Even if the fan is not on, it would be awkward to hug it, but I give every ceiling fan in the house a virtual hug when I see it making calm Humphrey Bogart Casablanca circles on above my head. I have no idea if I lived in a previous life or not, but I feel so at home with the soft breeze of the blades above.

Now, apparently, some decorators have given ceiling fans the evil eye. I find that ridiculous when I go through pictures of the candidates for Best House of 2016 in Britain. Minimalist is not accurate enough to capture the essence of the places. One house picture showed a bed, a wall and a straight chair. And the color scheme is mostly black and white. And the people who chose these houses as beautiful are scoffing at Casablanca fans. Well, fie on them.

It is Wednesday and because I have switched trash companies, take out night is Tuesday, instead of Wednesday . . . and in the middle of the night, I remembered this. The trash is out there, if it hasn’t been picked up already and I am so happy that I have/had trash in my driveway. Once upon a time, I probably thought that would be a ridiculous sentence to write. Ah, well: Sic gloria mundi transit.

The electrician was here for two days and found some interesting plugs and connector boxes in various parts of the house. I now have working three-way switches, new plugs, four new ceiling fans, new lights in the kitchen and a bathroom . . . and a couple more little projects once I find the type of light I want. We did temporarily transfer the old kitchen light to a the dark eating nook so that we could see stuff other than gloom while I decide on a new fixture. The one I thought I would like didn’t pan out to be as it appeared on the website.

In other news, I ate two tomatoes yesterday and got “the trots.” I’m okay at this point, but yestday there was a lot of “NOW” urgency. Back in the days of outhouses, all the neighbors knew when someone had the trots. That’s when I learned the phrase; overhearing family members remarking about the man who lived across the road. (It seems when you had the trots, one chose to use the privy rather than the new-fangled indoor facility.)

I did not care much for hostas in previous times, and then I discovered they are very hardy and out of a bunch of dead debris, stick their little heads every spring. For someone with a very black thumb, that is heck of an advantage.

A few years ago I started planting them in areas that were almost always in shade and inclined to be muddy. That first year was a big question mark as Shane took to digging holes around them – in face, I wound up putting a wire fence around the line of them by a north-facing brick wall. But the year after, there they were.

So I planted a few more that got walked on and trampled when we had to take a section of a fence down, but they poked their heads up this spring and starting growing.

When the local grocery offered them for sale again this year, I loaded up my basket. The one above is freshly transplanted. And it blooms.

It has occurred to me that perhaps the plants that show up in front of grocery stores are rejects from nurseries, ones that are judged to have a flaw. The point is, by God, they made it even after rejection and, dontcha know, they seem to be resolute little guys when given a home.

I have purchased some plants from nurseries that believe, but cannot prove, have not thrived because I was not out here holding their little leaves and whispering sweet words.

I was quite concerned about the fern that I had transplanted from Mother’s, but this spring it, too, showed up. And the myrtle that came from homesteads in Fountain County and moved to LaGrange County and now to Noble County is flourishing.

These guys are the type of soldiers General Patton would be proud of.

The people at the dentist office will see me first today – officially, in my capacity as a public persona. They are lucky. It is after five am now and I am a mess, having mowed the lawn and sweat under my hat and then plopped down on my sofa of pain. My hair has been “set” as we used to say in the days of rollers, into a Medusa-look.

My nose is stuffed from pollen. Der Bingle mentioned the yellow stuff down at the Ohio Redoubt and at the Sturgis Cemetery I looked at the flat area on my grandfather’s tombstone and saw it was coated with yellow. Oh, great. Age has made me more allergic. Actually, sitting in a slouch with my computer on my protruding tummy, my head is at an angle to allow my nose to drip, drip, drip. That is not something you wanted to know, but cut me some slack here, okay?

I am one big complaint at this hour; I have a little over two hours to make myself acceptable to go into the dentist office. This is not exactly like having two hours to make yourself presentable to go out and buy a Hummer and head for the Pacific. The enthusiasm seems to be missing. No,it definitely is missing.

Oh, and while I am bracing for the dentist, I need to clean the kitchen lest the electrician be shocked, shocked I saw. I really didn’t mean that to be a pun; I was thinking of Claude Rains in Casablanca.

Then the Internet man is coming, we hope, because the outside connection is flaky. There’s a better word for it, but flaky just falls off my fingers right now.

Yesterday, I went out and sweated and hurried and got everything ready for storms and NOT ONE DROP OF RAIN. I was in a storm mood; I wanted heavy rain. After a bit, I got disgusted and decided my hair was humpy and went and got it cut; it is more in a summer mode now – better suited to humidity and not so vulnerable to taking on the shape of hats, headrests and so forth. I’d take a picture with my little computer camera, but I slept on it wrong, which is pretty hard to do with this cut, but leave it to me. I’ll have a talk with it later and we should be able to come to an understanding.

