Monday evening, Victoria picked out her new blue and pink flowered skirt and a thick multi-pastel-colored cardigan with all sorts of little crocheted doodads on it to wear to school the next day. So, the next morning, I put a big tuck just above the bottom ruffle of the skirt, shortening it by almost two inches. (I overestimated the size of the child when I sewed it.) Next, I made the buttonholes smaller on her cardigan, so the buttons quit slipping out. She wore it to school with a thin, finely knit white sweater underneath, with two diagonal ruffles in the front. To top it all off, she had a new pair of socks from Hannah--white socks on which Hannah had crocheted a dusty blue scalloped edging. In her hand she carried a pink ruffled umbrella, because it was raining.
So extremely pleased was she with this getup that she walked backwards down the driveway grinning at me all the way to the front sidewalk, after which she skipped gaily along, turning half sideways to look at me where I stood at the door. When she got past our house, she twirled about and skipped backwards, waving and laughing as she went.
I, thinking she would wind up sitting right down ker-plop on the wet sidewalk if she didn’t watch where she was going, went away from the door. I peeked out the side window, and, sure enough, she had turned around and was going in Forward now--at an extraordinarily rapid gallop. I thought the umbrella would turn wrong side out most any moment.
“This rain is expected to turn into snow,” said the radio announcer shortly thereafter. “Minnesota already has ten inches already.”
Waaaah! We live in the wrong area! I like snow. I want snow.
Well, maybe not. If it snows too much, neither Larry nor Joseph can work.
Tuesday, I finished Victoria’s dress and started on her red coat with the navy velvet collar and cuffs.
That evening, we made a Small Shoe Excursion to Wal-Mart.
Well, er, that is, ‘small’ in terms of quantity.
We have not raised children with small feet…although Victoria’s don’t look very large yet. It was Lydia and Victoria who needed shoes this time. School shoes. And already, the dress shoes I got for Lydia last month are too tight. She needs size 9 now, imagine that! Her feet have outgrown Hester’s. And she’s such a little thing… But you know what? My children’s feet are about average, when compared to their peers and classmates. I guess kids nowadays simply have a better understanding (those things under them on which they stand) than kiddos yoosta did.
Our quest for a house has pretty much come down to whether or not we can find a lot we can afford where the neighbors will not object to a moved-in house. A man we have known for many years who lives west of Columbus has indicated he would be willing to sell a lot amongst and around a grove of trees on his property, where he sometimes has kept cattle. We would just have to be careful where we stepped, I suppose.
There was snow on the Suburban windshield Wednesday morning!--and snow continued to fall throughout the day. I think we got about six inches, all told; but it didn’t last, because the temperature was near 45° the next day.
One afternoon, Lydia asked me if we could bake a cute little clay pot she had made at school. Sooo…I set the oven on 350°, put the pot on a cookie sheet, and stuck it in for ten minutes. I trotted downstairs to do a load of clothes.
When I came back, the entire upstairs reeked of the most dreadful malodor one could ever imagine. Something was burning, and I figured it was only a matter of milliseconds before it stopped with the smoldering and got on with the roaring inferno.
I flung the armload of clothes onto my bed and rushed to the oven to retrieve the pottery--too late.
The stuff had melted into something on the order of dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane, I think, dissolved all over the cookie sheet, dripped down onto the bottom of the oven, and was nothing more than a bubbling, steaming, pink puddle of grog.
“Aaaauuuugggghhhh!!!” I howled, “What was that stuff?!?!?”
“Modeling clay,” replied Lydia, looking amazed and bereaved, both at the same time.
“AAAAcccckkkkkk!” I responded, “That doesn’t work!” I groaned. “Call the HWCC and the TSDC.”
“Huh?” said Lydia blankly.
“HWCC: Hazardous Waste Cleanup Committee,” I told her. “And TSDC: Toxic Substance Decontamination Corps.”
She started to grin, then asked, “Really?”
“No,” I retorted. “We are the cleanup crew.”
Take a look at this; I think it explains our Melted Clay Fiasco:
POTTERY
Pottery is clay that is chemically altered and permanently hardened by firing in a kiln. The nature and type of pottery, or ceramics (Greek keramos, "potter's clay"), is determined by the composition of the clay and the way it is prepared; the temperature at which it is fired; and the glazes used.
TYPES, PROCEDURES, AND TECHNIQUES
Earthenware is porous pottery, usually fired at the lowest kiln temperatures (1652°-2192° F). {That’s low?!?} {Um…do you suppose this temperature disparity had anything to do with our firing debacle? } Depending on the clay used, it turns a buff, red, brown, or black color when fired. To be made waterproof, it must be glazed.
