Let’s journey back to the late 1920’s. If you can recall any tunes from “O Brother, Where Art Thou?”, hum along. It’ll put you in the proper mood.
In the tiny town along the railroad tracks where my mother grew up, life revolved around daily chores, school, church, and a trip to the store for necessaries, news and a haircut (all in the same place and provided by her daddy, Judge, who wasn’t one, but that’s another story). A break in the routine came when relatives visited or when the kids got to go spend time with grandparents.
Even prior to being old enough to attend school, my mom often stayed with her grandparents to help out the old folks, seein’ as how their rheumatiz kept them from doing all the things they’d done when they were spring chickens. They lived near another tiny town just ten miles down the tracks. By the way, is anything ever “up” the tracks?
Here they are dandling a couple of the grandkiddies on their knees, Grandma in a dress that seemed to reappear in most of her photos and Uncle John sporting a fine head of hair and a beard to match. I imagine he cut quite a figure in his Union Blues back in his Civil War fighting days, don’t you?
Just so we get things straight – Grandma Martha married John, who had actually been married to her sister, Emma. It was all on the up-and-up, because Emma had passed on, leaving Uncle John a free man. Martha, having been first widowed (now that fellow was my mom’s actual grandpa) and then receiving a court judgment freeing her up from a no-good scoundrel, married John, who, in addition, was a second cousin, once removed. So, my mom grew up with a step-grandpa/uncle-by-marriage cousin whom they all called Uncle John. Well, now that that’s all cleared up…
Now isn’t this a little darlin’?
She’s my mom’s little sister, Gladys Pearl. I have no idea where she came up with that parasol, but I’ll bet she was mighty proud of it!
The family didn’t call everyone by double names, but they must have sensed that it was a fit for Gladys Pearl. She’d need it later, when she married and moved to the Deep South.
Little Gladys Pearl had a turn at staying with Grandma and Uncle John. Things were different in those days. Though big cities may have already embraced telephones and electric lights to a certain degree, out here in the Midwest things remained “off the grid”. In fact, there was no grid. Believe it or not, even good parents believed that anyone with a responsible job who could look you in the eye and shake your hand could be trusted. They may have had a few qualms about putting a small child on a train and giving the conductor instructions to see that they got off at the right stop, but they did it. I’m not sure if anyone met Gladys Pearl at the train when she reached her destination, because I’m sure they didn’t have a phone. Somehow she got there and perhaps had to find her way out to Grandma and Uncle John’s place.
Gladys helped Grandma and Uncle John with small chores and they enjoyed her visit, just as they did when their other grandchildren came. Having a pair of energetic little legs to run after this and that eased the daily grind.
One night, after going to bed, Grandma and Uncle John tossed and turned. Their rheumatiz seemed determined to keep them up all night. Miserable, they called out to Gladys Pearl, asking her to please bring them the liniment.
There seemed no point in going to the trouble of lighting a coal oil lamp for such a swift and simple errand. Gladys Pearl crawled out of bed. Guided by the comforting voices of Grandma and Uncle John and a glimmer of moonlight, she felt her way through the darkness and groped for the cupboard door. Following their instructions, her fingers soon fell upon a small bottle. Grasping it, she turned and, feeling her way toward their bed, handed it to her grateful grandparents.
Grandma and Uncle John passed the bottle between them, splashing the fluid onto their fingers and rubbing it everywhere. They applied it to every aching joint they had before resettling themselves under the covers.
After a bit, they called out to Gladys Pearl again, thanking her for being such a good helper and telling her that they felt better already! All three now settled in for a good night’s sleep.
The following morning when the household came to life, the day began with surprises all around.
Little Gladys Pearl, doing her best, hadn’t managed to get hold of the liniment bottle. Even if there had been a sliver of moonbeam to assist her, she likely hadn’t learned to read anyway.
What Gladys Pearl got was a glass bottle version of this –
Just in case you missed the punch line, I’ll explain. (And, if you are below a certain age or have never made a salt crystal garden with your kids, you probably did miss the punch line.)
Laundry bluing is exactly that – BLUE! To be specific, it’s NAVY blue! Clothing dyes include blues, yellows, etc., but over time the blue fades away, leaving fabrics “yellowed”. To bring the crisp, newness back to whites, you would add a tiny touch of bluing to a wash load. Note the instructions for usage as pertains to diluting –
Full-strength bluing, applied directly (and liberally) to the skin, left Grandma and Uncle John navy blue all over, not to mention their night clothes and the bed sheets. And, in case you’re wondering, it doesn’t wash off – it wears off. It’s a good thing they were country folk. They could, most likely, avoid a trip to town for a month or more if necessity called for it. This case of the blues probably made them reluctant to socialize.
