Last Sunday night (Monday morning), I stayed up until 3:00 a.m. looking up things about gambling for a report Hester was doing for her Bible Truths class. She was nearly done, but hadn’t been able to find what she wanted on that particular detail.
“Oh, I’ll look it up on my CD-ROMs of Arthur W. Pink and Charles H. Spurgeon,” I said carelessly, thinking it would take me five or ten minutes, tops. “I’ll print some information, and you can write what you want from it.”
“Okay,” responded Hester. “Thanks!”
Sooo…I searched through more than 100,000 pages. It was a jolly good thing I was using the computer, rather than the old word processor! – or I’d still be sitting here in the year 3003. These men believe as I do on the subject of gambling, although Charles Spurgeon thought there were not many sins that could equal gambling for its evilness, while I can think of several things that I consider worse, and more addicting, too. But he lived in better times than we do. Listen to this:
GAMBLING
Arthur Pink:
The Eighth Commandment: Exodus 20:15 Thou shalt not steal.
This Commandment teaches us to be honest in all our dealings with men. Stealing is more than just shoplifting. The Bible says, “Owe no man anything.” (Romans 13:8).
“Providing for honest things, not only in the sight of the Lord, but also in the sight of men.” (2 Corinthians 8:21).
Simply keeping what is not my own is theft. If I borrow something and fail to return it, that is theft. The man who obtains money by gambling – and this includes card games played for money – receives money for which he has done no honest work, and is therefore a thief!
D. L. Moody [of Moody Bible Institute in Chicago] said of gambling, “Continuance in the vice results in the conscience being violated without any sense of wrong. By and by it is not an easy matter to check the habit, because it grows and multiplies with every new act.”
Certain it is that God sends a curse upon what is obtained by force or fraud: it is put into ‘a bag with holes in it’ and soon wastes away. What is gained by theft is usually lost by intemperance and a shortened life. Therefore it is written, "The robbery of the wicked shall destroy them." (Proverbs 21:7) And again, "As the partridge sitteth on eggs and hatcheth them not; so he that getteth riches, and not by right, shall leave them in the midst of his days, and at his end shall be a fool." (Jeremiah 17:11)
The fearful increase of this crime in modern society is due to failure to impose adequate punishment – indeed, gambling has been sanctioned in many places in recent years. Many the individual, and many the families, that have been brought to wreck and ruin by gambling.
Charles Haddon Spurgeon:
Some people win, but everybody must lose sooner or later, for the chances are dreadfully against any man who plays. The bank clears an enormous sum every year. I am afraid to mention the amount lest I should be thought to exaggerate.
There are some who defend the system. I hold it to be fraught with more deadly evils than anything that could be invented even by Satan himself.
The worst thing that can happen to a man who plays is to win. If you lose, it serves you right, and there is hope that you will repent of your folly; if you win, the devil will have you in his net so thoroughly, that escape will be impossible. If you take to gambling, you may as well give up praying.
I believe that every form of gambling, though it may take a business shape, tends more or less to harden the heart. As for the form of play which risks upon the roll of a ball, it is murder to all the finer feelings of the heart. Nobody but gamblers could have cast the dice, all blood bespattered, at the foot of the cross of our Redeemer. Gambling brings men into a state of heart worse than almost any other form of sin.
When a man is willing to risk his all practically on the mere toss of a halfpenny whether goods shall go up or down, he is usually a bad man, and if he is not he will be so before long; for that kind of thing does serious mischief to the tenderest tissues of the heart. If any Christian man attempts it, what a state of mind will he soon know! Can he pray? Can he meditate? Can he commune with the Lord Jesus? Where can be his trust? Where his faith in God? When he has practically committed his fortunes to the devil, how can he confide in his God? Gambling and prayer can never go together.
If you will read the Ten Commandments, and understand them in their spiritual meaning, you will find that they are far-reaching, and that they deal with every sin. I noticed, some time ago, that a learned prelate said that he could not find any commandment against gambling. Where were his eyes? Is it not plainly written, “Thou shalt not covet”? What is gambling but covetousness in action? Most manifestly, the gambler desires his neighbour’s goods, and this desire gives zest to the vice, which the law of God quite plainly condemns. Depend upon it, there is nothing wrong but the law condemns it, and there is nothing right but the law approves it.
