Yesterday, Summer and I put a cooler with ice and drinks and a pizza in the trunk; we put the insect repellent in the front seat.  We headed up to Mother’s for a few hours and, as it worked out,  Summer was introduced to driving the Wheel Horse – the 12 horsepower one. I was on a bigger one and Mother rode the one that looks more like a cart.

Summer did quite well – of course, she is almost 13. We put her in gear, showed her the brake and let her make big ovals. She really liked it, although she did notice that my tractor was and 18 horsepower model and went pretty darn bouncy fast. In fact, several times I felt myself sliding off the seat as I made a turn. It was my first time on that mower, but I did pretty well – after all, I am almost 61.

The three of us mowed out back for a little over an hour. During that time we noticed Oakley Grey was also using a tractor mower up at the old schoolhouse. He waved. The “old schoolhouse” reference can be confusing to some and so we didn’t use the term with Summer. You see, the three story brick schoohouse was torn down two or three decades ago. We still say things like: Oh, it’s by the old schoolhouse; he lives across from the old schoolhouse; the fog is so thick I can’t see the old schoolhouse.

Anyway, when the three mowers were gathered at the mound (which does exist), Mother checked the gas and we decided to move Summer up to the cart mower which has a CLUTCH. She would mow in the center of the east section and I would chug around the bouncy, bouncy oddly-defined edges comprised of fence sections, trees and really big shrubs. For this I used the 12 horsepower Summer had been riding – I think she liked it better now that I no longer had the element of speed, which she had envied. Except for having my hat knocked off by a determined branch, we got it finished up.

Summer had fun mowing but her face soured a bit when I told her she would have to get a couple of years experience under her belt before she did the big tractor. But, hey, she came around okay when I pointed out that Quentin had mowed with the 12 and when I growled that when I was her age, I mowed with a reel mower. We had to explain that to her.

I have pictures but I can’t find my white transfer cord right at this moment. I KNOW I just saw it. And, Der Bingle, we have FLIP video of Mother explaining the workings to Summer. One little tidbit she added as an aside to me: “Your dad said you don’t want to fill this tank (the 12) all the way. I don’t know why, but I don’t.”

I’m not sure at all about how this evolved, but it seems I am of late being led through life by events rather than my own inclinations. It’s not the same as when something major happens, such as Robert’s first leg break. Then it was obvious I had to focus on tending to him for the ten days before surgery when his bones were shattered and any movement was extremely painful. And that’s what I wanted to do. I suppose my biggest contribution was going to the orthopedic center, dressed all nicely, speaking with my most correct grammar, doing my impersonation of a nice person and getting long-acting oxycontin and break-through pain percocet. (Don’t rob us . . . we no longer have it)

And urinal duty . . . and setting up a bed in the living room under the air conditioning vent and close to the TV.

Now that was an event, but I still had my personal time; I still had some choice in when I would do chores. I was still AmeliaJake. Lately, I have the feeling I am constantly having to hold onto my “A” or am calling out, “Leave my Jake alone. Stop tugging on my “m” . . . Sometimes I know I am thinking, “I know I have three “a’s”, but you can’t have one; I need all of them.”

I don’t think I’m whining; I think I’m befuddled. What the heck is going on here? Where is there a lever in the wrong position or a short in the system? Why can’t I find it?

This weekend, on a whim, I engineered putting up red, white and blue lights in the backyard and setting out many tiki torches. Maybe I need to put the torches in a circle, sit in the middle and chant . . . and ceremonially call forth the renewal of spirit. It could be I’ll need drums . . .

AND NO CLEMATIS FOR YOU

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHA!

Just a little AmeliaJake jokie.

Now if I had panned a bit to the left, you could have seen Summer’s blue jeans drying on the fence.

When I remember where I set the camera down, I will post a picture of what I saw yesterday at 6:20 in the morning. I saw it after I got in the car and started to back up and thought, “Why, I believe I have a flat tire.” Really. That’s what I thought. I did not think “&^%%$%#% flat @#%$#@% tire.”  There are just some unexpected things that put you in a stunned state and apparently this was one of them.

I got out and walked around to the passenger side front and there it was – spectacularly flat. From her seat in the tilting car, Alison asked, “Is it flat?” I answered with a simple yes, but already the unstunned, sarcastic AmeliaJake was kicking in and I thought of saying, “Why, no, it’s not flat. A sinkhole developed under that particular tire and it is following it around; it is a magical sinkhole. Oh, watch out . . . I think I hear Chinese voices wafting up.

So, anyway, I take her to the hospital and return to ask Cameron where in the heck is the travel film on Britain he wanted me to watch and I kept putting off . . . because I looked for it for 20 minutes the night before, even getting down on my hands and knees to peer under the table and sofa. On the mantle. It was on the mantle and he picked it up and looked at me and so I told him to put it in the machine. By the way, he had first said to me, “Well, let’s get it done,” when I returned, referring to the changing of the tire. I had already decided this one was beyond me and said we’d wait and have a professional tire evaluator look at it. No, I didn’t say that – for some ridiculous reason I just typed it – but I did indicate we would wait until business hours to call someone.

So there we are watching scenes in London when the camera focused on a man holding a child of about two and I blurted out, “My heavens, that kid is homely.” Yes, I am that type of person – going straight to the “H” word in reference to a toddler. I don’t know if it was a penance imposed from above but I wound up cleaning the back vestibule all the way down to its little concrete floor. Oh, the things I found . . .  including an antique sink pump that I am considering spray painting red. Summer and I can do that, although she and I with a spray can would involve a level of trust I don’t know that we can muster.

Just this past night I dreamed a complicated of deep snow, howling wind, bicycling in the snow and encountering a policeman who asked me how old I was. Jeez. The whole dream was a puzzle that kept getting more involved and a couple of times I came almost awake, only to choose to go deeper in the dream to succeed in getting out of my dreamland maze honestly – not by the quitter’s “wake up cop out” technique. (Although I am the first in line for that when it’s a snake dream.) The strangest thing about this dream, however, was not what was going on, but the fact that I wasn’t wearing my glasses and could feel the muscles in my eyes pulling and straining.

Hey, this was a dream in my mind. Why do I need my glasses. Not only wasn’t I wearing them, but I had misplaced them somewhere in the endless, turning hallways of a mansion-like house. Each time I went outside, the surrounds were more and more commercial and I would turn around and go back in.  I don’t know why I finally agreed to let one of my awakenings go to completion, but it was probably the best thing to do since my clothing had lessened to just trench coat and nightgown . . . and maybe no shoes. And people were arriving for a formal Christmas party.

First thing I did then? Grab my glasses.