Award-Winning Book Is an Adventure for Readers
“Who is your favorite author?” and “What is your favorite book?”
Ordinarily, I answer that I have several favorites, but I especially like reading Willa Cather’s books, particularly the ones about Nebraska.
But on this day, I told the students at my book-publishing presentation that at our house we had just finished reading “Shiloh,” by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor.
All the children perked up. Their teacher was reading the same book to them. “How does it turn out?” someone asked.
“Shiloh” is the recipient of the John Newberry Medal, which according to the shiny gold seal affixed to the book, is awarded “for the Most Distinguished Contribution to American Literature for Children.”
We try to read a couple chapters from a novel aloud to our four youngest children each night. Our reading time comes after the homework is completed, the book bags are organized for school, and the children are ready for bed.
Some nights the reading time gets pushed later and later because the guys are acting up. On these nights I threaten not to read because it is getting too late, but I always give in and read a least a few minutes. Mostly because I want to see what happens next in the story.
Especially in “Shiloh.” None of us wanted to put the book down. One evening I was tempted to read on silently after the boys had gone to bed.
“Shiloh” is a story about a boy and a dog, not his dog but the dog he wishes was his. It is also about doing the right thing, human nature, courage and telling the truth.
But mostly it’s about an 11-year old boy, Marty Preston, and Shiloh, the mistreated beagle. It is a love story. My boys would laugh if they heard me say that because they think of love stories as having lots of kissing.
Marty came from a very loving family, which made it natural for him to love Shiloh. Judd Travers, the mean owner of Shiloh, remembers his youth as a time of violence and abuse. He didn’t know how to love and be kind.
We all started loving Shiloh too. One of my favorite parts was when Marty tells about bringing Shiloh into the house for the first time:
“Bring him down the hill to the house, feed him the heels off of a loaf of new bread, all the leftover sausage from breakfast, and a bowl of milk. Then let him lick the oatmeal pan.
“Show him every one of our four rooms, hold him in my lap on the porch swing, and laugh when he tries to stand up on the seat himself while the swing’s moving. I let him smell the couch where I sleep and crawl under the front steps to sniff out the mole who lives under there, follow him all over creation when he takes out after a rabbit.”
Each time we’d read, the boys would make sure our dog, Maggie would come in and listen too. They would have Maggie climb up on the bed with us and pet her the whole time we were reading. It was like they were thinking if they were gentle with Maggie, it would make Judd Travers be nice to Shiloh in the book.
I was able to interview the author, Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, by telephone. I told her how much my family had enjoyed reading “Shiloh.” She sounded as kind and gentle as I expected her to be.
Mrs. Naylor said she has written more than 70 books and numerous children’s chapter books such as “Shiloh.”
In reply to my question as to how she started writing books, she said, “My parents read to me as a child all the time. I always have loved books.”
I don’t know whether any of my children will be writing award-winning books as a result of their parents reading to them, but I know after reading “Shiloh” that they can have many wonderful adventures in reading books.
April 7, 1992
Long and Short of It: Census Takes a Little Time
That was the longest 43 minutes I have ever spent. If I had the Census Bureau’s ability to stretch time, I would have a lucrative income to report on line 32-A.
Can you tell I have just filled out my census form?
The Census Bureau estimates that for the average household, this form (appropriately called the long form) should take 43 minutes to complete.
Our household is not average-sized. Even if the time allotment were doubled, I wouldn’t have had enough time to complete the form.
I bet I spent 86 minutes on Question 29-B, trying to figure out my most important duties.
If you haven’t seen the long-form holder lately it is not surprising. I’m sure he is busy calculating how long it took him to get to work last week and deciding if swearing in French qualifies as speaking a second language in the home. (I suppose the answer to that depends on how much swearing you do).
Even the short form is long. My neighbor though she had the long form because she had to count the number of rooms in her house and estimate her house’s resale value.
Apparently, the Census Bureau doesn’t care if my neighborhood has a stove and a flush toilet. The Bureau wants to know that stuff about my household, plus a lot of other things I would rather not think about.
I started the project with a positive attitude. The day I received the form, I decided I would complete it right away. I sat down at the table and scanned the form. I had heard on the news that one out of six households would receive a long form. I wasn’t surprised when I realized we were among the lucky ones.
I asked myself: “What happens to you if you toss this out or bury it in a heap of papers on the kitchen counter?”
I found my answer in the instruction booklet: A census-taker will be sent to collect the information.