Stoneware—water-resistant and much more durable—is fired at temperatures of 2191°-2336° F. The clay turns white, buff, gray, or red and is glazed.
Pottery fired at about 2192° F is sometimes called middle-fire ware; its earthenware or stoneware traits vary from clay to clay.
Porcelain is made from kaolin, a clay formed from decomposed granite. Kaolin is a white primary clay—that is, a clay found in the earth in the place where it was formed and not transported there by rivers; secondary clays, borne by rivers to the site of deposit, contain impurities that give them various colors. Porcelain is fired at 2336°-2552° F; it is white and often translucent. Porcelaneous ware was first made in China, hence its common name china.
Chinese porcelain is less vitrified (and therefore softer) than its modern European counterpart, which was developed in Germany in the early 18th century. European imitations of Chinese porcelain are also made; called soft-paste or frit porcelains, they are fired at about 2012° F. In the mid-18th century, English potters invented bone china, a somewhat harder ware that gained whiteness, translucency, and stability through the inclusion of calcium phosphate in the form of calcined (fired, chemically altered) oxbones. {My china has oxbones in it???!!! Bleah!}
Preparing and Shaping the Clay
The potter can remove some of the coarse foreign matter natural to secondary clays, but coarse matter can also be used in varying quantities to achieve particular effects. A certain amount of coarse grain in the clay helps the vessel retain its shape in firing, and potters using fine-grained clays often "temper" the clay by adding coarser materials such as sand, fine stones, ground shells, or grog (fired and pulverized clay) {I think we did this, by adding all the gone-to-carbon ashes from the bottom of the oven} before kneading the clay into a workable condition. The plasticity of clay allows pottery to be shaped in several traditional ways. The clay can be flattened and then shaped by being pressed against the inside or outside of a mold—a stone or basket, or a clay or plaster form. Liquid clay can be poured into plaster molds. {Guess we should have done that, once we liquefied the stuff.} A pot can be coil built: Clay is rolled between the palms of the hands and extended into long coils, a coil is formed into a ring, and the pot is built up by superimposing rings. Also, a ball of clay can be pinched into the desired shape. The most sophisticated pottery-making technique is wheel throwing. {Sophisticated! And here I thought ‘wheel-throwing’ was a result of temper, following a Pot-Melting Flop!}
The potter's wheel, invented in the 4th millennium BC, is a flat disk that revolves horizontally on a pivot. Both hands—one on the inside and the other on the outside of the clay—are free to shape the pot upward from a ball of clay that is thrown {oh} and centered on the rotating wheel head.
Drying and Firing
To fire without breaking, the clay must first be air dried {ours wasn’t}. If the clay is thoroughly dry, porous and relatively soft, the pottery can be baked directly in an open fire {well, we almost did that} {had an open fire, I mean} at temperatures of 1202°-1382° F {oops; temp a little low}; primitive pottery is still made in this way. The first kilns were used in the 6th millennium BC. Wood fuels—and, later, coal, gas, and electricity—have always required careful control to produce the desired effect in hardening the clay into earthenware or stoneware {right, that we know}. Various effects are achieved by oxidizing the flames (giving them adequate ventilation, to produce a great flame) or by reducing the oxygen through partially obstructing the entrance of air into the kiln. For example, a clay high in iron will typically burn red {what brings about neon fuschia?} in an oxidizing fire, whereas in a reducing fire it will turn gray or black; chemically, in reduction firing the clay's red iron oxide (FeO2, or with two molecules, Fe2O4) is converted to black iron oxide (Fe 2O3) as the pot gives up an atom of oxygen to the oxygen-starved fire.[1] {huh?}
I completed Victoria’s coat Thursday night, so she got to wear it to school Friday, and she even presented it as her Show-and-Tell Exhibition, she was so pleased with it. I attached a navy velvet bow to a red fleece hat I’d made for Lydia about three years ago, and, surprisingly enough, the red fleece matched the red chino (if that’s what it is) quite well.
I now have 14 ¾ things done of all those 44 I cut out. The ‘¾’ is a western shirt for Aaron, blue and brown plaid with bright blue piping.
