Take Note

I should've known better.  It began simply, even logically; most things that get out of hand in our house do.  All I asked was that our calendar be used for its true purpose.

A large calendar for the month is held magnetically to the top door of our refrigerator.  It occupies this place of prominence because the transportation, errands, and menus for a family of seven make Logistics a household god.  Thus the squares of our calendar hold such pious reminders as "Kirk to dentist, 2:45" or "pick up Bob (bus stop) 5:15."  But the empty boxes of the calendar inspired creative talents hitherto unrecognized in the family.

I went, one day, to record that Jill would be out for dinner a week from Tuesday, only to find the space I needed had already been taken.  "Judge Crater," it informed me, "your library book is overdue."  Nor could I use the square next to this for my message and draw an artistic arrow to the proper date.  The adjacent box contained the cryptic instruction, "Remove red cat from roof, 3:28 A.M."  It was signed "The Red Cat."  And the square above it held an equally intriguing admonition: "The celery stalks at midnight."

I moved to end such madness.  Clipping a piece of scrap paper next to the calendar, I implored my family not to waste time or its spaces.  "Leave the calendar for household messages," I begged them.  "Record all graffiti on separate slips‑-we'll file them for posterity."

Within an hour three different penmanships had been added to this request.  One, from an independent thinker, insisted the writer would compose for antiquity only.  Another, a more bitter soul, demanded, "Why?  What's posterity done for us?"  And the third, more sanguine by nature, reminded us all "Posterity is just around the corner."

But the idea of notes on scrap paper did take hold, and on any day I could find a medley of messages to be pondered while reaching for the pot cheese.  An early morning crash was explained with, "Wear shoes.  Broken jelly jar ranging for revenge."  This was signed "Jill."  Unsigned, however, was the note about a second crash the morning after.  This read simply, "Attention all toes!  Score: Stevenses 2; jelly jars 0."

I too fell victim to temptation.  Having stayed up late one night finishing a mystery novel, I realized, to my dismay, I had to give the cats some medicine early next morning.  Somehow the thought of rising for such a task didn't encourage me to set my alarm.  I penned, instead, a weary appeal: "Dear First One Up, Please give the cats their worm medicine."  Then, recognizing that the second one awake might mistake his place in the lineup and give our pets another dose, I added, "Report on your deed for those who follow after," signed myself "The Night Owl," and trudged exhausted up to bed.

When I awoke at noon the next day, I found the following account: "The cats were most attached to their worms and resented the medicine being forced down their throats.  Missy did her famous version of the banshee, Finley became the world's only acrobatic baritone, Goddess went off for a three-day sulk, and Shadow has been having diarrhea in spare corners of the house.  (Signed) The Early Bird."

And beneath this was yet another slip.  "Where is the toilet paper?  (Signed) Shadow."

But for once I had the last word.  "Dear Shadow," I wrote in reply.  "I'm saving toilet paper for notes from the family.  We'll share it with you, however, once you demonstrate your literary skills.  Mom."

So far as I know, Shadow's still working on her first book.  If it's any good, we may have to get a larger refrigerator.