Last Tuesday, Victoria sent pictures of Carolyn, Violet,
and Keira, all dressed cute as could be and with their hair put up fancy,
having a tea party with their little china set.
A few days earlier, Lydia told me she was going to
take guitar lessons, and wondered if she could borrow her father’s six-string guitar. So I pulled it out of the corner behind the
piano where it languishes, and dusted it as well as I could, in order
to take it to her when I took Loren his supper.
(That is, as well as I could in half a minute or less. 😏) The case for this guitar is currently holding
Larry’s twelve-string guitar, which is at Victoria’s house. We’re one case short.
Lydia has since ordered a guitar case for it.
After dropping off Loren’s food, I mailed a gift to
Dorcas’ little boy Trevor, who would be 5 on the 26th. Todd, Dorcas, and Trevor live on a small farm
outside Blaine, Tennessee, northeast of Knoxville. They raise goats and chickens. We gave Trevor a MathCube set and a pair of
pajamas.
Loren had a large Pothos Ivy plant in a pot in his
living room; it used to be Norma’s. He asked me if I wanted it, or if my
daughters might want it. I asked the
four who live nearby.
They did. All
four of them.
One plant, four daughters.
I promised to get some pots and soil at Menards, and asked
Victoria if she would like to divide it.
She would.
She used to work at Earl May Gardening Center, and
enjoys such things. She even has pink
grow lights, which are already in use in her basement, where she has planted
flower and vegetable seeds in small cups for later transplanting to her garden.
That afternoon, Dorcas sent pictures she’d taken of
Trevor:
When I called Loren Wednesday afternoon, he was quite
mixed up, thinking he was in Norfolk (45 miles to our north) for some reason,
and wondering if the church service would be in Norfolk.
It took me a minute to gather my wits and say, “No, it’s
at our church, Bible Baptist.”
So he said he’d ‘come down’ – and I hoped he wouldn’t
wind up in Fort Worth or somewhere. When I remarked, “I don’t know
anything about any church in Norfolk; I only go to our Bible Baptist church,”
he laughed and said, “I know it!” like he thought that was just the
silliest thing for me to do. Then he asked, “Will Robert be preaching?”
“Yes,” I answered, and then he said, “That’s what I
thought. He went down to Columbus and preached there once about a year
ago, too!”
I think he’s getting his former NFIB sales territories
mixed up with Robert’s various travels to the Baptist conventions in Kansas
City, Oklahoma, Texas...
I checked the game cam when it was about time to leave
for church, and discovered that he’d left his house over an hour early (he probably
had the time mixed up with the Sunday evening service, though I’d reminded him
of the time earlier), then come back a few minutes later, evidently discovering
the church was still locked. He went
again an hour later, and was there when we arrived.
We always sit in the same pew with him, so Larry can help
him with page numbers and Bible references if he needs it. The thing is,
Larry is a bit hard of hearing, so every once in a while Loren winds up helping
Larry.
“If the deaf lead the infirm, both shall
land on the wrong page.”
After the service, as we were heading out, Loren asked
me if I could come fix the lock on his door.
Then he rethought it, grinned, gestured back towards Larry, and said, “I
suppose I should be asking him.” I
agreed, that would be better.
We went upstairs with
family and friends to see the progress being made on the balcony. So far, what’s there are the steel frames
Larry has been welding together and painting for the pews to sit on.
It was Victoria’s 24th
birthday that day. Before leaving the
church, we gave her a gift: the table
topper I made August 31, 2019 (in futile hopes of entering it in the County and
State Fairs the next year), and Pioneer Woman kitchen towels.
Then we drove out to Loren’s, taking him a
yogurt/fruit/granola cup we picked up at Casey’s on the way. I figured he’d be hungry, because he turned
me down when I called that afternoon offering some food.
Thinking he’d probably forgotten that he’d asked us to come, I called before we got there. Sure enough,
he’d already donned pjs. But he scrambled
back into day clothes and had the lights on for us when we arrived.
He was hungry, and glad to have the yogurt
cup.
We took the Pothos Ivy with us when we left; Loren was
glad to have it out of his hair.
When we got home, we shared the chicken and tuna salad
sandwiches on croissant buns that Larry had also picked up at Casey’s. I wondered if we should’ve given Loren one;
but on the other hand, stuff like that often gives him a stomachache if he eats
it shortly before going to bed. The
yogurt was probably best.
