IN WHICH WE ANTICIPATE THE WORLD OF COMPUTERS

When I came across this piece in April 2018, I wrote in the introduction that I didn't remember I had written it. Because there were a lot of things I didn't remember--even in 2018--I wasn't terribly alarmed. But, then, as I read the story it began to feel familiar and comfortable, my memory kicked in, and I remembered it was inspired by a newspaper article that, at the time--1972 or 1973, seemed completely fanciful. A computer! HA!!

Today, I realize this tale about computers gone bad is older than Michael. Michael was definitely short-changed when it came to THS MRS. Not that we weren't thinking about the possibilities of a Michael, but the care and feeding of a newly-purchased and run-down farm began taking more and more time, and THS MRS began fading slowly into the past. By July of 1974, she was gone. Never to rise again. I've tried to keep her honest despite how painful some of these sentences are, how corny many of the quotes are, and how proud of her I was at the time. This one was no exception...

"Evidently, fearing the worst from various militant women's liberation groups, the men of a small computer firm in Michigan recently huddled in their conference room. Emerging at last, they announced to the world a new computer for the home.

'Yes, Ma'am...oops, Ms,' they gleefully announced. 'We are going to liberate the little housewife. We have devised a computer that will order groceries, keep track of the family budget and bank balance, store medical records, and even tell the central vacuum system when to start sucking up. We just want you little ladies to know we're on your side.'

Despite their glad tidings, I figure the following events will take place about three days after we install our family computer.

At 8:30 a.m., the doorbell rings. I answer it and find the local grocery warehouse delivery man. 'Got your groceries, Mrs. Staggs. How's that for fast service?'

'Fantastic! I haven't even ordered anything yet."

'You must have,' he answers. 'I've got your computer printout right here. Number 46798651. Right?'

'Right. Well, let's see what you have. By the way,' I ask, 'when did you start delivering groceries in a semi-truck?'

'Mrs. Staggs,' he beamed. 'We got that the minute you ordered 427 cases of Kleenex.''

'427 CASES OF KLEENEX!' I screeched. 'I know I've got three kids, but that's pushing it a bit, don't you think?'

'Oh,' that's not all,' he said. 'I've got 72 cases of chili con carne here too, plus 46 cases of baking soda.'

'Well, with 72 cases of chili, we're going to need 46 cases of baking soda. Look! You've got to take it back. I'm sorry, but I can't use any of these things.'

'Mrs. Staggs--I can't take it back." (He's not beaming now, nor is he smiling.) 'Your computer ordered it. It's already deducted from your bank balance and posted to your family budget. There's no turning back now.'

In the midst of finding space for the Kleenex in the garage, living room, kitchen, bedroom and bathroom, the telephone rings. 'Mrs. Staggs,' a voice says, 'I'm sorry to tell you this, but we're being forced to cancel your family's life and health insurance.'

'Oh, come on now,' I asnwered. 'You know we've hardly been sick and we've never died. There must be some mistake.'

'Well, Ma'am,' the voice continued, 'we just got your most recent computer reading and what with your husband's heart condition, your malaria, and your son's four car accidents, we can't take the risk. You know the insurance game, Ma'am. We've got to eat, too.'

'I don't have a son,' I scream. 'I've got three daughters under the age of ten. I've never been south of Miami, and just yesterday the doctor told my husband his heart was as sound as a 1958 dollar.'

'Listen!' the disembodied voice was a bit testy now. 'Are you Number 46798651?

'Well...yes.'

'You'd better get to a doctor fast before your condition gets worse, and your husband needs to hop on that crazy kid of yours about those cars. You know what's the matter with kids today...Nobody really tells 'em what the score is.'

'But...', but I'm too late. The voice is gone. As I'm searching for the insurance policies I hear a faint click. "Oh, NO!  I'm not ready yet!'

But, ready or not, the central vacuum system was on its way. Before I could fight my way to the computer, the vacuum had disposed of three table lamps, a chair, two pillows, and a year's subscription of  'National Geographic.' Thank God the kids were in school or I'd have had to start all over in that department.

