My son and his family are leaving in the morning for a trip to Wyoming to visit with my daughter-in-law's parents. The idea of driving 30 hours with a 1, 4, 6, and 14 year old leaves me shaking in my boots. They, however, have it all planned out with stops to visit our daughter in Iowa and friends in Kansas and Colorado. The car is loaded like a freight train with all the gear required for kids, including movies and games to keep them entertained. It's not like it was when we traveled and I refused to go further than 2 hours from home with two kids in the car.
In an effort to interest my oldest grandson in the joys of reading a map, I hunted up the road atlas and started showing him some of the things they would be passing. I pointed out the continental divide, the various time zones, the national parks and mountain ranges. While intrigued by the zig and zagging of the time zones he remained unenthusiased with reading a map. "But a map shows you all the things you are passing. The rivers, towns, roads, parks, and historic sites." "So do the little green and brown signs", he retorted. "But a map tells you where you are and lets you know when to turn", I pointed out. "That's what a GPS is for," he replied. I sighed in frustration and he laughed. "We'll get there. Don't worry!"
I waved good-by as they went home to finish loading the car, but my thoughts were on the countless miles of cattle trips that we navigated using a road atlas. I rode shotgun with the map spread out in my lap. Days before we left, I had plotted out our route and figured the time it would take. Once we were on the road I studied the map as though we were traveling across unknown continents. I would entertain myself on long stretches by seeing what towns were near, seeking out points of interest to tell the kids about, following the path of the rivers we crossed, comparing populations and areas, and dreaming of the exotic and familiar cities.
When we approached intersections or crowded city exchanges I would get serious. I would search for the best route and call out turn by turn directions to hubby. "We're going to take I-70 just after we cross the bridge over the Mississippi, so stay close to the right lane." I would direct. "Get over now and prepare to exit right". "NO! Don't pass that truck you need to turn RIGHT!" "Whew! Made it. Now we continue for six exits then we will take exit 37."
Thanks to my trusty atlas we found cities, fairgrounds, motels and restaurants. We also found shopping centers, museums, parks, golf courses, colleges, and hospitals. All of these points are labeled on the maps. Over time my atlas became a diary of notes written in the margin. Exit 216 - great ice cream shop. Exit 74 - rest area with walking trails and playground. Exit 4 - Beef House Restaurant. Exit 312 - park with playground. Each state page had it's own litany of found delights.
Over time I have found myself replaced to a large degree by the soothing voice of the GPS lady, although I still check every step with my maps. I overheard hubby telling someone about his new GPS and how much he liked it. "The best part", he enthused, "is that she doesn't get excited and yell and she never nags when I miss a turn!"
Yeah, but she can't give him a high five when he's successfully navigated a tricky location, either!
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Monday, June 25, 2012
Retirement Tale
As a young Home Economics Agent one of my favorite things was visiting the Homemakers clubs during their monthly meetings. This was a great opportunity to visit and enjoy the lively fellowship of the groups. Although you aren't supposed to show favoritism, one club always stands out in my mind. This group of women had mastered the art of living well. They were all rural, country women living in a tiny community out in the county. They had raised their children, helped on the farm, worked for outside income in various jobs, and never lost their ability to see the giggle in it all. This was a group of women that never let life interfere with having fun! Although their lives had held times of sorrow, hardship, trials and frustrations they never failed to find humor and laughter to help them along. Visiting with them was always an adventure.
On one of my early visits the women were sharing the various "joys" of having their husbands retire and hang around the house. There were lots of groans and laughter as they told of husbands being constantly underfoot after years of having the house to themselves. They told of the constant clutter of projects and mess of unfinished repairs. They shared tales of torn up landscaping and do-it-yourself nightmares with emergency calls to plumbers. Each was greeted with laughter, giggles and sympathy.
Finally, one of the ladies, who had been quietly listening, piped up. "Girls, you just don't know how bad it can be. Wendell has finally topped everything!"
