Journal: Old Shoes Clouted, & Old Bread Mouldy

 

Last Monday, a friend sent me a picture of her suede-slipper-clad feet – at her workplace.  She had forgotten to change from her house shoes before leaving home.

After assuring her that no one would ever notice if she didn’t point it out, I told her the following story:

My father once realized, when he was behind the pulpit, that the shoes he had on – those wingtip dress oxfords – were identical and matching —— except in color.  The shoe on one foot was black; the shoe on the other foot was cordovan (dark burgundy). 

He looked down at them for a couple of seconds, and then, not one to keep things to himself, walked out from behind the pulpit, pointed at his shoes, and proceeded to tell the congregation that at least he wasn’t in as bad of shape as the Gibeonites, who fooled Joshua into thinking they were from a far country, with their “old shoes clouted upon their feet, and old garments upon them; and all the bread of their provision dry and mouldy.”  - Joshua 9:5

“Nor am I trying to fool anybody!” he finished, while everyone laughed.  “And my Bread is ever new,” he added, holding up his Bible.  

Several of my quilting friends on Facebook have lately been aggravated by strange men trying to ‘befriend’ them – not by the ‘normal’ method of clicking ‘Friend’ on a person’s main profile page, but by typing replies under my friends’ posts with fake ‘introductions’ and compliments on their profile pictures, or by telling them how ‘interesting’ their posts are.  This is a well-known way of duping people – but the stupid thing is, people go right on falling for this farce, and many have been scammed out of a whole lot of money by these scam artists.

But it is pretty funny when they post under a picture I took of our neighbors’ cute little billy goat showing his teeth – and they write, “I admire your beautiful smile!”  (Really!  It happened right on my very own Facebook page.  😄)

Just last week, it was reported in the local news that a 56-year-old Lincoln man had lost at least $150,000 in a Facebook romance scam.  He had been messaging with an unknown woman on Facebook who wanted him to send her cellphones to an address in Nigeria.  The woman told the man she would come visit him and bring with her $14 million in gold, but there would be taxes and fees associated with the transport.

Multimillionaires don’t choose random idiots on Facebook with whom to share their fortunes.  Don’t people know this?!

Oh, and furthermore, $14,000,000 worth of gold would weigh about 535 pounds.  Was the woman going to be pulling it all along behind her in a train of wheeled luggage bags, or what?

According to police, the man said that since February of 2020 he had sent the unknown woman $150,000 to $200,000 either in gift cards or in bitcoin.  He then (belatedly) searched the woman’s supposed image on the Internet and discovered that she was an actress in ‘adult’ films.

Two weeks ago, it was reported that a 68-year-old woman, also in Lincoln, was scammed out of about $145,000 last month – including almost $120,000 worth of gold bars.  The scammer told her to get the cash and the gold bars and leave it outside of her home, and an agent would pick it up – and she did it!!  Good grief.

All this, because someone called and told her that an unauthorized purchase of a laptop had been made on her Amazon account, and that other accounts of various types had been opened in her name, and this was how she was supposed to rectify the situation.  I wonder if that lady needs someone to take over her finances (if there’s anything left)?  Seems like a normal-thinking person would know better than to do what she did.

We had bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches for supper that night, using the thick bacon Kurt and Victoria gave Larry for Father’s Day.  Mmmmm, yummy.  That’s very possibly my favorite sandwich.

One of my blind friends recently bought a new telescoping fiberglass cane.  It was a bit pricey, “But,” she said, “maybe it’ll last the rest of my natural life.  I trust I shall not need a cane to ‘stroll over heaven with you’.” 

That last phrase is from a song sung by the Happy Goodmans and others, called ‘I Want to Stroll over Heaven with You Some Glad Day.’

I replied, “Nope, ‘No canes in heaven fair; No canes, no canes up there!’” (borrowing from another old song we know).

Once I said that, Penny couldn’t remember the real words to the song.  I was reading these emails out loud to Larry, and then he couldn’t remember the correct words, either.  😅

The words come from the chorus:  “No tears in heaven fair, No tears, no tears up there; Sorrow and pain will all have flown; No tears in heaven fair, No tears, no tears up there; No tears in heaven will be known.”

