Tui xin một cái topic nhé....

FAMILY REUNIONS
by Mary Emma Allen
Summertime means family reunion time for many families, a tra***ion
going back for several generations.
The Allen Family congregates each summer, usually at a family member''s
home.
As everyone gathers to share potluck, exchange news, add to the family
history notes, provide pictures for the collection, and play games, we know
it''s a worthwhile undertaking that will keep the many branches of the
family together and create memories for future generations.
Family Reunions of Many Types
My mother''s family gathered each July 4 at a cousin''s home for a
gathering of her paternal relatives. On Memorial Day, the maternal
relatives got together at her family''s farm. As a child, I looked forward
to these gatherings and enjoyed visiting with relatives we might see only
once a year.
I look at pictures now of those days and reminisce about those people
who played a role in my childhood. These family gatherings weren''t large
by some reunion standards, with 25 people at the most attending. But to me
they were joyful occasions with each cook making her special foods.
Huge Family Gatherings
My mother-in-law comes from a background of large gatherings with more
than 100 family members attending. She has one photo of her Hayman family
around 1912, a large grouping of people of all ages.
It''s enjoyable to hear her tell the stories of those reunions when she
was a child and young girl. Sadly, those family lines lost touch with one
another and we only know the descendants of her sister. One of the
enjoyable aspects of genealogy is finding some of those distant "cousins"
as you trace your family tree.
The Allen Reunion
The Allen reunion was begun 19 years ago when my husband''s uncle
became involved in genealogy as a pastime, when his health caused him to
retire.
He traced the descendants of his great, great grandparents, found the
addresses of many of their descendants, and planned the first reunion.
More than 100 people attended. It was amazing to see the family
resemblances in adults and children who had never met before. Enjoyment
resulted in developing friendships with relatives we didn''t know existed.
Potluck Table
The Potluck Table, where each family contributes a favorite dish, has
evolved into food enough to feed everyone, even though each family brings
some more food for their own needs. We have even developed an Allen Family
Cookbook with recipes and food histories contributed by many members.
"Mary, you''re the food columnist. You can head this project," a
family member suggested. So from there the cookbook evolved with the help
of others. I often turn to this cookbook when I''m looking for ideas for
our meals and enjoy our family heritage of recipes along with memories of
our reunions... activities which bring families closer together.
-- Mary Emma Allen <me.allen @ juno.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

Thanks for the memory.
Of things I can''t forget, journeys on a jet
Our wond''rous week in Martinique and Vegas and roulette
How lucky I was.
And thanks for the memory.
Of summers by the sea, dawn in Waikiki
We had a pad in London but we didn''t stop for tea
How cozy it was.
Now since our breakup I wake up
Alone on a gray morning-after.
I long for the sound of your laughter
And then I see the laugh''s on me.
But, thanks for the memory.
Of every touch a thrill, I''ve been through the mill
I''ve lived a lot and learned a lot, you loved me not and still
I miss you so much.
Thanks for the memory.
Of how we used to jog even in a fog
That barbecue in Malibu, away from all the smog
How rainy it was.
Thanks for the memory.
Of letters I destroyed, books that we enjoyed
Tonight the way things look, I need a book by Sigmund Freud
How brainy he was.
Gone are those evenings on Broadway.
Together we''d go to a great show
But now I begin with the Late Show
And wish that you were watching, too.
I know it''s a fallacy.
That grown men never cry, baby, that''s a lie
We had our bed of roses, but forgot that roses die
And thank you so much.
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

