5-4-1945
Something new has been added – new upper teeth, to be exact. Dr. Braley handed them over Thursday afternoon, and for the first 48 hours my strongest impulse was to give them back.
Stephen and Bruce came all out in spots the same day – very itchy spots, I may add – and that night was a nightmare of wailing boys with three day measles and a slightly nauseated mama with too much in her mouth.
However, we have pretty well conquered both situations by now. The measles have departed and I can do everything but eat comfortable with my teeth.
"Mary had a little lamb," but Lincoln No. 5 school pupils and their teacher, Helen Sutter, have a dog. They aren't quite clear at to whether they adopted the dog, or it adopted them. Anyway, it's there at the schoolhouse and even waits for them over the weekends.
Johnny Foley, resplendent and terribly proud in a new Indian suit given him by his grandmother, marched over to show off for Mr. Matt Roche, the other day. Mr. Roche was all amazed and said, "So you're a real Indian, are you?"
Momentarily taken aback, Johnny recovered and hastened to reassure him, "Oh, no. I'm just a plain American boy!"
The fire whistle Monday afternoon had Manson all in a dither. With Germany's surrender on everyone's mind, it was a distinct shock to discover it was really for a fire, and a celebration was not in order. Anyway, South Manson was in a mild flurry for a while, much to the delight of our two small boys.
The children had a great time tearing about with May baskets, first to immediate neighbors, then venturing a little farther. Baskets arriving for the eldest were viewed with bubbling interest by the two boys. And then Steve and Bruce came tearing into the house with the sensation of the evening. "This one isn't for her – it's for us!" And it was too. Plainly marked "Stephen and Bruce from Alan Carter."
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5-17-1945
I've been to Kansas City – and I chose Manson. I mean, I had an unforgettable time and enjoyed every minute of my visit, but I'm glad I live in a place this size. Kansas City has streetcars, and tall buildings, visiting celebrities and dozens of dime stores but Manson has a heart!
I drove down with Mrs. Helmer and her two little girls, Kathleen and Mary. In spite of losing our way once and stopping many times to minister unto tires, the trip was pleasant, and seemed short. The little girls' remarkable talent for singing and hilarious activity helped things along considerably. And I never hope to see more excitement then when they spied their Daddy at the outskirts of the city.
My first duty after we arrived and I was deposited at the Union Station was to contact my sister-in-law by telephone. I am acquainted with the dial system so I approached the amazing array of telephones with great confidence, a raging headache, and my suitcase. But the size of the directory, the bewilderment of both numbers and letters on the dial, and the discovery that I had no nickel completely unnerved me and I retired in confusion to the coffee shop where I tried to recover with two aspirins and a cup of coffee. Then with a nickel in my hand and the determination to tackle the directory to learn how to call Westport 4683, I again sallied forth to the telephone. I cannot describe the blessed relief I felt when I heard Rosamonds familiar voice. But it was my last attempt to telephone in Kansas City, though I saw any number of people do it with the utmost nonchalance!
We have a baby chick at our house. Andrews Hatchery presented it to Steve while I was gone and there it was firmly established with feed and water and electric lights when I got back. It is in a fair way to be killed with kindness, for no chick ever had so much clucking and fussing over it as this one. But it has to live if for no other reason than to prove it can be done in defiance of all prophecies to the contrary. Steve firmly believes it is going to grow up and lay eggs for him. We fervently hope it isn’t the kind that crows instead!
Housecleaning goes slowly, what with the weather being what it is and the children marooned in the house, plus a complete lack of ambition.
While listening to the commencement exercises Thursday night, I idly and innocently figured up the years since my graduation and was horrified with the sudden knowledge that all those boys and girls on the platform were tiny babies then. It made me feel so old, I wondered if I’d have to call for a cane of help me totter out of the auditorium when the program was over.
On V-E day in Kansas City in a certain schoolroom, the teacher decided that they sing to celebrate and called for appropriate suggestions. "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning" was selected and sung. Then a little boy piped up with, "Lay that Pistol Down," and was enthusiastically joined by the whole class.
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5-24-1945
Steve's chicken grows and prospers but the rest of us are growing thin trotting back and forth with food and water. It is one of those flighty Leghorns and nearly drove me frantic Friday, flying out of his box. I have violent objections to chicks calmly walking between my feet while I'm ironing and then having to chase it under tables and chairs in an effort to corral it. Especially when I’m busy. So now it’s in a larger box with grating over it, but I wish it were in the chicken house.
Visitors have prophesied variously concerning its possible gender but our ignorance of such matters forces us to just wait and see. Steve is still counting the eggs, however.
I am a firm believer in Vacation Bible School – especially if other people take charge of it. This year, I have been drafted to help. Simple, blind faith must have prompted the authorities in asking me and simple, blind faith led me to accept, much against my better judgment. My school teaching days many years behind me, and these later years have been confined to instructing a baby how to use his own spoon, and showing a little girl how to fold beaten egg whites into the cake dough.
I've been trying to brush up, mentally and remember what I can of the Bible school at home that I helped teach one year. My recollections aren't of much help, though, as all I seem to recall is how I had to practically sit on the minister's son to make him behave and the terrible wastepaper baskets. I can't think, as there seems to be no correlation between them and Bible study.
I taught Sunday school class all through my high school days and am entirely cured to teaching preschool children. It's too much for my delicate nervous system to have the story of Joseph's coat interrupted by "I have new shoes!" Or to be thoroughly convinced by the dreamy angelic look on the face of a little girl, that your message of love had touched her heart and to say gently, "You want to be a good girl and go to heaven, don't you dear?" and to be completely unnerved by her alarmed answer, "I'd rather go to our picnic."
Which reminds me of my favorite teaching story. I was practice teaching on the 4th grade in the training school in Cedar Falls, the current lesson being on the domestic duties of the later cave women. The lesson told of making some kind of bread and "knead" was one of the words to be learned. Noticing that little Katherine's attention had wandered, and deciding to be smart enough to drive home two lessons at once I asked, "What does 'knead' mean, Katherine?" She came to with a start and a "huh?" and I expanded a bit. "Knead. What does your mother do when she kneads bread?"
Katherine visibly relaxed, "Oh, she just sends me to the store after some."
So far, since school closed, our daughter has pretty well fulfilled her contract to work two hours every day. Such things as breakfast dishes and cleaning her room keep her well occupied. Steve also has his morning task of clearing off the breakfast table – a chore that usually looms like a mountain between him and freedom out of doors.
On Sunday, all three helped their father plant the garden, but the children were prone to wilt in the middle of each row. Bruce was excused by virtue of his youth, when he retired warm and thirsty and tired, but the other two were encouraged to finish planting what they were so eager to start. We do try to instill in our youngsters a combination of enterprise and perseverance, qualities so often lacking in any great degree in us adults. The delicate thing about it is to make certain that by forcing them to stick to a job until it is done, we do not dull that will-to-do.
I chortled heartily over the weather item in Monday's Des Moines Tribune. "Iowans basked in a rare day of warm and sunny weather Sunday," it said, "but the situation was back to normal Monday."
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