Within fifteen minutes, the computer is packed and addressed to Gloria Steinem. I just don't think I'm ready to be liberated quite yet...at least by a computer. Perhaps, though, a good maid..."

 I find that I'm a little frightened about the way I cited all of these gutsy old Women's Libbers again and again in these THS MRS pieces. It's obvious I was taken by the women's movement, as well as all the other things going on during the late '60s and early '70s. As always, I followed them closely, knew the primary players, but still just sat home watching it all evolve on TV. Kind of like right now with Donald Trump and his interesting ways of governing. I'll fuss, and I have written a few Blogs but, generally, I sit and watch it play out. I'm a Libra, you know, and we cherish balance, order and equality. We don't make waves.

September 14, 2019    

SUMMER DAZE

"I often think that men, when they return home from the office, field, or wherever they have spent their working day, wonder why their wives are--well, to put it bluntly--a little ding-y. A wee bit frazzled. I don't think it's the never ending cycle of cooking, cleaning, ironing and etc. that puts us mothers 'out there.' No, it's the quality of conversation that assails us every minute of every day.

As an example--take last Friday. (The high bidder could take last Thursday, too. Please?)

At 8 a.m. Mickie rises from her bed. The first question she asks as her eyes slowly open is, 'Can we go swimming today, Mommie?'

'Yes, honey, we sure can,' I answer.

At 8:30, Kristi wakes up. 'Can we go swimming today?'

'Yeah, we sure can.'

At 9:00, Denise makes the scene. 'Do you think we can go swimming today?'

'Uh-huh. We sure can.'

This gets us through until 10:00 a.m., at which time Mickie runs into the house screaming, 'Mommie, do you think we can still go swimming?'

'Yes. Now when I said 'yes' earlier, that's what I meant. Yes, we'll go swimming.'

Five minutes later, Kristi comes in. 'Are we still going swimming?'

'Yes, we're still going swimming.'

And, within the half hour, Denise states, 'I sure hope we can still go swimming.'

'YES...We can still go swimming.'

Then, at 11 a.m. my flock changes tactics a bit.

'What time are we going swimming?'

'We'll go about 1:30,' I answer.

Before ten minutes pass, I get two more questions. 'Will we go swimming after lunch?' and 'Can we go to the pool early so we get the good chairs?'

Both of those questions receive the standard answer--albeit, by now a little strained--'We'll go about 1:30.'

After a quick lunch, I tell the girls that we need to drive to the farm and pick beans. One thing I've learned about gardening in the wide open spaces of a western Kansas farm is that cattle may be wallowing in lush pasture but will still brave a barbed wire fence for a nibble of fresh corn; and, normally timid jackrabbits become absolutely brazen when bean plants are producing.

Immediately following this announcement, the chorus goes up. 'I thought we were gonna go swimming.'

'We are,' I answer, 'As soon as we drive out and pick the beans. The rabbits are eating better than we are right now.'

'Will we still make it to the pool by 1:30?'

Throughout the ten miles to the farm and four rows of beans I hear muffled mutterings of 'I wish we were swimming' and 'We'll never make it by 1:30.'

Finally, as we begin driving back to town, Denise pops up with, 'I really think it's a little cool to go swimming. I don't think I want to go after all.'

To this surprise comment, Mickie asks, 'Are you sure Denise?'

'Yeah,' answers Denise. 'I think it's a little too cool.'

'I do too,' says Mickie.

'You really think so, Mickie?' asks Kristi.

'Yeah,' answers Mickie. 'It's kind of cool to go swimming.'

'I think so too,' says Kristi.

'Mommie,' all three pipe up. 'We don't want to go swimming after all. It's too cold.'

And that, friend husband, is why your wife is a little goofy by 5:00 every evening. And, as every Mommie knows, it doesn't have to be swimming. A trip to the park, to the store, a visit to a friend's house can all produce the same sort of conversation.

Haim Ginott--where are you when we really need you?

