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

MUMPS

This little gem...one of the few that actually had a date attached, was written in November 1972. As of today, that would be 47 years ago. I'm not even going to say...'where did the time go?' because I know exactly where it went. It just, over the long haul, went faster than I had expected it would. That may become an echo you keep hearing, so bear with me. Becoming 75 makes a person (every now and then) feel just a bit uncertain/happy/lucky/scared and/or etc... I'm trying to stick with lucky and happy. They're the best!

"A couple of weeks ago when Kristi announced she had a sore face, stiff neck and expected the mumps, I wasn't too alarmed. It was fall, and because of summer re-runs she had witnessed numerous symptoms, ailments and treatments--so that, thanks to Dr. Welby, instead of tummy aches, she had ulcers; when she was tired she feared pernicious anemia; and, when Mickie cried about getting a shot, she shouted, 'It's better than having an IV, so shut up.'

During the day the symptoms persisted, but my original prognosis (sleeping on her neck wrong) held strong.

On the way to a business dinner that evening Darrell asked, 'Do you suppose she's got the mumps?'

'No possible way,' I answered. 'Nobody at school has the mumps, none of the relatives. There's absolutely no way she could get them. Nobody in town has them.'

'Well, somebody's got to start them,' he answered.

'She slept on her neck wrong,' I said.

At the dinner I described her symptoms to four mothers, who immediately came to the joint conclusion that  it was mumps.

'No way,' I said. 'No one's got them.'

When we got home, the babysitter announced she'd put Kristi to bed and then asked, 'Has she ever had the mumps?' 

'No way,' I muttered.

The next morning Kristi woke up with a 104 degree temperature and swelling on the right side of her face. I called the doctor who right away asked, 'Has she ever had the mumps?'

'You're kidding,' I answered. 'Nobody's had them for her to catch.'

'Somebody has to start them,' he said.

So, we set up a sickroom, started pushing aspirin, promoted grape juice and called everyone she might have exposed. They offered sympathy, asked if the other kids had them, asked if I'd had them and proceeded to tell me about a friend, or a friend of a friend--so now I've heard:

1: A lady had the mumps as a child. She was in bed three weeks and gave them to her mother who was in the hospital six weeks.

2: A friend had a light case, gave them to her mother who gave them to her father, and he needed a special nurse for three months.

3: My own mother-in-law had been around mumps all her life, got them when her youngest was 16 days old, then promptly gave them to her mother who nearly died.

Denise's immediate reaction to Kristi's mumps was acute embarrassment and orders to Mickie: 'Don't tell anyone she's got the mumps.' 

When Mickie came home last Monday and said she had told Kristi's best friend, Denise screamed, 'The whole school's gonna know about it.'

Then, on Wednesday, Mickie asked if she could tell the dance teacher about Kristi's dilemma. Denise slapped the side of her head and moaned, 'Oh my gosh, the whole town's gonna know.'

And maybe she had a point.

Kristi was down for nine days and during that time I didn't get out of the house except to empty trash and pick up the newspapers. I had a touch of cabin fever and wanted company. Then a friend called and offered to run errands for me. I answered, 'No errands, but how about coming over for a cup of coffee?'

'Are you kidding?' she yelled, and hung up.

Darrell talked a friend of his into helping him "hot wire" our acreage. When Monroe walked in, I asked: 'Hey--ever had the mumps?'

He mumbled 'My God,' turned pale and walked out the door.

And, the stigma remains. Yesterday I went to the beauty shop and as I opened the door, Joanie met me with a sterile mask and ordered, 'Wear this and don't breathe the whole time you're here.'

 And so, we survived the trauma of the mumps. Having dated my copy of this little piece, I also know now when we bought the farm...sometime before November 7, 1972. I'd been trying to remember the year, but I was afraid '72 was too soon, but it wasn't. Not only had we purchased our 320 acres in partnership with Monroe, but (per this article) we were expecting cattle and needed a fence. Your father was a mover. For sure.

August 2, 2019 

MORNINGS WITH CHILDREN, TAKE 2

It's a sentimental kind of morning and, as I look at this little piece--and another that seems oddly similar--I'm remembering how important it was that you sweet girls dress appropriately every single day. And, when I say "every single day" that did include Saturday and Sunday. And it was very important. Both Darrell and my parental reputations demanded it. On second thought I'm not sure that's right. It was probably only my parental reputation that was on the line. Fathers normally got a pass on this one. But, by the same token, your Dad did want you to look nice and be dressed well. He was cute that way.

