I heard that sound just a minute or so ago. Summer came to the door and said a branch fell down. I thought she said, “A bridge fell down.” It was so clear. So I said, “Really, but I’m talking about that thump I just heard.” And she emphasized that it was a bridge. So I said, “Bridge?”
Well, we got it figured out but I don’t know if it came down broken-end first or if it plopped, spreading out the impact. I will go look; just not now, not right this minute.
Let you now.
AmeliaJake’s orange pants
Lucky day at the grocery – Time to barbeque
It is geranium city in the dining room. Geraniums and other little filler plants. They are sitting there waiting for for me to engineer this watering, preparing and delivering pre-Memorial Day week. I may put them in the garage and make certain I keep the door down because I don’t want a raccoon getting interested; that happened two years ago on Mother’s back porch.
Counter space is limited in the kitchen and with the number of people here who actually expect to use that room for food purposes, it would be difficult to do a sink to counter to sink to counter rotation. Then there is the dirt – that which will be removed when I stick in a couple of fillers or transfer stuff to different pots completely.
Five pots. Five. I told someone in the nursery that being the youngest was pretty good when I was younger and pampered; now, it is just me and five pots.
So, I got a shallow combination pot for Mother because she is at Sturgis and I can get up there to keep track of it. For one thing, Sturgis’ fast food places are closest to the Scott house and about six blocks from the cemetery. That works with grandkids when you’ve dragooned them for rural work.
My Grandpa Shimp is buried in the same group of plots as Mother, but has a big stone urn so I will be doing that arrangement in situ: a couple of nice geraniums, a spike, trailing ivy – maybe a bit of asparagus fern.
Still I have to go to Kingman on Wednesday, coming back on Thursday with my dad’s flowers. I’ll be combining plants from a couple or three pots into one special one. And Miss Alice, I can’t forget her geranium to sit above her ashes in front of Daddy’s grave.
Now that leaves me with putting a spike and ivy in a pot of geraniums – some of which I will have removed – for Grandma’s grave. Geraniums and fillers for Auntie, who was the nicest person.
My uncle’s grave is supposed to have a perpetual care program, but I’m thinking that went by the wayside and so I’ll put flowers there. He was in high school when Mother was born and he’d come home and say, “Here, let me take her” and he gave her a whole dollar during the Depression to spend at Corn School.
But Der Bingle is coming Thursday night and I’ll be getting back from Kingman and rushing around cemeteries Friday morning doesn’t seem wise. Saturday is kind of last minute . . .
So I guess I’ll go to White Pigeon and Sturgis on Tuesday afternoon. But first I have to do the transplanting thing. And, oh yeah, I’ll need to wear nice clothes and a saucy hat – can’t have Grandma and Mother thinking I’m letting the team down.
Then maybe on Saturday we can drive through those two cemeteries and see that every thing is okay. And then grab a burrito at Taco Bell.
Well, I had an emotional sneeze over the past couple of days.
Moving on, now.
And, shoot, that title ended with a preposition. Sigh.
When Sarah Bickle wrote about her son’s illness, she mentioned teaching English to Spanish-speaking people. She remarked that they would use adjectives as nouns:
The kids did eventually learn to speak more correctly, but some of the phrases stuck with me, especially that Spanish transliteration: I have tired. I have hungry. . . Right now, we have sad at our house.
Well, as I was sitting on the floor sorting through some stuff – some things mine and some things Mother’s – I starting feeling as if I had a Big Sad. Time has been passing right along and I have not made much progress in going through my parents’ things and less progress in getting myself on a worthwhile track.
We have had a lot of involvement with my autistic grandson’s residential stay and his subsequent return to the house, which has involved a ton of social workers coming in and out. My other two grandchildren have been affected; we have all been affected . . . and stretched far into the red zone of our capacity for being elastic.
As I starting wandering in this directionless sea of thoughts, I considered that I had not really marked Mother’s passing, her ‘goneness’ and, oh, many of our interactions when she was alive. I was thinking that I was in a period of sad, but gradually I have come to realize that I have a Big Regret about who I was and who I am. I feel guilty. I regret that I brought times of sad to my parents. It hurts; it makes my throat hurt, cramping up until I feel the pain in my ears.
There is not a darn thing I can do to change it.
I am mad at myself, disgusted really. So maybe I am not exploding, but imploding. However, seeing that, I hope I have enough strength of character to buck up. Actually, I am too selfish to totally implode and this is one time when that flaw is useful.
I think I need to talk with Rose.
Okay, I tried to get my mind off of it; I really did. And I went out to do something productive in hopes of making the house more inviting and cheerful.
Said in a grumbling hiss and then transcribed here:
And asked rhetorically in a sharp, clipped monotone of total disgust through clinched teeth:
I could not find the right one, although I tried out several. So right now I am sitting here with my face screwed up in the angry AmeliaJake Venomous Furor.
I know, I know, I know, I know . . . I know all of the rise above this attitudes I should be adopting. I know I should think it through when it comes to possible reactions and blood pressure spikes.