Because I was going to clean up the house while it rained yesterday, I still have clutter and official dirt inside. Yes, there is a law about cleaning if it is not raining. I’m certain I can cite it. Yes, here it is: AmeliaJake, 2016 – Book of Eccentricity.

Tomorrow will be a two cemetery trip. I’ll probably arise early with my urns and set out shortly after dawn. Oh, did I mention the relay on my low beam headlights is out and probably can’t be fixed until after the holiday. A Recall, dontcha know.

My cousins who put flowers on Daddy’s grave for me also talked about our grandparents who are buried beside him.

Sue and I talked about the porch swing and the bandstand in Kingman yesterday. When we put the flowers on Grandpa and Grandma’s grave yesterday, Sue said we really loved these people. Then we talked about the sweet moments when we would be with them. Frying chicken for us and hot tea and grandma letting us walk to Grandpa’s barbershop and he would drop everything and go buy us ice cream.It was a simple life, but you knew they loved you.

They also took care of my cousin Robert Allen, whose mother, their daughter, was ill. He was once talking with Mother and told her how Grandpa would say at bedtime, “Well, come on little buddy”; he added, “They must have been good people.” There are other stories about Bob – how he would walk around with six-shooters around his little waist and sit on the sofa by launching himself onto it from two feet away, turning in mid-air. And my dad teaching him how to NOT eat peas with his knife . . . and then the moment Daddy was looking elsewhere.

I’d say the Indiana soil is enriched by the Hoosier dust mixed in with it now.

It is muggy outside, very muggy and I am covered with mulch dust and dirt from pulled weeds roots and have a triple layer of dried sweat on my body. However, rain was predicted for today. So, last night, after I had picked up someone at Kroger’s at 10 pm, I decided to leave my clothes on and sleep in the rough and be ready to do a little more quick outdoor dirty work this morning.

Possibly that indicates a total lack of class; possibly it indicates an innate sense of true class, not bound by the judgemental rules of white gloved women. Perhaps it means nothing: I’m going with the second interpretation – it gives me a good feeling.

First thing this morning was to drive another person to Kroger’s as dawn was breaking. Just as I pulled into my driveway on the way back, a police car blinked its lights at me. Odd, I thought, but I stopped at the end of the drive and looked at the car and I HAD NO DIM HEADLIGHTS. This is not good, so I took my mulchy, filthy body over to a dealership and said, “I know I look like H***, but I’ve got a problem. He said, “Ma’am, you look fine.” I don’t think it was intending to lie; I think he was shocked and grasping for a variation on the “The customer is always clean” motto and stammered out what he could.

There was a recall for a module; because of the holiday it may not be in until after that weekend. Fortunately, the days are long.

I took my dirty self home and started to finish up some things to prepare for rain. I cleared the area I want the rain to soften so I can pound in a mulch border – think of it as Trump’s Wall agains mulch crossing onto my concrete. Or don’t think about it at all. I spread out a rug with a bear printed on it on a table with a woven metal top that will let the rain water pass on through. I picked up sticks and twigs and put them in the fire pit and covered it up. Then, sigh, I noticed the sky seemed lighter.

Looking at the weather guru site, I saw that whoa, the 100% chance of rain and storms was now under 50%. I don’t do well with coin flips. The sun has actually come out. I may have to perform a sacrificial ritual: getting in the shower and taunting the lightning powers that be.

This Memorial Day, I could not make it down to the small cemetery in Fountain County, so I asked my cousins to please put flowers on my father’s grave. This morning I received this picture and the following message:

Sue and I did this yesterday. We talked to Uncle Bob about memories and told him . . . (how) much you loved him.

Sue will always be to me Susie and the writer of the note is her sister Glenda. Remember the front porch with the swing, the old bandstand in Kingman, the flannel sheets in the bedroom upstairs and Grandma’s portrait of her father in his Union Army uniform watching over us on the wall? I love you both. And thank you so much, so very much.

What was it we used to say in grade school? Oh, yes, Present or Here. I guess if they were calling role this morning, I’d have to put up my hand and respond with one of the words above, but, gee, it is almost with a sigh.

Still, I can find something good and productive about this day, but it will probably involve me and spray cleaners and vacuums and errands . . . and then there is my imagination: I am actually doing a quick vacuum of my special room overlooking the Pacific Ocean – save the maid a little trouble, dontcha know?

I have made it sound as if something dreadful happened; it didn’t. At one point I placed a plastic chair fairly close to the fire and sat there and then began to think, “Hmm, I’m hot and is the side of this chair starting to melt?”

I started to write about the weather. Blast! I’m boring.
I could say a few words about politics, but it is so surreal.

Somewhere in the middle is a story and maybe today I will find it.