Though this true story has made it through the generations, I’m sad to say that it never occurred to me to ask who noticed first.
Did Grandma and Uncle John wake up and, looking down at their hands, come to the conclusion that a mysterious deadly plague had descended on the household overnight? Or, did Gladys Pearl wake up first? If so, it must have been traumatic at her age to look in on Grandma and Uncle John, hoping they might be stirring and working their way toward fixing her breakfast, only to find her grandparents had turned blue!
As far as I know, the old folks took it all in stride. Grandparents have a way of doing that when it comes to the little ones. Besides, they did “ask for it” – didn’t they?
One other unanswered question remains. I’m fairly certain, however that the answer is “no”. I doubt they ever wrote to the address on the back of the bluing bottle, informing the company that their product, when applied during a bout of rheumatiz, worked wonders.
I’ve used Mrs. Stewart’s Bluing, with care, in the laundry. It does the job on those yellowed cottons. Check out their website here. They have instructions for everything. Maybe you can find out what it does for fish and dogs.
Comments? Questions? I encourage you to seek out the old-timers in your family and ask plenty of questions. It can’t all have happened just to us, you know.
I thought I’d begin my first creative post by posing a question. What in tarnation is this thing, anyway?
Think. Whimsical? Practical? (Close family members are not allowed to take part in this quiz.) Don’t scroll down. Control yourself! Give yourself a chance. By the time you finish reading this, you may end up with the satisfaction of knowing that you think like my mother.
My mom could literally make something out of nothing. I never knew anyone quite like her for inventing what-cha-ma-call-its and doo-dads.
Like Mom, I loved turning my imaginings into realities, but I didn’t want to do it her way. I’d been in the stores. I’d seen the catalogs. I wanted glorious, brand new, coordinating supplies that would meld together seamlessly into a masterpiece.
That didn’t happen. I’d gather up what scraps and tidbits we had around the house, complaining that it would never come close to what I had in mind. She’d listen, then dive into her stash. She had a knack for squirreling away the oddest things. I know, you’ve all got that auntie who saves cottage cheese cartons or the plastic rings off milk jugs. Mom, however, saved the singular, the curious, the nifty.
I’d pout when I ran short of materials for a project. Mom would say, “Don’t worry. We’ll piece it.” I remember telling her one day (I was at “that age”) that I didn’t want to piece it! I told her that someday I’d march into stores and buy up plenty of just what I needed. I’d make wonderful things, not even caring if I kept the leftovers! “Piecing it” would be a thing of the past and as far as I was concerned, the sooner the better! On the whole, I was a good, compliant kid, but I had my moments.
I had no idea! The things I learned from Mom while we “pieced it” have come to my rescue over and over again.
Have you figured out what that thing was yet?
Without Mom, without “piecing it”, my community wouldn’t have had a youth theater. Well, anyway, if we’d had one, we wouldn’t have had much in the way of sets, props or costumes. Have you ever stared at a script that called for an “Inthermo Device”, capable of blowing up the Statue of Liberty? I pieced it. It was cool! A lifetime of “piecing it” gave my daughter a fabulous wedding on a budget that didn’t make us hyperventilate. More on that in future posts.
Among Mom’s things that I couldn’t throw away was a cruddy old clothes hamper. Sitting in our bathroom for as long as I can remember, it was a sad-looking thing. The braided trim drooped. It’s wicker, decades behind at receiving necessary paint jobs, took a further beating from seven children. It’s wooden lid, covered in a strange laminate “stuff” that had grown tired and peeled away sometime back in the 1950’s, snagged at your hands and clothes if you happened to brush against it. Once it passed from decrepit to hideous, Mom retired it to the recesses of her upstairs, stuffing it full of other things she didn’t throw away.
Smuffy advised me to pitch it. He sighed when I said I had plans for it. My cogs turned for months, considering methods and materials. I took before, during and after photos. And now, here’s where I give my disclaimer. Creative minds can have a bit of a problem with keeping all the snippets in their proper mental cubbyholes. I have no idea what happened to my “before” and “during” photos, so I’ve given up looking. Here’s the hamper, minus the drooping braid, banged-up wicker and naked wood lid. Not bad!