Now notice that men who could mock Christ like this were capable of doing anything evil. If they could revile Christ, it was no wonder that they cast lots for his vesture just at his feet when he hung on the cross. I am often astounded at things that I read about gamblers, and what they have been known to do. That mischievous vice, which is becoming so common nowadays, leads to an extraordinary hardness of heart beyond anything else; and I cannot so much wonder that men, who were brought up as these Roman soldiers were, were capable of mockery of Christ, and of anything else that was evil.
I can never look upon dice except with abhorrence. If you ask me why; I reply: Because the soldiers at the foot of the cross threw dice for my Savior’s garments, and I have never heard the rattling of dice but I have conjured up the dreadful scene of Christ upon his cross, and gamblers at the foot of it, with their dice bespattered with his blood. I do not hesitate to say that, of all sins, there is none that more surely ruins men, and, worse than that, makes them the devil’s helps to ruin others, than gambling.
It must have taken a hard heart to gamble at the foot of the cross; but I suppose that, of all sins under heaven, there is none that does so harden the heart as gambling. Beware of it!
That’s not what we usually hear about gambling, is it? But if people were honest, they would know it’s true. Arthur Pink, a world-famous preacher, evangelist, and author, probably wrote in the 1940s; Charles H. Spurgeon, London’s ‘Prince of Preachers’, in the late 1800s. Times may have changed; right and wrong has not.
Monday, we were outside watering flowers…planting seeds in little seed pots…sweeping the porch…and whatever else one does around one’s front yard. The cats were wandering about underfoot, rubbing on our ankles, purring, and being otherwise unhelpful, when Winston The Neighbor Dog came to visit.
Winston is like a pesky little neighbor kid: he’s kinda nice (most of the time), you kinda like him (most of the time), but you kinda wish he’d stay home (most of the time), he kinda gets in your way (most of the time), and he causes you extra work when he’s around (most of the time). Kitty and Tabby retreated indoors and observed the canine from the safety of the front window.
Socks, however, being of a more valiant ilk, and an extremely territorial type, bided his time, and then, when Winston made the error of looking the other way, Socks dashed forth and, with a hideous snarl of rage, attacked the beast.
Winston, instead of yi-yi-yi-ing as he had done in the past, took immediate umbrage; he’d had enough of that crazy cat.
He attacked Socks, barking and growling in a fury of wrath. The children whirled around and stared in horror, momentarily paralyzed.
I raced for the door, yelling, “Stop it, stop it! BAD DOG!” and “Make him stop before he kills that cat!”
Hester, Lydia, and Caleb and ran. Caleb gave him a good boot, while Lydia cuffed him on the head, and Hester walloped him on the rump, all of them screaming, “No! BAD dog!” – and then Hester grabbed Winston around the middle, and, big dog that he is, lifted him right up and half tossed, half boosted, him toward home. Lydia snatched up a stick and ran after him, yelling, “Bad dog! GO HOME! Bad dog!”
I added my voice to hers, which sped him up considerably, shouting, “GO HOME!!!” – and go home he did, lickety-split pell-mell. Socks didn’t get hurt, amazingly enough, but Hester’s legs got scratched by Winston’s churning claws when she picked him up to pull him away from Socks.
Surely the neighbors heard all the commotion; but I don’t care; when people have neighbors, they should not let their dogs run loose; that’s what I think. We did not let Winston come over here for the next couple of days. When I’d pull into our drive and he’d come to greet us, as he usually does, we'd order him straight back home again. His tail would droop, ears go down, head drop, and he’d turn and walk dejectedly toward home.
We’ve allowed him back again, but if the cats are nearby, I point toward his house, and Winston heads for home. I don’t even have to say a word. Once I looked out the window, saw Winston coming, and, knowing the cats were on the porch, I said to Hester, who was outside, “He can’t come; the cats are out.”
Winston’s ears flew up, he looked at me through the open window, and he promptly turned around and went home. Whatever else he is, he isn’t stupid. Unpredictable, maybe, which is a bad trait in a dog; but not stupid.
Hester started feeling rather sorry for the mutt. “It was Socks who attacked him first,” she defended him.
“Yes, I know,” I replied, “But remember this: 1) it’s Socks’ property. 2) Winston will kill Socks if we don’t look out. And 3) if we let him act that way with Socks, I’m very much afraid he might act that way with Victoria, next.”
When Larry came home that evening, he serviced and repaired Jim C.’s lawn mower, then returned it to them. In exchange (sort of), Jim gave us a toilet for the downstairs bathroom. He has all sorts of household things, such as doors, windows, cupboards, and the like, stored in one of his barns, because he used to own several older homes in town that were torn down to make room for new businesses. Some time later, as Larry was coming back past their house on his lawn tractor, pulling Keith’s lawn wagon in which perched the toilet (why didn’t I take pictures?!), he came upon Mrs. C. cutting the grass with the newly fixed mower.