I used to sing songs to the kids, and insert some funny word in it somewhere.  Every once in a while this backfired, and the kid got struck funny in church right when we were singing that song.

I learned that trick from my father, who sang all sorts of funny words in songs – usually in songs he wasn’t particularly fond of.

Speaking of canes, we had a friend who had been struck with polio when he was four years old.  He recovered, but one leg did not grow as much as the other and was seriously underdeveloped – a common complication with polio survivors.  He wore a brace on that leg and walked with a cane, all the years we knew him.

When Caleb was a little guy, about 2 years old, he called Harry “the big man with the candy cane.”

Harry used the kind of cane with a U-shaped curl at the top – hence, Caleb’s ‘candy cane’ description. 

Caleb & Teddy, Garden of the Gods, March 17, 1998

A year later, his understanding of such things had increased.  He then called Harry’s cane a ‘kickstand’.  😂

Tuesday was Loren’s 84^th birthday.  The nursing home always does all sorts of things for their residents’ birthdays.  I saw by photos on their Facebook page that the residents were out in the courtyard that day, and they had a bubble machine going – or maybe they were blowing bubbles with bottles and wands.  There were pictures of some of the elderly people smiling and blowing at the bubbles.  There was no picture of Loren.  I don’t know what he would’ve thought of that activity; he usually acts like the children’s toys and games they play with the residents are goofy, and not for adults.  Now, if there had’ve been children there playing with the bubbles and having fun, he would’ve enjoyed watching that.

He liked the little red Volkswagen Beetle and the 1956 Ford pickup we gave him not because they are toys, but because he knows they are collectors’ items, and décor for his room.  And he enjoyed showing them to his niece’s sons last week.

Tuesday, a friend wrote to me, “My two little granddaughters are outside ‘collecting’ pretty rocks.”  >>...pause...<<  “My driveway is slowly disappearing.”

Daddy once told me that if I kept up my rock-collecting out in Colorado, there would soon be no mountains left.  Also... since I could not seem to self-moderate very well, my parents gave me a shoebox, and said I could collect as many rocks as would fit in the box, and no more.

As a little child, I knew the meaning of deprivation.  One box of rocks.  Only one.  One.  😏

I got 177 pictures scanned that day and finished another album.

Each Tuesday evening for my MeWe Quilt Talk group, I post a ‘Winding Thread’ topic. 

Here was the question a couple of weeks ago: 

When you are looking at quilts, be it at a quilt show, online, or in books, what is it that first catches your eye?  Is it the pattern?  The color?  The fabrics?

If you try to replicate that quilt, are you successful and happy with the results?  If not, why?  Is it like when a young bride was trying to follow a recipe when she didn’t have all the ingredients, so she substituted this... substituted that... substituted something else... and then later told someone, “Don’t ever use that recipe!  It’s a bad one.”?  😂

As for me, I notice colors in a quilt first, and the pattern immediately thereafter.

Last week’s Winding Thread, or ‘survey’, as it were:

 

Give yourself a point for every item on this list that you’ve done:

 

1.                 Ripped out the same seam.  Twice.

2.                 Taught someone else to sew or quilt.

3.                 Given up on a quilt that was too difficult or had too many things go wrong.

4.                 Bought fabric without a specific purpose.

5.                 Made something quilted as a gift.

6.                 Returned to the fabric store for something you forgot the first time, or for more fabric because you didn’t get enough.

7.                 Surprised yourself with your quilting prowess.

8.                 Altered or created a quilt pattern on your own.

9.                 Been asked to do some type of quilting (or alterations or repairs, because ‘if you like to quilt, you surely must like to alter or repair’) for someone else.