She reported that Wendell's retirement from his job as the principal of the local school had not turned out to be the dream that they thought it would. At first she thought that they would adjust to sharing the same space again after all these years. However, it soon became apparent that the two of them just did things differently. If she was running the sweeper he would question why she didn't do it this way. If she was making the beds he would suggest it would work better if she did it this way. If she was washing clothes he would have an idea for better sorting. He organized her grocery lists, rearranged her bookshelf, and set up a new bookkeeping system for her checkbook.
So it was with some feeling of escape that she left one day to get a new perm and some much needed down time at the beauty shop. The process promised her at least several hours of sympathetic understanding. Her husband, left to his own devices, decided that he would attempt to alleviate some of the stress and do something to surprise her. He looked around and thought about all of the work that she did and especially the wonderful meals she prepared. He felt sure that if her kitchen were just a little more efficient then she wouldn't have to work so hard. With that, he set to work, emptying every cabinet and drawer and rearranging each item in what he considered a much more organized and efficient manner. He then wandered off to visit with his friends and tell them how much he had helped his wife.
The perm completed, she arrived home to begin preparing supper. She opened the cabinet to grab a skillet only to discover it filled with dishes. She found the skillet finally in the space under the sink. The spices were now on the canned goods shelf and the canned goods were where the dishes had been. On and on she went trying to find the items she needed for their meal. Finally in frustration she took off her apron and settled in the living room, where she waited for his return. When he came into the room, she eyed him coldly and announced. "You arranged the kitchen to suit you, so start cooking!"
She said they had a lovely meal at the restaurant in town.
On one of my early visits the women were sharing the various "joys" of having their husbands retire and hang around the house. There were lots of groans and laughter as they told of husbands being constantly underfoot after years of having the house to themselves. They told of the constant clutter of projects and mess of unfinished repairs. They shared tales of torn up landscaping and do-it-yourself nightmares with emergency calls to plumbers. Each was greeted with laughter, giggles and sympathy.
Finally, one of the ladies, who had been quietly listening, piped up. "Girls, you just don't know how bad it can be. Wendell has finally topped everything!"
She reported that Wendell's retirement from his job as the principal of the local school had not turned out to be the dream that they thought it would. At first she thought that they would adjust to sharing the same space again after all these years. However, it soon became apparent that the two of them just did things differently. If she was running the sweeper he would question why she didn't do it this way. If she was making the beds he would suggest it would work better if she did it this way. If she was washing clothes he would have an idea for better sorting. He organized her grocery lists, rearranged her bookshelf, and set up a new bookkeeping system for her checkbook.
So it was with some feeling of escape that she left one day to get a new perm and some much needed down time at the beauty shop. The process promised her at least several hours of sympathetic understanding. Her husband, left to his own devices, decided that he would attempt to alleviate some of the stress and do something to surprise her. He looked around and thought about all of the work that she did and especially the wonderful meals she prepared. He felt sure that if her kitchen were just a little more efficient then she wouldn't have to work so hard. With that, he set to work, emptying every cabinet and drawer and rearranging each item in what he considered a much more organized and efficient manner. He then wandered off to visit with his friends and tell them how much he had helped his wife.
The perm completed, she arrived home to begin preparing supper. She opened the cabinet to grab a skillet only to discover it filled with dishes. She found the skillet finally in the space under the sink. The spices were now on the canned goods shelf and the canned goods were where the dishes had been. On and on she went trying to find the items she needed for their meal. Finally in frustration she took off her apron and settled in the living room, where she waited for his return. When he came into the room, she eyed him coldly and announced. "You arranged the kitchen to suit you, so start cooking!"
She said they had a lovely meal at the restaurant in town.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
God and the Neighbors
When we first moved to our community 40 years ago, we lived in town, although, even then, we farmed. We were blessed to find a house in a quiet neighborhood that welcomed us and nurtured us through the early years of our marriage. When we arrived we were childless but in a couple of years we increased our family with a son. Within six months of that event, I was hired as the County Extension Agent for Home Economics. Hubby was already in the process of building a business and farming at night, and soon I was busy with the long hours of an extension agent. It was a hectic, frantic life that you could only do while young and ignorant.
