BUNNY BUNNY!
(A hare early!)
Get it? Two Volkswagen Rabbits!
(For the complete gist of this first of this month, happy, little,
hopeful exclamation, see the sidebarred “My Religion” –>)
WAIT! There’s more. To start with,
THREE WORDS:
The Lemon Pledge
(It's NOT just for polishing furniture anymore.)
ON MY HONOR, I promise to deliver.
Another installment of
, that is!
REMEMBER THAT ONE afternoon of
the day of Christmas in Dylan Thomas’
Illustrator: Trina Schart Hyman
A Child’s Christmas In Wales,
when he and a friend are in the yard waiting for cats to throw snowballs at and the neighbor lady, Mrs. Prothero, beats the dinner gong, NOT for the eats, but because smoke is indeed pouring out of the dining room? “Call for the fire brigade,” she cries. Along comes my favorite part of this nostalgic lookback at a most beloved yule:
“THERE WAS NO fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his slipper as though he were conducting.
‘Do something,’ he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke --I think we missed Mr. Prothero-- and ran out of the house to the telephone box.
‘Let's call the police as well,’ Jim said. ‘And the ambulance.’ ‘And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires.’
BUT WE ONLY CALLED the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt, Miss Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, ‘Would you like anything to read?’”
GROWING UP, my sister and I were lucky enough to have our own "Mrs. Prothero". Whenever straits became dire, or pandemonium came knocking at our door, in the midst of any such chaos, my Aunt Myrtle could invariably be counted on to snatch up her purse and start rummaging or rifle through the kitchen junk drawer and bed night stand or root through every pocket on her being OR scavenge the creases of the glove box for what we thought would be the answer to that particular ensuing dilemma, only to have her produce a yellow offering instead.
“Would anyone like a lemon drop?”she’d say.
YEP, MERT melted troubles like they were these.
Uh-huh, She was always
looking out for us (sometimes, in ways that were more “special” than others), AND I’m pretty sure she still is: I’m never without a small batch of lemon drops tucked wherever, for whenever they are moment’s noticey-necessary.
Shine on!
SparkleFarkle~~~~~*
Sweet Dreams, Aunt Myrtle, my Mollo, and ZuZu.