Larry then went to Genoa to put primer on a vehicle so
he could paint it in the morning. He had
taken Thursday and Friday off of work so he could finish the Jeep he was
working on for his friend and customer, and he planned to take it Friday to the
man’s son in Kentucky, and pick up a backhoe and an enclosed trailer, one in
Illinois and the other in Missouri, on his way home.
I scanned old photos a good part of every day last
week. Here is Joseph playing with baby
Lydia in the autumn of 1991.
There was a full Snow Moon Friday night. I checked online to see what time the moon
would rise, set a timer, and put my camera on the tripod in anticipation. This picture was taken from the upper deck in
our bedroom-to-be:
Saturday afternoon, I wrote to my offspring’ns:
If you feel the need to
write ‘she sang’ in my obituary, please do not describe it thusly:
“Mary
Jones, 58, was a gifted singer, a mother, and a grandmother. ‘She could bellow from the bottom of her
soul,’ her daughter said.”
Thanks.
Love,
,,,>^..^<,,, Mama ,,,>^..^<,,,
It wasn’t long before I got the following message from
Caleb: “I feel that bellowing from the
bottom of one’s soul is much more memorable than just singing.”
“Haha!” I retorted. “Okay, I shall record in my
will that you will not be allowed to contribute the word ‘bellow’ to the
obituary.”
(Trouble is, the obituary is written long before the will is read. 🤔)
After taking Loren some food, I picked up some ceramic
pots and some potting soil at Menards, then called Victoria to ask if she was
home so I could bring plant, pots, and soil to her.
There was no answer.
I tried Kurt’s phone; he answered promptly. After informing him that Victoria was refusing
to answer her phone, I told him I had the Pothos Ivy plant, new pots, and a bag
of potting soil.
He laughed, and said I could bring them. Victoria had been unable to find her phone,
though they could hear it ringing. Turns
out, it was under Kurt’s hat. 😄
While I was there, Victoria made me a scrumptious
latte in one of the vintage china coffee cups she bought recently, along with a
1920s china teapot, at local antique stores.
She also got a copper teakettle.
Look at the before and after Bar Keeper’s Friend shots of it:
My mother used to love teapots and teacups, and had a
little collection of them. I have a few
of them now.
That evening, Victoria divided and replanted the
Pothos Ivy plants. She’s going to
babysit them for a while to make sure they take root and grow. There weren’t so many main stems/roots as
there were looong, looong vines.
It’s a hardy plant, so hopefully it’ll survive the
operation.
When I quit scanning for the night, I had 11,963 pictures scanned, and had started on the 44th
album.
Larry did not get home Saturday night as he’d
hoped. He’d had a blowout on an inside
dual on his truck Friday, and another on his flatbed trailer Saturday. He was in Bowling Green, Kentucky, that night,
800 miles from home. When the man at
the tire shop removed the blown tire from the truck Friday, a brand-new, shiny
pair of pliers fell out of the tire.
That’s what had caused the blowout.
“I’d have rather just bought myself a new pair of
pliers!” exclaimed Larry, making the man laugh.
It was Hannah’s 40th birthday Sunday. I gave her the Buoyant Blossoms quilt I originally
gave to Norma.
Now just look what Levi gave her – a Redneck Back
Scratcher! It’s a paint-stirring
stick with upside-down bottle tops stapled onto one end.
So there I was getting ready for church Sunday
morning. Larry wasn’t here, so I was the
one who called Loren to make sure he remembered it was Sunday, and was getting
ready for church. I explained why I was
calling, and told him where Larry was.
I had tried to make plenty of time for such things as
that, but my hair, which turns out perfectly fine on Saturdays and Mondays, was
being quite recalcitrant. I washed it,
blow-dried it, curled it with a curling iron – and before I got it all combed,
part of it went straight again. I
recurled it. Combed it again. Now parts of it frizzed and stuck out. I dampened the comb, combed carefully. Recurled a couple more spots. Finger-tucked and finger-curled... checked in
the mirror... It took 20 minutes instead
of the usual five to get it tamed and decent.
I dashed upstairs to the closet in the little library
where I hang my ‘good’ clothes, grabbed a gold and silver swing jacket and a
black pleated skirt that wouldn’t need ironing, trotted back to my bedroom –
and remembered that this was the jacket with the miserable metallic threads
that required a thin sweater under it.
