All Things Yummy

Mom was right about the cake . . .

My Baby Sister, aged two, had crawled up on my Mom’s lap.

It was cuddling time.

I should probably mention that this didn’t happen often.

Cuddling, I mean.

Oh, not because Mom didn’t wish it.

No.

It was because we couldn’t get Baby Sister to slow down long enough to stay in one place.

She was one of those children who are always as bit blurry around the edges.

Because they are moving so fast.

Where was I?

Oh, yes.

Cuddling time.

Mom held her close.

Then counted her tiny, pink toes.

And all of her fingers.

And finally poked her round little tummy.

“What’s in there?” she asked.

Baby Sister looked at her and shrugged.

“Are there yummy things in there?”

Baby Sister looked at her tummy, lifting her little dress to see better. Then she looked back at Mom.

Mom went on. “Maybe there’s some cake and ice cream.”

Baby Sister’s eyes got wide.

“And some cookies. Maybe some pie and candy and pudding.”

With each new treat mentioned, Baby Sister’s blue eyes got wider and wider.

“And chocolate.”

Baby Sister could stand it no longer.

She pulled her dress up as far as she could. “Open it!” she said, pointing to her tummy. “Open it, Mommy!”
Enough talk. Let's get to the good stuff . . .

World's Worst Tenants

Okay, he looks cute here . . .

We lived in the country.

Far out in the country.

There were many people living in our house.

But we weren't the only tenants.

The others were warm.

And breathing.

And regularly produced offspring.

But there, the similarities ended.

They routinely got into our food storage.

And made their own comfortable little hideaways in our walls and dressers.

And never, ever paid rent.

They were also covered with hair.

And had tails.

You're right.

We had mice.

Did you know that mice like to nest in clean baby clothes, rendering them un-wearable?

And can squeeze through really, really tiny holes?

Climb anywhere?

So it is nearly impossible to bar them from your home.

And they like everything we like.

Flour.

Sugar.

Oatmeal.

Beans.

Grains.

Cereal.

Cookies.

Any form of treats.

Actually anything that you might find in the average food storage that comes in a cloth or cardboard package.

And some plastic.

They have even been known to burrow into boxes of Kraft dinner or bags of Ramen noodles, which we all know have no nutritional value whatsoever.

We learned to live with them.

Trap them when we could.

Even poison some when we were truly desperate.

But still they kept coming.

We found 'mice tracks' in our clean bedding. On the shelves. On top of the TV. Even on the kitchen counters.

It was a nightmare.

Which I think could easily be turned into a horror movie.

Hmmm. Attack of the Mice? The Teeth That Could Chew Through Anything?

How about: The Really Annoying Things in the Walls?

Okay, I'm out. What are your suggestions?

Moving on . . .

My Husby and I were in bed, drifting at the edges of sleep.

Well, I was, he was reading a magazine.

Suddenly, he spotted movement.

I should explain here, that our temporary bedroom was in the basement and our bed was shoved into the corner formed by the meeting of two cinder-block walls.

Mice can climb cinder block walls.

And I was the person sleeping next to the wall.

Enough exposition.

My husband turned his head sharply and the mouse climbing up the corner, inches from my head, immediately dove for cover.

Huh. My husband rolled the magazine he had been reading and waited.

Soon, his patience was rewarded.

Our intrepid little explorer (see how refined I am? I could have called him *&^%$#@!!!) started, once more, upwards.

This time, Grant waited until the mouse was high enough on the wall that he couldn't possibly get back. Then he attacked.

SWAT! With the rolled-up magazine.

He got it!

The stunned mouse fell.

Right onto my chest.

The edges of sleep vanished as I gasped and sat up.

Whereupon (good word) he fell with a plop into my lap.

Grant scooped him up, quickly dispatched him, and then turned the most apologetic face to me that I have ever seen.

And all I could do was laugh.

What else can you do when it starts raining mice?

Indoors.

P.S. We did solve our mouse problem.

We moved.

Grandma and Grandpa Berg's house

My Grandma and Grandpa Berg
Who loved me.

