Margo Stories!

Margo Stories The Oriental cultures have a saying, "May You Live In Interesting Times." I suppose that fits my life although to me, these stories are pretty much mundane, everyday happenings around the Rose Household. I never know when a "story" is going to happen to me -- they just do. Others seem to enjoy them however so I thought I would bring them from the archives of the Wee Village Yahoo Group and share them here. Margo Rose

Story Index
The Wee Village Story - How It Started	House Work Margo's Way
Tooth Fairy - The Rest Of The LONG Story	How Not To Do A Web site - by Margo & The Trolls
Once upon a time --	A breather - finally!
Bingo Markers & M&M's & DH's - A Margo Story	Official Report of the Arizona Adoption Proceedings
Back To The Future Heirlooms Index

Official Report Of The Arizona Adoption Proceedings Most people in my Yahoo Groups and thru Future Heirlooms know that Ken and I became the guardians of my son's child, Robby when Robby was only 4 days old! They've gone through diaper rash, midnight feedings, doctor visits, first teeth, tooth fairies, first days of school and so much more with us that I couldn't leave them out of the most important thing! We formally adopted Robby!

I believe this is the report everyone has been waiting for although not everything went according to plans or even legal precedent.
    Ken and I did not sleep well last night -- although we did have one fun phone call about 11:30 p.m. from a quilter who will remain unnamed who forgot what time it was in Arizona. We finally gave up and got up about 4:30. I took a shower before the coffee was done brewing and well, we both forgot to turn the furnace up so I had to run around the house bundled up in Ken's bathrobe, two towels and the comforter off the bed until I warmed up.
    Mary and her kids had stayed the night so we could be ready and leave early. The first boggle was when Ivy decided that she was not going to cooperate and get up. We decided to let her sleep until the last minute which she did.
    Our next boggle was when Robby got up and came to give a good morning kiss. I guess I ought to wear make up more often or something. He stopped short, drew back, squinted and said "Whoa!" After he inspected me for several moments he decided the stranger in something more fitting than old baggy pants, a t-shirt and straggly hair was indeed Mom -- but we had the entire procedure to go through again when I put my new shoes (with heels) on.
    We were finally all up and ready just before 7 a.m. -- Robby in his slacks, white shirt, vest and tie. Ian had on his dark blue school clothes and Ivy -- well, she had cheered up considerably since she found out I had sewn a lady bug button on her shirt and that Mommy was going to use the curling iron and hair spray.

The Juvenile Section of Probate is only 45 minutes from our house and that's on a s-l-o-w driving day. I thought for sure leaving an hour and a half before the proceedings were to begin was overkill. Unfortunately there was a really bad accident on our route and we spent a wee bit over 45 minutes dodging from one intersection to another trying to find a way through all the other trucks, cars, police cars and what have you that were also trying to go the same way. Finally at 8 a.m. we got fairly clear road and Ken actually went the speed limit!

At 8:15 we reached the Juvenile Offices and then had to deal with getting three children, who had refused to eat breakfast and now had to go potty through the security gates. We finally lined them up heel and toe and shoved them through. I set off the alarm because I forgot my wrist watch but by then the kids were escaping so they just kind of ignored me and we all set off after our hoodlums. Our attorney was sitting there, watching the entire thing and didn't offer to help corral even one of them (sigh).

We finally found our way all the way to the back of the building and Courtroom #3 which was, fortunately, right beside the restrooms. Janet Leos, our attorney and I compared notes and recipes (smile) while the others ushered boys to the bathroom and then the judge's bailiff popped out and asked if we were ready. At that second we were -- two seconds later, Ivy sprung a generous leak in her diaper and Mary had to take her into the ladies room. Ken waited for her with Ian while Janet and I took Robby into the court room.

It was love at first site! Not only did all the chairs swivel and roll but Robby discovered that both the defense and prosecuting tables had live microphones. He sang "Ingle Ells", announced "I ungry!" and finally "I ent potty!" It was then that Janet told me that the microphones had a direct feed into the Judges chambers. Our judicial review personage was getting an earful! A very tall gentleman who was lurking in the back of the court room finally introduced himself -- he was the judges husband and had been at our wedding! ARGH! I fumbled his name around for ten minutes and then gave up.

Finally our whole crew was assembled and Janet gave the nod to the bailiff. A second later "here com de judge", Pamela Franks! She was a bit grayer than at our wedding (so am I) but just as slender and imposing in her robes as ever. Her eyes were dancing and she had a grin on that the Cheshire cat would have been utmostly proud of! In fact, she didn't stop smiling the whole time!

I was sworn in -- I think Janet was a little surprised because I kept answering her questions before she even got them out (I'd practiced and was nervous!). Robby kept whispering sweet nothings into the microphone and neither Ken or I could reach the microphone to get it away from him. It was now the final moments.

Judge Franks looked us all over, made sure that the record mentioned that Mary and the two kids were there and then started out by mentioning IN THE RECORD that she had married Ken and me way back when and was delighted to have been asked to hear our adoption petition. She could hardly get through the whole thing, she was bouncing in her chair as much as we were, smiling -- you could almost hear the giggle in her voice and then --

SHE GRANTED OUR PETITION FOR ADOPTION WITHOUT RESERVATION

I started bawling, hugging Robby -- Ken wasn't too far from it himself and that was it! Total bedlam broke loose! The first thing I knew was Judge Franks was off her bench to hug Robby and us, meet Mary again and her kids -- her husband was priming his camera -- and this was all being recorded still for the court record! We all ended up trooping back around to stand behind her desk for various group shots (the camera is at the developers now -- patience, patience -- ) and Robby perched on her lap for most of them. The boys then took over the court room, playing with the microphones while we all stood and talked -- I think even Janet was surprised at how long the Judge had cleared for us.

