7-5-1945
"Is that so?" I said politely, and then, "What did you say?"
"We lost two babies this afternoon," he replied provokingly, but finally relented and explained himself.
When they had had everything ready for the press run, someone discovered that the birth announcements weren't in. Consternation prevailed and the whole force scurried about searching high and low for the type that had certainly been set up and proofed and put somewhere ready for insertion. They finally had to go to press without the very young sons of Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Shertz and Mr. and Mrs. William Harris.
However, the items have been set up once more and the babies are officially greeted in this week's issue – I think.
"You do?" asked his father, "Why do you think so?"
"This lady gave me two sticks of gum, and the other just gave me one." Replied Terry enthusiastically.
- I am on my hands and knees busily pulling weeds, flinging them in piles behind me. Steve approaches and with a magnanimous air, suggests, "Why don't I pick up those weeds and take them to the junk pile?"
- "That's a good idea, Steve. You can get a basket from the basement to haul them in."
- He trots off with bustling importance and I look up to find Bruce at my elbow, putting mud into balls and tossing them about. He catches my eye and explains gravely, "I'm making snowballs."
- I go on weeding and soon Steve is back with his basket and rapidly fills it to capacity.
- "Oh, this is too heavy. Bruce, will you help me carry it?"
- Bruce, who usually will try anything once, struggles along on his side of the basket to the end of the row and lets loose.
- "Bruce, please help me," wails Steve.
- "I'm too tired," Bruce informs him and wanders off to the chickens where he watches them with an intent air until he notes that Steve has emptied the basket of half of its contents and gone off alone to the junk pile. Then he strolls back to me.
- "You should help Steve." I reprove him.
- "You know what?" says Bruce, his eyes round.
- "No – what?"
- "Those chickens will grow up to be horses someday."
- "Oh, I don't think so."
- "They might," he insists. "Those chickens might grow up to be horses."
- Steve has returned for more weeds and is outraged.
- "Don't be silly. Chickens don't grow up to be horses. They get to be hens."
- "They might," Bruce reiterates adamantly. "They might grow up to horses. Daddy told me."
- This renders Steve speechless with exasperation and I interpose hastily.
- "Bruce, why don't you help Steve put the weeds in the basket?"
- Bruce looks ill and strikes out in the direction of the house.
- "I'm too tired. And I have to have a drink of water now." Then over his shoulder from the porch he calls back, "They might!"
- Steve and I exchange weary looks. I go on pulling weeds. Steve picks them up.
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7-12-1945
Mr. Nelson Kaufman of Hannibal, MO, leader of the school, made a pertinent statement that I thoroughly agree with. In stating that their teachers were all Christians, he said that it is important that teachers should be true Christians, in dealing with children of all ages, but especially important for the beginners. They may not remember so much what they have been taught, but the spirit and the atmosphere in which they were taught will always remain with them.
Among my warmest memories of my childhood are the picnics we had in just such a fashion. We'd take the pan of fried potatoes and a casserole of meat and a bowlful of garden lettuce and radishes and onions and a loaf of bread and all pile in the Model T and clatter out the river road to a nice shady spot, and eat our supper. Nothing ever tasted so good!
Upon reflection though, I guess, I haven't done too badly. The first time two chickens arrived alive, I had urgent business downtown and Ruby had them killed and defeathered when I got home. So I put them on the kitchen table, surveyed them helplessly, made a tentative gash in one and sent out an S. O. S. to Miss Richmond. She bustled across the yard and took over. And before I knew it she had both chickens cleaned and cut up, just showing me how. The next time, my husband was home for the cleaning process and we called on Mrs. Martin for advice. And I cut them up, though I'm not too expert. My mother, though super efficient in most things, was never good at cutting up chickens and when we girls got to the observant age, she would chase us out of the kitchen because we laughed at her desperate attempts at "butchering." So I never learned. But I'm going to have to learn how to do it with about 150 chickens out in the back to be taken care of in the future. And besides, I'm liable to run out of helpful neighbors in time.
"The late B. F. Freeburger, father of Dr. Myrtle Griffin, had a hardware store on the corner where the Lockers now are. The story of the old bell is that Mrs. Freeburger set a tin cup on the counter with the notice on it that everyone who sat on a nail keg should put a nickel in the cup. In those days it was common for men to sit on nail kegs and visit. In that way, she raised the money for the bell, which cost $75.00. After the new church was built, a Mrs. G. G. Brown made the church a gift of the bell that is in use now. The old bell was loaned to the Center Church and was used by them until the church was disbanded. The bell was then returned."
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7-19-1945
When we first discovered there were mulberries trees in the yard, I was unmoved but my husband was delighted.
- "Mulberries and rhubarb!" he exclaimed.
- "Mulberries and bing cherries," exulted Ruby.
- "Mulberries and lemon juice in a pie," said a friend. "Tastes just like blueberries."
- "Mulberries and sugar and cream," yum yummed another.
- I was outraged. "Silk worm food," I protested.
So, much against my better judgment, I tasted one and found out why they should be combined with other fruit for eating. Then I cooked some with rhubarb and it really made a delicious sauce.
PS – It tasted just like rhubarb and nothing else, though!
And if he doesn't have a tent, he can usually concoct one.
My children have always played "tent" somehow or other. In their early years, a blanket thrown over their cribs or playpens completely captivated them. And as they grew older, old blankets and sheets were constantly draped over chairs for their amusement. When they discovered that our card table and a blanket made a gorgeous tent, they were hilarious and the card table suffered. A blanket thrown over a sagging clothesline works too – but doesn't improve the slack in the clothesline.
So a real tent sounds like a pretty good idea to me.
Sudden traitorous thought – would it be as satisfactory as manufactured ones?
We have two hens awaiting their appointment with the roaster next weekend and apparently they are going to pay for board and room in the meantime.
When they found the two eggs laying there in the nest, they simply capered with the surprise and miracle to it all. Then Steve sobered down and said, "I think we ought to thank those nice hens, don't you?" So he turned to them and spoke with grave courtesy, "Thank you, hens."
He and Bruce carried the eggs to the house, carefully cupped in their two hands, and they can't wait for the hens to crackle a triumphant victory signal again.
7-26-1945
I think we should really enter Bruce with it in the next amateur contest. He's a regular one-man band. With the use of his left hand, the instrument can be a horn, a slide trombone, or an ocarina. (Perhaps Mr. Peer's performance on the ocarina last Wednesday is influencing him.) He gravely taps his foot in time to the music and occasionally stops to sing. It's quite a performance, which deserves the applause he demands when he sits down winded.
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