This youngster had trouble pronouncing the letter "R" so Mrs. Elmer Conkling gave him this sentence to practice at home:
"Robert gave Richard a rap in the ribs for roasting the rabbit so rare."
A few days later she asked him to say the sentence for her. (This was back in de good ole' Greggsport days.)
"Bob gave Dick a poke in the side for not cooking the bunny enough."
Randall Biart, who retired as director of the Nebraska Children's Home, died the other day in Omaha.
Mr. Biart was some man. He visited Nebraska City on occasion and had spoken at service clubs. If you've met him and heard him speak, you know what we mean.
When Mr. Biart's heart stopped beating, it stopped a giant of a man.
Mr. Biart's "job" in life was to find homes for unwanted children and he did it with immaculate care. He was a gruffy, gravel-voiced gentleman with a big, strong heart.
When it came to children who needed help, Mr. Biart was always there. And he was there to help, not to stand around with thumbs in pockets. He got things done and earned the love and appreciation of many previously childless families. His dedicated staff has carried on his work well since his retirement and you'll continue to hear more about the Home and about Harris Van Oort, Mr. Biart's protege.
That's all she wrote, sweetheart. It's vacation time.
We're really not going anyplace and according to the Queen Bee, that paint we bought on sale from Otoe Paint and Wallpaper is going from the can to the lumber. So it sounds like a week of vacation of going up and down, swish and slop and an aching back.
I happen to be an expert in most things and I excel when it comes to color choices. After all, we have had a green house for almost 12 years. This year the women's lib, the New Front and the Over 40 Sag are butting heads. I think we'll end up with some kind of brown, er, er, whatever.
A couple years ago we took the entire family of three daughters and a son to California and you know what happened? Picky-picky. The oldest with the driver's license got a workout, but for the youngest, there's just nothing to do except irritate a brother who thinks that the world would be a lot better off without sisters.
I'm sure you never had the same problems on your vacation. Most families, I'm sure, enjoy the ride, the scenery and have a singalong.
We have a dingalong and a swatalong and a spankalong.
We set sort of a family goal that the vacation that year might well be the last together and we decided the California trip to see the grandparents would be a good trip.
We realize now, we just made it . . . since that vacation, we have had a hard time getting the family together for a single meal. Of course, I knew that all along and discouraged the Domestic Engineer from getting dining room furniture.
After all, I explained, if you put a table and chairs in that area, where are the girls going to practice cheerleading yells and where are you going to put those two sewing machines . . . NOT back in my room.
We only have one real picky-picky problem in our house.
There are tennies all over the place, on the carport, on the rec room steps, next to the glass door and naturally, a pair of "holey" jobbers by the front door . . . you know, the place with the rubber mat that says "Welcome."
You don't believe me?
Let me tell you about our little upstairs bathroom. It looks like any other bathroom, except . . . there are lebenty-leven bobby pins on the counter and everytime I wash my hands I reach for the towel rack to find that some thoughtful soul tossed the dirty towel down the chute, but didn't put up a clean one.
See? I told you these things never happen in your house.
The Domestic Engineer is a good housekeeper and we try to help once in awhile. Mrs. D. C. Koch makes rag rugs and we use them. There's one by the kitchen door, one in front of the stove, by the front door and glass door and of course, the bathroom.
Oh, yes, the bathroom. We got sidetracked. That's where the other pair of tennies are. Don't ask me why anyone would leave his (oops, err her) tennies in the bathroom, but someone does every so often.
That's when I flip.
I can go along with no towel on the rack, someone forgetting to clean out the tub or using the last of the toilet paper, but not the tennies.
Do like me: make a big fuss about it. Kick them down the hall (be careful not to mark up the wall or you'll be repainting), remind everyone that clean habits don't include dirty tennies, and end up giving the order of the day, "put them in the washing machine."
We've followed the advice from all you fine people on what to do and how to go about getting a daughter married off. You're all really great.
Half of you want to break me and the other half wants me to play a harmonica, guitar and jig (which I do with expertise).
I have one ace m the hole: the kids are going to do what they want, no matter what the rest of us say.
Stolen.
The oldtimer had been sick in bed for weeks. The local doctors had been unable to help or even diagnose his ailment. He insisted he didn't need anyone's help, but despite his protests, specialists were called in.
When they left, his relatives asked the old gentleman what the specialists had said.
"I told you I'd be all right," he said. "Oh, they used a lot of big words and all, but they finally said there was no use worrying about what it was just now; the autopsy would tell them everything they wanted to know."