Finally we headed out for our "wee" celebration which was breakfast for everyone except Ian who ordered a shrimp dinner! Mary snuck out toward the end and I found a bouquet with a huge balloon and bear waiting for me with the sign "IT'S A BOY!"

So, it is official. At 8:45 a.m. Arizona Time, we became the proud parents -- mom and dad -- of Robert Christopher Rose who, in his age 6 wisdom, told the judge "Aw shucks!"

Margo who is ignoring the trolls entirely for now

Introducing Robert C. Rose

B. Row: Mary, Mrs. Leos, Margo
B. Row: Ken, Ivy, Ian, Robby, Judge Franks

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Bingo Markers & M&M's & DH's We were talking about using M&M's for Bingo Markers at the St. Louis Gathering and it reminded me of this tale.

Ken, my dh, went through a binge of salted peanuts way back when we lived in our old house. Every three or four days I'd have to get another one of those small plastic lidded cans of peanuts for him to munch a handful at a time. I learned to get them one at a time too because if I got more than one, he just ate them faster. One day my middlest dd and I were going to the store. I asked her to remind me "about Ken's peanuts". She hit me! My DD bloomin' socked me in the arm! It dawned on her that I had not said what she thought I told her to remember. Since she is 6' and I am just over 5' I was very careful from then on to tell her "a can of pea-nuts". That wasn't the story though, just kind of a side line. Anyway.
    This binge of Ken's went on all summer, through the fall and into winter. Now, I do like giving practical jokes at Christmas. One box for someone is usually taped with 50 layers of different sticky tape, in 10 different boxes or rattles funny. It was Ken's turn that year. I got an EMPTY case box for peanut cans and stashed it. I began collecting the empty cans.
    The whole process was watched and approved by my toy poodle Pip. He was about 2 lbs of gray fuzz. When he was still he looked like a dust bunny with eyes. Anyway, he was a brave little dog -- yipping at the door, chasing the cats until they chased him back and in general getting in everyone's way. He helped me collect all these cans and hide them under my bathroom vanity which was the one place Ken didn't usually snoop.
    I stuffed those cans too! underwear, socks (never two of the same kind in one can), moccasins -- one in a different can -- all kinds of things! It was amazing what I could cram into them if I really tried. It was a week before Christmas and I only needed four more cans to fill the case. I figured I'd go to the store and get them the next day.
    Now imagine. The house was absolutely silent, no lights on except the one little "night light" in the kitchen that only lit up the big obstacles. Outside it was cold, clear skied and a chilly breeze was coming down the mountain. Pip was in bed with us, rooted down into the covers as deep as he could get. I had to go potty.
    Pip went into the bathroom with me and was sitting on the floor vent, his ears sailing straight up when the heat kicked on and yawned. He was grumpy. I'd let cold air into HIS bed. All of a sudden we heard a "skritch". Pip came alert and looked at me "Did you make that noise?" SKRITCH "You didn't make that noise!" He started to growl and look down the vent.
    SKRITCH, BOOM, CLANG! The cabinet doors under my vanity flew open and peanut cans shot out. KAWHOOM! Pip took one look at the monster, a mouse weighing maybe one tenth of an ounce, gave a blood curdling "YIPEEEEEEEE" and flew -- he did not touch the floor with his feet -- he flew! into the bedroom, bounced off the headboard and landed on Ken's stomach where he proceeded to do a whirling deverish dance in an attempt to get Ken to protect him from the ravening mouse while he proceeded to wail like a miniature gray fire alarm.
    I almost fell off the potty trying to get to the cans before Ken woke up enough to see them. My foot came down on one which promptly popped and disgorged men's socks in assorted colors so I had to scoop them up and try to cram them back into hiding but caught the mouse instead and he didn't want to be crammed. I let out a whoop, threw the socks and mouse into the bathtub and went back to shoving unopened cans back under the vanity including the one that had a mouse chewed lid. Pip decided that his war dance wasn't doing the trick waking Ken up so was trying to bounce on his head.
    Finally I had the cans hidden again and managed to catch the mouse in one can and throw him out the window. Then I stuffed socks into the can and hid it. Pip took up a perch behind Ken and peered up over his back, his eyes still wide with alarm. He thought I still had the mouse.
    I managed to slide back into bed and pull the covers up with Pip growling at me. Ken rolled over and continued to snore. He never did wake up to save either Pip or me from the rampaging peanut cans.

Margo who has the trolls on a peanut free diet

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How To Not Write A Website This was my way of telling everyone in the Wee Village group that I was going to be a wee bit late in uploading the new blocks.

What Is Supposed To Happen: Sit down on the 15th of the month and begin listing new patterns to be added, new graphics that will be needed.
What Actually Happens: You make your list and spill your coffee on it. You dry by holding it up to the ceiling fan and ignore the little fuzzies that come drifting down. When dry you trace over your list and wonder what the heck it was you were trying to spell.

