Organization

Verily his ducks are always in a row who has but two ducks.  --Problurbs 1:8

Observed by Euclid of Alexandria, 4th/3rd Centuries B.C.

We Remember

vanilla with Vee and Mama                                                                                                                                                          BBBH with her Mother

Mother's Day 2015

I wrote this piece for Mother's Day a year ago. As we celebrate our mothers be considerate of others, knowing that not all lives are molded by similar circumstances.  Hope yours is a blessed and happy Mother's Day weekend.

A Mother's Day Tale

The white mid-heel pumps elevated her to just over six feet.  She thought them a flattering addition to her ensemble, though the cost at just over two-hundred dollars with tax had made them more than half the price of her entire outfit,  She topped herself off, so to speak, with the cute little short-brimmed fedora, white with a pink rosette attached to the black band on the right, the sole touch of color she wore this morning.

Midge was thankful, almost thrilled, that hats were back.  She had suffered through the long years during which they had fallen out of favor.  She liked to be stylish, but she had doggedly refused to go to church without a hat, and now, glory be, she was no longer the only woman in the pews properly so attired.

The white shantung two-piece suit had been a bargain she could not pass by, and it was flattering to her slender figure.  The skirt and jacket were both modest in cut, but the overall effect said, “This woman knows how to dress.”  So what if the calendar tells her that Memorial Day is yet two weeks away?  It is a fantastic Spring morning, and nothing would make her feel better than to be dressed in her newest and most flattering threads.  Do people refer to clothing as “threads” anymore?  No, probably not.  So much has changed.  So much has changed.

Midge had just observed her sixty-sixth birthday a week ago, but as she checked her appearance in the mirror one last time before departing her house, she thought, “Not too bad for an old lady, considering what I have to work with.”  And with a smile she stepped through her front door to start the walk to the little stone church about a mile away on Langer Road.  Midge’s smile faded as she walked, for she sensed that she was an island alone in a stream, being passed on all sides by those who gave her no thought, no consideration, who, in fact, seemed unaware of her existence.  And this is Mother’s Day.  There could hardly be a worse time for this lady to go to church, to listen to the paeans to motherhood.  But she is faithful.

Midge Wilson was born in 1948.  She had never known a parent, father or mother, for she was an orphan, at least so far as anyone knew.  The infant Midge was literally placed on the doorstep of the rectory in a large city in the Midwest.  She had three or four years with a family that had adopted her, but the Wilsons both perished in an auto accident, and again the child was without parent.  No one in the Wilson family was willing to take another child into their home, and thus an orphanage became her home.  Midge was never again adopted, but she was bright and determined.  She graduated high school, went to business college.  She had been engaged as a bookkeeper, a job for which she was well-suited, and she made a career of it.   She had never married, and though she was an attractive lady, she seemed never to be able to make the kind of connection she believed was important to a marital relationship.  She laid her pencils and spreadsheets aside only a few months past. She was anticipating a life of travel, seeing the world about which she had only read.

Her little heels click as she walks along, but a sense of dread builds up within her.  Now she is seated in the sanctuary and the service begins.  Then, indeed, the praise of mothers begins, the recognition of special mothers, the oldest mother, the youngest.  The mother with the most children present this morning, and so on.  And Midge, having never known a mother’s love, having never been a mother, is less than worshipful in her outlook.  But she endures.

Following the service, Miss Wilson walks four blocks to a nice restaurant for the Sunday brunch.  She takes her time, enjoys the spread.  She manages to put thoughts of the past into the past and begins thinking about her future.  Her mood lightens, the day brightens, and by the time she steps into the street again, she is her old cheerful self.  A few blocks along and she is in front of a nursing home. On impulse she turns up the drive, goes to the front door.  She is admitted when she explains that she hoped to visit for a few minutes with anyone who might not have family present on this day.  In the lounge or parlor area, groups of people are laughing, chatting with loved ones and generally seem to be in the spirit of the day.

In one corner of the room sits a lady in a wheelchair.  This woman has clearly lived many, many years.  Midge could not guess how old she was, but some number up to the century mark would have been credible.  Midge pulled a chair near her and introduced herself.  “Have you family, Mother?”  Midge asked.

“Oh, yes,” replied the old soul, “I have two daughters.  They are the loveliest girls in the world.  I am sure they will be here soon.”

“That’s wonderful.  Perhaps we can visit a bit while we wait for them.  Could you tell me about your daughters?”

“Oh, yes.  Susan, Susan is the older one.  Susan married well.  Her husband is an executive vice-president with Wells Fargo.  Patricia has four children, the darlingest grandchildren ever!”  And she lives...”  The old lady raised her head, looked toward the door and said, “Oh, look!  Here come my girls now!”