10.             Made a quilted item of one sort or another for a special occasion.

11.             Taken a vacation detour specifically to visit a fabric store or quilt shop.

12.             Sewn a sleeve inside out or onto the wrong side.

13.             Broken a needle twice on the same project.

14.             Run out of thread before finishing a project.

15.             Found a thread hanging long after the quilt was done.

16.             Left a scorch mark from the iron.

17.             Forgotten to prewash your fabric.

18.             Gone more than a year without getting your machine serviced or cleaned.

19.             Sewn through your finger, clothing, a ruler, or something you shouldn’t have sewn through.

20.             Tried to sew a zigzag stitch with a straight stitch foot on.

 

Surprise!  The more points you have, the more experienced a seamstress and quilter you are!  (Or at least that’s what the original article says.  That’s probably a matter of opinion.  😉)

I got 17 points.  One of the things I never do is let my machines go unserviced or uncleaned or unoiled (and I do it myself, or ask Larry for assistance).  I also have not made a vacation detour to go to a fabric store, though we have specifically gone to big quilt shows, and we did once stop at Quilts, Etc., in Sour Lake, Texas, to get a few things (including the Vintage Sewing Machine Panel) – but it was on our route, and we spotted it as we were driving by.  The third thing I have not done is give up on a quilt (or any sewing project, for that matter) because it was too difficult.  By hook or by crook, I somehow manage to finish my projects.  😁

I did once sew a sleeve into a neckhole.  >> ... pause ... <<  The child had to have regular chiropractic treatments thereafter.

Pretty house in Trinidad, Colorado March 16, 1998

Next, we discussed the troubles with finding good workers at car dealerships.

A few years ago, we had a new fuel pump put in a Jeep.  Guess what one of the mechanics did with the old fuel pump?  He put it in an open cardboard box and set it in the back of our Jeep on the pristine light gray carpeting.

I went to get the Jeep... climbed in... and bailed right back out again.  My lovely Jeep positively reeked of gas.  I got a headache, just that fast.

Furthermore, gas had soaked through the cardboard and into the carpeting.

I marched straight back inside, asked to speak to a manager, and gave him my tale of woe.

Is it any wonder those guys are called ‘grease monkeys’??!

People were soon in gear getting that horrid fuel pump out of my vehicle, cleaning the carpet with some sort of soap that smelled pretty good, and spraying car air freshener into the vents while the air conditioner was on.

When they were done, the carpet looked all right, and the smell wasn’t bad, though I could still detect a whiff of gas.  They gave me a coupon for a free detailing of the entire vehicle.

That coupon is still in my purse, and it is now several years old.  Wonder if they’d still honor it?  I’ve never used it, because we live several miles from the dealership, and I’ve never had an overwhelming urge to cool my heels in their customer lounge while workers clean my car.  Larry and I are quite capable of keeping our vehicles clean.  😏

Thursday morning I got up at 6:45 a.m. after another nearly sleepless night, the second in a row.  

I got dressed to go outside and work in the gardens... put on my garden shoes – oooowwweeeee!  The broken little toe hurt too much for those shoes.  I reluctantly put on some nice Nikes that used to be Norma’s.  I’d rather not ruin them working in the gardens, but they’re half a size bigger.  Maybe they would work. 

My little toe hurt, but I walked around a bit, thinking it would soon be all right. 

It would not.

I removed the shoes – and saw that in that short amount of time, my little toe had swollen and turned purple.  Guess I won’t be working in the gardens yet!

So...  I took a shower, ate breakfast, managed to take an hour-long nap, and went upstairs to scan photos.

That afternoon, I sent Hester some pictures taken when she was in Jr. Fire Patrol in the 5^th grade.

She soon responded, “Those are fun to see!  I equally enjoyed and hated Jr. Fire Patrol.  😅😅”

“I felt the same way,” I told her.  “I was really timid, and it made my stomach all wrong side out to be thrown into the midst of a bunch of loud kids I didn’t know, other than the ones from my own class.  No one would’ve ever known it, though; I ignored the bad ones (there are always bad ones, you know), was friendly (but reserved) with the nice ones, and did my absolute, most valiant best to act totally nonchalant.” 