I didn’t want that to happen, so I began filling out the form.
Question 1-A asked for the names of the people in our household – all 10 of us. I begin writing. I turned the page and discovered that there was space for only seven individuals. I didn’t know what to do about persons Nos. 8, 9 and 10. I forged ahead successfully until I got to the questions about yearly expenses for electricity, gas, water, oil, wood, and kerosene.
I skipped those questions because they required some research.
The next segment concerned real estate taxes and homeowner’s insurance. I don’t like to think about these expenses when I pay them. Looking them up would certainly be no fun either.
I was about to give up the census for the evening when Patrick came around and asked: “What are you doing?”
When I explained the census, my son asked to look at the form.
“There’s a whole section for you to fill out,” I told him. Anyone born before April 1, 1975, has to answer the same questions as adults.
Patrick thought filling out the form would be more fun than doing his homework so he did his part.
The next day, I persuaded Colleen to complete her section. Then I suggested that she enter the information for the rest of the family.
She refused. “They’re your kids. It’s about time you counted then.”
I didn’t finish the form by April 1. I didn’t finish adding my electricity bills until April 6.
It didn’t seem like we were given much time to complete the form. The Census Bureau probably figured some folks would get the form in on time no matter what and others would get the form in late no matter what.
My philosophy: It’s better late than never. I’m still doing my patriotic duty.
I thought I was keeping a census-taker away from my doorstep, but I was wrong.
I completed the final question, closed the booklet and, before I could sigh in relief, noticed a footnote.
A census-taker apparently will call me to get the information about the individuals on lines 8, 9 and 10 in Question 1-A.
Some people have all the luck.
April 10, 1990
Actions, Not Intentions, Finally get Tax Forms Done
This year was going to be different. I wasn’t going to be overwhelmed searching for receipts, 1099s and bank statements, all things essential to fill out the 1040A and 1040 tax forms.
This year I was going to be organized. I wasn’t going to let the first two weeks of April rush past me faster than you can say “Schedule 1” as I played the beat-the-clock with Wednesday’s deadline for my income tax filing.
But my good intentions didn’t organize my charitable contributions; they didn’t wade through my receipts searching for my car tax statements; and as well-intended as they might have been, these good intentions didn’t add up my medical bills and subtract the insurance payments.
As is their custom, good intentions don’t amount to a deduction on any line between 6a through 24c. Actions usually garner a better return just like 401k. So I took action.
After the beginning of 1992 I began collection all the mail which indicated it had something to do with the Internal Revenue Service.
I used a box that was left over from transporting my groceries from a warehouse store to house the mail stamped “important – save for income taxes.”
The box was wide and long and I could easily fling into it all the W-2s, 1099s and deductible interest statements our family racked up in 1991. I sat on the floor of my office accumulating papers.
Every time I sat down to do some work I felt a kinship to the princess who had the problem sleeping on the pea. The job of reconciling last year’s spending hung undone in the air surrounding me, and I couldn’t relax. Although, I wonder if the source of her anxiety was not the pea but that she was anxious to marry the prince because most royalty doesn’t have to file tax returns.
Finally, it was time to face the music – although I’m not sure what melody the IRS plays. I imagine a dirge would be appropriate. I went through all the checks we wrote in 1991. I put them in a pile. Then I decided to be fancy and I entered into the computer each check according to category, payee and amount. It seemed an efficient system, but it was taking too long.
I eliminated all the car repair bills when my accountant told me they weren’t deductible. I argued that they should be especially when the most expensive damage occurred while I was driving to do volunteer work. I didn’t want to be late so I ignored telltale warning lights, which I now know indicate imminent catastrophe. Apparently, stupidity isn’t deductible either. Too bad.
How about expenses incurred while undergoing temporary insanity? I had a lot of those. For example, what about the night we made two orders of takeout Chinese food. Shouldn’t one of these dinners for 10 be deducible? I think we were working on the 1990’s taxes that night and not intellectually engaged.
What about the disastrous clothing purchases? Shouldn’t the outfit I bought for my girls for Christmas that were worn just long enough to make me happy and worn too long to be returned be deductible?
OK how about a deduction for the new clothes I bought for myself? A girl’s got to have something nice to wear in case she’s called in for an audit. Right?
April 14, 1992
Mice in the House Are Driving Mistress Batty
If you have a squeamish stomach it might be good to stop reading right now. If I didn’t need to go through a catharsis by talking about it, I wouldn’t.