As I edited these two similar pieces, it occurred to me that clothing issues--during my Mom days--popped up every morning. That would mean seven mornings a week times three daughters which, when multiplied, yielded twenty-one mornings of hell every seven days. I'll jump a little ahead and say that Michael never participated in the clothing crises that erupted in our house for years.. He never cared what he wore or (more often) didn't wear, and no amount of my obvious distress moved him.

A few years ago, both Mickie and Amy were a little gobsmacked about how their boys were becoming very particular about their clothes. Jackson was 12 and Collin was 11. We texted a bit and I laughed, remembering that you girls could be sooo picky about your clothes for school, or anywhere else. Obviously, it's been easier to laugh about this now,  than all those years ago when I was just a young thing. As you might remember, I didn't laugh at all then.

Now, for the combined story...

 "Our two little ones share a room, share a closet and, when they're on speaking terms, share their clothes. However, Mommy never knows what those terms might be until I lay out the day's garb.

'Why are you gonna let Kristi wear my dress?' asks Mickie.

'Because you wore one of her dresses yesterday, and it's fair to share.'

'Yeah, Mickie, that's right,' quoted Kristi.

'Oh well, I wanted to wear shorts today anyway,' Mickie answered...

 Another Day: Me: 'Kristi you're going to wear this jumper.'

'But I don't like that jumper.'

'WEAR IT!

LATER IN THE WEEK: Kristi: 'That dress of Mickie's is too short for me. Everyone would see my underpants.'

'Not if you wear tights.'

'But when I wear tights my legs get too hot at school.'

'Well Kristi,' through clenched teeth, 'What do you want: sweaty legs or a night in jail for exhibitionism?'

'I want to wear my pink dress.'

'Your pink dress is held in reserve for bonfire nights and state occasions.'

'I'd be real careful...I'd even do my arithmetic really slow so that I won't get to go out for recess.'

'You'll wear Mickie's dress--the one I laid out for you. Wear your tights, and do your math at your regular speed. Now, get dressed. You've got two minutes.'

A FEW MINUTES LATER: It is time to enter the real lion's den. Finding clothes for a ten-year old is never a completely simple matter, but when she strings on the side for "Women's Wear Daily"  it becomes well nigh impossible.

During the time I've known my oldest daughter she was neatness-plus. She wore nothing that had the slightest spot, tear or irregularity. A piece of lint on a knit skirt could throw her into a tizzy. In her eyes, an unpolished shoe was the height of decadence.

For example: 'Mother--I can't wear this dress you laid out. It has a spot on it.'

Mother replies: 'A spot! Impossible! I didn't go to college for four years just to turn out spotty wash. Where is it? I can't see a thing.'

Daughter counters: 'Right there. Right below the third orange horizontal stripe and to the left of the blue vertical stripe.'

Mother again: 'I still can't see it. Let me get the magnifying glass...my eyes aren't what they used to be, you know. It's ironing in poor light, and the sewing and the vacuuming, cooking..'.

Daughter: 'Mother! You're reading Germaine Greer again. The melodrama isn't cute.'

Mother: 'WEAR IT!'

The following morning the same daughter announces: 'Mother, I can't wear this dress you laid out. It's been mended.'

Mother: 'Of course it's been mended and, if I do say so myself, a Home-Ec major could not have done better!'

Daughter: 'But Mother...You used red thread'.

Mother: 'On a red dress you wanted maybe purple?'

Daughter: 'The manufacturer of this dress saw fit to sew the entire thing with colorless plastic thread. Why did you move in with red?'

Mother: 'I sewed once with plastic thread. It comes off the spool in stiff coils--tenacious little coils. I dropped the spool and the thread leapt up...got me around the neck with a grip that would make a boa constrictor envious. Believe me, Mama is not ready for the cold, cold ground yet. WEAR THE DRESS.'

SOME MONTHS LATER: I entered Denise's room where, much to my shock, she was posing in front of her mirror wearing a pair of jeans that had been stolen from our rag box, and a sweatshirt abandoned by her father.

'What are you doing?' I gasped. 'No--What are you wearing? Oh, good grief. You're dropping out. It's not time yet! You've got to be at least fifteen to be unhappy enough to drop out!'

'Mother, don't try to be cute. I'm dressing for school.'