Susan turned to see a short plump woman in blue jeans leading two golden retrievers across the room.  Midge realized that the woman was on a mission to cheer people with her therapy dogs.  The lady came directly toward them, and the old mother reached toward the animals.  “Oh, my girls,” she said, “I knew you would come!”  And as she placed her hand on the head of the nearer beautiful beast, she continued, “Patricia, it has been so long.  How are you?  Are you well?  How are the children?”

Midge left the room and exited the building, all the while thinking.  I really haven’t the faintest idea about motherhood.  Never had a mother, never been a mother.  And now I am thinking maybe that is not a bad thing.

© 2014 David W. Lacy

Just Ducky

Happy is he whose ducks are in a row. --Problurbs 1:7

Spring Chores

Sunny and eighty, so we get nuts and mow the yard.   Plant a few seeds.  Then we really go crazy: wash all (14) floor-to-ceiling glass panels in the sunroom.  Inside and out.

We're tired.

But blessed in that we are able to do this stuff. Slowly, we admit, but we get 'er done.

Old Folks at Home

Our little canine companion, Wiener by name, is a very cuddly little guy.  Before he came to us he had a companion, long-hair dachshund, with whom he shared a cage.  He has made the best of a lonely situation, what with living with two elderly human-types.

Wiener has a basketful of toys, squeak toys, fuzzy toys, balls, animals and so on.  He knows some of them by name.  For example, say, "Get the horsie,"  or "Go find your pig," and he will make the correct choice.  The pig is quite useful, too, for its squeak is exactly what is needed to call him in from outside, or from his hiding place if he has holed up somewhere.

We have two stuffed dogs which I refrain from calling "toys" for they were simply decor in our sunroom.  Wiener has adopted them, not as toys, but as companions for his afternoon naps.  He can often be seen sleeping with one or both of them.

We find that the guy is a bit of an oldster himself as witness the white in his muzzle.  Recent calculations estimate his true age at about fourteen.  This was determined by noting the age of a grandson when Wiener joined that family and the age of that grandson now. Now how could that kid be twenty-four years old?

Happy Woman

My BBBH rarely passes on the first melon of the season.  When they show up, she shows up. There may be nothing she likes better.

She has just cut into the thing and has taken out a slice of heaven.  Her words: "That's better than candy!" I have heard her utter that incantation over virtually every watermelon she has tasted in my presence.  Actually, watermelon is better than almost anything in her estimation.  I mean, the girl loves watermelon!

BBBH tells this on herself.  When she was a little girl, four and five years old, summertime came, family get-togethers in progress, she would climb up on her uncle's lap and say, "Uncle Leek, will you buy us a big ol' watermelon?"

And of course, he did.  I can relate to that.  Those big brown eyes have looked into mine, too. 

May Basket, Again

If one is unable to come up with new material, the least he can do is search the past for something meritorious.  I liked this enough to publish it once before, so here it is again.  Enjoy!

Children, chances are that were I to say "May basket" you would have no clue.  Here you go, then.  It was in the deep, dark recesses of time past, in that time before there were smart phones, that time before television.  Yes, my dears, there was such a time, and I was eyewitness to that age.  What did one do with himself?  Heavens to Murgatroyd, life must have been a drag.

So you might think.  But that was not the case at all.  Children living in a neighborhood, and that could encompass an area of several square blocks, would gather together and play.  Play?  Yes, play. They would organize themselves, themselves, I tell you, into teams and get up a game of softball. They would play hide-and-go-seek, Red Rover, kick-the-can, or, oh, there were so many games to play!  Quieter activities might include marbles or jacks, hopscotch, I Spy, but now you once again have no clue.

Then on a mid-Spring day we would celebrate May Day.  While the adolescent children might focus on dressing in spring finery and twirling round a Maypole, the younger set would engage in innocent and artistic activities such as the preparation of May baskets.

First, one gets his, or her, crayons, paper, and mucilage.  Nevermind, school paste will do.  After one has made the basket, she, or he, gathers some nice fresh, green grass with which to line the basket.
Then the flowers are gathered.  First of May.  Perhaps a jonquil, if there is one in our own yard-- never steal garden flowers from a neighbor.  Otherwise, some nice, bright dandelions.  A few violets. See them there, springing up in the grass?  Perhaps some blossoms from the crabapple tree.  Arrange these pretties in the basket.  Now you are ready.

Right after supper and just before dark, twilight, I think it is called, we select in our minds the recipient of the basket.  We slip across the street, up the sidewalk and go to the front door of the house.  We hang the basket carefully on the doorknob, or if that is not possible, we set it carefully on the porch in front of the door.  Then, and this is key, then we KNOCK loudly and RUN off the porch and hide behind the hedge where we can watch, but not be seen.

The perplexed householder will look around, look down, espy the basket, and a beautiful smile will brighten his or her visage!  Or so we hope.

A successful and happy May Day!

Kids, on the next page there are pictorial directions for building a May Basket!