"Hey, ole' Billie Berger the wood cutter, I found out all about that orange stuff the Apollo guys found on the surface of the moon."
"Huh? You're kidding, Dick Whattzit?" Mr. Berger returns.
"That's Tang that was dumped there by the last astronauts!" (Snicker, snicker)
We have taken every opportunity before the television set recently to flip to the channel which screened the moonwalks.
I can't think of a better education for the family and myself than watching something like that and trying to take in the massive impressiveness of walking on another planet.
I always thought Buck Rogers was the only one to get to another planet.
We have special memoirs of man's first steps on the moon.
I took several pictures from the TV screen, made enlargements and with the help of Virg Pitstick, sealed them in folders and gave each booket to the children.
Perhaps the pictures don't mean much just now, but someday they will bring back a lot of pleasant memories.
The family will never forget that night of the picture job. They still accuse me of saying "shhhh" so many times and so much that I supposedly made all the noise in the room.
Attention all hands!
This week's Fumbling Fickle Finger Award goes to TOM HOHN, announcer at KNCY, newsman and a lousy volleyball player.
Tom has the pinky on his right hand in a 10-pound cast as the result of matching brawn with a volleyball. Guess who won.
The radio newsman (lucky he didn't get a volleyball-karate chop on the throat) is getting along fine at the turntable providing he can keep his aching finger out from under the turntable.
Anyway, Warren Copenhaver is always there to take over and we're told that Cope has already volunteered to handle the early morning police beat so his partner can rest.
Here's a nice note from our friend, Allen Holmes, 1105 Garden Avenue, Des Moines, Ia., 50313.
Mr. Holmes has helped organize the Company B, WWI guardsmen's reunion for many years. "Think I'll let the reunion take its own course this year. If I change my mind, I'll drop you a line."
Mr. Holmes said he spent some time in the Seattle, Wash., area in the fall, "but my fishing up in the north woods fell off a bit this last season."
Nebraska City is "losing" three doctors this year — T. L. Weekes, J. P. Gilligan and W. C. Kenner.
We hope to run a story on each of these men to tell you something about them and their families.
The first story will be about Doctor Weekes and will appear soon.
We had a most enjoyable time visiting with Doctor and Mrs. Weekes in their home. And we can honestly report that Mrs. Weekes holds a firm hand in that household.
Whenever Doctor Weekes started to answer questions about how he met his wife, we were interrupted by a grand lady with a twinkle in her eye who said, "now, Tommy don't you tell him about that he'll just put it in the paper."
We all laughed. We thank Doctor and Mrs. Weekes for permitting us the time and hope the story does them the justice for the fine people they are.
The other night the other half was going through Christmas lists and getting gifts lined up and made some remarks about a baby.
"Whhhaaat?"
"No, silly," she said, "a baby gift for Suzanne."
Golly, Suzanne, a mother . . . it doesn't seem that long ago when Mrs. Dave Curtis was Suzanne Slemp, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Marland Voltmer and was our No. 1 babysitter.
I remember when we took Suzanne along with us on a little outing to Lewis and Clark lake and Gavins Point dam.
We had to attend a meeting of grownups so we left the two daughters with Suzanne at the motel. We had all kinds of worried thoughts, but when we returned later to the motel we found not two giggling little girls, but Suzanne was just as giggly.
S'funny how parents worry needlessly sometimes, isn't it?
Before the outing had ended, we became acquainted with some people who bad a large pleasure boat, with cabin, "comfort station" (we called it a 'head' in the Navy) plus TV and a kitchen.
We had a great tour and Suzanne became acquainted with some younger women more of her age bracket.
You know what those crazy girls did? They sunbathed on the bow of that ship most of the afternoon, got soaking wet from waves occasionally, but we couldn't get them in the cabin.
And so, you've read the Beaumont Sentimental Story for today. We think a lot of Mrs. David Curtis and family.
One of our "spies" in the chambers of the new county district judge gave this report from a wiretap.
The caller inquired from Judge-elect Robert L. Morrissey, Syracuse, whether he could have his name changed.
The judge replied that it could be arranged and asked the man to come to the office in the courthouse that afternoon.
"By the way," Judge Morrissey said, "I had better make a few notes on this . . . what is your name?"
"Joe Stinx," replied the caller.
"I . . . ah . . . see what you mean," the judge said. "Now, what is the name you prefer to be called?"
"Charlie Stinx," replied the called.
(And they say don't believe everything you read in the paper. Ha!)
The other night we attended the Junior High basketball games (it was a triple header) at Syracuse. No. 1 son has a new pair of tennies now and they are for basketball, so Mother Bear and the youngest cub, Jeannea, who just turned "12 whole years old" the other day, attended the game in the Rocket Senior High.
Bill Dawson and I watched the moves of a lefthanded husky towhead and were admiring the boy's ability to slip in and dunk shots.
We talked about the eighth grade boy on several occasions and since we had no programs, I tapped the man sitting in front of us, Judge Morrissey, and asked if he knew who that clever young man was.
Now, read this carefully.
The Judge turned to us slightly and with a teeney-weeney bit of a smile in the corner of his mouth, said,
"Well, his first name is . . . ah . . . Bill . . . and his last name is . . . ah . . . Morrissey."
I told Bill Dawson we made more brownie points that night at the game than we'd ever have a chance to use.