Braid and wicker didn’t pose a huge problem. Smuffy tacked the braid back on and I spray painted it. Then, I met my challenge. The handles in the photo are original, somehow managing to survive with their laminate “stuff” in good shape. Determined to keep the hamper as original as possible, I racked my brain for a way to make the top look like this shiny, black-with-swishes and a hint of gold stuff.
I did the logical thing. I spent a good, long time in Heaven. Oops! I meant to say Hobby Lobby. I found this –
Triple Thick! I had a hunch this might be the answer. I gave the wooden lid three coats of gloss black paint with a sponge brush. Then, I mixed (at a ratio of about 8/1) faux-finishing glaze with some ivory paint. I sponged this over the lid until it looked as much like the handles as I could achieve. (Sponging with glaze has a long drying time, allowing you to wipe off mistakes and start over.) After it dried, I mixed a dab of gold paint into some more glaze and gave it a coat to tone down the ivory, “aging” the finish a bit.
Now for the Triple Thick. I needed something to give a slick mirror-like finish to the lid without my having to sand, lacquer, sand, lacquer….Oh, please!Triple Thick gives a diamond, non-yellowing clear finish that looks like you’ve applied coats and coats. I used the whole jar – the large size. It sells for $5.99. The small size is pictured above. I’m pretty well pleased with the shine, depth and the degree to which it matches the handles.
I had rescued the perishing! Mom would be proud. But, this Triple Thick stuff – WOW! The possibilities! What else might I be capable of with a jar of this in my hands?
And then it rained. The rose bushes dropped their leaves. The wind pasted them all over my wet porch. I noticed that they looked like lace, having lost all but their veining. And then I heard that little voice say, “You could save those.” Then, the voice said, “Triple Thick!”
Not about to let anything “hamper” my creativity (I’m so witty), I pressed the leaves between paper towels and waited. And you’ll have to wait, too. That story’s coming soon.
Oh! Did you guess? Here it is –
It’s a recipe holder, of course! How could you not know? Mom did what anybody would do, right? You’d know, wouldn’t you, to save the innards of an old broken percolator and an old fork that’s lost it’s bakelite handle? Then, of course, you’d shove them together to see if they fit, because you’ve been wanting a way to keep that recipe right in front of you. Mom left it “as is”, but I gave it a snazzy paint job so it would look cute in my kitchen.
I believe there’s a TV show called “Strange Inheritance”. I could show them a thing or two!
Coming soon: The Rose Leaf Project. SUBSCRIBE, so you don’t miss it!
Throughout the week preceding Christmas, several packages arrived. Most of their return addresses revealed at a glance whether I needed to stash them in my hiding place or put them beside Smuffy’s chair and pretend I’d never seen them. I’m no peeker. Really, I’m not!
Smuffy came in for lunch one day, carrying another he’d found on the porch. I looked at the return address, which read, “Mariani Nut Company”. I’d never heard of the place. For a split-second, I considered giving Smuffy the stink eye. Had he seen “Christmas Vacation” one too many times and decided to enroll me in the Nut-of-the-Month Club? No, he would’ve hidden the box and given to me on Christmas Day. Perhaps someone else had done it. Now that I could handle! I love nuts!
I opened the box. It contained a bag of Mariani walnuts and a letter.
It may sound silly to offer a review of one’s grocery store, but I believe in giving credit where credit is due. Our favorite place to stock up had surprised us with a gift!
Almost every week, we stop by our nearest Aldi. I’ve shopped Aldi for a long time. I could always count on coming out of Aldi with that warm and fuzzy “trunkload feeling”, knowing that if I’d spent the same amount anywhere else, my purchases would fit into two paper grocery bags. Their quality is excellent. Over time, they’ve continued to expand their variety and their brands. There are usually only a few items from my weekly shopping list that I may have to pick up somewhere else. More recently, they’ve expanded their line of organic and/or gluten-free items. Fabulous!
For years and years, I tried to get Smuffy to go to Aldi with me. He always found an excuse to drive on by. Once, however, with gas prices soaring, he stopped a time or two to avoid a second trip. Now, Smuffy’s hooked. If I go without him, he becomes a little dejected. I think their upgrades, and the fact that he made a few trips to other stores and came out reeling with sticker shock, turned the tide.
