I am sorry to tell you that Joseph has decided he doesn’t care for our rules and way of life, and, last Monday night, he left home. We haven’t seen or heard from him since, although last night while I was staying with my mother and the rest of the family was at church, he came to retrieve a few of his belongings. He is probably staying with his girlfriend; but we don’t know, really. He’d been sneaking off in the middle of the night to see her, and, needless to say, we don’t approve of such behavior, and neither do her parents. I guess he figures if he leaves home, he will have no regulations, and be free to do as he pleases. He isn’t working for Gehrings anymore; I suppose he thinks money grows on trees, too. There’s something about rebellion that makes people seem mighty stupid, have you ever noticed?
Well, of course we are sad about it; you know we love our children dearly. But if he is living here, his disregard for our standards is detrimental to his siblings, and we cannot allow that. Anyway, we have no idea what the end will be; he’s in God’s hands now. I know I haven't mentioned it before, but there have been troubles with Joseph for several months now. It has been difficult for us, and it makes us sad.
Last week the children brought home their report cards. Hester got straight A’s on her report card, and was terribly pleased. Surprised, too; her science class was difficult that quarter. Victoria’s is absolutely perfect, highest marks all the way through. Caleb got one B+, the rest A’s; and Lydia got all A’s.
Monday night Larry went out to The Lot, where he cut the trees down where we will put The House. We are cutting down as few as possible; I like the little woods that will be around it. There will be a sloping expanse of lawn, too. I will be able to landscape to my heart’s content! Or to my wallet’s extent. Whichever comes first. {Well, I know which will come first.}
Tuesday I finished Aaron’s suit jacket and was nearly done with Caleb’s. The hem--especially in the front where the facing ends and the hem begins--likes to be troublesome, refusing to curve nicely and trying to go off into the hemline at an angle rather than straight along the grain as it should be. Recalcitrant ol’ thing, that!
Caleb, looking in my button boxes, found a small plastic man that goes on a little three-wheeler of his. “Oh! I found my little man!” he exclaimed happily--and then he dropped it, and it vanished from the face of the earth.
“That’s the same place I dropped a suede glove, and it’s never shown up again,” I told him. “Another time, I dropped the tiny screwdriver for tightening up my sewing machine needles, and that was the end of it.” I raised my eyebrows. “It’s the Bermuda Triangle!”
“What’s that?” asked Caleb.
“A place where everything gets lost--ships, planes…”
He went on looking.
Directly, he pulled forth one of Larry’s bedroom slippers, a tan leather moccasin.
“Hey!” he said, “Lewis and Clark must have been coming through here and lost their moccasins!” said he.
At that, the plastic man suddenly resurfaced, tumbling headlong out of the moccasin. Perhaps that Never-Never Land under my sewing desk isn’t an offshoot of the Bermuda Triangle, after all.
“Oh!” yelped Caleb, snatching up the wee toy, “Lewis! Don’t you know those moccasins are too small for you?!”
Thank heavens for dear little boys who can make us smile in spite of our sorrows.
That evening, I baked a couple loaves of bread, one honey wheat and one white. It took longer to rise than usual because the kitchen was cold, so the girls stayed up later than normal, because they wanted a slice of bread fresh from the oven..
Wednesday morning, Caleb was still sick. The doctor (not our regular Dr. Luckey) had told us to wait till he was done with the Prednizone before starting him on the antibiotic (Cefzil, a special kind because he’s allergic to Amoxicillin). But he was feeling nauseous (Caleb; not the doctor), and his chest hurt quite badly. When he tried doing homework, his head pounded; and just coming up the stairs was a struggle for him.
“You’d better take that antibiotic,” I told him; “I think you have infection or inflammation in your lungs or airways.”
That afternoon, I called Dr. Luckey. When I related to him all of Caleb’s symptoms, and told him we’d only just begun giving him the antibiotic, he sounded concerned and said it would have been better if he’d started the medication a week earlier.
“You are describing pneumonia,” he said, “and probably pleurisy, too. Give him Ibuprofen also; that will lessen the inflammation and help with the pain.”
That’s just what I thought; I should have followed my own inclination, rather than that other doctor. Oh, why can’t all doctors be like Dr. Luckey?!