Our son was a bright, sunny, busy little boy. He had a cheerful disposition and a busy attitude. He was quick, light and did I say busy? We enclosed the backyard for his safety and he climbed the fence before the last section was finished. We learned that he was impossible to corral into a confined space, so we enlarged his parameters by telling him that he could roam the yards,but not cross a road. Probably, by today's standards, a solution that would have child services on our case today. However, for him it worked, in that he knew not to cross a street and endanger himself in traffic and kept him in a controlled space.
What we didn't figure on was that it opened our neighbors up for a Dennis the Menace type invasion. Our neighbors, like Mr. Wilson in the comic strip, consisted mostly of retired grandparents. Fortunately they were supremely tolerant of the little boy who felt they were all his favorite friends. He soon developed a daily routine that called for visits to each home.
In the morning he shared breakfast with the neighbor behind us. Mr. V., a retired mechanic, soon discovered that the little boy loved doughnuts. Before long the little powdered sugar doughnuts became a staple on his wife's grocery list. After his doughnut, the little Dennis look alike would wander up the street to visit with Mr. G. Mr. G could be found outside at his picnic table during the days, staying out from under Mrs. G's cleaning and cooking. Most days, Mr. G would be having a little orange juice as he sat in the shade. The little boy learned that Mr. G kept his orange juice in a jar in the bushes next to the table. He couldn't have any of that, but if he went to the door and asked politely, Mrs. G would give him a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator. Years later he would figure out that Mr. G wouldn't share his juice because there was a little something extra in it.
He usually skipped the next house because the owner was a retired school principal. Years of dealing with little boys of all types had given him little tolerance for the antics of a busy, inquisitive menace. Another house yielded a quick golf lesson from a patient, avid golfer who used his back yard to practice chip shots and puts.
If the day got long and a little pick-me-up was needed, he would head for his favorite neighbor, Mr. P. Mr. and Mrs. P raised five children and were always ready to include a little boy in whatever they were doing. This included helping Mr. P wash his car every Saturday morning. An event anticipated only slightly less than birthdays. Early on Saturday, the little boy would rush through his breakfast and head to Mr. P's house, where he would be supplied with a sponge and bucket. With total disregard for wayward splashes of sudsy water and errant sprays from the hose, Mr. P would encourage the little boy in helping to wash the car. His reward would be a piece of hard candy that Mr. P, a rural mailman, would keep for the kids on his route.
These kindly neighbors provided love and support for a little boy as well as, their slightly overwhelmed parents. When our daughter was born, they opened their hearts, and homes, to the little girl who faithfully followed her brother everywhere. They read stories, comforted hurts, patched up quarrels, mediated playground squabbles, watched for potential dangers, and gave many life lessons.
Someone once asked how on earth we managed during those hectic years. I thought about the long list of sitters who had come and gone with little impact. The truth is that my children were raised by God and the Neighbors.
Thank God for you, Neighbors.
Our son was a bright, sunny, busy little boy. He had a cheerful disposition and a busy attitude. He was quick, light and did I say busy? We enclosed the backyard for his safety and he climbed the fence before the last section was finished. We learned that he was impossible to corral into a confined space, so we enlarged his parameters by telling him that he could roam the yards,but not cross a road. Probably, by today's standards, a solution that would have child services on our case today. However, for him it worked, in that he knew not to cross a street and endanger himself in traffic and kept him in a controlled space.
What we didn't figure on was that it opened our neighbors up for a Dennis the Menace type invasion. Our neighbors, like Mr. Wilson in the comic strip, consisted mostly of retired grandparents. Fortunately they were supremely tolerant of the little boy who felt they were all his favorite friends. He soon developed a daily routine that called for visits to each home.