She held up a hand, making an ‘O’ with thumb and forefinger.
“This thing works better now than it ever has,” she declared happily, “even when it was new!”
Keith came to help with the downstairs bathroom. But he first helped burn the garbage (yes, he’s a pyromaniac, just like the rest of us), and then he dug our ashpit deeper. All of a sudden, with a gigantic ka-BOOOM!!!, something in the burn barrel blew up, making a fireball and showering things with sparks in a two-foot radius – and Caleb was altogether too close for comfort.
“It’s okay; I was cold anyway,” Caleb reassured us. “And all that running warmed me up.” [He’d fled for dear life.]
You thought it was the fireball that warmed him up, didn’t you? hee hee
After trying to remember what in the world we’d put in there, we finally came to the conclusion that it must have been the can of dusting spray. Yikes.
Soon Esther, Teddy, and Amy came. Teddy and Amy gave Larry a nearly-new shirt they’d gotten at an extra-nice Goodwill in Omaha next to the Mercedes dealership (perhaps the Mercedes clientele are the Goodwill donors, too?), and Amy brought a batch of whole wheat buns she’d made. They were soft and light…just right.
Tuesday morning after taking Hester and Lydia to school (Caleb was sick), I made my usual trek to the bank and the grocery store. I saw Lawrence cleaning the store windows as I was going out. He seemed hale and hearty, but I’m afraid the job was a bit difficult for him after that tumble down the stairs last Saturday.
Home again, I cleaned the fish tank and washed several loads of clothes. When I went to pick up the kids after school, one of Caleb’s classmates came to the window where Caleb was sitting. Caleb rolled the window down.
“I was wondering,” the boy said in his pompous way, “if you have chicken pox. Because I haven’t felt well today, and the teacher said that I have the symptoms of chicken pox. And you were around me yesterday, so I wondered if you had chicken pox, and gave it to me.”
Nobody had told him, I guess, that chicken pox has a longer incubation period than one day. If he did have chicken pox, he was doubtless giving it to Caleb right then and there, as he talked, for the varicella virus can spread through the air. But worrying about whether or not that child had chicken pox would soon prove to be purposeless…
When we got home, I propped open the doors of the trailer in order to carry boxes in; but then it started sprinkling…and I gave up. Besides, Hester needed me to type her report on Oceans and Seas, and I was glad enough to do that, instead.
I typed a page and a half – and then Victoria went somersaulting down the stairs. I ran down the stairs to find her sitting at the bottom, pale as a ghost, unable to tell me for a moment or two exactly where and how badly she was hurt. She'd scared herself half to death, and scared me out of my wits. I always expect to find broken backs, broken necks, broken legs, broken arms… She was okay, thankfully.
Larry’s first order of business after coming home from work was to clean out the gutters over the porch. That will be a big help, next time it rains, for water will not come pouring down the steep roof, shoot over the full gutter, and drench the porch.
Remind me not to get Campbell’s Seasoned Potato Ham SomethingOrOther (Chowder?) Soup ever again. Bleah! I don’t like it one little bit. Neither does Victoria. Caleb, however, really liked it – but not well enough to eat his and anyone else’s, too.
Suddenly, at 7:30 p.m., Larry decided we should go to the Menards in Norfolk. Then, after noticing the time, and realizing we would have only a little more than half an hour to shop, he decided we wouldn’t. Then he decided we would. Wouldn’t. Would. Wouldn’t. Would. Wouldn’t. Would. Wouldn’t. Would.
By the time we left, it was 8:04 p.m. Caleb and Victoria went with us. We got there in 40 minutes, it took one minute to walk into the store – and then we had 15 minutes to shop. But shop we did, getting the two things we’d come for: a waterproof paneling that looks like tile for the downstairs bathroom, and more studs for the basement walls. The ‘tile’ I chose is white, with light blue flowers here and there. It’s called ‘sky-blue floral’. I used my $25 gift card from the littles for Mother’s Day to help pay for everything, after which the total was $99. Not bad, for all that merchandise, eh?
Socks and Tabby woke me up, thundering madly up and down the stairs, yeowling like barbarians (do barbarians yeowl?), and skidding past our bedroom door on the hall rug, at 4:30 a.m. Wednesday morning. I groggily arose and let them outside. I went back to bed…but it wasn’t long before Socks was at the patio door, which is directly under our bedroom window – and it was open a bit – howling bloody murder, wanting back in.