We have caught 16 mice. Cinderella’s only friends were mice and in children’s stories, mice often are the heroes. I like those books, but I am terrified of mice in my house.
This house de-mousing has been going on for more than two weeks. They hang out in the drawer beneath my cook top.
We realized we had mice when our cat’s natural instinct prevailed and he presented us with the evidence. I thought. “Good, the cat got the mouse.”
The next day my heartbeat escalated when I was emptying the dishwasher and discovered a mouse that had not survived the pot-and-pan cycle. I almost didn’t survive that incident; I mistook the mouse’s well washed insides for mashed bananas and cleaned them out with my fingers.
Colleen bought traps, but I was afraid I’d snap my fingers off while I was spreading on the peanut butter. Colleen’s friend, Sara, offered to set them for me.
I went to bed that night believing I lived in a mouseless house or that the mouse was houseless. It was a short-lived feeling. In the morning, the trap we had set was empty. It had no mouse and no bait.
I can’t empty or dispose of the traps once they’ve done their jobs. I can’t even check the drawer to see if the traps have worked. The job has been delegated to anyone I can persuade to do it.
Ten-year-old John is the designated de-mouser. After a few days of this icky job, he said he is not sure he wants to be “the man of the house.” Maureen’s friend, Bridget, who helped baby sit one night, has emptied a trap.
Amy, my college-aged helper, came in one morning, looked in the drawer and confirmed the mouse’s presence. But she said unloading traps wasn’t in her job description.
The plumber did and rest the trap for another catch.
When Machaela and I were returning from an errand Amy yelled from my bedroom window “Kate, watch out,. The cat is chasing a mouse around the family room.”
I hurried in with the idea of dodging the cat-and-mouse game and running right upstairs. En route I had to confront the two of them as the mouse scampered into the dining room, where I was planning to entertain that evening.
Our weekend house guest, Bill, got involved. He set the traps to catch three mice in the two days he was here. Our count was up to eight. I was convinced that had to be the last of them.
My life has been consumed with these mice. A paper fluttered off the counter onto the floor and I flinched because I thought it was a mouse passing by. I got the dictionary to look up a word and opened the book to “capybara,” a 4-foot-long rodent. There even was a picture of it. It looked like a huge mouse.
I couldn’t sleep without dreaming of a mouse invasion or, worse yet, a capybara invasion.
Finally, I thought I had been liberated of them. But once again my celebration ended as quickly as a good mousetrap springs into action.
We couldn’t catch anything in the traps. I summoned all my courage and cleverness to bait the traps. I put the peanut butter on heavily, on lightly, only on the top of the trigger and then only on the bottom.
I called an exterminator. He suggested wadding up a cotton ball with peanut butter on it. I did and it hooked it onto the trap so securely I thought the mouse would never get it off, bit it did every time.
The exterminator also suggested a different brand of trap. I bought five. They worked. I bought eight more the next morning.
I have six left. There are two set in the drawer and four in a bag on the counter. If we use all of these traps I’ll surrender and consider taking mice, mouse traps and peanut butter as income tax deductions next year.
April 16, 1991
Sweat Pants, T-Shirts Beat PJ’s Any Day
Mike was getting ready for a slumber party. He was excited because he had never stayed overnight at a friend’s house before. I was helping him pack his gear.
“Why don’t you take these Chinese pajamas”? I asked, holding up the freshly laundered and folded pair.
“No I don’t want to.”
“How about the dinosaur ones? They should still fit,” I said digging in the drawer.
“Mom, Do you know where those cut-off sweat pants and my Turtle T-shirt are? I’ll take them to sleep in,” my son responded.
“Don’t you think you should take pajamas?” I asked
“Why?”
Why, indeed, I said to myself. He never wears pajamas at home; neither do his brothers. They sleep in T-shirts and shorts in warm weather and sweat suits in the winter.
If most households are like ours, and I imagine a lot of them are, the pj industry for the size 6 and above set must be in a recession. But again, maybe it’s not. There are still mothers like me who keep tradition and buy pj’s even though they are never or seldom worn.
Sometimes, my guys will put on their pajamas after their evening showers. The boys look so nice and fresh and neat. But most of the time, they scrounge around looking for something well-worn and comfortable to sleep in.
I guess this is OK as long as they don’t reach for the dirty clothes they just took off.