In the morning he shared breakfast with the neighbor behind us. Mr. V., a retired mechanic, soon discovered that the little boy loved doughnuts. Before long the little powdered sugar doughnuts became a staple on his wife's grocery list. After his doughnut, the little Dennis look alike would wander up the street to visit with Mr. G. Mr. G could be found outside at his picnic table during the days, staying out from under Mrs. G's cleaning and cooking. Most days, Mr. G would be having a little orange juice as he sat in the shade. The little boy learned that Mr. G kept his orange juice in a jar in the bushes next to the table. He couldn't have any of that, but if he went to the door and asked politely, Mrs. G would give him a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator. Years later he would figure out that Mr. G wouldn't share his juice because there was a little something extra in it.
He usually skipped the next house because the owner was a retired school principal. Years of dealing with little boys of all types had given him little tolerance for the antics of a busy, inquisitive menace. Another house yielded a quick golf lesson from a patient, avid golfer who used his back yard to practice chip shots and puts.
If the day got long and a little pick-me-up was needed, he would head for his favorite neighbor, Mr. P. Mr. and Mrs. P raised five children and were always ready to include a little boy in whatever they were doing. This included helping Mr. P wash his car every Saturday morning. An event anticipated only slightly less than birthdays. Early on Saturday, the little boy would rush through his breakfast and head to Mr. P's house, where he would be supplied with a sponge and bucket. With total disregard for wayward splashes of sudsy water and errant sprays from the hose, Mr. P would encourage the little boy in helping to wash the car. His reward would be a piece of hard candy that Mr. P, a rural mailman, would keep for the kids on his route.
These kindly neighbors provided love and support for a little boy as well as, their slightly overwhelmed parents. When our daughter was born, they opened their hearts, and homes, to the little girl who faithfully followed her brother everywhere. They read stories, comforted hurts, patched up quarrels, mediated playground squabbles, watched for potential dangers, and gave many life lessons.
Someone once asked how on earth we managed during those hectic years. I thought about the long list of sitters who had come and gone with little impact. The truth is that my children were raised by God and the Neighbors.
Thank God for you, Neighbors.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Rural Living in Iowa
I love the section of Iowa that my daughter and her family live in. We live in a rural area of Kentucky but it's five minutes from the town where hubby works, 7 minutes to the town in the opposite direction, there is a subdivision across the road and one behind us. Admittedly they are small towns and small subdivisions but then we aren't far from the nearest grocery, fast food, Walmart, and stores.
Where my daughter lives, you look out your window and you see fields. There are houses and people out there but they aren't close enough to look back at you. The first thing that strikes me is, that it is dark, I mean really dark, at night. We don't realize how many lights we see from our farm. Looking out at home you will see security lights dotting the landscape like fireflies, marking the other homes in view, the reflected glow of the street lights from the nearby communities, the house lights from across the road, and lots of car lights from the traffic. In Iowa I see stars and velvety darkness.
When we first visited this area I was a little put off by the distances between things. The sparseness of the population was a little strange to a girl raised in the more densely populated areas of the south. My daughter's shop is 12 miles from her home, fortunately it is also where her daughter's school is. Her mother-in-law's home is 10 miles and they are there almost every day since they still farm together. The nearest small grocery is 12 miles, to get to a larger one is 25 miles, and for a Walmart is 50 miles. The gas station is 12 miles--I've learned to watch the gas gauge carefully! She drives 30 miles for horseback lessons, 30 miles for gymnastic classes (in another direction) and 15 miles for pizza from a convenience store.
Which brings up another thing that is fun about the area. There are no fast food restaurants. There isn't a McDonalds, Pizza Hut, KFC, or Burger King on every corner. Fast food is a treat gotten only in the city. Thanks to this lack, they have kept the small "mom and pop" diners that I remember from my childhood. Every little community or sometimes even crossroads has a little restaurant. The food is good, the service friendly and the customers all friends--or soon will be. Farmers, housewives, and workers gather for breakfast, morning coffee, lunch, afternoon coffee, and sometimes dinner to eat, greet and share the news about crops, births, weather, deaths, forecasts, predictions, family, equipment, and more crops, crops, crops. Anyone wandering in is immediately recognized as a stranger and quizzed as to their home, family, and connections, then welcomed into the group.