At 5:00 Friday evening, I stopped with the sewing and got on with the Changing of Clothes to Proper Rooms, something I’ve needed to do ever since Teddy departed. I brought up all the things he left behind and put them on the bottom rod in Joseph’s closet, which had previously housed Victoria’s school clothes. Victoria’s things went downstairs to the bottom rod in her closet, which had been full of Caleb’s clothes. Caleb’s clothes then went off to Teddy’s now-empty closet. Next, I sorted through all of the drawers and put things in the proper rooms--Oh! I just remembered!--there are three big bins under Joseph’s bed with Victoria’s things in them! So I’m not quite done after all. Whew! That was a big job, carrying all those things up and down the stairs. A big pile of clothes weighs a ton, i.e. Noah Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary, did you know that?
|
{ton' - (tun) n. [ME toun, a measure of weight < OE tunne, large cask.] 1. a. A unit of weight equal to 1.016 metric ton, 2,240 pounds, or 1016.06 kilograms. b. A unit of weight equal to .907 metric ton, 2,000 pounds, or 907.20 kilograms. c. A metric ton. 2. A unit of capacity for cargo in maritime shipping, usu. estimated at 40 cubic feet. 3. A very large amount (a ton of Jackson clothes).}
While I folded sweaters and tucked them into drawers, Larry fixed Caleb’s bed. The box springs’ frame was all broken to bits.
“What on earth happened to this bed???!!!???” demanded Larry.
“Oh, well, er, um,” explained Caleb articulately, “I think, well, you see, um, it probably, well, that is, Hester and Lydia, er, um, I mean, we were all, well, er, ah--” he gulped audibly, “bouncing.” He swallowed again. “But we haven’t been doing that for a long, long time,” he finished anxiously. (Probably true, since I heard them at it once and threatened them with their lives if they ever did it again.)
His father glared at him for a moment or two before calling the elder sisters to the site and then launching into a lengthy vituperation regarding a) the error of purposely ruining things, b) the cost of furniture in particular and life’s necessities in general, and c) the size of fathers’ paychecks versus amount needed for furniture in particular and life’s necessities in general.
When he was convinced his offspring looked properly penitent, he dispatched them to their various chores and continued with the repairs, only just barely getting it accomplished before he fell fast asleep on the bed. Men who work in heavy construction do not often manage to accomplish construction at their own houses.
Mama was sick Friday morning, and didn’t get out of bed until noon, which is extremely rare for her. We are always afraid she has had another stroke; but I think perhaps it was just a bout with the flu that has been making the rounds hereabouts. By evening, she was feeling better, and by Saturday, she was back to rights again. Hester stayed with her part of the day, because Dorcas had a piano rehearsal. Hester fixed grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for lunch, a menu Mama especially likes. And she polished off her entire bowl of soup, to Hester’s immense satisfaction.
Dorcas said Mama ate supper well, too.
Saturday, I discovered there were more things to play Musical Rooms with than I had thought. A large chest in the corner of Victoria’s room yielded up several more tons (interpretation: more than two or three armloads) of sweaters belonging to Joseph. I took them up to his room--and discovered several (more than one) drawers full of Victoria’s doll clothes. So the doll clothes traveled down to the recently vacated chest.
I straightened up and looked around--and realized that there were all sorts of knick-knacks, miscellany, and hodgepodge of Caleb’s still roosting and reclining on dressers and bookcases and shelves. So I gathered it all up and carted it down the hall to Caleb’s room, where Caleb and I conducted an Intensive Campaign of Vacuuming, Dusting, and Arranging.
About that time, Teddy came, and we promptly loaded him down with jeans, shirts, socks, handkerchiefs, pens, etc. He’d come to get his S-10 pickup, which he took to Tom’s shop in order to paint the box. He plans to sell it.
He was also looking for his violin; the one he took home wasn’t his. “I opened the case, and there was a violin all covered with rosin, which is stuck fast to the finish,” he told me, “and for a minute I thought it was mine, and somebody had used it and made a big mess of it. The bow was tightened so much that it really was bowed, and the strings are starting to pop loose.” He made a face. “I thought about bringing it back and banging somebody over the head with it…” and he rested a large hand on Victoria’s head, which made her giggle.
“But I didn’t do it!” she protested, grinning up at her big brother.
(The cats aren’t the only ones who miss him around here.)
Teddy opened a violin case…and discovered a large violin in a case almost too small for it. That probably means that Dorcas has taken Teddy’s violin by mistake, and it’s over at Mama’s house. Teddy looked for his best, warmest coat…couldn’t find it…(he can rarely find anything, because he has a habit of merely skimming the surface; anybody knows, to find things in this house, one must dig)…I went into the garage, started picking up coats that somebody had put in what they thought was an orderly pile (it wasn’t) and handing them to kids to throw down the clothes chute--and there was Teddy’s coat. Hester raced out the back door with it, and managed to get it to him before he drove away.
