Sometimes when I write, I actual write – as in using words to express my feelings and/or to capture the spirit of a moment, be it high or low. Lately, I have been reporting . . . more or less. I don’t know if I am feeling shallow or lazy or am choosing to float on the surface of things because this fall and winter have been emotional. Either way I am writing a rut, just as oxen made one as the trod across the prairie. It is boring, but, on the other hand, boring can be soothing. Of course, that is okay if the weather is fair and the breeze soft and warm – “broad, sunlit uplands” as Churchill said. To be truthful, as I think about this, I believe I am forgetting what boredom really feels like. Boredom is not soothing; so maybe I am thinking of daydreaming as I go along in my rut. Or resting . . . resting in the rut.

This is not a lead up to an announcement that I am climbing out of my reporting rut. What happens, happens.

Last night I was done in; I leaned over from a sitting position to a sprawling body presentation and flipped through TV stations using the remote. Then for the next four hours, I had episodes of glimpsing the screen and thinking, “Gee, what is going on with this plot?” At 11 pm I woke up and spent some time wondering how in ever I would be able to sleep through the night. At 6 am, I awoke. I have read that during sleep a necessary enzyme for thinking is produced in the brain . . . well, maybe I should take an online IQ test right now since once I took one and got a 76. Yes, maybe will all this sleep and freshly-made enzyme I could manage an 87.

Summer seems to have the flu – the stomach and intestinal kind. She has been sitting next to me the past couple of days as we have joined Gordon Ramsay as tries to resurrect failing restaurants. Her breath has floated into my breathing space. Let me sum this paragraph up by noting Summer is the first to get some illness and always passes it around to everyone.  So we are waiting with the swords of nausea hanging over our heads.

I did not hurt my little toe on my right foot on my scooter; I walked my toe into the really heavy metal box I purchased to stash some of Mother’s important papers in. Just this morning I was telling Quentin on the phone about my marathon lawn mowing Thursday at Grandma’s and mentioned breaking a few “Sarah rules”. Oh, rules like mowing around the house by hand; I used riders for everything. Then, this very afternoon, I got up and walked full stride into the Mother Box. I don’t remember moving it into a different position along the walking pathway, but there it was.

My toe clearly was aimed 45 degrees away from the toe next to it; it’s not so noticeable now because it is SWELLING. I have four toes and a blob.

UPDATE: It is now Monday morning. I was interrupted yesterday when Summer sat down next to me . . . and I forgot to come back. It was traumatic; Summer had a rubber spider that had a hole in its neck and she was blowing it up to the size of a small balloon. Yes, this is my life.

Yesterday I looked at the weather and saw five days of rain staring me in the face, starting today. So, yesterday, I thought, “Yikes” and headed up to Mother’s to mow. The weather conditions had been very good for growing and as I turned the corner, the word derelict passed through my mind. So began about six hours of grass cutting – an activity I am thinking of making a formal ritual with ice coolers and the blessing of the gas cans.

The grass was tall enough it was a little like a harvest. I went back and forth and round in circles . . . and Sydney walked behind me all the way. His feet were green  and I tried to get him to lie on a sleeping back in the shade where he could see me. But no, there he was, plodding behind. I don’t know if he thinks this sheep really needs directing or if his eyesight has failed to the point of needing to be close. We pulled into Wendy’s on the way home and I got him two Double Stackers; I went next door and got an 89 cent 5 layer beefy burrito. We got home at 8:30 pm just as it was getting fully dark. Sydney and I both lay down.

Now, today, which was supposed to be yesterday’s rainy tomorrow, is sunny for now and I am not complaining. I think I am going to go ride my scooter . . . as soon as the aspirin and tylenol kick in.

YES!! I got the spark plug out and I took it over to Ralph at Hayden Honda; I held it in front of me, still in the little spark plug remover socket, sort of like an altar boy with a candle. He verified it was fouled and showed me the carbon particle that was misdirecting the spark. So, with new spark plug in hand, I headed home and bent to the task on the garage floor. I mention that because I am suddenly wondering why I did the garage floor thing yesterday and today in two pairs of good jeans instead of a $3 pair from GoodWill.