I read a parenting article in which an expert on children suggested that parents let children wear the same knit clothing to school as they wore to bed the night before.
If we did that, we would have to find something else to argue about in the morning.
My guys can’t understand why I won’t let them wear the clothes they’ve worn continuously since school let out on Friday to church on Sunday. They also don’t understand why they have to take showers when they just took them three days earlier.
I usually win this argument when I point out that the tomato sauce stains on their shirts Sunday morning came from the pizza we had Friday night.
My guys like to stay up until they drop or I start having a fit because they are still awake (which ever happens first). They fop into bed after performing minimalistic hygiene rituals in the bathroom.
Their sense of style does save money, since I never feel tempted to purchase a cute ensemble displayed in a store window.
Mike and John’s favorite tops for playing and sleeping are the sweat shirts I bought for them last fall from a vendor a the loading dock of the ferry for the Statue of Liberty in New York City. It was the end of the day, and he was slashing prices.
Pete alternates wearing his two elves sweat shirts, which were made to promote my book, “I Can’t Sleep With Those Elves Watching Me.”
Matt likes his purple or black sweat shirt.
They all wear sweat pants with holes in the knees. I’ve been gradually cutting off the sweat pants to make shorts, but not without protest. They argue that if I cut off too many sweat pants, they won’t have anything to wear after school on cool days.
I guess the boys like to keep their ankles warm, even if their knees can feel the evening breezes.
When my older kids were little, I was embarrassed if they were seen dressed like that. My standards have lowered – dramatically. Now, it doesn’t really matter what they wear when they’re asleep or awake I always tell them, “You are cute and that’s what is important.”
April 23, 1991
Safety Nut’ Sounds Smoke-Detector Warning
It was Good Friday, late in the evening. I was sitting in the family room of my childhood home, talking wity my sister, Sheila.
She was trying to coax her little one, Ned, into bed but he wasn’t interested. He had more important business: ripping, tossing, and stuffing newspapers which had been piled on the coffee table.
Just when we thought we were the only ones awake, we were startled by a loud, wailing noise.
“Isn’t that the smoke alarm?” I asked Sheila.
“It sounds like it,” she answered.
The alarm stopped as abruptly as it started. I decided to pinpoint the reason. Just then, my Dad walked into the room. He was wearing his pajamas and carrying a pole.
“Did I scare you?” he asked, smiling sheepishly.
“Was that the smoke detector?” I asked.
“Yes, I was testing it to make sure the batteries were good.” (That was the purpose of the pole. He used it to reach the testing button.)
He had intended to test the alarms before his family had arrived for the Easter weekend.
I was just about to go to bed when I remembered and decided I had better do it now. Otherwise, I’d wake up at 2 a.m. and wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep until I tested the batteries.
My father and I think alike. Last summer, before my husband and I took our older kids to Europe, I tested the smoke alarms at our house.
We installed new batteries and tested each smoke detector to make sure the batteries weren’t duds.
Two detectors lack testing buttons, so we had to improvise by lighting a candle and blowing it out so that the smoke would waft toward the sensor.
When the alarm sounded, I hastily fanned the smoke with a folded newspaper.
We took these steps because I didn’t want to become panicked on our trip if it occurred to me that more than half of my children were thousands of miles away, asleep in a house equipped with non-functional smoke detectors.
My main floor detector used to go off every time I used the broiler. Each time, I considered it a good signal for me to blow off steam.
I recently retested all the smoke detectors in our home, with Maureen’s help. She thought it was fun. I thought it was noisy.
When I was young – before smoke detectors were invented – my dad conducted fire drills. My older sister and I were supposed to get the littler girls and climb out a window onto the porch roof.
Smoke detectors are my thing. A while ago, Grandma Cavanaugh invited the grandchildren to her house for a slumber party. (Grandma loves to entertain the kids by making leprechauns dance on the walls and cooking pancakes.)
As I drove the children to Grandma’s house, I thought, “This is quite a crowd for Grandma but they should get along fine if everyone is in good spirits and the big kids help with the little kids.”
I decided to stop en route and buy a new battery and tested the alarm with a lighted candle.
My mother-in-law thanked me. The kids called me a “safety nut.”
The next day, I read a heartbreaking newspaper story about a fire which could have been avoided if the house had had a smoke detector in working order.
Ordinarily, I don’t use this space as a soap box. But smoke detectors save lives. I think every residence – including college dorm rooms and apartments – should be equipped with working smoke detectors.
