As Lambs to His Fold
Page 8
CHAPTER SEVEN
Come, Ye Children Of The Lord....
Every Thursday after school, Leatrice and I went over to the tabernacle for Primary. We were Bluebirds; next year we would be Larks; and the year after that, Sea Gulls. Then we would graduate into M.I.A. and become Beehive girls.
We had been told that M.I.A. stood for “Mutual Improvement Association.” Our sisters had been going to M.I.A. for several years, without any improvement that we could see. It seemed to us that the only reason they went to M.I.A. was to flirt with boys. Leatrice and I would never, ever flirt with boys.
We had received lessons in Church History all winter. Now that it was summer, we went once a week to the home of our Primary teacher, Sister Ratliff, for instruction in homemaking skills. Sister Ratliff had said that if we would bring some yarn and a crochet hook from home, she would teach us how to crochet. I think the idea was for us to make potholders for our mothers for Christmas.
We sat out on Sister Ratliff’s lawn and made loops as she instructed. Then, she showed us how to pick up the loop and go back across. Doris Schimph, Elaine Parkinson, Candy Lillyfield, Meeow-Meeow Harris, and I sat carefully and laboriously picking up loops as we slowly made our way back across. But Leatrice would have none of it. She refused to make anything but loops. She sat up in Sister Ratliff’s pear tree chaining like lightning, the loops getting larger and larger until they resembled real chain links. Sister Ratliff, her little pug-dog face looking earnest and worried, tried to appeal to her. It was no use. Leatrice had found her calling, and it was making loops.
She said her aim was to make her chain touch the ground. But when that goal was reached and her handiwork began to coil at the foot of the tree like a snake, I said to her, “Lee’triss, what are you gonna do with it?”
“I’m gonna make a rug for Aunt Francie.”
I wished I’d thought of that. It looked like lots more fun than making potholders.
I never did finish my potholder. Mamma had plenty of them, anyway. For Christmas I gave her a picture I’d made with colored pieces of macaroni glued to construction paper. She said it was very nice.
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We had finished the rug to give to Aunt Francie. I say “We” because I helped Leatrice sew it together. We were surprised at how small it was, considering all the loops Leatrice had made. It was every color of the rainbow. Leatrice had scrounged every bit of yarn she could from Aunt Mabel’s, Mamma’s, and Grandma’s sewing baskets.
Our sisters said, “Ugh,” when they saw it. But we didn’t care. To us, it was a marvelous work and a wonder. It seemed right that we should give Aunt Francie and Roger a belated wedding gift. We took turns carrying the rug down to Aunt Francie’s place. Our lovely aunt looked startled when she saw the rug; and then she told the biggest whopper of her life. “It’s beautiful! I’ll put it right here in the front hall!”
We thought it looked great lying there. Our sisters hadn’t given Aunt Francie anything.
Then, “I have something to show you”, said Aunt Francie as she led us upstairs. In the spare bedroom that we had thought would be kept exclusively for our use — if ever we were asked to stay overnight — the walls had been papered in nursery scenes. And there stood the cradle that had been used by every baby from our mothers on down to Leatrice and me. A real heirloom. Grandpa had made the cradle out of pine wood. It was beautifully carved, and it rocked on a stand.
Leatrice was two months older than I. Although she got to use the cradle before I did, she had graduated into a crib by the time I made my appearance.
“I’m going to have a baby,” Aunt Francie told us.
Our parents, sensing our woeful ignorance on the subject, had explained to us where babies really came from — within the limits of what they felt we needed to know.
“When?” we asked.
“Sometime in November, we think.”
“What’s it gonna be?”
“We won’t know until it gets here. But, if it’s a girl, we’ve decided to name her Emily Clare.”
“But, there’s already a Emily in the family,” I pointed out. “Grandma’s an’ Grandpa’s baby that died.”
“I know,” said Aunt Francie. “But we thought another Emily would be nice. We’ll call her ‘Clare’, for Roger’s mother.”
“Emily Clare,” Leatrice tried the name. “E. Clare.” Then she burst into giggles. “Eclair!”
We were well acquainted with éclairs.
“I wonder if she’ll come stuffed with whipped cream!” I chortled.
“An’ covered with choc’late frosting!” Leatrice whooped.
“All right, you silly billies!” said Aunt Francie, trying hard not to laugh.
We continued to giggle and whoop through the cake Aunt Francie served us. And even after we had said, “Goodbye,” and were walking home, goofiness kept bursting out of us in foolishness and giggles. Then, I sobered as another thought came to me. I asked Leatrice, “Why do you s’pose the Bible says Jesus’ mother was ‘great with child’?”
“Well, it’s like you say someone’s great with kids. It means they know how to treat ‘em right.”
“I bet Aunt Francie will really be great with child.”
“Yep.”