Ivan D.E. Beaumont.
The Christmas card
Mr. and Mrs. Max Beemblossom, former residents, write from their home in Monroe, Mich., that they think of Nebraska City as home and miss their friends.
Mr. Beemblossom was employed by Morton House Kitchens, Inc., a number of years ago. He now is plant manager for the Richter Vinegar company.
The Beemblossoms have two children, Bruce, a sophomore and Barbie, a fourth grader. Their address is: 605 W. 6th Street, Monroe, Mich., 48161.
Memorial Building
It was good news to read that Mayor Fenstermacher is attempting to do something to improve Memorial Building and its use. She recently appointed a committee to look over the facility and come up with some recommendations.
Jack Simms, a member of the Nebraska City Park board, is one of those interested in getting more use out of the building. He pointed out the other day the money spent by the city for the use of the armory.
Didya know . . .
that there are an estimated 800 people working at the OPPD Nebraska City Power Station southwest of town? That's a whole lot of people. And . . . didya know . . . that the payroll runs about $200,000 a week? That's what new industry can do for a community.
It'll be a couple years before the project is completed and there won't be that many people on the job, of course. However, the people who do work there hopefully will make Nebraska City their homes.
And in the future . . . OPPD has plans for additional power plants on the site, so the growth is sort of an on-going venture. All of which should mean growth for our community.
Sorry, Ray Stevens
The Ray Stevens orchestra, band or whatever you call 'em just went on my list . . . with the new recording of the "Hen House 5 Plus 2."
If you haven't heard it you probably soon will because it's a novelty type number. The only words are sounds of what are supposed to be hens "clucking."
The song Stevens chose is in poor taste — Glenn Miller's "In The Mood." I'm too much of a sentimentalist to go along with shredding Miller's song. I would have suggested Stevens use some of the Beatles music for his clucking.
The only satisfaction for the few of us is that we're confident In The Mood will be around a long time after the "clucking" song. Correct me someone . . . was Miller's big hit about 1938?
Skinning a cat
The high school wrestler came in the kitchen door the other day carrying all those "necessary" things that athletes have, plus a plastic bag.
He dropped his gear on the floor and flopped into a chair at the kitchen counter. He was ready for a meal . . . a light meal . . . because he is dieting to stay in his weight class.
A bowl of chili was agreed upon.
"What's all this stuff you brought home?" his mother asked as she prepared the chili.
"Oh, just my wrestling stuff and my cat," came the response.
"What cat?" questioned the Woman-of-the-House.
"MY CAT," he exclaimed, "the one I'm going to skin."
I could see in her eyes that she was about to explode . . . about like the time she did when I came home and told her I traded for a car . . . there wasn't time to warn the young man . . .
"You . . . you . . . get that . . . that . . . thing out of my house!"
(The boy shirked. I've been around for 26 years so I knew how to handle it).
"Now, mother," I said softly, "don't get so riled. The boy has to skin that cat- in a science project."
"Not in MY house," she snorted.
"Oh, mom," he explained. "It's nothing but a dead cat."
It was at this point that I noticed the curl was coming out of her hair).
"Oh . . . oh . . . get that thing out of the house!"
"Better do it, boy," I suggested. "We'll handle this later."
As the boy left the room, I suggested to the Queen Bee that she tread a little softly on the subject. "After all, mother, when I was his age we trapped and skinned muskrat, coon, skunk, and possom every winter."
"But," she snorted again, "you didn't do it in the kitchen."
After things calmed down a bit I suggested to the young man that he do his "science project" elsewhere . . . out of mother's sight.
He agreed. In front of the TV.
So what the heck, I thought, we didn't win the war, but we got through one battle.
Very carefully he spread a plastic bag over the floor in front of the TV (this is in the basement rec room) a number of newspapers and then proudly displayed his "surgical" instruments explaining how each was to be used.
The discussion during the surgery concerned the blood vessels, the arteries and the animal body structure. We kept the conversation on sort of a low key so there wouldn't be much of an "upstairs" response.
A couple of TV show later . . . and the job was done. The cleanup took almost as long.
The next morning, the young man made his usual appearance at the breakfast table . . . sleepy eyed, toting his wrestling gear and the plastic bag.
The Woman-of-the-House didn't say anything and we didn't press the point.
He went outside with his gear, started his pickup truck and then came back in the house while the engine warmed.
A few minutes later, he left . . . and then came the shock . . . he offered his sister a ride to school.
The Queen Bee was suspicious.
I never gave it a second thought.
"Whatever got into that boy this morning?" she asked.
"Whattya mean?" I asked.
"He took his sister to school!"
"Yeah," I answered, "That was kinda neat. Maybe he's decided sisters aren't so dumb after all."
"No," she said, "it was something more than that. Say! Where's that cat?"
"Oh," I said with a flair of nonchalant poise, "YOUR son took it to school with him."
"Oh, thank heavens he got that thing out of the house."
"He sure did, mother," I explained. "He put the cat in that see-through plastic bag and put it in the seat between him and his sister."