If you have a smoke detector, test the battery. If the battery is dead, replace it immediately.
If you don’t have a smoke detector, buy one. They are inexpensive. I’ll sleep a lot better if I know you are safe.
Baby’s Birth Adds to Count of Blessings
When the telephone rang, I was arranging flowers, my mother was wrapping silverware and my dad was marinating the meat for the evening’s festivities.
I left what I was doing and went to pick up the receiver. At first I didn’t recognize the voice, but when I did, I was excited.
“Did you have the baby?” I hurriedly asked my sister, Sheila. When she answered that she did, I screeched and my mother came running and Dad stopped what he was doing at the stove.
“Sheila had the baby,” I told my parents.
“Boy or girl? And when?” I asked.
“A boy born about an hour ago?” I repeated into the phone.
“How is he? How are you? How’s Ken (my sister’s husband)?”
“Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful,” my sister answered to all three questions. “We are calling him William Ned.”
It was time to rejoice – as it always was when a new and healthy life makes its debut into our world. But our family had even more reason to be excited, pleased and thankful with the new son, grandson, nephew and cousin.
Sheila and Ken lost a baby 14 months ago. The baby was an almost full-term stillborn girl. We were heartbroken when it happened. They named her Sheila Maureen.
My family is used to good things happening; so when the baby died it seemed lik one of our expected blessings was denied.
It wasn’t supposed to be like that. It was sand and hard to accept. But life continues and so did Sheila, Ken and Max, their 2-year-old son.
At the summer get-together at the lake, Ken won the Bert Johnson Invitational, the family’s 8-mile run to Lake Geneva City. And at a talent show organized by the children, Sheila, Ken and Max performed in a goofy skit as the king, queen and price of Hungie Bungie.
Then the good news came. A new baby was expected in early April.
The happy anticipation began and continued as Sheila’s due date approached and passed.
Also on the agenda was the celebration party from my book , to which I had invited my parents. Sheila and my parents live in the Chicago area. Mom and Dad wanted to come but also wanted to be on hand to help with Max in case Sheila gave birth.
Another sister, Bonnie, interceded and went to stay with my sister and Ken. I had my party, Sheila had the baby the same day, and the happiness filled the air.
That is the way life is supposed to be.
The joy little William Ned’s birth has given our family would be no less if we had not lost his sister last year. But because we did , our joy is so much more abundant.
Both occasions have reminded us of the fragility of the gifts we continually receive. Life, love, family and friendship are the treasures of the world.
We never will forget Sheila Maureen and the missed opportunity to know her. Her memory has blessed all the Barretts with renewed joy and faith as we welcome her brother.
And on the Cavanaugh side of the family, the blessing are overflowing. We celebrated the November 5 birth of Claire Irene Boyer, the March 30 birth of Bertilla Bernadette Cavanaugh and await the impending June birth of Baby Amdor.
The flowers of spring are blooming; and the garden is beautiful.
April 24, 1989
Loads of Luck In Washer Flood
Let me set the scene – it’s one of the calm before the storm – meaning the downpour in my entry hall. I was upstairs getting my little guys ready for bed. I said I would read to them, but first I wanted to put the school uniforms in the washer, which is upstairs near the bedrooms. I started the machine and then went to Pete and Matt’s room to read.
Then the phone rang. I went downstairs to the kitchen phone because the caller was giving me information I needed to write on the calendar. While I was talking I heard the rushing sound of water. I peered into the entry hall and saw water pouring out of the ceiling light fixture.
I ended my call and ran upstairs to the laundry room, where the water already was an inch deep and rising fast.
I quickly turned off the machine thinking that would stop the flow. It didn’t. Instead, it continued to squirt out wildly from the washer hose. The water was very hot, and the laundry area was like a steam room at an athletic club.
I knew I had to get behind the dryer to shut off the faucets. First, I thought, I should unplug the dryer, but I didn’t want to be electrocuted. I climbed atop the washer to pull out the dryer’s cord from the outlet.
By this time, the kids had arrived on the scene to see what was going on. I was trying to shut off the water at the faucet, but the hot water was making the faucet too hot to handle. I had Maureen hold a towel on the leaking hose so I could do it, but even that didn’t help. The water kept shooting out around the towel and through it.
Meanwhile, as Maureen and I were getting our clothes soaked and our hair curled from the steam bath, Machaela, Mike and Johnny were putting pans and towers on the entry hall floor.