By the end of the day, Caleb had taken three doses of Cefzil. That evening, he felt so much better that he caught up his entire lot of math assignments, and the very next day he was able to return to school. Two whole weeks he’d missed!
I gave him a spelling test and looked over six pages of times tables, and he got 100% on every bit of it; not a mistake to be found. When he can breathe okay, he gets top grades; but when that awful asthma flares up, he simply can’t think as well, and is liable to make mistakes on simple things that he usually gets perfectly right.
That night, I finished Caleb’s suit. Whew! I think I am not a career suit sewer (pronounced SO-er, not SOO-er, if you please). I pressed the suit, hung it up, and gladly started sewing Caleb’s and Aaron’s shirts. Shirts are child’s play.
Once upon a time a long, long time ago, after completing a particularly difficult suit, I announced that I was not going to sew any more suits, ever.
I wonder how many I’ve done since then? Two dozen? Three dozen? The thing is, as each of the girls got older, they liked suits, rather than frilly, ruffly dresses…so I made suits for them, too. Good grief, I’ve made five suits just for Thanksgiving this year. Aaarrrggghhh!!!
Victoria, upon arising Thursday morning, remarked, “Isn’t it funny how, when you get up in the morning, you’re turned around backwards and upside down, and you didn’t even do it?”
And the fact was, her feet had been on her pillow when I went into her room.
Hannah and Aaron came that afternoon so Hannah could cut out her Thanksgiving dress on our big table. I sewed Caleb’s shirt, and Aaron trotted back and forth between Hannah, me, and the firetruck video, telling us all sorts of things in Baby English, which is something similar to pidgin Algonquian.
After the kids came home from school, Caleb, who’d stayed an hour later in order to finish some makeup work, went into the back bedroom.
I, wanting to ask him something, called, “Caaaleb!”
Silence, while we all waited for an answer. Aaron, standing in the hallway, stood still and looked from me to the door behind which, he knew, was Caleb.
I called again, “Caaaaaaaleb!!”
We were quiet, listening for an answer…
And then Aaron, evidently figuring that some sort of an answer was required, drew in a big breath and answered me at the top of his voice: “WHAT?!?!?!!”
Caleb’s door popped open and his head poked out. “What?” he said innocently.
“Hi,” said Aaron very softly.
Last week I baked a pumpkin Dorcas gave us for Halloween. When it was done, I put it on top of the stove to cool before running it through my blender…and then Larry came home and announced we were going to The House to collect stuff and things, jetsam and flotsam. As we went out the door, I gave Hester hurried instructions to put the pumpkin into plastic bags and stash it in the refrigerator; I would have to take it from the shell and puree it the next day.
The following afternoon, I was wandering through the kitchen, wondering what to eat, when I saw it: the pumpkin was still in the roaster atop the stove; Hester had forgotten about it. Aaaauugghh! So much for the pumpkin. Into the garbage it went. A pumpkin is a whole lot cheaper than a trip to the hospital, if I should happen to give everyone food poisoning. Bleah. Bleah and rats!
Just look at this list of food-borne diseases, bacteria, viruses, or parasites: Salmonella typhi, Salmonella choleraesuis, Salmonella enteriditis (causes salmonella gastroenteritis), Staphylococcus, Escherichia coli 0157:H7, Clostridium botulinum, Listeria monocytogenes, Campylobacter jejuni, Hepatitis A, and Trichinella spiralis. Makes you sick just reading the names, eh? These cause all sorts of illnesses, and sometimes even death.
Luckily, I had two quarts of pumpkin in the freezer from the last pumpkin I baked. Two quarts makes six pies. Soooo…I made six pies, lumping them together into three big rectangular pans. They weren’t thick enough to suit me; I wish I would’ve had two more quarts of pumpkin puree.
Dorcas made us vegetable soup with roast beef for supper. Mmmmm, yummy.
Friday I sewed Aaron’s shirt.
Lydia and Caleb had their Thanksgiving feast at noon that day. They brought home an empty pan--everyone must have liked the pumpkin pie. Hester, Victoria, and I had a piece for lunch, and it was scrumptious, if I do say so myself. We gave some to Bobby and Hannah for supper, and gobbled down the rest, ourselves.
