Well, I have never had so much fun buying groceries as I did this morning.
First of all I forgot my glasses on the table by my chair.
Second of all, I made a sharp turn towards the sun making it virtually impossible to see ANYTHING!!!
Third thing, unbeknownst to me, silly stocking folks had put up a very flimsy display of jello that jumped out in front of my shopping cart.
I, of course, made a big deal out of it, and Fran started laughing and told me to just let it go, so I did because I was laughing so hard I couldn't do anything else.
I remembered something else that we needed so I turned the cart around and proceeded to go back down that same aisle. Fran was in front of me and told the poor stocking boy, "woman driver on her way back down!"
I had to get my medicine at this same store and I got the giggles so bad I couldn't stop. It has been years since that happened. It felt so good, stomach ache and all.
It seems the older I get, things seem to jog my memory to the "old days." Most old days go back to the farm where I was raised until I was eleven years old. I suppose those days hold firm in my memory because I am like most older people the long term memory holds true unlike short term memory does. In my case I have very little of the short term stuff left.
When I was little my dad did a lot of different things with no help except with a small jackknife. My mom used to laugh about that little knife. She used to say that dad did every thing from castrate animals to quarter apples with that little knife.
I have seen dad sharpen his knife and test it with the hair on his arms. Sharpening his small "hired hand" was very interesting to
watch for a little girl. He had several different ways to accomplish this. Sometimes he would put his knife in water on a wet stone. In,over and in over. Then the testing would begin on his arm. A small satisfied smile would appear on his face and I knew that he was a happy man.
I loved to "tail" my dad on his chores. I loved observing the smells and cobwebs in the buildings and listening to his chuckles when I asked him little girl questions.
I learned that mama sows didn't like little girls leaning over the pen. I learned not to open bags of feed. That was a bad yelling lesson. That feat was supposed to be just my dad's chore with his little knife; not his little girl's tiny fingers that teased the string loose.
Dad's little knife tested the sweetcorn for juiciness, the soy beans for dryness, and the creepin jenny vines from choking out the flowers and vegetables. Dad used his knife for plugging a watermelon. I saw Dad clean his fingernails with his knife and pick out a splinter from his finger.
As a matter of fact, shortly before he left this world, he was still using his knife to cut cardboard to make a cover for his dictionary.
I wonder what ever happened to that beloved tool of my dad's.