I am now washing piles and piles of coats. {‘piles and piles’ = ‘tons’} (see previous definition) Actually, I’m almost done…there is only one more load of coats to do, and that’s all. I think I did at least six washes, three or four coats to the load.
When Larry came home Saturday afternoon, we went to Wal-Mart and got three gallons of paint, one for Hester and Lydia’s room, one for Victoria’s room, and one for Caleb’s. For Hester and Lydia, ‘Violet Devotion’; for Caleb, ‘Butterfly Blue’, and Victoria will have ‘Pink Ribbon’. Larry wanted me to get all white…but I like colors. So do the kids. Fortunately, paint was on sale because they were getting rid of a brand they will no longer be selling, and it was only $4.00 a gallon--regularly $12.
After leaving Wal-Mart, we drove out to the place where we hope to buy a lot, and showed the owner and his wife pictures of the house we’d like to buy. He let us see the survey map of his land, and then climbed into the back of the Suburban to ride with us down his lane and tell us where certain lots were. The one we like is south of his log home on a hill covered with cedar trees, Douglas fir, sugar maple, red maple, white birch, and elm. It smells so good out there… And the juncos are back!--I saw one below the lady’s feeder, scritch-scratching about in the dirt.
I went to school with the man’s daughter; she was a good friend. The man used to be a good customer of Larry’s when he had his shop, too. He told Larry that he might let him move that house onto his land…if Larry would rack up a few brownie points; he’d been needing a chore boy around! He’d like having Larry nearby to be an on-site mechanic, maybe help a bit with his chores… and the kids could help feed the livestock, horses, etc. Now wouldn’t they like that!!! Uh, what do you think we're getting into?
We headed for home, wanting that lot more than ever.
Then, while listening to the football game--(we won) (!)--I managed to get all the jeans patched, and a few other things mended. I went through all my clothes in our jam-packed closet, filling seven or eight big bags with clothes for the Goodwill, and making a huge stack of clothes on my bed for Hester and Lydia. And there they still are. I don’t know where to put them; their closet is full. And our closet is still jam-packed! Good grief.
Hester and Lydia both were pleased to wear some of my clothes to church today… Imagine! My ‘little’ girls, wearing my clothes--clothes that still fit me!
There was a gentle rain most of the day. Victoria thinks it is great sport to trot off to church (or to school) under an umbrella. The rest of us are more concerned about dry-clean-only clothes and mustn’t-get-it-wet hairdos.
We went for a ride after dinner, driving first to a second-hand drop box (that is, the things in it are second-hand; the box itself is practically new), where we got rid of all the bags of clothing discards--and there were a lot of them. The entire back seat was stuffed full, and there was hardly any room for Caleb to sit. He rolled his window down and started tossing bags to Larry, who caught them with one hand and pitched them on into the open drop-box door--until Caleb hurled one too high, and Larry didn’t quite adjust for the lob, and wound up sending it straight up instead of through the door, after which it came directly back down onto his head. He pretended to nearly fall flat, staggering around like a drunken sailor for a bit, rolling his eyes and hanging his arms down limply at his sides. Caleb laughed so hard he couldn’t even pick up the next bag.
We drove through the north part of town where all the new houses are going up; Walkers have been putting in some of the basements. We looked at houses that have roof lines like the lines we are planning for the house we wish to get; there are quite a few of them. I think, with proper designing, we should be able to make that house look like a nice, new house. If we get it. Still hoping…
Back home, then, for our usual Sunday afternoon nap…but we didn’t get a very good one because 1) Socks got himself damp out in the rain and preferred to do his ablutions and evaporations on the foot of our bed; and, the door being shut, he was obliged to cry piteously on the other side until I roused myself and came to offer him admittance; and 2) Hester and Lydia, who were supposed to be napping in the room directly under ours, were conducting rodeo rehearsals and composing laugh tracks, instead. At least, that’s what it sounded like.
I stayed with Mama last evening. As she watched me putting pictures into Christmas cards, she mentioned that it was time to get cards written out, and put pictures into cards, and it occurred to me that she was talking about her cards, since she knows mine are all done now.
“Do you want to send out cards this year?” I asked. “And a picture, too?”
“Well,” she paused, and then smiled at me, “That would be nice,” so then I knew that what she really wanted to do was to put a copy of the picture of Teddy and Amy with her, the picture she especially liked, into everyone’s card. So I collected her signature stamp, and promised to do it for her.
