The child was approaching his second birthday, and he needed a haircut. His mother reported the first haircut had not gone well and suggested his father take him for the haircut. “Sure,” the father replied and recalled the “home” haircuts of his own youth. (For the record, Nana has apologized over and over and doesn’t understand why he can’t just “let it go.”)
“Come on, son, let’s go to the barbershop. Nana’s coming for a visit, and I can’t promise you she won’t bring her sewing scissors,” the father said.
“Oh, don’t you look nice?” mother said upon their return. “How did it go?”
“Well, at first the barber thought the clumped mass of hair on the back of his head was caused by cake frosting—but not so. It was just a blue Peep leftover from Easter–must have somehow been left in the car within reach of little one’s car seat.”
“But, did he sit still?”
“Well, not exactly, but look, there aren’t any cuts on his ears. I did tell you about the time Mom practically severed my ear while cutting my hair, didn’t I?”
“Oh, no, he just can’t ‘let it go.’”
“Yes, I can substitute at bridge next week,” I told my friend. Anxious for the afternoon of fun to begin, I left home early—without checking the address for I had been to her house many times.
“Gee, I didn’t think my friend lived this far south of Main.”
“Maybe she lives on 6th, not 5th Street?”
“Where does she live?”
I knew she lived in a white house across the street from a green house next to a tree. “Why couldn’t I find her house?”
It had been a couple of years since I had been there. It had been at night to a Christmas party when twinkling lights outlined her porch and an inflated Santa greeted me. After fifteen minutes of driving in every direction on every street in a six-block area, I gave up, called my husband and asked him to look up the address in an old phone book.
Well, the house was right where it had always been—except the house across the street had been torn down, no Christmas lights or Santa adorned the porch, and her once white house had been painted brown.
I was surprised when I won high. Thank you, God, for good friends.
I volunteer at a community dinner. The volunteers wear t-shirts with the logo of the volunteer organization on the front and wording about the organization on the back. At last week’s dinner a couple of the volunteers were visiting.
“I like your shirt. I’ve missed a couple of weeks. Did we get new ones?” the first volunteer asked.
“No, it’s the same shirt I’ve been wearing. But you’re correct, it is different from your shirt,” the second volunteer said.
“Both of you turn around,” a third volunteer said.
Sure enough, the one lady had her shirt on backwards. The other volunteers and I smiled, but we did not laugh for we all had at some time left our homes wearing an article of clothing, backwards, wrong-side-out, or mismatched. (There are disadvantages to owning the same style of shoes in navy and in black.)
What a volunteer wears, though, is not important. What is important is the act of volunteering and those served.
I peered through the glass oven door and saw smoke swirling from corner to corner. A pan of fruit bread (which I had filled too full and covered with too much butter) spewed over the sides onto the now blackened bottom of the oven. Thankfully, I saw no flames.
When I opened the oven door to remove the source of trouble, the house quickly filled with smoke. Yet, something else was wrong. I heard no loud piercing noise. Alarmed, I quickly tested all three smoke detectors in the house, and all worked when I pushed the test button. Until I could figure out what to do about the three non-working detectors, I bought a fourth detector.
To test the new detector, I heated up the still uncleaned oven. The leftover residue soon filled the house with smoke again. Shortly, a smoke detector beeped loudly, then a second one, and a third one. Lastly, a fourth one emitted a loud buzz.
It is a mystery to me why the three did not work the first smoked filled evening, but I rest secure at night knowing at least one of the four detectors, if not all, now work. And yes, I have cleaned the oven.
Green feathers clung to the walls and light fixture of my laundry room. Some flitted through the air each time the door opened, yet some were deeply embedded in the lint trap of my dryer. To the casual observer, it appeared two green chickens had dueled to the featherless end. In truth, it was another one of my household mishaps.
I am usually not prone to urges to do what is called “spring house cleaning,” but I caved last week. The sun was shining, and a light breeze had replaced the gale force winds typical this time of year in my part of the country. No, I just couldn’t resist “fluffing” the feather-filled mattress topper while still in its green cover. It seemed like a good idea…it wasn’t.
It remains a mystery to me how so many feathers escaped two layers of cloth while whirling around in the dryer. Nor, do I know why the green dye of the cover transferred to the feathers.
The biggest mystery, though, is why I actually followed through on my urge to “clean.” You can bet, though, next time I’m grabbing a good book and enjoying the beautiful spring weather relaxing on the deck.