Snatching a thin rayon/spandex one out of the drawer,
I removed my glasses and carefully pulled the sweater over my head, trying not
to mess my hair up. (You will never hope
to look tidy and decorous again, if you mess up just-hair-sprayed hair and then
attempt to refix it. It will be nothing
less than calamitous.)
Getting the sweater on without too much bother, I
finished getting dressed, put on rings and watch, got shoes out of the closet,
Bible and clutch purse out of the drawer, laid my leather coat and faux fur
scarf on the bed, and then pulled on the jacket.
Pothos Ivy in its new pots.
And remembered it had three-quarter-length sleeves.
The sweater had long sleeves. Being thin and silky, those sleeves would
never, ever stay tucked up under the jacket sleeves, which were lined
with silky rayon.
I removed the jacket, took off my glasses, and then
pulled the sweater over my head, trying desperately not to demolish my
hard-come-by hairdo.
I dug into the drawer for another sweater, and soon
came up with a thin cotton one that sported not-quite-three-quarter-length
sleeves.
This sweater was less stretchy than the rayon/spandex
one, and not quite as comfortable; but it had a wider neck and shouldn’t be too
much trouble. ‘Shouldn’t’ doesn’t mean
‘won’t’.
I pulled it over my head. By now my hair looked slightly frizzy. Before sticking my arms into the sweater
sleeves, I carefully smoothed my hair back down. However, one of my rings had slipped around
backwards. The garnet and the prongs
holding it grabbed several strands of hair and pulled them straight up on end.
After turning the ring around, I resmoothed my hair,
then poked my arms into the sweater sleeves.
By now, what with the last few aggravating moments, I
was hot, and the lotion I’d rubbed onto my arms turned to rubber, grabbed the
cotton fabric, and hung on. Pulling with
all my might and main, grabbing the sleeve seams and twisting them into place, I
finally conquered those refractory sleeves.
It didn’t feel right.
I put my glasses back on and looked in the mirror.
The sweater was on backwards.
Aaauuuggghhh!
Well, at least this time
the dumb thing wouldn’t have to go back over my head a couple more times. With difficulty, I tugged my arms free, wrenched
the sweater around in a 180° circle, and jammed my arms back into the sleeves.
After tucking it in, I
pulled on the jacket – by now my arthritic shoulders were protesting noisily –
and peered into the mirror.
I didn’t look nearly as frazzled as I felt. There was even a pretty vintage brooch that used to be my mother-in-law’s already pinned to the yoke, so I wouldn’t have to do that, risking jabbing myself and bleeding all over the dry-clean-only jacket.
I stuck my feet into my
shoes, pulled on my coat and scarf, picked up Bible and clutch, and was ready
for church. I would abide by what I
always told my daughters when all their fussing with their hair didn’t yield
the coveted results: “Just smile and be
friendly, and people will think, She’s such a lovely young lady (not
that I can trick anybody into that ‘young’ part these days), and she looks
nice, too! – whereas, if you go around scowling about it, people will take
one glance and think, Wow, she’s such a horrid ol’ crab – and just look! –
her hair’s a fright, too!!!”
Plus, I wore sparkly
black wedge-heeled pumps with glittery black roses on the vamp.
Moral of the Story: If your hair’s a mess, wear amazing shoes,
to keep all eyes falling toward the feet.
I can’t be sure, but I don’t think a solitary soul
realized it was Bad Hair Day that day.
And if anybody else was having one, they were smiling and being
friendly, and I was totally oblivious to their plight.
I got to church with a good 15 minutes to spare, even
after all that.
At coffee break between Sunday School and church,
Loren asked where Larry was. I told him
– and then he remembered, sorta. He
said, “Oh, yes, Larry!” He made a
back-and-forth motion with a finger. “I
get those two fellows mixed up!” Larry
and the other Larry?
After church, I took Loren Alaskan salmon with red and
green peppers and onions on it, Mediterranean blend vegetables, a biscuit fresh
out of the oven, grape juice, dark sweet cherries, and yogurt. He launched right into the food, exclaiming
over how good it was. This is more often the case than not these days –
that he likes the food, I mean – which is different from the way it used to be,
oh, say, 4-5 years ago. Either 1) he’s getting accustomed to the food
(I try hard to fix balanced, tasty meals that are good for him; I think he used
to eat more fried foods), or 2) he’s hungrier than he used to be, or 3)
his tastebuds aren’t as active as they once were. 😏
That evening, I saw from the game cam that Loren left
his house at 5:45 p.m., evidently to go to church (the service is at 6:30
p.m.), but right before 6:00 p.m., there he was, walking down my front
sidewalk.