How wonderful can a grocery store be, you ask?
Since I’ve made some changes in the way I eat, walnuts have become a frequent snack. I’ve always liked walnuts, especially in my oatmeal. Now, I seem to nibble away at them all the time. Anyhow, I picked up my usual bag of Southern Grove walnuts at Aldi last fall and discovered them to be “different”. While I can’t say they fell into the category of “rancid”, they definitely fell short of the required standard – nothing you’d notice in a recipe – only if you ate them by themselves. I passed it off, thinking it was just that one bag or shipment.
However, the next bag seem to have the same “something” about it. I must be a loyal shopper, or a little slow, because I bought another one. Same issue.
I found the phone number on their web site and called Aldi – not to fuss – only to let them know that that they needed to be aware. They were friendly and apologized for my issues, stating their satisfaction guarantee. All you ever need to do is return your leftovers with packaging and they’ll replace them them with other products.
I thanked them, re-stating that I only wanted them to know about the issue so they could correct it, because I love their store. We never discussed them sending me anything.
So, not only had they offered me their usual satisfaction guarantee, they’d now sent me this letter along with another bag of nuts!
I’m not sure where the connection comes in between the Mariani nuts and Aldi. The only walnuts I’ve ever seen in their stores have been the Southern Grove brand. However, I found the Mariani to be fresh and tasty. Here they are, along with the letter, next to my mini blender and knife set, both of which I purchased at Aldi.
The non-food items offered at Aldi seem to be of excellent quality for the price. We’ve purchased quite a few of these over the years and have been pleased with the items, which include a body-fat scale, convection toaster oven, bluetooth wireless speaker and a digital food scale.
Check out Aldi at their website. If you don’t have one in your hometown, contact them and invite them to move in. When we travel and try to stock our vacation kitchen in an Aldi-less town, we’re always reminded of how blessed we are to have one nearby.
Here’s our most recent Aldi haul – all of which we brought home (after tax) for around $106. See my wonderful produce, organic coconut oil, organic salsa and healthy cheeses? See Smuffy’s ice cream, processed meats and the rest of his junk food? Just thought I’d better clarify matters in case my doctor sees this post!
Aldi, based in Germany, was started by the Albrecht family. Founded in 1913, Aldi has become a huge, worldwide grocery chain.
So, by now you know, I’m nuts about my grocery store! I mean, really, they sent me a Christmas present! At least, it felt like one.
Seems we always hear people talk about their disgruntling shopping experiences. Maybe it’s time to share the good ones.
Questions? Comments? Any places you’ve shopped that really showed you they were made of the right stuff?
In my last post, I shared the recipe for a soup of my own invention, “Creamy Leek Soup with Chicken & Sweet Potato”. However, in the FREE PRINTABLE, I somehow managed to cut out the heavy cream from the bottom of the ingredients list.
My thanks to Judy, one of my eagle-eyed subscribers, who noticed and sent me a comment to let me know.
I’m always eager to fix my mistakes, so I encourage you all to call such things to my attention.
I fixed the FREE PRINTABLE on the original post, but here it is again in case you need to print it out again.
Throughout history, people have fallen in love and gotten married without much to live on other than their love for each other. With Smuffy and me, this was certainly the case. We’d saved and budgeted for the big day.
Midwest winters are unpredictable things. For our December wedding, the weather warmed to spring-like conditions, emboldening our invited guests. Even the elderly aunts and uncles, who would have normally found the winding country black-top roads intimidating, took a look at the forecast and said, “Why not?” They packed the tiny country church to its full capacity – a thing it hadn’t seen in years.
Smuffy and I had done a pretty good job at keeping our little secret. Having spent every dime on the wedding and our first month’s rent and utilities, we couldn’t afford a honeymoon. I’d started a new job as well and needed to earn some vacation time. Besides, if you don’t have enough cash to get you out of the Midwest in winter, why bother? We postponed the trip until May. We’d sneak back to our new home late on our wedding night and spend our few precious days secluded from the rest of the world. Low key – that’s the word I’m looking for – we’d just keep it low key and not draw any attention to ourselves. The last thing newlyweds need is a flock of well-meaning people stopping by.
And stop by they would have, if they’d wanted to reach us, because Smuffy and I didn’t have a phone! Let your mind wander back, my friends, to the good ‘ole days before cell phones. Installing a phone seemed just another expense that might as well be postponed for a month or two until we got settled.
