Fleas that neither bite nor jump—but are apt to take over your house

While sisters take a boat ride, a storm forms

           Think of “On Top of Old Smoky” and sing along: “There’s fleas in my cupboard/ and fleas in the drawer. / There’s fleas in the bathroom/ a dozen or more.”

            I could go on and on about all the places in this house where wonderful bargains rest; bargains from various flea markets, antique stores, second-hand and consignment shops. Oh, and thrift stores.

            One year, my sisters and I spent a week headquartered in Horseshoe Bend, and those of us who were not flea marketers became so. Ash Flat, Highland, Hardy, Salem, Mountain Home, Viola, Gepp (pronounced Jeep)—no place that even looked like a resale business escaped our perusal.

            We four eventually honed in on each other’s search/ missions: Bev looked for large art deco vases for silk flower arrangements and hammered-aluminum pieces for her elder daughter who lived out of state. Carolyn searched for Fostoria crystal—American pattern—especially the lid to a mustard jar. She also kept her eyes peeled for bunko gifts.

I looked for frosted glass and Avon Cape Cod pieces to add to my collection. Barb wanted Tom and Jerry sports-motif glasses for her son and cream pitchers for herself. Not just any cream pitchers, mind you, but thick ironstone ones shaped like the one our mother had for as long as we could remember, but which she had already given to her youngest son. (Sons should inherit things, too, even while parents live.)

Each sister also developed a certain style of shopping. Bev walked ahead, eagle-eyeing right and left; Carolyn and Barb took a little more time, and I lagged behind, looking carefully at each object, especially books. It got to be a joke. At one large house crammed with everything a dozen neighbors could have emptied there, the other girls wouldn’t let me go upstairs. “You don’t even want to see it!” they said, guiding me to the register. I held a dirty Hires Root Beer bottle and a frosted glass candlestick.

Another year during a stay in Hot Springs, we began our flea search at Central City and ended up at the Hot Springs Flea Market, where three trips were still not enough to see everything.

So, what fleas are in my cupboard? Two stained-glass-motif drinking glasses, two faceted, frosted-glass mugs, a crystal fruit dish with berry-shaped feet, a Fostoria footed glass—larger than a juice but smaller than a tea; and a frosted-glass candy dish.

Fleas in the drawer include a sterling silver child’s spoon and a William Rogers butter knife and sugar shell.

In the bathroom are pink vases, candleholders, soaps and an old, ivory plate with pink roses.

No, the fleas in my house do not bite or jump. But the items not only bring me pleasure—both for their beauty and for the bargains they represent—but also evoke (elicit) memories of childhood when we girls played “playhouse” for hours with broken, castoff pieces from Grandma’s kitchen and attic.

 And today, alas, it seems time to begin thinning out all those fleas while I can. Or else, when the time comes, my children will have to do it.

Barb and the boat driver taking us to shore quickly 

Elephants, fleas and good memories (with emphasis on the final syllable

Barb, Carolyn, Bev, Pat on one of our annual sisters' trips

               You remember “Golden Girls,” right? And how Sophia often said, “Picture it: Sicily, 1925.” Well, one year--two-ought-ought-three, to be exact—we four Couch sisters, two of whom were 50-something and two who were in our 60s, settled into a time-share condo shared by the out-of-state sister.

                No husbands, brothers, children or grandchildren allowed. Or parents. One husband always got knots in his knickers every year when this trip was planned. “It’s just not right for you to go off without me,” he whined to his wife, but she pulled her five-foot-five frame up to his chin, locked her wide eyes onto his and said, “I’m going!” Sixty-somethings with strong sisterly ties can do this.

                Before the trip, the host sis had sent the rest of us an email: “Let’s do a white elephant exchange. Bring the grossest, most ridiculous, silliest thing you can find. Wrap it in brown paper.”