Victoria, and usually Caleb, too, likes to pop in to Mama’s house after church is over. She is always pleased to see them. Victoria comes in smiling from ear to ear--with her headband, if she’s wearing one, invariably slipping down toward her eyes.
When I returned home, Larry wanted my assistance with the computer, scanning pictures of The House, and trying this idea and that idea on Situation Schemes. He put the basement or garage or both under it…then beside it…then on the other side. The Lot is on a hill, you see, and we plan to make the basement a ‘walk-out’ sort, with big windows. He finally gave up on PaintBox, so I printed a black and white picture of The House, and he prepared to finish it with pencil and ruler…but somehow that fell by the wayside, and he was suddenly and quite without warning in his recliner nodding over the sports page.
Oh! Did I tell you, Nebraska actually won the football game against Texas A&M yesterday?!?!
I am typing while Joseph finishes getting ready for work--and it sounds as if he is knocking things out of the freezer, one item at a time. What is he doing?!
* * *
There! I actually got him to work with a few minutes to spare. Amazing.
Time to help kiddos get ready for school!
P.S.: For those of you who asked: yes, the flowers for the wedding--all the boutonnieres, corsages, wrist bands, bouquets, everything--were put together by Amy’s sister, Suzanne. Suzanne also made and decorated the cake, remodeled Amy’s wedding gown (they bought it at a going-out-of-business boutique, I think), and did quite a bit of the rest of the sewing. She helped decorate the church basement…and she did a whole host of other little details that go unnoticed when they go right. Suzanne graduated with Dorcas.
WAOC (Weddings at our church) generally start at 7:00 p.m., when the piano and organ launch into whatever hymns the bridal couple has chosen (within reason, haha,‘The Fight Is On’ might get itself vetoed). When the second song starts, the ushers open the doors and in walks the preacher, either with or without the groom, depending on his state of nervousness and whether or not he’s gone on the lam to Guatemala.
No, wait; that hasn’t happened, I guess.
Actually, the preacher walks in, either with or without the groom, depending on the size of the wedding party, and whether the groomsmen are odd or normal.
No, I mean, whether there is an odd or an even number of groomsmen. If odd, then the preacher and the groom march in together.
No, wait; that hasn’t happened, I guess.
Actually, the preacher walks in, either with or without the groom, depending on the size of the wedding party, and whether the groomsmen are odd or normal.
No, I mean, whether there is an odd or an even number of groomsmen. If odd, then the preacher and the groom march in together.
I remember, once upon a time, when my father was the minister (he died in ’92; he had been our minister for 48 years), and a couple was getting ‘hitched up’ (as Daddy used to say)…it was Bobby’s aunt and her fiancé. We were at the rehearsal.
Well, the fiancé, Steve, was extremely nervous; in fact, he was shaking so hard he was having trouble staying on his pegs. Those of us sitting quietly in the church pews inside the sanctuary as the music began didn’t have any idea what turmoil the poor boy was experiencing out there in the vestibule, awaiting his cue to enter…
…when suddenly, without benefit of the ushers’ stately opening of the doors, they burst apart, and in came Daddy and Steve, galloping lickety-split pell-mell up the aisle. Daddy had a-hold of Steve’s arm, and was running full blast, and poor Steve was hard put to stay up. ‘Shell-shocked’ is the best way I know to describe the look on Steve’s face, and that doesn’t nearly cut it.
We of the rehearsal audience stared for a few seconds in mute amazement, and then everyone burst out laughing, and we laughed till we cried.
Daddy left Steve off at the front pew where he belonged, trotted on up the steps to the platform, then walked with a bit more decorum on over to the pulpit, where he gazed out at us, a slight smile on his face.
“Thought we’d better get it over quick before Steve got too shook up,” he explained with unruffled composure, and everyone roared again.
By then, Steve was laughing, too; and he did not again have a serious case of the jitters; he had calmed down till he was quite himself.
Oh, my father certainly had a way about him!
Back to the Order of Weddings at Our Church (OWOC): After the preacher and the groom get to their respective positions, the groomsmen follow, joining the groom at the first pew. Next, the candlelighters enter, each coming down an aisle with their flame-throwers (according to my brother). They ascend the front platform, light the candles in the candelabra, then go down to their place at the end of the front pew.
The pianist and organist change songs.
Enter the bridesmaids, generally one at a time, purportedly because bridesmaids are so much lovelier than groomsmen, and the congregation needs more time to study each one than they need to study the groomsmen, who all look alike with their black suits and skint rabbit hairdos and scairt rabbit facedos.
