Everthing from ice to terrorism

On Wednesday of this week, 80 years ago, I'm sure this was what happened: Up before daylight, with all farm chores done, Dad, Lou and I climbed into our Ford touring car with a brass radiator and made our jerky way over the river and through the rocky hills to Elvins, Mo., about 10 miles away as the crow flies. Nothing was ever as close as the crow flew.

At Wallingford's Mercantile store we bought a 100 pound block of ice, wrapped in tow sacking. This ice was strapped to the rear bumper and left a dripping trail all the way home. In one spot there was quite a little puddle where we had to stop and mend an inner tube which had gone flat.

Back home, Mama had all the ingredients ready for the ice cream mixture. The ice was beaten with a sledge hammer or any other shattering device until it was a mound of chips. With the wooden-staved ice cream maker at hand, the liquid mixture was poured into a heavy metal container and placed into the wooden-staved "barrel" where there was enough room to pour in the ice chips and coarse salt around it ... This is getting far too technical. Let us skip to the good part -- the eating of the finished product -- ice cream.

Grandma's best rose-sprigged china dessert dishes were filled with ice cream and we all sat around the kitchen table for a day-early Fourth of July celebration in a most satisfactory manner. Why a day early? On the first try we never have gotten home with enough ice.

Two bunnies, six squirrels, a big bumblebee, about nine species of birds and three stray cats could be seen at one time one day last week. And there were honeybees and gnats upon which I couldn't get a clear focus. I'm not lonely.

A lot has been said and written about the huge cost of medicines. Very little has been done. I'm thinking about getting a real sharp, thin needle and stringing one each of all my little pills and capsules together, making a necklace.

I'd wear it in protest as one wears all the ribbons to make a statement. I'd attach a little sign to each pill, to identify it and state the price. It would make a good conversation piece. People would love to stop and compare what they are paying for the same product and give the pharmaceutical companies a good healthy tongue lashing.

When I learn that Missouri now has an official animal, the horse, I said aloud to the walls, "What happened to our long-eared mule?" Reading further, I learned that the mule is still an official animal. What gives?

Speaking of mules, do you know how many we now have in Missouri? Consult the Internet.

Old Stripe's progeny have been around recently, one scaring the wits out of Mary, the other just going along with its slithering business.

The brown thrasher and tohee have been absent from my yard for five years. Today the thrasher is back! Tomorrow, the tohee?

For me, baseball is like a little room detached from my other living and moving-around quarters. I can go there, leaving all the baggage of living or mere existing outside and watch a game, especially a Cardinal game. When it is over I feel as if I've been on a mini-vacation.

Some such vacations are not so heady or re-invigorating, such as the memorial for Jack Buck and, a few days later, the stunning death of Kile, the Cardinal's ace pitcher.

But I will not abandon this special room. In fact, I am mentally placing an embroidered picture on a wall that says, "Take me out to the ball game." Buck and Kile would like it that way.

Osama, Omar and Saddam have given us enough trouble, now the sharks are after us. What next? Keep an eye out for this, that and the other, including the sunrise that promises a new day. Seize it!

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.