So, tonight I told Mom I was writing this stuff down in a blog and showed her how to look it up. And in the spirit of helpfulness, after reading it, she thought I ought to know how we came to have a hatchet.
Mom is a lawyer, mostly retired. It was a third career, after junior-high teacher and small business owner. She went to law school while her kids were in high school, which was an interesting process for everyone concerned.
As she tells me, one of her clients was an 85-year-old lady with a pig valve in her heart. This lady was so impressed with Mom's lawyering job, she not only paid her bill promptly but also presented Mom with a small well-worn antique carpenter's bench and a hatchet as a thank-you gift. The hatchet turns out to be a Marble Arms, made in Gladstone, Michigan, and happens to be (according to Mom anyway) very collectible.
Collectible hatchets...who knew?
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
The Botanical Enemy
Not only are we not fond of housework, we're also not much on landscaping. When I give somebody directions to the house, I describe it as "tan brick with an awful lot of overgrown shrubbery."
The crowning jewel of the back yard is an enormous locust tree. It does a lovely job of shading the house, no doubt lowering our air-conditioning costs. It also has a nasty habit of sending up new shoots from the surface roots three or four months a year, which would become new trees if we left them alone. The shoots are tough and sharp and a nuisance to remove - which led to the following conversation:
We are in the kitchen; I am pouring coffee and Mom is gazing out the back door.
Mom: "That damn tree is sending up shoots again."
Me (not really paying attention): "Okay. What's the best way to get rid of them?"
Mom: "You have to pull them up. If you just mow them, they get all sharp and splintery."
Me: "Yeah, but sometimes the leaves just strip off and you can't get hold of the stem. What do you do then? Cut them with the pruning snips?"
Mom: "Well, then you have to use the hatchet."
Me: "Okay. So, where's the hatchet?"
Mom: "In the bathroom."
Me (after a moment's pause): "You do realize, we're probably the only people on the block who keep a hatchet in the bathroom?"
And then we start laughing hysterically. It's our latest catch phrase: "Where's the hatchet?" Guaranteed laughs every time.
I've lived in this house since 1996 - how on earth did I miss noticing a hatchet in the bathroom??
To be fair, it actually lives in the half-bath off the kitchen (which is gray tile and fixtures, not pink), which we don't use as a bathroom because apparently the only way to keep the toilet from running all the time is to shut the water off altogether. When we called the plumbing company about it, they sent out a kid who looked to be about 24. He took the tank lid off, blinked at the interior a couple of times, and said, "I've read about these. Never actually seen one."
The crowning jewel of the back yard is an enormous locust tree. It does a lovely job of shading the house, no doubt lowering our air-conditioning costs. It also has a nasty habit of sending up new shoots from the surface roots three or four months a year, which would become new trees if we left them alone. The shoots are tough and sharp and a nuisance to remove - which led to the following conversation:
We are in the kitchen; I am pouring coffee and Mom is gazing out the back door.
Mom: "That damn tree is sending up shoots again."
Me (not really paying attention): "Okay. What's the best way to get rid of them?"
Mom: "You have to pull them up. If you just mow them, they get all sharp and splintery."
Me: "Yeah, but sometimes the leaves just strip off and you can't get hold of the stem. What do you do then? Cut them with the pruning snips?"
Mom: "Well, then you have to use the hatchet."
Me: "Okay. So, where's the hatchet?"
Mom: "In the bathroom."
Me (after a moment's pause): "You do realize, we're probably the only people on the block who keep a hatchet in the bathroom?"
And then we start laughing hysterically. It's our latest catch phrase: "Where's the hatchet?" Guaranteed laughs every time.
I've lived in this house since 1996 - how on earth did I miss noticing a hatchet in the bathroom??
To be fair, it actually lives in the half-bath off the kitchen (which is gray tile and fixtures, not pink), which we don't use as a bathroom because apparently the only way to keep the toilet from running all the time is to shut the water off altogether. When we called the plumbing company about it, they sent out a kid who looked to be about 24. He took the tank lid off, blinked at the interior a couple of times, and said, "I've read about these. Never actually seen one."
We put a baby gate across the doorway for dogproofing, and it's become an extremely convenient place to keep the kitchen wastebasket, the compost bucket, the gardening wellies, a bit of the recycling, etc. But still - it's a hatchet.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Introducing our house
My mother and I share a house, a stereotypical Midwestern 1950s brick ranch. It retains a number of original features, some charming (hardwood floors, sandstone fireplace, crown molding) some not-so-charming (the original kitchen cabinets, cooktop, and wall oven are still here), and some downright odd (the bathroom is pink. Very, very, tiled-four-feet-high-up-the-wall-plus-all-the-fixtures pink. Apparently it was all the rage when Mamie Eisenhower was in the White House.)
We are not going to our graves with "Wish I Had Done More Housework" on our tombstones.
I am standing in the kitchen, examining a long-lost soft binoculars case Mom has just fished out from under the couch. It sports some remarkable dust bunnies and triggers this conversation:
Me (after wiping it off on my old jeans leg): "You found it! Great! What do you think...should I vacuum it?"
Mom (not really paying attention): "Probably."
Me: "Where's the vacuum cleaner?"
Mom: "I dunno."
And then we start laughing hysterically. We, the dopes who can't remember where a basic household appliance might be found in a not-terribly-large house.
Brooms are just easier.
We are not going to our graves with "Wish I Had Done More Housework" on our tombstones.
I am standing in the kitchen, examining a long-lost soft binoculars case Mom has just fished out from under the couch. It sports some remarkable dust bunnies and triggers this conversation:
Me (after wiping it off on my old jeans leg): "You found it! Great! What do you think...should I vacuum it?"
Mom (not really paying attention): "Probably."
Me: "Where's the vacuum cleaner?"
Mom: "I dunno."
And then we start laughing hysterically. We, the dopes who can't remember where a basic household appliance might be found in a not-terribly-large house.
Brooms are just easier.
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