Robert and Alison are heading off to Indianapolis to see Colin; Mother’s reading the newspapers on the porch here with me; Summer’s wooing the cat; Sydney’s still in “cat shock” ; and Mother just told Robert and Alison that while they are gone she’s getting a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken for herself, Cameron and Summer. Those dudes love it. Der Bingle doesn’t care for chicken and neither do I . . . add that to my list of pumpkin pie and watermelon. Robert and Alison will probably “rough it” at some restaurant.

Last night we all watched the Michigan – Iowa game: Mother and I on the porch and Summer, Cameron and Der Bingle in the living room. I fell asleep early, early in the game, quite a while before Mother did. She and Der Bingle had a laugh about that. I came to with about 13 minutes into the fourth quarter and was certain Iowa was way behind . . . but it was 23-21 in Iowa’s favor so I had to sweat it out with everyone else. I was afraid Iowa would lose and they would say I jinxed them by waking up.

I am streaming my consciousness here – it keeps my fingers busy.

All right, I’ve got this blog going for probably mainly me – and as a link to me and what I’m doing, Yes, it’s a big ME anyway you slice it. Here’s the thing: My mother has been diagnosed with advanced cancer and she is here at our Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse. We all are very sorry that her 83rd birthday was marked by this. However, she has been pointing out it happens to everyone and she is 83 and she has never really been sick. In fact, she insisted on using the little rider mower just last week. Dr. Warrener says she is “tough”. Yes, she is. We are going to try to be that way too.

I’ve been watching movies about World War II partisans and secret agents receiving coded messages from London since they started running the movies on Frances Farmer Theater (mentioned HERE to the right and just below the picture of Harlow Hickenlooper) and The Late Night Movie and The Afternoon Movie. That’s a lot of years, folks. Of course, I was safe on the floor in front of the TV, not huddled in a cave or cottage while the Nazis zeroed in on the signal. It was so cool. Sometimes it was something like “The bluebird nests in a red birdhouse.” Sometimes it wasn’t a phrase or sentence at all – it would be a particular song of movement of a symphony. And, of course, those of us who went to school back then know the D-Day signal: Wounds my heart with a monotonous languor.

Well, tonight I was typing away with Der Bingle on ichat while watching a show about redwoods and I sent this tidbit of information: The wandering salamander lives in the canopy of the redwood forest. Some of the folks at the Ohio Redoubt of the West Facing Cave were reading over his shoulder and panicked, typing back to me, “Oh my God, the invasion is tonight!!!!”

That was a few hours ago. At that time I envisioned the bears and Grover on the sofa with a laptop computer; now, though, that vision has evolved into them gathered around a big radio behind a fake wall in the Foo Bar listening to the incoming messages. Grover, of course, would be humming La Marseillaise.

It was chilly, very chilly, and raining on and off this morning . . . and the Apple Festival opened. I was sitting here all snug with warm feet and I thought, “Well, if I’m going to be alive, let’s be alive.” And so Der Bingle and I walked over to the fairgrounds; I wore a camisole, a turtleneck, a heavy hooded sweatshirt and tied a lined windbreaker around my waist. It spit rain and it misted but we made it over in pretty good shape. Of course, there were no lines for anything, so I filled up my Bayou Billy cup from previous AF’s with peach-flavored soda and then got a buffalo burger.

One of the men waiting on us looked familiar and so I said, “I think I know you,” and he replied his name was Mike Kramer. I was quiet for a moment and then put it all together and realized he was Judge Kramer of whom I have a very high opinion. He looked different I guess in a sweatshirt than in a black robe. Actually, he is not what you would call a handsome man at all. I interviewed him once for an article and when I first sat down it occurred to me right off the bat that he wasn’t handsome. I’m sorry but that’s the way it is; the funny thing is I rarely notice people’s looks unless they are strikingly attractive or, forgive me Sydney, real dogs . . .  and he’s not in the “dog” category.

He’s just a very friendly, polite, intelligent and kind man . . . and I’ll take that kind of “just” anytime.

Munching my buffalo burger and sipping my peach soda, I headed down the fairground lane with Der Bingle. He was doing the same, but right across from the Merchant’s Building, he tried to breathe a chunk of buffalo burger and choked. Momentarily. Then bits of burger flew out of his mouth and hes was just breathing and coughing. One of the thoughts that ran through my mind was to be glad the festival was not crowded because it would be easier for people to spot the screaming short woman calling for the EMS. As I said, though, he unchoked himself and just coughed for awhile and then off and on for a while.

We went into the Settler’s Roost (Swine Barn) and sat on bales of straw for 15 minutes while a group which shall remain unnamed warmed up and tuned. Then they played and we realized the only good thing about having sat there was it kept us out of the more heavily- falling rain outside. The Swine Barn is also home to oodles of craft booths and I bought a rectangular piece of wood – oh, about four inches by two – that was painted white with black spots, said “COW”  and had a little wire by which to hang it. I also got a wooden cut-out that says “MOO” and a pathetic reindeer because I felt so for him. AMELIAJAKE! The reindeer is not real, he is a piece of  WOOD. I know my inclination to personify gets me too involved; I need to do something about that before I start a charity drive for pathetic wooden reindeers and primitive stuffed dolls and mooseheads on springs that stick into flowerpots.

We did more stuff, but I’ll get to that later. However, it was in this time that I first saw the coyote scalp with ears that is now sitting on my head. I DON’T UNDERSTAND IT MYSELF.

Der Bingle and the Bayou Billy famous refillable mug for only one dollar, heading back over to another festival. He got Cherry Wine – I got peach.

Last year I could not have taken this picture; the lane then was a moving snake of people. The picture would have been of somebody’s shirt.

Waiting for customers.

Notice the “cow”.

Wes Linenkugal band. Very good, happy music.

I moved some furniture today – oh, a loveseat and a couple of chairs. And then I toted boxes too, boxes in which I am collecting the tools I find around the house. I transported afghans from the porch to the living room . . . I steam cleaned as well. Almost forgot, I moved the little fire stove out of the corner and about two to three feet south against the east wall. So now we have a speakeasy alcove in our cafe and roadhouse, our little Foo Bar. It is the place where we are refined, where we think of poetry and poetic prose, where decisions are made, where we frown inwardly when we fall into being our second-rate selves and  . . . well, that is yet to be seen.

But wait a moment, speakeasy seems not the right word for these sentiments, yet it came right to me and I like it just fine. It’s okay . . . we tend to pull odds and ends together because we like them and because they usually work out. At least for us.