Sunday Sermon

This commercial shows on most channels and at all hours of the day and night. This image was captured at 9:27 a.m. Sunday on the CBS outlet during "Sunday Morning" program.

This is wrong on so many levels that I cannot even begin.

Sewing at Home

Machine is marked "Patent November 30, 1866". A bit more about the machine over at Retrotechnocracy.

This old sewing machine occupies space on our landing/hallway on the second floor.

BBBH is quite adept at sewing, and in fact in her younger day, she taught sewing and worked as demo artisan for Singer. She uses a rather elderly Singer to this day. This piece of decor pictured here was an antique shop find several years ago, and it serves its function as decor quite nicely.

The spouse and I took a jaunt to a machine outlet a few years ago to evaluate the new equipment, with an eye to updating the home sewing room. After studying the offerings, she concluded that had she wanted a computer, she would have gone to the computer store. What I want to do, she said, is sew. I don't want to have to master computer technology in order to do what I already know how to do quite well, thank you.

She still uses the old Singer 401 Slant Needle DeLuxe.

Fourth Grade

Somewhere back in May or June, we were following the Boy through school, a grade at a time.. I believe we got through third grade. Moving on, here are some reflections on fourth grade.

The little guy was still attending Washington School in Canon City. He still enjoyed recess time, with the marbles as the high point of the school day. And as we observed about his third grade teacher, the name of the fourth grade teacher is completely lost in the mists of flawed memory.

There were, though, some memorable events in the life of this nine-year old boy. It was during this year that the Boy began to take notice of girls as something other than just kids. There was one young thing in particular whom he noticed to an extreme. He sat mesmerized, mooning, one might say, over the very sight of this vision of loveliness. Her name was Betty. The conclusion of fourth grade was the end of any contact or knowledge of her whereabouts that the Boy had.

But, alas, Betty had eyes only for Jerry. Little flirt. Always... Anyway, Jerry was the son of the city's Firechief. Early training in rejection and dealing with the pain thereof.

Every Tuesday, each child brought to school a dime or dimes. Mid-morning, they all walked together in a rigid little line, two-by-two, the two blocks to the post office. There each one walked up to the counter in his turn and purchased a "war stamp." This, in its turn, was pasted into a booklet, which when filled, was turned in for a war bond. The Boy doesn't remember whether he ever completed a booklet or not. Bonds could be purchased in denominations as low as ten dollars which cost $7.50 and would be worth ten dollars at maturity.



Economic note: $7.50 in 1943 would be equivalent to about $95.00 in today's money. Which is to say, it would cost you more than a buck and a quarter to buy a '43 dime's worth of merchandise. It was, I think, in late '42 or early '43 that the price of a loaf of Wonder Bread at the corner grocery went from eight to nine cents. When I was sent to the store with a dime to fetch that loaf of bread, I would ask Mama if I could "spend the pennies." Often the answer was "No".

Treasure Island

I have a much-too large collection of old books. (Nah, one can't have too many books) Occasionally I pick one from its shelf and peruse it for old-times' sake. I decided a few days ago to re-read Treasure Island.

This gem was published between 1901 and 1904. I know this because the company that printed it was in business only during those years. The book is intact, except for bits and pieces of paper that have flaked off in handling; and a lot more of these bits fell to the lap and the floor during my recent handling of the book. But the text is all there, undamaged.

I have come to suspect that when some people say, "I am re-reading..." followed by the name of a classic, they in truth are reading it for the first time. I know that that is true for me in this case. As were you, if you are "of a certain age," I was introduced to Stevenson and this story in high school Freshman English class. And though I have been, since toddler stage, a voracious reader, guess what would "kill" the desire to read a selection quicker than anything? Give up? To have it assigned in class to be read. Thus I probably learned that RLS was a seminal novelist, that this particular story is a morality tale and a "coming of age" tour de force, blah, blah blah, and yet I never read it until last week! Shame on me? Indeed. But I was fourteen, what do you expect?

I quite enjoyed this story; and I think I would have done when I was fourteen. What's the difference between a fourteen year-old boy and a seventy-six year old man? About 62 years.

Here you go, Miss Long. I've completed that assignment.

Yard Art

Duck and Wheel with String discovered Goose with Frock and Bonnet on her front step. Lin is so not into kitsch. I get that. But this has prodded me into making this terrible confession. We have concrete statuettes in our yard. This SWaSD tableau is in our back yard, not visible from the street. Nor can the next-door neighbors see them unless they are looking for them. Is there an excuse for this? Yes. Yes, there is. They make BBBH happy! So it is likely that each spring I will place them somewhere in the backyard. Each fall I'll lug them back into the barn to protect them from the ravages of winter. And Snow White weighs ninety pounds. [groan]

(Scroll down for today's bonus post.)

July's Funniest Commercial

Chuck asked "What's your favorite commercial?" Well, right now it's this Travelers spot.

Ben Lacy

Ben B. Lacy was born September 25, 1919 in Wiley, Colorado. Uncle Ben passed away July 12, 2010 in Pueblo, Colorado.

I posted this tribute to Uncle Ben on his 90th Birthday.

http://vanilla-ststt.blogspot.com/2009/09/my-uncle-ben.html

I will miss this wonderful strong and righteous man.

Loonville Vingette 6 = Independent Elderly

Directly across the street from us lived Mrs. Smith. She was ninety-two years old, and as the cliche says, spry as a spring chicken. I had cultivated a friendship with her since she was a very interesting lady and seemed to have very few visitors. She would sit on her porch of an evening, gently rocking in the swing. I would saunter across the street and sit on the step and visit with her. But our relationship had gotten off to a rocky start.

This occured when, one Saturday as I watched her pushing her old reel-type mower across the front yard, I thought to do the Boy Scout thing, you know, the good deed. I walked over. She stopped. I reached for the machine handle, saying, "Let me give you a hand with that." Mrs. Smith jerked the handle away from me and snarled, "Look, Sonny. I'm perfectly able to take care of myself and my yard. I'm old, but I ain't dead yet." I allowed that I was sorry, only trying to be a good neighbor. She apologetically said, "I'm sorry, too. But if I stop moving, I'll lock up and maybe never get started again."

One evening, I confided in her that Dr. Malton seemed to me to be even more arrogant than the average sawbones. "Don't you give him no nevermind. I recollect that whippersnapper when he was nothin' mor'n a snot-nosed ragamuffin, runnin' 'round annoying all the neighbors. He ain't no better'n he oughta be."

Sadly, several years later, Mrs. Smith, now well past 95, said to me one day, "I just wish I could die." "Oh," I retorted, "you don't mean that." "Yes," she assured me. " I most certainly do. I've lived way too long. If you ever get to be this old, you'll understand."

It was not long before her wish came true.

© 2010 David W. Lacy