Next come the ringbearer and the flowergirl, looking too cute for words… and … the anticipation builds… Finally, in comes the bride on the arm of her father, who is wondering how soon he can safely readjust the new little noose around his neck without every camera in the place recording the event.
We sing a couple of hymns… Our special singers sing a well-rehearsed song… and then the minister preaches. And if you are a proponent of Women’s Lib, then I suggest you avoid weddings at our church, because you certainly won’t hear those views endorsed here. We believe that a husband’s duty is to love and cherish his wife just as he loves himself, and that if he really loves her, he would willingly give his life for her. A wife is a ‘helpmeet’, as Eve was to Adam, and as Sarah Was to Abraham, and she is to love and obey her husband, which isn’t difficult at all if they both love the Lord and follow His Word.
When the sermon is over, another group sings for us, and after that is the ceremony. Following the ceremony is the final song and the exodus…excuse me; the recessional. (That first walking-in--or galloping-in, as the case may be--is called the processional.)
The wedding party walks out while the congregation is singing, and they stand in our vestibule between the school library and the staircase, where, after the song, everyone files through, shaking hands and signing the guest book.
We seat ourselves at a table somewhere…and when the last people get down the stairs, the minister prays, and we all dive into sandwiches (turkey salad, most likely), potato chips (bleah), fruit punch (with nothing tangier ever added to it than ginger ale), wedding cake, and ice cream. But the best entrée of all is the cream cheese mints. Ahhhhh… I could eat a whole bushel basket full of them.
Then, as soon as it is feasibly polite, I am up taking pictures…and in the last couple of years, I have run into a snag: how do I take videos and 35mm shots both at the same time??!!!???
Downstairs, there is a large table set aside for the gifts. And I am here to tell you that you have not seen gifts until you have seen that gift table. Truly, we have some of the most generous friends in the world. Now, the next procedure in our agendum is not considered Hoyl--but what does Edmund Hoyl know about it, anyway?! After all!--his book, A Short Treatise on the Game of Whist, published in 1742, didn’t have much to do with Marriage, nor yet Gift Tables at Reception Halls---unless you think Whist can be compared to Opening Gifts. In any case, this aforementioned procedure is that of the bride and groom, when they have finished eating, transmigrating to the gift table, whence they undertake the daunting task of ripping into all that loot.
The attending party revelers then fit out themselves with a hearty supply of potato chips (bleah), coffee, or tea (that’s better), turn their various accumulative chairs toward the scene of action, and prepare to observe the parade of presents.
I like to throw in something that gives the couple (and the resolute watchers) a small respite from the seemingly endless stream of china, appliances, and towels: this time, it was a card featuring a couple of cats on the front, resplendent in their appropriate wedding attire. The title read, When Cats Get Married, and the ‘bride’ was adoringly telling the ‘groom’, “I promise to bring you mice and small dead birds,” whilst the ‘groom’ was replying, “My ball of yarn shall be your ball of yarn.” Inside the card it said, “May you find purrfect wedded bliss.” I put three one-dollar bills in it and signed it, “With love, Kitty, Tabby, and Socks Jackson.”
While some people may not consider this scenario at all polite (they will be the same austere individuals who do not believe children belong at weddings) (all the children and babies of our congregation are welcome at all our weddings), the fact is, we enjoy this custom. We enjoy being with and talking to our friends; we enjoy watching the couple open their gifts, and especially seeing their reaction to the particular gift we have given them; and we like to take pictures of the wedding couple and our friends. My favorite thing to do is to take photos of the children. If I get a good picture, I give it to their parents for Christmas.
After the last gift is unwrapped, the groom gives a little thank-you speech. When my nephew Robert got married, he told his wife-to-be, Margaret, what he was going to say: “And now, my wife has something she would like to say.”
Margaret, who is quite a shy person, especially back then, remained slightly uneasy over whether or not he really would do that, right up until the time when he didn’t do it.
When Larry and I were married, my feet were clad in narrow-strapped sandals with a four-inch heel--not something one prefers to wear for hours on end. Well, as we were standing behind that table opening gifts, I stepped out of the sandals--ahhhhhhh--and left them beside my feet, under my bell-shaped gown, where I thought they would remain safe until we were ready to go to my father’s office and sign the marriage certificate.
We finished with the gifts. We stepped out from behind the table. We started walking across the dining hall area…and that’s when I noticed that the cement floor felt mighty cold.
Aaaauuuggghhh! I was barefoot!