What Is Supposed To Happen: With your nice neat list in hand you log onto the Internet and using your extensive, well organized files in Favorites, locate all the backgrounds, clipart, references you require quickly and effortlessly.
What Actually Happens: You log on and discover that your ISP isn't going to recognize your password. You try all the different variations you have used in the past 11 years and nothing works. You finally reboot the computer. The computer boots back. You go get another cup of coffee while it does a scan disk that reports nothing is wrong. You reboot again. Still no connection. You finally realize that when you plugged in the two new surge protectors to give you enough outlets for two printers, postage meter, scale, new paper shredder, cd burner, monitor, scanner, and two lamps (one of which has a burned out light bulb) that you accidentally knocked one of the two telephone lines out of the socket. This is of course the one to the computer because you could have done without the one to the actual telephone. You plug it in. It falls out. You shove it into the socket. It falls out. The little plastic prong has broken off and is now lost somewhere in the dust bunnies behind the computer. You send DH to the Dollar Store for a new cord. While he is gone you get the little vacuum out and chase dust bunnies and trolls. The Dollar Store is a half block away. Dh returns two hours later with 3 new laundry baskets, several sacks of "essential" snacks including a can of kumquats, two bottles of drain cleaner, four quarts of motor oil and -- no telephone cord. You go yourself and are back in ten minutes, have the new cord in place and are on line. At that point the coffee kicks in and you go potty. When you get back the computer is smirking at you. You give up on an organized search and just use what you already have.

What Is Supposed To Happen: Working carefully through each page of the web site stored on your hard drive, you begin to make the changes and additions in a logical order, checking each link to make sure they are correctly done and all the files are accessible in the proper folders.
What Actually Happens: It is now 11 a.m. and you stop to eat lunch. There are dust bunnies in your sandwich. You end up working the crossword on-line. You discover that you've forgotten to convert several files to downloadable format and where did you save the graphics? The computer does a search for the graphics and says "No Such Critters Exist!" The trolls are snickering. You start from scratch and remake the graphics -- when you go to save them the computer asks "Overwrite EXISTING File?" It found them -- it just didn't tell you. You get everything moved into the right folders finally and create several that are needed for new things. It is now 3:30 p.m. and you still don't have any pages done. It is time for the kid to get home from school -- he walks in, demands snack and to print out POWER RANGERS! The trolls like coloring pages -- they agree. 50 sheets of Power Rangers later you get back to the web site and actually get part of the main page done. Oops -- forgot to work on the Spotlight section and have to do that before I can get the main page to link up right. Go do the Spotlight and where the h*** did I save the biography and pictures? Robby comes in and wants another movie put on -- you take time to pour yourself another cup of coffee and snag a handful of his popcorn. He resents you taking his snack and an all out pillow fight ensues which wakes up snoozing DH who enquires if this is the proper way to 1) treat him and 2) work on the web site. You retreat to the office and end up playing Zuma until supper time when you put another web page up and pretend so DH has to cook supper.

The Next Week & a Half: Repeat as above but substitute burned out light bulbs for the telephone cord, a paper shredder that got sick and upchucked nearly a full wastebasket of itty bitty paper in a shower that made a ticker tape parade look puny, argument with mother, filling orders, loosing orders, finding orders -- reshipping losted orders with trolls who have been getting high on mayonnaise fumes from the sandwich you didn't have time to eat last week and tossed into the wastebasket under the shredder. You have to add: shoe shopping for grandkids, finding a new outfit for the St. Louis Gathering (or at least the drive there), battling e-mail from that virus and a computer with a sick sense of humor.

What Is Supposed To Happen: On the 30th of the month everything will be in place and you only have to upload the files the next day.
What Actually Happens: You still have 14 pages to do plus the Gallery and to create a new Gallery. You fumble your way into the office with coffee in hand. You spill it on your chair. You now have to sit on a wet seat all day and endure the comments of your DH about age and incontinence. You get to work and for once things are going smoothly. You get nine of the pages done when roars of outrage in the kitchen break your chain of thought and make the trolls dive for cover. The sinks are clogged and the dishwasher has geysered umpteen zillion gallons of water all over the cabinets, under sinks and of course all over the floor. The kitchen is DH's responsibility -- now you know why he got two bottles of drain cleaner at the Dollar Store. You snicker and try to ignore the stream of language, thumps and bumps and "Wheeee's" as Robby discovers sliding on the floor is almost as much fun as Power Rangers. You finally give in and "help". You call a plumber. Three hours and $150 later you have a clean running sink and dishwasher. Dh is frazzled, Robby is damp all over and you still have to download all the pictures from the Internet to put in the Gallery. You go back into the office and discover that people are still adding photos. You end up playing Zuma and pretending to work.

What Is Supposed To Happen: Upload your files in a concise, orderly fashion so that nothing is missed and the web site is "down" for a minimum length of time.
What Actually Happens: You wake up three hours late and charge into the office to get to work. You not only have to finish the web site, you have to do special uploads to one of your distributors site that you promised to do two weeks ago but didn't get to. You decide that you can create the newest Gallery tomorrow and get busy. The computer chokes on several of the files. You have to reboot -- the virus is attacking your e-mail -- 106 messages, only 2 of which are legitimate are clogging everything. You finally get uploaded and then notice a mis-spelled word right on the main page. You correct, re-upload. None of the links work. You think for a minute then you sit down and write a letter to everyone who has been waiting for your new designs to explain why they are going to be a wee bit late.

