got them at a discount.
By Friday, Lydia had already worn the finish off the toes; they look like they are several months old. So now we can tell the girls’ shoes apart.
Hannah came visiting that night, bringing her Easter dress that I had offered to hem and put the button holes into, as her machine doesn’t do those stitches as neatly as mine. We went to the grocery store together, and I remembered how much fun we used to have doing that now and then before Hannah was married. I’m blessed to have her still living so close, that I am.
Larry helped put a few of the groceries away when we returned, doubtless hoping for a few tidbits of something yummy. But I had bought no snacks, although I didn’t apprise him of that until the groceries were put away, just in case that was the only reason he was helping.
He reached into a bag and, with one hand, pulled out a tall bottle of hairspray and a fat bear full of honey.
He held them up and groaned loudly, “Oh, what a waste, what a waste! Look at this, she’s bought both hairspray and honey!” He shook his head, tsk-tsking primly. “Anybody ought to know,” he went on, “that we needn’t waste money on both hairspray and honey; the two commodities are interchangeable!” He nodded emphatically. “All you needed to get was honey.”
Caleb slept upstairs in the recliner until Thursday night, when I finally decided he was well enough to return to his own bed. I sent him downstairs with an extra pillow, so he could prop his head up a bit, the better to breathe easier. About 3:00 Tuesday morning, while he was sleeping in the recliner, he started coughing. I rushed into the kitchen to get his cough syrup--an expensive new prescription--hoping to stop his coughing before he had an asthma attack.
Standing beside his chair, medicine spoon in hand, I said, “Here’s your cough syrup, Caleb,” and leaned forward to put it into his mouth.
He muttered darkly and turned his head from side to side.
“Caleb,” I repeated, “Here’s some cough syrup for you.” I touched the spoon to his lips.
He jerked his head to the side, uttered a series of unintelligible syllables, and frowned.
“Take this medicine,” I ordered the child a bit more forcefully, and once again put the spoon to his mouth.
He made a muffled protest and swatted at the spoon, eyes still squinted tight shut.
I pulled back quickly, getting the half-teaspoon dosage out of harm’s way, and said loudly, “Caleb, stop it! Sit up straight and take this cough syrup, right now!”
The poor little boy jumped out of his hide, his eyes popped wide open at the same instant his mouth did, and he swallowed the stuff obediently, staring at me in wonderment of my ill humor.
“You nearly knocked it out of my hand,” I explained, smiling at him and smoothing back his hair.
“I did?” he asked, quite surprised. “But I wasn’t even moving!”
“Oh, yes, you were,” I laughed, tucking his blanket snugly around him. “Go back to sleep, now,” I told him.
He grinned at me and promptly fell asleep, the smile still on his lips.
Five minutes later, he was coughing again, so I gave him another half of a teaspoon. Neither did that help, so I had him take a treatment with his nebulizer.
In the morning, he had no recollection of either the cough syrup or the nebulizer treatment.
Tuesday, I took Caleb to Dr. Luckey for a checkup. The doctor said his lungs sound pretty good; quite good, in fact, for having just had pneumonia. He was definitely on the mend.
While the doctor, in our little examining room, was busily checking over Caleb, I heard the nurses in the hall asking each other, “Where’s Dr. Luckey?” and “How long will he be gone?” and “He’s on coffee break.”
Now, I know for a fact that Dr. Luckey skips his coffee break more often than he has it, and it’s anybody’s guess whether or not he will take time to eat dinner. In fact, his very own wife once told me that often he misses his supper.
I said, “They think you’re on coffee break, did you hear that?”
He laughed and remarked, “They should know better than that.”
I told him how, at Columbus Hospital last Sunday, we waited an hour and ten minutes before anyone gave Caleb any therapy or treatment.
“Anyway,” I said, “I remembered all over again why we come here.”
He chuckled. “We’re glad to have you,” he said sincerely.
Well, we are glad to have him.
After getting a prescription from Dr. Luckey for my persistent ear infections, we headed for home.
Dorcas was having twubbles and twials (as Caleb used to say) that day; she locked her keys in her car--twice. Last week, she left her headlights on when she went to Hannah’s house, and came out some time later to find her battery as dead as a doornail. Luckily, Bobby was home, and he jump-started her car for her. She drove straight to my mother’s house--and turned her car off. It barely started, the next time she tried. Joseph brought it to our garage, and hooked up the battery charger. Soon it was back to normal, and everything was fine and dandy again.
I fixed roast beef and baked potatoes that night, but everyone was clamoring for mashed potatoes. Sooo...I threw the potatoes, skins and all, into my biggest bowl and then applied the mixer to them. I added oodles and gobs of butter, and some milk and salt. Mmmmm, I like mashed potatoes with skins.
When supper was over, I went downstairs to wash clothes. My orderly, shipshape washroom was an entire disaster, with previously folded clothes upended and mixed together as though somebody had stirred them violently with a large wooden spoon.
