I looked and looked for this picture of Quentin and his Grandma Sarah standing in the west part of the yard in Scott together and I can’t find it. I have seen it recently so I am thinking of whamming my head against a brick wall. Fortunately, Mother once gave me a section of foam bricks to hang on the basement door.

This picture is not particularly amazing in terms of pictures: Quentin is wearing one of his flannel shirts with a tee shirt underneath. Mother is standing there beside him. There is a resemblance and a couple of weeks ago I exclaimed to Quentin, “You have a lot of your Grandma Sarah in you.” That is not bad at all, except now and then the eccentricities that drove me crazy about Mother look back at me from him. It’s not that that is bad either; actually, there is a humor to it.

But I can’t find that picture, so it is not seen here. Bummer.

I could write a lot, but he knows. So  . . .  Happy Birthday, Quentin.

We are facing three days of 90+ weather; that is hot for us, or at least me. I know, I am a wimp. Actually, the good thing about the higher temperatures is that this year I have been out sort of working in them at Mother’s. Oh, God, how I love iced tea. It has been a cleansing reminder for my body – sweat out the toxins, suck in the water and, of course, you don’t feel like eating much.

It would put hair on my chest – might as well be something there since I don’t have a bosom. I have renewed my respect for hats and when a cool front moves in with invigorating breezes I will  revel in it. Revel? Me? I am a dull reveler; I can’t seem to build up to a rollicking revel, probably a genetic trait from strait-laced ancestors. (Obviously I am not counting the great-great grandfather who took off for CALIFORNIA after his first wife died – my great-great grandmother – and didn’t take our part of the family to the beach!)

More fireworks last night – more time spent with one dog barking maniacally and the other quivering on top of me. More hamburgers, more hot dogs.

Tomorrow is Quentin’s birthday. We keep asking him what he wants and he keeps putting us off . . . so I guess we’ll go with the pink flamingo for the front yard.

(Quentin, this is Rose – Get a paper bag and breathe into it . . . Your mother is just kidding.)

You are bored with the willow tree. I know it. I kind of am as well . . . but it is still in the backyard.  A lot of it is piled up like an horizontal stockade wall, but somehow it seems everywhere. Look:

Okay, this is what I call “the west zone” and it is over south of the Wheel Horse Stable. I really don’t call it “the west zone” – that just came to me as I was exporting the photos from iphoto. But, yes, for you purists, it is the westerly portion of the area in which the tree fell.

I swiveled to my left and here is the “zone” that reaches up to the drive to the old diesel garage.

Here, I just tilted the camera to look right in front of my feet.

And this is the smoke of the beginning bonfire which consists of the branches we gathered on Saturday. We were hunter/gatherers. We hunted for branches (which was easy), gathered them into a pile by using the little tractor to pull bundles, and then, by this time, the almost 90 degree weather fried our brains and we got all mixed up about hunting and gathering and cooking our food and just set the whole blasted thing on fire. We have a lot left.

It is amazing how the idea of making stools and souvenirs out of carved-up logs and branches is just vanishing from my brain. The trunk is still there, you know. It’s, oh, about 10 feet tall with two sharp bunny ears. The horizontal stockade is east of it. It’s intimidating.

After we called it a day because two of us are 61, we hotdogged and hamburgered ourselves and then waited for it to get dark for fireworks. Sort of. Of the four of us, the younger 61 person stretched out on a patio loveseat on the porch; the other sixty-oner watched part of a movie with the two under 20 and then the latter got antsy and started shooting off noise things.

The porch oldie got up and managed to take part in a plot to set off a smoke bomb right below the porch window where The Der Bingle 61-er was sitting. And then to light a batch of fire crackers. I have forgotten the dogs – they were upset with the noise and barked and ran and hid over and over again.

Then it got dark and we heard other booms from people more patient than we; I lay down on the loveseat again . . . and Sydney lay on top of me. It was cozy. Then he got off and I got chilled and got a blanket – but, not to fear, the morning sun soon came and zoomed the temperature back up.

I filled a wheelbarrow with little sticks this morning and then said to heck with it and Cameron pushed it over by the shed.

I think I am going to read up on willow bark usage and just periodically chew the trunk next time.

You can see me standing there, can’t you, in my shorts with big pockets and shirts with vents and more pockets and just pulling pieces of bark off nonchalantly. Or perhaps I will go native and gnaw.