I went to the front door…called… Tabby showed up, but no Socks. As soon as I went back in and shut the door, there he was on the porch. He wants to act like he came on his own, not because you called him. Also, he desires that you know that that was the wrong door. He prefers that you let him in the door at which he was imploring admittance, pôr favôr. Why did we name him simply, ‘Socks’? His name should be ‘King Tutankhamun’. Middle name ‘Picky Picky’, after Ramona Quimby’s cat.
Wednesday morning, Lydia thought she had the flu. By afternoon it had been determined that Lydia’s ailment was just this: chicken pox. Yep, we’re in for a siege, I guess; none of the four littles have had it. It is possible that Victoria had the vaccine, but that night after church, a friend of mine told me that two of her grandsons were recuperating from chicken pox – and they both had had the vaccine.
That same morning, right out my office window, I heard it: Babies. Bird babies. Blackbird babies. And are they ever noisy. The parents are both busy feeding them. They act really happy, delighted, in fact, with their offspring. They squawk raucously and joyously in between each feeding, as if they are announcing their new family to the bird population at large. Luckily, they’ve chosen a perch high in the evergreens, on the outer reaches of small limbs, where it is totally impossible {I think} {I hope} for the cats to get to them.
A pair of English sparrows are scolding tumultuously; wonder why? The cats are all indoors. A cardinal has landed nearby, and is whistling like anything. I hear many birds that I can’t recognize, and the trees are so thick I can’t see them. Right now there is a bird with a lovely tone singing, “Cheeee chirr chirr! Cheeee chirr chirr!” Yes, I like this place!
That afternoon, I replanted all the little peat pots that had gotten drowned out in the Big Rain, and also one of the planters on the porch, digging the dirt from the ‘river ravine’, as I call the site where the water flows on the east side of our property when it rains. I want to dig that curving little stream bed deeper, following its natural contours, then line it with a bunch of smooth, flat river rocks and plant flowers beside it. Won’t that be pretty? Add a wooden walk-bridge…a wishing well…an arbor…a hexagonal picnic table…
Larry came home from work as we were getting ready for church – all of us but Lydia, that is.
“Could you please, please, put that painter’s plastic over the insulation and rafters in Victoria’s cubbyhole?” I requested. “Then I’ll be able to clean it, paint it with Kiltz, and fill it with all those boxes of too-big clothes. That’ll get lots of boxes out of your way,” I coaxed.
He agreed that he would. {Maybe.}
After the rest of us left for church, he carried in the supplies from Menards that were still in the back of his pickup, burned the garbage (some of it; he never remembers where I’ve hidden all the trash cans), and watched a video of George Beverly Shea, the wonderful singer who used to sing at the Billy Graham crusades. Then, realizing we would soon be returning from church (at least, this is what I accused him of), he sped upstairs into Victoria’s cubbyhole and quickly stapled two strips of painter’s plastic onto the rafters.
“But it’s yucky from the mice,” he defended himself. (No, we don’t have mice; but the people who used to live in this house sho’ ’nuff did.) “I got the insulation up out of the way; so if you’ll clean it, I’ll finish it.”
Wednesday afternoon, a friend of ours, Percy, was working in his yard. A pickup pulled up in his driveway, and a man got out, offering to help. And that he did for an hour or so. Would you believe, it was Bob H., father of the man who hit David’s house and killed him? Percy said he was very friendly, kind, and helpful. In his own way, I suppose, he’s trying to make amends for what his son did. From the things he has said, we know he is still wondering, still puzzled, about our lack of animosity.
The truth is, we feel nothing but compassion for that man. He and his wife wound up divorcing some years ago because of arguments over their son Mike’s drinking. The wife’s brother started his nephew Mike drinking when he was only six years old. The father was outraged – but the wife and all her family had this philosophy: He’s going to start drinking sometime; it might as well be with family. Bob told one of our friends that his son was born with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.
Thursday morning, Lydia was more chicken poxy than ever. Since Lydia was staying home, I intended to let Victoria sleep late, but she awoke before eight, got dressed, ate breakfast, and announced, “I’m ready for school!” – but it wasn’t until the next day that she would go in the morning. (“Bother, said she.)