The Tomato Days of Summer
By Sharon Traffanstedt
When I was in the third grade, my Mom and Stepdad moved us from the
bustling city of Portland, Oregon to a small farm just outside of Sweet
Home.
While it was only one acre, it seemed huge to me. It was a great
place to play and have adventures. We had a river that ran through the
backyard, empty fields on each side, and beautiful pine trees all around.
Just up stream, from our place, were rapids and every night I fell
asleep listening to the water rush over the rocks. It was truly a
beautiful place.
Both my parents had grown up on farms and were used to growing their
own food. We soon had chickens and goats and, of course, that spring they
put in a huge garden. They were quite industrious and planted nearly a
quarter of our property in every vegetable you can imagine -- zucchini,
corn, okra, cucumbers, peas, radishes, lettuce -- I can''t even remember
everything they planted. Our garden seemed to contain every vegetable
known to man.
For the most part, I wasn''t really impressed with the whole process,
until they got to what they called my part of the garden. There, in front
of the regular tomato row, was one special plant -- a cherry tomato vine
that was all mine.
My parents had purchased it just for me and I had their permission to
eat them whenever I wanted. That summer my cherry tomato plant grew to be
huge -- it towered over all the other vegetables and my head, and it was
soon covered in cherry tomatoes. My parents had to pick the tomatoes off
the top for me that I couldn''t reach.
Whenever I was outside that summer, I would take a few moments out of
my day and run barefoot to the garden to swipe a handful of cherry
tomatoes. I''d clean them off in the river or wipe them on my shirt and eat
them while they were still warm off the vine, and nothing was more fun than
squishing them through my teeth. They were sweet and warm and as good as
any fruit I''ve ever tasted.
Special friends were allowed to pick from my vine under my watchful
eye. Occasionally, a special meal would deserve to have a salad with my
tomatoes used in it, rather than the large ones because mine tasted better.
I knew that my tomato vine was the biggest and best in the world.
I can still close my eyes and remember the warm sun on my face, the
sound of the river flowing, the way the dirt felt under my feet and the
wonderful smell of those ripe cherry tomatoes on my vine.
It was a heavenly carefree time of my life that I will always treasure.
To this day, nothing says summer to me like the smell and taste of
warm ripe cherry tomatoes.
-- Sharon Traffanstedt <STraffanstedt @ CHW.edu>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

THE CAT WHO ROARED
By Ron Gold
The Astounding Vincent is my favorite uncle.
He has style, massive ego, flair and gall and is always outspoken -- a
W.C. Fields in a Clint Eastwood chassis and a very welcome dash of cinnamon
in an otherwise oatmeal family.
Uncle Vincent is from the old school of show-biz folk.
He dresses outrageously, speaks polysyllabically whenever possible,
underscoring his important phrases with grimaces and wide gestures. To
emphasize his points even further, he''d shake his head, showing off his
elegant milk white mane.
Maybe what I like best about the old curmudgeon is that we are the
only non-dog lovers in the family. Mom and her bachelor brothers and
spinster sisters kept so many dogs that neighbors called our home "the
Doghouse".
Last Wednesday was our family''s annual "Let''s Re-introduce Our Pets
Day" and Vincent and I returned to the Doghouse for family peace.
Family dogs jumped and barked when Uncle Vincent arrived in a hired
limousine with chauffeur. He was dressed in his customary stage attire --
a single breasted black silk tuxedo, a double-breasted vest, a fresh
carnation boutonniere, black patent leather shoes, a white starched
wing-collar on his studded ruffle shirt. Of course, he wore his signature
orange and white polka-dot bow tie. He wore a wide Rolex oyster shell
timepiece on his left wrist and a doubled-over flea and tick collar on his
right wrist.
And he carried a gold wire cage that held, of all things, a kitten,
spread-eagled on a crimson pillow.
If you like dogs, "pet re-introduction day" was a cute, charming and
challenging idea. And if you don''t like dogs, well, you just don''t like
dogs. And you normally wouldn''t go to the Doghouse for all the kibble in
Checkerboard Square.
So why don''t I like dogs?
Being the youngest boy in my generation, I had to play postman,
walking the dogs in rain, sleet and darkness. And I always carried large
plastic bags for follow-up tasks.
Uncle Vincent hated dogs because he could never escape them. The
Doghouse was always overpopulated with dogs, dog lovers, and dog
authorities (Uncle Victor wrote a newspaper column on dogs and advertised
his free dog telephone hotline.)
Vincent could not abide the dog dander that polluted his sinuses.
Then there was Goldie, Mrs. Clancy''s late ****er spaniel, who would
yap and bite young Vincent as he walked the shortcut through their property
each school day.
My mother, Vera, who loved her brother, felt he had an obligation to
learn to live with dogs. And after all, she said, all dogs have sweet
dispositions.
The ritual pet re-introduction day agenda was religiously followed.
Each pet owner re-introducing his pet to the family and their pets. (We
knew most pets for years.) The pet pecking order was based on size. From
Sister Suzie''s goldfish, "Whale", and Aunt Wilma''s Yorkshire Terrier,
Nigel, up through Uncle Malcolm''s Great Dane.
Uncle Vincent''s cat was number three in the pecking order.
Dogs barked as Vincent lifted his cat from its cage. The Astounding
Vincent began, "Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my extreme pleasure to
introduce you to Yorick."
He then drew the cat close to his vest.
"Yorick is a very splendorous feline, a royal red-orange mixed breed
with 24-karat gold eyes and a slightly pushed-in proboscis. Unfortunately,
the tabby has one minor psychological peccadillo -- he cannot, or will not,
escape his jungle genealogy. He longs to return to his cousins, the cats
of the Serengeti -- lion, tigers, leopards and their ilk -- all of whom
would inhale Yorick like a half-baked canape.
"Yet Yorick -- this quiet, sweet, trusted kitty -- resides in
perpetuity as our mascot at the Actor''s Home."
On cue, Yorick purred while the proud dog lovers and owners harrumphed
at the scrawny *****cat.
Uncle Vincent nonchalantly sipped his Tom Collins when his brother
Victor presented his West Highland White Terrier. Yorick exploded a
leopard-like growl, frightening all the dogs (and probably even Suzie''s
goldfish). The "Westie" bolted Victor''s table (knocking over the
breadbasket) and ran across the now flooded floor.
Aunt Wilma shrieked and ran out of the room, wrapping her Yorkie in
her wet apron.
Aunt Carol became so flustered she kissed and hugged her Airedale and
never introduced him.
Vincent nonchalantly puffed his Panatela cigar as Cousin Malcolm
introduced Melchior, his proud, elegant Great Dane. Yorick responded with
a high decibel lion growl that frightened the dog, who dropped his lunch,
knocked Malcolm down and bellowed at the ceiling. Malcolm got up off the
floor, stared daggers at Yorick, and began baby-talking his behemoth until
the animal regained its regal composure.
The dogs were then released to the back yard, "Whale" and his bowl
went back *****zie''s room, and Uncle Vincent held Yorick tightly,
protecting the cat from the irate dog lovers.
"How''s business?" Victor asked his brother.
"Less than satisfactory. As you know, I''ve retired to the Actor''s
Home. We stage a few modest shows each year and I still perform at a
convention or two, plus three trade shows each year. But it''s not like the
halcyon days of yore when we had the Ed Sullivan, Merv Griffin, Mike
Douglas and Steve Allen TV shows."
"I imagine it''s hard to find a lot of work for a ventriloquist these
days," Malcolm sympathized.
"You can say that again," the cat said.
-- Ron Gold <Outthinkresumes @ aol.com>



Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

ELSIE''S MIRACLE
by Rebekah Klinect
Elsie Jones grew up in the church.
Her father and mother had always been involved, serving others.
Elsie''s father would often come to dinner late because he would go and help
Mr. Wickmoore fix the roof of his house, or change the oil in old Mrs.
Greenly''s Ford car. Her mother would bake an extra loaf of bread to give
away to any that had need of it, or would go over to the Merchin''s house to
help with their seven children.
Elsie had always seen how the members of her church would come
together and serve one another, and her heart constantly filled with joy
every time she found a chance to serve someone like her parents did.
But as Elsie grew in years, her bones grew weak and her hearing poor.
The church was not as she had known it to be. The people now serving and
teaching were that of the "next generation," because the people of her
generation were either too old and tired to come to church or they had
passed on to a better life.
In the beauty of her eighties, Elsie had almost completely lost her
hearing.
As she sat at home one day, she wondered if she even fit in the church
body anymore. She was now old and slow and could not hear anything anyone
said unless they yelled and so few would come and talk with her.
Elsie sat on her wooden swing on the porch, watching birds fly by, as
the wind rustled through the trees. The children rode by on bikes and
their smiling faces revealed the laughter Elsie could no longer hear.
"God, where is my place in Your church?" Elsie prayed. "I used to
know, but now I am old, and wonder why I should even go to church anymore.
I cannot serve, Lord. I have such trouble hearing Your people. How can I
grow from hearing Your Word if I cannot hear, God?
"Please Father, show me my place," Elsie sighed.
Just then, Elsie was filled with the joy and excitement of going to
church that she once felt as a child. Elsie set in her mind that it didn''t
matter if she had trouble hearing, or if she couldn''t serve in the way she
used to, she would still go to church and worship with all her soul.
That Sunday, as Elsie sat in the front pew, she was amazed that she
could hear the choir singing, and when the pastor stood to preach, she
heard every word he said! Elsie sat in her seat praising God, for he had
truly blessed her with a gift.
Though Elsie continued the last two years of her life hard-of-hearing,
she was amazed that every Sunday when she went to church, she could hear
the praises lifting from the choir and the preaching that came from the
pastor and yet still had a deaf ear to everything else.
Elsie had no idea her miracle was because of the invention and use of
the microphone.
-- Rebekah Klinect <li1yflower @ juno.com>



Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

FUNNY THINGS KIDS SAY
Here are some more "Little Angel Lexicon (LAL)" definitions from Jeff
Kaiser of rural Albion, Indiana. They are from his son, Will: "peskito" for
mosquito (how appropriate!); "dullbozer" for bulldozer and "pupcakes" for
cupcakes!
Last fall Will was learning the books of the New Testament. He had
them all pretty well, but when he sang the New Testament song he belted
out: "Matthew, Mark and Whoopee John..."
Neal was an avid fisherman at the age of 7, when his sister Sara was
born. He was a great help with her as she grew. However, one day he came
running to his mother to say, "Sara''s biting on her nibble!" He meant she
was biting on the nipple of her bottle! -- Renny Hartje (mother of Neal,
Xavier and Sara) of Wisconsin Rapids, Wisconsin.
When Sara was a little older and able to sit in a high chair, Neal
watched her eating spaghetti. Sara was making a huge mess. Neal looked at
his mother and said, "I''m sure glad I never had to learn to feed myself!"
Xavier was just a year old and learning what opposites were. One dark
night, as his mom carried him to the house from a garage on the back of the
property, he kept saying, "Off, on, off, on." She then realized he was
watching the moon through the trees and he thought the moon was going off
and on.
Olivia, 3, was watching her mother Wendy dress. "Mama, why doesn''t
little people have big breasts?" Olivia asked. Wendy answered, "Because
only big people have them." Olivia thought about that, then lowering her
voice she said, "Don''t tell Daddy. He will be so disappointed!" -- Lottie
Wray (great-grandmother of Olivia) of Wray, Georgia



Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

BUTTERFLY DUST
by James "PoppyK" Kisner
Remembering when I was young so many years ago,
About the things that kids will try because they want to know.
Someone had told me way back then of something I should try,
Then I could flap my arms and fly just like a butterfly.
I didn''t know if it was true or if he fibbed to me,
But I had to try because of curiosity.
He told me if you caught a dozen butterflies or so,
And gently rubbed them on your arms and legs and let them go.
The dust that was upon their wings would start to make you light,
And if you caught enough of them the dust would give you flight.
So all day long out in a field I did what I was told,
And thought of being Peter Pan when I was 5 years old.
I caught the little butterflies and rubbed them on my skin,
My arms and legs and everywhere, I even rubbed my chin.
He had said a dozen but I strived for even more,
I wanted more than I would need so I could really soar.
Late that afternoon I felt that it was time to try,
I now had all the powder of a giant butterfly.
Excitement overwhelmed me as I climbed upon a fence,
In my mind it had to work, it had made so much sense.
So standing on the fence post with my arms outstretched and tight,
Planning all my destinations on my maiden flight.
Should I go see Mikey and land in his yard some place?
Or should I just fly by my mom so I can watch her face?
Maybe I should just take off and plan it in the air,
Once I get the hang of it, I can go anywhere.
Now the moment has arrived; I leap and look around,
But suddenly I find myself just sitting on the ground.
I must have done it wrong, I should have flapped my arms I know,
Even butterflies must flap their wings to make them go.
So on the fence post I would go and find the secret power,
Trying everything I knew which took almost an hour.
Finally sitting on the ground after my last try,
I faced the grim reality that it was just a lie.
Dusting myself off and sadly going on my way,
I realized at that young age to watch what people say.
Thinking back over the years the lessons I have learned,
Thinking of that first time when my trusting heart was spurned.
Realizing now as then some people can be cruel,
Getting much enjoyment out of making you the fool.
But such is life and as we age we learn from our mistakes,
Sometimes trusting brings you joy but other times heartaches.
But trust we do and trust we must to live in harmony,
Realizing in this life that what will be will be.
Life is never what we want or goes how we have planned,
Sometimes life will throw you curves that we don''t understand.
Sometimes in our happiness our life comes crashing down,
And in our pain we feel as if we''re sprawled upon the ground
One day we feel as if we soar like eagles in their flight,
When everything that life can bring seems beautiful and right.
But in a moment life can change; the pendulum will swing,
And painful heartache mixed with tears is what the day will bring.
As life goes on you realize that everyday is new,
And what you thought was in the future now comes into view.
Life has a way of fleeing by before our very eyes,
And suddenly we realize it caught us by surprise.
So as you plan the future and whatever comes your way,
Don''t forget to take the time to just enjoy today.
Tomorrow is not promised it is just a future plan,
Today the sun is shining so enjoy it while you can.
Then as you do remember life will sometimes bring you pain,
But always brings experience and wisdom we can gain.
So as we travel through this life we live and love and trust,
And smile and know that sometimes life can be like butterfly dust.
-- James "PoppyK" Kisner <PoppyK1 @ aol.com>
​

Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

GRAM TO THE RESCUE
by Ruth Harding
Andy is my grandson.
When he was about 8 or 9 he had this pretty orange kitten named Sunkist.
One day, he and his kitty were out playing in the yard when Sunkist,
frightened by a dog, went flying across the yard and straight up the trunk
of a very tall tree. When he got as high as his momentum would take him,
he came to his senses.
There he was -- way, way up in a tree and suddenly too frightened to
come down.
Everyone said that eventually he would climb down on his own, but
three days later Sunkist was still high in the tree emitting a constant
piteous meow.
Andy was beside himself and spent nearly every waking moment beneath
the tree looking up and calling to poor Sunkist.
On that third day, Andy called the police and fire departments but
they told him they no longer rescued cats. One person callously told him
the cat would come down because nobody had yet found cat bones in a tree.
So what did Andy do next? He called me, Gram, of course.
In his eyes I was Gram -- Doer of the Impossible, Accomplisher of the
Miraculous.
I drove over to his house and as soon as I got there, he looked up at
me with big sad eyes and said ever so trustingly, "Gram, you have to DO
something." So I went off to scope out the situation and sure enough, way,
way high in the tree sat Sunkist meowing weakly from his tall prison.
I went into the house and wondered who I could find that could get his
beloved kitty down. Finally, I asked myself the right question, "Who
climbs trees?" Well, tree surgeons, of course!
I opened the phone book and turned to Tree Surgeons in the Yellow
Pages and started calling down the list. I wasn''t too successful at first.
Nobody was interested in rescuing a cat in a tree, but finally I reached a
sympathetic lady.
With worried Andy next to me, I filled her in on our situation. I
told her in great detail about my very sad grandson who had been sitting
vigil under the tree for three days now, and his tiny scared kitten trapped
at the top of the tree. I said I couldn''t bear to hear Sunkist''s pitiful
little mews and that my grandson was depending on me to reunite him with
his kitten. I told her I''d gladly pay for someone to rescue this kitty.
She agreed to check with the men when they came back to the office and
said she''d call me if one of them would do it.
A little while later she called back with the news that a rescuer was
on his way! Back to the tree went Andy, me and a whole tribe of
neighborhood kids.
The tree climber pulled up to the house, but he didn''t come alone --
he brought his wife and children so they could watch Daddy rescue the cat.
In front of the awed neighborhood kids and the tree climber''s family, the
brave man clipped big tree climbing spikes to his boots, clumped over to
the tree, studied it for a moment and then up, up, up he went. A few
minutes later down he came with a scared little Sunkist clinging to him.
When he reached the bottom, he handed Sunkist to a very relieved Andy.
Andy rewarded the tree climbing hero with a huge smile and everyone
cheered. I took out my wallet and paid the tree climber $35 without a
second''s hesitation.
The look of gratitude and love Andy gave me was worth every penny!
-- Ruth Harding <grambo@iopener.net>



Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

THE TIME LADY
by Diane Dean White
Three of us became friends in fourth grade and have continued our
friendship to the present.
Back then, so much was changing in the world and in our personal lives
as well. We were too young to date so we always did plenty of talking
about when we would finally arrive at that special and romantic time.
The telephone lines were bustling after homework was done. We didn''t
have three way calling, but we had our own conference line all figured out.
At 8pm sharp we each called the "Time Lady." Now she wasn''t real. It was
just a recording which said, "At the tone the time will be..."
We had our conference line talking over the Time Lady and if anyone
else came on the line when we were talking, they never said anything. Or
maybe they just listened in, thinking our conversation was more
interesting!
We discussed our classes and what we would be wearing the next day,
and anything else that we felt needed discussing before first hour when
we''d meet at our lockers. The Time Lady was easy to talk over and we
continued with this neat idea until, one day, the operator called my
mother. I was no longer able to make conference calls with my friends, and
when I did call for the time, I discovered the lady had been turned up!
Saturdays were ours to enjoy. After my room was cleaned, I joined my
friends and we made tracks to the local drug store. Now this may seem
boring in comparison to the malls of today, but this store had the greatest
selection of Hollywood movie magazines imaginable. We wanted to keep up
with our teen idols and what they were wearing and any new movies they were
in.
We had been with Sandra Dee since "Gidget" days, and felt we were
right there on the beach with her and Moondoggie, surfing the waves with
the whole gang. Never mind that we lived in Michigan, surrounded by the
Great Lakes, with no ocean in sight. We were official members of the
"Gidget", thus, Sandra Dee fan club.
We oohed and awed at Sandra''s tiny waist and beautiful blond hair
(straight out of a bottle to be sure)! Naturally, we were all hurt to the
core when she eloped with that Bobby Darrin -- so much older and there
would be no wedding pictures in the teen movie magazines!
After that we changed gears. Annette was a former mouseketeer and
started making beach party movies. She had her own T-Bird and perfume
collection to boot. Yes, Annette was a striking dark haired beauty, she
would go far. We joined her fan club.
The old Kresge store was our next stop. It always contained abundant
supplies of the latest in new perfumes and make-up. "Evening in Paris" was
all the rage, in a tiny little cobalt blue bottle. It was what every movie
star wore. We''d dab a bit on our wrists and wave it through the air to
catch the breath-taking fragrance. "Tangerine" was the most beautiful
shade of lipstick. We each bought a tube, vowing to keep it in our lockers
at school, just in case we needed to freshen up our "natural" look during
the day.
Depending on hair styles, there were rollers for each size, and if
they didn''t work, empty soup or orange juice cans with both ends out worked
great! Just stick a clip in to hold it until it dried, and pray nobody saw
you!
We looked through fashion magazines and decided we loved the angora
sweaters in the peach color. And wouldn''t it be cool if you were "going
steady" to wear the matching color yarn around his high school ring?
We''d all screech and the laughter could go on for hours.
Little did we know that those years, and the days ahead, would be some
of the happiest times of our teen years.
After all, how much trouble can you get into with perfume, Tangerine
lipstick and Sandra Dee or Annette?
But just don''t try talking over the Time Lady, or you might find out
what real trouble is!
-- Diane Dean White <Thelamb212 @ aol.com>



Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

CRICKETS IN SUMMER
by Vicki Arcado
Nothing says summer to me like the sound of crickets outside my
window, when I lay down in my bed at night.
What a wonderful lullaby to drift off to sleep. For years, listening
to the crickets on summer evenings has been one of my favorite pastimes.
One year we went to visit some relatives out in the country and, to my
amazement, when we went to bed and opened the window, it was totally
silent. Where were the crickets? How was I supposed to go to sleep?
Am I a traitor to want crickets in a state that is infamous for its
crickets?
When the pioneers came into the valley, there was a huge swarm of
crickets that devastated everything. After much prayer on the part of the
pioneers, the seagulls from the Great Salt Lake came and ate all of the
crickets, saved the crops and thus became the state bird. In the last two
years crickets have again become a real problem in certain parts of the
state, but not in my back yard.
This year, I worried that when we put a weed and feed on the lawn that
it might kill the crickets. I was sure this was what happened because, up
until two weeks ago, the night was so silent.
Then it happened. The night was alive with the wonderful chirping of
crickets.
When I went to bed, I reveled in the lovely night air blowing through
my window and blissfully listened to the night song of the crickets. I
contentedly drifted off to sleep.
Surely, this must be a little touch of heaven on earth.
-- Vicki Arcado <Vicki.Arcado@ihc.com>



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