I just had it pop into my head that I should spend this year becoming “smashing” . . . in appearance, guys. Although I have to say I can’t blame you for thinking I was turning my violence level up, given my lousy moods of late. I think I should lose weight, dress well . . . oh, better stop there. This is already quite a challenge. So what would I end up looking like? I don’t know – guess I’ll have to consult our local seer, The Woo.
Woo says, How bout this:
Yes, there he is in Georgia, finding all sorts of cool links – like this one:
Oh, please, please, let it be true . . . and not staged. And if that honking jerk did anything to the lady, I hope those skateboarders laid into him.
How lucky can I get? Here I have an electronic site that is named after the cow leaning in the field down the road . . . and I find a homespun group that sums up the writing here: EMOOS. This is so great.
Way back when – when I was in my early 30’s and the 80’s were at their start – we lived in Palatine, Illionis and went to a lot of garage sales, that being the era of people still trotting things down from the attic and up from the cellar. Once we saw one listed in the paper as DISBANDING MOTHER’S HOME . . . and scavengers that we were, we went.
The whole house was open – you simply wandered around and got want you liked and paid a nominal sum at the door. I know I got a couple of good things, but I kept hearing the refrain disbanding mother’s home, disbanding mother’s home, disbanding mother’s home in the back of my mind.
It is there this morning . . . maybe because I found a can of really large – huge, in fact – ancient nuts and washers at the back of the top shelf in a little cabinet in the kitchen. Someday maybe there will be an ad: Disbanding Kooky Mother’s Home.
But, in the meantime, I think I’ll get them down and use them for paperweights here at the cafe and roadhouse – sometimes the breeze is fairly brisk through the screen door.
I have embraced who I am – I had to get a ringer for my new phone . . . oh, I forgot to mention the Katana quit, didn’t I . . . . and after looking for something that was so me, I sighed and chose Back Home Again in Indiana.* Okay, quit laughing and stop rolling on the floor. How many times have I told people I have tried all my life to lose Indiana . . . and here I am.
Well, I guess I might as well add it to the jukebox over at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse.
* performed by Canadian Brass . . . go figure.
Leaving from Wal-Mart and looking east, you see a farm house and field. Today it was in a humidity haze. There is something about that view that makes me want to scale the chain link fence at the edge of the parking lot and start walking toward that old homestead. I have no idea of what it looks like up close, and I don’t fantasize a welcoming farmhouse with a kitchen full of canning ladies. Because, if I did, I think I would climb that fence and not look back.
But that is not true . . . becuse leaving people behind is just not good.
I have mentioned that in the past, Quentin and I sat down and named – and labelled on their butts – bears in my collection from GoodWill. There were, dontcha know, the bears that looked so cute and so needing of a home they just had to be real. Actually, they had all sorts of looks.
Yesterday we pulled stuff off the shelves in the laundry room because it was getting really crowded in there, not to mention a little linty. I saw a small fuzzy foot and thought it was a dog chew toy; it was not – it was a bear from the collection and my daughter-in-law looked at his butt and said, “It’s Cagney.”
I thought that we must have talked about him looking like George M. Cohan or a gangster . . . You dirty rat. I thought about Quentin and me sitting there naming them as I pulled more stuff off the top shelf. Later, when things were trashed or reshelved, I picked up Cagney to put him somewhere safe.
Only, when I looked at his face, I thought, hmmmm, why did we think he looked like James Cagney? I turned him upside down and on his butt was written Cagey. Cagey? What the Heck? Here I was getting all sentimental about a stuffed animal when I have been working on telling myself they are nothing more than cloth and stuffing. I would perhaps have said, “Toss him,” had she not misread Cagey’s name as Cagney.
I remember when we always watched Yankee Doodle Dandy on the Fourth of July . . . and Quentin once impersonated Cagney impersonating Cohan and dancing up the wall in a fancy turn. No way could I toss Cagney.
Then I stopped in my steps. That Cagey bear had managed to save his little skin (cloth) by bear magic. His name did fit . . . and how can something fit something that isn’t real? Ack.
Anyway here is the end of the story . . . plus a picture of three pals.
I see that I did not come back to comment about the birthday, and for that matter, I did not come back at all. I thought I had been here yesterday, though, but I guess not. I have just come from Thomas Bickle’s blog, written by his mother.
I find when I go to his site, right as it is mounting on the computer, I instinctively look to his light, the amber one on the western window sill. I look before I think; I am looking to see if it is still on. That is silly and I know it. First of all, what happens in Texas is not going to affect this little light in Indiana; second, Thomas’ light will always shine, even during the times when the light bulb is changed. Thomas and his parents have touched me and Thomas’ light will always be in my heart.
We are having a party here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse to celebrate Der Bingle’s friend’s birthday today. We won’t type the number . . . because someone here is going to be that age in one month and one day. (But for right now, she is not . . . sorry, just a little ill-conceived ha ha there. Well, hmmm, you can guffaw when she is “that number” and what do they say? He that laughs last, last best? But, of course, he will be laughing last because it’s one month and one day later. hahahahahahah. Uh, sorry again.)
Deep breath here as we continue to settle down and wish our Georgia buddy a Happy Birthday and work some more on his present – yes, a present being made with our own little hands. We are too silly this morning; we will come back later.