He’d gone to the church,
but decided he really didn’t feel well, as he was getting a sore throat. He rarely thinks of telling us when he’s
staying home, and hardly ever remembers to carry his cell phone with him. It was good he came, since I had a bottle of
Zicam tablets, which I sent home with him.
They generally help him.
Moultrie (cam) showed him
getting safely back home ten minutes later.
Today is my sister and brother-in-law Lura Kay and
John H.’s 57th anniversary.
This is from 1967; I just scanned it a couple of days ago.
Lura Kay told me they are moving to a house next door
to their daughter-in-law Christine. It’s
a one-floor-only home; Lura Kay will no longer have to go up and down stairs to
wash laundry.
Every now and then I like to go exploring in New York
City. Via Google Streetview, that is.
I like to look at million-dollar penthouses, brownhouses, and that one
lonesome old one-family house in the middle of all those skyscrapers, still
there because it’s considered ‘historical’. I found a video that took me
on a tour of One World Trade Center, right up to the 102nd-floor
observation deck. I’d like to go there, just once in my lifetime.
Larry runs screaming up Old Highway 81 every time I mention it. ((snicker))
Mind you, I like looking at cabins in the mountains better
(and I really, really want to go to Alaska), but other things
intrigue me, too. (Why, I even looked at YouTube documentaries on the
biggest slums in India... in California...) ((...cold shudders...)) I
love to explore. I love to learn.
I am now getting emails informing me of apartments in
New York City that would best suit my ‘circumstances’, heh. (They –
whoever ‘they’ are – think I make over $10,000 a month.) (Yeah, I plugged
in faux data somewhere.)
In strolling along East River (hopping gleefully back and forth from the Manhattan side to the Brooklyn side), I spotted something in the sky, zoomed in – and whataya know. I grabbed a screen shot with three big planes and a helicopter all in the picture at once.
(Remember, I live
7 miles west of a town of 22,000 [it seems really big now – population was only
15,000 when I was 8-15 or so, happily riding my bike all over town], and
everyone stares up into the sky when a helicopter pop-pop-pops over, and we all
wonder, Are there ice jams on the Loup again?)
If an 8-seater prop jet comes in low, we all think, Oooooooo!
Bigwigs in town! Maybe they’ve come to inspect the new (the one and
only!) pedestrian bridge out on 18th Avenue! So you see
why this screen shot intrigues this small-town-now- country li’l ol’
lady.
And look, I found our park! Jackson Square, one of New York City’s oldest
parks.
Okay, now that I pasted that picture into Word, I can
read the sign: Please Do Not Feed
Pigeons Or Squirrels. Bah, humbug.
What if I just feed the chickadees and the bluebirds (of happiness)? Can I help it if the pigeons and the
squirrels barge in?
Last Sunday after having lunch with Kurt and Victoria
and the little girls, Victoria sent us home with half a loaf of her homemade
sourdough bread. I’ve been having a
slice of it for breakfast every day this week, toasted and with
an over-easy egg on top. Mmmm... 😋 I had the last piece this morning.
The high today was 42°. Temperatures for the next week are expected
to be in the high 50s to the low 60s.
The chipping sparrows are back! They sometimes stick around all winter; but
this year I haven’t seen them until now.
Last year, I think some had nests in our little fir trees and stayed all
summer. I’d always hoped they would do
that.
Lydia told me today that her fingers are sore from
practicing the guitar. “Violin strings
aren’t as thick as guitar strings!” she said.
“Next Christmas,” I said, “we should tell everyone, ‘Bring
all your instruments! Xylophones,
wind-up grandfather clocks, and all!’”
Lydia laughed, “We’d have some big moving truck
deliveries!”
“Well,” I considered, “we could leave the pipe
organs, concert grands, and large harps home, I guess.”
“I told Jeremy last night, now I just need to figure
out how to play all my instruments at once!” said Lydia. “I’ve had the Chromaharp you gave me out, too.” 😆
Caleb and Maria’s Boxer, Sadie, has been sick for a
few days. Caleb took her to the vet this
morning, and they learned that she had a softball-sized growth on her
lungs. One lung had a lot of fluid in
it. The growth was malignant, and they
had to put their much-loved dog to sleep.
It’s sad; she was such a nice dog, and only 5 ½
years old.
And now it is bedtime.
,,,>^..^<,,, Sarah Lynn ,,,>^..^<,,,
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