Larry put his equalizer hitch on the Suburban, hitched up his trailer, and tried it out. He needs to notch out the top of the frame of the tongue of the trailer, so he can put his equalizer cams on the tongue; then Suburban and trailer will be level. Otherwise, it pulls it nicely. I used to help Daddy adjust those things on our International and Airstream trailer, so for once I know what Larry is talking about when he ‘explains’ it to me.
Saturday morning I sewed myself a pair of navy fleece mittens, putting a blanket stitch of thick white yarn at the wrists. They’re really warm…but I could use a little practice at making mittens, I’d say. I made one side of the thumb too short, so I had to cut the other side to match, and now it’s a bit too short. Lucky thing I haven’t very big hands. Anyway…they fit pretty well, and look nice enough…sooo…they were almost a success.
☻ ☺ ☻ ☺ ☻ ☺ ☻ ☺ ☻ ☺ ☻ ☺
Deciding I wanted a piece of pumpkin pie for breakfast, but not having any whipped cream, which is an absolute necessity with pumpkin chiffon pie, if you ask me,--and you did ask me, did you not?--I gathered up keys, purse, new mittens, and sweater, and headed out the front door ----
No Suburban.
Oh, yes, I forgot; Larry was trying it out with his trailer; it must be out back. Oooo…I hope it’s not still hitched up.
I went out the back door.
Nope; it wasn’t still hitched up. It wasn’t even there!
I called Larry, who said he’d be home in ten minutes, which is the same as thirty, to him. Or sixty. Or more.
In the meanwhile, I ate a sourdough muffin with oodles and gobs (or, as Keith used to say when he was about three, ‘oodles and goblins’) of peanut butter and honey on it. Then, since I was full, I decided it was just as well that we didn’t eat the pie, after all, because we needed it for dinner the next day.
Larry came home, remarkably enough, in about half an hour, and we went out to The Lot to cut a few more trees. He and Charles had everything all staked out and precisely marked with bright orange paint and stakes. The excavating company, owned by some friends of ours, will dig the hole for the basement Tuesday. Footings will be poured Friday, and the walls Saturday. Sometime this week the septic tank and the well will be put in, and a culvert will be moved so water will flow down the lot line, rather than right smack-dab through the middle of the lot. If we wanted, we could have a stream right through our house! I could put the goldfish into it before, as opposed to after, they depart this world.
The House will possibly begin heading this way one day this week; but it will not be put onto the basement walls for at least a week, because the cement must have time to cure.
I took videos and pictures, and then helped haul brush into a big pile and logs into a big stack. Jim Cumming, the man who sold us the lot, was putting in or taking out a fence, or maybe a pump, or perhaps he was digging a heffalump hole, at the south lot line. We have known him for many years; a daughter of his was in my class at school.
A couple of days earlier, he had with his loader scooped up the brush Larry had heaped together Monday and burned it for us…and here we were, piling up another bramble of branches! He came driving through The Lot in his little red pickup, teasing Larry about making another mess with all the trees he was cutting down. He talked to the children, calling himself ‘Grandpa Jim’ … I think he is looking forward to us living out there. I told the kids we would have to share muffins with him and his wife whenever we make them. We are always thankful for good neighbors!
Now enough trees are cut down that there won’t be any in the way of the excavating crew when they’re digging--and Larry says that their big backhoe (or whatever it is they will be using) (maybe it’s a dragline…maybe it’s a power shovel…maybe it’s a front-end loader…maybe it’s a bulldozer…maybe it’s a snowblower…maybe it’s a leaf blower…maybe it’s a cottonpicker…maybe it’s a can opener) will dig those stumps out of the ground like it’s pulling plums out of Christmas pies.
The sun went down, and through the trees we could see that it was a splendid sunset of crimson and vermilion with indigo and dark purple streaks--but the thick trees hid it from view.
“Hey! We won’t be able to see either sunsets, or sunrises!” I exclaimed in dismay, turning to gaze at the woods to the east.
“Yes, you will,” said Larry, “from the second floor of the house, you will.”
“I will?” I queried, somewhat unbelievingly. “Well, how high up will we be?”
He pointed out a tall tree. “The house will be that tall,” he said.