After dropping off Hester and Caleb, I drove to Tim’s house on the east side of Columbus. His mother, Helen, who stays there most of the day with the children, had offered me a couple of yuccas her mother-in-law had dug from her flower beds.
We returned home, and I made muffins for Victoria’s class picnic – 48 miniature strawberry muffins.
“Reckon that’ll be enough for twelve kiddos, the teacher, and a mother or two?” I asked Victoria.
She raised her eyebrows, lifted one shoulder, and smiled a bit doubtfully. “Maybe,” she allowed. (I think she was still hungry.)
I also made six large muffins and a small round cake for my own family. I then went outside and planted the rosebush from Teddy and Amy, the snowmound spirea from Bobby and Hannah, and the yuccas from Helen. One yucca is questionable about life in general and its own place in the world in particular. Time will tell if it will survive…
With the rosebush came detailed instructions about planting, including digging a hole big enough to plant a Volkswagen bug in, making a mound at the bottom, separating the roots from each other, spreading them over the mound, interspersing the dirt being returned to the hole with Miracle Grow and peat moss, trimming its toenails, burying it up to its root bud (whatever that is) if one lives in Oskaloosa, Iowa, or burying past its root bud (whatever that is) if one lives in Medicine Hat, Alberta, Canada, or not burying up to its root bud (whatever that is) if one lives in Yuscarán, Honduras. Stuff like that. I, after reading the entire set of instructions, dug a hole just large enough for the wadded-up roots, stuck the thing into the earth, threw dirt in all around it, and jumped up and down on it in order to pack it down good and proper and keep it from going swimming to the south pasture the next time it rains.
There. Done. Fiñis. Complét. Some jobs are much faster if you just ignore the directions.
Jim C. was mowing here and there on his riding lawn tractor; he even mowed edges of our property. I gave him a couple of muffins, making him promise not to eat both of them, but to share one with his wife Sandra. He promised. And then ate them both.
Next, I carried the shop vac upstairs in preparation for cleaning out Victoria’s cubbyhole. Then, after throwing a tantrum about the state of the hallway bookcase, repairing it, and then throwing another tantrum about the state of Victoria’s room, and making her repair it, I collected lunch components and constituents and headed for town. Poor Lydia stayed home.
Victoria went straight to kindergarten, as her picnic started at 12:00 p.m. Her feet hardly touched the ground, she was skipping with such enthusiasm. Her just-brushed ponytail tossed wildly.
I’d just gotten back home again and started the last load of clothes when Helen called to tell me that she (or Tim, actually) had 20…30…40 or more mums, and that they wanted to get rid of them, and did I want them.
Did I! Well, of course I did, and thank you very kindly.
I rushed outside, got a few things out of the back of the Suburban, drove it around to the garage, and unloaded about eight boxes of rollerblades, iceskates, and life jackets, thereby making room for the promised chrysanthemums.
That done, I vacuumed Victoria’s cubbyhole with the shop vac, then mopped it with a yummy-smelling disinfectant. And then it was time to get Caleb and Victoria. Hester stayed to help clean the church.
Victoria, having just returned from her picnic, was full of exuberant description and narrative. They’d been to Pawnee Park, and, according to Victoria, they’d had a simply glorious time. “And we didn’t have to do any work all day long, not even to write a paper about what we did!” she emoted. “We only ate and played. No work!!” She sighed happily. “We walked down the dike, and then, when we came back, instead of walking down the steep side of the dike, we rolled down. See?” She blissfully showed me all the red scratches and bumps caused by rolling through all those weeds she’s so allergic to. “It was more fun than you would have ever imagined!!” she exclaimed. ’Course, her legs were completely covered with red scratches and bumps.
We headed out to Tim’s house. Suzanne, who helps care for the children, was working in the flower beds. She showed the children the new kittens, born only the night before. They duly admired the chickens, and then Richard, the little boy who’s in Caleb’s class, and Caleb climbed a tree – and upset the nesting robins something awful. I ordered Caleb back down just as Helen did the same to Richard.
We made use of an old red wagon that I remember pulling Tim in when he was little, filling it with flowers several times. She gave me a couple of bushes (one is a ‘Meadowsweet Plena’, or ‘Filipendula Plena’, which will grow up to 6’ tall and bloom creamy white flowers in the summertime) and two or three other kinds of plants, too, including salvia and a ground cover of unknown pedigree, already sporting tiny pink flowers. It reminds me of the tiny flowers in the High Country of the Rockies.