'In those clothes??? That outfit would be rejected by a naked Tibetan in the middle of winter. Are you sure you're feeling well?'

'Mother, this is an 'in' outfit.'

''In' what? In the garbage--yes. In the school--over my dead body.'

'Mother, don't be rash. This is what everyone is wearing. I'd be laughed out of class if I wore something clean, something ironed, or something new. Mother...This is where it's at.'

'Is this the gratitude I get? I've ironed your ruffles, your lace, your permanent press. Do you have any idea that it takes more calories to iron than to lay brick? Where are the rewards I was promised? The hours I've slaved and...for what? 

'Now you're reading too much Joan Didion, mother. I promise you that I am the height of fashion.'

And now, Kristi and Mickie come in, and immediately scream: 'Hey Denise! That is a BOSS outfit. Cool, Denise. Cool'

And then they walked out the door heading to school. I poured a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. Then, walked to Denise's mirror. My jeans had been purchased ten years ago. My old college sweatshirt was so faded I couldn't tell where I had gone to school. Well...I thought to myself...Mama, You're BOSS. Really BOSS.

I hold my head high at the grocery store now. In fact, I kind of pity those women with the manicured nails, carefully coiffed hair, and oh-so-perfect pantsuits. They don't know yet, but they're not BOSS. And, they're not nearly as comfortable as I am. BOSS is good.

Remember...I never said these little pieces were good. But, they did give me an outlet. I do remember that, as you grew up, you became even more particular about what you wore and how clean you were. I remember being just a little frustrated when--if an item of clothing had touched any part of your body, no matter how briefly--it was dirty and thrown to the floor. (Sometimes into the pile that already existed in your room, sometimes beside it, and sometimes out the door and into the hallway.) I hated that because--as you, perhaps, have learned--it meant that it had to be washed again. And, in those days, ironed again. Neatly folded again. And, carefully laid on the steps for you to carry to your room...someday. Or, more often, for Michael to crawl up a step or two and, laughing delightedly, take your piles apart one item by one item and throw them down to the living room. You know, I didn't even drink very much in those days. I don't think, anyway. Maybe I've simply forgotten. As we all know, there were four of you. Sometimes it seemed like a lot.

June 8, 2017

MORNINGS WITH CHILDREN, TAKE 1

As I've dug through these "THS MRS" clippings, I've been surprised to find that there are three similar, but different entries about the screams and whines and threats that seemed to be a necessary part of getting to school on time. And, no! It wasn't just me who was doing the screaming, whining and threatening. Considering that  school was half a block away, these mornings should have been a cake-walk, but they weren't. Not at all.  Here we go:   

"Many mothers I know become nearly catatonic as the end of May draws near. They huddle in corners of the supermarket whispering,'They're going to be home all day!' 'What am I going to do with them?' 'I love my kids, but 24 hours a day?' 'Any good summer camps around?'

In contrast, I'm rather looking forward to June. As a matter of fact, I'd look forward to chicken pox if it meant a calm morning at our house...

We've installed alarm clocks in each of the kid's rooms. They're small rooms, but the clocks have been carefully placed so the girls must get out of bed to turn them off. Unfortunately, this doesn't carry any guarantee against their collapsing on the floor in a deep sleep the moment the clocks stop buzzing. It does, however, get them out of their warm cozy nests.

At this point our oldest, the one who is obsessed with punctuality, is dressed, hair combed, and etc. within ten minutes. She then begins her daily countdown.

'Hurry up, you guys. You've only got fifty minutes.'

'How long is fifty minutes?' asks Kristi.

'Long enough to get ready for school,' I answer. 'Denise...stop that. You'll drive them crazy.'

'They've got 49 minutes now,' answers Denise.

'Kristi, Mickie--time to get dressed. Now!' I shout. 'I want to wear shorts today,' says Mickie.

'It's ten degrees below zero, Mickie. It's mid-February, and if you wear shorts you'll have a raging case of walking pneumonia before you get out of the back gate.'

'Mary had 'pa-monia' last year and she got a Teddy Bear and a doll and coloring books. I wouldn't care if I got 'pa-monia.'

'Well,' I answered. 'I'd care. Daddy would care, and you'd better believe Blue Cross and Blue Shield would care. Shorts are out!'

'Hurry up,' shouts Denise. 'You've only got forty minutes.'

'Breakfast is on. Come and get it.'

'Where's Kristi?' Mickie asks.