                When we were ready to exchange, the brown blobs were arranged on the coffee table. The eldest got to go first. That was moi. I selected what turned out to be a nine-inch tall, cone-shaped candle of the art deco style (I suppose), where various brown shades of wax were mixed together, shaped, then while still warm, sliced downward all around the candle. Like fondue pots, this candle had enjoyed limited popularity. Barb said she’d hidden it in the cupboard over her fridge for many years, just waiting for the perfect . . . uh, event.

                Next to draw was the youngest sis, wife of the Pulaski County judge (at that time). She chose my elephant—heavy and round. (Aren’t elephants always heavy and round?) Like a child, I could hardly contain my glee. Her new hobby was flower arranging, and when she peeled the paper back, she found a brown glazed clay pot with an unfinished neck, strings of unglazed clay fired onto the bottom, willy- nilly. I would imagine that art student got an F for his work.

                Let me digress to tell why I had the ugly, deformed piece. While living in Arkadelphia, I tried to walk Feaster Trail daily after taking Billy to school. One spring when the wildflowers were in bloom, I was drawn to the Mill Creek bank on the southwestern edge of Henderson State University’s campus. I noticed what appeared to be an art studio dump—pieces begun but broken, perhaps abandoned after grades were posted. I picked out several things to decorate my own flower garden. They didn’t have to be whole, just interesting. At home, I laid the round pot on its side so it couldn’t catch and hold water. It was truly the grossest elephant I had. We shall see what Sis does with it.

                Barb unwrapped a low-slung rabbit with grapes on its head and ears like Dumbo’s. “A bunko prize,” Teacher-sis explained. It elicited much amusement. Then she had to take the final elephant. From a lunch bag, she drew out a small, pink, unopened square package and held it out for all to see. Such raucous, tears-inducing laughter you’ve never heard from four women who were thankful they’d out-grown the need for that “gross, ridiculous, silly” feminine hygiene product.

                Next time: fleas.

Happy Birthday to my firstborn, plus a vacation wrap-up

Gordon and his niece Lainee at an Arkansas Razorback football game in 2011

by Pat Laster

          Fifty-one years ago today, Gordon Allen was born, and from the first instant I laid eyes on the tiny blond, I knew he was a keeper. He, his wife Karen and their daughter Breezy live in Pensacola area. Happy birthday, son.
            Poet John Berryman’s “Dream Song 104” begins, “Welcome, grinned Henry, welcome fifty-one.” I hope that’s your attitude, too, Gordon.
           Speaking of birthdays, I observed my seventy-sixth on the ninth of July, but the sisters gifted me early with a gorgeous long, ruffled scarf and multi-beaded bracelet to match the army-green tunic I’d bought in Lebanon on the way to the rendezvous. My song for the year is “Seventy-six trombones.”

Now to the unfinished sisters’ vacation report. Thursday morning, while others were at various activities, I sat out on the deck and journaled. Several black wasps circled. I reached up and flailed the air to dissuade them, and one attached itself to my left thumb long enough to sting.