A friend, whose work takes him to various areas of the country, landed in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. His first day's meeting ended early and he was faced with a long evening in a motel room before the next day's agenda. Upon being told that he was only 25 miles from Iowa, a state he had never been in, he decided to drive over the line. Upon crossing the line he felt he still hadn't seen Iowa until he at least visited a community, so he drove on until he reached a small town. He then decided that he wouldn't really experience Iowa until he at least spoke to some people so he stopped at the local bar and restaurant. Once inside he was greeted warmly and soon experienced the quizzing of "where are you from?" and "what brings you here?" Soon he was chatting away like an old member of the group. A short time later he found himself playing pool with a thirteen year old boy who was at the diner having supper with his mom. After an enjoyable evening he drove back to his motel with the cheerful good-by's and well wishes from his new friends ringing in his ears. He still grins when he talks of his evening.
It's good to know there are still places like that left in the world.
Where my daughter lives, you look out your window and you see fields. There are houses and people out there but they aren't close enough to look back at you. The first thing that strikes me is, that it is dark, I mean really dark, at night. We don't realize how many lights we see from our farm. Looking out at home you will see security lights dotting the landscape like fireflies, marking the other homes in view, the reflected glow of the street lights from the nearby communities, the house lights from across the road, and lots of car lights from the traffic. In Iowa I see stars and velvety darkness.
When we first visited this area I was a little put off by the distances between things. The sparseness of the population was a little strange to a girl raised in the more densely populated areas of the south. My daughter's shop is 12 miles from her home, fortunately it is also where her daughter's school is. Her mother-in-law's home is 10 miles and they are there almost every day since they still farm together. The nearest small grocery is 12 miles, to get to a larger one is 25 miles, and for a Walmart is 50 miles. The gas station is 12 miles--I've learned to watch the gas gauge carefully! She drives 30 miles for horseback lessons, 30 miles for gymnastic classes (in another direction) and 15 miles for pizza from a convenience store.
Which brings up another thing that is fun about the area. There are no fast food restaurants. There isn't a McDonalds, Pizza Hut, KFC, or Burger King on every corner. Fast food is a treat gotten only in the city. Thanks to this lack, they have kept the small "mom and pop" diners that I remember from my childhood. Every little community or sometimes even crossroads has a little restaurant. The food is good, the service friendly and the customers all friends--or soon will be. Farmers, housewives, and workers gather for breakfast, morning coffee, lunch, afternoon coffee, and sometimes dinner to eat, greet and share the news about crops, births, weather, deaths, forecasts, predictions, family, equipment, and more crops, crops, crops. Anyone wandering in is immediately recognized as a stranger and quizzed as to their home, family, and connections, then welcomed into the group.
A friend, whose work takes him to various areas of the country, landed in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. His first day's meeting ended early and he was faced with a long evening in a motel room before the next day's agenda. Upon being told that he was only 25 miles from Iowa, a state he had never been in, he decided to drive over the line. Upon crossing the line he felt he still hadn't seen Iowa until he at least visited a community, so he drove on until he reached a small town. He then decided that he wouldn't really experience Iowa until he at least spoke to some people so he stopped at the local bar and restaurant. Once inside he was greeted warmly and soon experienced the quizzing of "where are you from?" and "what brings you here?" Soon he was chatting away like an old member of the group. A short time later he found himself playing pool with a thirteen year old boy who was at the diner having supper with his mom. After an enjoyable evening he drove back to his motel with the cheerful good-by's and well wishes from his new friends ringing in his ears. He still grins when he talks of his evening.
It's good to know there are still places like that left in the world.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Raccoons
I don't know if there are any statistics to back it up but I believe Iowa must rank number one in the population of raccoons. It seems that these little masked bandits and the deer benefit greatly from the vast fields of corn and soybeans. During the time that the corn is ripening in the fields these little animals feast on the bounty of fresh corn. However, when the corn is just planted or has been harvested they move into the barns for their corn fix. They come with all their kids, cousins, aunts and uncles to see what they can find. They seems to take great joy in tearing open sacks of mineral, feed, cat food, and dog food . Their little hands are just perfect for opening doors and bin lids and scattering tools and supplies. In short they are not welcome guests.