I suspected that the guilty party, who shall remain unnamed for reasons of confidentiality, dignity, and amour-propre, was that certain person among us who must periodically rush frantically about the house, looking up all the clothes and belongings he deems necessary for his date. (Take note, I did not name the person, and you are strictly forbidden to get the notion that you know of whom I speak.)
I came fuming back up the stairs, located the culprit, announced I would wash no more clothes until the washroom was set to rights, and dispatched him straightway to the basement to restore order to the muddle. He went, meekly trying to explain to me why he couldn’t help it, it wasn’t his fault, he could not be held responsible, and he shouldn’t be blamed.
Wednesday, I finished sewing Victoria’s dress and accidentally started on Lydia’s, although I had planned to first finish Hannah’s for her. After sewing a few pieces together, I stopped with Lydia’s and got on with Hannah’s.
During church that night, my brother Loren stayed with my mother. When church was over, Janice rushed home to pack their things for their trip to Hawaii that Loren won for being NFIB’s #1 salesman, while Loren stayed at Mama’s house waiting for Dorcas to arrive. Later, Larry took Loren home. Loren said he hadn’t really wanted to go to Hawaii, but his manager told him it wouldn’t be at all proper for the #1 salesman not to go to the meeting for which he had won a trip. So off to Hawaii they went. I expect they are home by now, and we are all anxious to hear about their junket.
Thursday, Larry worked north of Scribner, a small town north of Fremont. They were on a hill, and the wind was so strong that the men had a bad time of it trying to put forms up, and they were on a high wall. Work was called off early for fear someone would fall or get hurt.
That evening, Lydia unearthed a cute grey sailor outfit that she wanted to wear to school Friday. It has a big white collar with white and black striped ribbon, three-quarter-length sleeves with white cuffs with striped ribbon, and a pleated peplum around the double-breasted top. I sewed a white dickey for it and ironed the pleats back into the peplum, and she wore it as planned. And, just as we had discovered Wednesday, when she wore a straight blue skirt, straight skirts and Lydia and recess don’t go together.
The slit up the back gets longer...and looonger...and loooooonger, and sometimes it is not just the stitching that has gone the way of the wind, but the fabric, too, so that mending makes the poor skirt even straighter than it used to be, which only exacerbates the problem. The skirt is now residing in my sewing machine cabinet, and I plan to put a double inverted pleat into the ripped-out slit, which should give it enough fullness to solve the trouble.
Friday we made another excursion to Wal-Mart for sewing supplies, school supplies, and ... white shoes for Hester and Lydia for Easter. Please reread paragraphs one through three on page one.
Since we could find no nice shoes that actually fit, the girls wound up getting sandals. These sandals wouldn’t be too bad if they didn’t have such square soles at the toe and such clonky heels. Well, at least the girls are shoed. Next week we shall discover whether people look admiringly at their dainty dresses, or if their eyes drift down in amazement to their clumsy footgear.
Later, Dorcas paid for Blizzards from the Dairy Queen for everyone. She was staying with Mama, so we got the blizzards, also ordering a dish of vanilla soft serve for Mama, and then took Dorcas and Mama’s to them.
That night, I almost completed Lydia’s dress. I might have finished it, but the collar didn’t fit the neckline, and in my sleepy state, it seemed entirely too big an object to hurdle...so I wandered out to the living room and watched a video about Alaska.
Saturday, we went to the Salvation Army to look for a blouse to go with a pretty blue wool pleated skirt Lydia planned to wear Sunday. I discovered it was reversible; I hadn’t known that! The skirt has blended, variegated, vertical stripes and, because of how the pleats are spaced, one side looks dark dusty blue, the other side light dusty blue. We found a navy silk blouse with an embroidered medallion at the throat, and it’s just like new.
The Salvation Army was having a bag sale that day. They provide the bags, and each bag of clothing and/or shoes costs $7.00. I stuffed it as full as I could get it. I got a terry cloth red, white, and blue seaside-print hooded robe for Aaron; I need to make a belt for it. Lydia found a pair of hand-painted wooden shoes marked $10.00. She asked the lady if they were considered shoes (I knew they were really a novelty item); the lady said, “Oh, not really, but we’ll let them go this time,” and into the bag they went. Lydia wanted to give them to Teddy, because of all the grief he is always giving the girls about their funny-looking shoes. I got three new shirts for Larry, a blouse for Dorcas with red, white, and blue trim, several other blouses for Hester and Lydia, and two or three for me. Quite a price for all that, eh? We looked for shoes, but, as nearly as I could tell, they were all circa Mayflower era, and, judging from their general condition, had been dredged off the bottom of the ocean from a sunken galleon.
Before returning home, we stopped at Payless to see if there were any better shoes there than at Wal-Mart. There were not.
When we got home, Larry had come home from work. He was in the garage working on the go-cart, and one of the neighborhood children, Tatum, who is about seven, was there, too. Go-carts are great neighborkid friend-makers, did you know that?
After all that shopping, the littles were starved, so I got out the boxes of granola bars that I hide in my closet nowadays (and don’t you dare tell) in order to keep the urchins from eating them all up in one day.