I decided I would have to turn off the water for the house. One time, my dad showed me where the shut off faucets were should something like this happen. Now I couldn’t remember if the shutoffs were behind the furnace, under the sink or by the water meter. All I knew is that they were in the basement.
I ran from faucet to faucet trying to figure it out. Every time I tried one I yelled to Pete, who was waiting at the top of the basement stairs so he could yell to Maureen who was still holding the towel to see if I found the right one. Finally, she said the water was subsiding. I ran back upstairs and was able to get the other faucets turned off.
What a mess! Every towel, plus the load of clean laundry I had set on the floor with the intention of folding right after I read to the boys, as soaked. The school uniforms were sitting in the filled washing machine tub. After I turned the water back on I had to rinse them in the bath tub, wring them out and hang them to dry because they needed to be worn to school the next morning.
After everything calmed down again Mike said, “that was fun.”
The next day when the plumber came to fix the damaged hose, he told us how lucky we were.
“It could have been a lot worse. If you weren’t home to get the water turned off you would really have had a disaster,” he said.
As I looked at the water-soaked and stained entry hall-ceiling, the shorted-out light fixture and piles of soaked laundry, I thought, “Boy, I guess I’m just one of those people with all the luck.”
April 27, 1993
Trash Bag Must Suffice as Easter-Trip Luggage
Pete arranged his clothes on his bed as we prepared for our Easter trip to Illinois to see Grandpa and Grandma. He was bring several pairs of sweat pants, some with holes in the knees, and his good pair to wear if he went somewhere.
He packed short-sleeved shirts and not any “sleeved” shirts, which is what he calls long-sleeved shirts and that he won’t wear because he doesn’t like his arms to be confined. He told me I was in charge of packing his Easter clothes and he wondered whether he would be able to change right after church.
When Pete, who is 7, asked for a suitcase for his clothes, I told him to get a trash bag and we would pack his and Matt’s clothes in it. That idea didn’t go over with him.
“How come I always have to use a trash bag for my stuff?” he asked.
“You do?” I asked.
“When we went to Grand Island to see the Sandhill Cranes, I did,” he told me.
His older brothers, John and Mike, found an Army duffel bag for their clothes, and Pete wanted to use something similar. I began searching around for some other kind of bag for Pete. But we seem to be in a suitcase downturn. The girls had already laid claims on what was available that didn’t have broken zippers or latches.
Pete said it is embarrassing to bring his clothes in a trash bag. Colleen tried to influence otherwise.
“No one will even see it,” she told him. “When we arrive it will be dark. I’ll carry it in for you, and besides, a trash-bag suitcase takes up less space in the car because it is soft and fits in smaller spaces.”
I resorted to bribery.
“If you use the trash bag this time, I’ll get you a suitcase of your own to use for your next trip.”
I’m not sure whether he believed me, but the weekend passed with no more discussion about his travel bags.
Pete didn’t need to wear his “sweat pants for going places.” Most of our Chicago sightseeing trips were canceled because of what they were referring to in Chicago as “da flood” caused by “da hole.”
In case you missed it, before Easter weekend the basements of Chicago’s Loop were flooded by Chicago river water gushing into a series of tunnels under the downtown area. Electricity and water were also turned off.
Matt had hoped to make his first trip to the top of the Sears Tower. For my guys, everything in life is compared to the Sears Tower, a tall person, a Lego block construction, or an airplane flying overhead they wonder hot it compare in height to the Sears Tower. Making that long elevator ride to the top of the Sears Tower is the Mount Everest climbing challenge of Matt’s 5-year-old life, but he had to put it off until his next visit.
When it was time to pack up to drive home to Omaha, I wondered why we brought so much stuff we didn’t need or use. I think we could have easily put everything our whole family needed into one trash bag – but it’s a good thing we didn’t because I left Pete’s traveling trash bag behind.
As convenient as it is to use a trash bag as a suitcase, there is one drawback. It can easily be thought to contain what it was intended to contain: trash.
As we packed up, I had the kids set our stuff by the back door of my parents’ home. Pete’s trash bag was put on top of the recycling basket by the back door. I thought it was filled with empty pop cans, so we left it there, but I thought wrong. I should have recognized it not as a trash bag at all but one piece from the matched set of luggage stored in the cardboard box under my kitchen sink.
Grandpa discovered our oversight after we departed. Now I’m wondering how a trash-bag suitcase will travel by mail.
April 28, 1992
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