"Brrrr .ing."
"Hullo."
"Do me sol, do me sol, do me sol, me do sol do."
"Hi, Margaret."
"How'd you guess, Ivan?"
"I sit in the back row in choir, remember?"
"Oh, yes. Well, what I wanted to know is why the News-Press is so male chauvinistic."
"Huh? Whattya talking about?" I asked.
"You. The News-Press. Everytime an organization of men elects officers, you put that on front page, but not the new officers of a woman's club," she said.
Well, I had to admit, I never thought about it in just that way. She's right. We do just that, but at the same time, we give the gals a special local page edited by Mrs. Dorene Duffey and on Sundays we shoot the works with a couple of pages.
Congratulations to honorees.
Nebraska City Jaycees and the best looking group in the organization, the Jaynes, paid many compliments the other night.
Mayor A. O. Gigstad, the veterinarian with the scoop shovel sized hands was named for the Distinguished Service Award; Paul Baltensperger, the Baptist cattleman and farmer received the Farmer Award (they served ham at the dinner); Paul Stevenson the wrestling coach who gives orders on the mat and takes them in his home like most well minded husbands, receiyed the Young Educator Award and Jerry Jacobson who directs the newest and biggest futures for children while at work and cuts up cords of wood in the evening at home, received the Young Man award.
It was a pleasant evening. We've attended a number of banquets and although my stomach is caloused against roast beef and ham dinners, my appetite is always whetted by the speakers and awards presentations.
It's always good to see that people are recognized and the Jaycees and Jaynes each year attempt to do just that. The speaker, Guy Ingles, a former Husker football star and now a member of the coaching staff, took note of the awards and commended the organizations for their program and for giving recognition to those who do the work.
Mourning for Mr. Truman.
Flags are being flown at half staff in Nebraska City and across the state during the 30 day mourning period for former President Harry Truman.
Mr. Truman died December 26.
President Nixon ordered flags lowered for 30 days on all federal buildings and Governor Exon did the same for all state buildings.
That answers a question from Frances.
The frost is coming out of the ground and the man who really knows that is Evert Frost, one of the town's most dedicated workers.
Evert is that smiling and always helpful individual who takes care of the City's landfill. City Street Commissioner Clyde Stoll is pretty proud of his man, Evert, and he's got every right to be. He's quite a guy.
I called the other day to ask if I could get into the landfill without getting stuck.
"Oh, no. It's really something out there," he said.
"The weatherman sez it's going to freeze tonight. Won't the ground be frozen enough to get around?" I asked.
"Not at the dump," Evert said. "Come on out, I'll meet you at the top of the hill and you can put your load into the dozer."
So, the next morning I got to the landfill shortly after 7 a.m., and there was Evert winding up ole' Betsy, the diesel Burper. Roy Tucker pulled into the landfill and went on down the lane to the dumping area.
As I finished unloading, I thanked Evert for what I thought was sort of a special favor.
"Aw, that's okay," he said. "I do it for a lot of people."
As he turned the crawler tractor and headed for the dumping area, he answered my "thanks again" by saying that he had "better check on Roy to see that he gets out okay."
Maybe it's all in a day's work. I dunno. But I'll bet Evert Frost goes home smiling at the end of the day with the satisfaction that he's done his work well.
I'm not too active in our church choir, but I do enjoy warbling in the bass clef while seated in the back row.
I really miss my "right arm," John Klingman, who graduated and moved on to other skills after the School for the Visually Handicapped.
Big John, as we used to call the low keyed singer, has perfect pitch. And as the piano players in our house explain that to me, that's a pretty foxy talent.
Well anyway, John was my partner for four years on the back row. He had to be; I can't read music. They're all just so many dots and curly-cues.
So when we had practice, I'd lean over to tenor Don Cushing and say.
"What's that note?"
"F," he'd say.
"John, It's an F," I'd tell my partner.
"Hummmmmmm" .and away we'd go.
John may be blind, but he's not bl[illegible]led by humor and good talent.
The other day I overheard a conversation between Clarissa, the 16-year-old and Jeannea, the 12-year-old and the only girl in the house who is still taking piano lessons.
"You mean I still have to take lessons?" the youngest said.
"You bet. Dad made me take them for six years. You're just getting started," the licensed driver said.
"Why so long?"
"I don't know. I guess, Jeannea, it's one of those 'my kids are going to get the things I didn't get' stories."
About that time, the king, master and lord of the house walked into the living room, and with all the tact ot George Gershwin and Art Carney addressed the piano.
Out came . . . You get a line and I'll get a pole . . . we'll go down to the crawdad hole. From this valley they say you are coming .Shine on, shine on harvest moon.
"Ivan," the queen bee said.
"Huh?"
"You just as well quit now."
"Why, I'm just warming up," saith the master of the ivories.
"Look around you," she said.
The girls had left the room.