And then it hit. We woke up to our first full day of married life to find our honeymoon cottage, and the car we’d concealed by driving it up into the yard by the back door, buried in deep snow. I misspeak when I refer to our rented country place as a cottage. We closed off most of the cavernous house and lived in three rooms. It didn’t help much. My shampoo froze in the bottle.
And then it hit. Freezing rain on top of the snow hardened it into a crust, turning the outside world into a skating rink.
And then it hit. Another deep snow fell. Enveloped in a winter wonderland, we were trapped, but we didn’t care. Except, how were we ever going to get the car out of the back yard?
Content to spend the snowy days making my house a home, I fluttered around, admiring and rearranging all the things I’d gotten as shower gifts. My ivory chantilly lace wedding gown hung on a hook over a door in the bedroom, it’s chapel-length veil cascading down over it. I must have touched it every time I passed near enough to do so. So lovely! Soon, I’d take it to be sealed away for future generations, but for now it made me feel like a beautiful bride every time I looked at it.
We’d been told that the house had new insulation. I became convinced that if this were true, it must still be stored in the barn. Wind howled through the place day and night. Interior doors of the house moved freely in the breeze if not securely latched. We kept the wood stove going strong, along with the furnace, which sucked fuel from a big tank outside. Filling it would have cost as much as three or four months rent, so we only had the man put an inch or so in the bottom of it.
After a few days, the snowplows cleared the road past our house and Smuffy began trying to get the car out of the back yard. We envisioned our landlords, who shared our driveway, watching from their windows in dismay at the deep ruts Smuffy carved before accomplishing his goal.
Smuffy woke me on our fourth day as man and wife with the announcement that the world had thawed to the point where we might take an outing. I started putting myself together and he went off to do whatever two or three things guys must do before they settle down to wait on females. He reappeared a few moments later.
“Do you smell smoke?” he asked.
“No,” I answered as I riffled through the drawer for clothes. “I don’t smell anything.”
Smuffy disappeared. I slipped into my outfit and started accessorizing. He returned.
“Are you sure you don’t smell smoke? I smell smoke.”
“No, I don’t smell a thing.” I turned to face him. “Are you sure…” I froze in place. “You…You’re standing in it!”
“What?”
Light, streaming through the windows, reflected off every particle. Smuffy stood in the bedroom doorway, enveloped in the fog.
“It’s all around you. You’re surrounded by smoke!”
We turned in every direction, searching for the source. Smuffy ran off to check the damper on the stove. He made a tour of the house, coming back to report that there were no signs of smoke anywhere else.
Then, I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye. The house’s old fireplaces had been sealed over years ago. Wallpaper, matching the rest of the room, now covered the areas that formerly housed cozy fires. The bedroom fireplace, however, seemed to be in a reminiscing mood. The center of the wallpapered panel darkened to a toasty brown before turning black and curling away. Though I didn’t actually hear the “Bonanza” theme as I pointed and stared, the resemblance was striking. Flames licked through the growing hole and I yelled for Smuffy.
After a brief and panicky discussion on the proper course of action, Smuffy, still in his bedroom slippers, ordered me to stay put while he called the fire department. He sailed out the front door, down the icy steps and kept on sailing. Landing on his backside, he sank through the top layer of snow and scooted across the encrusted front lawn toward the driveway, leaving one slipper behind. The other, launched through the air, landed some distance away.
I watched from the window, feeling helpless. Then, having always thought how silly women seemed in movies when they stood by clutching their throats while disaster unfolded, I took action. I ran for the wedding gown, tossing it in the center of the bed along with my purse, my jewelry box and a few keepsakes. Running around the bed, I gathered the corners of the quilt up over my treasures. Smuffy’s mother’s handmade quilt would survive, along with my gown, if I had to grab all four corners and make a run for it.
Then, I waited. Smuffy arrived, breathless, to report that though the landlords weren’t home, they’d left the back door unlocked, providing access to the phone. The relief that he hadn’t had to break their window was somewhat offset by the fact that, not being able to find their phone book, he’d completely ransacked the place. He’d found it, though, and made the call. The rural volunteer fire department was on the way.
We decided to watch and wait until the fire truck came with plenty of water and high-pressure hoses. Tampering with the burning hole might feed the flames additional oxygen and reduce the house to ashes before help arrived.