My son-in-law wages a constant battle with the little invaders. Many a night he and my daughter wait until well after dark and venture out to the barn to surprise their unwanted visitors. They throw open the barn door, switch on the light and watch the various raccoons scamper to escape. They then try to kill them with a small rifle.So far the biggest fatality has been the barn roof, although a few raccoons have gone to their reward.
The other afternoon the whole family was gathered in the yard to greet the newest farm member, a lovely small mare recently bought for the granddaughters. This was her first outing with the little girls on board and we were watching her to see how she behaved. So far she had been a perfect lady, following neck reining easily, being tolerant of the family dog, ignoring the barn cats, and seeming to enjoy the chatter of the little girls.
Suddenly I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. A large raccoon was moving across the road to the back of the barn, arriving early for the nightly festivities. About the time I saw the raccoon so did the dog. She tore off at a dead run for the back of the barn and her enemy. My daughter then tore off after the dog, knowing from experience that while the dog was big on willingness she wasn't much bigger than the raccoons. Dog and Coon met in the weed filled ditch behind the barn. Soon the air was filled with growls, yips, snarls, and shouts, peaking to a crescendo punctuated by squeals of pain. By now both little girls were screaming for their dog while their dad ran to the house for his gun. Returning just in time to see the coon retreat across the road he quickly fired three shots, unfortunately missing.
During all the commotion the little mare remained calm and unconcerned. Seizing the opportunity to snack on the lush lawn, she simply started grazing, while waiting for the excitement to be over and the ride to continue. Looks like she is going to be a perfect kid horse.
My son-in-law wages a constant battle with the little invaders. Many a night he and my daughter wait until well after dark and venture out to the barn to surprise their unwanted visitors. They throw open the barn door, switch on the light and watch the various raccoons scamper to escape. They then try to kill them with a small rifle.So far the biggest fatality has been the barn roof, although a few raccoons have gone to their reward.
The other afternoon the whole family was gathered in the yard to greet the newest farm member, a lovely small mare recently bought for the granddaughters. This was her first outing with the little girls on board and we were watching her to see how she behaved. So far she had been a perfect lady, following neck reining easily, being tolerant of the family dog, ignoring the barn cats, and seeming to enjoy the chatter of the little girls.
Suddenly I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. A large raccoon was moving across the road to the back of the barn, arriving early for the nightly festivities. About the time I saw the raccoon so did the dog. She tore off at a dead run for the back of the barn and her enemy. My daughter then tore off after the dog, knowing from experience that while the dog was big on willingness she wasn't much bigger than the raccoons. Dog and Coon met in the weed filled ditch behind the barn. Soon the air was filled with growls, yips, snarls, and shouts, peaking to a crescendo punctuated by squeals of pain. By now both little girls were screaming for their dog while their dad ran to the house for his gun. Returning just in time to see the coon retreat across the road he quickly fired three shots, unfortunately missing.
During all the commotion the little mare remained calm and unconcerned. Seizing the opportunity to snack on the lush lawn, she simply started grazing, while waiting for the excitement to be over and the ride to continue. Looks like she is going to be a perfect kid horse.
Monday, June 4, 2012
The Haircut
I am visiting my daughter in Iowa for a few days so I had the opportunity to share a family dinner with her in-laws. My daughter has a lot to live up to, if today's dinner was any example. Her mother-in-law is a gracious hostess and a wonderful cook. Today's dinner was grilled rib-eye steaks, baked potatoes, broccoli with cheese sauce, grilled squash, peppers, onions,and mushrooms, corn (in Iowa corn is pretty special, trust me), rolls with homemade strawberry jam and homemade peach pie. My son-in-law's older sister and her husband were there for the week-end to attend a family wedding, so the conversation was filled with laughter and stories.