And she gave us a warm, fragrant loaf of whole wheat-berry bread – my favorite kind. Mmmmm…I told her it smelled so good that if we didn’t hurry home, we were going to start eating it like monkey bread – ripping chunks off and devouring it.
We rushed home, sliced and ate the fresh bread (we did save enough for Larry), and set out to plant things. I put the mums along both sides of the shed, which will of course be right smack-dab in the way when Larry goes to put a concrete slab under it.
Jim C.’s cows got into the wrong pasture – a common enough occurrence. He’d parked south of Richard A.’s house, and was fixing fence. I heard Richard say something to him in a loud voice, and Jim yell, “Aw, go on back to sleep!”
And then Jim jumped into his van, spun madly around, and peeled out – and there was a big metallic clank of some kind. What happened, I wondered? Did Richard hit the van with an aluminum bat? Did Jim run into some of Richard’s stuff and things?
Dorcas and I saw a brown thrasher in the top of one of the old oak trees. He was singing his heart out, all sorts of warbles and trills and whistles, every bit as skilled and melodic as a mockingbird.
Hey! I just looked up ‘brown thrasher’ in my Encarta Encyclopedia and learned that the thrasher is part of the mockingbird family! Look at this: They are excellent singers and approach the mockingbird in powers of birdsong mimicry.[1]
Well. I’m not so dumb, after all. No wonder brown thrashers always remind me of mockingbirds.
By the time Larry came home from work, the mums were planted and I was making another arrangement with bushes and flowers in the middle of the back yard. He parked, climbed out of his pickup, headed for the house, then stopped short when he saw me.
“What are you doing!” he exclaimed. “That’s right in the middle of the lawn! You’re digging up grass!” and et cetera.
I grinned at him and went on digging. {By the way, the grass is coming up better than we could ever have imagined it would. We can hardly believe so much seed stayed in the ground, when such torrents of water were gushing down the hillside!}
Then he saw the flowers, yucca, and bushes up on the hill beside the house. “What’s all that mess up there by the driveway?!” and “How am I going to have room to turn the lawn tractor around?” and so forth.
He was partly teasing, of course, and partly serious. He never even noticed the flowers beside the shed, and I didn’t tell him; no sense in simulcasting all of one’s apoplexy, eh? He’ll see them soon enough. Save the thrombosis for mañana.
Now, if I had’ve staked out a big square, smack in the middle of the yard, for pouring cement for a basketball court, do you think he would have minded?
He’d brought home a motorcycle – a Honda 250 MT of the kind he used to drool over, several years ago – from a farmer for $15.
“Why did you used to want one like that?” I asked curiously.
“Oh, just because I like them, and they’re fast,” he explained.
I laughed. “It’s probably the other way around,” I told the children.
It’s in good shape; the farmer merely wished to get rid of it before one of his boys got themselves maimed – or worse – on it. They’d already wrecked it at least once. It needs a muffler. It will get about 75 miles per gallon, which will save us a lot on our fuel bills. Larry took Caleb for a short ride on it, doubtless deafening and alienating any neighbors within earshot. As he was returning, Richard A.dkisson walked toward him, waving a hand. Larry stopped, told him about the motorcycle, and Richard said he might have the muffler Larry needed.
He also told Larry that Jim C. had tried to run over him, hit him with his van, and made him fall.
Good grief! Is that true??! We have no idea. I think – I hope, that is – Jim C. was angry; his cows were out; the fence was down; Richard A. was bugging him about something…and he spun around in a fury, perhaps frightening Richard, who might have tried backing up quickly, and, being a bit crippled as he is, he fell. I cannot say what happened; but this I know: Jim is a chameleon. Richard is more or less what he pretends to be. And they both antagonize each other.
Well, Richard headed off for his house to hunt up the muffler. Larry followed at a distance, and, after a minute or two, I followed, too, mainly out of curiosity. What does he have in that yard of his?! Mr. A.dkisson continued up the drive…onto the sidewalk (a narrow path between untold piles and stacks of things, junk, and debris)…and then he went right on into the house.
“Does he have stuff in there, too?!” whispered Larry in amazement.
We waited…and we waited…and we waited…and we waited…and we waited…and we waited…
But the old man never came back out. Larry finally went to the door to tell him he would stop by the next day for the muffler. Just then, Viola A. came to the door to check on the state of the eclipse — and there was Larry, right in front of her face.
“YAAA!” she greeted him, trying to get back into her skin.
Larry jumped, too, and explained himself.
“I’ll tell him,” she told Larry, smiling at him, having recovered from her fright.