“Will not,” I refuted.
“We’ll see,” said Larry calmly.
People who are calm during fervent debates are infuriating.
Soon Larry was done with the trees he’d intended to cut that evening. He will cut more later, where the driveway will be. By that time, everyone was well coated with sap--all over coat fronts and mittens. I even had a big glob in my hair, from Caleb getting a bit too close with a branch he was industriously dragging along. I was videotaping him, and didn’t realize I was about to get clobbered, smack GLOOP!
A friendly neighbor’s dog came to see us, and I gave the kids lectures about not making him too wild, not causing him to jump up--Lydia was letting him rest his front paws against her chest while she petted him--because he’ll wind up knocking Victoria down. He’s very friendly and nice, but, wheeewwweeeee, does he ever stink.
Sure enough, he was soon bouncing next to Victoria, and nearly laid her flat.
“Settle down!” I told him, and he did settle down, looking a mite downcast that I would speak to him thus. Tail and ears both drooped, and even his jowls descended sadly.
Victoria, of course, immediately had great sympathy on the mutt. “Well, poor dog,” she crooned, and began petting him with both hands, whereupon he promptly regained his ardor and chewed happily--albeit gently--on Victoria’s mittened hands.
“Stop that!” I said loudly, and popped him lightly on the rump.
He stopped instantly and reinstated his sorrowful demeanor.
Even I felt sorry for him, that time. “Well, poor dog,” I imitated Victoria, quite without meaning to.
I petted the dog, scratching his neck and behind his ears, where he particularly likes it. He behaved perfectly after that. The chain saw either scares him or makes his ears hurt with its high-pitched clamor, and he takes himself off home when it starts up. Nice to know that, when I want Fido to head back to his own quarters, all I have to do is fire up the chainsaw, yes?
Larry finished taking a few small branches off the last of the logs. We stacked them, and then we headed for Madison. Larry has found a motor for his pickup--it’s a diesel, and it’s from a big van that belonged to an electric company. Somebody parked it too close to the railroad tracks, and a train clipped it. The motor was undamaged. The man who owns Madison Body Shop will sell it to Larry for $1,000, a very good deal. Most motors like that are selling for two or three thousand dollars.
When Larry was there yesterday or the day before looking (and listening to) the motor, he spotted a little charcoal metallic Mazda 626 sitting nearby. “What’s wrong with that car?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said the man. “It had a leak in the radiator, but I fixed it. I’m selling it for $700.”
So Larry told him he wanted it. Larry will drive it to work until he gets the motor into his pickup, sometime after we move into The House and Walkers slow down with their construction. After that, I will drive it, taking kids to and from school (except when it’s icy out, or there is deep snow, in which case I will put the Suburban into four-wheel-drive and drive it). The Mazda will get better gas mileage than the Suburban, and should be a nice little car.
Well…Larry paid the man, and we went off to start the Mazda and drive it home. All the kids but Hester wanted to ride with him, of course. We had to use jumper cables to get it started; the battery was run down.
But there was nothing wrong with it, remember.
After it started, it sounded dreadful, sort of like the pickup shortly before it expired entirely.
“What’s wrong with it?!?!” I demanded.
“Don’t know; maybe the tappets or something,” said Larry just as the racket quit. “Or maybe it’s just the injectors sticking a bit from not running for a while.” He grinned at me. “In any case, it’s already fixed itself; there’s nothing wrong with it.”
I rolled my eyes. He’s always saying that.
The next thing we discovered was that the fan for the heater didn’t work. That meant the kids would ride with me, for it was cold that night.
That was okay; nothing wrong with that.
We headed off for the town’s little grocery store, where we planned to buy some food for supper.
By the time we got there--and it wasn’t very far--the car was piping hot, and steam was shooting out from under the hood.
But there was nothing wrong with it.
There was hardly any water left in the radiator; it had all leaked out. Or blown out. Or steamed out. And letting the steam out of vehicles is akin to letting the smoke out of appliances.