Margo who has 3 trolls playing in mayonnaise and sticking dust bunnies on another troll who thinks it's just dandy and one little troll trying to be a Power Ranger.

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Once Upon A Time Occasionally I dip back into my very unusual childhood and tell a tale about my grandmother, grandfather, their parents or even my mother. Some day I'll tell about Grandma Dancing With Hedgeposts, The Snake in the Kettle or Mom Chopping Winter Wood. Some day.

Now, I will not say that my grandmother was fussy. Yes, we had to mow nearly an acre of grass and use shears to trim around the trees. Yes, I had a play house out behind the out buildings where I planted all the white iris she routed out of the rows. Yes, we had to pull grass out of those iris blades. We had to pull lots of grass out of those iris. Yes, we couldn't cut down dead trees -- we had to "grub" them by digging out all the dirt from around the roots with everything from shovels, trowels to soup spoons, then pull the stump, put the dirt back and grow grass -- which had to be mowed too. Yes, she turned the living room chairs (hardwood) over once a month and scraped off any accumulation of wax (Johnson's paste) from the legs. No, she was not fussy. She was not a snoop either.
    Grandma would never have considered herself a snoop. She just wanted to know what everyone was doing all the time. What made that very hard to accomplish was the fact that the Old Stone House sat down in between two hills and you couldn't see any of the neighbors. In fact, there were so many trees around the house and down in the grove, that you could hardly see the driveway let alone the one room school house up on the hill. During the winter, she could content herself watching the road and seeing who was driving which way: south to Alma or Eskridge - if in the car it was to church or a gathering of some sort and if a pick up then it was farm business. North to Wamego in a car meant they were visiting friends or if they took a big truck, it was to sell a load of corn or wheat. Grandma got real good at figuring out what people were doing just from the vehicles they were driving, the direction they were going and about how fast they went. But that was winter time. She couldn't see the road in summer. She came up with a plan! We were going to trim all the trees just up far enough that she could see out, but people couldn't see her watching them go by.
    Needless to say, after mowing, degrassing iris, whacking weeds, working all week at the bank and doing other assorted chores, my mom was not too thrilled about trimming some fifty trees. Especially on Saturday morning when she had a date that evening.
    Saturday morning mom and I got out the tree saws -- curved saw blades on long, long poles that were older than the house I think, the 16 foot long ladder that we thought my great grandfather Daily had cobbled together out of petrified wood because it weighed about as much as mom's Chevy station wagon, assorted hand saws and jugs of ice water because once we got dirty, grandma wouldn't let us back in the house until we hosed off. Grandma took up her first station at the sewing machine to guide us as to which limbs and how far each one should be trimmed.
    We managed most of the trees in the front yard with the pruning hooks. I spent a lot of time "skinning the cat" on the ladder after we discovered that I had a fear of heights and froze at the top of the ladder. It had taken mom ten minutes to get me down and I was firmly delegated to handing her things and not shaking the ladder. She made funny "whoops" noises when it did. At least I thought they were funny.
    The "Grove" was next. This was a show place in the neighborhood. When my grandpa and his brothers had arrived at the homestead, there hadn't been ANY trees on the rolling prairie so when they got older, they had planted cottonwoods, elms, red buds and even cedars most of which were still flourishing. Since that had been nearly a century before, these trees were TALL! The pruning hooks combined with the 16 foot petrified ladder and mom straining all of her 5' 3" frame were just long enough to take off the lowest limbs. Grandma kept popping out of the house and shouting "Higher! Higher!" I learned some very interesting words from Mom who thought I didn't hear her. We took a break when there was an 'alley' cleared that grandma could peek out to the road through toward the north. I tried out some of my new vocabulary. Mom doused me with ice water.
    Finally, about 2 in the afternoon, when Kansas was baking in one of those golden summer days that melt you, we got done. Mom was rushing to get stuff put away so she could go in, clean up, set her hair and make it look like all she'd done all day was sit around and buff her nails. We got in the kitchen finally and grandma was standing at the big double windows looking north. She did not look happy. Mom and I looked at each other. Grandma looking unhappy meant we shouldn't look happy either. Grandma pointed.
    The huge catalpa tree by the smoke house was one of our banes in life. It shed long stringy seed pods that choked the mowers when they were fresh or spit out splinters that would go through a plank when they got mowed dry. It had huge leaves that made a mess no matter what season it was. It also grew straight up -- all except for this one little branch that hung down right in the center of our cleared 'alley'. It looked like it was a couple of inches thick and had this little sprig of leaves at the end that draped artfully right over the view of the road. It had to be eliminated!
    Now, when my great grandparents built the Old Stone House, they had situated it on a ridge of stone and there was just enough room to build the arched cellar with the smoke house on top of it. This left a passage between the house and smoke house that we could maneuver the station wagon through. If we were very careful. The smoke house and arched cellar were at the very edge of the ridge of stone. To keep them from washing out, a dry stone retaining wall (with an impressive set of steps that our neighbor rode his horse up and down several times when -- that's another story) about 12 feet tall had been put up.
    Mom drug the ladder back out and put it up against the offending limb. It just barely reached! She climbed up and no, she did not cut off the wrong side of the limb. She had just trimmed the cluster of leaves off when she heard a sound. The leaves were heavy, and the limb, once she had cut them off was sliding up and out from under the ladder!
    Picture this if you will. A woman who doesn't weigh 100 lbs and is only 5' 4" tall, on top of a 16 foot ladder which is in turn on top of a 12 foot retaining wall doing battle with a catalpa branch who resented getting a leaf cut! This is not a pretty picture. If she let go, she would have been launched either into orbit or about 50 feet out into the Grove where we'd planted a wall of very tall and thorny rose bushes. She did what any normal person would do. She began hollering at the top of her lungs for grandma and me to come rescue her.
    Now, I was upstairs reading and grandma was in the front room spy -- er, checking out the goings and comings on old highway 99. Dimly I could hear the disturbance but ignored it because grandma was downstairs. Grandma ignored it because I was upstairs. Mom yelled louder. I heard words that she had used before plus some new ones but I remembered the ice water and went back to reading. Mom began to invent words.
    This got our attention finally and both grandma and I meandered out to see what was taking Mom so long with this one little bitty branch. We stood there and laughed. Grandma was shaking all over she was laughing so hard. Mom said vile things about Grandma's ancestry. That made us both laugh harder. I was getting even for the ice water!
    I finally went to the smoke house and got my Uncle Tom's old lasso. This rope was fifty years old and stiff as a board but we'd kept it because it would have taken more effort to throw it away. I sailed out and after two or three tries, got one end over the limb and down where grandma and I could hold the limb down.
    As mom was climbing down, still muttering under her breath, it suddenly dawned on me that she might be a wee bit irritated. I prepared to make a run for the play house where I could barricade the doors and had 15 cans of pork and beans hidden. Grandma looked like she was considering joining me. The second Mom was on firm ground, we let go of the rope -- the limb shot up a good six feet, the ladder launched itself into the rose bushes and Mom plopped down into the stone horse trough under the catalpa tree, too shaky to stand. She looked at Grandma, her green eyes were a color I'd never, ever seen before -- she pulled a cigarette out of her pocket and lit it. "Your turn next time." Back To The Story Index          Back To The Future Heirlooms Index