Smuffy opened the windows and insisted that I get out of the smoky bedroom, promising to give me plenty of notice in case I had to escape with my valuables. I went into the living room and sat down, watching him pace in and out of the bedroom. He looked peeved.
“They certainly aren’t very professional,” he snapped.
“Why? What happened?”
“Well, for one thing, when I called, the guy just says, ‘Hello?’”
“You have to remember, it is a rural volunteer fire department. It’s probably just one of the volunteer’s turn to be on call.”
I reminded him of the time, in my own tiny hometown, when a fire call came in and all the volunteers rushed to the fire department only to discover that not one of them had remembered to bring the keys to the fire truck. That sort of thing is bound to cause delays.
It didn’t seem to offer Smuffy much comfort.
“So then I said, ‘I’m calling about a fire’, and he says, ‘You got a fire?’ – like no one’s ever called them up to report a fire before!”
“But they’re on the way, right?”
Smuffy added some arm waving to his pacing before stopping to give an unflattering imitation of the man on the other end of the phone.
“I told him where we were located and he says, ‘I know where that is.’ Then, there’s this big pause and the guy says, ‘You want some help?’” At this point, poor Smuffy’s eyes protruded in disbelief. “I said, ‘Yes, I want some help!” I’d like to know what in the world he thought I called him for! Anyway, he says they’re coming.”
After that, I sat, watching Smuffy pace from window to window, muttering under his breath. Time stretched into what seemed an eternity before he stopped, watching a vehicle approach.
A large, red pickup truck turned into our driveway and stopped in front of the house. A man in overalls and knee-high, rubber gumboots climbed out and ambled toward the front door. I stood by, watching and wondering if it might just be somebody looking for our landlords.
However, he did seem to be our guest, for when Smuffy opened the door, he drawled, “You got a fire?”
“Yes, right in here.” Smuffy, all business, led him into the bedroom and pointed out the problem.
The man seemed to think the scene before him required careful consideration. He lifted the bill of his farmer cap, scratched his forehead and wiggled the cap back into place.
“Yup,” he said, “you sure got a fire in there.”
Smuffy tried to contain himself. “Well, do you have a hose?”
“No. No,” he drawled. “I got a squirt bottle, though. I’ll go get it.”
He moseyed out the door to his truck.
Smuffy turned to me, his jaw muscles twitching. “I don’t believe this!”
I didn’t know what to believe. I positioned myself next to the bed and guarded my bundle.
The man returned, carrying a plastic gallon milk jug full of water, which he squeezed onto the fire. He refilled it from the kitchen sink and had another go at it. Satisfied with the results, he looked up at Smuffy.
“You got a barbecue grill?”
Smuffy looked stricken. “Huh? What!”
“I thought if we had somethin’ like a barbecue grill and some kinda shovel, we could scoop up what’s left of the fire and take it outside. Then we can have a look up the chimney.”
It began to register on Smuffy’s face that he considered this a sound idea.
“I’ll go see what I can find.”
Smuffy had another go at lawn skating while I stood there in a grateful state of shock. I didn’t know what to say to this barnyard angel of mercy, so I didn’t say anything at all. I didn’t know what had happened to the fire truck. Perhaps it had hit a patch of ice and run off the road or perhaps Smuffy’s panicked directions had sent it to the wrong destination. I only knew that we had help and that was something. This kind man, appearing as if from nowhere, had come just when we needed him.
After pilfering the landlord’s barbecue grill and careening back home with it, Smuffy found a scoop of some sort and they went to work. With the fire carried outside, the fellas returned, each taking his turn looking up the chimney. They came to a mutual agreement that the burning portion of the flue having collapsed, everything seemed fine up above. Apparently, our entire house fire had just been carried outside and plopped into the snow. We left the smoky bedroom for the slightly more breathable living room.
I sank into the rocking chair, allowing my nerves, which had been tied into knots and sizzling on the ends, to unwind and cool down a bit. Smuffy’s nerves, however, appeared to be working themselves up into a series of knots that would make any Boy Scout proud.
The nice man walked to the door and turned to Smuffy.
“Yep. Yep. Looks like it’s all out now. ‘Course, I’d keep an eye on it for a day or two if I were you, just to be sure somethin’ doesn’t start up again in there. Maybe oughta let the wood stove go out and just use the furnace for a few days.”
