Wednesday, February 01, 2006, 19:59
Crash Landing. . .
There I was Monday night. Sitting on the couch. Minding my own business. Brushing my kitty cat Duke.
I brush the kitties every night. It cuts down on the hair flying around the house. Plus, it cuts down on fur balls. Duke likes to sit in my lap to be brushed.
I was about halfway finished brushing Duke -- when, for some unknown reason, Sophie decided to hop on the buffet. I didn't pay much attention to Sophie because she often jumps on the buffet to snoop around. The buffet belonged to my mother, a Christmas gift from my big sister almost 40 years ago, and just as my mother did, I keep dishes and tablecloths and doilies in it.
As I continued to brush Duke, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it. . .
The lamp began to tip forward, and in the blink of an eye, somersaulted to the floor, with Sophie right beneath it.
Crash went the lamp.
With a split second to spare, Sophie leaped out of the way before the lamp hit the floor, and then she tore out of the room, her tail four times its normal size.
I jumped up, dumping Duke off my lap, and went to the lamp.
Randy was already in bed, asleep, and I half expected him to come charging into the living room, wild-eyed, demanding to know what had crashed.
But Randy did not appear.
The lamp is one we got from Randy's mom and dad, and in fact, it is part of a set of lamps that were always in the house while Randy was growing up.
"If the lamp is broken," I said to Pixie and the kitties, "Randy is really going to be upset."
I picked up the lamp, and from what I could tell, it was still in one piece. I was most concerned about the porcelain base, but the base seemed to be all right.
Since it was late, I didn't feel like plugging in the lamp to see if it still worked, so I set it on the floor by the china cabinet.
A minute later, Sophie returned to the room, tail still fluffed up, looking around fearfully, head held high, weasel-necked, as only kitties can be weasel-necked when something has frightened them and they are unsure if the frightening thing is lurking somewhere nearby.
"Yes," I said. "You knocked down the lamp, didn't you-- you little brat."
Sophie went to the lamp, sniffed it, and then went about her normal business, namely, trying to see if she can antagonize one or two of the older cats into playing with her. (I was going to say "entice" one or two of the older cats into playing with her, but "antagonize" is a better word; Sophie pesters the older cats unmercifully).
The next morning when Randy got up and glanced into the living room, he noticed it immediately.
"What happened to the lamp!" he said, hurrying over to it.
"Take a guess," I said.
He paused for a moment. "Hmmmm. Let me see. Could Sophie be involved?"
"You got it," I said.
My husband plugged in the lamp and turned it on.
"Well, it still works," he said.
I have not yet put the lamp back on the buffet. I am afraid to do that. I do not want Sophie to knock it down again.
I have no idea if Sophie learned a lesson from the lamp almost falling on top of her, although I hope she did. Because, to tell you the truth, I'm not sure how many tumbles off the buffet the lamp could withstand. It survived once. I wouldn't want to push our luck!
LeAnn R. Ralph
Tuesday, January 31, 2006, 20:23
You Sew and Sew. . .
Somewhere along the line, I am going to have to borrow the use of a sewing machine to hem up the red chicken-and-rooster fabric that I am going to use as a tablecloth when I go to craft sales.
I know how to use a sewing machine, but I do not own one.
I have a deep-seated fear of using sewing machines. Even the thought of it raises my anxiety level a certain degree. I suspect that it comes from a traumatic childhood experience that occurred when my sister was sewing a dress for me. . .
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I pulled the white tracing paper out of the envelope, and then, as Loretta continued to work, I kept right on asking questions: What happens if you don’t pin the pattern? (It won’t stay in place when you cut the fabric.) What’s that funny scissors for? (A pinking shears; it keeps the material from unraveling around the edges.) What are you going to do with the scraps? (Cover the buttons.) And on and on.
Finally Loretta was ready to sew the jumper. She moved into the living room to set up the sewing machine, and as she started to sew, I stood right by her elbow. Since this was going to be my dress, it seemed to me that I ought to keep an eye on the entire operation. And if I was going to keep an eye on things, then I had to ask more questions. Didn’t I?
When Loretta had finished the first seam, she pulled the fabric back…and discovered that her finger was sewn to the dress.
I was horrified.
My mother was disgusted.
“I’ve been sitting here in the living room all afternoon, listening to you,” Mom scolded. “It’s no wonder your poor sister ended up sewing her finger to the dress. Your incessant talking is enough to drive anybody crazy.”
Loretta finished snipping the thread. “No, no, it’s nothing. See? Just a little bit of skin.”
As I watched her pull the thread from her finger, my stomach did a small flip-flop.
“Maybe you’d better clean that up and put a bandage on it,” Mom said.
A little while later, with a bandage securely wrapped around her finger, Loretta began to work on my dress again.
“How come…?” I said—and then I remembered that I shouldn’t talk.
Loretta paused and looked over at me. “How come what?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
I watched Loretta sew for a few minutes, and then another question popped into my head.
“What happens if…”
Loretta reached for the scissors and glanced over at me. “What happens if what?”
I shrugged. “Nothing.”
Somehow I managed to make it through another five minutes without asking any questions.
After a while, Loretta looked over at me again.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“You’re so quiet, I thought maybe something was wrong.”
Loretta looked at me closely. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”
I felt my eyes widen. “Mad at you? Why would I be mad at you?”
She shrugged. “You’re never this quiet.”
And without warning, tears filled my eyes. “I’m s-s-sorry I made you sew your finger. I didn’t m-m-mean to…”
Loretta shook her head. “You didn’t make me sew my finger.”
“Yes, I did. Mom said.”
“No, you didn’t. I always thought it would happen someday. And today just happened to be the day.”
For as long as I could remember, Loretta had been making clothes. Sometimes she sewed outfits for me, sometimes for herself, and sometimes for Mom. She even had a couple of skirts she kept in a trunk upstairs that she had made when she was in high school.
Loretta reached for the scissors again. “So, come on. Ask some more questions.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not normal when you’re this quiet. And besides, how are you ever going to learn about anything if you don’t ask questions?”
In the end, Loretta finished the red velveteen jumper without further mishap. I wore the dress for the Christmas programs at school and at Sunday school, and for Christmas day, too, and for school when Christmas vacation was over.
But every time I put the dress on, I thought about Loretta’s finger pierced with red thread. And about how she had said that it wasn’t my fault when I knew, deep in my heart, that it was.
Maybe that’s why I loved her so much. Not because she sewed clothes for me. And not because she wasn’t angry when I spilled pins all over the floor or chattered non-stop when she was trying to concentrate.
But because, no matter what, I knew that my big sister always had time for me.
(From the book: Christmas in Dairyland — True Stories from a Wisconsin Farm; LeAnn R. Ralph; August 2003; trade paperback; http://ruralroute2.com)
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LeAnn R. Ralph