The Rest Of The Story This was proceeded by a note to the Wee Village Quilt Group about Robby loosing his tooth and getting a "Fairy Dollar" to spend. I guess they knew that I wasn't telling everything because they began demanding -- the rest of the story.

We let the boys get up about 7 -- Ivy was trying to sleep in. First we found Ian and Robby in grandpa's NEW OFFICE CHAIR playing "spin and see who get's sick first". Grandpa dealt with that while I rummaged in the cabinets and pulled out our waffle iron then tried to find waffle mix in the pantry.
    Now this is the pantry, not the 'store room' where we keep the bulk supplies. I keep open things in this little room (only 4x5 and should have been twice that size), canisters of dried things, jars -- well, let's just say it is not the neatest room in the house. The pancake mix is supposed to be in a large plastic container that sits right beside the larger ones of flour, sugar and salt. I found the flour, the sugar and the salt. I found a canister of fish food which reminded me that I had not fed the fish yet. We have an algae eater roughly the size of a barracuda in there now. I went and fed the fish. Barry -- the algae eater let me pet his head.
    I finally found the pancake mix container behind the canisters of dried green beans, dried peas and two of different kinds of dried squash, four packages of dried spinach and 11 packages of Ramen Noodles.   I also managed to knock over a stack of diapers (for emergencies with Ivy), several canning jars, a bag of rock salt (for ice cream) and 11 large coffee cans that we use to hold 'little dabs' of dried food. I also located the plastic lids to about 50 large coffee cans that I'd been saving for 'something' and had misplaced, two Power Rangers, an old apple that had fallen out of the bag and my hair brush that Ivy had "all goned". The barrel had enough pancake mix in it for maybe two mouse sized pancakes.
    TO THE STORE ROOM. This is located at the opposite end of the house from the kitchen and pantry. I do not know why -- it just is. On my way from the pantry to the store room I stopped, covered Ivy up again and found the boys doing a balancing act on the exercise cycle in Ken's office. After threatening to turn them into waffles with a flyswatter and parking their butts in chairs well apart from one another, I proceeded down the hall. The stool in the guest bathroom had been stopped up with Ivy's floppy (small) teddy bear. I spread out towels, wrung out the bear and yelled at Ken to fix the rest of it.
    I finally got to the back room. I checked the walk in closet, under the bed and the three sets of metal shelves where we keep all the bulk supplies. NO WAFFLE MIX. It is now 7:30 and Ian has pounced on Ivy wanting to wrestle. Ivy was asleep. All three kids are squalling. We separate them once more, turn on t.v. and while grandpa deals with wet diapers, I turn to making waffle mix. Now, to me it is logical -- why fuss with making pancake/waffle mix for one batch when the recipe makes a full, five gallon container?
    Back to the pantry for flour canisters, baking powder, salt, sugar and other divers ingredients. I started mixing things right in the container -- no sense getting big bowls or the food processor dirty. Ivy came in to show me her clean diaper. She added hmm, well, that box of baking powder had been new when I started -- (sigh). I got the calculator out and figured there was enough baking powder in the flour and other stuff for 12 full batches. Ken announced that he WAS NOT going to the store at that time in the morning for 50 pounds of flour -- not even if it does come in flour sacks that can be used for a quilt. I scooped out as much as I could and pretended that everything was perfectly measured. The kids wanted to sit on the floor while I finished mixing to rub their hands on the tiles and apply 'make up' but I growled and they vanished.
    O.K. The dry mix is done. I get out the entire two cups that is needed for a batch of waffles. I add the milk, the water and -- this is the difficult part -- the egg. Robby and Ivy love eggs. Ian does not unless it is disguised as French Toast. If he thought an egg was in the waffles he would not eat them. Just as I get the egg out of the carton Ian arrives. I am caught -- I shove the egg in my pocket. He peeks, sniffs -- is satisfied that grandma is not sneaking something over on him and meanders back into the front room.
    I whisk everything up -- I have to. For some strange reason the batter is foaming up over the edges of the bowls -- but, I measured everything exactly -- remember? I go to spray the electric waffle iron and discover that instead of getting it out, I have gotten the George Forman Grill out and it is hot and ready to grill waffles, kids or who ever comes into reach. I unplug it, hide it in the oven to cool off and ask Ken where the waffle iron is. He doesn't know. Back to the pantry because I already looked in the cabinets.
    It is now 8 a.m. and the kids are sucking their bellies and cheeks in trying to look pitiful. It doesn't work because they keep giggling. The pantry is completely rearranged except for the coffee can lids that don't seem to fit anywhere. No waffle iron. We finally locate it IN THE CABINETS between two colanders. I scold it for hiding and plug it in.