                   
It seems evident that I liked to throw a famous name into this column every now and then...just so people would know I was smart and literate. Haim Ginott (I had not thought of him in 30, or maybe 40+ years) was, per Wikipedia, a school teacher, a psychologist,  a psychotherapist and a parent- educator. He pioneered techniques for conversing with children. His book of the day gave 'specific advice derived from basic communication principles that guided parents toward living with children in mutual respect and dignity.' (Can you imagine your father's reaction if I had given him an opportunity to read a book of basic communication principles resulting in mutual respect and dignity?) Even today, that makes me laugh!

What lucky children you were! Really! Respect and dignity! I'm not sure I ever read much of Haim Ginott...it seemed to be enough that I knew who he was, but I may have checked out a book or two. In all honesty I seldom got through anything heavy in those days. Simply surviving seemed to be enough. I know now that you might not have recognized the high ideals that were floating through our house...but I'm feeling pretty good about it.

On a separate note, it's fun to see how Kristi and Mickie parroted everything Denise said and, to a lesser extent (I think) everything she did. Denise the Great was definitely in charge. She had street cred.

July 29, 2019  

DINNER WITH JULIA CHILD

Despite what this little piece may have said, I'm not sure that Santa really delivered a Julia Child cookbook to our house. Wouldn't I still have it? Wouldn't one of you have it? Not necessarily but, wouldn't I remember it? I would have been terribly intimidated by it. I think. Unless it's only now that intimidation tends to creep in when it comes to dinner time.. Maybe Katie lent me a Julia Child cookbook. She would have whipped that Coq au Vin together without a drop of sweat. I always envied that talent. Oh well, whatever the reason, this is the story:

"I would hate to point a finger at my children and say they were fussy eaters, but the only meal I've seen them consume without complaint was last year during flu season when their father served them pretzels, ice cream and chocolate chip cookies for dinner.

For example: Last Christmas Santa Claus left Julia Child's "French Chef Cookbook" in my stocking. Remembering from pictures that most French kids are smiling, pink cheeked and chubby, I figured this was the answer to our problem. So I searched the book and came up with a winner: Coq au Vin.

After spending the better part of the afternoon on this masterpiece--not to mention re-painting the kitchen when the cognac flames scorched the wall--I served dinner.

'What's that stuff?' asked Kristi as I put it on the table.

'Looks yucky,' said Mickie.

'Heathens,!' I answered. 'This is Coq au Vin--one of the most famous French dishes.'

'That doesn't look like Coke to me.'

'There's a dead chicken in there.'

'What did you expect, dum-dum, a live chicken?' asked Denise.

'Coq au Vin.' I said again. 'Chicken in wine--a red wine. A very cheap red wine,' I hurried on as Darrell gave me his "How are we gonna pay for the farm if you cook with wine?' look.

As I returned with the rice, buttered peas and French bread--all Julia Child specifications--the reaction was much the same.

'Rice! Yech! I hate rice!'

'I like rice with sugar and milk.'

'Peas! How many do we hafta eat?'

'Bread! That's the only thing I like.'

'Not that kind. It's all crusty.'

'And, now kids,' I said. 'True to French tradition, we'll have a little wine with dinner. But, if anybody spills the beans at school about wine with dinner, I'll kill her. Got that??'

'OK kids,' said Darrell as he grabbed for the peas. 'Daddy's gonna take six peas-that's the magic number for tonight.'

'Darrell,' I said between clenched teeth and a big smile. 'You're not helping.'

'Mama,' tattled Mickie. 'Kristi only took five peas and she's gotta take six.'

'Wait a minute,' cried Denise. 'One, two, three, four., five, six, seven. I've gotta put a pea back--I took one too many!'

'Anyone for rice?' I asked.

'Can I have milk and sugar with it?' asked Kristi.

'No! Not with this meal. You want to put Julia Child in an early grave? Bread anyone??'

"Yech--it's all crusty.'

'It's supposed to be that way,' I answered. 'It's French bread.'

'There's a mushroom in this stuff. I hate mushrooms.'

'A mushroom! Mama, you said mushrooms were poison.'

'Only the ones in the back yard. These are straight off the grocer's shelf.'

'I don't like soggy chicken.'

'There's a leaf in here. What if it's got an elm tree bug on it?'

'That's a bay leaf,' I sighed.'

'Hey Mama, can we have some more wine?'