But where had that man gotten to? Did he forget what he went to get, once he’d arrived inside the house?
{That wonderful preacher, J. Harold Smith, once said, “The older I get, the more thinking I do about the hereafter.” He paused thoughtfully, then continued, “I walk into the living room, and I think, ‘What am I here after?’”}
“And he does have stuff in his house,” Larry told me. “I saw it.”
“Poor Mrs. A.,” I said. “Unless she likes it that way,” I amended. “Which I doubt,” I added.
That evening, Keith helped Hannah plant about fifty flowers and bushes she’d gotten from a mail-order gardening company. He called to ask how close to plant the lavender, and if there was anything special he needed to do to them. She’d gotten enough Rose of Sharon to make a hedge between their drive and the neighbor’s property.
Lydia was miserable that night; she has chicken pox in her throat, even.
Socks climbed way to the top of one of the pine trees and extracted a poor little baby blackbird from its nest, scurrying back down the tree with blackbird parents screaming and dive-bombing him. Then, once he’d arrived at ground level again, Tabby stole the poor thing from him and played with it for a while — and he brought it into the house after it expired! Those awful, horrible cats!! If I ever get a pet again, I’m going to get a … ummm … a … a … California condor. Let the cats try to eat him!!
Larry put a few more sheets of painter’s plastic in Victoria’s cubbyhole; it is almost half done now.
Friday morning Victoria went to school at 8:30 (well, 8:15; that’s what time we generally arrive), because they were taking school pictures. The children all congregated in the playground, and then Robert climbed atop Penny’s house to take the picture. That ought to be an interesting viewpoint. The kindergartners stayed till noon, and then they were done for the day.
Lydia was very sad because she missed her class’s outing to Shirley’s farm, where they had a big picnic and saw all the animals. Also, they went on a field trip to Saunders Archery, where Sandy, their teacher, worked in the office before she began teaching at our school. Caleb came home quite sunburnt. A friend of mine, feeling sorry for Lydia, sent a blo-pen set home for her, and Lydia’s teacher sent a bag of snacks.
As we were driving home, Victoria was inspecting the myriad bruises on her legs. A big one from falling down the steps Tuesday…a couple from the pedals on her bike…one from the Suburban’s running board… “My legs are all smashed up!” she lamented.
I thought there were probably no more baby blackbirds in that nest from which Socks stole the baby, but, lo and behold, a parent arrived at the nest, worm in beak, and at least one, more likely two, babies started screeching for it. Maybe the stupid felines won’t be able to eat all the birds around this neck of the woods.
I put sets of little wooden posts and logs around my flower/bush arrangements. After deciding just where they should go, I dug trenches, inserted posts, put dirt around them, and tamped it down. Perhaps it’ll stay better than it did at the other house. I ran out, though, and didn’t have enough posts for the south arrangement. I put the dark green metal trellis with the butterfly cutouts into the ground there as part of the border. Larry gave it to me for my birthday a couple of years ago; it still looks like new. I planted the honeysuckle Magnifica in front of it. I want a wrought-iron bench to set there, too; I’m going to be on the look-out for a used one somewhere. I transplanted my butterfly bush down there, first taking a shoot off of it and putting it into the arrangement up on the hill. When the planting was finished, I came in the patio door downstairs to put my nifty little three-tined, extendable-handled gardening rake into the corner – and discovered a tall heap of blankets that Larry had used to cover the furniture that used to be in Uncle Clyde’s trailer. So that was why Hester and Lydia didn’t seem to have enough blankets! I drug them upstairs and washed them.
Keith came and helped Larry again in the bathroom downstairs, and Hester went back to town with Dorcas, because several young people were going to Pawnee Park to play tennis.
Victoria took a bath and washed her hair all by herself for the first time that night; she’s been asking to do so for a while now. Friday night seemed as good a time as any for her first try, since most Saturdays aren’t particularly fussy about whether or not six-year-olds have actually gotten all the conditioner out of their hair. She did a pretty good job of it, though, and her hair not only smelt good, but was soft and shiny, too. She’s pleased as punch with herself.
I heard a raccoon chir-chirring out my window somewhere in the trees nearby. Larry had turned on the ‘Rascal, the Little Raccoon’ video; I wonder if the coon outside heard the noises of the coon on the video and was answering it? We did have several windows open. What if the outside coon tries to come visit the inside coon?