But, anyway, I got the spark plug in and put the cover back on and . . . held my breath and turned the key and pushed the starter button and it came to life. YES! Oh, by the way, somewhere in that process, I started breathing again . . . or I would be dead now.  Sorry. That’s not my line; it’s a quote from As Time Goes By with Judi Dench and Geoffrey Palmer. Palmer plays the husband Lionel and I adore him. He talked about stopping breathing when he first saw Jean (Dench), then after a pause added, “Of course, I started again or I’d be dead.”

Ah, but back to the scooter; I rode it over to the fairgrounds and then down past the middle school, giving it a little gas as I did so. I thought perhaps someone might say something about the old lady on a scooter and Summer would know (without saying we were related) that it was running again. It took courage to go by the school; I had to tell myself, “Steady now; you don’t want to fall and humiliate her.” Of course, my imagination had me crashing and the paramedics coming and someone saying, “Say, Summer, isn’t that YOUR grandmother?” But by the time I made it through that scenario, I had already negotiated the trip past the three sides of the school and was headed home.

Now, I guess I will clean myself up and make an appointment to have my hair colored. Gosh that will be boring. Maybe I’ll just wear my helmet all the time . . .

I woke up thinking to myself that I should try to do something about the spark plug. Finding it would be a good start and so, after running Alison to work, I figured out how to access the spark plug area – which is under a floor panel next to the gas cap cover panel. There’s stuff in there all right – tubes and little metal machiney-looking doodads. I didn’t see the spark plug (which seems like it should be one word, but is not) and so came in to access the internet once again. I had time to do this because it is East Noble’s Collaboration Wednesday. You can just hear the deadpan disdain with with those four words were enunciated in my mind as I typed, can’t you? Perhaps it was even deadpan total disdain. Right now I am forcing myself to throttle back on this subject; I am going to a happy place. Oh, gee, the happy place turned out to be me in my imagination using a sledge hammer on the school corporation windows.

OH! I went off to take Summer to school and forgot to push publish so now I have to decide if I want to add part two of the morning in this post or not. I’ll think I’ll tell you the rest in a new one.

Okay, I went over to Hayden Honda and Ralph, who is a very, very nice man, told me that it could very well be the air filter; when I changed it, which he showed me how to do, a lot of liquid did indeed drain on the ground. However, the battery was very low and so I went  back and got a charger for a motor scooter- sized battery. It finally charged . . .  but it still won’t start. I think the spark plug is fouled and I have watched a YouTube video on changing the plug on a Metropolitan. The narrator says, though, “It’s kind of tricky” at one point and I am at the big sigh stage.

I know there are probably a number of people within two football field lengths of me who could whip a new one in but my psychic vibes are not reaching them.

Ah, yes, someone who shall not be named admitted she got “cocky” and tried to get up speed for a fast run downhill. Well, it was downhill, all right – the sliding crash of throttle doom; it was uphill pushing it home. I know; I pushed it. At the last intersection, a pickup was turning and he motioned for me to go ahead, but I was enjoying the little rest and indicated he should go ahead and turn. So, he did and as he was passing, I accidentally leaned against the handlebars and hit the horn. So, there I stand, balancing a scooter on my hip and waving my hands that I didn’t mean it – that it was an accidental blow. Fortunately he grinned.

Well, that is all we are going to say about this.

Today I think I am going to go through the house and clean and toss out trash. Gee, it is hard to say no more about the above.

Real hard.

Roosevelt announced on a radio broadcast that the bombers had taken off from Shangri-La; actually they had come from an aircraft carrier. They were young men then. This week four of them sat in front of their pictures from those days and signed autographs.

Doolittle Raiders from left, Lt. Col. Richard E. Cole, Lt. Col. Robert L. Hite, Maj. Thomas C. Griffin and MSgt. David L. Thatcher

Signing autographs.

They walk with canes now.

All pictures: Staff photo by Jim Noelker of the Dayton Daily News.