That would be two in the morning. Why? Angst? No, I am having a little problem with sinus stuff draining backward when I lie down, and it makes my eye hurt. It awoke me earlier and I tried a position which caused it to drain and the pain to go away, but my neck started to hurt. I fell back asleep but woke again and got up and took some aspirin and now I am sitting here waiting for snot to relocate. I could have put that better, but I went with the mainstream expression. Actually, I am not of the mainstream in this – I was just trying to fit in. My parents didn’t use words like “snot” and my father certainly did not encourage me to do so. Usually, I say mucus but people who don’t know me sometimes look at me as if I am “too good” for “snot”. Well, that’s not true. I just don’t see the point of saying it when mucus will do. I am certainly not above mucus jokes when the situation truly fits it. For instance, Mother used to buy “goof” expensive paint from Varns and Hoover in Middlebury for pennies on the dollar. Once she brought down a gallon of a sage-like shade that when wet looked like a used kleenex right after a big blow. I did not say anything to her, but when Quentin and I were standing side by side painting the shed, I mentioned what I believe we were both thinking: If we had to sneeze and didn’t have a handkerchief, we should run out and aim at the shed. No one would know.
I am getting my mind off my headache, you see; am I giving you one? Sorry, it was unintentional.
We rode the scooter at the fairgrounds yesterday afternoon, first around the circuit in the trees and then on the flat, more expansive surface by the entrance, merchants’ building and grandstand. Cameron took a header on a tight corner, but was all right. I didn’t see it; I just thought he was taking a long time getting back. Then when we practiced maneuvering a little on the flatter area, Sydney decided he was going to follow us and we were afraid of wearing him out, so we headed home. Oh, by the way, Spikey was tucked in my windbreaker with her little face showing below my neck. I forgot about her, but I do remember thinking the few people I saw had perplexed expressions on their faces. Perhaps they could hear her ultrasonic screaming. “Not the tree!!! Not the tree!!!!”
It did occur to me that perhaps C’s accident was a bit of karma related to the decision not to go see the B-25’s and pay respect to the four of the eight Doolittle Raiders who were well enough to go to Wright-Patt and sign autographs for the – uh- snots who were born about 5o years after those thirty seconds over Tokyo. Did I mention that I stood in the kitchen and loudly announced to anyone within earshot that one of the men had spent 40 months is a Japanese POW camp?
Well, my headache has abated, but I believe my blood pressure is going up so I will try lying down again.
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.