I was going to write last night, but I was filled to the gills with delicious food and felt so comfortable wrapped in my dragging blanket, with Tootie Mae, so, as it happened, sleep came ahead of bedtime.
When I awoke from the nap and properly wrapped up the day, I could not find dreamland without trouble. Rather, this old girl was reliving the visit and the past Easters I have known. I wandered, neither here nor there, most of the night.
There was nothing much else to do, but listen to the loud sounds of the chopper-grinding-log-sawing music man and the backup hum of his oscillating fan.
Now, I am still tired, functioning on a low current, about as normal as this dizzy night owl could expect.
Today, we have more yard work facing us. This grass is on the move.
There is no time to save the dandelions for spring cleaning or the mushrooms that may be growing beneath the Locust tree.
Company will be coming to the little blue house at the end of the road. We want to make sure Starla and her husband, Bruce May, can find us after they reach the driveway.
The grass situation is not quite that far out of hand, but fact is, I know most of you with lawns have similar concerns during early spring, especially if you have a large yard to cover.
Last week, my HP Photosmart printer ceased to operate after serving me well for about three years. I was thinking that I saved the previous printer in store. Then, I remembered I donated my old computer, printer and scanner to the Boy Scouts of America in Terre Haute. I would need to buy a new one.
Starla's husband Bruce heard about my loss and promptly ordered his relatively new mother-in-law a new printer/scanner directly from his company of employment, Hewlett Packard. That good man will add it to my HP system tomorrow night. I am grateful -- beyond words.
Truth is, I am excited about the gift, as much as I was back in the day when a happy young girl replaced her mom's old wooden potato masher and long-handled mixing spoon with a fine Dormeyer electric mixer, complete with two shiny beaters and two nice stainless steel mixing bowls.
I was thumbing through a magazine one day back in the early 50s when I came across an opportunity that perked my interest.
Already in my young life, I considered myself to be a seasoned salesperson.
I had sold Easter bunnies and colored chicks, by the dozen, in front of Selbert Slack's grocery on Main Street and from home during several holiday seasons.
I wove a pot full of potholders with my hand-held loom and hawked them as well.
Hughie Lynch's middle kid peddled and delivered lots of flocks of fresh home-dressed poultry around "Stringtown," and thereabouts, and pitched sales all along the way.
Those seeds that I sold in grade school were a piece of cake to plant into people's hands and heavily lacquered religious pictures that I sold for the benefit of a cause touched several folks, including me.
Surely, I could handle the orders of useful household items the little cards offered and the quality items that were possible to collect as pay. I could select from the high end of a list the company offered at the end of a few good days of sales.
I asked my mom if I could try and receive a verbal thumbs-up.
She thought I was after something for myself. Imagine that!
I have always expected a lot from me, but never for me. My eye was on that white mixer!
I sent for the materials I would need. I was so excited when the kit arrived in the mail. In no time, "Shank's skinny ponies," were on the move.
I headed out up Elm Street to sell, carrying a mental list of prospects and armed with a goal in mind as well.
I would earn a mixer for my mother. I knew just about everyone within walking distance in those days. Most knew the little chatty Lynch girl.
I don't know if the weary shop customers took pity on me or the gapped tooth smile, but it sent their hands toward their pocketbooks when I practiced the sales skills my father taught me. But the fact is, I usually reached my goals, with a full-blown sense of accomplishment felt.
I sent the orders and monies collected from the customers to the company and waited, what seemed like forever, for the sales items and the stand mixer to arrive.
After about six weeks, the postal service delivered the full order and another box that contained the white metal mixer and two shiny, stainless steel bowls.
I asked my mom to help me open my box.
She placed it on the kitchen table, not knowing what her daughter might have chosen.
After she ran the blade of the pairing knife around the box top a couple of times, my helper raised the lid, and we both pushed back the packing paper.
Tears came to my mother's eyes that day. She must have felt much like I did when the call came in from Scottsdale, in the early morning hours -- Bruce ordered the new printer just because.
We sure did enjoy heaping helpings of whipped mashed homegrown potatoes after that and cakes more often.
As for me, I love happy tears.
I earned her a deep fryer with a bonus French Fry cutter and a large capacity electric roaster, before I grew up and decided to gamble on a wild card, Paul Baby and leave the street walking behind.
I got a laugh out of that one!
It is now time for my feet to hit the mower deck. The grass is waving in the wind.
I can be reached by phone at 446-4852 or by e-mail at firstname.lastname@example.org.