Millard Head "The best thing I like about this weather is . . . it's just that much more out of the way before summer."
Stolen from Vern Livingston's desk.
"City hall," said the switchboard operator, answering a call. There was no sound on the other end of the line.
"City hall," the operator repeated, but still there was no reply.
Finally, after the third try, a rather timid female voice said, "Is this really City hall?"
"That's right," said the operator. "With whom did you wish to speak?"
There was an embarrassed silence. Finally the voice said softly, "Nobody, I guess. I just found this number in my husband's coat pocket."
Mrs. Theresa Meyer, 211 North Fifth Street, a recent patient at St. Mary's hospital, wonders if the upcoming generation will ever realize how farmers of yesteryear not only produced food for everyone but also put their own meat on the table.
She recalled "butchering" days, when someone in the Avoca neighborhood was the one person farmers relied on to help with butchering livestock.
We had a pleasant visit with Mrs. Meyer at the hospital the other day. In her years on the farm, the farm wife had many chores, she said. There was a lot of canning, poultry to care for and raising her sons.
Today, she can enjoy shopping at grocery stores in Nebraska City where the shelves are stocked with literally thousands of staples, meat and dairy products.
Mrs. Meyer's years and experiences are before our time, but we enjoyed the visit and recalled such things as milk in glass quart bottles (the top half was cream, it seemed), smoked meats, chicken fried m an iron skillet, the ice man, wood burning stoves (guess who's job it was to carry in the blamed wood), fresh country-baked pies, bread, rolls and homemade butter, churned in a gallon jug with a paddlewheel, picking peas and beans at canning time (guess who had to wash all those blamed quart jars every year) and the job the orneriest boy in the family was handed — taken the frozen wash off the line.
Mrs. Meyer enjoys The Buck likes the "oldtime" stories and Mrs. Grace Holmes made the day just great with a call of a news item and compliments on The Buck. Dunno. I think you women are pulling my leg. Er er . . . haf kaff harrump! You must be up to tricks.
Mrs. Elmer Conkling asked the other day.
Do all those things REALLY happen in your home?
Oh, you bet your velvet pin cushion, they do.
Did I ever tell you about the time I came to a decision never to sleep again with my son no matter how much he begged, pleaded and snorted?
It all started in the best of father-son tradition.
"Hey, Dad, will you sleep with me tonight?"
Well, it kinda gets you right (thump, thump) here, when the husky little fella says that. And so, we decided that despite a rough previous "sleeping with Dad" night, we'd do it again and again. Someday, he will be grown and that will be y-u-k.
"You bet your best pocketknife thar boy. The king is going to hit the pad with you tonight. I'll out-wrestle you, hog all the covers and snore the loudest."
That really drew a snicker.
Well, we had a lot to talk about, so we didn't settle down right away.
Tootsie, our aging Cocker Spaniel, came into the room several times for some sort of a security check and there was always the blurp-blurp of the aquarium on top of his dresser.
We talked about summer when we could "sleep under the stars" while umpteen fish were getting hooked on our throw lines and just waiting for us to get up and haul them in.
Once in a while I detected a sudden "thud" in my ribs from a boy's foot.
"O-o-m-ph! What in blazes?"
I looked over and all the fire and brimstone, blazing energy and dirty face were gone. There beside me was a clean youngster, sprawled out all over the bed in his red and black plaid pajamas . . . it was the picture of innocence.
Suddenly there it was again, that big foot.
I realized then, that this whole rib-kicking could be blamed on his wrestling coach, Ray Noyes, and all the Jaycees in Nebraska City and the U.S.A.
I never did find out for sure, but I think No. 1 son was fighting for the championship of the world with Mr. Moto against karate chops, Maddog Vashon or The Claw . . . and I just happened to be in the same bed.
The next morning I couldn't believe it. The cyclone of 1932 must have entered the bedroom and grabbed the covers.
Omigosh, Millie will flip when she sees the torn sheet.
Well, that was about all there was to the night.
I lived through it, though I'm not sure how, and the husky little fella feels great about sleeping with dad.
We had a couple of fatalities, though.
The next morning we discovered two of his "jumping" fish were missing from the aquarium. Remember, I said the aquarium was on the dresser?
Guess where the dresser is located in the bedroom?
Yeah, you've got it . . . right beside the bed.