After dinner Mary brought in a small box and handed it to my daughter. She looked inside and started laughing. Soon everyone had joined in. Mystified I looked in the box and remained mystified. Inside were loops of soft blond curls, some short and some measuring 10-12 inches long. It seems that Mary had been keeping her youngest son's daughters while he helped with the planting. The visiting children and grandkids usually stay in the finished basement rooms. The basement is rather flexible with a full kitchen, a large den with a couch,chairs, pool table and a bed and another bedroom. It also has the small home beauty parlor that Mary used before she quit being a beautician and started work at the local bank. She still uses this space to give all the family haircuts.
The two little girls had gone to the basement to play and naturally decided to play beautician. The older girl, aged 6, decided to fix the younger girl's (age 4) hair. She managed to at least get it wet in the shampoo bowl, although no one is sure if she actually used shampoo. I'm amazed she didn't paint the room with water using the spray nozzle, and she may have. Then she decided to give her a haircut. Realizing that everyone wouldn't appreciate her efforts, she then pulled the remaining hair back in a pony tail. The little girl is gifted with thick, curly hair so Mary, who was busy preparing dinner for the guys, didn't notice anything different.
The parents arrived to take their two sleepy girls back home and quickly bundled them into their car seats for the hour drive to Des Moines. Arriving home they carried the sleeping girls into the house and put them to bed. The next morning the mom went in to get them up and saw her youngest for the first time in the bright light. It evidently wasn't a Hallmark moment. The report was that she had half a mullet. It seems the haircut was mostly in the center of the back of her head. I can only imagine her horror to see her little girl with half a head of curls.
It seems that nearly every one of the grandchildren had done this at some time or another, which is what brought on the giggles and laughter. As one of the older grandchildren had wailed when she had cut her little brother's hair, "It won't stay that way will it!?" It will grow out, but the mother probably won't recover for a while.
Which is also why my daughter spent an hour drilling into her girls that this was a really, really bad thing to do. Probably won't work.
It made me feel better to realize I wasn't the only grandparent that had grandchildren that managed to do the most unbelievable things with me standing right there.
After dinner Mary brought in a small box and handed it to my daughter. She looked inside and started laughing. Soon everyone had joined in. Mystified I looked in the box and remained mystified. Inside were loops of soft blond curls, some short and some measuring 10-12 inches long. It seems that Mary had been keeping her youngest son's daughters while he helped with the planting. The visiting children and grandkids usually stay in the finished basement rooms. The basement is rather flexible with a full kitchen, a large den with a couch,chairs, pool table and a bed and another bedroom. It also has the small home beauty parlor that Mary used before she quit being a beautician and started work at the local bank. She still uses this space to give all the family haircuts.
The two little girls had gone to the basement to play and naturally decided to play beautician. The older girl, aged 6, decided to fix the younger girl's (age 4) hair. She managed to at least get it wet in the shampoo bowl, although no one is sure if she actually used shampoo. I'm amazed she didn't paint the room with water using the spray nozzle, and she may have. Then she decided to give her a haircut. Realizing that everyone wouldn't appreciate her efforts, she then pulled the remaining hair back in a pony tail. The little girl is gifted with thick, curly hair so Mary, who was busy preparing dinner for the guys, didn't notice anything different.
The parents arrived to take their two sleepy girls back home and quickly bundled them into their car seats for the hour drive to Des Moines. Arriving home they carried the sleeping girls into the house and put them to bed. The next morning the mom went in to get them up and saw her youngest for the first time in the bright light. It evidently wasn't a Hallmark moment. The report was that she had half a mullet. It seems the haircut was mostly in the center of the back of her head. I can only imagine her horror to see her little girl with half a head of curls.
It seems that nearly every one of the grandchildren had done this at some time or another, which is what brought on the giggles and laughter. As one of the older grandchildren had wailed when she had cut her little brother's hair, "It won't stay that way will it!?" It will grow out, but the mother probably won't recover for a while.
Which is also why my daughter spent an hour drilling into her girls that this was a really, really bad thing to do. Probably won't work.
It made me feel better to realize I wasn't the only grandparent that had grandchildren that managed to do the most unbelievable things with me standing right there.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