Der Bingle bought a machete to deal with the tree; he loves it. He has a sharpener for it and everything and today was drawn to Rural King to gaze at other cutting tools. I think he needs a planter’s hat and we all should sip cocktails on the veranda.

That would be if we had a veranda; we have a half-collapsed deck. I guess we lack the ambiance. Of course, if we took the half collapsed part and collapsed it entirely, maybe we could call it a veranda. Little lights strung from pole to pole, music drifting out through the window. Oh, yeah, I’m supposed to download “A Boy Named Sue.” Ah, we can’t get away from ourselves.

Summer picked up the camera; Sydney and  Shane were here and, so,  here are a few shots:

Sydney started out napping on a blanket on the floor with an orange towel behind him . . . I don’t know why the towel was there; it’s laissez-faire housekeeping.

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She really liked the cute tongue factor.

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Then Shane  got a little excited.

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Quite possibly not enough sleep?

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Uh . . . Is there a full moon?

My father came from Fountain County, Indiana. He was so far south in Fountain County, he was almost in Parke County – but he wasn’t so that isn’t relevant. It would be relevant if  The Bridges of Madison County had been named The Bridges of Parke County; it could have been, there are covered bridges there too. But it wasn’t and so mentioning Parke County doesn’t make you think of  Clint Eastwood, Meryl Streep and covered bridges. But, maybe now, the idea of covered bridge country is in your mind.

Anyway, this lady named Firma who lived in those surroundings painted a lot of pictures of peaceful country scenes, and sometimes she painted them on old metal things that were used in that era. We have some at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse and just thought we would share a bit of our atmosphere.

The signature.

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The whole saw.

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Some sort of sifting-like thing with holes made into a lampshade.

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Ash shovel or coal scuttle . . . something along those lines.

Out by the hedge is a large dumpster which needs to be filled in the next couple of days before they come to pick it up. Unfortunately, most of the things to go in it are either one floor up or one floor down from ground level. And, then, of course, it the rule about no toxic stuff or old appliances. Rats. I need a truck that comes along slowly and picks up old microwaves and computers for a small fee; I don’t want to wrestle one of those things into a sedan and drive it to a recycling center because of the loading factor.

So, for now, clutter is going into the dumpster and the garage has a stack of toxic/old appliances. I have a lot of special things lying around which others see as clutter so I can’t run around telling everybody to grab something and head to the dumpster. I think I am going to have to be like Snidely Whiplash and sneak around and take other people’s clutter to the dumpster.  I will have to practice saying “Gee, I haven’t seen that lately” a lot.

I would like to have a tilt-a-room into which I could put throw away stuff and them let it tilt toward the dumpster. I could stand somewhere and film the avalanche of junk heading into the big brown receptacle. I can spend upwards of 15 minutes daydreaming about my tilt-a-room. I can spend 25 minutes maybe walking around looking at my stuff before picking up a ballpoint pen that doesn’t work and deciding I can toss it. Soooo, I guess it is less the effort of getting stuff to the trash than it is the deciding to let it go.

I am not a hoarder; I am a potential hoarder. I think that is because I can see a story in everything. Maybe they should duct tape me to the wall and duct tape my mouth closed and then just go fill the dumpster.

I had my hair colored yesterday and spent some minutes looking at the magazine Traditional Home. There is no “stuff” anywhere. Course I didn’t see any people either. Oh, yeah, they were probably outside pulling stuff OUT of the dumpster.

So, why did I get a dumpster for the driveway? For a moment did I think I had a bit of a chance of being like magazine people? Or even the basic housewife person? I would be bored to death in those rooms! I’ll bet it was an act of charity – I felt the need to provide dumpster-divers with new territory. Yes, I’m not throwing out trash; I’m filling it with someone else’s treasures.

I hate it when I manipulate myself, but sometimes it’s the only way, dontcha know.

It was a cool Indiana morning today. Lots of water on the car -it’s dew, not rain.

As I stand at the trunk, I look to the North:

And then to the field to the east with the sun angling in:

Turning to the house and using digital zoom, the light in the window:

And now, the view from the back porch door:

But, hey, the big ball of green is gone – the rain forest on the deck is gone.  And, yes, half the deck is crushed.

Below you can see the bit of damage to the porch eaves. It could have been worse.