“The best kind of prize is a SUR-prise!”- Willie Wonka

In a home of observant , festive, and sneaky people the most impossible thing is to keep a surprise. Now, a secret is a different thing. There’s nothing better for stubborn silence than eight other people watching you and keeping one accountable.
This week was rather warm for November, and it held a date of importance: a birthday. The men-folk’s job was to begin a new spec house, and they did it wondrously well. They dug and poured and dried and measured and tarred. The ladies’ job was simpler. Keep the house going, and plan a surprise party. I wish it could be stated here that the ladies showed equal competence as the men-folk.
We tried hard. Honest.
The house was kept going. It was actually and relatively quiet week of household work and chores. We were struck with the Christmas shopping mood, so we made a few trips into town and scoured the shelves with a little luck. Now there are secret, forbidden places that are not to be looked in or smelled. They contain precious, guarded, highly anticipated presents. Other exciting domestic thing happened, too; and though they may seem trivial to some, they are monumental to a housekeeper. Such as: the kitchen acquired a new knife! A real sturdy, heavy blade that looks like a hatchet. It is useful for cutting carrots, celery, raw chicken, etc. And there was an unofficial record-breaker of two beds remaining un-made for three whole days in the same bedroom! Also, Monday’s laundry didn’t seem so bad, and as every laundress knows, that is unusual! Most significantly, for a writer, a brand new story has been begun! And we like it very much.
A part was planned. We stored extra bacon, bread, chips, and such in a natural manner. And almost everything was ready when the time came.
But it wasn’t very surprising, I’m afraid. Our nonchalance was forced, but ‘smoother than oil’ on the day. Little problems kept popping up in unexpected places that were quite difficult to camouflage. Such as: she’s in the house, so how can we decorate with balloons? This was the solution: we asked her to help. My heart really did stop for a frightful moment when someone laughingly said, ‘What are you doing decorating for your own party?’ That was hard to camouflage. As a matter of fact, we gave it up and had to tell her the truth, which was easily guessed anyway. Then things went better. She could greet the guests while we were bringing down chairs and icing-ing a cake.
And it went off well.
I foresee a week that may feel a little dull, for (in the words of Anne Shirley,) ‘I do not see how anyone could return to common life after this.’