    The batter tastes o.k. -- but as it cooks the top lid of the waffle maker keeps going up and up and up. I have invented The Blob With Square Holes! The first waffle pops out onto the plate. Ken looks at it dubiously. It is an inch and a half thick and well, we aren't too sure that it isn't breathing. I finally decide that it's just the air pockets going deflating due to the sounds that it keeps making. Waffles with flatulence are not really appealing. Ken keeps one eye on it, just in case it decides to attack while he goes to the pantry to get the syrup that I forgot to get.
    His foot hits the coffee can lids just as he grabs the economy size maple syrup. He goes down, the lids become Frisbees all over the kitchen much to the kids delight and the syrup goes sailing up in a graceful arc over my head, across the sinks to land right in the batter. We let the kids continue playing Frisbee in the house while we rescue the syrup, my curtains (that batter might eat them the way it's growing), and assorted spots on the floor. I start another waffle. I use the basting brush to put the batter into the iron then start cooking bacon, open a can of pears and pit a few sweet cherries that I have to make jam. I am going to make happy face waffles.
    The waffles are coming out better now -- only a half inch thick or so. The bacon is done and drained. The fruit is ready. We use scissors to cut up the waffles into bites (easier than a knife and fork), pour on syrup and make itty bitty faces with bacon and fruit.
    Ivy spends fifteen minutes 'talking' to her new waffle friend. Robby and Ian get into a slow contest to see who will finish eating last. The kitchen, pantry and back room are a total wreck and we have made a whole four waffles. I catch Ian trying to feed some of his to Barry the algae eater. No wonder that fish is so big!
    When the kids finally get done eating, Robby announces he's ready to go get "toy". I should mention that Robby has every Toys R Us, Dollar Store, Walgreen's and other toy source mapped in his head -- he also has a sixth sense for knowing exactly which store has just gotten a new shipment of the most expensive Power Rangers in existence. He doesn't realize that the $1 the tooth fairy left him won't buy a Power Ranger boot let alone the motorcycle/airplane, weapons and all purpose walkie talkie that they MUST HAVE.
    Robby directs me to Walgreen's. I take a deep breath of relief. We won't end up at Toys R Us and taking out a mortgage on the house to pay for his Fairy Dollar Purchase. Robby heads right to the toy aisle. He spends forty minutes studying each and every box. He convinces the manager to pull things off the very top of the shelves for his inspection. The toy aisle resembles my pantry at that moment. All at once Robby looks up. On the very tip top shelf, almost hidden behind a Barbie Curling Iron and Beauty Salon is the corner of a box -- a red box -- that distinctive red that says "POWER RANGER". I knock down four Barbie Beauty Salons, two robot dogs, a Furbie from last year and three baby dolls before I can reach the box.
    This is what he wants. Maybe. I find a Red Ranger, a Blue Ranger and a Green Ranger. He debates, he ponders, he sticks his tongue out from where he used to have a tooth. He finally picks the Red Ranger, complete with motorcycle, strange weapons and other implements. It is $11.95. He does not want a box of crayons. He does not want a coloring book. He wants his Red Power Ranger. Grandma, who is still covered in flour and baking powder gives in.
    Now, picture this please. We are going to go home with a brand new toy. There are two children at the house who did not have a visit from the Tooth Fairy, did not get Fairy Dollars and did not get a new toy. Grandpa and Grandma do not want to spend the rest of the day breaking up fist fights and hearing screaming. I pick up the Green and the Blue Power Rangers too.
    We get up to the cash register and the clerk and I exchange winks as I explain about Tooth Fairy Dollars. He takes Robby's $1 and two pennies that he's found somewhere and then rings everything up for me. Robby is eyeing the dollar very suspiciously so the clerk slips it to me -- I hurry to shove it into my pocket -- and contact the egg that I forgot to take out after making waffles. It crunches. The clerk looks at me funny. He notices that I have egg yolk coming out of my pocket. I don't have anywhere to wipe my hand and have to dig out my debit card. By this time the egg is seeping out of my pocket and down the side of my pants, mixing with the flour dust. The clerk is looking at me as if he knows that I just invented the 'BLOB WITH SQUARE HOLES'.
    Robby and I leave very quickly. Just as we get to the van, Robby notices the egg. He snickers all the way home. I get even by wiping my hand off on his shirt.
    Taking stock of the morning I find that I have 5 gallons of BLOB WITH SQUARE HOLES mix, no flour left, a grand daughter running around wearing flour and baking soda as make up, a constipated on waffles algae eater, a husband with a bruised behind, soggy pants, a reputation in Walgreen's that I'll never quite live down and to top it off - that one durned baby tooth cost me $38.00! Back To The Story Index          Back To The Future Heirlooms Index

House Work Done Margo's Way Everyone on the Wee Village Group was exchanging cleaning tips -- I don't know why, they just were. I decided to add my expert advice and this is what came out.

