My mother-in-law Pat Hendrickson lived in Meeker for about a year before passing at the age of 94. She didn’t get to meet most of you, so I would like to share some of her humor with you now. Her Christmas letters from Bartlett, Kansas were hilarious stories of life on the farm. You will need a little background for her letter to make sense. Ernie was her husband and an all-around great father-in-law. The name of their farm was Bitter Creek.
Greetings from Bitter Creek,
Didn’t we do this a couple of months ago? Where has the time gone? I can’t recall being immobilized by a blinding white light while driving the pickup on a deserted back road, but I’ll bet anything I am the victim of time bandits from another planet. Ern pooh-poohs this theory, saying I have never been all there. Well, big news flash! Our Christmas tree is occupying the same deficient time zone. Each year sometime after New Year’s, but before Valentine’s Day, we toss the hypo-allergenic plastic pine in a bedroom closet where it sinks slowly out of sight in my humongous stash of cardboard boxes. Now come the spooky part—this year the tree did not sink. Not enough time, you see. Ern, by the way, has a theory (he’s full of them) about women and cardboard. He claims our penchant for the stuff causes unsightly clothes build-up on chairs and dressers and annoys the heck out of men. So be it.
Our words to live by this Christmas are: Veni, Vidi, Visa. (We came, we saw, we went shopping). Doing our bit for the old economy you know. We were so eager to show Mr. Bush how real people shopped at the mall that our credit cards almost melted in our hot little hands. Then we priced batteries and decided we couldn’t afford the toys. We really hope our three super grandkids enjoy their new underwear and are old enough to know it is the thought that counts. And that we aren’t getting senile.
Last summer we had a terrible drought. Ern’s crops didn’t die but they didn’t grow much. I had a lovely rock garden but all my rocks died. We kept the tomatoes going and they produced all fall. We have a few we are eating fresh now. We have a new (to us) dog. She loves to ride in the truck with Ern and sits so close to him he has decided to teach her to drive. The cats have at last stopped going around all fluffed up and hissing from the tops of trees at Freckles.
Last week our town of Bartlett (Pop. 100 people, 200 dogs) had its first-ever Christmas parade. After two weeks of solid clouds, it was a sunny 75-degree day. Sunburned noses bloomed like roses along the two block parade route. The fire truck with volunteer firemen, trying to look nonchalant and noble at the same time, led off the parade. The truck was followed by the Grand Marshal on his riding lawn mower — the only vehicle he is allowed since his stroke. Next came the grade school marching band playing a variety of Christmas songs, unfortunately, all at the same time. Little kids rode decorated bicycles as the town dog pack yapped and nipped at their heels and the unraveling crepe paper. Five-year-old curses and whines almost drowned out the saxophone that was playing “O, Holy Night” as everyone else played “Have a Jolly Holly Christmas.”
I’m telling you it was better than Macy’s and the Rose Parade all jammed together. We hope you have as much fun over the holidays as we had at the parade. Tip! Xmas cookies (leftover) make great mouse-hole covers. At least no mouse has ever chewed through any of mine.
By ED PECK