As I told you last year about this time, appliances don’t work a bit well after you’ve let the smoke out--and neither do cars run well after you’ve let the steam out. Just as I think appliances really run on smoke, and the electrical cord is merely attached for a decoy so that the common folk don’t catch on, so do I think vehicles really run on steam, and the gas or fuel tank is a deception that keeps the Getty, Mammoth, and Standard Oil Companies in business. But I’ve let enough smoke out of appliances to know: they run on smoke. And Larry has let enough steam out of vehicles to know: they run on steam. Once the smoke or the steam is gone, they quit working.
Furthermore, there is no place that I know of where you can buy either appliance smoke or vehicle steam, nor yet pumps with which to put the stuff back into their receptacles. I tell you, it’s a moneymaking racket, it sho’ ’nuff is, because the BigWigs know that if you can’t get the smoke back into a gadget, or the steam back into a jalopy, you will have to buy a new one!
I repeat: I’ve got their number; they don’t have me hoodwinked, nosiree.
While I bought rye bread, white sliced turkey, smoked, sliced turkey ham, mozzarella cheese, apple/grape/pear/passionfruit juice, doritoes/sun chips/cheetoes/pretzels Munchies, Trail Mix, bananas, cottage cheese, and spoons with which to eat it, Larry bought a couple jugs of SomethingOrOther to fix the radiator. He went back outside and poured it in, then restarted the car, since there was nothing wrong with it.
Water blew out a couple of holes like water vapor expelled from a whale’s blow hole.
Eventually, the smaller hole was plugged by the Radiator Fixer Goop; but the larger hole bubbled and spewed and spouted, alternating between impersonations of either Castle or Steamboat Geysers.
We sat in the Suburban eating sandwiches, cottage cheese, bananas, and Munchies, and slurping our juice. Then Larry filled the Mazda’s radiator back up and we took the car back to Madison Body Shop and informed the man of the defective radiator.
Yep; there was something wrong with it.
Larry asked him if he would be able to fix it, and he said that he had a good radiator that would just fit in that car, and he would put it in Monday--that’s today. So we will return for it soon. Maybe this evening.
Finally we were all able to go to church Sunday; nobody was sick.
The whole family was coming for dinner, and I had absolutely nothing fixed except a pumpkin pie. They, knowing this, joined together and got some food. Keith and Esther bought four yummy little chickens--two Italian and two Original. Esther made mashed potatoes, and they brought a tray of dill pickles, too. Dorcas went with Hannah to the grocery store, and they bought biscuits, dressing, and all the ingredients for a green bean casserole. But I already had a green bean casserole in the oven by the time they got home. Afraid there wasn’t quite enough, I had added a couple of cans of Cream of Corn to it, curling Dorcas and Teddy’s toes. Even Larry allowed as how he likes it better without the corn. But it wasn’t bad; in fact, I thought it was fair to middlin’. I had enough fruit to make a fruit salad, and we had pumpkin pie for dessert.
I stayed with Mama tonight. She laughed over my story of Aaron answering “What!”, and again when I told her of the time Keith and Esther, Bobby and Hannah, and several of the younger children went sledding together out at Lake North. Esther cautiously seated herself on a toboggan, and then, without the slightest warning, somebody gave her a big push--and down the hillside she went, screaming all the way. Bobby and Keith immediately plunked down on another big toboggan, shoved off, and went flying down the hill--screaming all the way, in the silliest high-pitched falsetto screams anyone ever did hear.
“You guys!” admonished Esther, trying to get them to stop. “You guys!”
Yes, Esther is fun to tease.
We had chocolate chip ice cream with sliced bananas on it for lunch last night after church. Mmmm…the combination improves the ice cream and the banana, both.
Well, my letter has been delayed for an hour while I cleaned out the fish tank, rocks and all. It is now sparkling clean, and the pH and ammonia levels are almost just right; I checked. The scavenger did not exactly appreciate his induction into a large pan full of slightly colder water than he’d just gotten out of. He wriggled vigorously and made a beeline for the top of the pan, breaking the surface of the water.
Stay in there, fish. It’s bad enough picking up a goldfish; having a scavenger in one’s hand is even worse. I know; I’ve tried it. And the hideous thing was a good six inches long, too. Eewwwwwwwwwww… shudders me timbers, just thinking about it.
Please pray for us; these troubles with Joseph have been hard for us. Everything just seems rather sad.
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