'No!'

'But it's the only thing that's good.'

'Ah...' I said. 'So that's why French kids are smiling, rosy cheeked and chubby.'

'So anyway, Santa...do me a favor, OK? No more cookbooks, please. But, do you think you could dig up last April's copy of Cosmopolitan?'

Well, that's a surprise. I did not expect that last line as I was typing away at this piece. The fabled copy of "Cosmopolitan" of April 1972! Only old people would remember that. I'm sure I never bought a copy, but I might have seen someone else's. I'm just not sure. It was--which you may have heard about--the first male centerfold in a magazine designed for women. I looked that up and sure enough I saw the picture of Burt Reynolds. It truly was scandalous at the time. The text that accompanied the updated Cosmo "look back"is great...

"Reynolds stretches across two full pages of the April 1972 issue of Cosmopolitan. He's got a smirk on his face, a limp cigarillo dangles from his lips and a fuzzy bearskin rug is underneath his also fuzzy body. His arm is strategically placed in front of his 'talleywacker' as Reynolds later called it..."

As scandalous as that whole affair was, it seems terribly tame now. But, he was hot back in the day...

September 11, 2019

IN WHICH THS MRS NEEDS SANTA...NOW

Oh! The Joys of Christmas! It's a wonderful time, a magical time and, much too often, a really stressful time. Providing the perfect morning of gifts, followed closely by the even more perfect afternoon of guests and treats and delicious-ness from the kitchen...it's sometimes a bit much. More than one Christmas has ended in tears or anger or, simple crankiness...but we always come back to it the next year. The next year! You know...the one that will really be perfect and the kids will get exactly what they want and they will be thrilled by what they wanted and dinner will be perfect and no one will melt down. Especially me...

Thanksgiving is just around the corner, and right after that Santa will be whooshing down upon Village Square. Christmas catalogs have been arriving for a couple of weeks now, which can only mean that my children are well into writing and re-writing their Christmas lists.

Denise decided fairly early (last May to be exact) that she wanted Walkie-Talkies for Christmas, and she has held firmly to that plan. 'All I want is Walkie-Talkies,' she repeats. 'That's all.'

But, the two little girls are a bit different. For one thing, they began their list much earlier than Denise. It was about December 26th of last year when they listed their first "want." Their lists are also much longer than Denise's, and they change their minds much more often.

At least once every couple of days, they choose one catalog each, find some paper, study that catalog page by page by page, and weigh the pros and cons of each item. Once a decision is made, they painstakingly copy all the words about that item--which has now become their heart's desire.

I've seen the list grow from 'Sweet April.' 'That's all I want, Mommy. A Sweet April baby doll...' to a 38 inch Raggedy Ann doll, a Horton the Elephant large enough to sit upon, and a fully-equipped, nearly adult-sized kitchen, that includes recirculating running water. All of this takes slightly less than half an hour.

Then, while I'm figuring out where in this increasingly tiny house we would put a 38 inch Raggedy Ann doll, or a Horton the Elephant, or a toy kitchen that is better equipped than mine...the list changes.

'A Ventriloquist Doll, Mommy. That's all I want--A Danny O'Day Ventriloquist Doll.'

'You do know you have to do the talking for Danny. Right?' I ask.

'Yeah, I know. But that's what I want. A ventriloquist doll.'

While I'm wondering whether either Santa or our incredible lack of storage space could actually handle a Danny O'Day ventriloquist doll, the list changes. Again. Or, more correctly, the list is enlarged. A life-size Cat in the Hat is added, along with a Gnip Gnop game, some Barbie clothes and a doll house.

All of this time Denise continues to wish for her Walkie-Talkies. But, this afternoon I'm beginning to notice some not-so-subtle comments like: 'Did you see Marla's jeans with the elephant ear legs?'

'Yeah, I saw them.'

'Are you sure you saw them?'

'Yeah, I'm sure I saw them.'

'I sure like them...don't you?'  'And, you know I'd be wearing my watch to school, except the band is about worn out and I'm afraid I might lose it.'

Yes, Denise is much more subtle, but in the end her list will be just as long.