Christmas excitement at the Stringam house was always two-fold.

There was the anticipation and joy over the gift-giving.

And then there was the Christmas trip to Grandma and Grandpa Berg's house (hereinafter known as 'Grandma's House').

My Mom's parents.

I'm still not sure which was more exciting.

After the frenzy of unwrapping had dwindled and the euphoria and excitement of yet another Christmas morning had waned, it was time to pack the car for Grandma's house.

Yes!

We were allowed one suitcase.

So I had to carefully choose what gifts to bring along.

Much wrinkle-browed thought was put into what would accompany me.

One had to keep in mind that it would be many days before one could play with all of the other new toys, so the decision could not be made lightly.

What clothing and necessities went into the suitcase, however, were hap-hazard at best.

And most of the time . . . no less than sketchy.

It wasn't unusual to find that I had forgotten such necessities as . . . underwear. Pajamas. Shirts. Pants. Socks. Toothbrush.

In fact, as my Mom pointed out on at least one occasion, "Diane, what did you pack? Because there certainly aren't any clothes in here!"

I would look up at her from where I was, happily playing with . . . whatever.

Oops.

Back to my playing.

She would sigh and go to ask Aunt Eva or Aunt Louise if their kids had any clothes I could borrow.

It didn't matter. I was happily playing with my numerous cousins.

None of whom cared what I was wearing.

And that was just the start of the fun at Grandma's.

My older sister and I got to sleep in my Mom's old room at the top of the grand stairway.

In a bed with a delicious feather tick.

Perfect for a little, warm sleeping nest.

There was also a little, hidden cupboard

Deeply secret.

No one knew it was there, except Chris and I.

And of course whoever hung the old clothes and other stuff stored inside, but why quibble over details?

Just outside our room, against one wall in the hall, was a ladder.

Leading to the incredible, top secret attic.

My brothers spent hours up there, reading old comics and stuff left by my mother's brothers.

I was never allowed to go.

'Cause I was a girl.

Whatever that meant.

The large bedroom across the hall from mine was where my brothers slept. It was full of treasures. Books and games from my Mom's childhood.

Or at least from her brothers'.

I imagine they happened about the same time . . .

At the bottom of the staircase in the warmly shiny, plank floor was a square vent.

Just wide enough for Sharon, Julie, Susan and I to sit on.

Or lay on.

Or play . . . you get the picture.

All during Christmas, it blew warm air.

Just for us.

Hour after hour, we cousins and siblings would crouch together on the slatted steel. Warm and toasty.

Paradise.

There was plenty to eat at Grandma's house. Food that left her large, sunny kitchen in great, delicious quantities.

And just as quickly disappeared.

And the all-important cookie tins.

Grandma always baked many, many different kinds of cookies.

All delicious.

Then put a selection into several tins and placed them throughout the house.

It was like a treasure hunt.

Except that, invariably, the Smaarbucklesa (spelled phonetically because it's Swedish and none of us kids knew what she was saying . . .) disappeared immediately.

From every, single tin.

Rats!

Even the furniture at Grandma's house was an adventure just waiting to happen.

When Grampa Berg wasn't sitting on it, there was always his chair, sitting innocently beside the great living room window.

The chair that vibrated, if one turned the dials.

Like the rest of Grandma's house, it was magic.

And there was always the carved, wooden feet under the dining table to sit on.

And hide.

Although, looking back, I really don't know how effective my hiding was.

Especially when someone would ask for Diane and someone else would say, "Probably under the table."

Sigh. Secret agent material, I wasn't.

But the most exciting part about being at Grandma's house was the little sun room on the side of the house.

A sunny little place.

That had a tenant.

Hanging silently on one wall.

Just waiting for the most daring cousin to dart in and . . . touch it.

And run away screaming.

Okay, okay, so I was always the one who was scared to go in and screamed on the way out.

Sheesh.

But you have to admit that a stuffed moose head is really scary.

Okay, you don't.

But it was.

When I was four.

At Grandma Berg's house.

The best place on earth.