1) Globs of gray fluff fall off the ceiling fan into your delicious bowl of Nothing Soup. You decide to clean the fan.
2) You lug out the little step ladder. It is stored in the utility room closet behind 14 cans of old paint, your dh's tool box (which is empty), the mop which is still wet from this morning and the broom. You leave the mop and broom leaning against the wall and stack the paint cans beside the closet in order of color -- light to dark. The tool box is kicked in the general direction of the back door.
3) You get the vacume cleaner out of your bedroom closet after first locating it beneath your DH's dirty overhauls, his down jacket, four and 1/2 pairs of socks that need darned and the sexy nightgown you bought back when you were a size 10 and that your grand daughter has been playing dress up with. You haul the vacume into the front room beside the step ladder.
4) You discover that your beloved child has been playing Power Ranger with the vacume tools.
5) You rummage through two toy chests roughly the size of Central Park, under the bunk beds and behind the dresser in the 6 year olds room. You locate a baby bottle (we won't discuss how long ago the baby was weaned), fourteen pacifiers, blocks, two screwdrivers from DH's tool box, several fq's that appealed to various children, toys, and a half pair of socks that does not match the ones in your closet. You find the vacume tools under all the stuff you took off the vacume cleaner in the first place.
6) All the attachments, hoses and brushes are put onto the vacume. You step up on the foot stool and s-t-r-e-t-c-h -- you are still 6 inches too short to get the brush up to the fan. You get down from the ladder and find the 6 year old has used your preoccupation to feed your Nothing Soup to the gold fish. You go veggie diving in an aquarium with a colander and tongs. The fish like Nothing Soup.
7) You begin stacking quilt magazines under the ladder to bring it up to height. Article #4 in a 1976 Quilt World doesn't look familiar. You stop to read. It is continued. By the time you find the second half of the article you have all the magazines sorted by publisher and date -- you stop yourself before you begin alphabetizing them by the quilt on the cover. You continue building up the height of the ladder.
8) By all calculations, you should be able to reach the fan now. You climb up, being very careful that the ladder doesn't slip and tear one of your archived magazines. The 6 year old picks that moment to declare "I gotta go 'tinky!" You climb back down and go help him undo jeans snaps and then clean the mirror until time to help him wipe. He thinks it is hilarious to make "noises" to entertain you.
9) You climb the ladder again and this time remember to drag the vacume up with you. You turn it on and -- nothing. You forgot to plug it in.
10) You climb down the ladder, plug the vacume in and climb back up. It roars to life -- just as you're ready to whoosh up the first dust bunny there is a blood curdling scream!
11) DH has come in the back door, tripped over his tool box, sailed head first into the paint cans -- all of which were dried up except one and is sitting in the middle of the utility room floor wearing paint and with the wet mop draped over his head like a wig. You try to explain to the 6 year old why he cannot say the words that he just heard DH say.
12) DH decides that HE will clean the fan. You go stand by the phone ready to dial 911, the Coast Guard and, if available, the Rockettes.
13) DH climbs up the ladder. It slips. He TEARS ISSUE #8 OF QUILTERS DIGEST! You chase him around the front room with the wet mop while the 6 year old yells Power Ranger style karate yells.
14) DH decides to retreat while the 'treating' is good. He goes to clean up the paint cans. The six year old is "cleaning" the fan with his squirt gun.
15) You look at your watch, the ladder, the magazines. You go to the kitchen and get a fresh bowl of Nothing Soup, grab the magazines and head for the "Necessary". It doesn't have a ceiling fan. Back To The Story Index Back To The Future Heirlooms Index

The Wee Village Story We started the Wee Village Quilt Group on Yahoo in February of 2003 and by March, I had gotten tired of telling people how I'd come up with the idea of houses for the Wee Folk. I wrote this little story and posted it to the group who then insisted it needed to go on the Future Heirlooms web site. I still get comments about it and asked about the mushrooms.

I am not generally a skin flint (smile) however I did need to repot several quite large houseplants and was kind of horrified at the price on "dirt" at Home Depot. I got a smaller bag and then "filled in" with potting soil from the local super market. All things went well until about a week after I had the mess done.

We were sitting down to dinner and I noticed something strange in one of the smaller plants. I was going to scold my grandson Robby for putting his toys in the plant when I realized I was looking at a whole cluster of mushrooms! Big mushrooms, little mushrooms, lopsided ones, upright ones of what appeared to be several different varieties -- dozens of the things were sprouting and in the big planters, the infestation was even worse!