Yesterday, my two little ones announced a new plan of action. They are not making any more lists for Santa Claus. Since everyone knows that Santa carries so many toys on that sleigh of his, with the overflow sometimes even spilling out, they will make their list immediately before they go to bed on Christmas Eve. They'll leave the note with the milk and cookies.

No amount of begging or threatening has persuaded them to release their secrets. It's a pact between them and Santa. Just them and Santa. No one else. And, wouldn't you know, Henry Kissinger* is tied up in Paris Peace Talk right now and can't help me, so I may actually have no idea what they want until 10:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve. Which is obviously way too late. Which means that the Spirit of Christmas, with all of its glitter and sparkle, has escaped me right now. Good night...

*Henry Kissinger: National Security Adviser under Richard Nixon, then appointed Secretary of State in 1973.

During the time of our little story, Kissinger was meeting in Paris with dignitaries from both South Vietnam and North Vietnam, trying to bring peace to the infamous Vietnam war. Kissinger delivered Richard Nixon's ultimatum to the North Vietnamese demanding an end to their fighting. The North Vietnamese refused and Nixon began the Christmas bombing of North Vietnam. We dropped 20,000 tons of bombs during that time...including targeted sites very close to the prison camp known as the Hanoi Hilton where John McCain was being held. His father had approved the strikes while knowing his son might be killed. The McCain's are from tough stock. On December 28, 1972, the North Vietnamese agreed to Nixon's conditions and reopened the negotiations. It's just my little history lesson for today. Just so you remember what you lived through!

June 5, 2020

IN WHICH DADDY FIXES THE TV...IN HIS OWN WAY

As I've mentioned before, many of these THS MRS writings make me squirm and feel just the least bit of embarrassment. But what has been done has been done and, at the time, I thought they were wonderful. I may even have laughed at myself. And, bonus prize, it kept me sane.

The following is dated September 29, 1972. We were living on Hart Avenue, of course, and I was busy working my designer magic on the house. We repainted nearly everything, and rearranged what little we had, and I was terribly proud of its wonderfulness. In the midst of my magical rearranging, I had made Darrell move the console TV into that little alcove off the living room which had probably been a dining room at some point in time. It would have been (I think) a very small dining room but, because we dined in the "Map Room" which was part of the Sam Davis Remodel, we had now created a TV room. As I remember, it was where we discovered PBS, 'The Electric Company,' 'Sesame Street', and 'Masterpiece Theatre'. I fell in love immediately (kind of like I did with your father) and felt very cosmopolitan when I watched PBS. I didn't have cable or rabbit ears or whatever it took to receive PBS at the apartment and so, I was hooked immediately.

I'm getting ahead of my story but, as I remember it, when we moved to the farm, we had vowed to give up TV. To that end, we relegated the RCA console (or whatever it was) to the unfinished basement which had no real entry except for a cobbled together extremely heavy bulkhead door that was a threat to our very existence...especially on a windy day. I'm surprised even now that no one of us was killed by that door. God knows we could have been.

We lasted (sans TV) for, maybe, three months and then I cracked when the Watergate Hearings began in 1974. Your sweet father dragged that monster up from the basement and I could breathe once again. I think that might have been when I first began to knit. I find it spooky, but interesting that in 2017 (because of Donald Trump) I began to knit again. And, now that the Trump Impeachment Hearings have begun in earnest, I'm channeling  Madame Defarge in "A Tale of Two Cities."

We must have installed the TV antenna in the farmhouse attic at that time, and immediately learned that a TV antenna will not capture Masterpiece Theatre no matter which way it is turned. Cable was unavailable and VHS had not yet become common. That was to take another four or five years. We never got cable at the farm and were limited to less than ten channels with our antenna...maybe less than five channels...maybe only three. I don't know, but I remember feeling very much out of touch every now and then. I do know that in the early to mid-eighties, Vernetta McAfee's son, who owned a TV shop, began taping PBS and Masterpiece Theatre for us. We had to buy a TV from him to receive this benefit, but I picked up tapes every few days at his shop, returned them, and did it all again. It was inconvenient, but wonderful!

