It was a nice trip; I had lunch with my cousins. We laughed at old memories . . . and at the story of the time AmeliaJake knocked the brace into the toilet (like an hour before) . . . and we pooled all our support and good wishes behind Patrick, the son of the cousin who wasn’t there because he and his wife have been with Patrick in Minnesota.

Lana came over – the cousin who is now 63 and not a year younger than I am until August, late August.

That evening Susie and her husband and Glenda and I went out to dinner at a place called Duck’s; they served a buffet of delicious chicken and pork tenderloin and mashed potatoes like Mother made, great gravy and really good green beans + plus a beginning salad and ending desserts . . . such as CHEESECAKE.

It’s a small place in West Lebanon, Indiana. I followed Susie and Marshall there and then followed Glenda to her house. This “following” business in the land around the Wabash isn’t hard, as long as you remember you’re supposed to be following and not daydream yourself onto another road, but it does give you a disoriented feeling. Old roads from old times, sometimes running through thick woods that line the ridge above the river. And then, you will break into an expansive view of really flat low fields that were once river bottom and probably still are in years of floods. There is a definite wilderness feel to this part of the state and literally “follwing” is so much better than trying to follow directions.

See:

No, they are too much of a novelty for women to buy for sons, husbands and fathers. I am a little uncertain about the Man Town scent, but actually, Riding Mower and 2×4 don’t sound bad. First Down is supposed to include the smell of leather, but a lot of other things could be included: sweat, spilled sour beer, over-used recliners . . .

The pot fell over in the car.

Then things got better.

More later.

From Two Moo, your friend.

I think calling them pots is related to getting the actual container, sticking your fingers in the dirt and putting in geraniums and spikes and some sort off ivy or fern go together. Pots and black soil . . . and doing it because your heart asks you too. I don’t think of the dead people lying beneath the stones; I see in my mind those people doing the potting thing in years past and me following along, helping (or getting in the way). I even remember the sensory aspects of the times we did it – the nearness of Grandma’s starched and ironed house dress, the coarseness of the dirt on the work table’s surface, the smell of geraniums, the heat of the sun as we toted pots from car to grave, the silence as we stepped back and looked at the flowers by the gravestones.

Maybe when I die, my last word will be Yeddo, but I doubt it. I don’t think I have the same fondness for Yeddo as Kane had for Rosebud.

I’d like to take a lot of pictures of my way down, but I will be in the car alone. I need someone along to document the route across Indiana that I take on Memorial Day Week-end . . . because it is pastoral and because I usually get lost, despite GPS. I should have an album of AmeliaJake Lost Places. Actually, I am usually not truly lost; I am mostly a little lost. That is probably worse because I think, “Oh, surely I can figure this out.” That isn’t so bad most of the time, but when I get down in the area where east and west roads lead to the floodplain of the Wabash River, I can do a lot of backtracking.

Better save my strength for tomorrow.

I think I will take her on my road trip down to Kingman Fraternal Cemetery; we can cruise along rural Indiana roads and raise our moos in song. She is making me clean out and vacuum the car and even take it in to have the brakes checked. They are tweeting and we are not talking twitter.  We’ll need the ice cooler and drinks and GPS in case we get led afield in the search for pastures.

But, of course, more about that later.

But that is her favorite and, fortunately, there was another “BAM” and I thought of getting the hot fudge separate. I am trying it out today. Then I thought, “Why, I can take my own sprinkles and cherries and whatever.” I think I should go slowly: one-step-at-a-time, AmeliaJake. I know how I can get out of hand.

I love my little experiments . . . and the failures make such good stories. So, today is Friday Sundae. Oh, my gosh, fried ice cream . . . fryday sundae.

Must get self under control.

There were leaves that ranged up to a decade in age tucked in the layers of the pile and under the metal supports – that were there to keep it off the ground so it wouldn’t rot. I think pieces of those leaves crept into every fold, wrinkle and pore on my body – and into every pocket. I thought I could feel things moving around on me. I showered. Oh, it felt so good. Then I thought I felt something move on my head . . .

I calmed myself and got my imagination in line and now I am thinking about what to do today. Resting is an option – resting and aspirin-taking.

This morning the sprinkler was turned off . . . and I guess maybe I will take advantage of the Big Wet and sprinkle grass seed. I don’t know how effective it will be, but you never really know. That’s what I say when I’ve goofed something up and am trying to rationalize something positive out of it. Sort of like: Er, we were thinking of taking that fence down anyway and now there will be more access to the breeze. I’ve been meaning to get some rags so I can polish silver and this blouse with the new stain will do nicely. Oh, I’ll just sit and relax while I cut open this vacuum bag and look for (fill in the blank).

I think one of my most difficult situations to come to terms with was when I had moved to the edge of the prairie (Iowa State University-Married Housing on the fringe of the campus.) We were the first residents in the expanded section; it was brand-new two-story with sliding glass doors downstairs and modern crank-out windows upstairs – a small slice of a brick townhouse building for $88 a month. Der Bingle was getting his master’s and working as a teacher’s assistant with a salary. Clean, new beginning . . . but I left the windows open on a windy day during plowing season in Iowa. All that rich, black topsoil over everything. It was a NEW place and didn’t need a deep cleaning . . . and then it did. Don’t think dust; think dirt. Maybe I should have planted corn.