'Denise,' I ask, 'Would you please go get Kristi and tell her breakfast is ready?'

In just a moment, Denise returns to the breakfast/dining room. 'She was back in bed asleep. She's never gonna make it. We've only got half an hour.'

'Are we gonna be late?' Mickie asks.

'No, you've got plenty of time.'

Finally, Kristi arrives at the table.

'Hurry up and eat', Denise hisses. I'm not going to wait for you. You're just going to have to be late.'

'Am I gonna be late, Mama?' asks Kristi.

'No.'

Eventually everyone's hair and teeth are brushed, and faces washed. We have three minutes to kill.

'Oh, Mommie,' Mickie says. 'I'm supposed to take a quarter to school today.'

'Can I have a sack lunch today?' asks Kristi. 'I promised Robin I'd bring one and eat with her.'

'Oh,' shouts Denise. 'This is library day. Where's my book?'

'If it's Denise's library day, then it's mine, too. I forgot to read my book. Will you read my book to me?' pleads Mickie.

'I forgot to practice my alphabet letters,' cried Kristi.  'I was supposed to write a whole page of alphabet letters. Where's the paper?'

'Mom,' says Denise. 'I need to buy a new lunch ticket today. My other one's used up.'

'My tights have a rip in them. I've got to change,' shouts Kristi.

'I've gotta go to the bathroom,' Mickie wailed.

I really wish now I would have learned to live in the moment much sooner. But that's human nature. That's why we talk about time flying and wonder where it went and wishing we would have appreciated it more. But we don't. Because, most of the time we're just trying to survive and not kill anyone. 

IN WHICH THS MRS FINDS HER TYPEWRITER

Our sweet little family had been together about ten months when THS MRS made its debut in the Dodge City Daily Globe.  I'm not sure what motivated me to write about us then, but I suspect it was related to dreams of fame and fortune such as, I imagined, Erma Bombeck and Jean Kerr were enjoying. I don't know if you would remember, or ever even heard of Erma and Jean--other than me carrying on about them-- but they were wonderful writers who entertained my generation with stories of their children, husbands, and themselves. Intelligent women trapped (so to speak) in suburbia in the era before the ERA.  They both, of course, are dead now. And, in both cases it seemed to happen way too early.

Erma was a real-life housewife living in various parts of the Midwest, writing columns about her family and so much more. She had worked her way through college, met and married Mr. Bombeck and then proceeded to hole up in their tiny bedroom to write. Every day. Perhaps even all day. She was extremely successful--syndicated in 900 newspapers across the country. (I'm not sure there are even 900 papers in the U.S. any more.) Her books sold like the proverbial "hot-cakes" and she commonly received million dollar advances each time she sat down to produce another one. Obviously, when I looked her up in Wikipedia, I discovered that she and her husband had moved from Ohio to Phoenix at some point, buying a 'lavish hacienda' in Paradise Valley. Lavish is the norm in that zip-code, so I'm sure she was surrounded by the glitterati of the day. She was, however, probably the only woman who bought a lavish hacienda with the proceeds of a book titled: "The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank." You had to love Erma! She died at 69 which, I can tell you from where I sit, is much too young.

Jean Kerr was also a housewife, but a housewife living just outside New York City in New Rochelle and Larchmont--dashing into the city to meet her husband (New York Times Theater Critic) for dinner and Broadway openings and walks in Central Park. She wrote award winning plays and books--most notable (for me, anyway) "Please Don't Eat the Daisies." I lusted for that fame and fortune. I actually imagined I might one day live in a two-story, rather large colonial house somewhere near Jean. Sadly, I never did, nor did I ever become a famous writer. I think, because it was much harder than I thought it would be. And, I've never been terribly excited about things that didn't come easily.

So, when I hatched this plan of becoming a renowned writer, I assumed that the Dodge City Daily Globe might pay me for my gifted-ness but, that was not to be. Before that whole thought makes you laugh and shake your heads, please remember I did win $10.00 for an opinion piece I wrote in regards to a racist front page headline in that same Daily Globe. I was teaching at Wilroads Gardens at the time and $10.00 was definitely $10.00 and felt like a gift from heaven...Actually, it WAS a gift from heaven!