I'm so sorry about that rather lengthy digression and a jump ahead to the farm, but here is the actual and appropriate THS MRS for the subject at hand...exactly as it appeared in the DC Daily Glob--as you all called it from time to time.     

A few months ago our faithful ten-year old TV set gave out a large electrical pop accompanied by a flash of light, shuddered slightly and went black. No sound, no picture. This shattering event occurred early Saturday in the midst of cartoon prime time.

'Mommie! Mommie! The TV's broken--what'll we do?' shouted Denise.

Kristi, who takes matters in her own hands, walked calmly to the set and gave it a resounding kick.

Mickie was silent and in a state of complete shock.

'Daddy will be back pretty soon,' I said. 'He'll know how to fix it. In the meantime you can play some games.'

'Games!?!' (I'm afraid my kids are in the front ranks of the TV generation. They quote verbatim every commercial shown during the last five years, but can't remember that shoes go on the closet shelf.)

In a few minutes Darrell walked in. 'Daddy, the TV broke but Mommie said you could fix it.'

'Daddy, would you believe the TV broke. Will you fix it now?'

'Daddy, the TV exploded and it won't work. Fix it!'

'No problem,' Darrell reassured them. 'Just a couple of bad tubes. I'll take 'em out, test them and get her working in no time at all.'

The situation proved to be not two worn out tubes, but six--so a couple of hours and three stores later he had gathered the needed supplies.

  

'Now, this goes here, and that goes over there, and this one right over here...' he muttered.

'Are ya getting it fixed?' asked Denise.

'Yes, Daddy's getting it fixed.'

'Is it gonna work now, Daddy?' asked Kristi.

'Yes. It's gonna work now.'

'You sure that's right, Daddy?' Mickie asked.

'Yes. Daddy's sure that's right.'

A few minutes later, everything was in place. Darrell plugged in the set and announced: 'OK, turn it on.'

Denise hurried to switch on the set and everyone huddled around expectantly. Five minutes went by, ten minutes, then fifteen. 'I think something's still wrong,' said Denise.

'It's not working, Daddy,' said Kristi.

'I thought you fixed it, Daddy,' Mickie offered.

'Daddy DID fix it. It's an old set--just takes a little time to warm up.'

After waiting three hours and still no picture, a neighbor dropped by and offered a bit of advice.  'Got it plugged in, Staggs?' he asked.

'Yeah...I got it plugged in.'

'Ya got the tubes in the right place?'

'Yeah, I got the tubes in the right place. Now why don't you go home.'

'That wasn't very nice, Darrell,' I said.

'Never mind. Now, where's the chart for the tubes? I might not have them in right because I didn't look at it--but I sure wasn't gonna tell Yakshe that.'

After a quick glance at the chart, he rearranged the tubes, plugged in the set again and (Hooray!) a picture. The kids gathered around.

'Hey, Denise,' shouted Kristi. 'Turn off the light.'

As Denise flicked off the light, the TV went dead. She turned the light back on and the TV came back. On, off. On, off.

'Daddy, the TV only works when the light's on.' 

'Daddy, the TV...'

'Daddy...'

'No problem, kids. I'll just flick this switch and...'


November 16, 2019

                                                           

IN WHICH THS MRS LISTENS

Sometimes, when our tiny house on Hart Avenue would be eerily quiet because you three girls were all at school, I would take a deep breath and sit down in front of my beloved Smith-Corona portable typewriter. It was a 1962 edition: Dark gray metal body with dark green keys. It was not electric, although electric was an option at that time. I remember a few Kappas had electric typewriters, but plug-ins were at a premium in that old house, so my standard (frugal) typewriter turned out to be much more practical. But, I must admit I did lust for the electric variety.

I used that typewriter a lot after Darrell and I were married. It had been totally necessary in my little apartment when I was a teacher, and typed my own worksheets, not to mention typing my prize-winning letter to The Dodge City Daily Globe. So, when I moved to Darrell's house, Grandma's beautiful little 1903 writing desk came right along with me. It was in the bedroom. Did I ever mention that your father described my apartment as dingy? I was shocked. I had believed it was very cool and worldly. More correct, I knew it was very cool and worldly. The wicker furniture from Sears, the corduroy leopard cover on my pseudo day bed,  yellow dining table with orange chairs, and the metal industrial shelves I put together myself. The place reeked coolness  mixed with a slight whiff of dog pee now and then despite the newspapers that were laid everywhere. It was wonderful and it was mine--as long as the rent check didn't bounce, and I loved it.

