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About Medford mail tribune. (Medford, Or.) 1909-1989 | View Entire Issue (May 11, 1958)
Built to Last . . . Enjoy Economy with Sunbeam Quality Its That Day Again! MV DOWJ sTHUMBTIP Controlled . : 7 it I 0 Thumb-Tip Hoot and Staam Controls Switch from Staam to Dry instantly Hot in 30 seconds Steam in 2 minutas Woighs only 3 lbs. not Right or loft hand modols colon II fffL. 1 1 ii i Only $17.95 Suggested retail price AvalaMain veuow TURQUOISE PINK CHROME WHITE MDXfwiaSVER HAND MIXBR IT'S MADE BETTER TO MIX BETTER Larger. Full-Mix Beaters e Six Mix Settings e Thumb-Tip speed control e Automatic Beater Ejector e Wide Base Heel Rest e Stores on Wall From $21.00 Suggnted retail price see your noegm dealer Sunbeam Corporation, Dept. 259, Chicago 50, Illinois mm mm (am 79 New Convenience! One-hand action, no fumbling. Giant capacity saves money. New Flowing Texture ! Not watery, not thick. Flows evenly on brush no spurting. New Tangy Taste! Exciting flavor-essence tells something good is going on. New Fast Action ! Works instantly to reach tooth crevices . . . clean and polish. Special Introductory Price At advanced as Dr. West's famous "Germ-Fighter" Toothbrush by Dick Emmons I t's my guess that, at this very mo ment, most of the mothers in the nation are propped up in bed waiting smugly for their husbands to bring them breakfast. For this is Mother's Day the one day in the year when virtually millions of men who can't tell the difference between bacon drippings and floor wax feel constrained to serve the day's first meal to the mothers of their children. Mother's Day is always on a Sunday so no male can escape the assignment. The fact that the three-minute eggs are cooked for eight minutes, that the bacon shows great bulges of uncooked . fat, and that the cold toast is incapable of melting its icebergs of butter appar ently makes no difference. The tribute, however indigestible, has been paid If the husband-father-cook is a new one and, filled with zeal, brings in the tray while singing "Happy Mother's Day to You," so much the better. That's the way it used to be around our house. Perhaps because my sing ing and cooking are equally poor, my wife suggested just before Mother's Day last year that we dispense with the breakfast-in-bed routine and at tempt some other form of honor. "Like uh what?" I asked warily. "Like me sleeping until noon," she purred. "All I ask is that you keep the children quiet and ward off all inter ruptions until that time. If you succeed, I will return the compliment on Fa ther's Day." I gleefully agreed. Mother's Day, 1957, seemed to me to begin earlier than ordinary days. It was 6 a.m. by my luminous dial when disorder broke loose in the room occu pied by our 5-year-old twin boys. Remembering my promise and the subsequent reward, I eased out of bed and slipped like a shadow into the boys' room to put down the insurrection. At 6 a.m. my" vision is not quite 20-20 (it is more like 0-0) , and my first offi cial act on entering the twins' room was to sprawl over their electric train. "Oh, boy!" Dickie squealed, noting that I was down on my hands and knees, "Daddy wants to give us a horseback ride!" Before I could whin ny, my back was filled with small horsemen and, in exchange for their promise to be quiet, I agreed to trot them out to the kitchen. "Listen, men," I whispered conspira torially when my front hooves told me we had reached the cold asphalt-tile of the kitchen, "this is Mommy's Day and we're going to let her sleep while we get our own breakfast. Okay?" "Can I make the toast, Daddy?" Davie cried. "I wanna shake the orange juice!" Dickie insisted. I beamed. This wasn't going to be so hard after all. "Right," I said, "every man take a job, and then we'll all sit down and eat." My memory of the next few minutes is like that of a man watching a loco motive bearing down upon him, with his foot caught in the tracks. Davie, pulling the automatic toaster closer to the edge of the counter so he could perform his chore, jerked the thing too far and it crashed to the floor, I made a leap to catch the toaster with one hand while juggling four eggs in the other. I lost both battles. Dickie, perched on a nearby counter, shook the orange juice vigorously without remembering to put the plas tic top on the shaker. My daughter Ann appeared at that moment, and the swinging kitchen door caught my heel and sent me sprawling into the goo. At the next swing of the door, my wife entered. "Something new, eh? Getting breakfast on the floor?" I'll say this for her, though: she cleaned up the mess and didn't men tion the incident again. That is, not until 6:30 a.m. on Father's Day. Family Weekly, May II, 1955
