IF IT IS YOUR WATCH AT THE FIRES, DON'T GIVE 'WAY

With America's much acclaimed melting pot running over, threatening to put out the fires below that have made us one, it may seem shallow to keep on reading and writing about the little everyday things that still bring joy and contentment. On Mean Streets, wrens, roses and rainbows aren't very visible.

Speaking of this melting pot that may self destruct because the necessary fires go out or flame up too hot, I am reminded of long ago summertime wash days.

After the clothes were rubbed vigorously on the corrugated washboard, lavishly coated every minute or two with lye soap, Mama and Grandma would put them into the big water filled iron kettle. Such kettle, elevated on bricks, stood beneath the shade of a big black cherry tree. Underneath this kettle, every week, a fire was made of dry chips and long wooden pieces old fence rails, dead limbs or even wood chopped for the purpose.

Lou and I were assigned to watch the fire, seeing to it that as the ends of the long pieces burned away, they were shoved back underneath the kettle to keep the fire going at an even degree so that the water boiled but didn't boil over.

Once, because we wanted to indulge in a pleasure that took us down to the river, far away from out duties, we, thinking it would last until we got back, built up the fire so hot the water boiled over tremendously in our absence, spilling onto the fire below, causing so much hissing, flaring, smoke and falling ashes that the clothes in the kettle had to be washed over.

Needless to say, we were properly corrected and if we learned anything it was not to neglect proper supervision of fires if it was our watch, to forego pleasures that took us far away from our duties and enjoy the things nearby.

If this seems somewhat like a parable, it is a true parable.

Not being in direct supervision of melting pot fires as our government is or should be, but knowing I'm part of the government, my watch now consists of studying the propositions put forward to keep the pot from boiling over, sifting them, through my mind and backing the proponents I think best. Right now, such proponents seem to be Jack Kemp, John Danforth, and Bill Bradley. Jack, John and Bill sturdy no frills names.

This "fire watching" attended to, I, out of ingrained habit, tend to indulge in everyday loverly pleasures to be found nearby.

What are a few of these loverly things? Wrens. They are cheerful, friendly and extra neat in appearance. Their turned up tails add a just right touch of pertness. I learn from them that sometimes our choices are so many it detracts from our singleness of purpose which is a necessary ingredient of success.

Because I think pretty little wren houses make a place seem delightful and inviting, I have four of them placed about the yard, and so far as I can tell, there is only one pair of wrens on the premises. They are so torn by indecision I fear their family raising time will be delayed. They very busily carry a few twigs into the little house hanging beneath the rose bowered archway trellis. They abandon that and go for the ceramic beehive-shaped house hanging midst the dogwood limbs. Then they come in closer where a fancy Tyrolean house is suspended from the porch eave. There is another house for them atop the latticed garden seat with a few twigs protruding from the doorway. I expect to find eggs laid on the lawn before they finally make up their minds. Maybe I'm too lavish with accommodations, but it is all a pleasure near at hand.

What else? Petunias. Like the southern gardens, especially those of New Orleans and Charleston, most of my gardening efforts are in the back yard. Thinking it high time to make the front entrance more appealing, I've placed potted petunias at the sides of the front steps. It is nearby pleasure to go sit amongst them, early mornings, smell the fragrance and see what flying insect comes first a bee, a butterfly or some other unidentified flying insect. Should a hummingbird come, dip his beak into a blossom as I sit there, my "fires" of nearby pleasure would flare up tremendously.

Anything else? Some poke greens in the hedgerow, some narrow dock down by the creek, some lamb's quarter near the burning pile I gather and add to my pot of boiling mustard greens. And while I'm dining on this I think that on the long-burning fire sticks under any melting or boiling pot, there should be labels reading: Caution. Very combustible. Supervise with care. Do not smother any sticks lest they go out. Stay close if it is your watch.

REJOICE!