I asked Tatum, “Which would you like, an almond and honey, or a S’mores?”
He chose S’mores, of course.
“I knew it,” I told him, “You looked like a S’mores kid to me!”
He laughed. “Thanks!” he said.
S’mores granola bars are great neighborkid friend-makers, did you know that?
After prying Larry forcefully away from the go-cart, we all drove to Lakes North and Babcock looking for the bald eagles we have been told are there--approximately 40 of them--but we didn’t see a one. We saw lots of herring gulls, however. Joseph found some old crackers in the Suburban, and we walked to the shores of Lake North and threw pieces into the water, after which dozens of seagulls immediately began swooping down to the water near us and screeching for more. Larry took pictures with my camera, and I took videos. The videos are good, although they are a bit bouncy, because the wind was blowing so hard I couldn’t hold still. Furthermore, the temperature dropped drastically while we were out there, and my sweater-jacket was no match for it, and neither was my fleece headband. I didn’t have any gloves at all, and my hands first hurt from the cold, and then grew numb...and I knew it wouldn’t feel a bit good when they thawed out, and I was right.
We watched a red-tailed hawk soaring along the water’s edge, probably hoping for Barbecued Duck Kabobs with Mint Stuffing. Nearby, there was a herd of young calves frolicking about, butting heads, tugging at tumbleweeds, and scampering in general high spirits and spring fever. They’re so funny to watch.
Home again, we ate tuna pasta casserole, and then Larry cut Caleb’s hair while I curled Hester's, Lydia's, and Victoria’s hair. By the time Caleb’s haircut was winding to a conclusion, he was so sleepy he was about to tumble off the high stool on which he was perched.
Along about 2:00 a.m., I discovered the house reeking of gas. I roused Larry from a dead slumber with difficulty and voiced my complaint. He groggily made his way to the garage, where he found the new filter he’d just installed on the go-cart leaking. He clamped the hose shut, but by then my throat was sore and my eyes were burning. We opened several windows, the better to air out the house. A frigid gale whipped the curtains and the blinds wildly, and we were soon chilled to the bone. But the gas smell, which had evidently come into the house via the pet door, stubbornly persisted, so the windows stayed open. I turned up the thermostat.
Aarrgghh! I wonder how many other people have those sorts of things happen on Saturday nights?!
We recently borrowed a video from the library about training Golden Retrievers.
The children enjoyed it...but everyone proceeded to go around saying that I was going to get us a Golden Retriever, since I’d gotten a video about training them.
Sorry; we have three cats, and that’s enough.
When I was twelve years old, I got a puppy, Sparkle. She was part collie, part German shepherd, and part coydog (half coyote, half collie). Long after I’d trained her to do more things than I can now remember, I found a big fat book about training dogs in the library (er, that is to say, the book was found in the library; not that the dogs should be trained in the library), brought it home, read it, and was delighted to discover that I had trained my doggy just like the experts recommended.
She would have made an excellent retriever; I could, without saying a word, using only hand signals, send her off to get something for me...she’d trot to whatever I pointed at, sniff it, then turn to look at me to see if it was the right thing. If I nodded, she’d pick it up and bring it back. If I pointed one way or the other, she’d head for another object in the direction I had indicated. Sometimes I teased her, pointing out something entirely too big, too bulky, or too heavy for her to pick up.
She’d give it a try, then sit down and bark at me.
When I laughed, she’d come running back, wagging happily at our fun. That was quite a dog, it sho’ ’nuff was. For years, she went with me nearly everywhere I went, first heeling along neatly beside my left knee as I rode my bike; next, sitting at dignified attention in the middle of the back seat of my little red Renault Le Car.
This afternoon, after filling ourselves plumb full of Larry’s scrumptious French toast, we once again drove to the Lakes to see if the bald eagles could be seen.
They couldn’t, but the snow geese were back by the thousands, and there were all kinds of ducks, too. Both lakes are blocked so that cars cannot travel the narrow lanes around them, I suppose so that the water fowl are not unnecessarily disturbed. After all, they are in the essential pursuit of filling themselves plumb full of Nebraska’s scrumptious gizzard shad fingerlings, crayfish, and alewife before continuing their northward migration to their breeding grounds on the high Arctic tundra.
Tonight I am staying with Mama during the evening church service. I just finished typing a couple of letters for her, which I will send to some people who live about 90 miles north of us, who have the same last name as my mother’s maiden name: Winings. Mama wants to know if they are related to the cousins and second cousins who, many years ago, moved from North Dakota, where my mother’s family lived, to South Dakota. There are not many Winings in this world, I don’t imagine, who are not related in one way or another.
And now the door is opening, and here are Dorcas and Victoria, Dorcas to stay the night, and Victoria to visit with Grandma until I pack up word processor and bag of books--and I mustn’t forget my coffee--and go home. The wind is blowing hard, and it is snowing. Some places around here are expected to have eight inches by morning. I don’t suppose we will be so lucky, however...
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