It has taken all these years to figure out, but the sad fact is that while I was trying to become Erma and/or Jean, I was totally missing the fact that on TV, The Brady Bunch was a tremendous hit. What does that have to do with my story? Here goes: As you may recall, we were the Brady Bunch live and in person, but I was busting my little butt to present us as the ordinary neighbors next door. I was (not for the first time, unfortunately) missing the entire point. Had I been a bit brighter, and  written a bit more honestly I, most likely, would have had Alice cooking in my kitchen and cleaning my little house. Because of those two things, I might even have looked a bit more like Florence Henderson and had a better disposition to boot. But noooo. I was so afraid to be seen as "different" (because of the nuns and my mother, of course) that I completely blew it. I lived the story of our uniqueness every day, but kept it hidden under the bed. It didn't mean that my beloved THS MRS was bad...it just wasn't special. And, no matter what you may think, special sells. Sameness is just sameness.

So, I've licked my wounds and come back to it. This very first THS MRS was published on April 12, 1972, and you cannot imagine how excited I was. It was about the circus. The Annual Shrine Circus which, in retrospect, was a sad and shabby little event, but it would get us all out of the house and it would use up at least three hours of the afternoon. And, God knows, I needed those three hours of someone else entertaining you  sweet girls.

So, here we go...word for word:

"While the Ms' of the world were busy lecturing, marching, and attending judo classes a couple of weeks ago--this particular Mrs., knowing in her heart that the family that plays together etc...lovingly escorted her brood to the circus.

After engaging in hand to hand combat with an Amazonian mother for the remaining four seats in the Civic Center, and finally bribing the woman, we settled in. Unfortunately, my seat was last occupied by a toddler whose mother hadn't told him what R-E-S-T-R-O-O-M spelled, but out roared the lions and the show was on.

Approximately thirteen seconds later, a man hawking popcorn sidled up to my elbow. My children, who had choked and gagged on their bologna sandwiches thirty minutes earlier, were suddenly pale and faint from hunger contractions.

'OK kids. Popcorn all around, but that's it.' After all, I thought, the circus does come only once a year (and will probably continue to do so until my seven years from last week's broken mirror incident runs its course.)

Thirty minutes later while the Beautiful Miss Olga was defying death twenty feet above the hardwood floor, I glanced at my kids and found all of them staring open-mouthed ten rows behind us where another man was pushing blue cotton candy.

'Mama', asked Kristi, 'can we have some cotton candy?' Then Mickie piped up. 'I didn't eat all my popcorn so I'd have room for cotton candy. Grandpa bought me cotton candy last year, and Denise wants some too.'

'NO!'

I found I was really tense waiting for Miss Olga to arrive on firmer territory. In fact, I found myself standing up and offering silent prayers for Olga's safe return to earth.

'Mama!' screamed Denise. 'Sit down! She's practiced that act for a good twenty years and you're making a complete fool of yourself. Now--how about that cotton candy?'

I let them have the cotton candy and once again peace reigned supreme.

Another half hour of trained seals, hyper-kinetic poodles and molting bears--and here came the Coke man.

'Mama,' the brood chorused in unison...

After the cups were passed out, I looked to my right and saw Kristi up to her elbows in pop. 'What are you doing?' I yelled.

'My hands were sticky from the cotton candy so I'm washing them.'

'You don't wash your hands in Coke. Besides, I thought you were thirsty.'

'I was. I'll drink it as soon as I wash my hands.'

'Drink it now...and BE QUIET.'

'Mama,' said Mickie. 'You're the only one making noise.'

Eventually, the circus ended. The last helium filled balloon hit the ceiling, the last full coke hit the floor and the last bit of cotton candy had been smeared from forehead to chin.

As we struggled out the door, I managed to overhear Denise: 'Hey kids--I traded Gayle my yo-yo for three more tickets. Maybe we can talk Mama into bringing us again tomorrow!'

Will one of you ladies please hand me a placard? I think I'm ready to march."

Whereas...I had quite happily chosen to re-marry and, with Darrell by my side, raise you darling little girls, I have to admit that I was bothered just a bit by the changing world and the women who were in the midst of that movement. It looked exciting; it was taking place in New York City; Gloria Steinem was involved, but here I sat at the Shrine Circus in Dodge City, Kansas. Life was good, but it was hard (sometimes) to shake the idea that I was missing out on some exciting times.

And now, here I am, well into my 74th year...a woman who came of age in the '60's and '70's without ever taking off her bra in public or marching boldly while choking on tear-gas. It left a small hole, but I'm well over that now, and wouldn't trade a minute of my life with my little girls (plus Michael) for anything.

July 11, 2019