In this little piece I was working toward my goal of becoming a writer of humor and etc. It turned out to be harder than I thought. We were not always a funny family. I took my motherly duties quite seriously and, too often, found no humor in the situations in which I  found myself. Much of the time I felt like sobbing and/or running away, but I would never become a rich writer doing either of those things. Besides which, I dearly loved you three girls and your dad, so I continued to hang around and wait for inspiration.

I'm not completely sure what I might have read or seen that inspired this little ditty. Mickie did love to read and it seemed to come easily to her. Kristi, I remember, struggled with reading. But, when it all came together for her, she could read an entire set of encyclopedias in a day and a half, and remember every word. She was like Grandma in that way.

The story goes something like this:

"I have a little girl.

She has brown hair.

She has brown eyes.

Her name is Mickie
.
Mickie is in First Grade.

She likes First Grade.

She like her First Grade friends.

She likes her First Grade teacher
.
She is learning to read.

First graders learn to read
.
First graders like to read.

Mickie likes to read very much.

Mickie reads books
.
Mickie reads lots of books.

Mickie reads "I Can Read" books
.
Mickie reads "Easy Reading" books.

Mickie reads "Beginner" books.

Mickie reads all the time.

She reads in the morning.

She reads in the afternoon
.
She reads in the evening.

Mickie likes to read to Denise.

Mickie likes to read to Kristi.

Mickie likes to read to Daddy.

Mickie likes to read to Mommie.

Mickie likes to read to Mommie best.

Why?

Because Mommie is always here to listen
.
Mommie listens to many books.

Mommie knows all about Dick and Jane.

Mommie knows all about Father and Mother.

Mommie knows all about Dick's dog.

Mommie knows all about Jane's cat.

Mommie listens to "Fox in Socks."

Mommie listens to "Hop on Pop."

Mommie listens to "The Cat in the Hat."

Mommie likes to listen to Mickie read.

But, I think Mommie has listened to Mickie read TOO MUCH."

 September 13, 2019

IN WHICH THS MRS WHINES ABOUT GROCERY SHOPPING

In the proverbial blink of an eye, you three girls have completely grown up and can tell your own stories of grocery shopping with your own children. Or, as I begin to fan myself, with your own grandchildren! All of my baby girls are grandmothers now which, of course, makes me feel oldish. That's a new descriptive word from a wonderful book of poems by Judith Viorst: "I'm Too Young To Be 70." I just discovered it--she has written a book every decade beginning at 20 and continues all the way to her newest one titled  "Nearing Ninety." (Now there's a woman!)

But, back to grocery shopping. Early on when it was just Mickie, her dad and me--in Omaha, we lived in an apartment and had only one car. There was a little store nearby, and I quickly learned that I could call, order our groceries and they would be delivered. Very quickly. I also know our finances were such that those deliveries had to have been free. I hope I appreciated that convenience. I could have used delivery service on the farm.

But, even more, I remember shopping in Windom, MN...for two reasons. First of all, food items were not taxed, but everything else was. As we deposited our items onto the moving belt, taxable was to be kept separate from non-taxable. I don't remember which of them came first. But I do remember that if you mixed them, there was hell to pay. There were loud, snappy voices, with no empathy at all for a new Minnesotan shopper's innocent ignorance. If there had been more than one grocery store in Windom I would never have gone back to that one, but there wasn't and so, I did. The other thing with which I was unfamiliar was that glass bottles needed a deposit. Let's say 5 cents per bottle. You paid up front. But...when you returned those bottles, carefully washed and dried, you got your nickels back. I thought that was wonderful. I don't remember anything like that in Kansas. Or, maybe I was richer in Kansas and didn't mind the deposits.