Good-natured people can’t understand that intellectual thinking does not sway my gut at all. It is a steaming locomotive of a drive determined to burst forth and
I had my teeth cleaned yesterday – along with the charting of my gum health tooth by tooth. You sit there and one of the hygienists calls out a series of numbers: 3, 2, 2, 1, 2, 1, 3 and so forth while another writes them down. It deals with the amount of gum that has pulled away from your teeth. Actually, I think it is a code by which secret messages are sent.
Perhaps the hygienist is a Dandelion agent who is passing along vital info about the defenses planned for the next invasion. Or maybe there is no secret agent stuff; maybe they are just doing a version of Navajo code talking regarding the patient. Not that they would because they are nice ladies. Still, it might be tempting to making a comment about “shark mouth” or “snake fangs” or whatever.
Sometimes even I have to shake my head at the things my mind spends time on . . .
I didn’t post yesterday – not because I was traumatized by a dentist visit – but because they have Sit and Read paperbacks in the waiting room. It is a program sponsored by the library: you start reading, take the book home and bring it back to a participating waiting room. So yesterday I read a book titled The Spire about a golden boy, his mentor and a 16-year-old murder case.
Richard North Patterson was the author and I chose his book over one that dealt with a world catastrophe every 4,500 years that could be averted by finding the gold capstone to a big Egyptian pyramid. This device would reflect the massive solar beam that could zap the earth. However, the blurb on the back indicated the book was all about the politics and adventures of finding the capstone. I don’t think there was any description of a past zapping or a pre-zap before The Big One.
I was just a few pages into The Spire when I just knew who the bad guy was and looked at the back to verify my determination. Then I went back and read the ENTIRE book. This drives some people absolutely crazy. “Oh, you CAN’T look at the end. It is immoral, cheating, not allowed . . . whatever.”
Yeah, well, at least I read the book then instead of hurrying through to see if I’m right or not. Well, unless the quality of writing makes the book a real barfer, and then I just toss it aside. I am not one who keeps reading because it “might get better”. (And, by the way, I read two paragraphs in the destruction book and it was a barfer.)
I think I discern a mood trend here and maybe I’ll set out the warning flares around me.
Yes, I got up off the sofa yesterday and did a whole bunch of things, including working on the bathroom floor. And other household things. Sheeesh! Today is another wet day in the 50’s and again my feet are by a space heater.
BACK OFF, SOPHIE!!! I’ll get going in a moment . . . . Okay?
But first I have to make myself realize that we are not still in March and that Memorial Day Weekend is, not this one, but the very next one. That means one week from today I will be heading down to Kingman with my traditional geranium, spike and ivy urn . . . and maybe a granddaughter. I think I’m going to see if I (we) can bunk at Glenda’s and then come back on Thursday.
Der Bingle is coming on Thursday from The Ohio Redoubt and so we’ll be back in time to push him into the car and head him off for a physical at the doctor’s at 9 am on Friday. I don’t know why I put “at the doctor’s” because I can’t see sending him to a plumber, electrician or accountant for that purpose . . . although maybe they will talk plumbing. Okay, okay, no more little jokies.
Serious face now. So, after the Kingman urn delivery, there will be four more “urnings” at two more cemeteries. And only one week to get them ready! The weather has let the calendar sneak up on us. Three weeks after Memorial Day, it will be the longest day of the year, and that seems impossible. For the most part, we have been in a Big Gray Chill since the shortest day right before Christmas.
Must concentrate on getting urns ready. Must. Must. Must.
Hey, Sophie, put “URNS” on a post-it note and stick it on your forehead.
I did a lot of stuff yesterday and boasted about it and, hey, I’m not upset about doing that. Somebody has to pat the mulch-toter on the back (and don’t forget the lawn mowing). Today, I am a dud; I am plopped on my sofa with my feet in front of a space heater because it is 51 degrees outside, cloudy and damp. If I had an “e” handy, I wouldn’t even attempt to stick it onto my dud self, because it is comfy being a dud today. Let someone else be the cool dude.
Oh, dear, here she is. Sophie, Rose’s assistant counselor, and right now Acting Counselor since Rose is visiting the Ohio Redoubt.
Sophie is giving me the eye and a bit of advice, which comes across differently than when Rose does it.
Say, doesn’t that little Sophie body look nice and soft? Almost like a pillow.
Oh, wait, she is getting a phone call from Rose. She’s listening and looking at me and listening and looking at me. There she goes to check the manual Rose left for her. Her little mouth is pursed up and her brow a bit wrinkled but she’s nodding and telling Rose, “Okay.”
Ah, what a sweet face is turning to gaze at me with heartfelt affection . .
Okay, okay, I see your point. You’re right. I’m up and getting myself going. Sophie, Rose would be proud of you.
OVERHEARD WHISPER: Yeah, well the sneaker maneuver would have been more exhilarating.
***
Sophie has two business cards. This is the one Rose doesn’t know about:
Sophie’s Counseling – THE BUSINESS END