That combination of attitudes was mostly entirely due to my mother’s influence.  Daddy taught me to view ginkheads with humor; Mama taught me to neither see nor hear the obnoxious ones.  Be as nice as possible... and if it’s not possible, punch to kill!!!!!  (Okay, Mama never said that last bit.  😏)

I was really, really glad when my school’s Jr. Fire Patrol gatherings were scheduled for Wednesday evenings – the same nights we have our midweek church services.  My teacher assured me that I could go on Tuesday evenings instead, but then the only person I would’ve known would’ve been Mitzi Thornbrier (I made that name up; you needn’t bother hunting for her on Facebook), an odd, dumpy, and malicious little person who liked to tell everyone that we were ‘friends’, thereby causing them all to think that I was as nutty as she was.

I bowed out.  (And in case you are wondering, I don’t mind ‘odd and dumpy’.  ‘Malicious’, though, I mind.)

But I did fill out a gazillion fire hazard slips, or whatever those things were called, trotting around the house and yard and garage writing down anything and everything that could somehow be construed (or misconstrued) as a fire hazard, never mind what a stretch of the imagination it might take.

My father was unimpressed with this mission.  In fact, he was extremely unimpressed.  He envisioned firemen, police, the FBI, the CIA, the Continental Army, the Canadian Mounties, and the French Brigade all converging on our house in unison and hauling him off in handcuffs and straightjacket for creating all those fire hazards.

I somehow convinced him that there would be thousands of like hazard slips turned in... they couldn’t (and wouldn’t) follow up on all of them... and they in fact encouraged us fifth-graders to take care of the matters ourselves.  So he let me turn the slips in.

He was unusually unenthusiastic when I then won the contest (probably imagining it would indeed call unwanted attention to his firetrap of a house, haha).  I have no idea if I got a certificate or a prize of any sort, or merely laurels and honor.

Let’s revisit the Mitzi Thornbrier matter:

Ditzy Mitzi once told our 4^th-grade teacher, upon getting every last multi-digit subtraction problem on the page checked wrong, that I had told her all the wrong answers.  I was astonished – and quite relieved when the teacher didn’t believe her.  She knew I was always willing to help other students with their work, but I not only didn’t just dole out the answers, I also would never have given anyone the wrong answers.

What actually happened was this:  Mitzi had not learned the basics of subtraction; in fact, she hardly had the subtraction table memorized.  As 4^th-graders, we were subtracting four- and five-digit numerals from like numbers, borrowing from the next column, and suchlike.

I went through a careful explanation, showing her how to start with the ones column on the right ——

“Oh, no, you don’t!!” screeched Mitzi, clambering up from her perch on our front porch, where we’d been using the milk box as a writing desk.  “You can’t fool me like that!  I know we start from the left!  We read from the left, and we do math from the left.”

I tried a little harder to show her how it was done.  She wouldn’t listen.  I offered to get my mother to show her.

Mitzi grabbed her ever-present sack of candy, picked up her math book, paper, and pencil, and stalked off haughtily.  Well, that is, she ‘stalked’ as well as she could.  She wasn’t really all that fat, just sort of pudgy.  Her gait was more of a waddle than a stalk.  But her attitude was certainly stalking.

When she got home, she did that entire page of subtraction problems by working each equation from left to right.

For at least ten more years, I tried hard to be friendly and kind to that girl, knowing she had quite a few strikes against her.  But the Jacksons moved to town when we were in the 9^th grade.  Mitzi decided Larry was the one for her. 

Simultaneously, Larry decided I was the one for him.

Mitzi was not receptive to my friendliness ever again.  She vamoosed to parts unknown a couple of years after high school.  I hope she has not often found herself in a position where she needed to use arithmetic skills of any sort.  🥴🧐

I scanned 199 photos Thursday, finishing another album.  Two more albums, and then I can start on the two newly-found bins of albums in the addition.

Here I am on Easter Sunday, 2000.

Computerized washing machines can be a pain.  Every now and then I go into the laundry room to put a load of clothes from the washer into the dryer – and discover the clothes dry as a bone because the washer decided for some unfathomable reason that I had not yet put said clothes into said machine.

Saturday was Teddy’s 39^th birthday – and we had something special for him:  the August Bouquet quilt and matching pillow I made for Loren in 2015 – the one with the blocks that his late wife Janice had embroidered and given to me shortly before she passed away in 2014.