I skedaddled back to the table, where my nephews Kelvin and David had been helping us with the wrapping paper. That is, they had been kicking the discarded, crumpled pieces under the table. My sandals were nowhere to be seen; they had evidently gone the route of the discarded, crumpled wrapping paper.
Kelvin and David immediately set themselves to a hearty Search and Rescue.
“Don’t let anybody notice,” I hissed at them under cover of the flowing white tablecloth.
“Here’s one,” said David triumphantly, lofting it high by one strap.
“David!” I snatched it and crammed my foot into it.
“Here’s the other,” said Kelvin quietly, grinning, holding it out to me.
David made a grab for it, but I whisked it away before he could reach it and stuck my other foot into it.
Then off we went again, heading for the office.
Back to Teddy and Amy’s wedding…
No, the Jackson relatives did not come. In fact, no out-of-town relatives came. Many of my relatives are elderly and cannot come; and the Jackson aunts all have animals to take care of, and, as Aunt Lynn said, “They all like to eat every day, just like you and me!”
I wrote back, “Look, you still have plenty of time to wean your animals from their food if you start right now. Oooooo, hurry, hurry, get on with it! Then, when you go home again, you can just start feeding them again, going at it slowly like they do with marooned sailors, so as not to make them nauseous. It'll work; I'm sure it will.”
But evidently she didn’t believe me, more’s the pity.
Yes, I keep a journal, and I write in it almost every night. If I don’t, I am soon calling on all the children to help me remember what in the world we did last Tuesday! And what was that funny thing Victoria said yesterday? Life in this household is interesting. But I do so wish I’d kept a journal when the older children were little! I didn’t really start in earnest until 1989, although I did write numerous letters before then. Wish I had them back!
My first journals consist of itty-bitty handwriting on calendar pages. After a couple of years of that, I advanced to a blank-page journal from which I ‘transferred’ my scribblings to a word processor. Then, in 1999, I started keeping it all on computer. Ah! Microsoft Word! How did I ever survive without it?
As for my weekly letters, I send them to just over a dozen people--almost the same dozen people I’ve written to for many years. Now and then an elderly aunt or uncle dies, but it seems there is always a cousin or two to take their place in my address book.And about the price of paper, envelopes, and stamps…well, I just file it under “fun” in my budget. Yep, I like to write.
We have numerous second-hand stores here in town: the Goodwill, the Salvation Army, Bargains Galore (there aren’t), and the Second Time Around Store. But when we really want to go shopping for bargains, we head for Norfolk…Grand Island…Fremont…Omaha…Lincoln…
The house search began because we rent this house we are living in, and I have always felt like rent money was money you might as well have tossed in the fireplace. We have paid rent for the last year, and we have been looking for a house during that time. We didn’t used to pay rent, because the house belongs to the church, and rent was exchanged for ‘services rendered’--when I used to play the piano, have Jr. Choir, teach Young People’s meetings, arrange the Christmas Program, etc. But we no longer have Young People’s meetings (that was a temporary arrangement when my father was ill and couldn’t conduct the midweek service), and my niece Susan has taken up all those other things.
But last year my nephew David (the one who was killed in April) bought our house from the church, and since then we have paid rent--and my generous, kind-hearted nephew (and now his wife) charge us such a small amount that I feel ashamed not giving them more. I can’t remember how big this house is…and Larry isn’t handy for me to ask. Maybe 1600 square feet, counting the three-car garage, and not counting the basement (which is fully finished)? The house we want to buy is 1800 square feet not counting the basement, which we plan to finish. We would add a 24’ garage, and a bedroom atop that. So we would wind up with quite a bit more space.
Up until Joseph was 1 ½, we lived at a house a block west of this house, and it was smaller than this one. My nephew Kelvin and his family live there now; their four children are my children’s good friends…they would really miss each other if we moved a distance away. Kelvin and Rachel have remodeled and added onto the house, and it looks like a brand-new ranch-style home.
Until Keith was 6 ½ months old, we lived in a nice trailer west of town. We loved our trailer house--especially its big main bathroom and gigantic tub. We’ve had nothing but little dinky tubs ever since. (Well, actually; they're quite normal-sized; but they felt dinky after that humongous thing out at the trailer.)