Smuffy nodded. “Thanks for your help. I appreciate it. But, before you go, I just have one question…”
I gave Smuffy the once over. He seemed to have worked himself up into quite a state. His chin rose in what I considered to be a rather haughty manner. His chest heaved, making him look as if he were about to burst. I had heard someone described once as apoplectic. Though I’d never been an eye-witness to such a condition, Smuffy gave me the distinct impression that he qualified.
The man met his gaze, his eyes honest and expectant.
“What I want to know,” Smuffy barked, “is whether the fire department always sends someone out to check to see if there’s really a fire before they send the fire truck!”
The man stared. I stared. I may only have been married a few days, but I knew a thing or two about men. Well, anyway, I knew enough to stifle the sudden-gasp-followed-by-outburst-of-laughter that threatened to escape me. I felt a few of my ribs trying to dislocate themselves in my efforts to contain it. My new husband had his pride, after all, and a whole lot of testosterone and pent-up frustration to go along with it. I pinched my lips together and held my breath.
After hoisting up his jaw from whence it had dropped, the man blinked at Smuffy.
“Fire Department? I’m not from the Fire Department!”
I bit my lip.
Smuffy stared back at him, wild-eyed.
“Well then, who are you?”
The story that followed left us no doubt that Smuffy had been on the receiving end of a miracle in spite of himself. In his frantic effort to get help, he’d called the number just above or below the phone book’s listing for the rural volunteer fire department. The man gave us his name, saying that he’d known exactly where to go, because our landlords had hired him a few months earlier to do some updates in the kitchen. We proceeded there and he proudly pointed out his handiwork to us before he left.
So much for our outing. We thought it best to stay close to home, fanning the smoke out of the windows and feeling the walls every five minutes – just to be sure.
As the shock wore off, we began to count our blessings. We could have left before the smoke became noticeable. With the landlords gone as well, we’d likely have come home to a pile of cinders. He’d called the wrong number, but he’d called the right wrong number. Help did come and we learned that there are some truly Good Samaritans left in this world. It rearranged our priorities, too. Whatever other necessities had topped our list, we rearranged them all now in favor of our new Number 1: Install a Phone!
Of course, I promised Smuffy I’d keep the whole thing a secret. He relaxed his demands after a while, realizing that the faux-fireman, who did have a phone, had probably told his side of the story to most of the county before sunset.
(Just a note to all the local fire departments out there. Stick to the current system. The fire-scouting program, while perhaps tempting due to budgeting concerns, seems flawed somehow.)
While passion and romance had been the only things we’d planned to ignite, we ended up with much more – and it was only the beginning of my Life with Smuffy.
It’s our first day together here at Midwest Storyteller, and to be honest, I have a bit of that “first date” feeling. Having counseled myself that it’s silly to run downstairs to the mirror, fluff the hair and freshen the lipstick, I suppose I’ll push on. You really can’t see me, can you?
Now comes the part where I say something fascinating.
Okaaaaaaay…
First of all, I’d like to say “Thank You” to Jillian Danielle, my daughter and fellow blogger. Having picked her way through the blogworld’s minefield ahead of me, she helped me get started. Were it not for her patient assistance, I’d still be banging my head against the wall, muttering things about the fine folks at Bluehost and WordPress that they might consider just a shade unkind.
Jillian Danielle’s blog has a wealth of information, reviews and tutorials to help you with make-up, skin care and hair, as well as travel, lifestyle and creative ideas. Be sure to check it out at www.jilliandanielle.com.
In the days ahead, I hope you’ll join me. We’re going to enjoy ourselves! Life rarely brings us a day that doesn’t make a great story. I’ll be sharing many of mine with you. If you’re looking to improve your health, try great recipes, find some great products or timely tips, or maybe just stop for a moment and smile – you’ll find a healthy dose of all that here at Midwest Storyteller. Hop on over to the sidebar and “subscribe” so you don’t miss a thing. You’ll be notified each time a new post appears, which will be a couple of times a week. Posts will vary in length.
Next up: An interesting tale about Smuffy, that darlin’ man of mine. I should have realized that dull moments would come few and far between when I married him, for our honeymoon got us off to what I’d have to say was a “blazing start”! You might want to fix yourself a cup of tea, sit back and enjoy this one.
With that, I’ll leave you for now, but do comment, “like”, share and subscribe. Then, you won’t miss Life With Smuffy (Episode 1): “The Smokin’-Hot Honeymoon” (or, “Where There’s Smoke, There’s Not Always a Fireman”).