But the real Game Changer that made me want to be in Minnesota forever was S&H Green Stamps. I knew nothing about S&H Green Stamps but I loved them immediately. I licked every S&H Green Stamp I ever got and stuck them very neatly in their little books. Then I collected those books, and then I purchased a really cute wicker-y footstool with them. Once again, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. Free Furniture! Just by buying groceries.

Sadly, our time in Minnesota was short, the footstool disappeared in one move or another and that was the end of that.

Which really doesn't bring us much closer to this THS MRS story, but here it is anyway:

Halloween--Photo Not Dated

"I read an article the other day by an expert in the field of raising children who stated that mothers should take their kids on trips to the grocery store. This woman claimed that shopping teaches children about economics, instills discipline, and prompts sound social behavior.

Needless to say, I immediately grabbed my girls and took off for the nearest store.

Ten feet inside the door I heard, 'Mama, can I push the cart? Denise pushed it last time.'

'No I didn't,' said Denise. 'Kristi pushed it last time and Mickie pulled it.'

'I didn't either,' said Kristi.  'Mickie pushed it, Denise pulled it and so it's my turn.'

'OK,' I said. 'Denise gets the first two aisles, Kristi gets the next two and Mickie has the last two.'

'But what if there's more than six aisles?' asked Denise.

'Mama, can we have some gum?'

'We'll see. Now, I don't want to hear 'can we have this' and 'can we have that?' I made the list and we'll stick to it and the budget. What if we run out of money someday?'

'Write a check,' answered Kristi.

'Mama, can we have some oranges?' Denise asked.

'You kids don't eat half the things I buy. When I opened the refrigerator door this morning, three apples jumped down and walked out the back door.'

'Those were apples. We never eat apples. I want oranges.'

Mickie spoke up. 'If she gets oranges, then I get cottage cheese.'

'YUCK!' shouted Denise. 'If you get it, are we gonna have to eat it?'

'Well,' I answered. 'Basically, it's a better buy. The last container I found in the fridge had enough mold on it to supply penicillin for a small city. I'm thinking of taking bids from Squibb and Plough.'

'Then I want some spinach,' said Kristi.

'YUCK!' shouted Mickie.

'AYEE!' screamed an elderly lady.

'I told you to be careful with that cart! Help the lady up and tell her you're sorry. Now...everybody gets to pick out one kind of cereal.'

'Mama,' asked Mickie, returning with a box. 'Does this basketball come in the cereal or do we have to send for it?'

'You are so dumb,' said Denise. 'How are you going to get a basketball in that box?'

'Mama, how many of these boxes do we have to eat to get this blow-up chair?'

'Hey, if we eat eight of these boxes we get a doll. Let's see--Mama, what's eight times three?

'Look! This box has a hot wheels in it.'

'Does this box have the airplane in it, or do we have to order it?'

'You are so dumb!' Denise shouted. 'How can you get a two-foot plane in that box?'

'Wait a minute! Hold it!' I shouted. 'We are gonna buy cereal for its nutritional content, not the prizes. Now...'

'What's nutritional content mean?' Kristi asked.

'Never mind,' I answered. 'Pick out two boxes of cereal; compare the prices, and we'll take the best buy.'

'What's 'compare prices' mean?' asked Mickie.

'It means you take the one with the lowest price.'

'Mama,' asked Kristi. 'Is 49 lower than 33?'

'You are so dumb,' Denise mumbled.

'Denise, they aren't dumb. This is a learning experience.'

'What's a learning experience?" asked Denise.

'Never mind. I'll choose the cereal.'

That article-writing lady was no child raising expert. She was a secret liberationist. If enough mothers followed her advice and took their kids to the store, there would be marching and bra burning on every corner in suburbia.

'Hey Kids...would you look for the aspirin? Mom's got an awful pounding in her right temple.'

I have a favorite quote (I'd like to think I'd made it up, but I'm sure I didn't): "There are days when you think you will not live long enough to survive the afternoon at home with your children. And then, one morning, you wake up, turn around, your kids are grown, and those days are completely behind you." I'm not saying that's a bad thing...it's just kind of a touching and sentimental thing.

July 25, 2019