Yes, we do hope we can get this house we've been looking at, and put the addition on it like we want to; it would be nice to have more room. Even after the children grow up and move out, it would still be nice to have more room. We have such a small kitchen that, when we are all in there together, if someone miscues and tips over, we all go down like dominoes.As I type, Larry is sitting beside me, using one of the slide-outs on my desk, filling out a paper for the Credit Union. He went there this afternoon, as it was rainy out and Walkers quit work early. They told him that our Suburban would most likely make a fine and dandy down payment on a construction loan--one of those sorts of loans you don’t have to make a payment on until the house is done (within a reasonable amount of time, whatever that is).
We are hoping … and hoping … and hoping … With all our might and main, we are hoping. We want that house!
Oh! Somebody wanted to know who Lawrence is! Let’s see… j… k… l… lab…lac…lad… lae… laf… … … lat… lau… lav… law… HERE WE ARE! Lawrence was born in Tremadoc, Wales, and educated at the University of Oxford. In 1910 he joined a British Museum archaeological expedition to the ancient Hittite city of Carchemish (now Karkami§, Turkey), and he subsequently traveled in the Sinai, where he learned Arabic. He described his experiences in The Wilderness of Zin (1915).
At the outbreak of World War I in 1914, Lawrence joined the British Military Intelligence Service in Cairo. From there he was sent with a British relief column to the Arab prince Faisal (later King Faisal I of Iraq) in Al Ḩijâz (the Hejaz), now in Saudi Arabia. Lawrence then worked among the Arabs in revolt against Turkish rule and, having been accepted as their military adviser, unified their armed forces and led them against the Turks. In 1918 Lawrence and Faisal triumphantly entered Damascus before the arrival of the British army. Lawrence participated in the Paris Peace Conference in 1919, but was unsuccessful in his efforts to gain Arab independence. From 1921 to 1922 he was attached to the Middle East division of the British Colonial Office, but then resigned his post and enlisted in the Royal Air Force under the name of J. H. Ross in an attempt to escape the publicity he had been given. In 1923 he adopted the name T. E. Shaw and joined the tank corps. He rejoined the air force in 1925 and served as an enlisted man until 1935. Shortly after his discharge, he was killed in a motorcycle accident in Dorset. Among Lawrence's books are Seven Pillars of Wisdom (1926), an account of his adventures among the Arabs and considered a literary masterpiece, and a condensed version of the same book, Revolt in the Desert (1927).[2]
Huh? Wuzzat? That wasn’t the right answer?
Oh, all right.
I’ll try again.
Bragg, Sir (William) Lawrence (1890-1971), Australian-born British physicist and Nobel Prize winner. Bragg shared the 1915 Nobel Prize in physics with his father, British physicist Sir William Henry Bragg, for their work in establishing X-ray crystallography, the study of crystal structures with X rays.[3]
Eh? You’re not satisfied with that, either?
Well…once more, then.
O'Toole, Saint Lawrence (1128?-1180), Irish ecclesiastic, born in the present county of Kildare, Ireland. He was abbot of Glendalough at the age of 25 and second archbishop of Dublin at 30. He labored for the welfare of his people by strengthening his clergy and by mediating between the native princes and King Henry II of England after the Anglo-Norman conquest of Dublin in 1170. His feast day is November 14, which is also the day of his death. He was canonized in 1225.[4]
Oh, botheration, I can tell. You’re still disgruntled. Doesn’t anything please you?!?!?!
{Shall I tell him? Shall I tell him?} {Yes, do tell the poor bloke.} {Oh, all right.}
Here you are:
Lawrence, also known as Mr. Lawrence Fricke, used to be married to Mrs. Phyllis Fricke until her death from cancer in 1990 or thereabouts, and then, in 1991, married Mrs. Norma June Jackson Wright, also known as Larry’s mother and my mother-in-law, which makes said Lawrence Larry’s stepfather and my stepfather-in-law.
All joking aside, Lawrence has treated us wonderfully, with love and kindness, no differently than he treats his own daughter Barbara and her children. So we feel wonderfully blest.
I’ll write again soon. You know I will. Admit it now, don'tcha know??
[1]"Pottery," Micromud ® Earthenware ® Encycloclaydia 99. © 1993-1998 Micradobe Terra Cottoration. Argillaceous rights preserved.
[2]"Lawrence, T(homas) E(dward)," Microstupid ® Encarta® Encyclops 99. © 1993-1998 Microstupid Combobulation. All rights reserved.
[3]"Bragg, Sir (William) Lawrence," Microsilly® Encampment® Motorcycle 99. © 1993-1998 Microsilly Discoloration. All rights reserved.
[4]"O'Toole, Saint Lawrence," Microspin® Cartablanch ® Cyclopedia 99. © 1993-1998 Microspin Cornucopia. All rights reserved.
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