The mushrooms were very carefully picked and disposed of because we weren't sure of the edibility (we also have a 14 month old grand daughter who nibbles things still) and I thought that was it. Wrong!
Every time I water the plants another batch of mushrooms sprouts and one day, while I was cleaning yet another new cluster out from under the plants leaves, inspiration hit (my husband says it was the fumes from the mushrooms actually). Suddenly I could see little doors, windows and other details on the mushrooms and my 'regular' old houseplants became deep, mysterious "jungles", "rain forests" and fairy groves. I decided to start drawing when I found myself arranging those little white things in potting soil into paths, making furrows for rivers and streams when I watered and other "strange" things (smile).

Now we leave the mushrooms because we have all the grand kids convinced that they are fairy and elf houses -- and besides -- I just may need more to glean some new designs!

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A Breather -- Finally! With only 3 weeks to go before the St. Louis Gathering, my daughter Mary announced she and her two children (my grandchildren!) were moving back to Kansas. Suddenly I not only had immense piles of washing in my house, boxes everywhere but several hundred patterns to print and over 1,000 CD's to burn along with packing, car tune ups and everything else a two week trip entails. Of course, when I told the Wee Village Group about it, the whole thing turned into a Margo Story!

    This last week should have been a Margo Story! LOL As you all know, Mary (my dd) and her two Ian and Ivy moved back to Kansas. Finally. The whole thing is a comedy of errors that ranges from washing all her clothes only to discover she'd washed the "throw-away" bags and not the real laundry (14 bags of it!), loosing Ivy's lady-bug in one of the boxes and having to unpack so Ivy could go to sleep, Ian falling in the dumpster accidentally on purpose -- well, you get the idea. Then the real fun started. The truck coming from Kansas to pick all of them up was towing a U-Haul and developed troubles somewhere in Oklahoma -- repeated stops for water etc. slowed them down considerably. They got about 40 miles outside Phoenix when the alternator belts (both of them) broke. Mary was able to get a friend to take her, the kids and the belts out to fix the truck. Imagine three women and two cranky kids beside the Interstate changing out alternator belts with a screwdriver, electric tape and a jack knife. They got the belts tight enough to get into town and to Mary's residence when they discovered that the alternator had actually expired. Another friend located a rebuilt alternator and they changed it! Now all of this is before they even got boxes etc. loaded!
    Somehow they managed to get everything into the truck and trailer but belts, alternators and cranky kids had taken up one heck of a lot of gas money. We all (or most of us anyway) know the phone call that we dread
"M-O-T-H-E-R!!!!!" Banks were closed by that time but Ken and I begged, borrowed and whined until we got enough cash for gas together.
    Now -- you'd think they were set, right? My dear friends -- they got a whopping 5 miles -- 5 MILES away from my house and the radiator blew! They had to park the truck and trailer and Ken went to fetch them to our house.
    This is the last straw. They settle down for the night, again, in my front room after a long debate about what to do. In the morning we call radiator repair places -- they all range from $180 to $350 and that does not include towing or labor! I am not going to recoup my gas money let alone something like that so we evolve another plan.
    Mary's ride calls her husband in Kansas. He and a friend will come down to fetch EVERYONE & the trailer in a brand new pick up from Kansas. They need gas money. "M-O-T-H-E-R!!!!!" I give up and transfer funds electronically which is the only way to get it there in time for them to leave that night so they can get here, load and get back before Mary's ride and her husband have to be back to work. IN RETURN, I am to get the title to the broken down pick up truck that has new alternator, new belts and a busted radiator. Hmm, do we see a pattern here?
    The men finally show up 4 hours late. Mary's friend had told them 91st STREET and not AVENUE which is where I live. I guess they had an interesting tour of Phoenix's freeways for 4 hours. Anyway, they show up finally and we get the title to the truck transferred and they begin reloading the truck. Everything will fit in the trailer once there was muscle to move furniture.
    We all say goodbye again (this is the 4th or 5th time but who's counting?) and close the front door. About five minutes later there is a knock. The lights on the trailer aren't working.
    The men fuss, fume and kick gravel. We women call U-Haul and get a repair technician out to work on the trailer. The technician fusses, fumes, kicks gravel -- he can get one side to work, but when the other side starts to work, the first side stops. He says words we don't want the kids to hear. We call dispatch for a replacement trailer even though it means moving all the furniture, boxes and bags. IN ALL OF PHOENIX THERE IS NOT ANOTHER TRAILER THAT SIZE!
    Just as it's getting dark -- did I mention it had been raining hard all day? and was pretty chilly? the men decide to take NEW truck and OLD trailer right to U-Haul and let them fix it there. Ken has to follow in the van because the trailer doesn't have any lights. We women had thought ahead and had two large roasts cooking. We feed kids and wait. And wait. And wait.
    The men finally show up. The trailer lights now work. The trouble had been -- IN THE NEW TRUCKS TAIL LIGHT WIRES. (sigh)
    Anyway, we said good bye again and this time -- no phone calls. Naturally this is worse than if they had called within 15 minutes after all the other. Mary called almost 12 hours later to say that they had made it safely and the kids had seen snow - it had gotten that cold. Somehow they had made a 18 hour trip in 12. I didn't ask how.
    The question now is: DOES ANYONE WANT A RED, 1983 DODGE RAM PICKUP WITHOUT A RADIATOR CHEAP?

Margo who has a troll in each shoe, one playing in the waste basket, an itty bitty one trying to dial the phone AND TWO MORE IN THE KITCHEN!

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