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by Dick Emmons
What is it the statesmen the world
over are always talking about?
"Peace with honor" ?
Well, we could use a little of that
around the Emmons' hacienda. In fact,
I am willing to forego the honor and
settle for peace.
What with a wife, three active chil
dren, and a hyperthyroid dog milling
about, our house resembles Grand
Central Station. And for reasons un
known to me, I am the information desk.
Take last Saturday afternoon as a con
fusing example. I was sitting there trying
to figure out why I had been slicing
lately when Ann, our nine-year-old,
burst in the front door and my wife
Helen, who is somewhat older, swept
in from the kitchen.
"Did Sally call me?" Ann demanded.
"Where are the twins?" my wife asked.
I looked up dazedly.
"When she calls, tell her I'm at Julie's
practicing the loops. You won't forget,
will you, Dad?"
"Have you seen the laundry truck in
the neighborhood?"
"Yes, I don't know, no, and not re
cently," I answered, "in that order."
Ann left on the fly, and one of the
twins Davie, I think entered.
"Where's my kite?" he asked.
"Where's your brother Dickie?" I
countered cleverly.
"Isn't he in the basement? Where's my
kite? Have you seen it?"
"What time does the corner barbershop
close, dear?" my wife wanted to know.
"The twins ought to have a haircut if
they're going to be in the kindergarten
play on Monday. By the way, does that
old alarm clock work?"
I took a deep breath. "I haven't the
foggiest idea, but given the time and
opportunity I'll find it in the attic and
see if it does."
"In the attic?"
"You know, up there." I pointed up
ward toward the roof.
"Where's my kite?" Davie howled.
"I know where the attic is, but didn't
we put it in the hall closet when we "
The telephone rang. I snatched it off
the cradle.
"Ann's at Julie's doing the loops," I
barked into the mouthpiece. "Oh, excuse
me. Um ah 1066? Yes, thank you,
good-by."
"Who was that?" my wife asked.
"Some quiz show. They wanted me to
tell them when the War of 1812 was
fought. They're sending us a dollar for
answering the telephone."
"When the laundryman arrives, tell
him the shirts are on the back porch,
okay? Thanks!"
"What are the shirts doing on the "
I started, but she had vanished to the
rear of the house. The doorbell chimed.
"You Mr. Emmons?" a deliveryman
wanted to know.
. "I think so," I muttered.
"Sign here. Okay, boys, bring 'em in."
"Where's my kite?" Davie yelled.
The boys brought in two large pieces
of furniture. "Where do they go?"
"Who's there, dear?" my wife called.
"Furniture men," I faltered.
"It's the sectional davenport I or
dered!" she trilled. "Just on approval, of
course."
"Are the payments sectional, too?" I
croaked.
"Can I have an apple?" Ann shouted,
racing in the back door and bolting for
the kitchen.
"How do you like it?" Helen smiled.
"Oh, there's Martha! Martha come on in
and see the sectional we're trying!"
"Has Sally called yet?" Ann asked,
around an apple.
"Dear, why don't you take the boys for
a haircut while Martha and I have a cup
of coffee?"
"Where's my kite?" Davie screamed.
"Where's Dickie?" I mumbled.
"Why not look in the basement?"
He was there all right. Smart kid.
That's where I'll be Saturday after
noons from now on.
22
Family Weekly, January 25, 1959