           I knew to go straight for the ice and the sting abated, but I kept watch on the digit. First, the lower thumb swelled, then the poison spread from there to the back of my hand all the way across. I’ve been stung before and am not allergic, but it was the end of the day before the swelling disappeared.
           Later that morning, we piled in (literally--with three in the back seat) Barb’s Honda hybrid sedan, and began our daily foray for fleas and ‘tiques. And lunch at a tearoom we’d discovered two days earlier.
            We had a reservation for a 5:00 pontoon boat tour of Lake Dartmoor, so—without going “home,” we drove (quite a ways) to the marina. Clouds had moved in during the afternoon like they often do in the summer. We hoped it would cool the air through one of the half-covered pontoon boats that we’d heard were piloted by “comical old geezers.”
           We paid our $8 fares and soon an “old geezer” called for “the Stefan party” to board. The fine-looking older man saw us safely in and, being first, we headed for the back seats. Three retired couples joined the tour. We putt-putted out of the slip even as the clouds darkened.
            Lake Dartmoor, the largest of seven lakes in Fairfield Glade, lapped up against huge houses with terrific lawns. Mr. Guide pointed out one house belonging to a retired Fed-Ex executive who retired at fifty. Other owners were similarly well off.
           The wind began after we’d passed the first golf course. Many tiny white caps dotted the water. Mr. Guide looked worried. He asked his passengers what to do? One of the Stefan party (not me) said, “Turn around!” He seemed glad to oblige; we started back to the marina.
           In the meantime, a blast of water hit one of the women, soaking her shirt. She quickly took cover with us who’d scooted closer together to make room. Another woman came back, too, and their mates stood up on either side of center. The other couple stoically stayed put.
             The second pilot was waiting for us and helped to get us moored. The wind whipped and whirled. We held on to each other walking down the pier and to the safety of the inside. “Don’t go for your cars, yet,” one of the men said. “The wind’s too strong; a limb might break off.” We obeyed. One sister took all five rain checks against the possibility that she and Husband might stay at this resort later.
          The next day, we packed—not a short-term task—and a little after 1 p.m., all three cars pulled out—two headed for Virginia and us homing toward Arkansas—and many good memories went with each person in each car.
         By the way, Tennessee is 440 miles long, but only the 36^th largest state in square miles. Arkansas is 29^th! I guess it only seemed like a long way. I still like the idea of hover cars or monorails.
           And I think I’ll watch “The Music Man” tonight. (“Seventy-six trombones…”)

Also hot in Fairfield Glade, Tennessee

by Pat Laster

          Hello and cool breezes to you who have to work outside in the stifling heat. Sitting in the cool of a condo situated in a resort town beyond Nashville but before Knoxville, I finish typing this during our annual sisters’ week.
          It is Sunday afternoon, July 1. We four have been out today since mid-morning, and it is now 4:30. All antique stores, flea markets and thrift stores were closed until noon.  We drove to Crossville and ate a Shoney’s breakfast buffet, which we all remembered with fondness until the chain closed all its stores in central Arkansas
         The Couch sisters, from youngest to oldest, are Beverly, Barbara, Carolyn and me. Fifteen years separate us. I remember, because when I was 15 and typically teenager-ish, I was embarrassed that Mom was . . . was.  . . expecting (ahem) again. Beverly lives in Little Rock and has worked at Blue Cross Blue Shield since she graduated from Hendrix College (the fifth Couch child to do so). She is still gaga over her one-and-a-half-year-old granddaughter, Hazel Rose, who, with her mother, was visiting even as she left.
           Barbara, still a church musician, has both a new home in Herndon Virginia, and a new job at a nearby Presbyterian church. She loves both. And as usual, the church loves her.
         Carolyn is a retired teacher, a volunteer, church choir alto, wife, mother of two grown sons, and “Gram” to Marlee. In late October, Carolyn will –for the second time— walk down a church aisle as the mother of the groom. Her younger son is marrying in Fayetteville.
            And you know about me.
           We three Arkansans loaded a Honda Civic with clothes, food, coolers, purses and laptops. We pulled away from Couchwood at 2:30 p.m. and headed east.
              Driving I-40 toward Memphis was a pain with all the road work, so we cut down to Highway 70, as did many others, mostly truckers. By the time it took to actually get to 70, and then drive to Biscoe, we might just as well have stayed on the freeway.
              We were at Dickson, Tennessee by 10 o’clock. We stopped for the night, and then drove on Saturday morning. During that leg of the trip, our Virginia sister called. Her Honda hybrid had developed brake trouble.  What did we ever do without cell phones?
            Bev had an iPhone, so she pulled into a church parking lot in the shade, Googled brake repair businesses in the area. She found, and then called a Hondo dealership in Knoxville. Barb followed her directions, got new brake pads and both vehicles eventually met at the condo, phones still up to the two sisters’ ears.
          Again, I ask, how did we ever get to our destinations without the technology to guide us to the exact addresses?
         Tired after two days of driving, the Hoochie Mamas were finally together again!

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press