Saturday it suddenly occurred to me: It’s my sister Lura Kay’s birthday! She’s 62. That means that, on the 10th, Susan, my niece, turned 30. I’m closer to Susan’s age than I am to Lura Kay’s: I was 12 when Susan was born; Lura Kay was 20 when I was born.
Lydia’s throat really hurt that day. It was all red, even polka-dotted. If she isn’t better by tomorrow, I’d better take her to the doctor. If she has a throat infection, she might need an antibiotic to clear it up. She has troubles talking and swallowing. Chicken pox! What a thing to have, right before summer vacation!
I transplanted bunches of crocuses, daffodils, and irises to the inside of the post border around the north flower arrangement. After separating some that were clumped together, there were enough to go all the way around. It was a beautiful day, all sunny and blue, with the birds singing like a thousand-voice choir, and the cows adding an occasional bass (except for the smallest baby, who yodels high tenor).
When Larry came home later that afternoon, he brought the newspapers. There in the classified section was an ad for river rocks and pond stones. Just what I wanted! I grabbed the phone…called…and discovered that, at ten tons of rock, there is a price break: after ten tons, it’s only $60/ton! Wow! Whooopeeee! Only $600 for ten tons of river rock!!!
Uh, reckon there are any farmers in the vicinity who would like somebody to pick a lot of rocks and stones off their property for free? $600. Good grief.
“Thank you for the information,” I said, and hung up.
Larry put a pet door in the side door, the one that will eventually open into the garage. We’d been leaving the front door slightly ajar on nice days so the arrogant felines could enter and exit, but Larry couldn’t cope with the flies a moment longer. (They really weren’t all that bad, if you ask me; just how long does it take to smack five flies with a flyswatter?)
“Buy some fly strips!” he kept insisting.
“NO, YUCK!!!” I refused adamantly. “Those are for dirty old gas stations!” I informed my bug-hating husband. “I’d rather have a fly or two buzzing past, and chase ’em with flyswatters, than to have those horrible fly strips hanging around with dead and dying flies stuck to them.”
“This is a dirty old gas station, with all those flies in here,” he retorted.
“Is not,” I argued. “We don’t sell gas.”
“Hot air, though,” he made rejoinder, and ducked, just before I let fly with the milk jug lid.
Larry was putting the last few screws in the cats’ new door, and they were all three practicing their ins and outs even as he worked, rather making nuisances of themselves, when Keith and Esther arrived. Keith had come for a haircut.
Dorcas brought us chicken enchiladas for supper. Mmmm! Just what the doctor ordered.
While Saturday-night bathtime commenced in earnest, I hauled in several piles of boxes from the trailer, and now the upstairs hallway that was so nice and neat is lined with boxes. But! – I found the curtains that were missing. Now I’ll be able to hang Caleb’s, Victoria’s, the third set for the washroom, and the little one for the window at the top of the stairs.
Today, I stayed home with Lydia. She’s entirely miserable, poor dear.
One of Jim C.’s cows is in the pasture next to us, and she keeps coughing. I think we should tell Jim, just in case he doesn’t know; Larry thinks that’s why she’s in this field – he’s put her there because she’s coughing. But I can see where the fence is gimpy…maybe she got through it… Wouldn’t hurt anything to tell him when he already knows; but might hurt something not to tell him, if he doesn’t know! Larry doesn’t hold to that philosophy. He thinks, if there’s the slightest chance somebody might already know something they need to know, do not tell them. Assume they know.
Q: Are all men like that?!
A: Yes.
Q: Why?
A: Two reasons: 1) Because they’re basically chicken at heart, and get skeert just thinking about
a) asking for information that someone may not want to give or that might make themselves look stupid, or
b) giving out information that someone may not want to receive or that might make themselves look stupid; and
2) Because they’re too proud to consider doing something in which they might possibly be mistaken.
However, I got the chance to tell Jim, myself, when he arrived at our door this afternoon with another big box of tomatoes, peaches, nectarines, apricots, cucumbers, parsley, and cabbage. So there.
And now it is almost time for Larry & Co. to arrive home from church, and I’d better sign off before he comes marching up the stairs and reads what I just wrote about him! D-:< (That’s Larry.) :-\ (That’s me.)
P.S.: I know my letters get too long and drawn out… But, as Anne Shirley, of the Anne of Green Gables fame, once said, “If you only knew how much I’d like to say and don’t, you’d at least give me credit for that!” ha
[1]"Thrasher," Microfeather® Enthrasha® Birdhouse 99. © 1993-1998 Mockingbird Beakoration. All catbirds preserved.
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