While I did make a quilt for Teddy and Amy several years ago, I have never given Teddy his very own personal quilt – and that just didn’t seem right, since I’ve made personal throws (big ones!) for three sons-in-law, a brother-in-law, and a nephew!  It was high time Teddy had a quilt, and I was glad to be able to give him this one.  (And no, I can’t take it to Loren; it would vanish within the week.)

We also gave Teddy some Relyte products (powdered electrolyte mixes and electrolyte muscle-recovery capsules) from https://redmond.life/ – good products for those working outside in very hot weather.

I scanned a few pictures while waiting for Larry to get ready to go with me to see Loren.  I now have 33,492 photos scanned.

 As we backed out of our drive, I called Teddy to see if we could drop off his gift, but he and Amy were shopping in Fremont.  They were still there as we passed through, so we met them in the middle of town and handed over the loot.

When we got to the nursing home, we found Loren lying on the bed in his room, awake, and once again the heater was on, and set at 73°.  The window was open a few inches, too – and it was 84° outside.  His room felt like a firing kiln – and he was wearing a long-sleeved flannel shirt over another shirt and undershirt! 

In the interest of staying alive, I asked if I could turn the air conditioner on.  He laughed and said, “Yes, it is kind of warm in here, isn’t it?”

We gave him his bag of birthday gifts – a shirt, socks, and some underclothes, a couple of Reader’s Digests, some Messenger newspapers, and a big National Geographic Book of Rare Pictures.

He was pleased with the clothes, especially the socks.  But he loved that big book, paging slowly through it while we visited, discussing and exclaiming over many of the pictures.

I looked through his clothes to see if there was anything he needed – and discovered that most of the drawers in the three smallish dressers in his room were plumb empty!  All of his pants, shirts, and undershirts were hanging in the closet.  The little red car and pickup were in one of the top dresser drawers with a few socks and underclothes.  Larry put the new ones we’d brought into that drawer.  A shaver had miraculously materialized in the metal drawer in the closet (and he was indeed nicely shaven), but the reading glasses were nowhere to be found.  I’ll take him another pair next Saturday; the pack I got had three pairs in it.

The rest of the clothes that couldn’t be hung in the closet were in that same metal drawer, and his extra blankets, hat, gloves, Bible, a few books, and some pictures were on the metal shelves above the drawer.  So I think he still has enough clothes.  I think.

Larry and I ate supper at the Olive Garden, using a gift card from Keith.  An older man was there with several members of his family, and it was his birthday.  Their waiter started singing ‘Happy Birthday’, and the rest of the employees, the man’s family, and other diners joined in, with everyone singing ‘dear Grandpa’, whether they knew him or not.  Wonder of wonders, the entire kit and caboodle sang on tune that evening – and a man at a table behind us was even singing a pretty tenor!  Highly unusual.  We have been in restaurants where they sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to someone, and I don’t believe a solitary soul there could carry a tune in a bucket.

I hear baby birds outside – cardinals, and probably wrens, too.  The scolding wren parents put up a fuss every time we pulled into or backed out of the driveway yesterday, which makes me think I’m right in supposing that those tiny, high-pitched, metallic cheep-cheeps are baby wrens.  Cardinals have two or three clutches a year, building new nests most of the time.  Wrens have two clutches per year, and generally use the same nest, just freshening it up a bit.

And now the dryer will not come on.  It behaves as though it’s unplugged.  What in the world?  Good thing we purchased the extended warranty!  But before we embarrass ourselves, perhaps we should check the breaker.

’Til next time...

 

,,,>^..^<,,,           Sarah Lynn           ,,,>^..^<,,,

 

P.S.:  Okay, I suggested to Larry that he unplug the dryer, wait a minute, and plug it back in, just for kicks.  I’d have done it myself, but the dryer had to be scooted out to get to the plug.

Whataya know, it came back to life again.  I’ll betcha anything the outdoor lint trap needs to be cleaned.  I can’t reach it, though.  Another job for Larry!